The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  “So…” Fronto grunted, “basically they’re useless?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Caesar smiled. “They shall be kept in reserve. I’m going to give standing orders that they remain as camp guards or take rearguard in battles to protect the artillery and baggage trains… that sort of thing.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “I suppose it’s possible that that way they’ll learn gradually.”

  Balventius laughed; a harsh bark.

  “And they can’t get themselves or the rest of us into too much trouble that way.”

  Fronto nodded again.

  “So what poor sod are you going to put in charge of them? If none of your staff will lower themselves to lead your top-notch Gaulish legion, who’s going to agree to command the dregs?”

  Caesar’s smile widened.

  “Lucius Munatius Plancus.”

  “Plancus?” Fronto almost spat out the name. “But he’s a prat! He…” Light dawned on him slowly.

  Caesar nodded.

  “Yes. A legion of unintelligible Gauls in the hands of an unimaginative and inexperienced commander. Sounds perfect for guarding the engineers and baggage. And another problem I’d had was that I owe Plancus’ father a favour and I’ve been wondering what to do with him. Now I can make him a legate. His father will be pleased and after a while I can send him back to Rome where he can climb the ladder and be a burden to the senate instead.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Very nice, though I’d warn you, Caesar, that we may have to call on the Fourteenth along with everyone else if we land in deep shit up north, especially without Crassus’ Seventh here.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  The general sighed and stood, wandering over to a large map of Gaul and its surroundings.

  ”I don’t know whether you’re aware… I expect you are, since Fronto always seems to know about things before even I do… that the scouts have now all returned?”

  The three men before him nodded.

  “We’re going to be moving very soon. I intend to call a general staff meeting shortly and pass out the orders to my officers, but, to assuage your curiosity, this is the situation in a nutshell…”

  He jabbed his finger into the centre of Belgic lands on the map, where the legend ‘NERVII’ was just visible in the low interior light.

  “Deep in their territory, most of the Belgae have combined to create one large army. And when I say large, I do mean large. I have been unable to ascertain numbers no matter how many spies and scouts I send out, but I have heard words like ‘sea’ and ‘carpet’ used to describe the assembled mass, so I’m going to assume we’re talking about a very large group. And some of them are Germans who’ve crossed the Rhine to join in. Most of my other legates are young and lack the experience that you two have. I’m going to rely more and more in the coming weeks on the pair of you, along with Labienus and Sabinus.”

  Fronto rubbed his nose reflectively without thinking and gave a slight yelp.

  “I assume then, Caesar, that you fully intend to take us against the Belgae, whatever their strength?”

  The general nodded.

  “Frankly, Fronto, I cannot back down now. I’m sure you understand. The Belgae have the greatest reputation of the northern barbarians. If we can defeat them, our allies will be safe; no other tribe will dare move against us. If we run back to Narbonensis with our tail tucked between our legs, however, we will lose the respect of the tribes, our allies will likely desert us and side with the Belgae; we will lose our foothold in Gaul and with it any hope of loot for the men and a triumphal return to Rome. The officers will be ridiculed by the senate and the men will be pensioned with little booty to show for the two years of activity.”

  He smiled a horrible smile.

  “And then one day the Belgae, who will no longer have any reason to fear us, will take their cue from the Gauls long ago, and will cross the border and sack Italia.”

  He waited for any objection from the three in front of him, but no one spoke.

  “No. We must prove ourselves now. We must claim our stake in Gaul. However, I would prefer to even the odds.”

  His finger moved down the map toward the more southerly Belgae lands.

  “Here, in their nearest territory, is a Belgic tribe called the Remi. My scouts tell me that, while the Remi are far from the strongest of the Belgae, they are actually open to Roman negotiations, and if the Remi are, then it is possible that other tribes may follow suit. Basically I cannot formulate a full plan until after we have met with the Remi.”

  The general, his face showing some signs of stress, slapped the area of the Belgae on the map with the flat of his palm.

  “And herein lies my problem. I need to plan. I don’t like being unprepared for eventualities, but until I have seen for myself I have to rely on my gut feelings and the usual couple of tricks I have up my sleeve.”

  Balbus shrugged.

  “Then why not delay, Caesar? Send ambassadors to the Remi and stay here until you’re fully apprised of the situation? The Belgae won’t get any bigger in the meantime.”

  The general shook his head.

