He felt the nick as Cavarinos’ blade cut through the flesh and for just a moment wondered what dying would feel like. But that was all it was: just a nick. For the Arvernian noble was swinging around now with remarkable speed. In that curious slow-motion in which a heartbeat can take a year, Fronto realised what his friend was doing and, his own life hanging by a thread, fell heavily backwards to the ground.
Cavarinos spun with the blade still at neck height. Luguros, druid of the Arverni and tutor to the great rebel king tried to cut out with his own sword to stop it, but he was far too slow, taken completely by surprise. Cavarinos’ blade bit into his neck on the right side and only stopped when it wedged between the joints in the spine. The druid’s nerves pulsed and the sword fell from his twitching fingers. His head lolling unpleasantly to one side, Luguros, who had for a year borne the cloak of Cernunnos the forest lord, turned in jerky motions to stare in horror at his killer. Cavarinos let go of the sword, which remained wedged in the neck even as he tried to talk and instead folded up to land in a heap on the floor.
Fronto, only peripherally aware of this, hit the floor hard, the pain of the wound in his side almost overwhelming. And yet his senses were still active. As he hit, his arm was already sweeping out. The gladius may be lightly pitted with rust for lack of cleaning, but its previous owner had been diligent at the time, and the edge was as keen as any Fronto had seen. The blade cut deep into Molacos’ leg just above the ankle and snapped the bone with the blow. The Cadurci hunter screamed as his leg separated above the joint, only a narrow strip of flesh and muscle connecting them. He spun and fell, shrieking.
As he hit the ground Fronto was already lunging across the floor, his gladius jabbing into any flesh he could find, striking foot, then ankle, then shin, thigh, groin. The blade slid home there until only the hilt protruded next to Molacos’ manhood and blood from the severed artery flooded the man’s tunic, forming a huge lake that flowed to meet that of the fallen druid nearby.
Molacos coughed once, tried to say something, and then jerked and fell still.
Fronto hauled himself round in the crimson pool and slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Cavarinos was standing over the fallen druid, but his eyes were on Fronto.
‘For a moment,’ the former legate breathed, ‘I thought you were going to do it.’
‘For a moment, I was,’ Cavarinos answered flatly, and there was no hint or trace of humour or wit in his tone. ‘Today I have finally cast out the last of what I was and left myself hollow.’ He turned to look at his king and Vercingetorix backed away across his cell, sickened.
‘Well however hollow you may feel, my intact gut and soul thank you,’ Fronto muttered, hauling himself painfully to his feet, his hand still gripping the crimson, sticky hilt of the old gladius.
‘It is over,’ Cavarinos said quietly.
‘Probably,’ Fronto corrected. ‘There might be survivors out there.’
‘Not that. Not the fight. My
world
. My world is over, Fronto. The tribes are doomed. This is the death rattle of the land you call Gaul, here in this room. The world will never be the same.
I
will never be the same.’
‘You did what you had to. What you knew to be right. There are those of us, even those who fought your people again and again, who can see a value to a future together. Gaul and Roman, building something that is better than both. Labienus suggested such a thing years ago when we were facing the Belgae, and at the time we thought he was dreaming, but in retrospect, I suspect he was ahead of his time there.’
The room fell silent, just the groans and thuds of the wounded outside insisting on their thoughts.
‘I have to go.’
Fronto blinked. ‘Now? Where?’
‘Anywhere. Galatia, probably. As soon as the tide will take me.’
‘Then you will have time for a last meal with us.’ Fronto crossed the room and clapped his hand on Cavarinos’ shoulder, wincing at the pain in his side as he did so. ‘For now, let’s go see if anyone else is alive…’
* * * * *
Biorix was on his knees at the outer room’s edge, clutching his side, from which leaked torrents of blood. A few paces away, the blonde woman lay on the floor, propped up with one arm. Occasionally the pair would swipe at one another with their blades, though both were clearly exhausted and half dead from wounds and blood loss.
Other than them the room was a house of the dead, bodies strewn in a carpet, some still shuddering or moving, groaning in their final moments. Almost casually, contemptuously, Fronto stepped between the corpses and slammed his gladius home between the blonde’s shoulder blades. The woman gasped, croaked out a man’s name almost too quiet to hear, and slumped to the ground.
‘Fronto!’
He turned to see Cavarinos waving him over, and stepped between the bodies, nodding respectfully at Biorix as he did so.
His heart jumped, then thundered.
Cavarinos was helping one of the wounded up.
Balbus coughed and winced.
‘Fortuna, you beautiful bugger,’ Fronto grinned, hurrying over.
