Marius' Mules: Prelude to War (10 page)

It seemed from what he had discovered that most of the Arverni elders were at loggerheads with Vercingetorix, and the druids had abandoned the oppidum in support of the young warrior. A little subtle delving by Pixtilos had revealed a mix of motives among the elders, ranging from the fear of failure and Roman reprisals, down to a deep-rooted loyalty to the Republic born of the interplay between the two over previous decades. Many of the old men had come to enjoy the luxuries Roman traders lavished upon them.

The fact stood that as long as the elders maintained control of Gergovia and the Arverni then Vercingetorix was still little more than an exiled troublemaker with a small warband, for all his connections and druidic support. Aeduan auxiliaries among Priscus’ party resolutely believed that the chances of any alliance of Gallic armies was near impossible under the command of a man who was an outcast with no real power base. No strong tribe would follow a brigand prince living with his bandit gang in the wilds, and born of a despot to boot.

And yet something made Priscus twitch. He had seen this Vercingetorix visit Gergovia a few times over the last month with his band of warriors, and the man exuded confidence and power even from a distance. Whatever the Arverni thought of him, and whatever the Aedui said about his lack of ability to build an inter-tribal force, Priscus noted that most of the young, strong warriors of the Arverni had followed him into exile rather than staying with their own families or the council of elders.

Gobannitio, the exile’s uncle, was doing a sterling job of keeping his nephew from being declared an outright enemy of the Arverni by the council, and so he was still permitted to enter the oppidum, but Priscus was not blind to the fact that if it came down to a struggle of straight power, neither Gobannitio nor his ageing compatriots on the council would be able to hold back the tide of muscle and steel upon which Vercingetorix sailed.

Once again, Priscus began to chew on the inside of his cheek, drumming out a staccato rhythm on the windowsill… and then his fingers paused and he tilted his head and frowned.

A carnyx
?

The Gaulish noisemakers instilled a sense of dread in Priscus, as they did with most Romans, for they heralded only two things: a parlay or a fight.

‘What was that?’ Fabius frowned, dropping the dice to the wooden surface again and striding across to the window to join Priscus. Furius moved to the door next to them.

As they watched, a group of riders emerged from the trees near to the oppidum. Perhaps twenty of them, they moved openly and steadily towards Gergovia. Priscus couldn’t quite make out the details yet, but it had to be Vercingetorix on yet another of his visits, with his small band of personal warrior guards. But he’d never announced his presence with a horn before. Curious.

‘What do you suppose it means?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s different, and change unsettles me. I wish Pixtilos would hurry up. He said he’d be here by now. He’s supposed to be heading out to some pig-shit settlement of crones and farmers up on the Morgus. And we’re out of meat til he comes.’ Almost laughable, that, given the farm animals surrounding them.

‘Will he come now?’

‘Who knows?’ Priscus ground his teeth. He hated not knowing things, and this new development was worrying. He could really do with picking Pixtilos’ brain about it.

‘Do we go check it out?’

Again, Priscus deliberated. Getting too close to the oppidum was almost idiotically dangerous when people were out and about near the gate, but sitting here in ignorance was almost as unacceptable.

‘Alright. Same route as last time. Cloaks and swords only, though. No armour.’

The two tribunes nodded and rushed across to collect their Gallic wool cloaks from the chair upon which they hung. Since leaving Bibracte their uniforms, armour and shields had all been stacked away in a cupboard in the farm house and every man, including the eight legionaries, had adopted the drab cloaks, rugged tunics and itchy, patterned trousers of the Gauls. Foregoing shaving, each of them had grown a full beard and their hair was ragged and unkempt after months of inattention.

Opening the door, Priscus nodded to legionary Cenialis, who worked a vegetable garden with no plants in it, hoeing the soil repeatedly to maintain the fiction of a working farm in winter.

‘Hold the fort, as it were, Cenialis. Tell the others to get the meal ready as normal. We’re going for a quick peek at the town, but we’ll be back within the hour.’

The legionary nodded his understanding and continued to hoe the soil as Priscus and the two tribunes ducked out of the door and disappeared around the side of the farmhouse, where they were out of sight of the oppidum and the party of warriors who had arrived at the gate now.

