The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  He frowned.

  “But the immediate question is: how prepared to we need to be? Has Caesar called us all back early in case the Gauls collectively decide its time to kick some Roman backside, or does he know something we don’t?”

  Crispus shook his head.

  “It’s a problem, for certain. Perhaps we should enquire of Labienus?”

  “Shortly,” Fronto agreed. “First you have to go show your face to your men. Then, I’d suggest we meet up in a couple of hours and go visit Balbus in his tent before we head into the city. Besides, I’m absolutely shattered. I think a half hour with my boots off and maybe a ‘hair of the dog’ is in order before I start running around and panicking about agitated Gauls.”

  Crispus nodded.

  “You make a fair point, Marcus my good friend. I shall go and renew my acquaintance with my officers.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Your horse won’t be ready for you for fifteen minutes or so. Might as well join me for a ‘hair’ eh?”

  Crispus grinned and reached across to the chest on which stood a small jar of wine, while Fronto removed his boots with a deep sigh.

  Priscus rolled his eyes and picked up his vine staff.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll go and find something useful to do. Nice to see you both again, but if I spend ten minutes in the company of those feet I’ll never breathe clear again.”

  Wafting his hand across his face, Priscus gripped his helmet and left the building, his eyes screwed up tightly.

  “What?” demanded Fronto irritably as Crispus breathed in deep ragged gasps between bursts of laughter.

  * * * * *

  Crispus burst into a fresh bout of laughter. It had been over an hour since he’d left Fronto’s camp, leading his freshly fed and groomed horse back to his own unit. Though he’d not had time to visit the temporary bathhouse, he had taken a quick dip in a tub of cold water, shaved, and raked his hair straight. Dressed in clean clothes from his pack, he once more felt human, though there was an insistent, if gentle, thumping deep in his brain.

  Which is why the sight of Fronto, still dishevelled and covered in dust with a hairstyle that… well ‘style’ was being excessively kind. Crispus covered his mouth and sniggered gently. His peer from the Tenth Legion smelled faintly like a dead bear.

  “I shall leap to the assumption that you do not really care what Labienus thinks of you, Marcus? You look like you’ve had accident with a quadriga and a midden.”

  “Shut up.”

  Raking his fingers through his unruly hair, where they caught in a tangle, Fronto strode across to the gate of the Eighth Legion’s temporary fortress. Despite his travel-worn state, he still wore his cuirass and plumed helmet, along with the almost-red military cloak, clearly marking him out as an officer. The guards at the gate stood at attention and saluted, absolutely straight faced.

  “Shut up” he said again, this time to the legionaries whose faces were so sombre that it was clear they were deliberately forcing themselves not to smile.

  Accompanied by the grinning Crispus, Fronto strode up the Decumana towards Balbus’ headquarters. As with his own camp, soldiers saluted as they passed and then went quickly about their business. He was starting to feel a little better-humoured, despite the horrible pounding behind his left eye, when a voice like a saw through marble called out from a side street.

  “You look like shit!”

  As his head snapped angrily round, Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth Legion, fell into step alongside him. Fronto opened his mouth and then quickly bit back his acerbic retort. Getting into a battle of insults with Balventius would be a perilous thing indeed.

  “Balventius. Did you leave at all during the winter? Did you go and check out your new estate?”

  The grizzled veteran rolled his one good eye, the milky white one fixed firmly, if disconcertingly, ahead.

  “I went back for a month or so. It’s nice, I suppose. Lots of room. Spent a couple of weeks building a fence, bought some horses and put ‘em in there. Then a bear came bumbling out of the woods and the horses smashed my fence to pieces and bolted. I wrote half of the property over to my brother and left him to sort out the mess while I came back here.”

  Crispus smiled uncertainly.

  “I have no idea know why, Titus, but I’m having a little difficulty picturing your brother.”

  Balventius glanced across at him and then turned to Fronto.

  “He sounds less posh? I’m not having to concentrate so hard to follow him.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “I’ve been trying to drive out the orator in him and lower his brow a bit, but I don’t think it worked. I think it’s all that Gaulish beer that’s rotting his brain. That’s what’s done it!”

  Balventius smiled. The effect was fairly frightening through his criss-crossed network of scars.

  “My brother’s a lot like me,” he said, turning to Crispus. “But less handsome. He’d still be serving under Pompey’s legions but he got hamstrung about five years ago. He’s been living off his honesta missio, but Pompey’s not as generous as Caesar. Half my grant’s more than all of his.”

  Fronto was mulling over the difference between his own patron general and the great Pompey as they arrived at the praetorium. Balventius nodded to the guards outside and one of them knocked on the wooden door before entering to announce their arrival. As the man returned and stepped to one side, the ageing legate of the Eighth appeared in the doorway, a broad grin splitting his face.

  “It’s about time!”

  The bald, round-faced commander disappeared back into the gloom of the building and the three men looked at each other, shrugged, and followed him in.

  It took a few minutes to become accustomed to the dim interior, but slowly their eyes adjusted. Balbus took his seat behind a desk covered in unit strength assessments, supply requests and training reports. With a sigh of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair and reached for the glass of water nearby.

