Part 36 (2/2)

”You are growing maudlin in your old age,” Brutus said with a smile. ”You need to feel the sun on your face again.”

”Perhaps,” Renius said, pulling a piece of gra.s.s between his fingers. ”I have fought for Rome all of my life, and she still stands. I've done my part.”

”Do you want to go home?” Julius asked him. ”You can walk down this hill to the galleys and have them take you back, my friend. I will not refuse you.”

Renius looked down to the bustling crowd on the river, and his eyes were filled with yearning. He shrugged then and forced a smile. ”One more year, perhaps,” he said.

”There's a messenger coming,” Brutus said suddenly, breaking in on their thoughts. All three turned to look at the tiny figure on horseback who lunged up the hill toward them.

”It must be bad news for him to seek me here,” Julius said, rising to his feet. In that moment, his contemplative mood was broken and the other two sensed the change in him like a sudden s.h.i.+ft in the wind.

Their damp cloaks were crumpled and all three men felt the weariness of constant war and problems, watching the lone rider with a sort of dread.

”What is it?” Julius demanded as soon as the man was close enough to hear.

The messenger became clumsy under their scrutiny, dismounting and saluting in a tangle. ”I have come from Gaul, General,” he said.

Julius's heart sank. ”From Bericus? What is your message?”

”Sir, the tribes are rebelling.”

Julius swore. ”The tribes rebel every year. How many this time?”

The messenger looked nervously at the officers. ”I think? General Bericus said all of them, sir.”

Julius looked blankly at the man before nodding in resignation. ”Then I must return. Ride to the galleys below and tell them not to leave until I am with them. Have General Domitius send riders to the coast to Mark Antony. The fleet must be put to sea to cross to Gaul before the winter storms begin.”

Julius stood in the rain and watched the rider make his way down to the river and the galley crews.

”So it is to be war once more,” he said. ”I wonder if Gaul will ever see the peace of Rome in my lifetime.” He looked tired at the burden and Brutus's heart went out to his old friend.

”You'll beat them. You always do.”

”With winter coming?” Julius said bitterly. ”There are hard months ahead, my friend. Perhaps harder than any we have known.” With appalling effort, he controlled himself until the face he turned to them was a mask.

”Ca.s.sivellaunus must not know. His hostages are already on board the galleys, his son amongst them. Take the legions back to the coast, Brutus. I will go by sea and have the fleet waiting for you there.” He paused and his mouth tightened in anger.

”I will do more than beat them, Brutus. I will raze them from the face of the earth.”

Renius looked at the man he had trained and was filled with sorrow. He had no chance to rest and each year of war stole a little more of his kindness away from him. Renius gazed south, imagining the sh.o.r.es of Gaul. They would regret having unleashed Caesar amongst them.

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 s.h.i.+pment 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 hors.e.m.e.n came thundering toward them. The scouts galloped in even as the column was reacting, s.h.i.+fting 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 gra.s.s toward the carts. The weak sun reflected on their weapons and many of the Gauls began to pray to old G.o.ds, 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 s.h.i.+vered.

”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.”

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