‘They won’t be Roman out here,’ Fronto replied.
‘No. Hide your men. The riders are coming this way.’
Fronto turned in the saddle to see Palmatus and Masgava closing on him. ‘Get the men to that copse back there and hide them. Try and keep the horses quiet.
Masgava gave him a disapproving look.
‘I won’t endanger myself. I’m just taking a look. Do I have to order you?’
Still glaring at him, Masgava turned with Palmatus and trotted back along the track to the rest of the unit, who waited patiently. As the men made for the small knot of beech trees — tall and slender with a budding bright green starting to show amid the tops — Fronto followed Samognatos in dismounting and leading their horses into the shell of the ruined building.
Bucephalus seemed happy enough, and Fronto trusted him not to start making undue noise as he tied off the reins to a carbon-stained hinge. The scout seemed equally content to tie his horse up, and moments later the pair were edging along the sooty interior wall towards an aperture that still had one charred shutter hanging at an angle. The wide track that passed the farm and onto which they would be moving shortly was less than half a dozen paces from the window, raised on a slight causeway and unsurfaced, lacking the camber of a Roman road. Already the sound of cantering hooves was growing closer.
Fronto hunched down so that he could see through the cracks in the ruined shutter while remaining almost entirely obscured from the road. The scout found himself an equally hidden position, and the pair waited with bated breath.
Drumming hooves, and now the huff and snort of the horses. The shushing of mail and the jingle of fastenings rattling against armour and sheaths.
Fronto watched.
He had been in Gaul long enough now to tell the difference between some tribes, or at least groups of tribes. The Belgae tended to wear different shades to the Gauls of the west. They all had different skin and different colouring to the tribes of the south, beyond the Aedui. Some tended to strange animal shapes atop their helms, while others were more plain. Of course, he would not go so far as to say he could identify a tribe easily, but as the first rider passed, he noted their colouring instantly, which betrayed their southern origin. They were not Belgae, nor a tribe of north-west Gaul.
He glanced briefly at Samognatos without turning his head, and noted the scout narrowing his eyes in surprise at the riders.
More than twenty. He lost count as some of them were three abreast. Certainly more than twenty. Possibly thirty. Too small to be a war band of any kind, and they were too well armed and kitted out to be simple bandits. Their very presence here raised huge questions for Fronto and he found himself wishing he had persuaded Galronus to come along on this hunt.
And then he saw it.
A winged snake arm ring.
The symbol of Arvernus.
The last rider passed and the Gauls were gone, the sounds of thundering hooves receding into the east as the Arverni rode on.
Fronto waited for a count of fifty and then gestured to Samognatos with his hand and jerked his thumb back towards the copse where the singulares waited. The scout nodded and the two men untied their horses and retrieved them, walking them gingerly out of the ruins and scanning the horizon until they were sure that the Gauls were out of sight and earshot.
Sharing a quick glance, the two men mounted and began to ride.
‘I’m starting to think we should have taken them on,’ Fronto said breathlessly as they closed on the copse.
‘Dangerous thought,’ Samognatos replied with a raised eyebrow.
‘They were Arverni from the south. Whatever they’re doing in Nervian lands, even if it’s not connected with Ambiorix — though I am almost certain it is — it will be something underhanded that we could do with knowing. I would have liked to interrogate one.’
‘We’ll not catch up with them unless you cut loose the pack horses and we ride fast. And now you’ll have no further opportunity to set an ambush.’
‘I know,’ grumbled Fronto. ‘Shame. Confirms that we’re headed the right way, though, I’d say?’
The figures of Palmatus and Masgava appeared from the undergrowth at the edge of the small knot of trees, leading their horses.
‘Trouble?’
‘Arverni!’
Masgava frowned. ‘Same ones we met in Bibracte?’
‘No way I could tell. I wouldn’t like to discount the idea, though. Whatever the case, they’re up to no good this far north.’
‘I’m starting to think we might have been better just going with Caesar and burning the whole damn lot of them,’ Palmatus grunted, glancing quickly at Samognatos. ‘No offence to you.’
‘Arverni in the north and Ambiorix sending out ambassadors,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s all very dubious. I’d like to have a nice long chat with some of these people before Caesar brings the torch to bear.’
He turned to look back at the main road.
‘Let’s get to this Divonanto place as fast as we can. Even this smoking wasteland is starting to feel rather dangerous.’
* * * * *
The narrow wooded valley had descended for the last half mile or so, gradually steepening in its drop towards their destination. The muddy trail had wandered left and right between the thick trees and afforded no view of their goal until the last moment.
Samognatos the scout sat at the bend, waiting for Fronto to catch up, having spent much of the last day or two ranging a mile or so ahead in order to avoid any difficult encounters. There had been no further sign of the Arverni riders, for which Fronto was both thankful and troubled in equal measures. Now, the scout waved for his commander to join him, and Fronto trotted out along the path until he reached the bend where, as he passed the latest clump of trees, he was treated to his first view of Divonanto.
The Mosa river, wide and fast, cut a deep valley through the forested terrain, flowing from out of sight to the right, across before them and around another curve to the left. And across that torrent, nestled on the far bank in the glowing late afternoon sun that promised a good morrow, lay the sacred valley of the Condrusi.
This was no oppidum with walls of stone, earth and timber, nor was it a farmstead, undefended and poor. This was a thriving town with all the hallmarks of peaceful civilisation. Dozens of double-storey houses fronted onto narrow streets, intermittently held apart by wide, paved spaces. A wharf sat on the river’s edge, swarming with fishing boats and small trading vessels. Fronto was not sure what he had expected from a sacred place of one of the region’s lesser tribes, but this most certainly wasn’t it.
The feature that really drew the eyes, though, was the rock.
The far bank with its neat collection of streets and houses sat beneath a veritable mountain that towered up into the darkening sky. At the centre of the settlement, almost opposite the defile along which Fronto had approached, the jagged cliffs jutted out, creating a promontory with an apex two — perhaps even three — hundred feet above the settlement.
Fronto squinted in wonder up at the place. If he had ruled Divonanto, there would be a fortress above. Assuming a long slope away at the far side, it was perfect for defence. And given the value of this place to the Condrusi, combined with the pressing proximity of so many unfriendly tribes, such a construction would be eminently sensible.
His eyes told him a different story, though. Wattle fences were just about visible at the top, behind which jutted the regularly spaced shapes of tapering, well-tended trees. A temple, then. A ‘nemeton’ of the druids. It seemed as appropriate as a fortress, really. For all its defensive value, such a location was also a natural site to honour Gods. Romans were equally predisposed to building temples on the highest ground, after all.
‘Impressive,’ he muttered, scanning the town.