Jogging behind the pig sty, they ran along a bushy hedgerow until they reached the stream that ran between steep banks through the farm’s land. Turning, they descended into the gulley and lost sight of the oppidum altogether. A quick run along the stream’s bank, and they emerged into a small copse. Following an old game trail, they gradually climbed the slope and closed on Gergovia, as the clearer sounds from the town confirmed. If they paused, over their heaving breaths they could just hear the sound of heated argument at the gate.

A hundred heartbeats later, they arrived at the treeline, where they dropped into the undergrowth, their view of the gate of Gergovia not as well-angled as from the farm window, but much closer and within earshot. Whatever the argument had been about it seemed to have been resolved. Vercingetorix and his men - for that was certainly who they were - had entered the oppidum and the gates were closing. Priscus cursed under his breath. Had they got here a little earlier and brought one of the natives to translate, they might have learned something. It seemed that they had missed whatever had happened.

‘What now?’ whispered Fabius breathlessly.

Priscus tried not to squint as he turned to Fabius and noted once again how the tribune’s real eye turned to him while the painted, false one continued to stare out blindly at the city ahead. He shuddered despite himself.

‘We’ve got time. We’re in no immediate danger unless their hunters or wood-gatherers come out for the woods. We wait.’

The three men settled into the brush and Furius produced a water-skin, taking a quick swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before passing it round.

A shout from the Oppidum that rose above the general daily hubbub caught their attention, and the drink container paused mid-pass.

‘What the hell was that?’

‘Sounded angry.’

More shouting and a roar from a larger group of people. Priscus frowned. ‘That’s no small argument. That’s a public event.’

‘And it’s got to involve that shitbag who just arrived.’

Priscus nodded. Where the hell was Pixtilos?

‘I am somewhat torn between waiting to find out what’s going on and getting the hell out of here as fast as my legs can carry me,’ Priscus muttered, raising a nod from the other two.

A cry of dismay suddenly arose in the oppidum, followed by a surge of shouting and anger.

‘Something is definitely going on,’ Fabius muttered, scratching his hand.

‘Well done,’ Priscus grunted. ‘Nice to see the loss of an eye hasn’t made you any less perceptive.’

Furius gave a low throaty laugh, and then his face dropped into a mask of seriousness once again. ‘Question is: was that anger directed at our favourite exiled puppy or at the old men who run the place?’

‘The very question bothering me,’ Priscus agreed and frowned as the silence was suddenly interrupted by a chant, which began as a call by a few voices and was soon taken up by dozens of the Arverni. ‘I wish we had one of the natives with us!’ grumbled Priscus. ‘I’d give good money to know what they’re chanting.’

‘Chanting is never good,’ Furius said quietly. ‘And that’s
hungry
chanting. That’s like the crowd at the games when they’re waiting for a champion to make the killing blow.’

Priscus nodded. He’d formed a similar opinion. The hair was standing proud on the back of his neck. He felt the distinct and growing urge to put boot leather to forest floor and get back to the farm, but fought the urge. No matter how much he might want to be close to his armour and the horses - as well as their comrades - it was important to find out everything they could right now, given the sudden change in the atmosphere. Besides, some sixth sense was pressing him to remain…

‘Something’s happening!’ Fabius hissed, pointing at the gate. Priscus and Furius moved their focus from the source of the chanting somewhere in the oppidum’s centre, and followed their companion’s gesture to the main gate, which was opening.

The three men watched with bated breath as figures emerged.

‘There he is again, with his warriors.’

The chanting was still rising from the centre of the oppidum, and Priscus felt a momentary wave of relief. He’d had a horrible feeling that the chanting was Vercingetorix and his men. But the fact that they were now leaving the oppidum again, so soon after their arrival and after an apparently-violent argument went a little way to assuaging his fears.

‘Looks like their elders have denied them something,’ Furius smiled. ‘Good. Serves the bastard right.’

‘Wait,’ hissed Fabius, pointing again. The others followed his finger and it took them a moment to spot what he was gesturing at. Priscus felt that relief slip away again into a pit of anxiety as he realised what was happening.

