towards the stream with his thumb.
The three men backed away from the edge of the coppice, moving slowly and carefully at first, so as not to show up as sudden movement and so as not to spook the wildlife and send birds up into the canopy. They could not afford to attract attention right now.
As soon as they were away and in the heart of the copse, though, they scrambled down through the wet ground towards the stream and began to run.
The ground was soft from the wet winter atmosphere and the mud and straggly turf by the stream squelched and shifted dangerously under the three men’s feet as they ran, threatening to upend them more than once, and it was more by luck and momentum than by balance that the officers reached the lower stretch near the farm without having fallen painfully into the narrow, cold flow.
At the lowest point, where the stream turned away and disappeared down the valley to join the Elaver river rushing north, Priscus grasped the projecting root of a long-dead tree to haul himself up to the level of the hedgerow that ran up to the farm buildings. Pulling himself up from the sucking earth of the stream bank, the prefect gave a sharp squawk of surprise as he found himself jerked back down, his hands scraping painfully off the root.
Shaken, as he stumbled and tried not to fall, he turned an angry glare on Furius, who was still gripping him tight, but the tribune merely shook his head and held up a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. Following his companion’s lead, Priscus steadied himself, breathing quietly and with deliberate slowness, and rose once more to look over the edge of the stream gulley, a tribune on each side.
A party of Gauls were reining in their mounts in the courtyard in front of the farm buildings. Priscus cursed inwardly. They had returned as fast as they could by the slightly circuitous route, but they’d been on troublesome ground and on foot. The Arverni had ridden horses steadily across the flat, strong terrain between and had easily reached the buildings first.
Crouched, only their eyes and the top of their heads visible over the ridge, and those partially obscured by flora and root systems, the three officers watched with a sense of dread as a score of warriors arrived. Vercingetorix was there, along with the druid from the city’s gate and the decorated warrior who had been with him. The rest all had the look of hardened fighters and were clearly the men who had been travelling the countryside with their leader. One of them had Pixtilos the merchant over the saddle of a spare horse, tied by wrists and ankles with a rope that ran beneath the beast’s girth.
Half a dozen of them remained in the saddle, along with the prisoner, while the others straightened on foot, rubbing their hands and stretching their muscles.
Vercingetorix turned his sword over and over slowly in his grasp before looking up at the front of the farmhouse, out of sight of the three watchers, and opening his mouth, clearing his throat.
‘Show yourself, Romans!’
Priscus was surprised at the clarity of the man’s Latin, spoken with an accent reminiscent of a citizen of Narbo and without the hint of Gallic distain that so often carried through when natives spoke to their occupiers.
There was a long pause. From their angle of view by the stream, the three watchers could not see the front of the farm house, but at an angle, they could see those standing outside. What was happening in the building? After a tense few heartbeats, a figure stepped out. They couldn’t quite see him, and couldn’t immediately identify the new arrival, but his footsteps bore the familiar crunch of nailed boots on compacted earth and grit ground, and briefly they caught a glimpse of glinting metal around the building’s corner as the man moved.
He’d armoured himself, then; as, hopefully, had everyone else. Resistance, of course, smacked of futility, if the Arvernian rebel decided that the Romans would die, which
The three men backed away from the edge of the coppice, moving slowly and carefully at first, so as not to show up as sudden movement and so as not to spook the wildlife and send birds up into the canopy. They could not afford to attract attention right now.
As soon as they were away and in the heart of the copse, though, they scrambled down through the wet ground towards the stream and began to run.
The ground was soft from the wet winter atmosphere and the mud and straggly turf by the stream squelched and shifted dangerously under the three men’s feet as they ran, threatening to upend them more than once, and it was more by luck and momentum than by balance that the officers reached the lower stretch near the farm without having fallen painfully into the narrow, cold flow.
At the lowest point, where the stream turned away and disappeared down the valley to join the Elaver river rushing north, Priscus grasped the projecting root of a long-dead tree to haul himself up to the level of the hedgerow that ran up to the farm buildings. Pulling himself up from the sucking earth of the stream bank, the prefect gave a sharp squawk of surprise as he found himself jerked back down, his hands scraping painfully off the root.
Shaken, as he stumbled and tried not to fall, he turned an angry glare on Furius, who was still gripping him tight, but the tribune merely shook his head and held up a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. Following his companion’s lead, Priscus steadied himself, breathing quietly and with deliberate slowness, and rose once more to look over the edge of the stream gulley, a tribune on each side.
A party of Gauls were reining in their mounts in the courtyard in front of the farm buildings. Priscus cursed inwardly. They had returned as fast as they could by the slightly circuitous route, but they’d been on troublesome ground and on foot. The Arverni had ridden horses steadily across the flat, strong terrain between and had easily reached the buildings first.
Crouched, only their eyes and the top of their heads visible over the ridge, and those partially obscured by flora and root systems, the three officers watched with a sense of dread as a score of warriors arrived. Vercingetorix was there, along with the druid from the city’s gate and the decorated warrior who had been with him. The rest all had the look of hardened fighters and were clearly the men who had been travelling the countryside with their leader. One of them had Pixtilos the merchant over the saddle of a spare horse, tied by wrists and ankles with a rope that ran beneath the beast’s girth.
Half a dozen of them remained in the saddle, along with the prisoner, while the others straightened on foot, rubbing their hands and stretching their muscles.
Vercingetorix turned his sword over and over slowly in his grasp before looking up at the front of the farmhouse, out of sight of the three watchers, and opening his mouth, clearing his throat.
‘Show yourself, Romans!’
Priscus was surprised at the clarity of the man’s Latin, spoken with an accent reminiscent of a citizen of Narbo and without the hint of Gallic distain that so often carried through when natives spoke to their occupiers.
There was a long pause. From their angle of view by the stream, the three watchers could not see the front of the farm house, but at an angle, they could see those standing outside. What was happening in the building? After a tense few heartbeats, a figure stepped out. They couldn’t quite see him, and couldn’t immediately identify the new arrival, but his footsteps bore the familiar crunch of nailed boots on compacted earth and grit ground, and briefly they caught a glimpse of glinting metal around the building’s corner as the man moved.
He’d armoured himself, then; as, hopefully, had everyone else. Resistance, of course, smacked of futility, if the Arvernian rebel decided that the Romans would die, which
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