‘The Romans think they’re lucky,’ Molacos growled from within his mask.
‘He doesn’t think so,’ murmured Mogont, looking down at the body. The big man seemed to be far more relaxed and cheerful than Molacos, but then he always did when he didn’t have to wear the mask and cloak. In fact, he looked the most comfortable of all of them, since he had proved far too big to disguise. None of the endless clothes they had stolen from washing lines fitted the giant, and so Molacos had grudgingly let him stay in his Cadurci garb, grasping a baton and playing the part of a bodyguard. No one would glance twice at him in that respect, despite his size.
The others looked less comfortable as they emerged into the small deserted space where three alleys met. Cernunnos was still smarting from shaving off his beard and moustaches and hacking his hair short. In his stolen tunic and belt with the light leather sandals it both impressed and disgusted Molacos how much his druid friend looked just like one of the hated Romans now. No one, even in the forum, would bat an eyelid at him. Better still the learned man, despite his convictions, spoke Latin like a native. He might just as well be a Roman now. The curl of his lip and hardness of his eyes alone gave away how much he truly hated every moment of this.
Belisama had refused to dye her hair and still stood out among the crowd with her almost white-blonde hair down to her waist. However, she had taken little persuading to rub dirt and grease into it and, with the clearly peasant garb they had stolen, she looked like a street worker or a slave, unless one looked directly into her eye, where the fires of fury and vengeance burned, consuming her soul.
But Catubodua was the least comfortable of all.
Dressed respectably, like a Roman merchant’s wife, she was the picture of everyday plebeian womanhood. Apart from the sword scar that ran from her left eye across beneath her nose and down to the opposite side of her chin. And the raven feather in her hair, which she had flatly refused to remove. And, Taranis protect them, the arm-ring of a warrior that was only poorly hid by the palla draped over her shoulders. The arm-ring had belonged to her husband, Sedullos, king of the Lemovices, slain on the fields before Alesia. It had been passed to her as the only reminder of her husband who lay mouldering in a Roman-dug grave, though she had earned the warrior’s prize many times over since then. Still, the disguises did not have to be perfect. They just had to get them to the carcer.
Mogont returned to the alley and collected their weapons, each one an offence against Rome’s laws. One by one, he slid them under the top of the cart full of lamps, bowls and trinkets. Mogont’s blade was too long by a hand, but Molacos simply draped the cloth that covered the stock on the lower shelf over the end, hiding it from view.
‘We should have held the swords tight in our hands and marched on the carcer,’ the widow snarled, fretting at her Roman clothes.
‘We would have got nowhere near the place.’
‘Rome has no guards or army here,’ Belisama put in. ‘There is no one to stop us doing so.’
‘You say that,’ Molacos replied with strained patience, ‘because you did not see what happened in the forum earlier. Two of the legate’s men armed with swords were mobbed by ordinary people. They take this law seriously. Nothing must be left to chance.’
‘And yet you cost us precious time in finding such a disguise. What if the soldier and his men manage to warn the carcer of our plans?’
‘What of it? Are you afeared of Fronto and his pets?’ He gestured to the alley behind him, where more than a dozen slaves who had once been free men of the Carnutes and Senones waited in Roman peasant clothes, sticks and knives in their belts. They would merge into the crowd, splitting up and following the small party with the cart. Individually they were sick, weak and broken. But their spirit was strong, and their desire for vengeance on Rome even stronger. They might be of no use in taking the carcer and freeing the king, but they could at least hold off any pursuit and buy the Sons time to get Vercingetorix away from this place, down to the river and freedom.
Cernunnos took his place beside the cart, his spiteful ‘wife’ beside him and their dirt-stained ‘daughter’ behind. The Gaulish bodyguard took position nearby and Molacos, cloaked still, bent over the cart and lifted its rear legs, beginning to push.
This was it: a moment they had dreamed of for half a year now. It would have been nicer to be more prepared and under less pressure, of course. Molacos had planned to strike after the Comum man had been taken from the carcer in a few days – when the soldiers there would let their guard down slightly with the reduced importance of the inmates – but the arrival of Fronto on the scene and the deaths of poor Belenos and Abellio had forced his hand.
Nothing would stop them.
For back to the north and west, far from this nest of vipers, his chieftain Lucterius and the army of the tribes waited on the border of Rome to sweep south and crush Narbo.
Chapter Twenty
DYRAKHES and Biorix lounged at a table in the open front of the Huntsman’s Head, their conversation ribald and varied, their drinks well-watered, their attention constantly on the carcer and its surroundings. Fronto ran up from the Argiletum, panting and sweating, the others behind him, and the two men watching from the tavern rose in surprise.
‘Sir?’
‘No sign of them?’ Fronto panted.
‘Them? The Gauls? No.’
The former legate turned his eyes to the sky and blew a kiss. ‘Thank you, Great Lady. I won’t forget this.’ He looked back at the pair in the tavern. ‘Go to the shed at the back and arm yourselves, and bring a few extra staves and knives out with you too.’
Biorix’s frown was a question in itself and Fronto nodded. ‘They’re coming. Now.’
‘You’re sure, sir?’
‘As we can be. Time to try and secure this place.’
As Biorix and Dyrakhes disappeared behind the tavern to retrieve the better makeshift weapons, Fronto peered across at the heavy door of the carcer. Behind him Cavarinos, Balbus, Agesander and Procles stood tense and ready.
‘How do we do this, then, Marcus?’ Balbus asked. ‘You’re the strategist.’
‘Perhaps if we secure all the approaches…?’
‘Do it fast, then,’ Biorix hissed, reappearing around the corner of the tavern and pointing down the street. This time in the early evening there were not so many people around as there had been at the height of the day, and towards the Porta Fontinalis a strange tableau was approaching. A Roman merchant and his family were moving along the street, drawing interested looks but little more. Fronto’s eyes were, however, first drawn to the hulking Gaulish giant accompanying them, then to the cloaked figure pushing their cart. His keen gaze quickly picked out a variety of what could only be gaunt and dirty Gallic slaves weaving their way through the crowd. Suddenly he was unsure about this. The numbers were extremely uneven.
‘We don’t want a war in the street,’ Balbus muttered.
‘And it would go badly for us,’ Cavarinos added. ‘We are outnumbered almost three men to one.’
Fronto nodded absently. They couldn’t hold the street against that lot, and even if they did, civilian casualties would be unacceptable. They were out of time and out of options. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he ran across to the carcer door and hammered on it. The other six crowded behind him and as he hammered again, and then a third time, Fronto’s eyes kept being drawn to the approaching cart and its panoply of oddly-garbed Gauls. For a heartbeat he wondered at their dress, then the reason dawned on him and he peered at the cart, knowing what it contained even if he couldn’t see the iron itself. The ‘merchant’ was bellowing his offers and wares, and it would sound perfectly normal to anyone who hadn’t spent the last eight years in Gaul and couldn’t spot a Gallic accent even when faint.