The Gauls were shouting now. What were they saying? The prisoner had learned some of the Gallic language in his time here, though it had become rusty over time in seclusion and he had no idea what they said, but they sounded angry and desperate. One of them pointed at the survivors and made a walking gesture with two fingers, then pointed out of the gate.
Were they to be executed?
The tame Cadurci druid did that…
The prisoner had spoken to one or two of the less rabid druids belonging to the Aedui and the Remi years back and they had been clever, spiritual, well-spoken men. But when they considered you the enemy everything was different. They turned from erudite shepherds of the people into vengeful, irate maniacs with a thirst for torture. He could remember still when they had taken Manlius. The captives had been able to smell him cooking even as he still screamed. The prisoner shuddered.
But he moved on cue. Any progress, even to Elysium, was welcome now. For soon there would only be he and Duorix, and he knew damn well he would break first. Better to be dead than be found wanting in the last count. Ovidius tried to savage the Gauls as he passed them, but spear butts kept him painfully in place.
The four of them were urged out into the street and more care was seemingly being taken with their current movement than had been in their capture and imprisonment and the shifting from oppidum to oppidum in between.
Finally, one of them, who was clearly in charge, started shouting out orders to his men and the prisoner realised their tongue was coming back to him. He started to listen again. They were to line the prisoners up.
‘Gattus – legionary Roman,’ rasped one of them. Gattus, without a word and barely able to stand, shuffled forwards. ‘He might be dead before we reach the bottom,’ the Gaul said to his friend. Well, the prisoner could unpick perhaps every fourth word, but he could fill in the blank for the gist.
‘If he falls, you’ll have to carry him,’ the leader barked with no humour.
‘Ovidius – legionary Roman.’
‘That’s me. Marcus Ovidius, master on the field or in the sack. Or at least that’s what your whore of a mother told me!’ Ovidius exploded in laughter until guard one hit him in the stomach with a spear butt, folding him over.
‘Stop that,’ said his friend. ‘Don’t damage important commodities.’
‘Duorix – Remi traitor.’ Duorix barely acknowledged the man, chin up, head high as he fell into line.
The prisoner waited with bated breath.
‘Is this one alright?’ his jailor said. ‘He’s a funny colour.’
‘It’s permanent. He was like that when he was brought in.’
The first man shrugged,
‘Carbo – centurion Roman.’
Ah yes… that was his name.
* * * * *
‘I don’t know whether to salute you, support you or punch out your bloody teeth for leaving us all that time thinking you were dead,’ Atenos snorted as Carbo gulped down very watered wine as though it were the last flask in the world.
‘You spend a year with the Cadurci and let’s see how you feel, you big Gaulish ass.’
Atenos laughed out loud. ‘It’s my profound regret that Fronto is not here to see you. I’ll send him a message, even though I’m still waiting for a reply to my last. This will make his year. Mine too, ‘cause now I can get back to being an ordinary centurion. Primus Pilus is a pain in the arse. Too much writing and administration for my liking.’
‘Don’t get too ready to drop back down the ranks,’ Carbo coughed, and the effects kept him busy for some time. He was still idiotically weak. Eventually, when the fit subsided, he grinned. ‘I might be out of the business for a while. I might never be up to it again, in fact. A year of this ruins all your muscle tone. I might look at something cushy like camp prefect, or chief quartermaster if the general can be persuaded. You can keep your special tunic for now.’
A scream across the slope ripped through the still evening, and Carbo frowned. Ten heartbeats later there was another scream. Another. Another. When it had been going on long enough that Carbo had stopped counting, he gestured to Atenos. ‘What is that? Executions?’
‘That, sir, is the dulcet tone of Caesar’s leniency.’
‘What?’
‘Every scream is a Cadurci sword-hand being removed at the wrist.’
Carbo’s brow rose. ‘How many?’
‘All of them. Everyone who rose against us – every male of fighting age that was in Uxellodunon. They’re all to live, mind you. The louder shrieks you can hear aren’t the hands being removed. That’s the capsarii using burning pitch to cauterise the stumps. Caesar doesn’t want any of them to die. He wants them all to go home and spread the word, tell everyone what happens when you raise the standard of revolt.’
Carbo nodded slowly. ‘A grand show was ever Caesar’s way.’
Thudding footsteps stopped their conversation and both men turned to see Varus, the horse commander, jogging towards them.
‘It’s true,’ the man said with a grin. ‘I would not have believed it if I’d not seen it with my own eyes. You must have the constitution of Cerberus, man.’
Carbo gave a weak salute.
‘It is truly good to see you again, centurion. Good to see something pleasant come out of this evening.’ He winced at the sound of another dismemberment and turned to Atenos. ‘Caesar wants the Tenth’s First century to take control of a very special prisoner.’
Atenos frowned a question and the horse commander chuckled.
‘Our Arvernian friends have just ridden in with a rather disconsolate looking Lucterius strapped to a horse. Caesar probably has something special planned for this particular thorn in his side, but he doesn’t want the slippery little maggot to get away again. Your own century – the best of the veterans – are on that one man.’
The big Gallic centurion’s expression became serious. ‘He’ll not get past us. I heard that the couriers arrived this afternoon, sir. Anything from Fronto if I might ask?’
‘Nothing,’ muttered Varus, looking uncomfortable. He’d sent a messenger to Massilia some weeks back with the news of the campaign, and nothing had come back. ‘But other news has come in, and it’s good. Labienus has apparently utterly crushed the Treveri. According to the tribune who wrote the missive it sounds like a traditional Labienus victory. He took very few casualties, actually killed remarkably few of the enemy, yet still managed to douse their rebellious spirit totally. That man would make a good consul, though we’d miss him out here.’
‘Is that it, then?’ Carbo muttered. ‘Gaul is peaceful?’
‘It would seem so,’ Varus replied. ‘Caesar believes so anyway. There are no further sparks of rebellion we’re aware of and each region has a Roman presence. Caesar is talking about rewarding our Gallic allies, too, especially the Remi. Grants of citizenship have even been rumoured. Imagine the Remi as citizens of Rome. Anyway, the general’s already talking about winter quarters but, with it still only being late summer, he’s planning to take a small force down into Aquitania before the campaigning season ends. There might be no trouble down there, but he wants to be certain before he sends to the senate. Plus, it seems that when young Crassus was down there a few years back, he thought it might be a rich and abundant country, and it’s been poorly investigated thus far.’
Atenos sighed. ‘I hope the legions will still be needed next year. I’m not ready to run an inn at Agedincum or a farm near Bibracte yet. Still, when the time comes for Caesar to go back to Rome and take up his consulship, no one will be able to deny him now. He’s made a province. The lands of the tribes have somehow become Gaul, and Gaul has somehow become part of the republic. When he settles the veterans of twelve legions the place will be civilised at last, and with that kind of success under his belt Rome will fall all over him.’