But they couldn’t. They’d be lucky to make it away themselves, and the Romans must not have the supplies.
Cavarinos watched his brother standing in the doorway and hissed ‘hurry up.’ His eyes were drawn to a narrow side-street where an older man came running around a corner screaming and then pitched forward, face-first, into the dirt, a pilum embedded deep in his back, bent at the end of the iron shaft.
‘They’re coming, Crit. Get it done!’
Critognatos hurriedly touched his torch to a couple of the dry grain sacks and watched them spring into flaming orange life, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder every time he did so. As he left the building, he spotted a small party of legionaries charging down the alley towards the granaries. A tell-tale racket betrayed the approach of more along the main street, too.
‘We have to go!’ he shouted as he jumped from the block. A crack of thunder split the grey air just above the city.
As Cavarinos ducked out of sight of the advancing Romans, Critognatos spotted one of the locals dithering at the corner. ‘You!’
The man ran across, his spear wavering, a look of confusion on his features which only increased as the big Arvernian thrust the sputtering torch into his hand and pointed at the sealed granary.
‘I’ve lit one. You do the other.’
The man stared down at the torch, but nodded fearfully, and in answer to his brother’s shout, Critognatos turned and ran for the northern edge of the city, leaving the granary street and fleeing for his life.
* * * * *
Samognatos looked down at the torch in his hand and then up at the retreating back of the two enemy chiefs as they disappeared. The Romans had paused in the alley to loot a couple of the houses and butcher whoever they found within, the screams testament to their vile activity.
The Condrusi scout had only a moment of doubt. There was always a possibility the Romans would ignore anything he said and simply butcher him as a local. If only Fronto and his singulares were here. With a swallow of his nerves, Samognatos cast aside his spear and scurried over to the water trough opposite the granaries, placed strategically for just such a circumstance. Without a moment’s pause, he thrust the burning torch into the water with a hiss and a column of steam and, leaving it floating, picked up one of the three buckets, scooping a copious quantity of water into it.
The left-hand of the twin granaries was now catching badly, the interior lit by an orange glow. The other building would probably be safe. The torrential rain would save the second granary if the first burned away, but every sack of grain that could be saved was crucial.
Running across the street with his bucket, he leapt up the steps and flung the water into the doorway. A half dozen legionaries appeared from the alleyway nearby, shouting imprecations at the native with the bucket. One drew back his arm, levelling a pilum.
‘Roma Victrix!’ bellowed Samognatos, waving the bucket, the slogan enough to stay the man’s arm. As the soldiers paused, he pointed at the granary. ‘Help me save the grain!’ he bellowed in barely-accented Latin.
* * * * *
Cavarinos and his brother reached the north-western gate to discover that half the city had had the same idea and were crowding through the open portal. The Romans were nominally in control of the gate — they certainly dominated the wall above it — but the sheer number of fleeing Bituriges was like an unstoppable tide and no matter how many the Romans killed, more managed to get past them. The soldiers above were hurling down pila, rocks and other missiles, killing the escapees even outside the walls.
There was nothing for it. The brothers shared a look, took a breath, and then plunged into the crowd, trusting to luck or the gods, each according to their nature.
The next hundred heartbeats for Cavarinos were among the worst in his life. The sweaty shoving and pushing and the smell of expelled urine and faeces from the terrified natives, some of it let loose in blind, bowel-loosening panic, more from the dead who were unable even to fall to the ground as the crowd shoved around them, keeping them upright in death. And among the press, the regular shrieks and messy spatters as a falling missile struck a target and killed a man or a woman or a child mere feet away from them. The blessed moment of relief as they passed from the torrent of rain and missiles, beneath the wall. And then the resuming of both as they reached the outside.
The fleeing Bituriges were everywhere. Their bodies littered the ground outside the gate, lying in mud and blood, washed clean in death by the downpour. Other, living and panicked locals were struggling through the marshy ground. Some were already sinking in the worst parts. And somehow, a small band of cavalry, clearly belonging to the Roman force, had picked its way round to this side. Not enough to help the attack, but enough to kill dozens and dozens of the fleeing unarmed citizens of Avaricon.
Grabbing Critognatos, Cavarinos pulled him away from the main crowd, scurrying along below the walls, slower than his brother would prefer.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Following that,’ Cavarinos replied, pointing down. Critognatos looked down at the muddy ground beneath them and could just make out the twin-pointed cloven-hoof tracks of a young deer. If a deer had been here then its tracks would lead them to safety through the marshes — a trick known by the locals yet forgotten by the mass in their panic.
‘You should have used the curse,’ Critognatos muttered as the pair threaded their way deeper into the mire.
‘On who? Who was responsible for that defeat?’ Cavarinos’ fingers went once again to the leather bag at his belt. Not for the first time, he considered just undoing the thongs and letting the superstitious piece of junk fall away to be lost forever. In this marsh, who would know?
With a sigh, he withdrew his hand and concentrated on following the tracks.
Avaricon was a setback, but not a critical one. After all, Vercingetorix had not wanted to come here in the first place.
And Caesar’s army was gradually weakening as the weeks wore on.
Chapter 10
Avaricon
Vercingetorix looked around at the assembly of chieftains. A number of faces were painted with bleak hopelessness — mostly those closely tied to the Bituriges, of course. Others showed signs of anger and a thirst for violent revenge. None of the nobles or high-born of Avaricon had made it out to the camp, of course, and only a few hundred survivors had arrived through the endless marshland, including — to the king’s lasting gratitude — Cavarinos and Critognatos, both sodden and mud-soaked, the latter sporting a shoulder wound that put him in no danger but in a miserable mood.
‘Why the sour expressions?’ he asked, a hint of steel in his voice.
Two of the Bituriges nobles exchanged a look. ‘Avaricon is fallen,’ one said as though the world should be in mourning.
‘And so did Vellaunoduno, Cenabum and Novioduno. What makes your city more worthy than they that you expect the Senones and the Carnutes to commiserate with you, yet you speak nothing of their losses.’
He straightened in the strained silence that was their only reply.
‘Avaricon was never my prime concern. It could never have been the prime concern of any man who planned this war with forethought and care. Remember, when you pin me with harsh looks, that I did not wish to come here. I did so because of your hounding. I assure you that had we stayed at Gorgobina, that city would now be ours and the Aedui would be with us. In fact, by now we would outnumber Caesar two to one, and would be ready to come west and avenge what has happened here. Instead, because you insisted that we came so soon, we are weaker than we were, not stronger, and we still have nothing to show for our efforts.’