With a sigh of regret tinged with the urgent need to be away before the Romans came close, he wheeled his horse and raced off back towards the army.
* * * * *
The scout — one of Ingenuus’ cavalry, who had spent his formative years hunting in the hills north of Narbo, was waving, ahead. Fronto nudged Palmatus. ‘Find out what he wants.’
The commander of his guard nodded and kicked his horse, inexpertly, lurching forward with all the equestrian skill of a sick badger. Fronto had come out to the van, the bulk of Caesar’s army following along a quarter of a mile behind. Something about this place was making Fronto twitch, and though he couldn’t confirm it, he was sure that earlier this morning, when they were back in the shallower valleys, he had heard a carnyx blare in the distance. So he and his singulares guard had ridden out front to join up with the advance scouts and check the lie of the land.
In addition to Palmatus and Masgava, he was accompanied by Arcadios the archer, busy singing an old Cretan song in a low, thick, tuneless accent, Quietus — quite the loudest legionary Fronto had ever heard, Numisius, now fully recovered from his broken arm half a year earlier, Aurelius — the superstitious clown, Biorix the engineer, Iuvenalis the artillery expert and Celer — short, swift and far too good at dice to be playing fair. And Samognatos, his Condrusi scout, was out front on the far side of the valley. Ten men remaining of the nineteen he had led into the forest of Arduenna last year.
Aurelius cleared his throat.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Legatus, but my sword palm’s itchin’ like the three-day clap and my neck hair won’t stay flat. Something’s not right here.’
Fronto nodded absently. Normally, he took Aurelius’ feelings with a pinch of salt, despite his own reputation for prophetic feelings, but today he shared every bit of the legionary’s eerie premonition.
‘I agree. It looks like the scouts have found something. Hold tight.’
Palmatus rode back, having discussed something with the scout and the latter disappeared down into the valley, slowly, examining the ground. As the former legionary slowed, Fronto scratched his bristly chin.
‘What news, then?’
‘The strangest. There’s a small garrison fort up there at the valley side. Had a skeleton force of four contubernia in residence, but they’ve been killed. All evidence points to a Gallic attack. Beyond is a villa that appears to have been ravaged too. There’s signs of looting and damage.’
‘Looks like my fears have been well-founded,’ Fronto sighed, glancing side-long at Aurelius, who was shivering and kissing his Fortuna amulet.
‘That’s not the weird thing. He’s found tracks. In most places they’ve been hard to spot, as the ground’s so hard and track-resistant at the moment, but there’s a natural spring near the fort and the ground is kept damp because of it. There are the confusing tracks of a large number of both infantry and cavalry there.’
‘Not a surprise, given the destruction of the garrison. Odd that we’ve not seen whoever’s responsible, though. Which direction do the tracks lead?’
‘That’s the odd thing,’ Palmatus replied quietly. ‘Both. The ones heading north appear to be newer than the ones heading south, which are beneath them.’
‘So a large Gallic force came south into Roman territory, presumably when they discovered that we had withdrawn most of the garrison, and then turned round and left. Whether it’s because they heard about us or they’d merely had their fill of loot, it seems they’ve gone. It can only be a good thing anyway. If they were a large force I wouldn’t fancy pitting this lot against them. We’ve all seen what a full-strength Gallic army can do when their blood’s up, they’re well-rested, and probably battle-hardened. And all we have is eight thousand sons of shopkeepers dressed up like legionaries.’
He took a deep breath.
‘Anyway. Our sights are not set on local tribes and their opportunistic forays. I could go to Caesar with the news, but I can tell you right now he won’t sanction a hunt for them. He has his sights set on the mountain pass over the Cevenna range, behind which the Arverni await. He intends to hit Vercingetorix below the belt and see how he reacts. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that when the women and children of his warriors are put to the sword.’
‘I don’t like leaving a potential enemy army floating around down here behind us,’ Palmatus muttered.
‘Nor do I. But we’re playing close to time here. We need to be over the mountains and among the Arverni before word reaches Vercingetorix that we are in his lands.’
He looked up at the hillside above. This valley was deep enough, but it would pale into insignificance when they reached the Cevenna. Priscus had already told him horror stories about the lofty passes.
‘Ah, shit. Here we go again.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos wiped the faint drizzle from his face, ground his teeth and let his gaze slip to his brother who rode alongside, unconcerned. Critognatos was more stubborn than any mule — smelled a little like one, though — and the almost continual alternating between tiresome argument and brooding silence between the pair had led to their escort of two dozen Arverni warriors from their home at Nemossos tactfully riding some forty paces behind, almost out of range of the bickering.
It was not unknown for brothers to argue, even rabidly, Cavarinos supposed, but the years had brought only a deepening of their disagreements and a widening of the rift that had begun to form between them even as children. It was a situation that their mother had bemoaned until the day the flux had taken her and that their father had demanded repeatedly that they repair.
Both brothers had made their attempts over the years to stitch that tear in the fabric of the family, but every attempt had failed, and had often widened the gap. Cavarinos had repeatedly tried to find common ground that they could use to lay the foundations of a new relationship, but inevitably, Critognatos would bring it back to being the will of some god or spirit, which Cavarinos simply could not accept. The gods may or may not exist, but he knew in his heart that it was he, and not some invisible, intangible force that widened or narrowed their rift. His oafish brother had, in fairness, made his own attempts at healing, but they inescapably revolved around something or other that Critognatos loved, which was almost always something abhorrent to his brother.
And so the rift divided them and, it seemed, would always do so.
Cavarinos took another preparatory breath and launched once more into his point.
‘The thing is, brother, that while we were given two orders and told which of us should pursue each goal, we are now many leagues away from Vercingetorix and the rest, and no one will ever know if I stir up the tribes and you go hunting magical acorns or whatever from the druids.’
Critognatos flashed that familiar look at him. ‘You heard the king. It is the will of Ogmios that you find the curse.’
‘And it is the will of me that you find the curse.’
‘No. It must be done the way the gods will it. Would you deny and defy Ogmios and risk your all? I will not.’
Cavarinos, still grinding away at his molars, turned his attention to the road before them, and the oppidum at the end of that short stretch of dirt and gravel. Vellaunoduno rose upon a low hill, augmented with heavy earth-backed ramparts. On a rising spur, the western, northern and eastern slopes were high and powerful, while a long, gentle gradient led to the south gate, where the road wound in through the defences. It then disappeared among the packed structures that poured wood smoke up into the grey sky, undampened by the blanket of fine mizzle. The gate lay open, though four warriors stood on the ramparts beside it, ready to slam and bar it should the need suddenly arise.