The Field of Swords Page 45

  They roared at the idea, as he had expected, but still his eyes were cold as he readied himself to tell them the price they must pay.

  “The legions have only one weakness, my friends, and that is in their lines of supply. Who in this room hasn’t lost friends and brothers against them? On an open plain, we would fare no better than the Helvetii did years ago. All our armies together could not break them in the open.”

  The silence was oppressive as the leaders waited for their High King to continue.

  “But they cannot fight without food, and to deny them forage we must burn every crop and village in Gaul. We must uproot our people from Caesar’s path and leave him nothing but a smoking wasteland to feed his Roman mouths. When they are weak with hunger, I will bring my men into fortresses like the one at Gergovia and they can see how many lives they lose against those walls.”

  He glared round at the men of Gaul, hoping that they would have the strength to follow this most terrible path.

  “We can win. We can break them in this way, but it will be hard. Our people will be frightened at being forced off their land. When they cry out, you will tell them they once rode three thousand miles to reach here. We are still one people, for those who can see it. The land of Gaul must rise. The Celts must rise and remember the old blood that calls them.”

  They stood in silence for him and beat their swords and knives together in a clashing noise that filled the space and shook the foundations. Vercingetorix held his arms up for quiet and it was a long time coming. His people stood with eager expressions and they believed in him.

  “Tomorrow, you will begin to move your tribes to the far south, leaving only those who are thirsty for war. Take your grain stores with you, for my riders will burn anything they find. Gaul will be ours again. I speak not as one of the Arverni, but from the line of the old kings. They watch over us now and they will bring us victory.”

  The clash of metal began again and became deafening as Vercingetorix walked out in the shadowed cloisters to rejoin his army. He trotted his horse back through the streets and ducked his head unconsciously as he passed under the Avaricum gates.

  When he reached his horsemen, he sat high in the saddle and gazed fondly at the flags of Gaul. Dozens of tribes were represented in ten thousand riders, and truly, he felt one with the old blood.

  “It is a good day to ride,” he told his brother Madoc.

  “It is, my king,” Madoc replied. Together they heeled their horses into a gallop, streaming across the plain.

  Julius sat on a hill with his cloak on the damp ground under him. A light rain was falling and through it they could see the galleys he had ordered sent round the coast to find where the dark river poured into the sea. With their shallow draft, they had been able to come all the way into the ford and anchored just before it. Brutus and Renius sat with him, watching supplies being unloaded by teams of the Tenth and Third.

  “Did you know the captains found a bay farther down the coast?” Julius said aloud. He sighed. “If I had known of it, the storms that took so many of my ships would have battered in vain. Protected by cliffs and deep water with a sloping shore for the boats. We will know for the future, now that we have found it, at least.”

  He ran a hand through his wet hair and shook droplets from the end of his nose. “They call this summer? I swear I haven’t seen the sun in a month.”

  “It makes me homesick for Rome,” Brutus answered slowly. “Just to imagine olive trees in the sun and the temples of the forum. I cannot believe how far away from all that we’ve come.”

  “Pompey will be there, rebuilding,” Julius said, his eyes hardening. “The Senate house where I stood with Marius is no more than memory. When we see Rome, Brutus, it will not be the same.”

  They sat in silence while each of them considered the truth of the words. It had been years since Julius had seen his city, but somehow he had always expected it to be there unchanged for when he returned, as if everything else in life were held in glass until he was ready to make it move once more. It was a child’s dream.

  “You will go back, then?” Brutus said. “I had begun to think you would have us all grow old out here.”

  Renius smiled without speaking.

  “I will, Brutus,” Julius said. “I have done what I came for and a single legion will be enough to hold the Britons. Perhaps when I am an old man and Gaul is as peaceful as Spain, I will return here to carry the war to the north.”

  He shivered suddenly and told himself it was the cold. It was strangely peaceful watching the efforts of the galley crews below while they were far above them. The hills around the Tamesis were gentle slopes, and if it hadn’t been for the constant drizzle, it might have felt like a distant world of strife that could not come close to the men on the hill. It was easy to dream.

