Settling in the saddle, he looked around. Most of the Germans had given up the chase as unproductive, and had turned to the majority of Lucterius’ horse, who had finally learned their folly as their massacring of the Roman workers turned to their own demise, a huge cavalry force ploughing into them. Fools.
Perhaps a dozen Germans were still on his heels, though, their horses large and tireless. And he was now unarmed too, of course.
‘Save the king, Lucterius,’ a voice called from his left. He turned in confusion to see Nonnos slow and wheel his horse to face their pursuers. Of the other five men around them, three joined him — all men of the Cadurci, Lucterius noted with curious pride — while the other two raced on. Four men on tired mounts, some wounded, facing a dozen of the heavily armed and armoured German riders. They would be dead in heartbeats.
But they might buy his life with their own.
Lucterius kicked the huge horse and was surprised at the extra speed the big beast seemed to find, racing off ahead, quickly outstripping the other two and gaining on the rest of the fleeing tribesmen ahead. He bit his lip and raced on, feeling somewhat sick at the fact that he was using all those behind him to buy time for his own survival. A quick glance at the two men racing with him confirmed that they were already falling behind, and he realised from their panicked faces that the pair could hear the Germans gaining on them. Sickened with himself, he nonetheless willed them to slow and be caught by their pursuers, buying him yet more precious moments.
He kept his head down and forged ahead into the darkness, ignoring any peril and concentrating on his path. He felt the ground falling away and managed to bring the big beast up and into a jump as he reached a stream bed, clearing it and landing with ease on the far side, feeling tears stain his cheek at the fresh wave of pain from his leg.
His racing mind gradually registered a noise from far behind: a new call on one of those dreadful honking German horns. His gaze shifted over his shoulder again and for the first time since he had reached level ground, his heart sent a calming wave through him.
There was no longer any sign of pursuit. The call he’d heard must have been for them to fall back and abandon the chase. His heart leapt again as a horse suddenly burst through the undergrowth at the far side of the stream, behind him, but the animal slowed as it reached the water, suddenly intent on drinking its fill. The limp body of Nonnos leaned in the saddle, spattered with blood and death-grey, but still wedged between the horns.
Staring at Nonnos, Lucterius sent up a prayer of thanks to the gods for the bravery of his tribe and his second, and for his own survival. Then, convinced of his safety, for the time being at least, he paused and unwrapped the rough leather belt that he had around his tunic, tying it around the top of his thigh and pulling it tighter and tighter until he gasped at the pain, then cinching it.
Now at least he shouldn’t bleed out before he reached Bibracte.
Time to raise the tribes to his lord’s cause.
* * * * *
‘What is the result?’
Fronto turned at Caesar’s question, the early morning sunlight still gracing only the oppidum and the surrounding peaks, leaving these low valleys and the plain in shade. The attack of the Gallic cavalry had been pointless and brief, doing little damage to the legions and the defences they were constructing, but it had become apparent that there was more to the action than just a suicidal attack.
‘They’re still bringing in the odd body from as far as the Brennus river a couple of miles to the south, general, but the current count is four hundred and twenty three Gallic dead and one hundred and eight captives. Most of them are at least lightly wounded, but the medicus reckons only thirty or so of them are on their way out.’
‘I want them roped and sent under guard to Agedincum. When we finish the rebels, we will require a goodly number of slaves to fund a healthy donative to the men for their hard work.’
Fronto nodded. ‘There is one that you might be interested in, though, Caesar.’
Speeding up, Fronto wandered along the lines of dejected prisoners being herded this way and that by hard-faced legionaries, and the blood-slicked stinking dead being stacked ready for disposal. At the end of the busy area, huge stacks of timber and wicker, piles of rope coils and heaps of tools awaited transport to the next section of the construction. Among them a man sat slumped, naked to the waist, wounded in a dozen places, missing a hand, which was bound with a soaked scarf, and coated with blood and grime. He was clearly a Gaul, his hair long and braided by the ear, moustaches clogged with blood and stuck together, almost comically jutting out to the side of his face, like a hairy, crimson wing.
He was not bound, but there seemed little chance of him running, since his leg lay at an odd angle from the knee, broken more than once, and badly so. Amid the grime, the general could pick out bronze and gold, including arm rings and a torc. A noble, then.
Five legionaries and an optio stood around the man, the officer a lantern-jawed fellow with gimlet eyes.
‘Talk to us,’ the optio urged his prisoner in a gravelly tone. When the captive simply turned a defiant stare on him, the officer stepped forward and placed his hob-nailed boot on the man’s ruined knee, gently rolling it back and forth. The man screamed, but bit defiantly down on the cry and fell silent, hissing against the pain. Caesar raised an eyebrow, but Fronto cleared his throat.
‘That’s enough,’ he said to the optio. ‘He’ll not break like that.’
As the optio saluted and stepped back, Fronto crouched close, though not close enough to endanger himself. ‘I can see from your expression that you understand my words. You are broken, my friend. Quite apart from the leg, I note that one of your wounds oozes very dark blood from the belly and that you are already noticeably greying. I suspect your liver has been nicked. If you’re lucky, that’s the case and you’ll slowly bleed out over the next few hours. If not, then I’m wrong, and the belly wound will be the one that kills you, very slowly and very painfully. Ever seen a man die from a belly wound? It’s not pretty, and it can last for days.’
The man glared at Fronto. ‘Threaten me all you wish, Roman. I will not break.’
‘I’m not threatening you,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘I’m simply explaining the facts. What I will offer you is this: you answer a few simple questions and I will grant you a very quick warrior’s death. How’s that?’
‘No.’
Fronto looked up at Caesar. The general was clearly weighing his options, and the legate felt certain that he would come down in favour of torture soon enough… experience suggested so, anyway. He smiled. Sometimes the most defiant man could be the most revealing. Priscus had taught him the trick with recalcitrant legionaries during disciplinary hearings. He leaned forward again.
‘It was no attack, clearly. Only a fool would commit such a small force to an attack like that. Your king must have known that you would lose. And when our cavalry countered, the officers said that your men fled not in the direction of Alesia, but away, towards the river and south. After all this time in the field, I find it hard to picture cowards among your army.’
At the word coward, the man’s face hardened and his eyes glittered angrily. Fronto nodded. ‘They were not running from the battle, of course. They were no cowards, were they? And if they were not running from the fight, that suggests that they were intending to run in the first place. Perhaps that was the whole purpose of the attack? A breakout of the cavalry? But not simply to save you, even though you’d be of no further benefit in Alesia, eating all the grain but providing little use. So why?’
He smiled again. ‘Where would you run but to fetch reinforcements?’
He was rewarded with an involuntary flicker of the eyelid as the man tried to keep his face expressionless. Fronto nodded. ‘Reinforcements. Possibly already gathered, but I suspect more than that. You were to raise new troops to relieve the rebels, yes?’