‘Come on.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos felt hollow. Around him, the entire population of Alesia swarmed, committed to the slope and to the push. The forces of the rebel army had been waiting, ready and twitching, for over a day now, watching the reserve forces like a hawk for the next move. As soon as the cavalry had taken the field and the infantry had begun to move off the slope behind them, Vercingetorix had given the order and the entire army had been let loose. No reserves; no wounded held back — there was no point. As the king had so carefully pointed out in private, the rebels had one good fight left in them before starvation and depression wreaked havoc through the mass and brought them to their knees. One last fight. One last try. The fifty thousand plus warriors of the trapped army were fanning out as they descended to attack each section of the defences at once, hopefully putting the Romans under enough pressure that they would have to divide their forces and thin out the defences.
And with them, the rebel army had brought every piece of equipment the king had commissioned during their time trapped on the hill. Grapple hooks on lengths of rope were wound over men’s shoulders. Similar hooks on the end of long poles rested over beefy shoulders. Hide-covered wooden shelters, large enough to cover half a dozen men and pre-wetted against fire, were carried by four strong men apiece. Then there was the usual array of ladders, faggots of sticks, wicker shields for the archers and so on.
It was the most impressive army on the move Cavarinos had ever seen. It was all or nothing; total commitment, and they stood as much chance of success as any Gallic army ever had. The chieftains of the individual tribes involved worked independently, just as Vercingetorix had planned, essentially the native equivalent of a legion. Each leader selected what they saw as a weaker spot in the defences and urged their men at it, the equipment shared out among the tribes as fairly as possible.
It should have been glorious. Win or lose, it should have been glorious. A teetering moment of victory and the end of Roman interference in the tribes. Or a wondrous, noble, fated charge into the face of annihilation. Either way, it should have been glorious.
But Cavarinos felt empty.
It was not the fear — he was Gaul enough to show no fear, and man enough to recognise that every man felt fear, but it was how that fear was dealt with that was important. He had forced the terror down and conquered it.
It was the sheer weariness of the whole thing. What had begun many, many months ago as a great and noble cause for freedom had been tainted so many times by division, betrayal, anger, selfishness and intolerance that it was hardly recognisable any more. And Cavarinos’ personal journey had uncovered something that had left him rather uncomfortable: that some of the Romans deserved preserving and encouraging more than many of his own people.
Fronto had told him that Rome would never give in. Vercingetorix talked big about the future of a united Gaul that was a match for Parthia or Rome, but Fronto had had the truth of it, and Cavarinos recognised it as such: Rome maintained a grudge that was centuries old, and defeating Caesar would not put an end to it. If anything, it would only fuel Rome’s fury. Only when either Rome or Gaul was subservient to the other would there be a chance of lasting peace.
Peace… that was what it was all about now.
And Cavarinos had come to the sad conclusion that he did not really care too much whether he lived to see that peace, for Gaul would seethe and fracture if it lost. Just as the Romans would not let the matter rest, men like his brother — or Vercingetorix, or Lucterius, or Teutomarus — would always harbour the desire to reignite the flame of rebellion, even if all there was in Gaul was already charred wood and ashes. Would it be a land worth living in? Among angry tribes feeling betrayed by one another and men endlessly pushing for hopeless rebellions?
No, he would fight as much as any man in this last battle, but that was exactly what it was for him: the last battle. No more.
Having left the leadership of the Arverni to the king, despite Vercingetorix’s request that he command them, Cavarinos drew his sword and left his kin, making for what looked to him to be the most distant sector of the fighting: at the Roman camp on the lower slopes of Mons Rea.
* * * * *
Fronto paused as they reached the small officers’ corral in the open ground at the centre of the defences, where the equisio and his stable hands were busy feeding and brushing the mounts. Here rested all the horses of the officers on duty in the sector, centrally gathered, as well as a dozen or more healthy mounts kept as spares or for long-distance courier duties.
The equisio — the man responsible for the welfare of all the mounts — was a curious fellow. Short and rotund, he bore little resemblance to an ordinary soldier, but then he had not been chosen for such a well-paid and sought-after post because of his fitness or weapon skills. An equisio was almost always a man more at home with horses than other humans, with an almost preternatural understanding of their needs. This particular one had a ruddy complexion, a slightly upturned nose that put Fronto in mind of a distinctly porcine creature, and between ten and twenty thick strands of ginger hair that crossed his head from side to side, kept down by the slick of sweat on his bald dome.
‘I need Bucephalus immediately.’
The equisio nodded, saluting but simultaneously gesturing for Fronto to lower his voice.
Fronto did so automatically. ‘And five spare steeds for my men.’
Without question or argument, the senior stable master gestured to one of his stable hands. ‘Have Bucephalus brought round, as well as Ajax, Thanatos, Sagitta, Sperus and Alba.’
Fronto turned to the others. ‘Thanatos sounds like yours, Masgava. The rest of you, pick a horse and mount up. I’ll see to it that we keep them afterwards.’ Masgava raised an eyebrow at his beast’s name, which he knew to be an ancient personification of death among the Greek peoples — he’d personally dropped two men who claimed the name into the bloody sand of the arena. Sure enough, when the animals were led out, Thanatos proved to be a great black beast with a fiery temper, larger even than Bucephalus and several hands taller than any other horse present. He looked at the beast for a moment and then broke into a broad grin and vaulted with ease into the saddle, dropping between the four horns neatly.
Fronto hauled himself with the usual difficulty, careful not to rupture something delicate and soft on the horns. Next to them the others mounted and, at Fronto’s gesture, they broke into a walk, a trot and then a run, making for the Mons Rea camp.
The double line of defences ran for perhaps three quarters of a mile from the command post of the plains sector to the southern rampart of the Mons Rea encampment. The camp began at the lowest slope of the hill and covered a large area to perhaps halfway from the crest, in a roughly square form. The inner and outer lines of defences converged here due to the terrain and, had Fronto even visited the camp since the circumvallation was first planned, he might have argued the poor defensive nature of this one position. Relying on the Gauls not having the balls to launch an assault directly on a two-legion camp was simply not enough, as those same Gauls had now proved by launching that very attack and using a continued sustained assault on the plains sector to draw away the Roman officers’ focus.
The horses thundered along the line, veering left and right to avoid large groups of supply officers and men rushing hither and thither in answer to their own unit’s signals. Still, overall, they could hear the sounds of six legions’ cornicens issuing the order for the men to return to their posts and halt the thinning of the defences elsewhere in favour of the plains.