‘In the cart.’
‘Problem?’ asked Labienus, passing by on his horse on a brief inspection of the column.
‘Just the usual, sir,’ muttered the medicus, gesturing at Baculus with the purloined vine staff.
‘Get in the cart, centurion,’ ordered Labienus.
Grumbling, Baculus snatched back his staff and clambered with some difficulty aboard the cart.
Four days had passed since the defeat of the Treveri and scouts had brought overtures of peace from the new Treveri leader. It had pleased the officer corps to discover that the man who had risen to rule the Treveri once more was Cingetorix, a long-time supporter of Caesar who had been deposed and exiled by Indutiomarus. The tribe’s anger at their recent leaders’ foolish decisions had driven them back to the loyalty of Roman client kings.
As soon as Labienus had confirmed that the tribe were settled and there was little likelihood of further trouble, he had made the decision to march north with the entire army and follow the river to the Rhenus, since Caesar’s army would be moving south along that course. En route, the army would make a stop at the Oppidum of Vindunaco, where Cingetorix now held court, in order to receive the renewed vows of the Treveri.
It would be a long, slow journey, and Baculus was dreading every moment of it.
* * * * *
Ambiorix placed his prized helmet on the table and dusted the silver boar atop it with his fingers. A helmet made for a Roman general, it had once belonged to Sabinus, one of Caesar’s top men before Ambiorix had taken it, with the man’s head still inside. He had ripped off the red crest, replacing it with something more appropriate and now it was a masterpiece of propaganda. The helmet announced to every warrior who saw it ‘here is a man who beat the best Rome had to offer’.
If only he could repeat his success, but that damned Caesar was in the way at every turn. He had almost had Cicero’s head last winter, straight after the first legion’s demise, and he’d almost crushed that man’s army, but for Caesar’s untimely arrival on the scene.
Then he’d set about rebuilding his army, knowing that, if he’d done it once, he could do it again, but Caesar had pre-empted him and launched campaigns against everyone who would speak to him before the winter was out.
The Nervii had been eager to join him once more, and had agreed to marshal their forces and meet him at the site of his greatest victory in the spring, but Caesar had taken his men north while the winter’s chill was still in the air and had torn the Nervii apart and burned what was left. Then the Menapii, who had been hesitant at first. They had managed to stay free of Roman interference for years by hiding in their infernal swamps. But shown what Caesar was doing to Gaul, and with a great deal of persuasion and wheedling, they had finally agreed to commit to his cause at the appointed place and time.
And then Caesar had shown up there yet again, like a bad smell in a small hut, and had bridged the rivers and swamps of the Mosa and the Rhenus and reduced the Menapii to a gaggle of blubbering women, effectively tearing out another of Ambiorix’s greater allies.
The Treveri had been a true hope, too. Indutiomarus had taken control of the tribe and despite a number of their most powerful men professing continued loyalty to Rome, had committed them to the cause. That Rome-lover Cingetorix had been exiled and powerless. If Ambiorix had risen to lead them, he’d have killed the man rather than exiling him, but the Treveri were a divided and uncertain tribe and his execution might have turned much of the tribe against Indutiomarus.
In the end, they had proved unequal to the task. That fool had managed to lose a battle against one single legion, a battle he should have won with little difficulty. And his nephew had risen to seek revenge for him and managed to fail yet again. This Labienus was beginning to become as troublesome as Caesar himself.
Allies were hard to find in these days, and Caesar was removing them as fast as Ambiorix could secure them. Damn the druids and their pet Arvernian chief. Vercingetorix counselled caution and delay and because he had the druids tucked in his purse, most of Gaul and the Belgae would not even speak to Ambiorix, busying themselves with preparations for Vercingetorix’s grand scheme. A few druids had flocked to his cause, bringing with them small tribes and a few dissenters, but he was on the edge and increasingly abandoned by the people, while that grinning Arverni lunatic secured a huge army that milled around deep in Gaul doing nothing.
