It was his duty as Arverni – bred into him over years of rebellion – to aid the fight against Rome in any way he could, and these people had to be Rome’s enemies. That was plain to see. And yet the longer the war had gone on, the more he had turned in favour of peace. That war was lost now, and despite the deep-seated feeling that he should be with those cloaked figures, he held his tongue and remained in the shadows.
Yet if his goal was truly peace and a harmonious cohabitation with Rome as he’d come to suspect, why was he not prepared to shout a warning to the Romans? It was not a matter of self-preservation, despite the fact that calling out would almost certainly mean death for him as well as the Romans. Twelve against four was poor odds, and somehow he knew these people to be killers despite their hidden nature.
No. Not self-preservation. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to warn the soldiers that had so long been the enemy of his people.
It was a horrible realisation that he was neither a rebellious Gaul, nor a peaceful Roman subject.
He was a wraith, tied to a world that no longer existed.
As he watched, the Romans turned towards the approaching cloaked figures. With typical Roman arrogance they did not raise an alarm. They assumed all was safe, since they had control of Gergovia. They must be unobservant to miss the bulge of weapons and the sinister aspect of the masks. The leader of the guards was a man with a crest on his helmet, but not a sideways one like a centurion. He was their second-in-command. What did the Romans call them again? Ah yes. Optio – chosen man.
Today he had been chosen by death.
The optio challenged the cloaked figures, but made no move to defend himself. Three of the cloaked figures stepped forwards swiftly. At last the optio realised he was in trouble and went to draw his sword. As two of the swiftest warriors Cavarinos had ever witnessed whipped out their blades in a fluid move and put them simultaneously through the necks of the two legionaries, the cloaked figure out front swung a punch at the optio. The Gaul was huge – by a head the tallest of the cloaked group, and with the shoulders of an ox. The optio reeled from the blow, stunned and prevented from crying out a warning as he’d so clearly intended.
As Cavarinos watched, sickened, the huge cloaked figure grabbed the optio by neck and groin and dropped to one knee, bringing the body he held like a weightless toy down onto the raised kneecap and snapping his spine in two. The officer tried to shriek but the big meaty hand slipped up from the neck over his mouth and the big man leaned close, apparently asking a question of his crippled victim. When he removed his hand, the officer desperately stuttered out some whispered reply.
The giant nodded his acceptance of whatever he heard and, as the Roman shuddered and retched in agony, slowly reached up and with disturbing ease turned the man’s head to face backwards, accompanied by the tearing of tendons and the cracking of bones.
The big man stood, leaving the lifeless Roman on the ground.
‘Come,’ said a new figure from within the group in a strange, hoarse voice, and Cavarinos marked that man as the leader, despite the uniform appearance of the entire group. The dozen figures left the dead Romans where they lay and moved into the compound.
In apparent response to whatever information they had received from the officer, the dozen figures separated as they entered the depot. Three cut left and three right, moving methodically to the two other side gates where they no doubt found and dispatched more guards, though Cavarinos could not see the action from his poor vantage point. Then, as the groups of three re-emerged, they moved into selected buildings.
The other six figures made straight across the square to what had once been a luxurious house belonging to Gergovia’s resident druid. Now, a red flag adorned with the ubiquitous golden eagle and SPQR sigil hung from the upstairs window, denoting the presence of Rome. With the boldness of the invincible, the six cloaked figures entered the building and closed the door behind them.
Cavarinos held his breath for a long moment, staring into the now-empty compound. Despite not having committed himself to either side in this small engagement, he felt certain he needed to know more about what was happening here. It smacked heavily of all the clandestine manoeuvring that had occurred in the two years leading up to the revolt.
He could move now. The square was empty. Six had moved into the largest building and the others were scattered among the other structures, but all were inside. To move could cause him trouble if one of them happened to emerge once more as he crossed the open. Would being Arverni save him from their wrath? Somehow he suspected not, even if he’d looked the part. And he didn’t. He was still clean-shaven, his hair pulled back behind him. He wore Gallic clothing, but his serpent arm-ring and noble’s torc had gone, and at his neck he wore a figurine of a Roman God. Somehow he knew his appearance would be held against him no matter what he said.
Still, the square was empty and precious time was passing as he deliberated.
His heart in his throat and thumping a speedy tempo, Cavarinos slipped out of the shadows and loped quietly across to the gate, trying not to pay too close attention to the three corpses that lay there. His eyes darting back and forth between the various doors, he settled on the big house ahead. Clearly that was their objective, the rest simply keeping the garrison out of things.
No one emerged, and no faces appeared at the windows as he ran quietly on soft boots, shushing gravel despite his care, and he dived into the shadows at the far side, next to Vercingetorix’s house. As he stood in the shade, heaving in silent breaths, two figures stepped out of the side buildings, perhaps having heard movement. Both peered intently around the square, shared a look, and then moved out, searching the area swiftly.
But they were not Arverni, for they moved with unfamiliarity around the square, peering into places where Cavarinos knew a man couldn’t hide. Who were they if not Arverni?
Cavarinos was a child of this tribe, and he knew Gergovia like he knew the lines on his hand. Staying in the shadows, he moved to the rear of Vercingetorix’s house, ducked past the animal shed and turned right, running along the back of the buildings, silent on the turf. The Roman compound perimeter had made use of the boundary wall of the house’s rear field, but had left open space behind the buildings themselves, just as he’d assumed. Now easily safe from the prying eyes of the pair in the square, he passed the rear of three houses and arrived at the druid’s two-storey residence.
His fears were confirmed by the screaming of a man within, and he could hear curses and angry imprecations in Latin. Who was this man? Not the prefect, for he worked out of Vercingetorix’s house and was apparently inspecting the oppidum’s granaries this morning. This was another Roman, and important enough to have drawn the attentions of the dozen cloaked killers.
With the ease of a man familiar with every wall and window, Cavarinos closed on the house’s rear wall and climbed up to the store shed that was built against it. Quickly he peered round it, aware that anyone looking out of the rear window of the house might see him. Fortunately, no one seemed to be manning that window and on agile toes, Cavarinos crept up to it and crouched, rising to peer through the bottom corner.
He was not shocked by what he saw. Sickened a little, but not shocked. The Roman was clearly a very senior officer. He wore the same uniform – and had similar armour hanging on the wall – to that Cavarinos remembered Fronto wearing and so this, he assumed, was another legion commander. A legate, he remembered. The man was already agonised and ruined. In this state most men would already be begging for death, so Cavarinos could only admire the Roman’s tenacity, as the haughty face turned on the cloaked figure.