* * * * *
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut the way the general did when anger and disbelief fought for ascendancy within him.
‘This is going to cause endless trouble.’
‘I know,’ sighed Fabius, leaning forward with his palms on the table. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him, but he’s losing control.’
‘If I’d had one witness after that incident at Avaricon I would have dealt with him then. I’d hoped it was an isolated incident, though, so I didn’t push matters.’
‘Me too.’
‘I don’t understand this. You two have been model soldiers this past four years.’
And yet his memory strayed to that clearing in the woods back in Britannia. His first impressions of the pair. Furius, with that white scar that ran across his collar line, where a general back in the east had tried to have the two executed for ‘overstepping their authority’. Tales the pair told when they were in their cups of their daring exploits in their time under Pompey, most of which seemed to involve an insanely dangerous attack. The stories he had heard from last year, when the two had been intimately involved in the assault on the Menapii island that had left Fabius with a damaged hand. Perhaps, on balance, it was less surprising that the tribune had succumbed to apparent battle-madness than he’d first thought?
‘You’re both good soldiers,’ he continued through a sigh. ‘But I’m starting to worry about Furius’ appropriateness in his position. Someone of your rank should have more control.’ He felt a jolt of guilt at the comment, given his similar failures both in the attack in Britannia a few years ago, and more recently in the siege of Cenabum. He would never again allow himself the luxury of such madness, though, and he couldn’t allow it in his men, either.
‘If this tale comes to the ear of the general or Marcus Antonius, there’ll be a trial for Furius. And you might catch the backlash yourself for trying to silence the witnesses.’ He held up a hand as Fabius opened his mouth to argue. ‘I know why you did, and I would likely have done the same. But the fact remains that if it comes to the commanders’ notice, you’ll both be screwed.’
He sighed. ‘But something will have to be done. I can’t just let you both off with a scolding. It would infuriate the men of both legions who saw what happened.’
An uncomfortable silence fell, and Fabius eventually took a deep breath. ‘You cannot appear to be protecting us.’
Fronto nodded.
‘It’s time you were put back in a position most suitable for you. I’m having your striped tunics stripped. You’ll both report to the quartermaster immediately to arrange for the uniform of a centurion. You are no longer tribunes in the Tenth legion.’
Fabius bowed his head, defeated, but accepting.
‘And you will collect shields and appropriate kit for the Eighth legion.’
The former-tribune looked up in surprise.
‘I’m sorry, Fabius, but demotion is lenient for what just happened. I will be heavily criticised for it. And given that, I cannot afford to have you under my command henceforth. If either of you stepped out of line again, even fractionally, I would have to order the harshest punishment I could. Instead I am transferring you to the command of Gaius Fabius Pictor. You’re his problem now.’
Fabius stared at his legate. ‘But sir, after what Furius did to a man from the Eighth…’
‘He will have to work out how to make amends somehow. I won’t protect him in the Tenth at the expense of the ire of another legion. From what I hear, Pictor owes you. I gather you saved his life on an island in the Rhenus last year. Cash that in. Do what you must, but I can no longer command you. Report to the Eighth first thing in the morning. I will speak to Pictor and agree the matter tonight. He is still down five centurions after Avaricon, filling the roles with temporary field-promotions. He will be glad of veterans to plug the gaps.’
He rose and extended a hand.
‘Good luck, Fabius.’
The former tribune sighed and took the proffered hand, gripping it tight. ‘Thank you for this, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me too soon. You’re still in the thick of it. The Tenth and the Eighth are assigned to the camp you just took. The fight has only just begun.’
* * * * *
‘The time is almost upon us,’ Litavicus of the Aedui murmured to Cavarinos as the pair tore into a loaf of fresh-baked bread in the early morning sunlight, the dew already evaporating from the grass.
‘How will you do it?’ Cavarinos replied quietly.
‘With guile, as always,’ grinned the young noble.
The Arvernian breathed in the glorious morning air. His young companion loved only one thing more than devising his plots and plans, and that was to keep them secret and watch as they slowly revealed themselves, invariably successfully. He was, in truth, exactly the sort of person Cavarinos usually despised — treacherous, devious, not given to honour, deceitful and, despite all that, a smug and reckless one. And yet somehow it was difficult to dislike him. He simply had a magnetic quality.
It was to be hoped he was as clever as he thought he was, too.
The seven thousand Aedui riders of whom he had been placed in command had been drawn from the most veteran, notable houses of all the Aedui, beyond just Bibracte. As such, only a relatively small proportion of them were currently involved in the plan and held themselves oath-bound to Vercingetorix. Most of the powerful warriors encamped around them on this sunny hillside were pro-Roman Aedui, or at least those who had no strong anti-Roman sentiment. If Litavicus was to break their bonds, he would have to be every bit as cunning as he claimed to be.
And among their number, travelling at the rear with a score of legionaries, came the Romans’ latest supply train. Two hundred wagons of food and equipment, manned by Roman citizens and accompanied by soldiers.
‘My brothers,’ was all Litavicus had let on when Cavarinos had pried into how he intended to achieve all this. The young warrior’s two brothers, along with half a dozen other nobles who all owed their allegiance to the Arverni, had been sent ahead from Bibracte, ostensibly to inform Caesar of the imminent approach of his supplies and reinforcements.
Seven thousand of the best horseback warriors the Aedui could muster. It was quite an impressive force in its own right. They were strong enough, fresh enough, and disciplined enough to defeat a legion in the field. If Litavicus had misjudged something and the pro-Roman nobles among them took the warriors to Caesar’s side, it would be a terrible blow to the rebel cause. But if the young man had pulled it off, then Vercingetorix’s army would gain the edge they desperately needed. After all, more than half of these men had spent years serving alongside the Romans as native levies. They knew the legions; knew how to beat them, if approached properly.
And this was still only plumbing the shallowest depths of the Aedui and their allies. When news of this spread, the Aedui could field another thirty thousand men if needed, and the tribes who owed allegiance to them the same again. The scales of strength were about to tip in favour of the rebellion. Vercingetorix had been correct from the start in courting the Aedui; in their value to the cause. Of course he had been correct. Let’s hope he was equally correct in his decision to let Caesar meet him at Gergovia.
He sat musing in silence for a while as Litavicus hummed a carefree tune. Then, as he was finishing his cup of milk and about to rise and go to prepare his mount for the remaining thirty miles to Gergovia, a shout went up to the west.
Litavicus grinned. ‘Observe a miracle in the making.’
Cavarinos frowned and stood, brushing down his clothes and rolling his shoulders to loosen up. There was some sort of fuss over on the western side of the camp, and the commotion was moving their way like a ripple in the mass of men.
After a short wait, during which Litavicus continued to hum quietly, three figures emerged from the throng, half a dozen of the Aedui nobles hurrying alongside them. Cavarinos knew their faces vaguely, but it took him a moment to place them, then he exhaled sharply, trying not to smile.