Caninius looked extremely unimpressed. The poor sod had just come from trying to break a siege against superior numbers, via a battle that had almost gone badly for him and now to an oppidum that looked more or less unassailable.
‘What else can we do?’ the legate sighed. ‘Settle in for a siege. The scouts have identified three suitable strong points. I’ll split the legions into three groups with six or seven cohorts apiece and you can assign the cavalry to them appropriately. Then at least we can be sure we have them trapped while we consider the next move.’
Varus chewed his lip. ‘There are not enough of us to take that place, Caninius, and if they’re as well-stocked as they seem, we could be here for anything up to a year. Our next move might be to send to Caesar for reinforcements.’
Caninius curled a lip at the thought of having to ask for aid. Labienus had never had to ask for help, and it appeared that Caesar had already sent Fabius to his aid once, assuming he couldn’t cope with just two legions. ‘No. Not yet. We have them hemmed in. Fabius will come soon. Maybe you could send a group of riders and urge him to move at speed?’
Varus peered at Alesia’s echo and nodded. The last thing he wanted to experience was a repeat of that bloodbath. Gods, let Fabius be quick.
Chapter Thirteen
Molacos of the Cadurci sat astride his horse and peered down at the wide valley, wondering if there was some other route they could have taken. But he knew there wasn’t, and no matter how much time Lucterius thought he could buy, Molacos knew that time was running short. His task had already taken far longer than they’d expected, and it would still take some time to get to Rome, extricate the king and return him to his people. Only then, with Vercingetorix at the head of the new rebellion could they even hope to bind all of the tribes together and achieve what they had failed last year.
Since Alesia the surviving nobles of all the tribes had come to the inevitable conclusion that if they had not argued and dallied, and had simply thrown all their strength behind the Arverni king at the beginning, Caesar’s head would now be mouldering on a spike and the land would be free. Well when the next rising came, they would fight. Even now many were busy causing just enough trouble to keep Caesar’s eyes on the north and away from Lucterius and his gathering forces, or the small select band of hunters and killers tasked with returning the king to his place.
Molacos raked his scalp and punched his palm every time he was alone, knowing that his delays in finding anyone who could reveal Vercingetorix’s actual location and situation may well already have caused a failure in the plan. By now they had all been expecting he and his killer gods to be making for Uxellodunon with the king in tow, to combine with the growing army. Gaul was underpopulated and starving, and no one was labouring under the impression that this would be as easy as last year. But it was their last chance. If they gathered the army and put the king at its head everyone, young and old, man and woman, would grab a sickle or spear and throw their every ounce of will and strength into the fight.
But if it went wrong or they lost, there would never be another chance. Rome would have won.
It was a desperate thing.
His gaze raked the occupants of the wide Rhodanus valley.
More carts and wagons than he might have thought existed. It was quite unbelievable, really. The convoy stretched out of sight to both left and right, still filing around a distant bend in the valley to the north and gradually rolling out of view to the south, bound for Massilia. And it was well guarded. At least a legion, by his now expert estimate, lined the convoy as it rumbled on, along with cursed Remi and their allies riding along the sides.
He could see a small group of officers on horses sitting still not far from his position, apparently deep in discussion with a scout. It was imperative that Molacos and his men get to Massilia and board their friendly boat as soon as possible. Waiting for that monstrous column to pass would take forever, and they would then be in the port, blocking things up and making life difficult for Molacos and his people.
The twelve of them had first moved to cross the high ground some forty miles west of here, but it had quickly become apparent that since the legion that had guarded the border had been reassigned, the clever man running the Roman provincial garrison had carefully utilised his small number of soldiers in setting up guard posts and fortlets all along the edge of Roman territory. Until they’d reached the Rhodanus, Molacos had found no place where they could possibly have passed towards Massilia unobserved.
And now, moving into Roman lands, they had to rely on stealth and not violence, lest they fail through their own conspicuousness. The only place they could pass the Roman border unnoticed would be the Rhodanus, since the quantity of traffic up and down the wide valley on any single day was vast and multi-national. Twelve folk of the tribes could easily lose themselves in the endless mercantile traffic.
But not today. Damn the Fates and the gods and the shit-eating Romans for making the day he reached the border the same as Caesar’s cursed column. The coming day or two would be a hell of difficulties, or yet more impossible delays.
‘What now?’ asked a hoarse voice made eerie by mask and hood.
He looked back at the speaker, Cernunnos – one of the few of his group to whom he would consider deferring. Each and every one was a killer and a master of the art, though each was driven by their own goals, from Molacos’ own devotion to his master Lucterius, through Catubodua of the Lemovices, fighting here to avenge her husband King Sedullos who had died at Alesia, and to Belisama and Belenos, the crazed twins who had seen their father tortured to death for information. But apart from himself, the only one who was here purely with the goal of returning Vercingetorix to his place was Cernunnos, a respected master druid who had once led the Arverni priests, seers and druids in their devotions. He would do nothing were it not for the greater good.
‘We have no time to seek another way, even if there was one. It has to be the Rhodanus. If we wait for this convoy we will be a further day behind, plus any extra days they cost us by blocking up the port on their way to Rome. Unless we can get ahead of them some way…’
‘We could kill them all,’ interjected Mogont, the giant. ‘Take the convoy, free the slaves and then stroll into Massilia?’
Molacos turned on the big man. Mogont was generally less belligerent than some of the others though he had his own score to settle, having been gelded by some arsehole Roman officer after killing his horse. But that kind of talk was plainly stupid. Twelve men and women against a legion?
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘I didn’t mean alone. I meant with them.’
Confused, Molacos followed the giant’s pointing finger and blinked in surprise.
On the hills at the far side of the valley a large force was mobilizing, from here looking like swarming insects. ‘Who..?’
‘They are the Helvii,’ Cernunnos said quietly in his strange, ghostly voice.
‘There is no possible way you can see a standard from here,’ Molacos growled.
‘I see many things far beyond the realm of your eyes. They are Helvii.’
Molacos opened his mouth to argue, but he had rarely experienced a druid who was wrong when he made such a pronouncement. They had the ears of the gods and on occasion spoke with their tongues. He felt a faint shudder run up his spine.
‘But the Helvii are Rome’s allies.’
Cernunnos turned to him slowly. ‘Enough gold and slaves to buy a place among the gods can turn the most loyal of heads, Taranis. And these are Helvii lands. See how they have chosen a part of the valley where the river limits their movement, there are no settlements to get in the way, the slopes are shallow enough for a cavalry charge and the wagons have been strung out in single file due to the depth of the undergrowth, stretching the Roman army to its limit. There are no more than two thousand Helvii there at most. Maybe as little as a thousand. They could not hope to destroy a legion in the field, but here they can hit the army quick and hard at a weak point and cut the column in two. Note also how they have waited until the Roman commanders are close so they can cause the maximum chaos by killing the leaders first. They may lose, but they have at least a reasonable chance of success if the Helvian leader can maintain enough control throughout the fight.’