‘The Romans send their scouts and foragers to the lower slopes of these very hills,’ announced the chieftain of the far northern Lexovii contingent, a man with as much wit as hair — and little of either. His men were camped closest to the Roman lines, and he appeared appropriately nervous.
‘Perhaps we should give them cause to stop sending their scouts?’ proposed the Leuci chief, earning him a nod of approval from Lucterius. At last someone had actually suggested action of some kind.
‘It would be better not to provoke the Romans.’ Commius countered, and Lucterius turned a disbelieving stare on him. Not provoke them?
‘If you are close to a sleeping bear and its paw twitches, you don’t poke the paw, do you?’ the army’s commander elucidated, miming the action to underline his meaning.
‘No,’ replied a hoarse voice from the darkness. ‘You take your sword and close on the creature, driving your blade through its brain before it has the chance to wake.’
The heads of several dozen chieftains turned in surprise at the voice as a figure emerged from the darkness into the light of the communal fire — no stranger should have been able to pass the guards encircling them at a respectable distance. Lucterius frowned into the gloom, and almost leapt as he recognised the figures of some of his own men following close on the speaker’s heels, all wearing the silver serpent arm ring of the Arverni, including the man who now cast aside a bow, let a quiver fall to the ground and discarded the dark, wool cloak he wore.
‘How dare you?’ snapped Commius, rising and quivering with rage. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘That,’ replied Lucterius, also rising to his feet, ‘is Vergasillaunus of the Arverni, Vercingetorix’s cousin, chosen second, victor of Gergovia and commander of the army of free tribes.’
The effect on the assembled nobles was impressive. Perhaps half of them bowed sharply, or even sank to their knees in deference to this notable leader who had helped the Arverni king engineer a war against Rome. The rest dithered, but the look of awe on most of their faces confirmed the immediate shift of power. Lucterius smiled as Commius spluttered in anger.
‘You have no authority here!’ the man snarled at the new arrival.
‘I beg to differ,’ Lucterius grinned. ‘I suspect you will find that it’s you who lacks authority.’ He turned to Vergasillaunus. ‘Your arrival is timely.’
The king’s cousin nodded his head respectfully at Lucterius and looked around the gathering. ‘Each man here has the count of twenty to decide whether he follows me against Rome or takes his forces and goes home. Make your choice, but bear in mind that those who are not with us might well be regarded as our enemy.’
The gathered chieftains gazed in awe at the commanding Arvernian and Commius heaved in angry breath after angry breath. ‘This is my army.’
‘No it isn’t,’ Vergasillaunus replied, calmly and evenly. ‘Your inclusion in this war is greatly encouraging, Commius of the Atrebates, and your strength at arms and noble lineage does not escape my cousin and I. But I command this army; do not be mistaken about that.’
The Arvernian’s hard features softened slightly, a calculating look in his eyes.
‘However, there are forces here of such vast numbers that they must by necessity be split among leaders. Lucterius is more than capable of commanding a sizeable force, as are several others. I would hope, Commius, that you would join them in leading such a host under my command?’
Without waiting for a reply to his acutely political offer, he turned back to the gathering. ’We must hit the Roman forces hard. If we deploy below the slope in the morning, and my king in Alesia forms a second force simultaneously, the Romans will do all they can to prevent the two attacks coinciding. They will be forced to send out their cavalry to deal with us first. And once they commit outside their defences, we will crush their horse.’
The chieftain of the Bituriges, his face painted with unease, cleared his throat. ‘I think you underestimate their cavalry. They break us time and again. We lost Novioduno because of them, and they annihilated our horse at Borvo. We all know that our tribes provide the best horsemen, but don’t forget that the Romans use our tribes, and their strange tactics are unstoppable.’
Vergasillaunus smiled coldly. ‘Far from it, my friend. Learn from your enemies. The Romans are disciplined, but they are also unpredictable, because they always have a trick up their sleeve. Well so do I. Fear not, for Caesar’s cavalry will rue the decision to deploy tomorrow, mark my words.’
Leaving the Biturige chief slightly less perturbed, Vergasillaunus stepped back and addressed the entire gathering.
‘No one appears to have left the fire, and so I will assume you are all content to serve under me. Very well. I will come among you in the next hour and tell each of you what is required. We move with the rising sun, so see to your forces. It is time to make Caesar bleed.’
Chapter 20
Fronto felt odd, riding in these circumstances. In previous years, he had eschewed the saddle on most occasions, only calling upon Bucephalus when there were great distances to be eaten up or speed was of the essence. Then, as those few extra years began to make their presence known, he had finally acceded to the nagging of both his centurions and his joints and begun to ride Bucephalus even on a slow march. But still he had never ridden within the army’s fortifications while they were settled. It had seemed the height of laziness.
The system of fortifications around Alesia, however, were so immense in scale and covered such a distance of varying terrain that had he not kept his horse to hand, he would have spent most of the day walking just to exchange words with his peers. And so he kicked the big black animal to a trot as he ascended the slopes of the southern hill upon which Caesar had constructed his camp. To both left and right, the turf-sloped ramparts seethed with activity, men on watch all along the wicker wall — faster to construct than a timber palisade and surprisingly protective from sword and axe blows — and atop the high timber towers. Behind them, in the wide gap between the two walls, centuries of men bustled around under the watchful eyes of their officers, carrying supplies to positions, bringing timber and tools for repair work, handing out rations to those who sat at rest and sweating in the morning sun, even this early. The night’s chill had had little effect on the searing orb that rose the next day, and perspiration had become the norm. Centurions shouted orders, optios batted men’s calves with their poles to instil discipline. The sound of hammering and the buzz of camp life filled the air.
And this was just the open ground between the two defensive lines. The actual camps were busier still with units coming and going on rotations to rest, bathe, repair armour and clean kit. The inner fortification gradually fell away to the left, where it followed the small river along the valley below the oppidum, while the outer line of rampart climbed the hill to the redoubts and camps that commanded the best view of the enemy city. Mere weeks ago, much of this hillside had been heavily wooded, though now the majority of those antique trunks had been cut, sawn, adzed, nailed and roped into the defensive system and the slopes were almost bare, allowing the Romans a clear view of the entire siege area.
The camp of Caesar which towered over the landscape afforded an excellent view of the oppidum and the twin lines of fortifications around it, but the curve of the hill kept the western range that played host to the Gallic reinforcements largely out of sight. The camp was not especially large, despite being home to the Tenth and Eleventh legions, the lion’s share of personnel being distributed on regular rotation along the stretches of rampart to either side of this camp in the same manner as the other garrisons around the oppidum. The camp did not follow the traditional form of such installations, its walls curved to fit with the contours of the hill and as Fronto rode towards the gate — a hive of activity in itself — he could see the figures of officers atop the wall walk, beneath the timber watch tower. One of them, gleaming and with a tell-tale crimson cloak, was clearly Caesar, and Fronto saluted as he approached.