S. Turney - Sons of Taranis

‘But how will we find them?’ murmured Biorix.

‘We know where they are going: to the carcer in Rome. That is where we’ll find them.’

‘And your family?’ Cavarinos prompted. ‘You can’t leave them here for fear of reprisals, and it would be too dangerous to take them with you.’

Fronto nodded. ‘Catháin has been badgering me to let him go to Campania and secure better sources of wine. He and a few of the men can accompany Balbus, Lucilia and the children to Puteoli. They’ll be safe at my mother’s villa there, especially with Andala with them. And Galronus is in Puteoli, too, so he’ll look after them. That means that once we pass Ostia we can concentrate on the remaining seven rebels.’

Masgava sheathed his sword. ‘It’s a good plan.’ He glanced at Cavarinos. ‘Will you be leaving us here?’

Fronto felt a strange lurch inside. He hadn’t thought of that. Would Cavarinos willingly walk into the Roman eagle’s own nest? Would he really want to see the jail that held his king; his kinsman in fact. Would he be able to face that and not feel the need to free the man himself? Cavarinos may seem one of them, but when faced with his own people languishing in the carcer…?

The Arvernian’s face betrayed his indecision, but resolution came down fast and complete. ‘I will see this through to the end. The Sons of Taranis must be stopped.’

‘Can we stop them sailing?’ Arcadios asked quietly. ‘I know we’re talking as though they’ve already left, but we can’t be sure.’

‘We know the enemy have a friendly ship,’ Biorix replied, ‘but it’s probably already left, and even if it hasn’t, with no name and the number of Gallic traders in port, tracking them will be like trying to find a particular turd in the latrines.’

‘You are full of delightful images,’ snorted Fronto. ‘But you’re right. They may well already have sailed. It’s not common to sail at night, but the port’s open and there’s nothing to stop them. Best we get ahead to Rome and see if we can find them there, like I said. Brutus’ orders do not cater for passengers in his fleet, but I will secure a place for all of us and he will not argue with me. The family and most of the staff and guard will come too. And at Ostia we’ll transfer the family onto a ship bound for Puteoli before we continue upriver.’

Cavarinos picked up one of the pointed tribuli from the floor and turned it round and round in his fingers. ‘Roman. Imagine that. Despite their aversion to Rome, they’re not above using your own weapons.’ He sighed and cast the caltrop aside. ‘To Rome, then.’

‘To Rome.’

Marcus Antonius leaned close to Caesar, trying not to catch the eye of Calenus on the general’s far side. ‘You think Gaius is safe among the Bellovaci?’

The general turned his aquiline features on his friend, confidante, distant cousin and senior officer. ‘You think he is not?’

‘Gaius is a good man, I know. But he’s little experience of command yet. A legion and a half to keep the Belgae in place. Have we done enough to pacify them?’

A knowing smile played on the general’s lips. ‘This is anxiety over our strategy, then? Not simply fraternal concern?’

‘I would hardly… it’s not my place…’

‘Ha.’ Caesar chuckled. ‘Worry not, Marcus. Your little brother is quite safe. He has some of my best tribunes and centurions with him, and the Belgae are beaten for good. They could barely raise a cheer, let alone an army. Besides, your mother would tear me to pieces if I placed Gaius in real danger.’

Antonius laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen a quieter people than the Bellovaci now.’

A roar brought their attention back to the open square before them. Cenabum was not what it had once been. The Carnutes had damaged the important river port in their original attack that had ignited the flames of that great revolt which had died at Alesia. In response, the legions had all-but razed it. Now a new village was rising amid the ashes of the old port. One day there would be aqueducts here, and paved roads and a forum, temples to the Capitoline triad. Now there were huts among the ruins. The smell of charred wood lingered even after so many months – years now, in fact. The place smelled like a pyre, and it would take a generation for that to fade. But they were not in Cenabum for the facilities, nor for the air. They were in Cenabum to make a statement.

Two legionaries emerged from one side of the square, amongst the throng. Each held a long, leather cord, and a moment later the man at the other end appeared. The Gaul was one of the Carnutes – the tribe that had founded this very settlement, had colonized the land around it, had fostered rebellion here, murdered Romans here. He was a noble and, according to rumour, a druid – the very druid who had raised up Vercingetorix to be king among the Gauls. He did not look quite so noble now.

‘Why Fabius didn’t do away with the man while he was here, I cannot fathom,’ murmured Calenus.

‘Fabius had enough on his platter,’ Antonius replied quietly, ‘as we now know. In fact, I cannot understand why we are here ourselves, Caesar, and not marching south to help the legions at Uxellodunon?’

The general leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Sometimes, gentlemen, something symbolic and powerful needs to be done to drive home the nails of suppression. Caninius, Fabius and Varus are more than capable of containing an oppidum until we arrive, and this is important. The central tribes are quiet. The Belgae are now settled. Caninius and the others are dealing with the south, but this region is a hotbed of trouble and has been since first we came. The Carnutes are every bit as guilty of protracted murder and rebellion as the Arverni.’

The defiant Gaul had to scurry forward to avoid falling and being dragged. He, Guturvatus by name, had taken two weeks to track down. And that following a week of investigation as to his identity. The druid-chieftain was stripped to the waist, his grey wool braccae soaked with sweat, his feet bare and bloodied from the painful journey across the ruined city.

‘But if he is, as they say, the man behind all the risings, would it not be better to have the Carnutes here in their thousands to witness it?’

Caesar turned to Calenus and gestured to the far side of the square where perhaps a dozen Gallic nobles stood with sour faces and slumped shoulders. ‘They are the leaders of what is left of the Carnutes – Fabius was thorough in the short time he was here – and what transpires this morning will filter through the entire region in a matter of days. You have spent plenty of time in Rome, Calenus, surely you are familiar with the astonishing speed of gossip?’

Calenus smiled, though he still looked faintly unhappy. Caesar could understand the man’s reluctance, of course. He was not a man used to the brutality of war, despite having led legions in Gaul now. And what was about to happen was… well, Caesar had foregone breaking his fast, despite a persistent rumbling in the belly.

‘Besides, half of this is for the benefit of our men, not theirs. This is one of the architects of the risings that have kept them marching and camping in Gallic winters these past three years. He is responsible for countless legionaries being heaped into the burial pits or onto pyres. Once in a while it does the legions good to see the filth that has so ruined them face justice. The value of watching their revenge being carried out is incalculable in terms of morale. Guturvatus’ death will buy more goodwill with the men than a thousand loot and slave payouts.’

The Carnute leader, who had been betrayed by his own frightened tribe as the Romans hunted him, was now being dragged towards two thick posts driven deep into the ground some eight feet apart. The officers couldn’t quite see the man’s face, but they could picture the wild, terrified eyes. The prisoner started to fight the inexorable momentum towards the posts, struggling with the cords, trying to free himself. Despite his ravaged feet, he dug in his heels and almost succeeded in pulling down one of the legionaries dragging him. The centurion who even now stood to one side of the posts had chosen his detail well, though. The two legionaries at the cords were oxen in human form – massive, with necks like oak trunks and muscles like burial mounds. With little difficulty they regained their control and yanked hard enough for the man to fall face first into the dirt. When he struggled upright again, coughing and spitting out dust, his nose was flat and bloodied and his face was torn in several places.