‘So we lost.’
‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘And the other attacks?’
‘Fared no better than us. They were holding their own by the looks of it, but once those of us at the front had broken under the German onslaught, the ones at the rear stood no chance. This is just one prison. I saw them building four this morning, and from the hammering sounds throughout the day, there’s been more. If they’re all the same size, I’d say they took more than two thousand of us prisoner. One of the Romans said the prisons are just to hold us while they process us, whatever that means. And then there’s the dead, of course. So many dead. While we waited to be herded in here, I saw the dead being gathered in huge heaps. Not many will have made it back, I fear. Last I saw of the survivors as my captor smacked me about with his spear shaft, they were racing for the river with Caesar’s hounds snapping at their heels.’
‘It was always a risky attack,’ Cavarinos sighed, as there was a rattle and a clunk and the gate swung wide. A centurion stepped in. ‘Time to be counted, identified and allocated, you lot. Those of you who speak Latin need to translate for the rest. Form a line and walk slowly across to the desk of the clerk, give your name, tribe, and anything you can think of that might be relevant. And remember, the legionaries on either side of you are alert and ready, should any of you get any clever ideas. Now come on.’
As the dejected captives began to form a line and move slowly from the stockade, Eporedirix reached down with his uninjured arm and helped the stiff Cavarinos to his feet. A thought struck the Arvernian as he wobbled slightly, and his gaze dropped to his waist and he breathed a sigh of relief. The familiar weight of his pouch was still there.
‘If you’re after your sword, they took them all.’
The Arvernian stretched and tried to ease his neck around as the line moved slowly out. The nausea was retreating fast, leaving a dull ache on the left side of his head and around his eye where the blow had apparently landed. As he passed through the open gate and into the Roman camp, seething with men, he noted the line ahead. The men were being interrogated as to their name and tribe quite tersely and quickly shuffled off into one of two lines. One was approaching a small enclosure, where the cries of pain and the rising waves of smoke suggested branding was taking place. The other disappeared from sight behind a line of expressionless legionaries. With typical Roman efficiency, the line was moving quickly.
His roving gaze took in the camp as he shuffled forwards. It was enormous, and something about the treelines and the slope towards a nearby rising hill was startlingly familiar. Everywhere he could see legionaries going about their business, and here and there centurions directing activity. This was it, then. The Romans had stopped running. They had demolished the rebels’ cavalry, and felt they now had the edge, so they had halted their march and built a camp. They did not need to make for Agedincum any more. And if Vercingetorix had any sense, with no cavalry element, he was looking for somewhere to hole up and defend until replacement forces arrived to bolster his.
A small party of officers strolled on past, all gleaming cuirasses and red linen. Cavarinos felt his heart jump as he recognised the legate of the Tenth legion among them, and he quickly averted his eyes and lowered his face. More steps. And more. Closer to the table, and likely to a slave brand.
In front of him, Eporedirix gave his name and tribe, chin held high and proud as he clutched his bloody shoulder still. The legionary was about to point him towards the branding tent, but the optio with a wax tablet overseeing the operation tapped him on the shoulder. ‘He’s one of the exceptions.’ The man looked Eporedirix up and down. ‘You speak Latin?’
‘I do.’
‘Step over there.’ The optio pointed to a small group of nobles from various tribes who were being carefully watched over by more than a dozen legionaries as they were roped at their wrists and stripped of any remaining decoration. Eporedirix did as he was bid, and suddenly Cavarinos found himself at the desk.
‘Name and tribe.’
‘Cavarinos of the Arverni.’
The optio checked down his list.
‘He’s one too. Over there,’ he added pointing at the small group.
‘Hang on, optio,’ called a voice. Cavarinos kept his head down, even when fingers curled around his shoulder and turned him slowly.
‘It is you.’
He looked up into Fronto’s gaze. ‘You took a bad blow,’ the Roman noted, gesturing to his face. ‘A lot of purple there.’ He turned to the optio. ‘Strike this one from your list. I’ll interrogate him myself.’
‘Is this a good idea?’ asked one of the other officers who had been with Fronto.
‘Probably not. Most of mine aren’t. But sometimes you’ve got to go with your gut, Priscus.’
With a gesture of the hand, Fronto invited Cavarinos away from the scene of such defeat and dejection. The one called Priscus wandered along with them and after a few moments’ walk, they reached a horse corral, where the two officers stopped. Cavarinos straightened with difficulty.
‘Your king was foolhardy,’ Priscus said quietly. ‘He should have waited.’
Cavarinos shrugged, and winced at the pain in his neck. ‘Sometimes the best-looking ideas turn out to be the worst. Retrospective wisdom is a useless gift.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’ Fronto gestured to the sun hanging low in the west, about to descend behind the hills. ‘Day’s just about over. Not a good day for your king, I’d say. Not a wonderful one for us, truth be told. Do you drink wine, or won’t you touch Roman muck?’
Cavarinos gave a faint chuckle. ‘I was brought up on Roman wine.’
Fronto turned to the other officer. ‘Gnaeus? I’ll see you in my tent in an hour or so. I suspect Antonius is already there, desperate to celebrate with a jar or two.’
Priscus nodded reluctantly. ‘He’s the enemy, Fronto. Don’t forget that. Don’t do anything stupid.’
Fronto gave an easy laugh. ‘Just make sure there’s still wine when I get there. I have limited supplies and I know what Antonius is like when he gets started.’
As Priscus strode off, Fronto reached down to his waist and unfastened a leather wineskin, the straps wound round the belt. ‘Here’ he proffered. Cavarinos took it with a shrug and unstoppered it, taking a sip. ‘Tart,’ he noted.
‘Same to you.’
‘What do you plan to do with me?’
Fronto sighed. ‘I’m not sure yet. I have a feeling that if we’d done away with you months ago, half of the crap we’ve faced wouldn’t have happened at all. For some reason every time something momentous happens, I look up and there’s you, wandering around, sometimes incognito.’
‘I keep myself busy.’
Cavarinos paused, his eyes slipping past the horse corral. Down beyond it the ground fell away to wild grass, which extended as far as the loop of a river, a line of beech trees marching across the green. Perhaps halfway between the Roman rampart — which was still being raised — and the river, stood a circular edifice of timber and tile. He smiled.
‘Thought the ground was familiar. I know this place.’
‘Some druid site, we think. It was deserted when we arrived, but it has fresh water on hand and space for a large camp.’
‘It’s a place of healing waters,’ Cavarinos replied. ‘Sacred to many.’
‘You could use them on your eye, I’d say. Hell, I could use it on my knee.’ The Roman pursed his lips, retrieved his wine sack and took a pull on it. ‘Come on.’
Cavarinos, frowning, fell in behind him as the legate strode around the corral enclosure and down to the ramparts. Several legionary work parties were busy there, and the optio in charge saluted at the sight of a senior officer, barking the command for his men to stand to.