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.’
Chapter Twenty One
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.