Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt by S. J. A. Turney Page A

stir up the tribes and you go hunting magical acorns or whatever from the druids.’
    Critognatos flashed that familiar look at him. ‘You heard the king. It is the will of Ogmios that you find the curse.’
    ‘And it is the will of me that you find the curse.’
    ‘No. It must be done the way the gods will it. Would you deny and defy Ogmios and risk your all? I will not.’
    Cavarinos, still grinding away at his molars, turned his attention to the road before them, and the oppidum at the end of that short stretch of dirt and gravel. Vellaunoduno rose upon a low hill, augmented with heavy earth-backed ramparts. On a rising spur, the western, northern and eastern slopes were high and powerful, while a long, gentle gradient led to the south gate, where the road wound in through the defences. It then disappeared among the packed structures that poured wood smoke up into the grey sky, undampened by the blanket of fine mizzle. The gate lay open, though four warriors stood on the ramparts beside it, ready to slam and bar it should the need suddenly arise.
    The brothers approached in cantankerous silence, their horses’ hooves the only noise in the oppressive atmosphere. The guards threw out a quick request for them to identify themselves and then permitted them entrance to the oppidum without further question, charging them to keep their escort under control and that no weapons be drawn, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of the magistrate’s justice.
    The town, one of many such that belonged to the Senones, was dirty and chaotic, houses packed tightly together, the streets so muddy and filled with ordure that the cobbles only showed in rare glimpses.
    ‘It’s a sign,’ Critognatos hissed suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as he made repeated warding motions. Cavarinos followed his gaze to see a stone slab rising beside a blacksmith’s forge, the figure of a squat, wide man with long bushy hair, a great club and heavy cross-hatched trousers carved upon it. Cavarinos could not help but notice that Ogmios here was depicted with neither beard nor moustache. It seemed odd. No facial hair at all almost universally meant either a child or a Roman. On his occasional trips into Narbonensis and to the Greek port of Massilia, Cavarinos had seen their great temples to Hercules who was also Herakles. It occurred to him that Ogmios was almost exactly the same, although shorter, more deformed and most definitely more ugly. If the tribes were going to honour their gods, he found it ridiculous that the druids advocated the raising of these hideous depictions, while the hated enemy to the south made their Hercules realistic and handsome, painted to be so lifelike, and enthroned him in temples that were grander than any royal palace in any of the tribes of what they called Gaul .
    Sometimes, Cavarinos could not help in his gut wondering what the tribes would be capable of given the learning, the support and the friendship of Rome instead of this interminable conflict.
    ‘It is not a sign. It is a lump of stone.’
    ‘This is Ogmios , brother,’ Critognatos snarled. ‘Do not deny the clear sign. You speak of defying his will and immediately we find him watching you. He has gifted us a great gift, dropping it from the clouds into the hands of the shepherds that we may use it to finally destroy the Romans!’
    Unless Ogmios is actually Hercules and all this is an immense and sick joke upon us all , Cavarinos muttered under his breath. He glanced across at his brother and noted the look of sheer devoted nervousness in his eyes. The truth hit him then: it mattered not whether Ogmios was the great god, or just their name for the Roman club-bearer, or even a figment of their imagination. It mattered not whether this curse was a powerful weapon sent by a vengeful god, or a magic artefact crafted by the druids in secret and accounted that of a god, or just drivel hacked into a stone by a madman.
    No.
    What mattered was