‘He died as he lived,’ a voice said from behind, startling him. He turned to see Vercingetorix standing behind him, holding out a wooden platter with a few stringy fragments of meat and a chunk of bread that had clearly seen better days.’
‘Knee deep in blood and filth, you mean?’ Cavarinos said harshly and uncharitably.
‘A warrior’s death. They say that even as we pulled out and back to the oppidum, Critognatos and his cadre of warriors saw a small Roman sortie and decided to refuse them their victory. I gather that you were among that crowd, and it seems a gods’ gift that you survived. I am grateful for it, though… I will have need of your cunning these coming days. Now eat. There is not much, but we must all keep our strength up as best we can. We may not have broken out yet, but my cousin will not leave us languishing for long. Rest assured he will already have another plan, and we must be ready to follow along when he shows himself to us.
‘I am sick of war.’
The king gave him an odd look, but recovered quickly into an understanding smile. ‘None of us want to fight forever, Cavarinos. But it will end soon. And you know as well as I that this is about more than just throwing Caesar out of our lands. That is just the catalyst that will change everything. We are at last one nation under one man, and I will not let that collapse when the Romans are gone. If we want to take our place in the world in the manner of a Rome or Aegyptus or Parthia, we must centralise and become a power. The druids brought us here, though they now sit back in their nemetons and watch us carry out the war. It was they who began everything and they have been the glue that bound the tribes together. But now we are whole and it is time they relinquished their hold over our people. Rome has made us into Gaul, and I will continue their good work in their absence.’
‘It is a glorious dream,’ Cavarinos sighed.
‘It is no dream. We are on the cusp, my friend. The next few days will see this war at an end. I can feel it in my blood. And then we must begin the true work of building a nation. Gergovia will always be my home and our greatest fortress, but the Aedui are at the heart of the peoples and Bibracte must be our capital. We must have a senate like Rome, even if I am to be king. The tribes must all have a voice, but they must combine to become a choir with one song, the druids serving the people as Rome’s priests do, rather than guiding them. I need men like you in that senate, Cavarinos. My cousin is a good warrior and a great general, but you are a man with deeper intellect. You will lead the Arverni when I lead Gaul.’
Cavarinos was too tired even to show surprise.
‘I hope it all works out as you propose. But I have a nagging feeling that something is wrong somewhere. Something is about to halt us in our tracks, I fear.’ He turned looked out over the plain again. ‘Don’t misunderstand me — I very much hope I’m wrong. But I cannot shake the feeling.’
‘Intellect is a great thing, but sometimes it leads a man to question even the truths of the world. We will see what we will see. The gods are with us and the tribes are still spoiling for a fight. We have one more raging battle in us and we need to make it count.’
The king placed the plate on the wall top next to the silent nobleman and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder before wandering off back into the city. Cavarinos turned to watch Vercingetorix depart and noted out of the corner of his eye the figure of Molacos, the Cadurci hunter, standing impassively along the wall with folded arms. That cadaverous face twisted into an unpleasant smile as the man gave a tight nod and then turned and sloped off.
One last battle. And then? Peace either way, but what peace?
* * * * *
Fronto stood before the small mound that had been raised at the foot of the Gods’ Gate hill, at the southern edge of the plain and in the wider space between the two lines of rampart. Beneath it lay half his singulares unit, attested by the swords standing proud from the turf at the top. Silently, he listed their names reverently.
Palmatus. A man he’d only known two years or so, and yet had become as close a friend as any. A man who had treated Fronto as an equal despite the gulf in their rank and social status. And yet a good friend. Butchered by the bodyguard who had accompanied Cavarinos’ savage brother.
Quietus. A man who had joined him in more than one deadly struggle.
Celer. As fast as his name, with a mind and tongue even faster than that.
Numisius. Recovered from a broken arm after a fight in the Arduenna forest, tough as ever.
Iuvenalis. An artillerist by trade who had been a master of the grapnel.
The remains of his bodyguard — Masgava, Biorix, Samognatos, Arcadios and Aurelius — stood silent and respectful beside him, honouring the dead. Five survivors of a unit that had been almost twenty strong early the previous year. A former gladiator, a Gallic engineer, a Belgic scout, a Cretan archer. And Aurelius. Despite the sombre occasion, the presence of Aurelius always seemed to make him smile. The man was superstitious to a fault and unlucky enough that if anything humorous and embarrassing were to happen, it would happen to him. And yet a model soldier and a trusted friend.
Friends were becoming fewer and fewer these days.
His gaze dropped to the urn in his arms. Priscus. The cinerary jar was still warm from the ashes within, the pyre black and charred, staining the grass with the memory of death. Priscus. It was harder than anything to believe him gone. The men of his singulares deserved their honours, but somehow the loss of Priscus had utterly eclipsed them. He really had little idea what to do with the urn. It couldn’t stay here in Gaul, clearly. When this was all over, it would have to go back with him, but where? To Massilia where he would no doubt have to think about constructing a family mausoleum? Or to Rome, where his family already had such a tomb? Or perhaps to Puteoli where the family mausoleum still had spaces from generations of dead? Or better still, to the holdings of the Vinicii down in Campania? It would be the most appropriate compliment to take him back to the arms of his family, but somehow he felt that Priscus might be more at home with Fronto’s family, estranged from his own as he was.
He turned to the five men with him, reaching up and touching his tender nose and eye that were swollen and discoloured after the fight beyond the walls — an unending background ache.
‘That’s it. No more. I want each one of you to survive this, even if you have to hide in a ditch or run like a coward. I’ve lost too many friends this season. This morning I went to see the general, as you know. The thing is that while Masgava is a freedman and employed by me, and Samognatos is a hired levy, the rest of you are still tied to the eagle despite being in my guard. No more. I have attained your honesta missio this morning as though you had served a full term. When this fight is over and the season ends, you can consider yourselves free men. You will have your pension and your plot of land.’
The men looked at one another in surprise and Fronto gave that half-smile again. ‘But if you want to continue to serve the Falerii, I will be in need of good men in Massilia, and I have made sure that your land grants are within Roman territory but so close to Massilia that if you fart on your land I’ll hear it on mine. Make sure you survive these last few days and I shall be retiring to Massilia, hopefully with men I trust around me.’
An image of Lucilia and the boys swam into his mind.
‘The war is almost over, lads. Peace is almost upon us.’