  “So what news of Hispania? Is it still standing?”

  “Ha, bloody ha!” Fronto grumbled, rubbing his temple.

  “I do not think it was the campaign break that Marcus anticipated,” Crispus smiled. “He had planned to visit Longinus’ estate to deliver the ashes and his goods and then move on to Tarraco and spend the winter carousing. Severa had different ideas, though.”

  “Severa?”

  Fronto looked at Balbus’ questioning expression, glared at Crispus and then sighed.

  “Longinus’ wife. She… erm… took to me.”

  “She wouldn’t let him stay in Tarraco,” Crispus laughed. “Insisted on looking after us personally. Sometimes very personally, I suspect, eh Marcus?”

  “Anyway!” Fronto barked irritably, “Let’s get to the matter at hand. I gather there’ve been stirrings among the Gauls.”

  The humour slid gently from Balbus’ face.

  “I rather think something’s in the wind. The Belgae are getting themselves involved in Gaulish politics and, given their fearsome reputation, that can’t be a good thing. I just hope this discontent is limited. If it spreads among all the non-allied Gauls and Belgae, we could be in trouble. Six legions is a lot, but not when faced with a million angry Celts.”

  “Then the staff’s going to have its work cut out.”

  The other two looked questioningly at Fronto.

  “Well… you know Caesar. He’s got something up his sleeve. He sent for us for a reason. Something’s about to happen, but it’s going to have to involve people like us stamping a heavy Roman boot on anyone who openly declares against us while people like Labienus and Procillus trying to persuade the rest of Gaul that we’re doing it for them. It’s that good old fine political line again.”

  Crispus nodded.

  “And I cannot help but wonder whether Caesar uncovered anything concerning that tribune Salonius and the conspiracies against him at Vesontio, too?”

  “Indeed.” Everything went quiet
for a moment as the four officers looked at each other.

  “Jove, it’s good to see you boys again” beamed Balbus with a sigh of relief.

  Fronto leaned back and ran his hands through his tangled hair once again.

  “How are Corvinia and the girls? Good I hope?”

  Balbus laughed.

  “Disappointed. I’m sure they all expected you to come and visit.”

  Balventius let out a low whistle.

  “What is it with you and women, Fronto? It seems like they all want some of you.”

  “I think it’s a mothering thing,” the scruffy legate replied. “They all want to look after me, ‘cause they think I can’t look after myself. I think they think I’m nicer than I am, too!”

  Balventius chuckled and the tent fell quiet once more.

  “So,” Crispus interjected tentatively, “what is the situation here? Fronto’s primus pilus intimated there were stirrings of unrest among the Gauls?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “We’re going to see Labienus after this to get the complete picture. I like to be well-prepared for all eventualities before the general shows up. In fact, I’d like to know everything I can.”

  Balbus nodded. “I’ve only just returned myself.” He gestured to Balventius and the scarred veteran turned his good eye towards Fronto.

  “It’s been happening for months. Labienus received a message by courier one day from Caesar. A few hours later he sent out a half dozen scouts; Gaulish auxiliaries, they were. I don’t know how many people noticed, but I was a bit surprised. None of them went out with their Roman auxiliary equipment. Just dressed up like plain old Gauls, they were.”

  Fronto frowned.

  “Think I can guess why, but go on…”

  “Well,” Balventius continued, “since then they’ve been coming and going regularly. I stopped a few in the early days to find out what they were doing and they refused to tell me. Directed me to general Labienus, telling me they were under command of silence. I went to see the commander and he basically told me to mind my own business.”

  He sighed.

  “Since then, though, word’s started to leak out. No matter how much they’re told it’s a secret… well…” he smiled at Fronto. “Drink loosens tongues. A few beers and these Gaulish scouts are telling all their friends. They’ve been scouting out the Belgae and various other tribes.”

  “I already knew that,” replied Fronto, leaning forward. “What don’t I know?”

  “Well, I think you can safely say this isn’t just a bit of unrest. Not like a few Numidians shaking their spears and grumbling. It looks like this is getting organised.”

  “Go on?”

  “The Belgae are violent sons of whores, Fronto.”

  “Yes…” snapped the dishevelled legate irritably. “And?”

  “We’ve never really concerned ourselves with the Belgae because they just spend all their time kicking, biting and carving each other. I spoke to some of the native levies and they all agree that you’ve never seen any people eternally at war with themselves like the Belgae. The only time they’ve ever been know to stop it and actually turn their energy outwards was the odd time when the German tribes tried to cross the Rhine and have a go with them. Even the Germans are frightened of them!”

  Fronto laughed.

  “But?”

  “But they’ve stopped fighting each other, Fronto. They’ve been swapping hostages and making blood pacts and all that other crap. They’re one people right now, and that’s a bit disturbing. That’s a whole new thing. They’ve banded together and it’s not for defence this time.”

  The legate of the Tenth nodded.

  “So they’re getting ready to face us.”

  “But,” Crispus interrupted, “the big question is: have they done this because they have decided that Rome is a perilous neighbour, which would mean we have to face them, or have they done this because they’ve been begged or bribed by other tribes? If the latter’s the case, we may be facing half of Gaul shortly.”

