him?’
‘Who knows?’ Priscus muttered. ‘With him in the game, I’d say all wagers are off. I wouldn’t like to guess how long any tribe’s oath to Caesar will stand when they’re lined up along the edge of a precipice and their throats are being cut.’
They watched as Vercingetorix and his druid companion descended from the rampart again, disappearing from sight, and two warriors produced buckets of water to swill the blood from the wall top. A long silence fell as the oppidum wallowed sullenly in the grip of its prodigal son and crucial things happened somewhere within, out of their view. Priscus watched, that prickly feeling still jabbing at him, keeping him alert and expectant.
Fabius and Furius fell to intermittently watching the quiet, seething city and eyeing their commander anxiously. Both were twitching to return to their armour and horses, to where their companions waited along with the only method of fleeing this place at speed. Occasionally, the pair would share a look. Or at least three of their four eyes would, while Fabius’ other one kept a watch on the trees for rogue squirrels.
Furius was just taking a breath to urge for a move when Priscus hissed and gestured at the gate. The two tribunes followed his pointing finger and shrank back into the undergrowth as half a dozen figures emerged.
In front was Vercingetorix, every bit the tribal chieftain, glowing with power, great long sword in one hand and bloodied knife in the other. Behind him came another warrior, well armoured and well-decorated with silver and gold and bronze, marking him out as one of the leaders. Third came one of the druids - a big man, the size and shape of a wrestler, almost a match for the powerful rebel leader. Three men of importance and power. But it was the next three that had drawn the hiss from Priscus and which made the others shrink further from sight.
Two of Vercingetorix’s men emerged onto the grass, dragging a third figure between them and even from this distance, Priscus recognised the form of Pixtilos the merchant, his distinct green tunic and grey trousers stained with dark patches, his limbs limp and head hanging forward.
‘Oh shit.’
Vercingetorix began to speak, not loud enough for the three to hear, even if they could have understood the words. Whether Pixtilos answered him or not, they could not tell, but the druid shuffled close and spoke to the prisoner. The senior warrior then stepped forward and cuffed the merchant across the cheek, hard enough to dislocate or break bone, and was admonished by the druid, presumably for his roughness. Priscus nodded his understanding. No matter what the circumstances you never hit a prisoner hard enough to break his jaw when you wanted him to talk to you.
While the three men held their breath, they watched with dismay as the merchant slowly raised his head, his face bloody and misshapen, and pointed directly at the farm.
‘We have to warn them,’ Fabius whispered, Furius nodding his agreement.
Priscus stood still as a statue, his eyes locked on the six men. Yes, the men did deserve the warning - though Cenialis hoeing the garden should spot approaching men in good time - but he couldn’t help but notice how Pixtilos, now that his interrogation was temporarily done with, glanced up in their direction and appeared to be looking at them. The merchant had known about their hiding place, of course, had been instrumental in their finding it in the first place. He hadn’t given them up yet, but then he couldn’t know they were there right now, could he?
Priscus couldn’t help feeling the silent plea in that look. Vercingetorix had cut the throats of his own family for denying him the power he probably saw as his right. What would he be prepared to do to one of his people he saw as a traitor in bed with Rome?
Turning his thoughts with some difficulty from the dreadful fate that might await the man who had helped them so often and so much, Priscus gestured back
‘Who knows?’ Priscus muttered. ‘With him in the game, I’d say all wagers are off. I wouldn’t like to guess how long any tribe’s oath to Caesar will stand when they’re lined up along the edge of a precipice and their throats are being cut.’
They watched as Vercingetorix and his druid companion descended from the rampart again, disappearing from sight, and two warriors produced buckets of water to swill the blood from the wall top. A long silence fell as the oppidum wallowed sullenly in the grip of its prodigal son and crucial things happened somewhere within, out of their view. Priscus watched, that prickly feeling still jabbing at him, keeping him alert and expectant.
Fabius and Furius fell to intermittently watching the quiet, seething city and eyeing their commander anxiously. Both were twitching to return to their armour and horses, to where their companions waited along with the only method of fleeing this place at speed. Occasionally, the pair would share a look. Or at least three of their four eyes would, while Fabius’ other one kept a watch on the trees for rogue squirrels.
Furius was just taking a breath to urge for a move when Priscus hissed and gestured at the gate. The two tribunes followed his pointing finger and shrank back into the undergrowth as half a dozen figures emerged.
In front was Vercingetorix, every bit the tribal chieftain, glowing with power, great long sword in one hand and bloodied knife in the other. Behind him came another warrior, well armoured and well-decorated with silver and gold and bronze, marking him out as one of the leaders. Third came one of the druids - a big man, the size and shape of a wrestler, almost a match for the powerful rebel leader. Three men of importance and power. But it was the next three that had drawn the hiss from Priscus and which made the others shrink further from sight.
Two of Vercingetorix’s men emerged onto the grass, dragging a third figure between them and even from this distance, Priscus recognised the form of Pixtilos the merchant, his distinct green tunic and grey trousers stained with dark patches, his limbs limp and head hanging forward.
‘Oh shit.’
Vercingetorix began to speak, not loud enough for the three to hear, even if they could have understood the words. Whether Pixtilos answered him or not, they could not tell, but the druid shuffled close and spoke to the prisoner. The senior warrior then stepped forward and cuffed the merchant across the cheek, hard enough to dislocate or break bone, and was admonished by the druid, presumably for his roughness. Priscus nodded his understanding. No matter what the circumstances you never hit a prisoner hard enough to break his jaw when you wanted him to talk to you.
While the three men held their breath, they watched with dismay as the merchant slowly raised his head, his face bloody and misshapen, and pointed directly at the farm.
‘We have to warn them,’ Fabius whispered, Furius nodding his agreement.
Priscus stood still as a statue, his eyes locked on the six men. Yes, the men did deserve the warning - though Cenialis hoeing the garden should spot approaching men in good time - but he couldn’t help but notice how Pixtilos, now that his interrogation was temporarily done with, glanced up in their direction and appeared to be looking at them. The merchant had known about their hiding place, of course, had been instrumental in their finding it in the first place. He hadn’t given them up yet, but then he couldn’t know they were there right now, could he?
Priscus couldn’t help feeling the silent plea in that look. Vercingetorix had cut the throats of his own family for denying him the power he probably saw as his right. What would he be prepared to do to one of his people he saw as a traitor in bed with Rome?
Turning his thoughts with some difficulty from the dreadful fate that might await the man who had helped them so often and so much, Priscus gestured back
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