There was a strange silence, and Cavarinos could feel the hearts of the crowd wavering. He almost had them. After all, no one ever wanted to fight for no reason. A voice cut across the crowd amid the distant sounds of hammering and sawing and commands called in Latin. The druid on the balcony.
‘Conciliation with the Romans? A strange stand to hear taken by one of Vercingetorix’s Arverni?’
I wonder how well connected the druids truly are? He wondered.
‘You know me? You know who I am?’
‘You are Critognatos of the Arverni.’
Hmmm…
‘Not quite, druid. I am Cavarinos of the Arverni.’ He was able to see the look of surprise pass across the druid’s face even at this distance. He could almost imagine the facial tic appearing on the man’s eye. ‘I am on my way back to the king with a prize.’ He tapped the leather bag at his belt meaningfully.
The crowd were looking back and forth between foreigner and druid, and Cavarinos, finding it hard not to grin, pictured the man’s brain trying to work out how he could back-track over his own advice in favour of the man who carried the curse of Ogmios. The druid might be willing to sacrifice a whole Senone town on the altar of anti-Roman pride, but his sacred nick-nacks were another thing entirely.
‘You know one of them?’ the druid said, his face shrewd and calculating.
‘I believe so. I believe I met one alongside Vercingetorix last year.’ If only I could remember his name…
‘You would be willing to mediate on behalf of these people?’
Cavarinos smiled beatifically. ‘I would.’
‘You cowardly traitor,’ snarled Critognatos behind him, at about knee level on his way back up. Cavarinos turned to look across the crowd, using the movement to mask a sharp kick backwards into his brother’s belly, keeping him down.
‘I will speak with them at dawn, if you wish it,’ he announced.
* * * * *
Fronto grinned as the dusky maiden clambered off him and began to pour him a drink of finest Opimian. ‘More wine, darling?’
He nodded happily.
‘More hairy arse, darling?’
For a moment, Fronto nodded happily, then his brow creased into a frown.
‘What did you say, my dove?’
‘I said get your hairy arse out of that bed before I throw a bucket of water over you… sir!’
Fronto’s eyes snapped open, his irises contracting at the sudden intrusion of light. Images of dusky maidens retreated into his subconscious and left him with the less-than-pretty picture of Priscus standing over him, waving a vine stick in a suggestive manner.
‘What… where?’
‘You’re needed. One of the Senones has come out the city alone asking to speak to the Roman commander with the black-skinned friend. Didn’t take an awful feat of deduction to work out who that was. You’ve been chosen to parlay for some reason. Get dressed quickly. Dress uniform too, none of your fighting kit.’ Priscus sniffed. ‘At least for once you don’t smell like either an amphora or a latrine.’
‘You’re too kind, Gnaeus.’ Where were his singulares? They were supposed to be guarding his tent, not letting random folk in, even if those random folk were his friends. His gaze wandered to the tent door, where he was irked to see the grinning faces of Aurelius and Numisius, enjoying the scene.
‘Moments only,’ Priscus grunted, drawing his gaze again. ‘Get outside.’ Without a further word, the prefect retreated, leaving Fronto feeling a little confused and forlorn.
‘Dress uniform?’
He tried, without a great deal of either care or success, to think where among all the bags and boxes his best clean kit would be. He knew that almost every other officer would have ten different sets and their body slave would have it ready before they even knew they needed it. Fronto had never been a lover of having such a servant attend him in the field. They were always too active too early in the morning, waking you up before you wanted to surface.
Taking a brief sniff of yesterday’s tunic, he shrugged and pulled it on, quickly followed by his subarmalis with the leather pteruges decorated at the tips, his socks and boots. He left the twin figurines on the thongs around his neck out and in the open… if he was to parlay, a little luck might be useful. A moment later, he leaned out of the door.
‘Masgava, can you help me?’
The big Numidian nodded and entered, lifting the front and back plates of his cuirass and strapping them on. The knotted ribbon of command followed, and then the sword on the baldric. As the former gladiator unfurled the slightly creased red cloak and fastened it around his commander’s shoulders, Fronto pulled on his helmet, noting with dismay the way the crest sagged as though it needed the attentions of the dusky maiden from his dream.
He might not look like a consul or a hero, but he did look like a soldier, and that would have to be enough.
By the time he was stretching his legs outside, Masgava had his singulares formed up and at attention. Ten, including the officers. More than enough.
‘Come on then, lads; let’s go see what the local nutcase has to say.’
Despite the immense size of the Roman camp, the journey was straight and quick, the Tenth being one of the legions closest to the south gate of the oppidum. In a few long moments, he was passing through the opening in the half-formed wattle fence.
His interest was immediately piqued. He had been at many such parlays in the past six years, and they were always conducted by some high noble festooned in gold accoutrements, surrounded by his best warriors and usually with a few carnyxes issuing their deflating-bovine sounds. Here, one man sat on a horse and, while he was well-dressed and well equipped — partially in stolen Roman equipment, Fronto noticed — he looked more warrior than politician. And he was alone, and unserenaded.
‘Identify yourself,’ Fronto called as he closed on the man.
‘I am called Cavarinos. I am authorised by the magistrate of Vellaunoduno to agree terms, on the condition that they are not harmful to the Senones, who are, as you know, oath-bound to Caesar, and consider this siege a breach of etiquette and a shameful act for an ally.’
Fronto grinned.
‘Alright, Cavarinos. How do you know who I am?’
‘I do not,’ the Gaul replied calmly, though Fronto thought he spotted a strange touch of recognition there. ‘You are the officer whose man almost put an arrow through me yesterday afternoon.’
Fronto’s grin became a laugh. ‘Hope you had spare trousers, eh?’
Strangely, the Gaul chuckled back with genuine humour. ‘It was a magnificent shot, given the conditions. I would know your name, Roman?’
‘My name is Fronto. Marcus Falerius Fronto, legatus of the Tenth legion. And the big dark skinned fellow you spotted was one of my two guard commanders — Masgava.’ The Numidian bowed his head. ‘And the other is Palmatus, here.’ Another nod. ‘Now the pleasantries are out if the way, shall we talk business?
‘Your general has come for the grain.’
‘Astute.’
‘I am willing to give him four parts in every five. The rest, which should fit on six carts, will remain with the citizens of Vellaunoduno.’
‘How generous of you.’
‘Yes,’ Cavarinos smiled, ‘I realise that you could take it all, but not without a fight. And it might just get burned in the process. You know how we Gauls can be when cornered. Four fifths free of trouble. And one more thing: the freedom for every citizen to leave unmolested, or stay in their homes and continue to work while Rome sets up its depot here. This is not unreasonable for a free depot full of food, I’m sure you’ll agree.’