  Fronto sighed.

  “I think you’re missing the third option there.”

  “Pardon?” Crispus glanced across at him. Balventius and Balbus also leaned forward, their brows knitted.

  “Well,” he continued, “it seems pretty obvious to me, but then I’ve known the general a long time; know how his mind works.”

  A chorus of nonplussed looks. Fronto sighed.

  “Caesar had to engineer a way to get us into Gaul last year. He needs conquest and booty. We’re not here because the Helvetii threatened Rome. We could have let them past, but no… they were just the excuse we needed to begin campaigning in Gaul. But it’s no use stopping there. We’d gained nothing except perhaps a little stronger alliance with the Aedui and instilled fear in our northern neighbour.”

  Scanning the interior of the tent, Fronto’s eyes fell on a jug of wine. Without asking permission, he rose as he talked, crossed the tent, and poured himself a goblet.

  “So… when that was over, Caesar had already spent time putting the idea into the heads of important Gauls that we were the people they needed to sort Ariovistus out. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t pushed the Helvetii all the way to Bibracte just so he was close enough to the Council of Chiefs to be beseeched for help.”

  Balbus shook his head sadly.

  “You mean you really think that Caesar engineered every move last year to get his legions into the heart of Gaul? Somewhere where it’d be very hard to shift us from?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Be very careful what you say, Marcus. You’re among friends here, but those are the kind of comments that cause officers to become quietly deceased!”

  “I know,” the scruffy legate agreed, swigging wine. ”Don’t repeat any of this, for your own sake. Not even to your closest.”

  Another swig.

  “I don’t think he’s stopped there, though. If Caesar was sending out these scouts and spies as a reaction to news of the Belgae, Labienus would have been the first man to know about it. But no... Caesar sends a message to him and he starts sending out men who are dressed to look as un-Roman as possible?”

  Crispus slapped his head.

  “He’s doing it again?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s actually fomented discord and rebellion among the Belgae just to provide us with an excuse to put down more of Gaul?”

  Balbus glared at his young companion. Balventius stood and crossed the room, opening the door and peering outside.

  “It’s alright. Nobody’s listening.”

  Balbus sighed.

  “A little care, Crispus!”

  “He’s correct, though,” the young man replied quietly. “Caesar has pushed the Belgae until they snapped. Now he’s preparing to take them to task. And, of course, the Belgae are the fiercest of all the tribes, or so they say. If Caesar can defeat the Belgae, all of Gaul should fall and cower before him. It’s a bold move!”

  “It’s a stupid move!”

  The other three turned to Fronto in surprise. The tired legate took a last swig and grounded his goblet.

  “He’s riled the Belgae so he can fight them and beat them and show all of Gaul who’s the master. But he’s done it too well. The Belgae have decided it’s time to piss on Rome. But they’re not stupid. They know how big Rome is; how powerful. So they, in turn, foment discord among the Gaulish tribes and the next thing we know is that the Council of Chiefs has been called without any of our allies. So half of Gaul looks like their siding with the Belgae. And they’ve even thrown out hooks into Germania. There’s nothing so sure as most of the German tribes would love nothing more after last summer than to kick six shades of shit out of us!”

  Balventius whistled through his teeth.

  “Looks like we’re wading in it shortly, then?”

  Balbus sighed.

  “Then I hope Caesar’s the tactician everyone thinks he is. We’ve got to have something up our sleeve, or we�
�re facing odds of at least ten to one!”

  He leaned forward and gestured at Fronto.

  “Pass me that wine…”

  * * * * *

  The four men emerged, blinking, into the light. Fronto had meant to ask why Balbus had drapes over the windows but, in the end, they had proved useful both for maintaining privacy and for preventing sunlight from worsening his headache. The thumping came back like the weaponsmiths of the Tenth at work.

  The other three strolled ahead, chatting, while Fronto plodded along unhappily at the back. They were still set on going to see Labienus, despite the fact that Fronto was sure they would learn nothing new of value. He was filled now with a cold conviction that Caesar had put his men in the worst possible danger for his own vainglorious expedition and, regardless of Balbus’ fervent hopes that the general had a surprise up his sleeve, Fronto also knew with leaden certainty that it would be left to men like himself to make the general’s grand plans work out.

  He spat on the ground with irritation and looked up once more.

  As they strolled down the hill toward the river and the bridge that linked the military garrison with the Gaulish city of Vesontio, he noticed the guards at the riverbank pointing and gesturing excitedly to each other. Squinting, for they were still some distance away yet, he tried to focus on the small figures and tracked back from them in the direction they were pointing.

  A vast array of armoured legionaries was stomping up the valley in the direction of the bridge and the camps. He stopped for a moment, drawing a tense breath while his companions, unaware, continued on down the path.

  No amount of squinting would allow him to focus enough to identify the flags they bore, but his initial fears were easily brushed aside: these couldn’t be the retreating survivors of the first wave of Gaulish counter-invasions. The army in front of him was fresh and tidy. Perhaps Labienus had called the outer legions back to Vesontio before the general arrived.

  “Yes… that’ll be it” he muttered to himself and then hurried along to catch up with his companions.