  “There are times when I want it all to end, Brutus,” Julius said. “I miss your mother. I miss my daughter as well. I have been at war as long as I can remember, and the thought of returning to my estate to tend the hives and sit in the sun is a terrible temptation.”

  Renius chuckled. “One you successfully resist each year,” he said.

  Julius glanced sharply at the one-armed gladiator. “I am in the flower of my youth, Renius. If I accomplish nothing else in life, then Gaul will be my mark on the world.”

  As he spoke, he touched a hand unconsciously to his head, feeling the receding hairline. War aged a man more than just the passing of years, he thought. Where once he had felt as if he could never grow old, now his joints ached in the damp and morning brought a stiffness that took longer and longer to pass each year. He saw Brutus had noticed the gesture and frowned.

  “It has been a privilege to serve with you both, you know,” Renius said suddenly. “Have I ever told you? I would not have been anywhere else but with you.”

  Both of the younger men looked at the scarred figure who sat hunched forward on his cloak.

  “You are growing maudlin in your old age,” Brutus said with a smile. “You need to feel the sun on your face again.”

  “Perhaps,” Renius said, pulling a piece of grass between his fingers. “I have fought for Rome all of my life, and she still stands. I’ve done my part.”

  “Do you want to go home?” Julius asked him. “You can walk down this hill to the galleys and have them take you back, my friend. I will not refuse you.”

  Renius looked down to the bustling crowd on the river, and his eyes were filled with yearning. He shrugged then and forced a smile. “One more year, perhaps,” he said.

  “There’s a messenger coming,” Brutus said suddenly, breaking in on their thoughts. All three turned to look at the tiny figure on horseback who lunged up the hill toward them.

  “It must be bad news for him to seek me here,” Julius said, rising to his feet. In that moment, his contemplative mood was broken and the other two sensed the change in him like a sudden shift in the wind.

  Their damp cloaks were crumpled and all three men felt the weariness of constant war and problems, watching the lone rider with a sort of dread.

  “What is it?” Julius demanded as soon as the man was close enough to hear.

  The messenger became clumsy under their scrutiny, dismounting and saluting in a tangle. “I have come from Gaul, General,” he said.

  Julius’s heart sank. “From Bericus? What is your message?”

  “Sir, the tribes are rebelling.”

  Julius swore. “The tribes rebel every year. How many this time?”

  The messenger looked nervously at the officers. “I think . . . General Bericus said all of them, sir.”

  Julius looked blankly at the man before nodding in resignation. “Then I must return. Ride to the galleys below and tell them not to leave until I am with them. Have General Domitius send riders to the coast to Mark Antony. The fleet must be put to sea to cross to Gaul before the winter storms begin.”

  Julius stood in the rain and watched the rider make his way down to the river and the gal
ley crews.

  “So it is to be war once more,” he said. “I wonder if Gaul will ever see the peace of Rome in my lifetime.” He looked tired at the burden and Brutus’s heart went out to his old friend.

  “You’ll beat them. You always do.”

  “With winter coming?” Julius said bitterly. “There are hard months ahead, my friend. Perhaps harder than any we have known.” With appalling effort, he controlled himself until the face he turned to them was a mask.

  “Cassivellaunus must not know. His hostages are already on board the galleys, his son amongst them. Take the legions back to the coast, Brutus. I will go by sea and have the fleet waiting for you there.” He paused and his mouth tightened in anger.

  “I will do more than beat them, Brutus. I will raze them from the face of the earth.”

  Renius looked at the man he had trained and was filled with sorrow. He had no chance to rest and each year of war stole a little more of his kindness away from him. Renius gazed south, imagining the shores of Gaul. They would regret having unleashed Caesar amongst them.

  CHAPTER 42

  _____________________

  The Gaul irregulars counted almost all the tribes amongst their ranks. Many of them had fought for the legions for five years or more, and they acted and thought as Romans. Their pay was in the same silver and their armor and swords came from the forges of the regular legions.