Could they not see that in preparing for a war in months to come they were missing the opportunity of winning one now?
Ambiorix ground his yellowed teeth and took a deep breath. The knowledge that the Treveri were even now swearing a new oath to Rome and that Caesar was marching south to recombine his army did little to calm his mood, but he must appear calm now. In control.
The two men seated to his left had the distinct appearance of men unsure as to whether they were doing the right thing. Bolgios, nobleman and warrior, master of hundreds, cousin to the chieftain of the Segni, fiddled nervously with his braid. Should his cousin discover how deeply Bolgios plotted to overthrow him, the nervous weasel would now be decorating a wooden stake, his head scooped out for a cup. The druid beside him looked less nervous, but his face still displayed unease.
The knock came at the door.
‘Come in.’
A burly warrior pushed open the door and a dozen men followed him into the gloom, each of them bulky and prepared for war. Each wearing an arm ring with the snake of Arvernus. Each wearing a face of stone. In their presence, even Ambiorix felt a momentary thrill of nerves. Behind them came another druid, this one tooled for war like his companions. His large sword at his side complemented a staff of oak which had been shod with iron and sharpened to a point. The man even had the audacity to wear a coronet, as though he were some sort of king.
‘You have no place here, Arverni,’ Ambiorix announced with fire in his tone.
‘We have a place wherever trouble risks our plans,’ replied the warrior-druid in a thick, southern accent. ‘The one we call Esus has a careful schedule for the coming months. Events in Rome itself are falling into place to aid our cause, and soon - as omens and prophecies have foretold - Caesar’s grip on this land will falter as he struggles to retain his place in his own country.’
Ambiorix narrowed his eyes at the druid, noting with interest how the Arverni warriors were moving around the walls of the room, making to surround him. Such an expected, easily-anticipated manoeuvre.
‘And I am ruining these plans, so now you mean to kill me?’
The druid smiled coldly, and Ambiorix felt the panic in the Segni rebels next to him. Bolgios’ hand went to the hilt of the knife at his belt, as though the short blade could stop a dozen swords.
‘You have lived all winter and spring, king of the Eburones, because your faltering, insignificant rebellion has served to keep Roman eyes on the north-east and distracted them from the greater events taking place elsewhere. Sadly, all your allies have failed you and now you are all-but alone. Even your would-be German supporters are fleeing back across the river to their wild lands. All you have left is the Eburones, and your brother king Cativolcus is with us, so we cannot, sadly, allow you to wrest control of them from him.’
‘I am not an easy man to kill, Arverni,’ Ambiorix snarled.
‘Perhaps so. But die, you must. Caesar and his hounds are on your scent, and now you have no army to hide behind. You know too much about the cause to allow you to live long enough to fall into Roman hands.’
Ambiorix leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. ‘You may find that I am more resourceful yet than you believe.’
The druid frowned at him, but it was already too late. The thin cord loop that had lowered from the darkness above slipped around the neck, dragging the old man’s white beard against his throat as it tightened. The druid gagged and panicked, his fingers coming up to the cord that was throttling the life out of him, but the two men lying on the beam above simply hauled hard enough to lift him from the floor. There
was a crunch as cartilage gave way and the druid’s eyes bulged.
Bolgios and his own druid were on their feet now in surprise, but Ambiorix waved them back to their seats nonchalantly.
All around the edge of the room, Arverni warriors were shaking with death-twitches as spears thrust down from the shadowed rafters above them drove through the space between neck and collar bone, driving down through their bodies and emerging near the hip to pin them to the floor.
Ambiorix scanned the room to make sure that none of the Arvernian assassin party had escaped his own killers, but they were all busy shaking and leaking out their lives. He rose slowly, casually, and strode over to the hanging druid, who was gasping his last, peering at him with interest.
‘Rest assured, old man, that I have a long way to go yet before I am done. Despite Treveri idiocy, with the help of my friends here, the Segni will soon be ours, and Cativolcus is old and feeble and will present no impediment to my seizing back my tribe. As soon as I have those two, the Suevi can be persuaded to cross again and join us, and I will find more allies among those who hate your slow indolence almost as much as they hate Rome.’
