Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘In a moment,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s our new home, we’re finally here after a long trip, and I’ll have to move on in the morning. Right now I rather feel I need this glass of wine, and we should toast the house and welcome the lares and penates to the new home.’

  ‘Pour yourself a glass and bring it through with you.’

  Fronto looked crestfallen once more. ‘Will you not raise a glass with me?’

  ‘Wine makes me feel nauseous at the moment.’

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Fronto snapped grumpily, waving the empty glass in his hand at her.

  ‘Can you not guess, you great oaf?’ she replied with equal vehemence.

  ‘Stop talking in riddles, woman.’

  ‘I am with child, Marcus!’

  Fronto stopped in the process of opening his mouth to argue further and let it hang wide in surprise. His glass slid from suddenly numb fingers and smashed on the floor next to the atrium’s small impluvium pool, sending glittering shards across the marble.

  ‘Wh…?’

  ‘I don’t know, Marcus, but I must be two months gone now. So do as I ask: use the other glass, pour yourself a wine - don’t bother with the water, I think you’ll need the full strength of it - and come through to sit with me in the triclinium.’

  ‘The…?’

  ‘Father’s slaves will clear up the mess when they come round. Just step carefully until then. Now come on. I feel the need for a sit down and I would rather like to talk to you properly. I had envisaged telling you the news in more luxuriant circumstances than standing in the cold empty atrium in our travelling clothes, but as usual you forced my hand until I was left with no choice.’

  ‘Bu…’

  ‘And when you have recovered sufficiently to recall more than a syllable at a time, we can discuss the speed with which you will carry out this year’s campaign so that you can rush home to my side in time to welcome your son or daughter into the world.’

  Fronto stood gawping until Lucilia reached down and poured him an unwatered glass of wine, grasping his wrist with her free hand and guiding him between the shards of glass towards the triclinium beyond.

  The Gauls had better behave themselves, Fronto found himself thinking. I want to be home before the autumn rains set in.

  Before my child arrives!

  Bibracte, in the lands of the Aedui of central Gaul

  The druid stood within the nemeton - the sacred grove - and looked around with an expression of distaste and dismay. The palisaded site had been a thriving religious centre for the mysteries when last he had visited. Four years now there had been no druid here, in this city of a tribe that had welcomed the invader’s crushing heel to their throat and revelled in their servitude. Four years the shepherds of the people had lived in exile from their own tribes while fomenting resistance against the Roman dogs. Four years the once marvellous nemeton of Bibracte had been left to rack and ruin, overgrown with gorse, its stones green with moss and lichen, its shaped and tended trees grown into misshapen things.

  Four years.

  And even now, with many of the more powerful nobles of the Aedui actively inviting the Gods and their mysteries back into their lives, even now he had been escorted to the grove in secret in case that section of society that still lived in hope of scraps from the Romans’ table took offence at his presence.

  All that would change, of course. All would change, and soon. Plans were building rapidly, with everything falling into place, barring a few mishaps and mistakes, the matter of which had brought about this meeting.

  ‘This is a disgrace.’ he snapped. ‘Do the Aedui not honour their spirits anymore? Could they not at least tend the sacred places even when they are not used?’

  The small party of Gallic warriors, clad in mail and with bronze helms displaying wings or animals or ritualistic horns simply paid him no attention and talked among themselves. It infuriated him. Their chosen leader had been given everything he needed: support, power, goods - even the approval of the Gods and the secret ways of the druids - in order to free the land of the invader, and yet he and his men still went about their business as if the whole thing were his achievement - his doing - rather than theirs. He treated the shepherds of the people as an inconvenience. As though they were tantruming children!

  ‘What do you intend to do about Indutiomarus and his tribe?’

  Vercingetorix circled his head, stretching his neck so that the bones clicked, and sighed.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The druid clenched his free fist, the knuckles of the hand that gripped his staff whitening. ‘Something has to be done. Ambiorix lost us tribes we might sorely need in the next year, and now the dog-faced, idiot Treveri threaten to get themselves wiped out too.’