  When Bericus sent three thousand of them out to protect a shipment of grain, there were few that could have seen the subtle differences between their ranks and that of any other Roman force. Even the officers were from the tribes, after so long in the field. Though Julius had salted them with his best men in the beginning, war and promotion had altered the structure.

  The convoy of wheat had come from Spain at Bericus’s order and had to be protected as it wound its way down from the northern ports. It was enough to feed the towns and villages that had stayed loyal. Enough to keep them alive through the winter while Vercingetorix burned anything he could find.

  The irregulars marched south in perfect order at the pace of the slowest cart. Their scouts were out for miles around them to warn of an attack. Every man there knew that the grain would be a threat to the rebellion as it gathered force in the heartlands, and hands rarely strayed from their swords. They ate cold meat on the move from their own dwindling rations and stopped only barely in time to build a hostile camp each night.

  When it came, the attack was like nothing they could have expected. On a wide plain, a dark line of horsemen came thundering toward them. The scouts galloped in even as the column was reacting, shifting the heavy carts into a defensive circle and preparing their spears and bows. Every eye was fixed in fear on the enemy as the sheer size of their cavalry became apparent. There were thousands of them riding through the mud and grass toward the carts. The weak sun reflected on their weapons and many of the Gauls began to pray to old gods, forgotten for years.

  Marwen had been a soldier for Rome ever since he had exchanged hunger for the silver coins four years before. As he saw the size of the force against them, he knew he would not survive it and experienced the bitter irony of being killed by his own people. He cared nothing for politics. When the Romans had come to his village and offered him a place with them, he had taken their bounty and given it to his wife and children before walking out to fight for Rome. It had been better than watching them starve.

  Promotion had been a wonder, when it came. He had been part of the battles against the Senones and had ridden out with Brutus to steal their king from the very heart of them. That had been a day.

  Lost in bitter memory, he did not at first notice the faces of the men as they turned to him, looking for orders. When he saw them, he shrugged.

  “This is where we earn our pay, lads,” he said softly.

  He could feel the ground shake under his feet as the riders stormed toward them. The defensive ranks were solid around the carts. The spears had been jammed into the mud to repel the charge, and there was nothing else to do but wait for the first acceleration of blood. Marwen hated the waiting and almost welcomed the combat to crush the fear that wormed in his stomach.

  Horns sounded and the line of charging horses heaved to a halt just out of range. Marwen frowned as he saw one man dismount and walk over the soft ground toward them. He knew who it was even before he could be sure of the yellow hair and the fine gold torc the man wore to battle. Vercingetorix.

  Marwen watched in disbelief as the king walked closer.

  “Be still,” he ordered his men, suddenly worried that one of his archers would loose a shaft. His blood coursed through him and Marwen breathed faster as the king approached. It was an act of suicidal bravery and many of the men muttered in admiration as they readied their blades to cut him to pieces.

  Vercingetorix came right up to them, meeting Marwen’s eyes as he noted the cloak and helmet of his rank. It may have been imagination, but seeing him there, so close, with his great sword sheathed on his hip, was something glorious.

  “Speak your piece,” Marwen said.

  The king’s eyes flashed and the yellow beard split as he grinned. He saw Marwen’s hand tighten on his gladius.

  “Would you kill your king?” Vercingetorix said.

  Marwen let his hand drop in confusion. He looked into the calm eyes of the man who faced him with such courage and shivered.

  “No. I would not,” he said.

  “Then follow me,” Vercingetorix said.

  Marwen glanced right and left at the men he commanded and saw them nod. He looked back at Vercingetorix and, without breaking his gaze, went slowly down to kneel in the mud. As if in a dream, he felt the king’s hand on his shoulder.

  “What is your name?”

  Marwen hesitated. The words of his rank and unit caught in his throat. “I am Marwen Ridderin, of the Nervii,” he said at last.

  “The Nervii are with me. Gaul is with me. On your feet.”

