Sons of Taranis Read Online Free PDF Page A

a tough proposition in a fight. Standing, he picked up his bag, nodded his thanks to the innkeeper, and made his way as nonchalantly as possible to the door. There he waited for the warriors to enter, and once the entire bunch were inside, packing the sizeable interior, he slipped past them and out into the chilly late afternoon air. Time to move on. Sooner or later someone would mention his presence to Lucterius, and it was faintly possible that this new self-professed ‘Esus’ would remember the Arverni noble who had shaved off his moustaches before the final capitulation at Alesia.
    The oppidum of Uxellodunon sat rigid and unlovely in the winter cold, with rime coating every surface and the muddy furrows hardened to the consistency of iron, threatening twisted ankles and falls at every turn. As high and powerfully defensive as a smaller Alesia or Gergovia, Uxellodunon was far less advanced within, its organisation owing little to the influence of foreign design, and more resembling the settlements of the tribes centuries ago. Houses were mostly of mud-daub and timber-frame, built upon a bed of two or three stone courses. Farmland covered much of the interior and animals roved the plateau arbitrarily, mixing with the few people about on such an unforgiving day. Grass and mud. No paved streets here.
    The beauty of such a basic layout was that anything unusual stood out, and Cavarinos was quite surprised he hadn’t spotted the stockade when he’d first arrived, let alone during the days he had wandered around the oppidum. Down towards the south-western gate, which stood at a sharp point in the defences on a spur of rock, a timber ring had been installed in recent months, the tips of the posts still sharp and pale.
    Wandering across the rutted track, Cavarinos untied the reins of his horse from the hitching post and threw his bag across its back, then began to walk the beast down towards the southwest gate. It was not a natural way to leave the oppidum when heading east, but it would serve two purposes. Firstly, he could have a glance at the prisoners on the way, and secondly, if Lucterius realised he had overheard the conversation and decided that that was a bad thing, a false trail might be of some help.
    Slowly, apparently unconcerned, he descended the slope, sticking to the rutted frozen mud and making for that gate. Before he reached it, however, he pulled his scarf up over his nose – a mode not uncommon in this sort of weather, but with the added benefit of hiding his shaven features. Veering off the path, he made for the stockade. The gate to the prison was a simple timber affair held shut with a bar and presenting no hole large enough for a man to pass through. The two locals who were apparently set to guard it looked cold and bored, and neither even bothered to challenge him as he stepped towards the gate, motioning a greeting at them.
    Slowing his horse, he bent and peered through the wooden posts of the entrance. The locking bar was clearly unnecessary, which partially accounted for the lax attitude of the pair outside. He could count twenty three Romans in the circular stockade, each filthy and most freezing and naked, a few clinging to the rags of their russet coloured tunics for warmth if not modesty. Each man within was tethered by the wrists to an iron ring driven into the heavy timber posts of the stockade. None of them would be able to move more than a few feet, and they clearly had no hope of escape. Many of them had clearly been beaten, burned and tortured, but his eyes fell specifically on a bull-shouldered bald man sitting opposite. His attire was no different from the rest, but one look at his defiant, solid posture and the strength and complete lack of fear and surrender in his eyes told Cavarinos what he was: he was a centurion. The Arverni noblemen had seen enough of them in his time. The hardest bastards in the Roman world, bar none, gladiators included. They bent their knee to no one except