  The big Arvernian noble shrugged as he nudged a fallen carving with his foot, watching beetles and woodlice escape from beneath. ‘The Treveri are no loss. We let them tangle with the Roman commander and watch with interest.’

  ‘We need every tribe in the land to support you. Those across the fast cold sea, as well. And even those across the mountains and across the great river if we can. You know that Rome’s army is coldly efficient. No matter how brave your warriors, unless you can convincingly outnumber them you will never have a chance. Even with our help!’ he added bitterly.

  ‘You fail to see the tactical advantage. Ambiorix kicked the Roman wasp nest and now the bulk of Rome’s soldiery in our land is concentrated in the territory of the Belgae trying to put out the repeated fires of rebellion. But Ambiorix’s power is waning and his time is almost past. He has been useful in keeping Caesar occupied, but while he wanes and loses his value to us, the Treveri are on the rise to take his place. We need many months yet to tie our plans and people together; to arm them and train them and organise. And we cannot do that in total secrecy with Roman officers breathing down our necks. It is useful to have places like Bibracte, from which even their supply garrison has been recalled, leaving the route in Aedui hands, because Rome thinks these places settled and safe. A man does not look beneath his own roof for his enemy. And while we make use of these advantages, and put our plans into place, it is vital that Rome keep its hooked nose out of our business. The Treveri are doing us a great favour by sacrificing themselves on the altar of resistance.’

  ‘The shepherds among the Treveri speak out against action.’

  ‘Then your shepherds speak against their own purpose. Stop them.’

  The druid narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth for a moment before speaking again. ‘I will ask them to support the revolt, though we are brothers in faith rather than ordered ranks, and they may not agree and decide against it. You had better be right about this, as we wager the future of our people on you.’

  ‘I am rarely wrong, druid.’

  ‘And what of Ambiorix? Now, with the Eburones shattered and worn, he scrabbles around, trying to pull together tribes to support him and resist Rome. Is he still a useful distraction for you, or is he becoming a danger to us. Unlike the Treveri lunatics, Ambiorix knows all about us - about you! If he falls into Roman hands all our plans could be for naught.’

  The big Gaul gave a nonchalant shrug once more - an irritating habit in the eyes of the druid - and scratched his neck idly.

  ‘For now, he is of more use than danger. And the man is resourceful. Let him keep the Romans hopping from foot to foot in Belgae lands while we grow and strengthen, and when the time comes that he is too dangerous to us, I will have him dealt with. Even now I have men in their lands ready to act, should such action become necessary, as well as a contingency in place with his brother King, Cativolcus of the Eburones.’

  ‘Cativolcus is a doddering old fool.’

  ‘But he is loyal, and he has no love of Ambiorix. We are safe yet. Stop your shepherds making waves among our Belgae cousins and you will see the great Julius Caesar devoting all his attention to a nagging rat at his heel, while the g
reat bear that truly endangers him wakes far off among the Arverni.’

  The druid could not help but smile. Whatever he thought of Vercingetorix and the big man’s ways, he was a natural leader and a silver-tongued speaker, and when the time came, all the peoples would follow him against Rome.

  They had made a good choice, after all.

  The sacrifice of Ambiorix and the Treveri, then, buying them, with their lives, the time they needed.

  Chapter Two

  Titus Atius Labienus, commander of the Twelfth Legion, lieutenant of Caesar and pro-tem representative of Rome in the eastern Gallic and Belgic lands, struggled into his cuirass while the body slave laced up his boots, and then held it in position while the young Samnite laced up the armour.

  ‘It is beyond me why I need be armoured in order to receive one of my own spies.’

  The legion’s senior centurion, Baculus, officially confined to the sick hut but proving somewhat difficult to contain, leaned heavily on his stick, his grey features shining unhealthily.

