The king of the Arverni closed the door of the hall with a heave against the wind, leaving a sudden pressure in his ears and a drift of snow on the floor at his feet.
He turned to the men who had gathered at his word, between them representing the most ancient tribes of Gaul. The Senones were there and the Cadurci, the Pictones, the Turoni, dozens of others. Some of them were vassals of Rome; others represented only a pitiful fraction of the power they had once known, their armies sold into slavery and their cattle stolen to feed the legions. Mhorbaine of the Aedui had refused his offer, but the others looked to him for leadership. Together, they could mass an army that would break the back of the Roman domination of their land, and Cingeto hardly felt the winter cold as he considered their hawklike expressions.
“Will you take my orders in this?” he asked them softly. He knew they would, or they would not have traveled in winter to come to him.
One by one, each man rose and pledged his support and his warriors. Though they may have had little love for the Arverni, the years of war had opened them to his arguments. Alone, they must fall, but under one leader, one High King, they could throw the invaders out of Gaul. Cingeto had taken that role for himself and, in their desperation, they had accepted him.
“For now, I tell you to wait and prepare. Forge your swords and armor. Lay in stocks of grain and salt a part of each bull you slaughter for the tribe. We will not make the mistakes of previous years and spend our strength in fruitless attacks. When we move, we move as one and only when the Romans are extended and weak. Then they will know Gaul is not to be stolen from its people. Tell your warriors they will march under the High King, joined as they were once joined a thousand years ago, when nothing in the world could stand against us. Our history tells us we were one people, horsemen of the mountains. Our language shows us the brotherhood and the way.”
He was a powerful figure standing before them. Not one of the kings dropped their gaze from his fierce expression. Madoc stood at his shoulder and the fact that he had allowed his younger brother to take their father’s crown was not lost on any of them. Cingeto’s words spoke to more ancient loyalties than those of tribe, and they felt their pulses race at the thought of rejoining the old peoples.
“From this day, all tribal disputes are ended. Let no Gaul kill one of his people when we shall need every sword against the enemy. When there is dissent, use my name,” Cingeto said softly. “Tell them Vercingetorix calls them to arms.”
CHAPTER 39
Julius stood with an arm wrapped around the high prow of the galley, filled with a restless impatience as the white coast grew before his eyes. He had learned from the disastrous experiences of the first expedition, and this time, the year was young for the crossing. The fleet that churned the sea to foam around him with their long oars was a hundred times the size of his first, and it had cost him every coin and favor he had accumulated in Gaul. He had stripped his defenses for this blow across the water, but the white cliffs of the Britons had been his first failure and he could not allow a second.
It was hard not to remember the blood-red surf as his galleys had run ashore and been smashed. That first night when the blue-skinned tribes had attacked them in the water was burnt into his memory.
He gripped the wood more tightly as he remembered the way the Tenth had forced a landing through the roaring sea darkness. Too many had been left floating facedown, with the seabirds landing on their bodies as they bumped and rolled in the swell. No matter how he looked at it, those three weeks had been disastrous. It had rained every single day with a blinding force and cold. Those who had lived through the carnage of the landing had been closer to despair than he had ever seen them. For days, they had not known if any of the galleys had survived the storm. Though Julius had hidden his relief from the men, he had never been more thankful than when he saw his battered galleys limping in.
His legions had fought bravely against the blue-skinned tribes, though Julius had known even then that he would not stay without a fleet to supply him. He had accepted the surrender of Commius, their chief, but his thoughts had already been on the following spring.
The lessons of that harsh coast had been well learned. On every side, Julius could hear the shouts of shipmasters as they called the beat of the oars. The sea spray lashed him as the prow rose and fell and he leaned outward, his gaze sweeping the coast for the painted warriors. This time, there would be no turning.
As far as he could see in any direction, his galleys were pulling through the waves. Hundreds of ships that he had begged and bought and hired to take five full legions back to the island. In stalls on the heaving decks were two thousand horses to sweep the painted tribes away.
With a chill that had more to do with memory than the cold, Julius saw the lines of warriors appear on the cliffs, but this time he scorned them. Let them watch as the greatest fleet the world had ever known came to their shores. Let them see.
The waves had none of the rage and power he had experienced the year before. In the height of summer, the swell was barely rocking the heavy galleys, and Julius heard the cornicens signal all along the line. Boats were lowered and the Tenth led them in.
Julius leapt over the side into the surf and could hardly believe it was the same piece of coast. He saw the men drag the boats up the shingle, far beyond the reach of storms. All around him was the busy energy that he had known for years. Orders were called, packs and armor collected, as they formed a defensive perimeter and summoned in the next units with long bronze horns. Julius shivered as his wet cloak slapped against his skin. He walked up the beach and looked back to sea, showing his teeth. He hoped the painted Britons were observing the army that would cut through their land.
In moving so many men from boats to the shore, some injuries and errors were to be expected. One of the small craft overturned as its occupants tried to climb out, and an optio had a foot crushed by its weight. More than a few packs and spears were dropped into the sea and had to be retrieved by their owners, urged on by swearing officers. With only one arm, Renius slipped as he climbed out of a boat, disappearing under the water despite the hands grabbing at him. He was dragged out still roaring in indignation. Despite the difficulties, landing so many without losing a life was a feat in itself, and by the time the sun was dipping down toward the horizon, the Tenth had flagged the ground for their first hostile camp, barring the way down to the shore while they were still vulnerable.
They saw no further sign of the tribes who had defended their land so viciously the year before. After the initial sightings on the cliffs, the Britons had pulled back. Julius smiled at the thought of the consternation in their camps and villages and wondered what had become of Commius, the king of the southern hills. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Commius to see his legions for the first time and send his blue-skinned fighters down to the sea to throw them back. With a shudder, Julius remembered the huge dogs that fought with them and took a dozen wounds before they fell. Even they had not been enough to beat the veterans of Gaul.
Commius had surrendered when the legions had fought up the dunes and onto the fields beyond, crushing the blue warriors before them. The king had kept his dignity as he walked into the makeshift camp on the beach to offer his sword. The guards would have stopped him, but Julius had waved him in, his heart racing.