The brothers approached in cantankerous silence, their horses’ hooves the only noise in the oppressive atmosphere. The guards threw out a quick request for them to identify themselves and then permitted them entrance to the oppidum without further question, charging them to keep their escort under control and that no weapons be drawn, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of the magistrate’s justice.
The town, one of many such that belonged to the Senones, was dirty and chaotic, houses packed tightly together, the streets so muddy and filled with ordure that the cobbles only showed in rare glimpses.
‘It’s a sign,’ Critognatos hissed suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as he made repeated warding motions. Cavarinos followed his gaze to see a stone slab rising beside a blacksmith’s forge, the figure of a squat, wide man with long bushy hair, a great club and heavy cross-hatched trousers carved upon it. Cavarinos could not help but notice that Ogmios here was depicted with neither beard nor moustache. It seemed odd. No facial hair at all almost universally meant either a child or a Roman. On his occasional trips into Narbonensis and to the Greek port of Massilia, Cavarinos had seen their great temples to Hercules who was also Herakles. It occurred to him that Ogmios was almost exactly the same, although shorter, more deformed and most definitely more ugly. If the tribes were going to honour their gods, he found it ridiculous that the druids advocated the raising of these hideous depictions, while the hated enemy to the south made their Hercules realistic and handsome, painted to be so lifelike, and enthroned him in temples that were grander than any royal palace in any of the tribes of what they called Gaul.
Sometimes, Cavarinos could not help in his gut wondering what the tribes would be capable of given the learning, the support and the friendship of Rome instead of this interminable conflict.
‘It is not a sign. It is a lump of stone.’
‘This is Ogmios, brother,’ Critognatos snarled. ‘Do not deny the clear sign. You speak of defying his will and immediately we find him watching you. He has gifted us a great gift, dropping it from the clouds into the hands of the shepherds that we may use it to finally destroy the Romans!’
Unless Ogmios is actually Hercules and all this is an immense and sick joke upon us all, Cavarinos muttered under his breath. He glanced across at his brother and noted the look of sheer devoted nervousness in his eyes. The truth hit him then: it mattered not whether Ogmios was the great god, or just their name for the Roman club-bearer, or even a figment of their imagination. It mattered not whether this curse was a powerful weapon sent by a vengeful god, or a magic artefact crafted by the druids in secret and accounted that of a god, or just drivel hacked into a stone by a madman.
No.
What mattered was belief.
Critognatos was so consumed by his belief that if a druid told him to walk off a cliff because Taranis asked him to, his brother would leap into the abyss with joy in his heart. Faith was a powerful force. And his brother was far from alone in this belief. Indeed the vast bulk of the army of Vercingetorix and the tribes that supplied those forces were every bit as prey to superstition as Critognatos.
The curse didn’t have to kill. It didn’t have to be infused with the power of a god. So long as the army believed it did, they would revere it and fight all the harder, filled with courage and sureness by the mystical.
His brother was right about one thing. Cavarinos did have to retrieve that tablet, and wield it, so that the army’s courage was bolstered.
‘Very well,’ he said, bowing faintly to the stone, despite the fact that the act made him feel foolish. ‘I will go and hunt the curse of Ogmios in the warrens and secret places of the shepherds. And you will raise the tribes to Vercingetorix’s cause.’
His brother nodded his agreement.
‘But,’ Critognatos replied, ‘you should not return to the army when you find it. Such a sacred gift is too precious to risk on the road south alone. Wait until I am finished in my task, and we will all travel back together, with our warriors to protect you.’
‘Agreed.’
‘We shall not be more than three weeks before we are ready to return. Any longer than that and Vercingetorix will find himself committed and we risk the Romans finding out and committing their own armies in the field. We need to be back by then, along with whatever forces we can raise.’
Again, Cavarinos nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we shall meet here in three weeks. I may be here earlier, of course, but I will keep the tablet secure until you join me.’
In one of those rarest of occasions, his brother cracked his miserable face with a smile and reached out to grip Cavarinos’ hand.
‘Good luck, brother.’
Cavarinos found himself shaking the hand in surprise. ‘And to you.’
Chapter 4
High in the Cevenna range.
Februarius had come and the advancement of another month on the calendar did nothing to bring signs of spring any closer. Indeed, as the army of Julius Caesar moved ever higher into the lofty peaks of the region over the succeeding days, winter seemed to come down on them with renewed vigour, running the whole gamut from chilling rain through hail, ice, sleet and snow. The legions, while they had been partially trained, well-equipped and thoroughly enthusiastic, were little prepared for such conditions and were finding the journey hard.
After only a day and a half moving up from the border, they began to pass through lands owned by the Helvii tribe, who refused to show themselves in any strength to the invasive force, melting away as soon as the scouts saw them and scattering among the high peaks and deep valleys to seek shelter in caves or hidden fortresses. Initially, Caesar had given the order that such groups when seen should be dealt with, since they at least nominally owed allegiance to the Arverni and their king, Vercingetorix. In the event, the practicality of sending barely-trained, frost-bitten legionaries or out-of-condition garrison troops after such parties was soon brought home to them when half a century of men vanished over a cliff in a small avalanche caused by a blaring carnyx. Since then, for the next three days, Caesar’s strict orders had been for the men to stay together in the column and to do their best to support one another through the harsh conditions. The few tribesmen they managed to entrap were simple farmers and woodsmen with no knowledge of events beyond their own village, yet whose local knowledge was proving invaluable in the army’s passage of the peaks.
It was at times like this when Fronto missed the companionship of his Belgic friend, Galronus, who always seemed to have some insight into their surroundings. For a moment he wondered whether the Remi noble had returned to Massilia yet, or whether he was still in Campania. Galronus and Fronto’s sister had been very coy and evasive when they had planned their journey, citing the need to visit her mother and discuss a match.
A small flurry of snowflakes dusted his face and halted his reverie.
Fronto, for once grateful to be on horseback, though he feared for Bucephalus’ health with every bone-jolting shiver, rode up from the rear of the column where he had been discussing the issue of stolen supplies with Oppius Proculus, the quartermaster who had accompanied the column from Aquileia. His singulares followed a short way behind, limited by the terrain and weather to trudging in his wake. Kicking Bucephalus into a little extra speed and praying to every god he could name that the foot-and-a-half deep snow concealed no sudden drops or animal bolt-holes, he raced to the van, where he could now see the scouts and the lead elements of the unnamed legion gathered in a group. The entire column was shuffling to a halt in response to the sudden stoppage at the fore, and the men stamped their feet on the spot despite the lack of forward movement, determined to keep as warm as they could.