His father-in-law was pale as death, a lump the size of a hen’s egg on his forehead, coloured black and purple. His sword arm was crimson and soaked, but the old man was a veteran of many wars and knew precisely what to do. Before the severed artery had bled him dry, he’d whipped off his scarf and tied it so tight around the top of his arm that the blood flow had been staunched. Fronto knew that if he washed that arm it would be a pale purple-blue from lack of blood. He also knew that the arm was almost certainly lost, but the sacrifice of the limb might well have saved the old man’s life.
‘I think we’ll need both those doctors Glyptus knew,’ he murmured.
‘For you, as well,’ Cavarinos replied, pointing at Fronto’s side. ‘You’re as pale as an Arvernian winter. Anyone else alive?’
Fronto nodded to Balbus, who clearly still felt too weak to reply, and rose, prowling around the room, pausing occasionally to administer the mercy blow to the few Gallic slaves or guards who were fighting against the pull of Hades. Procles and Agesander were still and silent. Dyrakhes was gone.
He stopped, startled, as the decurion from Comum groaned. Crouching, he helped pull the man to his knees. He did not seem to be exhibiting any wounds from the fight, though the general coating of blood from his scourge injuries that had leaked into the wrappings made it rather hard to tell.
‘Jove and Minerva!’
He turned at the shout from the doorway to see a guard – the one who’d run before the fight – standing in the square of light, a truncheon in hand and a look of disbelief on his face. Even as Fronto rose and held up conciliatory hands, the figure of Curtius Crispinus, head of the carcer guard, appeared next to him. The shapes of numerous other guards were visible behind them in the street. The centurion’s face worked repeatedly between fury and incredulity.
Fronto coughed nervously and looked around. The room was a palace of the dead and wounded, blood coating most of the surfaces, organs and bone in ample evidence.
‘I can see how this might look…’
‘You would free the decurion?’ Crispinus demanded angrily. ‘I was told to watch out for Caesar’s men as they’re duplicitous and dangerous. It would seem Pompey has you figured.’
Fronto realised that he still had one hand on the Comum man, who was barely conscious and half dead, as well as a bloodied sword in his other hand. Promptly, he dropped the sword and snatched his hand away from the decurion as though the touch burned.
‘You would even bring a sword into the sacred bounds of the city?’ Crispinus snapped. ‘Have you no shame, man? Have you no respect for the laws of men and gods?’
Fronto sighed. Somehow he couldn’t see an argument that the blade had already been here but hidden behind a cupboard going down very well with the centurion. Slowly, painfully, he rose. ‘I would explain, but I fear your conclusions are already drawn, Curtius Crispinus. Just bear in mind that had we not been here, your carcer would now be empty of Gaulish kings. Keep the decurion. Get him well and send him home.’
As he spoke, he rose and crossed the room, helping Cavarinos with Balbus and Biorix. Once upright, the four men, supporting each other, limped painfully towards the door, their weapons discarded in the mess.
‘If you think you’re leaving this room…’
‘Get out of my way,’ Fronto snapped. ‘The old man and I are citizens of Rome, veteran officers, and nobles of the city. We’ve been convicted of nothing. Now, move!’
Crispinus failed to do so, but Biorix growled as the four approached and the centurion reeled back as if struck. Fronto and his friends stalked past without even glancing at the man’s face, which was cycling through a dozen emotions, uncertain where to stop.
‘This matter will be brought to the attention of the Consul Claudius Marcellus, mark my words. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. We’ll find out who you are,’ the man shouted as they stumbled away along the street.
‘Marcus Falerius Fronto,’ the former legate shouted back. ‘Sorry about the mess.’
LUCTERIUS of the Cadurci straightened himself and brushed down his stained, torn and generally ruined clothes. He did his level best to trim his straggly facial hair with the dagger from his belt and retied the braids in his hair. He was a chieftain – a man of property and authority. He might
look
like a vagabond…
The ramparts were still high and despite all that had happened in recent months, there were curled plumes of smoke rising from houses. Of course, the Romans had never had cause to come here with their legions and machines of war, so the township had continued on with their lives as though the war had not happened, despite the loss of many of their folk of fighting age in that last great battle.