  “True: the Belgae will not increase, but there are two other potential problems. Given extra time it’s quite possible that more and more Germans will cross the Rhine and sign up to the Belgic cause. Even if not, it is possible they will decide they are strong enough, march over or through the Remi and come after us. That way we lose a potential ally, the incentive, and any hope of choosing the ground when we do meet.”

  He sighed.

  “No, we have to go now. Strike, as the smith says, while the iron is hot.”

  Balventius nodded professionally and the Fronto cleared his throat.

  “I was given to believe, Caesar, that you were waiting on other things yet too? Crassus for one thing.”

  A dark look crossed the general’s face.

  “With Crassus, what will be, will be. I had expected to have heard from him by now. It is entirely possible that the Belgae already have allies in the west; that they have successfully stirred up trouble against us there and that Crassus is already hanging from a tree with his eyes pecked out by the crows.”

  He gave Fronto a very searching look.

  “A possibility, I might add, about which I have somewhat mixed feelings…”

  The legate had the grace to look down and avoid his gaze.

  “But I have put a safeguard in place in case of Crassus’ failure and demise.”

  He straightened and squared his shoulders.

  “I cannot tarry for news of Crassus.”

  Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  “What safeguard?”

  The general sighed again.

  “Fronto, you’re one of my senior staff, but you really don’t need to know everything!”

  Balventius cleared his throat.

  “Caesar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why am I present, sir? I’m not involved at a command level.”

  The general returned to his seat and sank gratefully into it.

  “You, however, are the man my senior staff saw fit to land with the task of arresting and questioning Paetus. And in that role, I have further use of you.”

  Balventius merely sat straight and raised his eyebrow.

  “My courier returned from Rome this morning.”

  Fronto leaned forward.

  “Slip of the tongue, Caesar? Courier‘s’, surely? You sent a half dozen riders.”

  The general flashed an irritated look at the legate.

  “I know what I mean, Fronto. Shut up.”

  Turning back to Balventius, he pointed at him.

  “Paetus’ family are now under my protection, though I cannot be seen to coddle them or Paetus becomes useless as a source of misinformation. Do you remember my niece Atia and her husband, Octavius?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “I met them in Rome at a party a few years ago. Nice, I remember.”

&nbs
p; “Octavius passed on to the Elysian Fields a couple of years ago but, with the way things are in Rome, Atia maintained his bodyguards to protect her and the children. They number quite a few and Octavius chose good men. They have Paetus’ family under observation. The minute anything turns against them, they will be whisked away to the safety of Atia’s villa.”

  He smiled.

  “So. Balventius, I need you to start paving the way with Paetus. I want him thoroughly with us. I want him to be ready to sell his father to protect his wife if needed.”

  He ignored the disapproving looks Fronto was throwing at him.

  “And you, Fronto? I want you to start thinking of how we can use this. Bear in mind that the stronger I become and the weaker my enemies, the better position I am in to protect and advance your sister and yourself. Think hard.”

  He stood again, scraping the feet of the chair across the floor.

  “I think that’s it, gentlemen. Get yourself an hour’s rest or food. Fronto? Balbus? We reconvene with the rest of the officers in an hour. Time to start preparing. We march on the Belgae tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  (Durocorteron, in the lands of the Remi)

  “Curia: the meeting place of the senate in the forum of Rome.”

  “Pilum: the army’s standard javelin, with a wooden stock and a long, heavy, lead point (plural ‘pila’).”

  Caesar’s sudden decision to move had caused a stir among the legions. They had been encamped around Vesontio for months and had become settled in their ways. Though everyone knew they would be moving off on campaign soon, the legions’ officers had been assuming they would wait for word of Crassus, and then suddenly Caesar had given the entire army one night’s notice. Every man had been short on sleep when they were called to attention by the cornicens and subsequently packed their gear, stowed their baggage in the wagons, secured the artillery for transport and systematically took down the defences, demolishing the palisades and infilling the ditch as was the tradition with a departing army.

  Then had begun the interminable journey. In actual fact, the army had only been on the road for two weeks, but it felt like so much longer. A legion could travel fast, but out here with only native dirt tracks instead of good Roman paving, in unknown territory that had to be scouted in advance of the column, and with the ancillary wagons, staff, artillery and other clutter of seven legions and the command section, travel was painfully slow; sometimes as little as ten miles in a day.