  ‘Firstly because as senior officer in the region, legate, it is a matter of principle. Secondly, because your scouts and spies are natives and, given what’s happened this past winter, I would not advise any Roman to get too close to one of them without armour on, especially someone of value.’

  ‘My spies and scouts are Mediomatrici, centurion. They are our allies, not the enemy.’

  ‘They have spent months wintering among the Treveri, legate, and the Treveri would like nothing more than to tear out your heart through your arse. Better safe than regretful, sir. Buckle up and look good.’

  Labienus sighed as the slave handed him his baldric with the fine sheathed blade attached. Settling it over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You need to be back in the sick hut, centurion. The medicus has told me that he’s considering putting a guard on the door to stop you straying.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me a bit of fresh air and exercise won’t cure.’

  ‘On the contrary, the medicus tells me that even a minor wound can kill if the infection takes hold too strongly, and that the infection which eats away at your wound is brutal and life-threatening. He puts the fact that you are still alive thus far down to the fact that you are - and I quote - ‘a pig-headed angry bastard’. I do not like to countenance a future for the Twelfth Legion in which you are not there to bully them around, so kindly go back to the sick hut, lie down and stop interfering with the running of things until the physician pronounces you ‘healthy’.’

  Baculus managed to sneak in an unhappy grumble before saluting quickly, so that he could grab back hold of his stick for support, and turning to leave.

  ‘Get better, and do it quickly. Things are too unsettled around here for me to be missing such an important officer.’

  Labienus watched the centurion leave and shook his head with a slight smile. The medicus had actually told him that Baculus was generally out of danger and would stay that way as long as he didn’t overdo things and set himself back. The chances of the veteran sitting back and not overdoing things were, he had decided, miniscule.

  ‘Am I ready?’

  The slave nodded. ‘Yes, Dominus.’

  Labienus shrugged his shoulders so that the red cloak hung slightly better and then strode from his quarters - one of only five wooden buildings in the camp, the rest of the men making do with their tents. The mud, despite the periodic fall of near-freezing rain, was being kept well under control in the camp by the judicious use of timbers sunk into the main thoroughfares for stability, and scattered gravel and chippings brought by the men from a local rock outcropping.

  Nodding a greeting to some of his tribunes and centurions who were going about their business around the headquarters and the larger officers’ tents, he strode off down the gentle incline towards the north gate.

  Two of the veteran legionaries assigned to guard their commander fell into step behind him and escorted him towards the small knot of men gathered inside the gate. A Belgic warrior in his colourful tunic and wool trousers stood rubbing his hands as legionaries held his steed by the bridle, kept his spear and sword out of reach and blocked off any possible route for the native to escape into the camp. Labienus sighed. What the Twelfth had experienced earlier in the winter had put the men on guard enough, but the news of what had happened to Sabinus, Cotta and Cicero had brought about an atmosphere where no Gaul would be given a sliver of respect, let alone outright trust. Sad, really. Labienus was still sure that Gaul could be tamed peaceably if only the army and its more rabid officers could be persuaded to a more tactful approach. Of course Caesar’s own actions did little to promote such a diplomatic solution.

  ‘Have you confirmed his identity?’ he asked the duty centurion as he approached the knot of men.

  ‘Aye sir,’ the centurion - a surprisingly young man for such a role - nodded, passing over a wax tablet with a list of names and details. ‘Litomaros. Birth mark shaped like a fat amphora on the left shoulder and ‘L’ shaped scar on lower left of belly. Unless they’ve been very creative, it’s him.’

  Labienus nodded, satisfied. He’d sent a dozen men out among the Treveri and their sub-tribes in the area to gain intelligence and provide forewarning of any trouble, and on Baculus’ recommendation had had each one’s distinguishing features noted to provide proof of identity should they return. Labienus had shaken his head at the time and replied that such a means of security stopped a man masquerading as one of the spies, but did not mean they could not be turned. Baculus had grunted and said that half a measure of safety was still better than nothing. Despite his misgivings, Labienus had to admit that he felt that little bit more sure when the centurion had confirmed it.