Though Vercingetorix and his warriors had mounted once more and emerged from the city, not all of his party had headed out into the open. As the young noble rode out to the grassland before the gate, a small party of his warriors had dropped from their horses at the threshold and split up. Some had rushed to the sides of the gate and appeared to be fighting with their tribesmen, while others were scurrying up onto the ramparts at the gate’s top, running for the defenders thereupon.

‘What are they doing? There’s only a score of them! That’s like a
Fronto
plan!’

Priscus nodded at Furius’ appraisal of the situation, but felt his heart sink as the next step in these events unfolded. At a blast from the Carnyx, warriors began to emerge from the woodlands before the gate, swarming towards the oppidum. They came like a tide of men, tooled for war and bellowing cries of anger and triumph. Shouts of alarm went up from the city, and Priscus recognised the sounds of a Gallic settlement scrambling to defend themselves, but there was plainly no hope. With the gate already in the hands of Vercingetorix and his army seething towards them, there was nothing the people of Gergovia could do but capitulate. Besides, most of their strong young warriors were
with
the rebel.

‘I think the elders have lost their control over him,’ Fabius hissed.

‘Again with the skills of observation!’ snapped Priscus irritably.

‘What now? Do we run?’

‘Soon. It’s not over yet.’

Fabius turned his disconcertingly disparate gaze on Priscus and frowned. The prefect pointed at the woodland and the two tribunes peered out at the trees and furrowed their brows further. Though the sizeable army - probably five hundred men at Priscus’ estimate - had already cleared the woods and begun the seizure of the town, Vercingetorix and his companions among them once more, another small party had emerged from the treeline. This group wore the long robes indicative of druids and Priscus felt a thrill of loathing run through him.

‘Never a good sign.’

Priscus wished his eyesight was better as he squinted at the group. They were strolling across the grass towards the gate of Gergovia, and as they entered, a small group of warriors remained outside on guard, the gate still invitingly open.

The sounds arising from the centre of the oppidum were horribly familiar to the three men watching from the woods. The noise of a city falling was a mix of shouts of alarm and those of rage, screams of fear and of pain, the crash of weapons and smash of doors thrown open. For what seemed an age, the three men watched the empty walls of Gergovia and listened to the sounds of its fall. Eventually, with a sigh, Priscus broke the spell.

‘Normally I’d be overjoyed to learn of a civil war breaking out among these bastards,’ he mumbled. ‘But if it ends with that man in control of the city, I’m less of a fan.’

‘Worse than that,’ Furius added, ‘if he controls Gergovia, he probably controls the whole tribe.’

‘And with the Arverni behind him he’ll be in the position the Aedui said he couldn’t achieve. Those with a grudge against us could flock to him. What we saw with Ambiorix and Indutiomarus would be nothing. They were Belgae spoiling for a fight. This man has the druids behind him and has been building towards something for at least two years.’

Again, Furius nudged Priscus and pointed.

Atop the ramparts of Gergovia, figures were appearing. Men and women, young and old, were brought up and positioned at the edge of the rampart in a line. Even from here, Priscus could see the twinkle of jewellery, torcs and arm-rings. These were the nobles and leaders of the oppidum.

‘Don’t much fancy their chances,’ grunted Fabius.

The others nodded, watching impassively as Vercingetorix appeared on the walls along with a druid. Steadily, with a powerful stride and his head high, the young warrior-noble started down the line of his opposition in the city, pausing at each figure only long enough to slit their throat with his long, sharp knife and shove them over the parapet and down into the ditch outside the city.

‘I don’t think we need be in any doubt as to who’s in control now.’

As the three watched the grisly executions, Priscus shuddered. ‘If he’ll do that to his own tribe, I hate to think what he has planned for us… and worse still, for those native tribes who are
loyal
to us!’

‘I think we need to get back to the farm,’ said Furius quietly. Fabius nodded his agreement, but Priscus shook his head. Though it seemed extremely unlikely they would learn anything more of use, that strange sense that sometimes told him things were not what they seemed told him to stay still.