The Field Of Swords

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.

Domitius came in first, wearing the silver armor he had won. Dark bristle covered his cheeks and his armor had lost much of its shine. The breastplate especially was a battered testament to the wars he had fought for Julius. Without a word, he grasped Julius’s hand and forearm in the legionary grip before taking his place.

Mark Antony embraced his general as they met. Julius had reason to be pleased with him when he saw the tallies of their treasury. The sums of gold and silver in the reserve were vast, though they were dropping day by day as the cities and towns of Gaul waited to see if the rebellion would succeed. Already, the food supply was critical and Julius was grateful to Mark Antony for taking that part of his burden. The thousands of legionaries had to be fed and watered before they could fight, and already it was clear that Vercingetorix was trying to cut their supplies. The burning plumes of smoke had all been farms, and when the extraordinarii galloped out to them, they found them empty and deserted. Julius felt a grudging admiration for the ruthlessness of the new king. Vercingetorix had made a choice that would also kill the villages and towns that remained loyal to the legions. Thousands of his own people would die for their allegiance, and more if the legions could not end it quickly. It was a high cost, but starvation would wither the Roman legions as surely as swords.

Julius had chosen a room that looked over the sea for their gathering, and birds wheeled and screeched outside on the gray rocks. He greeted each man with real pleasure as they came in. Bericus had taken a wound in the first engagement with Vercingetorix and had his shoulder and chest bandaged. Though the Ariminum general looked tired, he could not help but respond to Julius’s smile as he showed him a seat and brought a cup of wine for his good hand. Octavian came in with Brutus and Renius, in the middle of a discussion of tactics for the cavalry. All three men greeted Julius and made him smile at their confidence.

They seemed not to share his own doubts and worries, but then they were used to having him there to solve them. He had no one.

As they gathered, Julius felt himself lifted by their mood. The years of war had not broken his friends.

When they spoke of the latest rebellion, it was with anger and resilience rather than defeat. They had all invested years in the hostile land, and every man there was angry to see their future threatened. Though they talked amongst themselves, each man watched Julius for some sign he was about to begin. He was the core of them. When he was absent, it was as if the purest part of their drive and energy had been taken. He bound men together who would not have suffered each other’s company in any other circumstances. Such a bond, in fact, that they did not even think of it as they settled and he faced them.

He was simply there and they were slightly more alive than before.

Cabera was brought in last by two men of the Tenth who acted as his attendants. Julius strode over to him as soon as the old healer was settled and took his frail hands in his own. He spoke too quietly for the others to hear above the noise of the gulls and wind.

“Farther than any other man in Rome, Cabera. I have been off the edge of the world. Did you see me here, so long ago?”

Cabera didn’t seem to hear him at first and Julius was sad at the changes age had wrought in him.

Guilt too tugged at his conscience. It was at Julius’s request that Cabera had healed Domitius’s shattered knee, and that act of will had been too much for his aging frame. He had not been strong since that day. At last the eyes lifted and the dry, cracked mouth twitched upward at the edges.

“You are here because you choose to be, Gaius,” the old man said. His voice was little louder than an escaping breath, and Julius leaned closer to his lips. “I have never seen you in this terribly cold room.”

Cabera paused then, and the muscles of his neck jumped in spasm as he took a deeper breath.

“Did I tell you I saw you killed by Sulla?” he whispered.

“Sulla is long dead, Cabera,” Julius said.

Cabera nodded. “I know it, but I saw you murdered in his house and again in the cells of a pirate ship.

I have seen you fall so often I am sometimes surprised to see you so strong and alive. I do not understand the visions, Julius. They have caused me more pain than I have ever imagined.”

Julius saw with swelling grief that there were tears in the old man’s eyes. Cabera noticed his expression and chuckled dryly, a clicking sound that went on and on. Though Cabera’s left arm lay useless in his lap, he reached up with the other and brought Julius even closer.

“I would not change a day of it, the things I have seen. You understand? I haven’t long and it will be a relief. But I regret nothing of what has happened since I stepped into your home so long ago.”

“I would not have survived without you, old man. You can’t leave me now,” Julius murmured, his own eyes filling with tears and memory.

Cabera snorted and rubbed his face with his fingers. “Some choices are denied us, Gaius Julius. Some paths cannot be avoided. You too will pass the river in the end. I have seen it in more ways than I can tell you.”

“What did you see?” Julius said, aching to know, yet gripped by a numbing fear. For an instant, he thought Cabera had not heard him, the old man was so still.

“Who is to know where your choices will take you?” The voice continued its sibilance. “Yet I have not seen you old, my friend, and once I saw you fall to knives in darkness in the first days of spring. On the Ides of March, I saw you fall, in Rome.”

“Then I will never be in my city on that day,” Julius replied. “I swear it to you, if it will give you peace.”

Cabera raised his head and looked past Julius to where the shrieking gulls fought and struggled over some scrap of food. “Some things are better not to know, Julius, I think. Nothing is clear to me anymore.

Did I tell you of the knives?”

Gently, Julius laid the old man’s hands together on his lap and arranged the cushions so he could sit upright.

“You did, Cabera. You saved me again,” he said. With infinite tenderness, Julius lifted the old man up on the cushions to make him comfortable.

“I am glad of that,” Cabera said, closing his eyes.

Julius heard a long breath coming from him and the frail figure became utterly still. Julius gave a muffled cry as he saw the life go out of him and reached out to touch his cheek. The silence seemed to go on a long time, but the chest was still and would not move again.

“Goodbye, old friend,” Julius said.

He heard a scrape of wood as Renius and Brutus came to stand with him, and the years fell away so that it was two boys and their tutor standing there, seeing a man hold a bow without a tremor in his arms.

Julius heard the other members of his council stand as they realized what had happened. He turned red-rimmed eyes to them and they could not bear to meet the pain they saw in his face.

“Will you join me in the prayers for the dead, gentlemen? Our war will wait another day.”

As the gulls shrieked in the wind outside, the low murmur of their voices filled the cold room. At the end, there was silence and Julius breathed a last few words as he looked at the shrunken body of the old man.

“And now I am adrift,” he said, so quietly that only Brutus at his side could hear.