Fronto nodded. ‘To me. Not to Caesar. He would have other conditions.’
‘Why am I parlaying with you if you cannot agree terms?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘You asked for me, not me for you. And I do not need to consult Caesar. I know what he would ask, and can agree terms. He will want your tribe disarmed. He will want to extend the four fifths to cover all other stored food and extant livestock. And he will want hostages to ensure continued peace — say four hundred…’
Cavarinos seemed to consider this, and then took a deep breath.
‘My counter offer is this: Nine tenths of all foodstuffs and livestock. Those who leave the city unmolested may keep their weapons — the countryside is a dangerous place these days — but those who choose to stay will disarm. And sixty hostages, to be chosen by the townsfolk.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I trust I have your word that they will be well-treated?’
‘Unless the Senones suddenly rise up, yes.’
Again, the Gaul pursed his lips and then straightened. ‘These terms are agreeable to you, Legatus Fronto?’
‘They are, Cavarinos.’
‘Give me long enough to explain to the magistrate, and I will be back in due course.’
Fronto nodded. ‘You have until noon. That is plenty of time.’
The man smiled and wheeled his horse, riding back towards the gate. Palmatus and Fronto exchanged a look. ‘That was painless,’ smiled Masgava, giving the signal for the singulares to stand at ease.
‘More is going on here than meets the eye,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘He was wearing a silver serpent armband. He was no Senone warrior. He was Arverni.’
Palmatus scratched his chin. ‘Important, too. I swear I saw him last year when we were in that inn at Bibracte and you talked to Vercingetorix.’
Slowly, Fronto nodded in agreement.
‘It might be a mistake letting him go, but for some reason, I’m inclined to do so anyway. Any Gaul who’s willing to negotiate peacefully is worth hanging onto. Especially if he’s one of the Arverni.’
The small group watched the figure as it disappeared inside the oppidum’s south gate. Fronto scratched his neck and shivered. ‘I think we could do with a little more information on what’s going on around us,’ he murmured, and turned to look back at his honour guard. ‘Samognatos? Have a hearty breakfast this morning. I’ve a job for you.’
* * * * *
‘We should have scraped the wall mildew and infected the wheat stores with it before we left,’ Critognatos snarled nastily. ‘We should have poisoned the wells.’
Cavarinos closed his eyes and counted to five. ‘There are still the best part of a thousand Senones staying in the oppidum. You would kill the women and children?’
His brother turned a fiery look on him. ‘I would butcher the children myself if it meant infecting ten thousand Romans with fungus-infested wheat!’
‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re in this fight for the good of our people or just to stand knee deep in Roman guts.’
The two brothers fell into an unpleasant silence as they passed, along with fifteen hundred men, women and children, along a gauntlet between lines of gleaming legionaries, their officers sitting astride their horses and watching the exodus of the fleeing tribe. Cavarinos was most profoundly grateful that he and his brother had managed to slip into the departing crowd without anyone pointing out their tribal alliance to the Romans.
Glancing back over his shoulder at the oppidum, Cavarinos could see the numerous legionaries already at work in the place, making the alterations necessary to contain a small garrison and form a supply depot. The Roman officer called Trebonius had been placed in charge of the operation and three cohorts of legionaries were in residence now.
Noting Fronto and his companions watching them pass, Cavarinos tried to shrink into himself and make himself less noticeable, wishing his brother would do the same and not sit so defiant and proud on his horse. The two dozen Arverni warriors that served Critognatos had filtered in among the Senones so as not to look too obvious. They would all separate from the column and ride ahead for Vercingetorix once they were well away from the Romans.
It was becoming a matter of urgency now to get back to the army.
Whatever Vercingetorix’s thoughts on the Aedui and the need for their support, he would now be forced to turn his attention elsewhere. While Cavarinos had been preparing to leave, he had caught a chance exchange by several legionaries unloading a cart inside the south gate. It seemed that the three cohorts were all that would remain in Vellaunoduno under Trebonius, for the army would be on the move again almost straight away, on a lightning campaign of severing the Arverni’s ties with their recent allies. Their immediate goal was Cenabum and the crushing of the Carnutes, and then they would be heading south for the Biturige towns of Novioduno and Avaricon.
Avaricon… Not more than forty miles from Gorgobina, where Vercingetorix and the army conducted a slow and patient siege.
* * * * *
Fronto and Priscus watched the rag-tag line of Senones pass, wondering how many other Arverni warriors were concealed among them. If there was one…
‘We’re going to see most of them again soon,’ the prefect muttered, ‘over the top of our shields as they run at us.’
‘You may be right, but at this precise moment they’re doing me a favour.’
His eyes picked out Cavarinos and the man who rode next to him — a man who looked so similar they could only be brothers, but who bore a full beard instead of just a moustache. Then his gaze slowly wandered back across the mass until he spotted Samognatos, a spear shouldered as he rode, his usual native kit close enough in appearance that of the Senones that he blended seamlessly with them.
‘Go careful, my friend,’ Fronto breathed.
Chapter 6
Cenabum.
Fronto stood on the low slope and looked over the Carnute city of Cenabum, images of what must have happened here to the Roman supply depot drifting unbidden and unpleasant through his mind. His singulares and their officers remained respectfully a short distance behind — along with Caesar’s own praetorians — deferring to the command party who examined the lay of the land, while the legions approached still a mile or so further back.
The winds had died down and the rain had held off for the last two days, leaving a chilly stillness that made the hair stand proud on the back of his neck, as though the world held its breath, waiting for something to happen. His gaze wandered to the command group. Almost every officer of note was present, barring the three who remained with the army to keep things moving: Labienus, Priscus and Marcus Antonius.
So far, Fronto had had little time even to exchange pleasantries with the other officers and, after only a brief reunion when they had arrived in Agedincum, the army had been mobilised immediately. They had moved without pause, securing the base at Vellaunoduno and marching straight on to Cenabum to revenge themselves for the murder of the Roman residents a few months ago and to instil in the Carnutes such a bone-deep fear of Rome that they would pull away their support for the Arverni rebel. He made a mental note to spend some time mixing with the more sociable officers the next time the army halted for more than eight hours.
He had been absent from the army entirely two years ago, and even last year had spent much of the campaigning season off in the forests with only his singulares. Much had changed in the time he’d been away, apparently.
He knew most of the legates — the calm and collected Fabius of the Eighth, insightful Rufio of the Eleventh, solid Caninius of the Twelfth, impulsive and unpredictable Cicero of the Fourteenth, and formal Sextius of the Thirteenth — as well as Trebonius of the Ninth back at Vellaunoduno. The new legate of the Seventh was a surprise, though. Lucius Julius Caesar, cousin of the general and uncle of Marcus Antonius, had apparently forsaken his quiet, senatorial life in Rome during the late autumn and had travelled north to take command of the Seventh for his cousin, mere weeks before the lines of supply and communication had been severed. Yet this Lucius Caesar had seemingly taken it all in his stride with hardly a batted eyelid. A taciturn man with stretched, aged skin and a face not given to smiling, the general’s cousin had been efficient if not strong, and Fronto was still trying to decide whether the man was a quiet stoic or just too dumb to panic. If Fronto had come from a cushy estate to this damp, cold hellhole only to discover that he was immediately cut off from civilization by rebellious barbarians, he would have been a little more vocal about his troubles.