  ‘Litomaros?’ he said, gesturing for the other soldiers to step aside and moving forward to face the spy.

  ‘Legate.’ The man bowed his head respectfully.

  ‘What news from the Treveri?’

  ‘Trouble, sir,’ the Gaul replied, his face dark.

  ‘Indutiomarus stirring up his tribe for another try on us?’

  The native warrior cleared his throat, rubbing his cold hands together. Labienus noticed his frosting breath and realised the man must have ridden twenty miles or more in the freezing morning air. With a gesture to wait, he turned to the legionaries beside him. ‘Someone get this man some heated wine. Can you not see he’s chilled to the bone?’

  As one of the men ran off, Labienus filed away the looks on the other men’s faces for later attention. Not one of them cared that a native might freeze to death.

  ‘Right. Now tell me the news.’

  ‘Treveri are unhappy at Roman warband camp in their lands.’

  ‘This is nothing new. Are they unhappy enough to make war on us?’

  ‘Treveri know they are too small to beat Roman warband. Indutiomarus try to talk other tribes to attack Rome, but they not fight.’

  ‘Good. There is still some sense in this land, then.’

  ‘So Indutiomarus send men across river to German tribes.’

  The legionaries shared a worried look and Labienus tried to keep his composure without reacting obviously to such unsettling news. If the tribes across the Rhenus decided to join the Treveri in force, then the Twelfth Legion would likely be a mere stain on the memory of the campaign in a few weeks, just like Sabinus and Cotta’s command a few months back.

  ‘How many?’

  The Gaul shook his head. ‘Suevi and Ubii and Chatti refuse to help.’

  Labienus felt his spirits lift at such news. It seemed unlike those tribes not to take the opportunity for a little havoc and plunder among the lands of their Gallic cousins and against the might of Rome, but Labienus could be grateful for their recalcitrance without seeking the reasons.

  ‘So the Treveri do not come? Why then did you feel the need to leave them and seek me out?’

  The Gaul took a steadying breath. ‘Indutiomarus not needing Germans now. Chief gather to his boar standard all t
hieves, murderers, bandits, killers and rebels in Gaul and Belgae lands. His army grow with men who hate Rome.’

  ‘How large can an army be if it’s formed of countryside brigands?’

  The Gaul frowned as if the question made no sense.

  ‘Is it really a force that presents a threat to us?’ Labienus rephrased.

  ‘Yes,’ the Gaul replied. ‘You surprise how many Gauls hate Rome and run to Indutiomarus because their druid say not fight.’

  Labienus sighed. He would not be at all surprised, if he were to admit it. It was a surprise, however, to hear that the druids were counselling non-confrontation. While Labienus was of firm belief that the Gallic tribes and their leaders could be persuaded to a diplomatic solution, the druids had always seemed immovable objects in the path of peace. What was their game?

  He pursed his lips. ‘There are enough to do to us what the Eburones did to Cotta and Sabinus?’

  Again the Gaul nodded.

  ‘Then we are faced with three choices. We abandon camp, give the Treveri the run of the countryside, and join up with Caesar’s army back west. Upside: no one dies unnecessarily. Downside: the Treveri are given a victory and the freedom to cause further trouble. Or, we sit and hold tight and work on our defences in the belief we can hold against a siege until Caesar arrives and breaks them, like he did with Cicero. Upside: we have time to strengthen our position. Downside: we are trapped and if Caesar does not come, the Twelfth become a memory. Or… we strengthen ourselves while weakening them.’

  The duty centurion frowned as he leaned closer. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The man said the druids are counselling peace. The Treveri still have druids among them, and still listen to them. There will be warriors of honour within the tribe who are in two minds about any attack. If they recognise that the druids are against it and that half their army is made up of criminals or men from tribes they don’t even know, a lot of their warriors might find cause to desert any attack.’