‘Gaius Antistius Reginus of the Fifteenth, bound for Rome.’
‘Stop saying that,’ snarled the leader with the hoarse voice and smashed a shattered exquisite Roman glass into the man’s cheek, grinding it into the flesh and lacerating his face. Reginus whimpered, and yet didn’t scream.
‘I will not tell you anything,’ he panted painfully. ‘The convoy will not fall into the hands of filthy rebels!’
Convoy? Interesting. Cavarinos frowned as the torturing came to an abrupt halt. The leader paused and despite the mask Cavarinos knew he was frowning. Reaching up, the man pulled back the hood and slowly removed his mask. The face beneath was like chopped meat and even Cavarinos found himself recoiling for a moment. Reginus looked as though he might retch, even in his own current situation.
‘Convoy?’ the ruin-faced man murmured in confusion.
‘Yes,’ Reginus answered in equal perplexity. ‘Caesar’s convoy. That’s what you’re wanting, yes?’
‘I care not for some convoy of Rome,’ spat the hideous leader. ‘Perhaps I should have made myself clearer at the outset? I am hunting Esus – the saviour of the peoples. It is the Arverni king I seek. Tell me where I can find Vercingetorix.’
Reginus boggled for a moment, and then started to laugh.
‘Is that what this is all about? You should have been clearer to begin with. His fate is common knowledge.’
The cloaked leader, clearly extremely irritated, smacked the Roman with the back of his hand. ‘This is not the case. I have interrogated every Roman officer I can find, and no one knows. The king was taken prisoner by Caesar, but some think he is in Samarobriva. Some in Rome. Others think he is in a secure, hidden place, and others say he is already dead. No one has been able to tell me with any certainty.’
‘You have been asking the wrong men, Gaul. I will happily tell you with clarity and certainty where your former king is. He is forever beyond your reach, in the carcer of Rome, on the slope of the Capitol. He languishes in the most secure place in the Roman world where he will stay, sleeping in his own waste, until the day his execution is ordered, and then he will be killed.’
Another of the figures – a woman, Cavarinos realised in surprise – cut in. ‘When will that be?’
Reginus shrugged. ‘Who knows? A year. Two?’ He is too valuable to kill offhand. Caesar will have a triumph in Rome once he has returned for his consulship, and Vercingetorix will be dragged around the city in chains for the delight of the crowd before any execution is ordered.’
The woman turned to her leader. ‘We still have time, Molacos,’ her mask-muffled voice announced.
The meat-faced leader turned angrily on the woman and slapped her, despite the mask covering her face. ‘No true names, Catubodua. Are you a fool?’
The woman snarled in reply. ‘There is no one to hear but a dead Roman.’ Even as Molacos rounded on her again, she lanced out with a sword and drove it through Reginus’ eye and deep into his brain, killing him instantly.
‘That was foolish,’ Molacos muttered.
‘He told us what we wanted and now your name is a secret once more.’
The giant of a man who had killed the optio outside leaned down and spoke, the mask making his voice oddly hollow. ‘How do we get to Rome?’
Molacos sighed and cleaned his blade on the dead legate’s tunic before sheathing it. ‘Lucterius has a sympathetic Ruteni trader in Massilia who can arrange passage for us. Come, Mogont. Gather the others from the barracks. We have a destination at last. Massilia, then Rome.’
As the man replaced his mask and hood, Cavarinos noticed a symbol on the cloak’s front. A wheel and a thunderbolt. The signs of Taranis. So, Molacos was Taranis, was he? The most powerful of the gods. And Catubodua? The crow of war. He would give money to know who it was behind that mask. Women warriors were not common. And Mogont, too? Even as the big man turned and left with the others, Cavarinos could see the jagged stylised mountain shape on his cloak identifying him with Mogont – the lord of mountains. Gods. Twelve gods. It would be fascinating to see what other symbols he could identify and what gods they claimed to be.
But more important was what he had learned of their true identity and their goal.
For he knew Molacos…
The hunter that was Lucterius’ pet and who Cavarinos had believed to have fallen at Alesia. It seemed he had survived, at least in ruined form. As the men disappeared from the house out into the square, joining up with their fellows, the Arvernian prince rose from his crouch by the window, torn by choices. It should be none of his business. And yet it was. It really was.
And, being his business, and the twelve of them having stated an intention to find, and presumably free, his cousin, the great Arverni king, he should by rights be throwing in his lot with them. But the practical man that was Cavarinos, who knew that Gaul was a Roman thing now, and that nothing would halt that tide, could see only extended violence and horror in dragging out the revolution. It would be better if Vercingetorix had been killed at Alesia. Better for him. Better for the tribes. Better for everyone.
Massilia.
Fronto was in Massilia. Now why did that leap to mind?
He knew the answer to that question at once. Because despite the fact that Cavarinos was a ghost, drifting in the aether, disconnected from both his own people and the conquerors, Fronto remained the only person whose opinion he felt he could count upon. The Roman had spoken sense throughout the war and had even been one to advocate a peaceful solution to save the tribes. Fronto would know what to do.
Another thought occurred to him, too. Molacos hated Romans more than anyone Cavarinos had ever met. More even than Vercingetorix. And Fronto had gone to become a wine merchant in Massilia. What were the chances of Molacos and his psychotic, vengeful group passing through that great port without hearing tell of the former companion of Caesar’s who lived there. And when that happened, Cavarinos wouldn’t give two copper coins for Fronto’s chances.
Still undecided about his views on Molacos’ end goal, he at least was now resolved on one thing: he had to beat the cloaked ‘gods’ to Massilia and warn Fronto. Then he could seek Fronto’s counsel on other matters, once the former legate had moved to a place of safety and avoided the wrath of ‘Taranis’.
Massilia, then. At all speed.
Chapter Twelve
The officers of Caesar's senior staff sat in a semicircle facing the general across his littered desk. No one here ranked lower than a legate, and Varus wondered at the lack of attendance from the usual bulk of officers – senior tribunes with vexillatory commands, auxiliary prefects, cavalry prefects, and the usual extras such as the engineering genius Mamurra. It seemed that only the most high-ranking had been required to attend.
He turned to see Brutus looking back at him with the same curiosity burning in his eyes, and smiled. These days, with the army generally commanded by serious, career-minded men with little or no sense of humour, Brutus' companionship for the season had been gods-sent. Most of the old hands were gone now one way or another, and that camaraderie from the early days of the campaign was notably absent these days. Still, the war was almost finished with, and soon they would all be adjusting to civilian life, their great patron no longer needing their talents in the field.
The brief campaign against the Bellovaci had felt like proper warfare, of course, but in truth it was a small thing in comparison to the gargantuan field battles and sieges in which the army had been involved in previous years. The death toll against the Bellovaci had been pleasantly low, and the army still felt more relaxed than it had for years, certain that this was the last fight. The Gauls seemed to be suppressed, and the Belgae now had collapsed beneath the Roman boot.