‘Teutatus, Taranis and Anvallus preserve you,’ offered one of the warriors. ‘We must go now, while the dark still conceals our passage.’
‘Let them go,’ Critognatos grunted.
‘No.’ Both men turned to see a woman standing in the doorway of a house across the street. She was a commoner in ragged clothes and with tangled, matted hair, but the fire in her eyes and the strength in her voice gave her a strange nobility to Cavarinos’ mind.
‘What?’ snapped one of the warriors in the street.
‘You would flee like cowards and leave your womenfolk to fight? I say no.’
‘It is not your place to question us, hag!’
The woman folded her arms defiantly. ‘Then consider this: for you to leave, we have to unbar and unblock one of the gates. Without the bridges, you will have to use one of deer trails through the marsh. All it then takes is for one Roman scout to see you and then Caesar is aware of the trail. Then we are in twice the peril. I say no. A hundred cowards fleeing could cost us our chance of survival.’
Cavarinos blinked at the woman. There was no denying her logic, and he could see the same thought dancing around the expressions of the warriors gathered in the street. He looked at his brother, and even Critognatos was nodding at the sense of it.
‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘No one leaves.’
‘How will you stop us, Arvernian?’
‘I will stop you,’ the woman snapped. I, and the others. We will tell the Romans where you are, so that they can pick you off in the swamp. What is it to be, Eridubnos, son of Garo the fisherman?’
The warrior narrowed his eyes, his whole body trembling with anger, but he said nothing. Other men and women, both noble and commoner, young and old were appearing in doorways, and a knot of them had gathered blocking the street ahead with folded arms.
‘Drop your bags and get to the walls,’ Cavarinos said quietly but firmly. ‘Dawn is not far off, and the light will bring with it fresh hell.’
* * * * *
Fabius and Furius stood in the awning of the latter’s tent as they helped each other into cuirasses and baldrics, passed over helmets and swords. Between moments of labouring into uniform, the two tribunes from the Tenth legion peered out into the deep grey and the torrential rain that had begun with the rising of the sun and as yet showed no sign of letting up. Blown sheets of rain gusted across the hillside.
‘I will be glad to leave Gaul, whether we win the place or lose it,’ Fabius grumbled.
‘I’ve never known a place with such depressing spring weather,’ agreed his friend, and reached out from the shelter of the leather flap to allow the falling rain to blatter on his open palm. ‘It’s a wonder the whole bloody place doesn’t wash away into the sea.’
‘But in summer it can get damned hot,’ Fronto muttered as he stepped into view from the tent’s side, his cloak wrapped tight around him, his crest looking soggy and limp. His face bore that tell-tale expression of little sleep and regretful hangover.
‘I can’t believe he’s got soldiers working in this,’ Furius said quietly. ‘The men are already feeling restive and bleak after that debacle last night.’
The three men peered out into the downpour. A rumble of thunder rolled over the hills to the north, as if to highlight the misery. Avaricon was only barely visible through the grey sheets of water, a darker shape rising through the dismal air. Small detachments of men were just visible moving about on the ramp — four centuries had been committed and told to take it slowly and carefully. Their remit had been an attempt to repair the minor fire damage to the towers, straighten the vineae, replace the pulley ropes and fill in the sunken pits in the ramp with baskets of gravel. They were not to engage the enemy, and were to keep themselves safe, even if it meant slow work. After all, there would be no missiles from the walls in this weather.
‘Caesar is never a predictable man,’ Fronto reminded them. ‘And therein lies the reason for my visit. The senior officers of the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth have been called into a meeting. The general wants to see us all as soon as. Due to my… circumstances… we’re already late.’
The two tribunes finished adjusting their armour, threw the heavy wool cloaks about them and nodded to their commander. Taking a preparatory breath, the three men stepped out into the battering rain and hurried across the gloopy mud to the general’s tent, where Aulus Ingenuus and two of his men gestured for them to enter without challenging them.
As well as the commanders and officers from the four named legions the rest of the staff were present, as well as the legates from the other legions. It came as no surprise to Fabius and Furius that they were the last to attend. Rare was the meeting for which Fronto was on time, and word was that he had spent three of the five hours the army had rested since the night’s chaos drinking with Antonius, which was always a recipe for disaster and usually ended up with Fronto in a bad mood.
‘Good. Now we’re all here,’ Caesar said pointedly, his eyes lingering on Fronto for a moment, ‘time to explain the morning’s plans.’
The officers shuffled slightly in the expectant silence. Every man present had assumed that the day would go on as it was, small units repairing the damage so that the army was in a position to re-build the ramp to the correct height when the storm finally passed. A crack of thunder slightly closer filled the silence.
‘I have given the Bituriges what they expect,’ Caesar announced. ‘Small repair work. Tired, unhappy men trying to put things right.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Enemy numbers on the wall are somewhat thin this morning, having committed only enough watchers to keep an eye on the workers below, while the rest shelter from the storm in houses. Now, seemingly, is our time to strike.’
Antonius turned a frown upon the general. ‘Respectfully, Gaius, can you not hear the foul mood of Jove out there? The gods grumble and moan.’
‘I would suggest that the grumbling out there is aimed at the Gauls, Marcus. Do not forget that they worship Jove as Taranis. That noise is the gods telling the inhabitants of Avaricon that their time is come. And it is.’
The general ignored the doubt in his friend’s face and slapped his palms on the table. ‘We are faced with failure, gentlemen, but the gods have dropped a gift in our lap and we must accept it, lest we lose all. The engineers tell me that last night’s troubles set us back more than a week. Probably two. The ramp will have to be strengthened from the base up before it can be significantly raised. I am sure I need to point out to no one that in two weeks our army will have starved to death or deserted. The men are at their breaking point and, while I could instil fear in them and keep them in line for a few more days, I will not do that, for who can blame them? Starvation is a terrible thing and we are all desperately hungry. I hear mutters of withdrawal even from the officers.’
As the assembly looked at one another suspiciously, Caesar shrugged. ‘No blame. I sympathise with the sentiment… but I will not abandon Avaricon. We cannot. And we cannot afford to wait. So you see our position: we have to do something, and we have to do it now. And the gods have seen fit to give us a storm for cover.’
He stood, straightening, his stomach gurgling unhappily as if to support his words. From a bag on the table, he withdrew two military decorations and placed them upon the polished timber in front of everyone. The officers stared at the two mural crowns, glinting and shining, freshly made, apparently.
‘Corona muralis. Two of them. One for each side of the ramp. In half an hour, the strongest and best men of these four legions will filter into the vineae tunnels at either side and creep up the ramp. The rain and grey miasma will hide them, and if they are quiet, we can fill the tunnels with the best men in the army without alerting the Gauls. In the last hour I have had four new siege ladders manufactured, with the extra height to touch the wall tops. They will be transported under the vineae to the ramp top. At a signal, they will all be raised and the men will take the walls and the city. The first man from each line of vineae who can raise a standard in victory will have one of these prizes. And every man in the army will have free reign when the city falls. Permission to loot to their heart’s content, with the exception of food. All food will be gathered and then dispensed by the quartermasters. Tonight we will eat in Avaricon.’