‘Then let’s hope we don’t need to breach it then, eh?’
Ahead, Caesar gave the signal and the knot of mounted officers, along with Caesar’s bodyguard under the command of young Ingenuus, trotted out ahead of the slowly assembling army, making for the gate. Fronto glanced to the side to see his own bodyguard drawn up behind Masgava and Palmatus. They looked somewhat unhappy at remaining with the legions, but Fronto had put his foot down and refused to let them join the staff officers. The general kept giving him funny looks and he was sure it was something to do with his new singulares unit. What he really didn’t need at the moment was something else to irritate Caesar. The man still barely acknowledged Fronto’s existence, despite Antonius’ frequent attempts to bring him around. If this went on for much longer, it would hardly be worth remaining in Gaul.
Grumbling under his breath, Fronto rode on with the other officers, sticking close to Priscus and Antonius as they approached the solid, defiant ramparts of the Avenna oppidum. Already the walls were thronged with Nervii, standing with spears or bows and watching the assembling might of the Republic on the plain before them. It had to be a daunting sight, and yet there appeared to be no trace of fear or panic emanating from the city.
As the party approached the gatehouse, more and more figures appeared on the ramparts above and around them, and Fronto began to spy that killing zone before the gates with some trepidation. For a moment he wondered whether Caesar intended to ride straight into that deadly space, but then the general held up his hand and the column halted, Ingenuus and three of his men riding to the front to flank their commander.
There was a long, pregnant pause, and then a groan and a series of thumps as the gate was unbarred and swung open ponderously. A small party of Nervii strode out through the portal on foot, armoured in mail and Gallic helmets, with russet coloured or grey or brown woollen trousers and a variety of equally dour tunics and cloaks. They wore little in the way of jewellery or accoutrements, barring a few torcs or arm rings that indicated their noble rank or their worth as warriors. Three men behind them carried standards bearing stylised wolves and boars, and another group held the huge carnyx horns aloft, preparing themselves. Fronto clenched his teeth against what he knew was coming, and just in time, as the horns started blarting out their ‘dying bovine’ song of discord.
Antonius, next to him, paled.
‘If that is their idea of a fanfare, then the whole world should thank us for trying to silence them for good!’
Fronto shook his head. ‘That’s tuneful. You should hear the songs of the Armorican tribes. It’s like a swan trying to swallow a tuba! Or a dog having one inserted from the rear, perhaps.’ He grinned, his teeth grinding slightly.
The party of Nervian nobles stopped some twenty paces from the Romans, safely within the reach of their own archers and right in the centre of the killing zone, Fronto noticed. Whatever you could accuse the Nervii of, they apparently were not daft.
‘Say your piece, Caesar of the Romans, and begone!’ barked out one of the Nervii in surprisingly good Latin. Studying the crowd, Fronto picked out the ubiquitous druid, safely lodged amid the nobles, wearing a dirty grey robe and clutching a staff like some sort of badge of office.
‘Arrogant sods, aren’t they?’ muttered Antonius. ‘Do they not see the thirty thousand men lining up behind us?’
‘Ridiculously, they’re not afraid,’ Fronto replied. ‘Even if there were only ten of them, they’d show no fear. The Belgic tribes are all mad, and the Nervii are the worst of them. You’ve met Galronus, yes?’
Caesar raised himself slightly in the saddle, though he already towered over the horseless Nervian nobles.
‘You afford us neither fear, nor respect,’ he said loudly, ‘not that I expected any such thing. But if you think to turn us away so easily, you are not simply brave, but deluded.’
He waited for the words to sink in. The general always knew how to treat with his opposing numbers, and a meaningful pause was only one weapon in his verbal arsenal.
‘The Nervii have proved themselves to be repetitive enemies of Rome, rising against our armies time and again, despite the fact that we are here legitimately and at the behest of the Gallic assembly. It is the considered advice of many of my better officers and some of the senators of our Republic that it is time for the Nervii to be removed from the world of men altogether, and left as nothing but a hollow memory of a people.’
