‘What advantages?’ sneered Critognatos.
‘Ask the Aedui here, whose houses are built with new Roman techniques. Ask the Carnutes, who have moved in only a few decades from relative obscurity to power and authority in the land, all through gains from Roman trade. Ask the Senones, whose leaders are here fighting with us, but half of whom remain among the Roman garrisons, servicing their legions and living well from the profits. Do not be blinded by your rage, brother. We have done well to pull together the tribes we have, but do not believe even for one moment that there are none among us who cannot see advantages to both sides in this war.’
‘You dog’s pizzle,’ snapped Critognatos. ‘I knew you were a coward, but I never thought of you as a collaborator.’
With narrowed lips and eyes, Cavarinos stood. ‘Say that one more time, brother and you will be hunting the floor of this tent for your teeth.’
Vergasillaunus stepped into the centre of the room, blocking the brothers’ line of sight.
‘Alright, that’s enough! Cavarinos merely raises the point of caution, even if he labours the point. I believe he might be right, so caution should be our watchword, and even then this plan of action might be extremely dangerous for us. But have any of you thought of what it will be like if the Romans settle into Agedincum. We have little knowledge of sieges — it is not how we do battle. We can use our grapples and fill trenches, but is there a single man in this army who knows how to build their towers? Their stone-throwers and bolt-throwers? The Romans reach the walls of Agedincum and no amount of advantage in numbers will count for us.’
There was a murmur of assent at this, though not from Critognatos, who kept his eyes, filled apparently with hate, locked on his brother. Cavarinos simply shook his head gently, which seemed only to further aggravate the man.
‘My decision is made,’ the king announced finally, standing. ‘We cannot allow them to reach their base. If we do so, they can hold against us for months, until their senate decide to send help, and we know that Rome can raise many more legions yet. So we must move on Caesar to prevent that happening. All our cavalry elements will move out in the morning, split into three contingents to match the Roman forces. Two will take the column from the rear while the third, setting out earlier, will circle their army, which marches in a tighter formation than usual and is much more compact, and will launch a separate attack on the vanguard, halting them in their tracks. We fight as hard as we can, but look to our survival more than the enemy’s destruction. We hold them as long as we can. The rest of our army is a little over a day behind us. If we can halt the Romans for one day, we can stop them reaching Agedincum and then bring them to open battle. If we can do that, victory will be all-but certain.’
‘A day is a long time to fight Romans. They are adept at keeping reserves and resting their units throughout a fight. And our men are as likely to baulk at fighting their countrymen as the enemy are against us, so you might give the men an incentive,’ Cavarinos added, thoughtfully, his gaze still locked in battle with his brother. ‘Offer rewards for the riders of all the tribes for their valour and strength. Try to overcome any hesitation among our riders at attacking other tribesmen.’
A bear-like rumble rose from Critognatos’ throat. ‘Not the right sort of incentive, my king. You are their overlord and commander. You should not need to cajole and encourage. They should be desperate to win anyway, for their own honour. You should deny shelter and support to any man who does not ride through their lines, cutting them down.’
Cavarinos paused for a moment, ripping his gaze from his brother’s eyes, and was a little dismayed to realise from their expressions that Vercingetorix and his cousin were actually considering both options. He took a breath and coughed. ‘Levelling threats and setting harsh conditions upon our own warriors?’ He sighed. ‘Do as you see fit. I am finding the air in here stale and unpleasant.’
Rising, he ignored the noise at his back and pushed his way to the tent flap and out into the warm night air. Coming to a halt on the open grass, he heaved in a deep cleansing breath. The longer this war went on, the less straightforward it became and the less honour was to be found in it.
His gaze settled on the distant bulk of Borvo, rising above the surrounding lower hills. Somewhere near there the Roman forces were gathered, as prepared to face them as they ever would be. He wondered whether Fronto was having such ethical nightmares with his own people.
‘Good luck to you, Roman. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day for everyone, it seems.’
* * * * *
Varus first became aware of the enemy when one of the scouts who had been ranging half a mile ahead of the column came hurtling back towards them over the saddle, yelling warnings. He had covered only a tenth of the distance when a spear struck him in the back and his horse veered off to the side, the scout slouched low over the neck, spear bouncing along, still wedged in his ribs.
Then, announced by the blow, the enemy horse burst over the rise — thousands of them, charging into battle howling and bellowing, spears and swords at the ready. There were so many!
Before Varus could even give the order, Volcatius seemed to have had the same thought, bellowing commands, and the musician reached for his tuba to blow the order to charge. Standing and waiting for that mob to hit them would be no good. If the Roman force raced to meet them they would at least nullify the momentum of the charge. Before the horn sounded, Varus held aloft his sword.
‘A purse of gold to the man who makes the most kills!’
The tuba touched the man’s lips. Around them, the mostly-Gallic cavalry watched their countrymen charging at them.
‘And remember: all the gods hate an oathbreaker!’
The tuba blew. The horses began to run, holding to a rough semblance of formation at best. Behind, Varus could hear the Ninth legion calling the order for contra-equitas formation — a double-height wall of shields and bristling pila, in case the enemy routed Varus’ men and made it to the column. Beyond that, perhaps a mile back along the valley, he could hear other cavalry commands being sounded. An attack on more than one front, then.
Varus kicked his horse into greater speed, racing along the low slope towards the howling Gauls. To either side of him, Gauls equipped with Roman kit as well as their own charged, heads lowered forwards, spears braced, shields presented. At least, despite the likely uneven numbers, it seemed the native levies were still fighting with, rather than against, them.
His sword held forth and shield ready to take a spear, Varus thundered on amid his men, picking a likely target in the front line. The Gaul was armoured with a mail shirt of single thickness and a helmet that looked like some kind of mythical horned beast in bronze, three fairly bedraggled feathers jutting from the top.
The man had apparently chosen Varus in the same manner, and the spear he held adjusted slightly in an attempt to find Varus’ torso. The commander narrowed his eyes. That would be foolish. The man must know the Roman’s shield would reach a defensive position in time.
He realised what the man was doing just in time, hauling on the reins and forcing his horse to lurch to the right just as the man’s spear dropped and changed target. Had Varus not moved his horse ever so slightly, that leaf-shaped point would now be sinking into the beast’s chest and he would be thrown to the ground and trampled and churned beneath a thousand hooves. Nothing in this type of fight was quite so sure an agonising death as coming off your horse to be ridden over by both sides.
As the Gaul tried to bring his spear back up to attempt something useful, the two horses hit with a crash, along with all others along the line, and chaos ensued. The Gaul apparently decided that his spear was no longer viable and let it fall from his grasp into the press, reaching down to draw his sword. Varus gave him no time, leaning forward in the saddle and bringing his own blade down in an arc that smashed into the man’s upper arm, almost severing it. The Gaul lost control of his beast instantly, and as the horse shouldered this way and that, no longer held by the rein, trying to escape the press, Varus lifted his sword and brought it down at an angle, point first this time. The blade smashed into the stricken Gaul, shattering the rings of the shirt as it punched into flesh and muscle and killed the man swiftly.