He prodded the druid, who swung back and forth as he dangled, the last of his life flickering and dying in his eyes.
‘Stupid, stupid man. And go to the Gods knowing that should the day come that I do fall to our enemy, I will do everything in my power to make sure they know all about Vercingetorix and your Arverni revolt.’
He turned to Bolgios and the living druid.
‘Time to deal with your dog of a cousin and put the crown upon your head. Time rolls on, my friends.
Chapter Fifteen
By the Rhenus River, a day’s march north of the confluence with the Mosella.
‘Any news of the Suevi, General?’
Priscus fell into position next to Marcus Antonius, a few paces from Caesar, who peered out across the wide, fast-flowing Rhenus with an unreadable expression.
‘They are gone east, but so recently that their wake is almost still visible on the water’s surface.’ Caesar huffed irritably.
‘Perhaps this is a good thing?’ Antonius asked quietly. ‘We’ve a lot to concentrate on this side of the river, and I hear the Suevi have more warriors than their land has trees.’
Caesar turned his irritation on his senior commander. ‘We do not flinch from chastising our enemies, even be they ten feet tall and breathe fire, Marcus, which the Suevi most certainly do not, for all the rumours.’
Priscus nodded to himself. He had no doubt whatsoever that Caesar would march his legions through the river and to the edge of the world if he had a grudge with the Suevi. It had been a long journey up the Rhenus, punctuated by visits from couriers along the way. Firstly, two men from Fronto’s party had reached them with tidings that were both hopeful and unpleasant. The deaths of several of his men and the knowledge that a spy and betrayer had been among them and escaped unharmed was bad enough. To hear that the Segni were likely rising against them and that Ambiorix was still uncaptured had been enough to plunge Caesar’s mood into unplumbed depths. But at least the treacherous Eburone king was almost in Fronto’s grasp by the sound of it.
Labienus’ riders had reached them only two days ago, and the news that the inventive commander had yet again trounced the Treveri, invested a trustworthy figure as their leader and taken their sworn oaths as well as the heads of the lead conspirators and over a thousand slaves had lifted the mood of every officer in the column. Except Caesar. All the general had been able to say about the matter was that Labienus should have dug in and waited for the rest of the army. Priscus had privately formed the opinion that jealousy over Labienus’ success was suppurating in Caesar’s head, and doing no good there.
Labienus was on his way north, apparently, and not far away. The two armies would meet, probably at the confluence of the rivers they were both following and after that, Caesar would turn his attentions to the Eburones and the hunt for Ambiorix would begin in earnest. But if the general set his eyes on the Suevi for a while, it might buy Fronto the time he needed to bring Ambiorix to justice.
To some extent the whole purpose of Fronto’s hunt had become moot now. An attempt to halt the destruction of the Belgae was largely pointless, with the Nervii all-but gone, the Menapii thoroughly beaten down and their lands ravaged, the Treveri smashed and installed under a pro-Roman king, and only the Eburones and the small tribes like the Segni and the Condrusi left untouched.
And yet Fronto had continued, doggedly. The wax tablet Biorix had borne, apparently unread, though Priscus could not confirm that in the legionary’s inscrutable eyes, had briefly and succinctly informed him that, although he had heard of Caesar’s deprivations, his friend was not about to give in. He was moments away from Ambiorix and, regardless of any agenda of Caesar’s, Fronto believed him to have a connection to, or knowledge of, the Arverni and this ‘Esus’ character, and he would capture and interrogate him if it cost every last man.
Yes, a good thing: chasing down the Suevi and buying Fronto the time. Priscus would give his right arm to know the identity of Esus. Well, Antonius’ right arm, anyway.
