Calenus stared at Caesar, who cleared his throat quietly and leaned close. ‘You will watch like a stoic officer, Quintus Fufius Calenus, and if you should even think about vomiting in front of the legions, so help me I will have you strapped there in the victim’s place. Have some backbone, man.’
The executioner moved around the figure, taking up a new position at the front. Guturvatus was barely conscious now, every scream feeble and half drowned by the blood that filled his mouth. Another twenty lashes would be the end of him. At a nod from the centurion, he began again.
By the third blow, the man’s chest was open, bone visible and blood everywhere. On the fourth, one of the spiked wheels caught on a rib and the legionary had to scurry over and extricate it which, from the screaming, seemingly hurt even more than the scourging. At the eighth blow, the screams had stopped and even whimpering seemed too much effort. The man was almost dead, his breathing shallow and ragged.
‘Enough,’ commanded Caesar. ‘Take the head.’
Another legionary stepped out from the lines, wielding one of the long, heavy blades favoured by the Gaulish tribes. Unsheathing it, he nodded to the scourge man, who folded his nightmare coils and stepped out of the square. The swordsman took his place, pulling back the huge blade and pausing for just a moment.
His swing was perfectly positioned. The blade slammed into the prisoner’s neck from behind. Though it failed to sever, it crunched through the spine, killing him with the first strike. The second blow finished the job. The swordsman bent and picked up the head, approaching Caesar and holding it high. The two officers glanced sidelong at Calenus, who still looked extremely unwell, though he’d held himself together throughout the proceedings.
‘Have it spiked and raised above Cenabum’s main gate.’ The general focused on the distressed Carnute leaders opposite. ‘There will be no more revolts. No more risings or troubles. The Carnutes are now once more bound by the Pax Romana. If there is even the slightest unrest here again, what happened to Guturvatus today will become the fate of each and every last member of the tribe. Am I understood?’
There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet among the Carnutes and he straightened in his chair as he gestured to the centurion. ‘Get them out of my sight.’
The Carnutes were herded from the square and the general stood, stiffly. ‘The legions are hereby granted one full day’s furlough, following which we will be moving south at speed to bring the final few rebels in Gaul under control. Uxellodunon is our goal, men of Rome, and with its fall, we can tell the senate unequivocally that Gaul is ours.’
* * * * *
Varus swatted at an insistent bug that flitted around his chin and neck, watching the cavalry elements of the Tenth and Eleventh legions moving across the wide grassy valley of the tributary river which encircled Uxellodunon’s northern slopes, hooves pounding the earth. Perhaps eight hundred horsemen all told, their standards having been reported by the pickets.
The officers were out ahead, riding in a small knot with a guard of Aulus Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalry and a few native scouts, and that vanguard even now climbed the lower slopes to Fabius’ camp, where he, Varus and Caninius waited. A thin grey blanket of cloud was rolling in from the south as if to meet the new arrivals, blotting out the blistering sun, but replacing it with an oppressive muggy heat that brought incessant clouds of insects from the low-lying land.
‘The rest will be following on, I presume. Two more legions, then,’ Fabius murmured. ‘Six might even be adequate to crush this place.’ He sounded unconvinced, and with good reason, Varus mused, given their attempts so far at an action against the fortified town. ‘I presume the others have been distributed in garrison,’ the legate went on.
‘Perhaps the general lacked confidence in our ability to put an end to this,’ Caninius sighed.
‘He’s right to do so,’ Fabius replied. ‘We are no closer to a conclusion now than we were two weeks ago.’
The three men stood silent for a moment, contemplating the truth of that. Though Fabius’ arrival had doubled the Roman numbers, the few minor forays they had attempted at the vertiginous slopes of Uxellodunon had been costly and abortive. Even with information beaten out of the captives, none of the intelligence had proved useful. Uxellodunon was sealed tighter than a Vestal’s underwear.
‘Quiet now,’ Varus hissed as the newly-arrived officers closed on them, reining in atop the slope, their horses sweating and whickering, tired from the long journey. Caesar sat astride his white mare, calm and collected as usual, lacking his ubiquitous red cloak and foregoing a cuirass in deference to the stifling heat, yet still resplendent in a linen arming jacket with white and gold pteruges. His aquiline face, however, looked slightly more drawn than usual, and his hair thinner and greyer – to Varus’ eye, anyway.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Proconsul of Gaul inclined his head as he came to a halt and the waiting legates and cavalry officer saluted in response. ‘You have found me another Alesia, it seems. This land appears to be full of them. And is this Lucterius a facsimile of Vercingetorix, too?’
The two legates exchanged a look and Caninius cleared his throat. ‘It would appear not, general. He and his fellow chieftain Drapes made a lunatic attempt to deprive us of a grain store and in the process both men were defeated. Drapes sits in chains in my camp and Lucterius took to his heels during the fight and fled, we know not where.’
The general frowned. ‘Into the oppidum, perhaps?’
‘We think not, Caesar,’ Varus replied. ‘It would have been exceedingly difficult for him to do so, and since that scuffle we’ve observed none of the posturing or cunning we had seen in our earlier days here. It seems that the tribes up there are somewhat directionless, sitting tight in their stronghold and holding us off, but nothing more, as though they are awaiting a command to do something.’
‘Good. Then we will take advantage of the situation. Wherever Lucterius has run, he cannot hide for long. Just as Commius’ days are numbered, so are this rebel chief’s. Particularly without his army. Walk me through the situation,’ he commanded, dismounting and squinting at the ‘upturned boat’ shape of Uxellodunon.
Fabius scratched his chin. ‘According to the prisoners, interrogated separately and therefore with no reason for doubt, the oppidum has adequate grain, veg and livestock to see them through until next spring, even with an army that size encamped there. It would seem that Lucterius had been intending to use Uxellodunon as some sort of gathering point or staging post. Starving them out will not be as easy as it would have been at Alesia.’
Caninius nodded. ‘The slopes are treacherous and well defended. There are strong walls even atop the cliff stretches, and the flatter slope to the northeast, which is the natural assault point for infantry, is extremely well protected by a high wall pocked with towers that create an impressive arrow-reach from the parapet. We’ve probed the defences from every angle, and there is no guaranteed method. Indeed, I see any approach as being extremely costly and with remarkably little chance of actual success.’
Caesar nodded, tapping his chin as he strolled back and forth, looking over their objective. ‘The water supply? If assault and starvation are unfeasible, that is the only remaining option.’
Varus pointed down into the valley. ‘Apart from a narrow stretch to the northwest, the entire oppidum is surrounded by two of the tributaries of the Duranius River. Interrogation has also revealed the location of a fresh-water spring that grants them a permanent supply. The spring is close to the walls on that north-eastern slope, too close to assault without coming under concentrated attack from the walls. We looked at cutting the water supply, but it’s just as unfeasible.’