The horn blew again, slightly more insistent, and Cavarinos nodded to the stranger in the mirror and turned, limping from the room. Next to the door, the helpful past occupant had left a good quality spear leaning against the wall, and the Arvernian noble grasped it and used it as a crutch to hobble from the house.
The morning was bright and glorious, the sky an unbroken azure and the buzzing of bees and chittering of birds filling the air. It was still very early, barely past dawn from the angle of the light on the buildings of Alesia, and he listened again. The call was coming from the fanum — the sacred space given over to the shrine of Taranis at the highest point of the oppidum. As speedily as he could reasonably manage, given the difficulty of his leg, Cavarinos lurched through the cobbled streets towards the holy site. He was not alone. Numerous stragglers, their faces sewn with defeat and loss, bumbled through the settlement, converging on the call.
The fanum was a wide public square — one of the largest such spaces Cavarinos had ever seen, after the massive example at Bibracte — with three shrines to Toutatis, Taranis and Ogmios. The people of the rebel army filled it from wall to wall, occupying every space, and more folk had climbed up to the sloping portico roof that surrounded it, taking precarious seats where they could to listen to proceedings. Others were gathered at the three entrances to the Fanum, listening through the gaps from outside.
Cavarinos silently pushed past the peripheral figures, leaning on his spear. Despite the density of the crowd his condition, expression, clear rank, and the serpent arm-ring that identified him as Arverni all served to grant him access, people pushing respectfully back to grant him difficult passage.
Finally, he came to a halt next to a large stone block for the tethering of horses, where two young warriors barely old enough to shave shuffled out of the way to allow this wounded noble a seat. Cavarinos nodded his thanks and sank to the stone with a sigh.
Vercingetorix stood before the shrines on a low wooden platform, emitting an aura of authority even now. He was tall and proud, still dressed for battle and spattered with blood as a constant reminder of what he was above all else: a warrior. A strange silence filled the square and Cavarinos sat in it for another quarter of an hour until the public were no longer arriving and shuffling into place. During that time, Vercingetorix’s gaze had passed across him more than twice with no sign of recognition. Of course, his face was discoloured from the bruise and his beard had gone, so among the crowd he would hardly be recognisable. Perhaps that was a good thing?
Finally the king of the Arverni, leader of the war against Caesar, chosen of druids and beloved of the tribes, cleared his throat.
‘You have a decision to make this morning, my friends.’
The silence rushed in as he paused, filling the square with curiosity and tension.
‘I undertook this war, as any who know me will confirm, not for my own glory or for that of my tribe, and not for territory or gold or hostages. I undertook this war, at the behest of the shepherds of the people’ — a brief nod in the direction of a figure in an off-white robe to one side. ‘I undertook this war for the good of all the tribes. For the freedom of all the people from the Roman yoke.’
Again, the silence flooded the square. Even the bees and the birds seemed to have halted their noise to grant audience to the first — and very likely the last — king of a unified Gaul.
‘But fortune is fickle.’
Cavarinos’ hand went to the bronze figurine at his neck and he gripped it so tight that his knuckles whitened.
‘Fortune,’ the king continued, ‘was not with us yesterday. We were within a hair’s breadth of defeating Caesar, and yet the attack collapsed.’
Cavarinos frowned. The king sounded as though he were about to admit defeat. Cavarinos knew they were beaten, of course, and that there was no fight left in the tribes, and the king had said as much before that disastrous battle, but he had never truly believed that Vercingetorix would stop just because there did not seem to be a way out. As long as the reserves on the hill kept the Romans bottled up in their camps, the king that Cavarinos knew would not admit defeat. One of the younger warriors in the square seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, for he braved the crowd.
‘Next time fortune will favour us, and the gods will watch over us’ the young man shouted into the abyss of silence.
But Vercingetorix was shaking his head.
‘While you, my brave and faithful, lay abed recovering from your wounds and exertions, preparing to take the fight to the Romans once again despite our weakness and hunger, I stood on the western gate this morning and watched the relief force depart.’
A collective, disbelieving groan rippled through the fanum, and an air of hopelessness and despair flooded in, melding with the silence. A lone crow cawed somewhere nearby — one of the few who was not busy down at the battlefield, feasting. The Arvernian king nodded.
‘It is true. Our brothers have abandoned the war. Even after our defeat, last night we outnumbered the Romans by almost two men to one. This morning, we are but a third of their number, and we starve to death with every passing hour.’
‘There must be a way…’ an older warrior with a bandaged arm shouted out.
‘No.’ The king shook his head. ‘This battle is lost and with the withdrawal of the reserves, so is the war. We have reached the end, my friends. All that remains now is to decide how we greet our fate.’
The groan rippled around the square again, and Vercingetorix straightened.
‘Even though Caesar and his wicked politicians are men of cruelty and power, there are honourable souls among the Romans. Perhaps there are ways in which we can reduce the plight of our people.’ The king gestured to the space beside him. ‘My commanders are gone. The chiefs and kings of your tribes. All dead on that field below us. I alone remain as a figure of the will that has brought us to this precipice. I alone stand to atone for our actions that have ruined you, our people.’
This time the groan was disbelieving and refuting. They would not hear such words, clearly.
‘It is true. I alone remain. And I submit to you, the people of the tribes. There is no future to be made in a desperate charge to oblivion on their sharpened stakes and spears. You must bend your knee to Rome and speak their oaths and hope that the honourable men among the serried Roman ranks accept your obeisance in faith.’
Again a negative murmur, but again, Vercingetorix shook his head.
‘I offer myself to Rome in penance for what has happened. I will offer myself to Caesar, to be bound a slave or butchered as a beast at his whim. For in my sacrifice, I may be able to fulfil the general’s lust for blood and divert his fury from you.’
The groan rose once more, but the king was adamant.
‘I have failed you as a leader. I will not fail you as a sacrifice.’
Cavarinos shook his own head now and realised that he had stood unexpectedly.
‘You are not the only chieftain who failed the people, my king.’
Vercingetorix focused on Cavarinos with a frown, and the Arvernian noble saw the dawn of recognition on the king’s face.
‘Who are you?’
The nobleman’s brow furrowed. ‘I am your servant — Cavarinos of the Arverni, chieftain of Nemossos.’
But Vercingetorix was shaking his head, a sharp look directed at him, which dropped to the leather pouch at his belt for a fraction of a moment. ‘I saw Cavarinos of Nemossos fall at the walls. Whoever you are, you’re mistaken and addled.’
Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but the look in the king’s eyes was enough to silence him. Vercingetorix was making more than one sacrifice today. The king was unaware that the curse of Ogmios had been used — perhaps he was saving Cavarinos to preserve the curse, and with it a hope for a Gallic future. A vain hope, for the tablet wrapped snugly in the pouch lay in two useless pieces.