Another pause to let that sink in, and Fronto noted a few heads turning at the implication of these words.
‘I took a significant step towards agreeing with them when news reached me that our great enemy, the traitor king,’ - the word spat almost as an insult - ‘Ambiorix of the Eburones, has entered into negotiations with the Nervii, among other tribes. Since I know that you are aware of the damage dealt to our legions by the traitor only short months ago - you yourself being involved to a great extent - you will know just how much we owe Ambiorix. This army will not stop killing and burning until he is found and made to suffer the consequences of his actions, and anyone who stands in the way of that retribution is begging to become a part of it.’
An uncomfortable silence.
Perhaps, despite their legendary bravery, the Nervii were realising now just how much they were putting their own necks on the line by maintaining an alliance with the fallen Eburones’ king.
‘Despite everything, in the hope that the lands of the Belgae can once more be settled into peace and harmony, I am willing to overlook the treacherous decision of your leaders to ally with this snake. If you deliver him to us - or give us the details of his whereabouts if he is not here - I will personally guarantee the life of each and every occupant of Avenna. If you do not comply, I will not leave this place until the charred remains of the houses are indistinguishable from the charred remains of your tribe. You know me as a man of my word, so consider this your final ultimatum. You have the count of one hundred to oblige or I give the order to cut down, burn, kill, rape and crucify every living thing my legions find in Avenna.’
Fronto found himself nodding at the sense of this. While the ultimatum was brutal and impossibly harsh, with the Nervii little other than the threat of utter annihilation would even make them blink. But Caesar had judged his words carefully before he gave them, and the deliberate, slow delivery had produced the desired effect: the small party of nobles were muttering among themselves. While displaying no obvious fear, they were clearly considering the clear threat to their very existence that the gathering legions posed.
The general turned to his standard bearer, holding aloft the ‘Taurus’ bull emblem of Caesar’s command party. ‘Give them the count out loud. Let’s keep their nerves frayed.’
As the signifer began to count down from one hundred in a loud, clear voice, the activity among the Nervian nobles became a little more frenetic and Antonius grinned. ‘He was always this good at playing people, you know? Even when I was a boy, he had my family at his beck and call.’
‘I know.’ Fronto sighed. ‘Look at the poor bastards. They know they’re done for. They’re just trying to decide whether they have any room to negotiate.’
The signifer had reached ‘thirty six’ when the Nervians turned back to the Roman party and the apparent ‘spokesman’ stepped out front. The druid, Fronto noted, had pushed his way angrily out of the rear of the party and was even now making for the gate.
‘At least we won’t have to make the assault,’ Antonius sighed with relief.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ Priscus muttered from behind them, and Fronto could only nod his agreement. Somehow he couldn’t see Caesar simply walking away from this.
The Nervian leader cleared his throat. ‘Since, though you are a low, murderous Roman beast, you are also noted as a man of your word, and you have vouchsafed the lives of our people, the council authorises me to inform you that your enemy Ambiorix is not at Avenna. He has not visited this place at all, but his small party of ambassadors appr
oached our lands and treatied with us at the town of Asadunon, which is two days north of here, close to the border of our lands. Whether or not he was among them, we are not certain, but it is very likely the ambassadors remain there still. This is all the knowledge of them we have for you, and it is given freely in return for your clemency.’
Caesar smiled then and Fronto, catching the corner of it from one side, recognised that smile. He took a deep breath.
‘Prepare yourselves. Here it comes.’
Antonius turned a frown on him just as Caesar opened his mouth with his reply to the Nervii.
‘Do not mistake my offer for childish clemency, Nervian. I did not guarantee your freedom… just your lives.’
Turning away from the falling faces of the Belgic nobles, who were just now realising what they had done, Caesar gave his clear orders to the entire staff and all the senior officers assembled on the plain loudly enough to be heard even over the walls and inside the oppidum.