  Marwen rose and found his hands were shaking. He heard Vercingetorix speak again through the tumult of his thoughts.

  “Now burn the grain in those carts,” the king said.

  “There are some Romans amongst us. We are not all from Gaul,” Marwen said suddenly.

  The king’s pale eyes turned to him. “Do you want to let them live?”

  Marwen’s face hardened. “It would be right,” he said, raising his head in defiance.

  Vercingetorix smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let them go, Nervii. Take their swords and shields and let them go.”

  As the Gaul irregulars marched behind their king, the horsemen raised their swords in salute and cheered them. Behind, the wagons of precious grain were hidden in crackling flames.

  As Julius landed in the sheltered bay of Portus Itius on the coast of Gaul, he could see vast brown spires of smoke in the distance. Even the air tasted of battle and he felt a great anger at the thought of another rebellion against him.

  He had not wasted a moment of the crossing and was already busy with orders and plans that had to be implemented before the winter closed the mountains. Getting news back to Rome of his second assault against the Britons would be a race against time, but he needed the goodwill it would bring on the streets of the city. There would be no Senate tithe that year, when he needed every coin to smash the tribes under Vercingetorix. The name was on the mouths of the lowest workers, and Julius could barely remember the angry young man who had stormed out of his first meeting with the chieftains, eight years before. Not so young anymore, either of them. Cingeto had grown into a king and Julius knew he could not allow him to live. They had both walked a long path since the beginning, and the years had been filled with blood and war.

  As Julius climbed up onto the quayside, he was already deep in conversation with Brutus, breaking off to dictate to Adàn at his shoulder. Fast-riding extraordinarii had been sent to summon Bericus, and as soon as he arrived Julius would gather his council and plan the campaign. A glance at the brown
smoke on the horizon was enough to firm his resolve. This was his land and he would not falter if every man in Gaul took arms against him.

  The returning legions occupied the port and built their camps out of routine, though there was a tangible tension and weariness in the ranks. They too had fought for years with Julius and more than a few were sickened at the thought of another year of war, or even longer. Even the hardest of them wondered when it would all end and they would be allowed to reap the rewards they had been promised.

  On the third day, Julius gathered his council at the coastal fortress they had built, part of a chain that one day would dominate the coast of Gaul.

  Domitius came in first, wearing the silver armor he had won. Dark bristle covered his cheeks and his armor had lost much of its shine. The breastplate especially was a battered testament to the wars he had fought for Julius. Without a word, he grasped Julius’s hand and forearm in the legionary grip before taking his place.

  Mark Antony embraced his general as they met. Julius had reason to be pleased with him when he saw the tallies of their treasury. The sums of gold and silver in the reserve were vast, though they were dropping day by day as the cities and towns of Gaul waited to see if the rebellion would succeed. Already, the food supply was critical and Julius was grateful to Mark Antony for taking that part of his burden. The thousands of legionaries had to be fed and watered before they could fight, and already it was clear that Vercingetorix was trying to cut their supplies. The burning plumes of smoke had all been farms, and when the extraordinarii galloped out to them, they found them empty and deserted. Julius felt a grudging admiration for the ruthlessness of the new king. Vercingetorix had made a choice that would also kill the villages and towns that remained loyal to the legions. Thousands of his own people would die for their allegiance, and more if the legions could not end it quickly. It was a high cost, but starvation would wither the Roman legions as surely as swords.

  Julius had chosen a room that looked over the sea for their gathering, and birds wheeled and screeched outside on the gray rocks. He greeted each man with real pleasure as they came in. Bericus had taken a wound in the first engagement with Vercingetorix and had his shoulder and chest bandaged. Though the Ariminum general looked tired, he could not help but respond to Julius’s smile as he showed him a seat and brought a cup of wine for his good hand. Octavian came in with Brutus and Renius, in the middle of a discussion of tactics for the cavalry. All three men greeted Julius and made him smile at their confidence. They seemed not to share his own doubts and worries, but then they were used to having him there to solve them. He had no one.