CHAPTER 42

The Gaul irregulars counted almost all the tribes amongst their ranks. Many of them had fought for the legions for five years or more, and they acted and thought as Romans. Their pay was in the same silver and their armor and swords came from the forges of the regular legions.

When Bericus sent three thousand of them out to protect a shipment of grain, there were few that could have seen the subtle differences between their ranks and that of any other Roman force. Even the officers were from the tribes, after so long in the field. Though Julius had salted them with his best men in the beginning, war and promotion had altered the structure.

The convoy of wheat had come from Spain at Bericus’s order and had to be protected as it wound its way down from the northern ports. It was enough to feed the towns and villages that had stayed loyal.

Enough to keep them alive through the winter while Vercingetorix burned anything he could find.

The irregulars marched south in perfect order at the pace of the slowest cart. Their scouts were out for miles around them to warn of an attack. Every man there knew that the grain would be a threat to the rebellion as it gathered force in the heartlands, and hands rarely strayed from their swords. They ate cold meat on the move from their own dwindling rations and stopped only barely in time to build a hostile camp each night.

When it came, the attack was like nothing they could have expected. On a wide plain, a dark line of horsemen came thundering toward them. The scouts galloped in even as the column was reacting, shifting the heavy carts into a defensive circle and preparing their spears and bows. Every eye was fixed in fear on the enemy as the sheer size of their cavalry became apparent. There were thousands of them riding through the mud and grass toward the carts. The weak sun reflected on their weapons and many of the Gauls began to pray to old gods, forgotten for years.

Marwen had been a soldier for Rome ever since he had exchanged hunger for the silver coins four years before. As he saw the size of the force against them, he knew he would not survive it and experienced the bitter irony of being killed by his own people. He cared nothing for politics. When the Romans had come to his village and offered him a place with them, he had taken their bounty and given it to his wife and children before walking out to fight for Rome. It had been better than watching them starve.

Promotion had been a wonder, when it came. He had been part of the battles against the Senones and had ridden out with Brutus to steal their king from the very heart of them. That had been a day.

Lost in bitter memory, he did not at first notice the faces of the men as they turned to him, looking for orders. When he saw them, he shrugged.

“This is where we earn our pay, lads,” he said softly.

He could feel the ground shake under his feet as the riders stormed toward them. The defensive ranks were solid around the carts. The spears had been jammed into the mud to repel the charge, and there was nothing else to do but wait for the first acceleration of blood. Marwen hated the waiting and almost welcomed the combat to crush the fear that wormed in his stomach.

Horns sounded and the line of charging horses heaved to a halt just out of range. Marwen frowned as he saw one man dismount and walk over the soft ground toward them. He knew who it was even before he could be sure of the yellow hair and the fine gold torc the man wore to battle. Vercingetorix.

Marwen watched in disbelief as the king walked closer.

“Be still,” he ordered his men, suddenly worried that one of his archers would loose a shaft. His blood coursed through him and Marwen breathed faster as the king approached. It was an act of suicidal bravery and many of the men muttered in admiration as they readied their blades to cut him to pieces.

Vercingetorix came right up to them, meeting Marwen’s eyes as he noted the cloak and helmet of his rank. It may have been imagination, but seeing him there, so close, with his great sword sheathed on his hip, was something glorious.

“Speak your piece,” Marwen said.

The king’s eyes flashed and the yellow beard split as he grinned. He saw Marwen’s hand tighten on his gladius.

“Would you kill your king?” Vercingetorix said.

Marwen let his hand drop in confusion. He looked into the calm eyes of the man who faced him with such courage and shivered.

“No. I would not,” he said.

“Then follow me,” Vercingetorix said.

Marwen glanced right and left at the men he commanded and saw them nod. He looked back at Vercingetorix and, without breaking his gaze, went slowly down to kneel in the mud. As if in a dream, he felt the king’s hand on his shoulder.

“What is your name?”

Marwen hesitated. The words of his rank and unit caught in his throat. “I am Marwen Ridderin, of the Nervii,” he said at last.

“The Nervii are with me. Gaul is with me. On your feet.”

Marwen rose and found his hands were shaking. He heard Vercingetorix speak again through the tumult of his thoughts.

“Now burn the grain in those carts,” the king said.

“There are some Romans amongst us. We are not all from Gaul,” Marwen said suddenly.

The king’s pale eyes turned to him. “Do you want to let them live?”

Marwen’s face hardened. “It would be right,” he said, raising his head in defiance.

Vercingetorix smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let them go, Nervii. Take their swords and shields and let them go.”

As the Gaul irregulars marched behind their king, the horsemen raised their swords in salute and cheered them. Behind, the wagons of precious grain were hidden in crackling flames.

As Julius landed in the sheltered bay of Portus Itius on the coast of Gaul, he could see vast brown spires of smoke in the distance. Even the air tasted of battle and he felt a great anger at the thought of another rebellion against him.

He had not wasted a moment of the crossing and was already busy with orders and plans that had to be implemented before the winter closed the mountains. Getting news back to Rome of his second assault against the Britons would be a race against time, but he needed the goodwill it would bring on the streets of the city. There would be no Senate tithe that year, when he needed every coin to smash the tribes under Vercingetorix. The name was on the mouths of the lowest workers, and Julius could barely remember the angry young man who had stormed out of his first meeting with the chieftains, eight years before. Not so young anymore, either of them. Cingeto had grown into a king and Julius knew he could not allow him to live. They had both walked a long path since the beginning, and the years had been filled with blood and war.

As Julius climbed up onto the quayside, he was already deep in conversation with Brutus, breaking off to dictate to Adàn at his shoulder. Fast-riding extraordinarii had been sent to summon Bericus, and as soon as he arrived Julius would gather his council and plan the campaign. A glance at the brown smoke on the horizon was enough to firm his resolve. This was his land and he would not falter if every man in Gaul took arms against him.

The returning legions occupied the port and built their camps out of routine, though there was a tangible tension and weariness in the ranks. They too had fought for years with Julius and more than a few were sickened at the thought of another year of war, or even longer. Even the hardest of them wondered when it would all end and they would be allowed to reap the rewards they had been promised.

On the third day, Julius gathered his council at the coastal fortress they had built, part of a chain that one day would dominate the coast of Gaul.