‘Take Avenna. Do not kill any man, woman or child unless they offer you resistance. When you have the town, chain every last occupant for the slave markets of Narbonensis, commandeer everything of value, butcher the animals, impound the grain and have everything shipped back to Samarobriva.’
The Nervii were blustering now, shouting imprecations and accusing Caesar of breaking his word. The general turned to them with an arched eyebrow.
‘I do not break my vows. Ever! I vouchsafed your lives and you have them, under the conditions I have set. If you resist, however, I am absolved, as you are committing suicide. Now you have my conditions, do not test me further.’
Without further exchange, Caesar turned his horse.
The first few arrows began to come, loosed by archers on the gate tower or the nearby walls, sent without the need of orders from a noble. Ingenuus and his cavalry threw up their shields to protect the general, but he was already almost out of range, having carefully stopped for the parlay at a distance that would render arrows largely harmless.
As the group moved back towards the army, the Praetorian horsemen sheltering their rear ranks, the Nervii rushed back into their gate and the huge timber portal began to close. Caesar turned to Antonius.
‘They will resist, of course. You have a solid reputation, Antonius - built upon your years in the east - for ending engagements quickly and decisively. Take Avenna for me. Do it quickly and with as few losses as possible.’
Marcus Antonius nodded to his friend and commander, and turned to the rest of the staff as the general rode off to where other members of his guard were overseeing the erection of his headquarters tent.
‘Alright. You heard the general. We need to take Avenna quick and easy. I need ideas.’
* * * * *
‘This wasn’t what I had in mind when I said he needed a small force.’ Fronto eyed the soldiers around him.
‘We are a small force’ Palmatus replied with a shrug.
‘I was thinking more like three centuries to a cohort. Not less than twenty men who barely know each other.’
‘How did you get volunteered for this?’
‘Sort of by accident. Antonius asked for ideas. I gave him one, but he thought it was mad and unfeasible. I tried to convince him it could be done and next thing I know, I’m being told to make it happen. In the old days Caesar would either have listened to me and given me a full unit to command or given me a flat no. Antonius is an odd one. Unpredictable, I’d say.’
‘Priscus reckons he’s dangerous,’ Palmatus added quietly.
‘He might be right. But there’s no denying that he’s also good at what he does.’
‘Sounds like someone else we all know.’
‘Shut up.’
Fronto looked around at the men once again.
He had just shy of two contubernia of soldiers, with his friends commanding one each.
Palmatus’ squad of eight men consisted of hand-picked and dangerous legionaries from the Tenth - and one from the Eighth who had been recommended as a homicidal lunatic, which had sparked Palmatus’ interest enough to give him a try out. The former legionary had settled on a unit of traditional soldiers, for all their oddities, since he knew the drill and the commands well.
Masgava’s squad consisted of three Gauls drawn from the auxiliary cavalry, two Cretan archers from Decius’ auxiliary cohort, a slinger from a Balearic cohort and an engineer from the Ninth who had been with the army since the action at Geneva five years ago and had been involved in nearly every project since. There was still one space left in the contubernium, but he and Fronto had decided to leave it empty until he could locate Biorix, who would likely still be serving with the Thirteenth.
So in all: eighteen men, himself included. Against the most important and best fortified city of the most dangerous tribe among the clearly battle-mad Belgae. The more he thought about it, the more deranged it sounded.
Still, he had insisted himself into this situation, and now there was a certain amount of professional pride involved. He knew it could be done, and so now he had to prove it, not just to Antonius the disbeliever, or even to himself. But to Caesar. The old man might be made to reconsider his position if Fronto gave him Avenna.
The small knot of men - a motley collection to be sure - stood in a low, tree-lined dell, where a trickle of spring water flowed into a stream, a weathered, unrecognisable shapeless lump of an ancient Gaulish deity overseeing the flow. A sacred spring. For luck, Fronto pulled the small figurine of Fortuna from his neckline, kissed it, splashed sacred water over it and then dropped it back onto the thong beneath his tunic.
