‘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.
Epilogue
The prisoner was roused from what might, after a year, have only generously been termed sleep, by a murmur of activity outside the gate. He turned to look at his fellow prisoners. Gattus had been broken for weeks now. He’d stopped talking a month ago and now just sat hugging his knees, rocking back and forth in complete silence. Almost a week had now passed since he had eaten anything and his body was on the brink of collapse, his rocking slowed to a jerky shudder. Ovidius was mad. Of course, he’d seemed mad when he was brought in almost a year ago. He’d actually torn the ear off a guard with his teeth as he was manhandled into the stockade. But he’d started… well there was no other way of saying it… eating himself. He’d taken bites out of his limbs and the damn Gauls, even if they had cared, had no brilliant Greek medics to deal with such things. Their healers were the druids, who seemed not to really care too much about the health of their Roman captives. Ovidius’ wounds were festering and while he seemed to be whole, if mad, he would not survive long with the rot set into his body. The only strong one remaining was Duorix, a Remi cavalryman who seemed to take every day with such a stoic calmness that it was only his example that had kept the prisoner going.
There had been more than thirty of them when they were first herded together. Now there were four. The prisoner had forgotten his name half a year ago – no one in here had known it anyway.
But the noise was interesting. There was a tone to it that the prisoner recognised from other fights. The sound of abject hopelessness – the sound of a loser. Somehow, given that they were his jailors he found that tone at once incongruous and utterly hilarious. He started to laugh.
Ovidius started to laugh with him, but that was hardly a surprise. Ovidius laughed at everything, even when he shat himself – especially when he shat himself. But Duorix seemed to have picked up on the same thing completely independently, and he was chuckling away to himself.
There was a groaning, scraping sound and the gate of the timber compound swung open. The prisoner tried to look through the mist of stink and the flies that had gathered around the rotted food – not everything they gave you was still fresh enough to eat, the human waste – no latrine or bucket, the latrine was the same place as the floor and the bed, and the bodies – the dead were only removed once a week or so, and there were still two festering legionaries in here.