But still, the absence of their soldiers niggled him. As they had passed through the last area of upland, which would deposit them on the wide coastal plain a little over ten miles from Narbo, they had passed a Roman villa that hugged the hillside above the narrow valley, protected by a small fort of the usual Roman form. After some debate, Lucterius had decided that the place had to be taken for the army to pass unhindered, despite the trouble that always came with besieging a Roman fort.
But the whole place had fallen with hardly a murmur and, as the laughing warriors had happily looted the place and the villa nearby, Lucterius and Cunorix had performed a quick head count of the garrison. Thirty two men! In a fort clearly constructed for half a thousand and which held one of the few passes from the north right into the heartland of the Roman province. The hair on Lucterius’ arms and the back of his neck had been standing proud and nervous for more than a day now, and every sign that the Romans had withdrawn their forces had set his teeth more on edge. He had slept badly last night, assailed by prophetic dreams of a giant eagle ripping a boar to shreds with its iron talons.
In fact, if he’d not the confidence in his force that he had, he would have turned his army round before they even crossed the border ridge with its scarce-manned tower.
Another mental image of that dream eagle with gleaming talons flashed into his head and he was so busy telling himself to stop being so superstitious and foolish that he almost missed the shouts, and the riders were on him before he’d focused. Three of the scouts — two from his own Cadurci and one of the Ruteni more familiar with the region — were racing back along the rough column of men as though divine Sucellos followed them at a run, swinging his godly hammer.
Lucterius felt his heart catch in his throat.
‘What is it?’ he called to the riders as they slowed to his pace and came alongside. In fact, he had a horrible feeling he knew exactly what it was.
‘You need to see this,’ the Ruteni rider said quietly.
‘And halt the army,’ added his own man.
‘And tell them to be quiet,’ chipped in the third.
His heart pounding in his chest like a racing horse, he nodded to Cunorix and when his favoured warrior approached, he kept his voice low. ‘Have the army halt. Tell them it’s an impromptu leg-rest. But don’t have anyone blow the carnyx, and try keeping the shouting to a minimum.’
The warrior narrowed his eyes, but nodded and went back to the column as Lucterius kicked his horse into speed and raced off in the wake of the three scouts. His heart was still racing with an increasing sense of urgent foreboding as they left the front ranks of their army behind and veered off to the south, climbing the slope to the side of this shallow valley.
This region, to the south of the highlands that ran along the province’s border, consisted of a series of such slopes and valleys running alongside one another like the folds in a rucked blanket. The scouts stopped at the top, keeping in the shade of a small spread of beech trees that were still too bare for comfort, still longing for an end to the chill and the frost. Once they had reached an unspoken agreement, presumably that they were not being observed, the three men rode on down into the next shallow valley, perhaps five hundred paces across, aiming for another small knot of beech trees on the next rise. Lucterius wanted to question them, wanted to confirm what he already suspected, but the scouts were not slowing, and something made him keep from shouting.
Then, scarcely thirty heartbeats later they were approaching the top of the next rise, and the Ruteni scout was reining in behind the trees. The other two joined him and, nervously, their commander pulled up alongside them all.
The bottom fell out of Lucterius’ world as his eyes beheld the scene beyond the rise. An endless sea of iron and bronze helms and mail shirts! Shields of deep red with bull and lightning bolt designs rose and fell in perfect symmetry with every step. Hundred upon hundred upon hundred of the Roman javelins they called pila rose from the mass like the spines of a giant metal hedge pig. And at the far side, a small mass of cavalry. Other soldiers moved in groups here and there — not the heavy legionaries, but other forces that resembled the garrison troops of Narbonensis… the missing garrison!
Lucterius felt that lurch in his chest again and found himself counting the width of the column in men and extrapolating for the whole column, which stretched to the distance ahead and behind.
‘For the love of Taranis!’ he whispered. ‘There are thousands of them!’
‘More than us,’ added one of the scouts.
‘Not by much,’ Lucterius countered. ‘I reckon perhaps two legions, along with the garrison and the cavalry. Perhaps ten thousand men?’
The scout from his own tribe who had remained silent nodded. ‘Roughly ten.’
‘And we have eight thousand.’
Lucterius felt a moment of crucial decision weighing down on him. Eight to ten. But with the element of surprise. How had their scouts not spotted his army? Five Romans to every four of them. Worse odds had been carried in battle, especially with surprise on their side. But at the same time, a veteran legion was a behemoth of destruction. One legionary against one of the Cadurci and Lucterius would put his money on his kinsman every time. But put ten Romans in a line, with their encompassing shields, their pilum volleys and a good commander, and he would hesitate to move with a force even three times their number. It was too risky. He would lose. The garrison was one thing. Two veteran legions was a whole different matter.
His eyes scanned the cavalry and picked out certain figures among them. Yes. The officers, and the flag he had learned was Caesar’s: the bull. The man himself was here and in control of two legions and two more thousand support troops. Rome’s greatest general, who had bested the best.
Lucterius knew himself to be a solid fighter, a popular leader and a reasonably competent general. But men he had considered to be the best the tribes had to offer had pitted themselves against Caesar with the odds on their side and had been utterly, ruthlessly and mercilessly crushed.
No. One thing he was not was an idiot. To continue the campaign now was folly. And Caesar had somehow moved before they were all ready. The snake had already made his play… so quickly! Vercingetorix must be told. Had to be warned, lest he merrily continue his political manoeuvring while the Romans thrashed their way across the land.
‘Back,’ he hissed to the scouts. ‘Get back to the column. Tell them we are turning round and heading north.’
‘They won’t like it.’
‘They don’t have to. They just have to do it. We return to Vercingetorix so that we can field a grander army in the face of the Roman threat. We have missed our chance here. Tell the nobles in the valley to have their men stay as silent as possible, yet to move as though the bear-god was swiping at their backs. Caesar is making for the very pass we came through. If we do not get there first, Caesar will reach the rest of the tribes before us and all is lost. We are in a race for the pass and Vercingetorix’s army is at stake.’
As the three riders, unhappy with their tidings, rode off to move the army back the way they came, Lucterius sat beneath the shade of the beech tree and peered across the valley. The figure that could only be Caesar was pointing ahead and then gesturing out wide with his arm. His companion nodded. Fanning out. The distribution of scouts. Lucterius might feel as though fortune had deserted him, but the fact was: had they been a quarter of an hour later along the valley, the scouts now being ordered to deploy would have found them and battle would have been inevitable. And Lucterius was in no doubt as to how it would have ended.
‘I have no idea how you managed this, proconsul of Rome, but I vow that the next time we meet, I will not flee. Your days here are numbered.’