He was unarmoured. In fact, he wore no helm and carried no shield, clad in only a drab tunic and with his sword on the baldric - just like the rest of his unconventional singulares. This action was about being fast and quiet, not slow and well-defended. His gaze played across the other fourteen figures in the dell. He had tried to remember names, but he’d only been introduced to them twice, and simply could not hold them. He knew there was a man called Quietus, because the irony of taking him on a crazed hectic night-time raid was not lost on him, but he couldn’t remember which one he was. He had the suspicion, with ever increasing irony, that he was the big fellow who kept snorting his runny nose and appeared to have a permanent twitch.
The missing three men were even now on their way back. He could hear them moving through the undergrowth, light as cats, recognisable only because he was expecting them and because they were making the strange ‘kua kua’ noise of the little crakes that inhabited the lower swampy areas of the region.
The trio of native riders had been the obvious men to send out as scouts and had disappeared on their mission half an hour ago, and it was with a great sense of relief that Fronto watched them appear through the brush and slide down into the hollow, pausing only to make a brief devotion at the spring and take a sip of water before reporting to Fronto.
‘How is it?’
‘Poorly defended.’ One of the scouts scratched a map in the dirt with a stick, drawing the three circles of the settlement’s walls, two linked like a figure 8 and a third within the eastern, larger, loop. He pointed to the one at the west. ‘You were correct in your thoughts, sir. It is a nemeton - a sanctuary of the shepherds. There are three buildings only, and a grove that is still used. The ramparts are guarded by men from the main city, but widely-spaced. They do not apparently consider it important to defend. They know it is separated from the city itself by a wall.’
‘And that is true,’ Fronto smiled. ‘But it is a mental weak spot. They will not expect an attack to come through there. Two things bother me, and two things only. How do you three feel about mounting an attack through this ‘nemeton’?’
The three Remi horsemen shrugged. To the Remi, the Nervii would be more of an enemy than Rome could ever be. Until Caesar had brought the army here, the tribes of the Belgae had spent hundreds of years at war with each other. And the Remi may still respect the druid class, but these were Nervii druids.
‘With a ready-prepared arrow, a count of twenty at most.’
‘Impressive. Try to be faster. Time will likely be an issue.’
He looked around at everyone again. ‘Alright. Is everyone happy with their tasks?’
There were a variety of nods and mumbled affirmatives and he took a deep breath. ‘Let’s do it then.’
With no further words - there would be no more speech until stealth was no longer an issue - the group scurried out of the dell and through the scrub land. The shadows were now becoming intermixed and almost indistinguishable in the fading light. The timing had been very carefully selected. Dusk would help mask their movements, given the sparse cover that nature had afforded them, and the men on the walls would be weary, their eyes tired, and less alert than usual. Plus Roman forces attacked during the light - usually working from dawn, so no one would expect this.
But it had to be done quickly. The scouts had had the reasonable light to work by. Now the attack would go ahead in the dim hazy indigo of evening. But they had to achieve their goal while there was still enough light for Antonius to bring the army to bear.
Moving from tree to tree and ducking behind scrub, trying to stick to the hollows afforded by streams or natural ditches, the motley assault moved across the flatland towards the western end of the oppidum. Squinting as he went, Fronto finally started to see the walls more clearly and could pick out the men on watch there. He smiled in gratitude. The druidic grove was indeed sparsely guarded, with only three men visible from this southern approach. Three men. Perfect. Thank you, Fortuna.
On and on they crept, as fast as they dared - the natives faster than Fronto would have recommended, but still they closed on the ramparts without an alarm going up, and Fronto found himself gripping the figurine on the thong through his tunic, mouthing prayers and offers as they moved.
Masgava gave a silent hand signal and the attack separated into three groups, one peeling off to the left and the other right, six men in each group, including one missile weapon and one native. Fronto followed the one to the right, the man in front of him a stocky legionary with a rope coiled over his shoulder - again one of three. The engineer from the Ninth, Fronto noted. Iuvenalis, he seemed to remember suddenly.
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 16
