‘You deny your treachery, Litavicus of the Aedui?’ Caesar said quietly.
The young noble looked around at his warriors, clearly weighing up the chances if the two forces came to blows. They were more or less evenly-pitted.
‘You are known to have tortured and murdered our ambassadors, proconsul of Rome. If anyone on this hillside should be accused of treachery, it is the mighty Caesar.’
The general’s mouth turned up at the corner as he watched the gathered horsemen nod.
‘While you weigh up your chances of success, Aeduan, be aware that although your cavalry might be the match of my own, four legions move upon you less than an hour from here, spread out and blocking your route to the rebel leader. You will never reach Gergovia.’ The general looked back over his shoulder and nodded.
Cavarinos, who had neared the edge of the mass of warriors, noticed for a moment that somehow Litavicus’ personal force of guards had gathered here, close to both the edge and the front where the leader conversed with the Roman. The Arvernian watched the Roman column and felt his heart sink as two figures rode forth from the mass. Eporedirix and Viridomarus. Two men trusted by the rebels and who had been intimately involved in their influence over the Aedui. They had not gone into hiding after all, but had instead run to Caesar to keep him informed.
His mind running through all possible avenues of escape, he barely listened as the gathered Aedui began to shout their anger and disgust of Litavicus, who had so clearly duped them into betraying an oath they had long held sacred. The fury at Litavicus changed fluidly, barely-perceptible, to pleas for mercy and understanding aimed at the general.
The mass began to fragment, the more notable of the Aedui renewing their oath to Rome and stepping their horses out from the crowd to submit to Caesar’s judgement. The army was now a lost cause… by the end of this day, everyone on this hillside would either be dead or serving the proconsul. As the Aedui appealed in a clamour, Litavicus nimbly stepped his horse backwards into the tumult, disappearing from direct sight into the press.
Fortunately, while the Aedui were strangers here and relied upon the main trade and droving roads, and the Romans forged their own way in the most direct line, regardless of terrain, Cavarinos was a child of the Arverni, born to these lands and intimate in his knowledge of them. There were a dozen ways or more with which he could reach Gergovia without the Romans finding him. So long as he could get away from the mass of men, he would survive. That, of course, would be the hard part. Cavarinos found he had his hand resting on the pouch at his belt. The curse! How would the war change if Caesar were to die here on this hillside? Everything he had just realised about the inevitability of defeat might be overturned.
His logical mind came down heavily upon these hopes, reminding him that all that he bore in the pouch was a slate tablet etched with spidery text by some mad druid. It may appear sacred and magical to the credulous, but he was absolutely certain that if he used it here and now, nothing would happen… except that the tablet would then be gone. And somehow he felt that the ‘curse’ had a part to play yet.
Still his fingers were beginning to undo the straps on the pouch.
‘Seize the traitor and his men!’ Caesar shouted above the din, urging the Roman forces into action. The crowd of Aedui, huge and sprawling, reacted in numerous ways, some drawing their weapons, assuming their end was nigh, others casting their swords to the turf and holding high their hands. Others appealed to Caesar in desperate shouts, while the more sensible sat quietly, aware that Caesar only wanted his betrayers. Most of this army he sought to bring back to his side.
And a few were leaving as best they could. But they raced either ahead, trying to skirt Caesar’s unit and hurtle into the valley, or back east, in the direction of Bibracte. They did not know the territory. Those who went forward would sure as shit on a wet day ride into the waiting arms of four legions. Those who went back would find themselves surrounded by two wings of Roman cavalry.
Cavarinos’ fingers twitched at the straps on the curse tablet’s container. If it worked, he could potentially end the war here and now. He would die too, of course. Probably slowly and horribly. For if he was to escape this, it would have to be now… and if he did not, who would warn Vercingetorix of what had happened? His mind made up, as practicality won over magic, he snatched his hand back from the leather pouch and wheeled his mount.
There would be a dozen heartbeats — no more — while the chaos of the panicked Aedui riders granted him the freedom he needed. After that, the Romans would begin to instil order, as was their wont, and such chance would evaporate.
Kicking his heels, grateful that they had been riding at a sensible pace this morning and his horse was still strong and energetic, Cavarinos moved among the scattering Aedui, making for the gap between Caesar’s men and those who had come in from the northeast. It was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Some Roman officer nearby shouted out for him to stop, and he almost did so as his horse reached the valley side and he looked down the steep slope, where the turf had come away in clumps to leave loose shale or dirt. His horse baulked at the sight, and so did the rider, but the sound of several Romans moving in his direction decided him. With a deep breath, he urged his mount forward and disappeared down the sharp descent as fast as he dare, knowing that one misstep would likely maim his horse and result in his capture.
It was the longest two-hundred paces of his life, and two Roman cavalry spears, cast from above, came close to ending him on the descent. But finally, blessedly, he reached the bottom and looked up at the hillside, where the Romans waited, pointing at him, unwilling to take that dangerous plunge.
And as he watched, a tiny fragment of relief flooding through his veins, he saw half a dozen more Aedui riders hurtle over the edge at a perilous and idiotic pace. Somehow he knew that one of them was young Litavicus, the others the bodyguard who had gathered at the edge of the crowd ready to protect him.
Two of the riders fumbled the plunge, one separating from his horse and crashing to the slope as his mount tumbled, screaming and snapping, down into the valley, the other staying atop the beast as the pair broke and smashed down the incline, shrieking. Halfway down a Roman spear took a third man in the back. And then the remaining three were in the valley, racing towards Cavarinos. Litavicus did not look chastened or panicked. He did not appear disheartened or angry. The man wore an exhilarated grin, as though he were enjoying himself immensely.
For a brief moment, Cavarinos considered drawing his blade and dispatching the man here and now.
‘I place my safety in the hands of the local,’ smiled Litavicus.
‘Shut up,’ Cavarinos snapped and kicked his horse into life, making for the northern valley and the side ravine that would carry them back to the Elaver River, skirting any likely route of the legions’ advance. So… no Aedui support for now. It was to be hoped more than ever that Vercingetorix knew what he was doing and that Gergovia could hold.
* * * * *
Fronto struggled into his cuirass and hurriedly threw his baldric over his shoulder, racing out of the tent and into the morning sunshine. The camp seemed strange with so few men. Of the six legions they had brought to Gergovia, Caesar had taken four to be certain of turning the Aedui once more. Two had remained here, along with sundry auxilia. Ten thousand men at most laying siege to perhaps eighty thousand. And now, with the foothold camp established on the hill below the oppidum, none of the officers were willing to give up that hard-won position, so the remaining forces had split. The ‘white rocks’ camp held the Eighth legion, while the main camp held the Tenth. A fortress for eight legions, manned by one. The sheer logistics were staggering. It was so far between the ramparts. And the walls themselves were such an extensive circuit that when fully manned there were virtually no men left in the camp itself. No reinforcements or men on rest.