‘The Ubii in this area are as loyal as any tribe can be,’ Priscus noted. ‘We’ve never had cause to face them yet. We can cross the river in their boats at leisure and then move against the Suevi.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘We bridged this river years ago and beat back the tribes beyond, showing them how easily we could get to them should we have the need, just as we did to the Menapii with our causeways. But it seems the Suevi have forgotten this. They have retreated into their forest and think themselves safe. I will have another bridge here, and this one will stay, this time.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ Antonius frowned.
‘The Ubii here will not attack us as we build it,’ Caesar replied. ‘Last time, such a venture was considered impractical and too difficult, and the enemy on the far bank did their best to prevent us completing it. This time we have a peaceful locale and prior experience. I expect construction to be speedy and trouble-free.’
‘And what of Ambiorix?’ asked Antonius, drawing his infernal wine flask from his cloak.
Priscus could have strangled the man at that moment.
Caesar simply tapped his lip in thought. ‘Yes, an extra delay could be trouble.’
‘But the Suevi?’ nudged Priscus, glaring at Antonius, who seemed entirely oblivious.
Again, Caesar turned. ‘Yes. We will concentrate the bulk of our forces on the bridge and the Suevi beyond, while Labienus makes his way here - along the ‘victory clivus’,’ he added with a trace of bitterness, ‘and joins us. But we can spare most of the cavalry. They are of little use in the German forests, after all.’
His gaze played across the heads of the staff and legates gathered by the river and fell upon a small, eagle-nosed man with unruly hair growing in a circle around a bald pate, like a hill rising from a forest. ‘Basilus?’
The officer, a cavalry prefect with little time in Gaul, turned in surprise. ‘General?’
‘I want Varus and Antonius with me across the river. You have command of the cavalry, barring the few units I will keep in support here. Take them into the Eburone lands and start ravaging. Without infantry support you will be able to do little to oppida, towns and fortresses, so steer clear of them, and avoid pitched battles with only horse at your command. But you will be able to start the process for me. Burn their crops, kill their livestock, and destroy farms and villages as you find them.’
Basilus saluted, looking slightly stunned at his sudden acquisition of an important command, but Caesar had already returned his attention to the others and the river.
‘The Suevi, and then, once Basilus has the Eburones starving and at the peak of despair, we move on Ambiorix.’
Priscus shivered at the thought of what such deprivations might mean for the small party of Romans busily hunting the man deep in Eburone lands.
* * * * *
Lucius Minucius Basilus peered through the foliage at the point where the track passed over the crest of the hill and descended into the wide, shallow valley. Behind him, the cavalry of Caesar’s army still poured into position, making their way between the tall, narrow trees, winding across the cold, fast stream filled with large, jagged rocks and forming up within the forest as best the tightly-packed trees allowed.
‘What do you think, sir?’ the prefect beside him asked, smoothing the ruffled mane of his mare.
Basilus frowned at the settlement below. The fields were beginning to glow with healthy corn, marking the clear approach of summer at last, and farmers and peasants moved about the crops tending them and weeding. In the centre of the valley, the settlement itself sat peaceful and quiet.
‘I’m in two minds, Catilo.’ He sighed and pursed his lips. Caesar had been quite specific. They were to avoid anything that might lead to a siege or a pitched battle. Small farms and villages were fair game to his depredations, but towns and fortresses were out of the question. Clearly this was a town, but it was surrounded by extremely weak defences, and the cavalry would have little difficulty overrunning the place. The defenders on the low ramparts were few and far between and the populace worked the fields, the gates of the place standing wide open. ‘I think we will take the place with precious few casualties, and this could be one of the greatest symbolic victories of the campaign, causing consternation and fear among the Eburones as word spreads. How fast could you get to those gates?’
Catilo grinned. ‘If we keep to the trees and move stealthily, we can get damn close before we move out into open ground. We can be on them before they have time to shit themselves, sir.’
‘Right. We’ll take the place, then. Take two alae down to the closest treeline and as soon as you’re in position, head for the nearest gate. I don’t care what you have to do, I want you to be sure you take that gate and hold it until the rest of us get there.’
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 35
