It was at that moment that Lucterius’ new plan formed.
When they got to the supplies, he would suggest that he remain with his men to guard the dump while Drapes began ferrying the grain back to the oppidum. There was not a jot of doubt in his mind as to the idiot’s reaction to that. Drapes would narrow his eyes suspiciously and decide that he would guard the supplies while Lucterius ferried them back, for the Senone chief would worry that Lucterius would flee as soon as his back was turned and leave them in the lurch.
Far from it.
If he could leave Drapes with the last vestiges of the supply dump while he transported the rest into Uxellodunon, he would effectively have removed the stupid thorn from his side. Drapes would be outside with two hundred men or so, while Lucterius had the entire army in the oppidum. He might even then be tempted to alert the Romans and let them deal with Drapes appropriately.
Someone pushed him in the back and his thoughts came back to his present situation as he turned an angry glare on the man behind him. Tarbos, a lesser chief of the Petrocorii, was urging him on, his lip drawn back in a snarl. If he had dared to speak, Lucterius would have pointed out to the turd behind him that the reason he was moving slow was because he was currently traversing an area of slimy stones beneath the surface of the water. He resolved not to point to them and hoped the man would slip under the water in his mail shirt and drown.
If Drapes was the hunter (which was something of a reach for a man with the intellect of a root vegetable), then he had three hounds. Bimmos of the Santoni would be the one to reach the prey and bring it down without the need for his master. When the war actually began again, Bimmos would be effective, if he could be dragged out from beneath Drapes. Lugurix of the Pictones would be the hound who did exactly what was asked of him; no more and no less. He would bring back the bird Drapes had brought down.
Tarbos of the Petrocorii – the moron currently sloshing along behind Lucterius – was the third hound. He would be the one unaware even of where they were, who simply spent all his time curled into a ball, licking his own arse.
Behind him, Tarbos slipped on the slimy stones and almost cried out, but grabbed hold of Lucterius’ back to stop himself falling. Lucterius resisted the urge to turn and knife the man. He was nothing but a liability.
With considerable relief, Lucterius saw the gradient begin to rise and the boles of the trees that came ghosting out of the mist thinned out gradually. They were at the edge of the marsh of dead horses. They were past the Roman sentries. As he climbed out of the water and through a short section of sucking mud to the springy turf of the valley side, he kept low.
The Romans would not be paying a great deal of attention to this area. It was outside their cordon of watchers, but one of the three main Roman camps sat on the gentle slope only a few hundred paces away at the confluence of the watercourses. He could just see the faint flicker of the Roman torches far off in the mist. Turning his glare on Tarbos again he motioned for him and the stream of men following to keep as quiet as possible.
Holding his breath, aware that this was the most dangerous part, he kept low and stalked across the grass until he reached the shelter of a small copse of chestnut trees that marked the end of the perilous journey. From there on, they would have the shelter of trees and hedges until they were around the first bend of the river and out of sight of the Roman lines.
Then to Serpent Ford and the supply dump.
As he waited for the rest of the five hundred to reach the trees and relative safety, he could feel Tarbos’ eyes on him and he turned to meet the man’s gaze. There was something troubling there. It was not just the distrust and sneering dislike he’d so far experienced from the idiot. This was something else. Why was he continually watching Lucterius? Why were he and his ten men even with Lucterius among the Cadurci contingent, instead of back with his huntsman master and the Senone warriors?
Did Drapes really distrust him so much that he’d set this shaved ape to watching him? If so it was a poor choice of spy.
He resolved to make damn sure he did away with Tarbos as soon as Drapes was no longer a factor.
* * * * *
Varus yawned and rubbed his face vigorously. Years of waking early on campaign still never made rising in the pre-dawn hours any easier. Plus, he had to admit in the privacy of his own mind, he was not as young as he once was. His gaze slid up through the endless, soul-sapping mist to the golden sky above, the first mackerel-skin stain of morning having already given way to the early sun that hit the ground and raised the ubiquitous mist. Every dawn and every dusk this place issued a white cloud like the breath of some giant subterranean creature.
Within an hour it would be properly light.
He could have relied on a lesser officer, of course. Doing the rounds was something that most commanders left to their lessers. Caninius certainly wouldn’t be strolling around his camp at the moment. He rarely rose from his cot until the sun was above the horizon. But Varus had learned from the best. Caesar knew the value of the personal touch. And Fronto too. A few others. Not like this new breed of officers that seemed too distant to be a part of the army proper.
But the importance of a personal appearance could hardly be measured. Varus’ men knew him and valued him already, but it was handy to have the respect of the infantry, too. Often in such situations the two branches of the military would have to work in concert, such as at Alesia last year. And a personal appearance from a senior officer made men feel valued. Especially the poor bastards who had done the last night shift of watch in the cold and the dark and the early morning mist.
‘Morning, lad.’
The sentry looked around. Good man. He’d had his gaze locked on the ground ahead of him and left and had not noticed the lone horseman walking up behind him from the Roman side. But then, unlike many of his fellows, this poor sod had a troublesome spot to watch. At the edge of the irritating marsh that spread like a suppurating wound from the twin waterways, the lad had to watch not only the forward ground, but also whatever he could of the tree-covered, mist-soaked marsh.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Nothing doing, I take it?’
The young soldier shook his head. ‘About an hour before dawn the fires were stoked and lit up there. Heard the slaughtering of animals for breaking their fast, sir. Not a pleasant noise, but I’ll be buggered if it didn’t sound damned tasty down here.’
Varus laughed. It was good to hear such light humour being tossed about on such a dark subject. The Roman forces were getting very hungry indeed, living on half bread rations and hard-tack biscuits. Soon, hopefully, Fabius would arrive with extra supplies. Certainly there was nothing to be found in the local farms and settlements. Whatever they had managed to produce in the area – probably not a lot after last year – had clearly already been taken into the oppidum before they arrived.
‘I’d certainly not argue with any man who plonked a plate of mutton before me right now,’ grinned Varus. ‘Gods, I’d eat a dog’s arse if it were cooked with enough onions!’
The soldier burst out laughing and Varus’ grin widened. This was what men like Caninius missed out on by not consorting with the lower ranks. Oh, it did something to a man. Somehow it cracked the noble outer that coated the patrician class and many of the equites and injected something of the common man. And that created men like Fronto, who were sometimes disapproved of by the higher echelons of the army. But by the gods it made good leaders and fighting men.
He crouched next to the young soldier.
‘Do you know what I had when I woke this morning?’