Leaning forward, he kept his voice low enough to not carry to other tables yet clear enough to be heard by the other three. ‘I want to be gone as soon as it’s light in the morning — possibly before that. And I know you’ll probably think it ridiculous, but I want one of us awake and on watch in the room tonight at all times. We can take shifts of two hours once the bar closes. I’ll take the last shift, though, ‘cause I want to be ready to get everyone up and gone sharpish. Alright?’
The other three nodded their agreement.
‘Good.’
Palmatus leaned forward to speak in a similar low voice, but paused, his eyes flicking off to his left. ‘Hello, what’s this?’
Fronto turned to look in the same direction, along with the others at the table.
The door to the tavern had stood open all evening, despite the breeze it caused, allowing some of the dinginess of the interior to clear, and now figures were coming in from the cold and dark outside. That locals might enter the tavern in the evening was no surprise, but Fronto couldn’t help but note the fact that, despite the lack of armour and swords, these dozen men were all warriors, well-built and with quality clothes and torcs and arm rings, speaking of their valour and success at military endeavours. All of them had a large hunting knife at their waist.
If he had required any more evidence that something was amiss, it was supplied by the sudden apparent shift-change in the tavern. As the twelve men moved into the bar, spreading out, all but two of the current occupants drained their drinks, pushed their plates aside, gathered up their dice and left the room hurriedly, not casting a glance in the Romans’ direction, and throwing a nervous one at the new arrivals.
‘Told you something was wrong,’ Fronto muttered.
‘Trouble,’ agreed Galronus, his hand going to the large knife at his belt, similar to those the Gauls wore. Fronto was already regretting the fact that his swords were in the kit stored in the room upstairs. From their faces, so were Palmatus and Masgava.
Two of the new arrivals sauntered across to the bar and purchased a tray full of mugs filled with frothy beer. Another pair moved to the stairs leading to the rooms above, and a third stayed by the door — almost in position as guards. The rest moved across and sat at tables near Fronto and his party.
‘I’m not well-equipped for a fight,’ Palmatus sighed, looking down at the small eating knife on the table before him.
‘They’re not here for a fight’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘Whatever they are here for, it’s not that. This is their town, so they could have brought swords. They could just have done for us outside, or even during the night.’
Despite his certainty that the new arrivals were not intending violence — or at least not immediately — Fronto found himself pushing his chair back slightly to allow for freedom of movement, and noticed the other three doing the same. Palmatus’ hand came down over his eating knife and when he leaned back and folded his arms casually, the knife had vanished.
‘I do not think that these men are Aedui,’ Galronus hissed quietly.
‘Why?’
‘Look at their arms.’
‘What?’
‘The arm rings.’
Fronto peered. ‘Some sort of snake?’
Galronus nodded. ‘A winged snake. It’s a symbol of Arvernus. You’d call him Mercury, I think. While he’ll be as revered here as most places, he’s the chosen father of the Arverni. And every warrior here has that arm ring.’
Fronto scanned the room. Galronus was right. Each of them wore individual clothes and torcs and jewellery, but all of them bore the same arm ring on their left bicep.
‘Arverni?’ he asked, turning to Galronus. ‘They’re from the south, yes? Almost in Narbonensis. We’ve never had any trouble with them. Not for the best part of a hundred years.’
Galronus simply shrugged.
Fronto watched the new arrivals with suspicious interest. The presence of a group of warriors from another tribe could feasibly explain the taut, tense quiet that overlaid the town of Bibracte, but it raised as many questions as it answered.
‘Aye, aye,’ Palmatus said, gesturing at the entrance. Fronto turned once more. A man stood in the doorway, almost blocking it. From his high quality leather boots up through his leg-bindings, his checked blue trousers, his pale grey linen tunic and the gold torc around his neck, he was every bit the Gallic noble. Bearing no weapons, his muscular arms hung easily by his side and his long brown hair hung low, swept back from his face and tied in a braid at either side. His heavy brow was expressive and powerful and thick, drooping moustaches hid his mouth.
There was about this man the sort of power that instantly filled the room. Druids probably wished they had it. Senators would kill for it. Caesar already did have it, for all his faults. A natural power, born of leadership and charisma. A man to whom other men would look for sanction.
‘If I remember rightly, the Arverni stopped being ruled by a King when Ahenobarbus and his legions flattened them.’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Part of the peace settlement with Rome required they no longer rally under royalty.’
The others shrugged, but Fronto nodded to himself. He remembered the tale from his studies of the Gallic tribes when they’d first come north of the Alpes. The Arverni had no royals now, but this man could easily have been a King.
The big Gaul strode into the room in a relaxed manner, nodding to his men and to the tavern keeper, before turning and making directly for their table. Without being bidden, one of the warriors nearby pushed a chair across the floor with a jarring scrape until it sat at the end of Fronto’s table.
The big man wandered over to the chair and indicated it with a large, powerful hand, an unspoken question in his expression. Fronto nodded and gestured back to the chair in answer. Whatever was happening, he found himself curious as to the powerful Arverni warrior’s intentions.
‘Do you speak Latin?’ he asked conversationally, taking a sip of his wine.
There was a pause and the big man toyed with his moustaches for a moment, and then nodded.
‘I learned your tongue young. My people trade with your merchants across the border, and Latin is widely spoken in my tribe.’
‘Good, ‘cause frankly I’ll never be able to get my tongue round your language.’
The big man gave a humourless smile and sank into the chair. A low murmur of ordinary conversation arose across the room. Fronto was not fooled by this apparent ordinariness. As far as he could see the general drone would nicely mask any of their own words and prevent the two remaining local patrons and the tavern keeper from hearing whatever they all had to say.
‘You are a Roman officer, I understand,’ the Gaul smiled, ‘despite the good Belgic torc around your neck.’
‘A complex question right now, given my lack of command, but I’ll settle for a simple yes. I ride for Samarobriva to rejoin the army.’
‘And your companions?’
‘Friends of mine. Two from Roman lands — an ex-soldier and a warrior from the southern deserts, and Galronus here is a nobleman of the Remi.’
‘The Belgae are here too?’ the big man mused. ‘Fascinating, though it perhaps explains your decorations. I must apologise for interrupting your evening, and I will not keep you long, but I find myself in Bibracte at the most fortuitous moment when Roman officers pass through, and I would be wasting a great opportunity were I not to come and speak to you.’
Fronto gave the warmest smile he was capable of right now and took another sip of wine. ‘I have to admit to wondering what the Arverni are doing so far north and in the guise of warriors?’ he asked pleasantly.
The Gaul gave a low, throaty chuckle. ‘We are simply passing through, much like you, on our own business. But enough of this duel in which we slowly circle our opponents, Roman. I see from your tunic that you are a nobleman yourself?’
‘My wife might argue, but I suppose that’s a fair assessment.’