Nemossos was no Gergovia. It had neither the size nor the prestige of that great place where they had almost defeated Rome. But it had two benefits. Firstly, it was home to the highest ranking surviving Arvernian noble. Secondly, because it had been untouched, there was no Roman resettlement officer here. This was a town of the Arverni with no outside influence. And the Arverni were the last people – the only people – who could still hope to raise and field an army against Rome. Caesar had exempted the Aedui and the Arverni from his rulings after Alesia, and so those two tribes alone in the land could still claim a sizeable population. And the Aedui, the duplicitous and treacherous Aedui, would never lead a revolt against their Roman masters. But the Arverni were still true to their past and if they could be persuaded to rise once more, which might be possible if they knew their king was on his way back to them, then perhaps the treacherous Aedui might join, and the tribes of Aquitania might throw in their lot.
With a long, slow breath, he began to stride up the slope towards the gate. Two Arverni warriors stood there, looking bored. With distaste, he noted that the two men wore very Roman style belts to hold their knives, possibly even Roman-manufactured and purchased from a Roman trader.
‘What is your business,’ asked one of them harshly as he approached.
Despite the state of his clothes and appearance, Lucterius still had the torc of leadership around his neck and the arm-rings of a warrior on his biceps. The sword he bore was a good quality one. He tried to exude authority.
‘I am Lucterius of the Cadurci.’
‘And I am Julius Caesar,’ the guard sneered. ‘Piss off.’
Lucterius drew himself to his full height, pushing out his chest, his lip twitching in irritation.
‘I
am
Lucterius, chieftain of the Cadurci, as the torc should confirm. My appearance is so poor as I came here from a fight with the proconsul’s men.’
‘So you won then,’ grinned the guard, and his companion sniggered.
‘I have no time to argue with idiots who stand silent while good men of the tribes die on Roman spears. Your magistrate Epasnactos knows me from the councils of Gergovia and Bibracte. He will confirm who I am.’
The two guards shared a look and shrugged. ‘If the chief doesn’t know you, then I’ll be taking those stolen arm-rings and torc and the rest while you get whipped through the streets. Still want an audience?’
Lucterius clenched his teeth angrily. When he was back in command with Epasnactos at his side these two men would be buried up to their neck and left for the scavengers. ‘Take me to Epasnactos,’ he snapped.
Nemossos was quiet and peaceful as they moved through the streets to the headman’s house. Lucterius had to stifle a sneer at every turn, noting with disgust how many Roman belts, pots, cloaks and the like were in evidence. The Arverni had once been Rome’s greatest trading partner among the tribes until Caesar came and it seemed that since discarding their arms, they had returned to their old ways. That would have to stop. The Roman merchants could be the first casualty of the new revolt – a fire arrow in the sky to begin the conflagration, as Cenabum had been in its time.
He strengthened his resolve to execute these mindless brutes as they none-too-gently guided him around the corners with the butts of their spears. Hissing his anger, he otherwise restrained himself. Now was not the time to cause trouble. Finally, the great long house came into view.
The last time he had been here had been with Vercingetorix. Then, of course, it had been Critognatos and Cavarinos who had held the true power in this place behind their ailing uncle, and Epasnactos, their younger cousin, had been little more than an observer. Since Critognatos’ death at Alesia and Cavarinos’ subsequent disappearance, Epasnactos, who had taken part in all the rebel councils, and yet had been too young to be granted a command of men, had taken his rightful place as head of Nemossos and a chieftain of power among the Arverni.
The world missed men like Critognatos and Cavarinos, true warriors of the tribes and leaders of men who had led the fight against Caesar. Still, Epasnactos had been in awe of his cousins. He was still young and impressionable. He could be moulded into a new rebel prince under the wing of the great king.
There was some sort of court session being held in the house and as they entered and stood to one side, an argument over land boundaries was settled by the young man on the carved wooden dais-chair. Lucterius examined the boy as he waited, only half listening to a judgement that seemed wise enough and fair enough to prove the new magistrate had a mind at least, if not the muscles to lift a sword.
Epasnactos looked a lot like his cousins. Like Cavarinos, anyway, lacking the bulk of Critognatos. His facial hair was still rather fuzzy and youthful, but would soon bloom into a full beard. His hair was neatly braided. He wore a torc and arm-rings, even though he could not ever have had cause to draw a sword. Lucterius would let that one pass – the boy was almost a king, after all. The young man’s face was serious and his eyes clear, even inflected with a sparkle of wit and wisdom. One day, Lucterius decided, Epasnactos might make a fine king. Now he must make a great decision.
The plaintiffs over the border dispute backed out of the room and in the gap before another case was brought, one of the older warriors at Lucterius’ side escorted him to the centre of the hall. Around the edge stood the magistrate’s own warriors, members of his veteran bodyguard. Their age, clear experience, and fine armament confirmed his thoughts that the Arverni could still raise a strong army.
‘Epasnactos,’ one of the two guards said with a bowed head.
‘Evicaos?’
‘This man approached the west gate, claiming to be Lucterius, the chieftain of the Cadurci and demanding to speak with you.’
The young leader leaned forward in his seat, squinting in the gloom. ‘Bring him closer.’
Lucterius strode across, not giving his escort the satisfaction of driving him forward with their spears.
‘Magistrate, I know you will be able to vouch for me, despite my appearance. You have seen me many times, and heard my voice in councils along with your cousins and our king.’
Epasnactos leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. ‘I know you, Lucterius. What brings so honoured a Cadurci chief here in such a condition?’
‘I come from the siege of my home at Uxellodunon.’
‘I hear tell of this. Caesar has six legions there, does he not, along with sundry auxiliary forces?’
‘He does.’
‘You were fortunate to evade them, clearly.’
Lucterius frowned. This was not how he had imagined this going. ‘My army in Uxellodunon matches Caesar’s and can hold out for a year if they have to. But even now agents of our two tribes free the great king from Rome to return to our shores and command a new revolt that will sweep Rome into the sea. I bring you an opportunity, Epasnactos of the Arverni. Raise your tribe to our banners and help break the siege of Uxellodunon. Our combined forces will be able to raze Caesar’s army from the land. And when my tribe are relieved, we will move south and free Narbo and the southern tribes from Rome’s fetters – a gift to Vercingetorix when he returns.’
‘You bring this opportunity to me alone, Lucterius?’
The Cadurci’s frown deepened. ‘Yes.’
‘In other seasons I might be tempted to grasp your proffered opportunity, but sadly I must decline on this occasion. You see, I simply cannot raise enough men to be of use to you.’
Lucterius shook his head in confusion. ‘You have the manpower. Of all the tribes, you and the Aedui still have the manpower. Caesar left you your warriors.’
Epasnactos nodded as he leaned forward in his seat again. ‘He did. And I have to say we were more embarrassed than grateful at the time, for our standing with the other tribes suffered dreadfully. But since I took this throne and watched the whole land suffer, farms going untended, fields dying with mouldy crops for want of men to harvest them, I have come to see our embarrassment as more of a boon. Alone among the tribes, the Aedui and the Arverni will not starve this winter.’
Lucterius stared in disbelief.
‘And
this
is why you cannot spare the men to finally defeat Rome? Because they tend your farms?’
Epasnactos sighed. ‘Not so much. I mean, they do, but at the moment most of my warriors are absent on campaign.’
Lucterius stared in bafflement. ‘What?’
‘They are to the west, forming an auxiliary force in Caesar’s siege of the last rebel stronghold.’
As Lucterius goggled in shock, his mouth flapping open and closed, Epasnactos gestured to the warriors in the room. ‘Seize the traitor chief.’
Lucterius started to move, but the two warrior escorts were there instantly, grabbing his arms, relieving him of his sword and pushing him down to his knees.
‘No! This is not
right
. I am the last chance for freedom. I bring you an opportunity! I carry the hopes of our future…’
Epasnactos shook his head sadly. ‘Like my cousins and father before me, I must look to the future and the good of the Arverni before some crazed doomed hunt for glory with a man who doesn’t know when his world has ended. We are part of the Pax Romana, Lucterius. So are you, if you would just sit down and accept it. Rome is the future, man.’
Fury pounded through Lucterius and suddenly he jerked free of the warriors’ grip, bursting forth and running at the young magistrate. His ire drove him on, but as he closed on the young man, Epasnactos rose from his seat and drew a heavy sword from the side of the dais, levelling it in a surprisingly steady hand. Lucterius skidded to a halt, the blade’s tip levelled at his face from the raised dais. His hand dropped to the dagger at his belt, which had not been confiscated.
‘I would strongly recommend you leave that where it is, Lucterius of the Cadurci,’ sighed the young leader. ‘I am quite familiar with a sword’s use.’ He tapped an arm-ring with his free hand. ‘They don’t give these to people for making decisions, you know?’
Slowly, Lucterius raised his arms from the knife, backing away. The warriors were on him again in a trice, this time a dozen of them. He felt several kicks and punches as he was dragged down. Submitting to pain and captivity reluctantly, he heard the young magistrate addressing his men.
‘Careful not to kill him. Bind and secure him and deliver him to the proconsul with my compliments. And make sure he gets there intact. If he slips past you the way he did past the legions, I’ll have a new set of spiked heads decorating Nemossos’ gates.
As blackness claimed him, Lucterius felt the future melting like wax on a hot day, dripping through his fingers and disappearing forever in the dust.
He had failed.