  But then, that was the price you paid for having your entire support system with you. This was no small punitive expedition, but a show of Roman power with a fully supported army. The merchants and tavern keepers in Vesontio had been sad to see such a rich source of revenue leaving their land, though they would live fat and wealthy for the next year at least; Caesar had ordered the quartermasters to stock up for the campaign and, with a great deal of foresight, Cita had purchased every last spare grain of corn available in a twenty mile radius around Vesontio. Back in that city, men would be rubbing their hands with glee while stacking their denarii.

  And finally, three days ago, they had reached the lands of the Remi. The scouts had returned to inform the staff that the ‘capital’ of that tribe was just over twenty miles distant.

  Since arriving in the territory of the Belgae, the pace of the army had almost halved again as they moved forward with great caution, the outriders constantly circling the huge mass of troops. Caesar had called the officers to him that night and stated his intention to camp at the centre of Remi lands. It served a threefold purpose: firstly, it was the safest place within the Belgae’s territory; secondly it was a hub for trade, politics and information; and thirdly, a show of such strength amidst the Remi would serve to remind them of the power of Rome and the wisdom of alliance.

  And so, last night, they had made camp four miles from the town and prepared.

  This morning, a fresh and gleaming Roman army numbering some thirty thousand regular troops, along with thousands of cavalry, mostly of Gallic auxiliary status, slowly tramped and stomped their way over the hill and toward the river and the wooden bridge that gave access to the Remi’s oppidum of Durocorteron. The sight must have been overwhelming for the ordinary folk of the tribe.

  Without sending a single man across the river to the Remi, the legions, as prearranged, began to set up huge temporary camps; three in all, each large enough to accommodate fifteen thousand and the necessary gear. The men had worked hard and, within two hours, camp had been established, even before the last of the huge military column had arrived on the scene. A wide ditch and rampart surrounded each camp, and once the baggage arrived, a defensive palisade was formed of the sharpened stakes that were carried in the wagons and could later be undone and stowed for reuse.

  The show must have been mind-boggling for the locals. Certainly, by the time the camps were complete, in the late morning, the number of native men, women and children watching them intently from across the river had grown to number in the hundreds. Caesar had deliberately kept the army from interacting with them; every centurion and optio had their orders. Whether these Belgic folk shouted disparaging things at the men, or even enticing ones, the soldiers barely glanced at, let alone acknowledged, them.

  The afternoon had set in with the legions setting watches and passwords, creating their temporary workshops, mucking out the horses and all the regular daily camp duties. Everything the general did here was designed to both worry and impress the leaders of the Remi.

  And it must be working. For now, as the sun began to sink from the sky and afternoon began to give way to evening, many of their civilian observers had become bored and left, but a number of well-dressed and armed warriors had taken up stations on the far bank and the bridge. Fronto stood on the rampart of his camp and watched them with interest. With the quality of their armour, they were likely the chieftain’s own men. He was just wondering how long they would watch before trying to force some sort of interaction, when a commotion began up the hill in the centre of the town.

  From here, Fronto could see up the main road between heavy, low buildings and scattered oak trees. Up there must be some kind of centre; perhaps a marketplace even? And something was happening there. Between the branches and trunks of the trees he could see light; the flickering light of many torches. The legate dithered for a moment as to whether to alert the command, when a noise like a bull being castrated sprang up on the hill.

  Fronto jumped slightly at the sudden cacophony, before realising it was supposed to be music; a fanfare presumably. And there was movement high on the hill.

  He reached across to the legionary next to him on the bank.

  “Leave your weapons here. Get to the principia as fast as you can and inform the general and his staff that we’re about to have guests.”

  The soldier saluted and turned, dropping his shield and pilum, and ran as fast as he could toward the rear of the huge camp. The three fortifications had been carefully placed in a horseshoe around the near end of the bridge, such that each rampart was the same distance from it. The central camp, that of the Ninth and the Tenth, also accommodated the senior staff.

  Fronto watched with fascination from the rampart as a procession of sorts began to make its way down the main road of the oppidum toward the Romans. The group numbered around a hundred and at first glance appeared to be some sort of strange parody of a Roman military column. As they got closer, Fronto gradually picked out more detail, though the awful noise was setting his teeth on edge and forming the beginning of a headache.

  First came four men blaring out ‘dying goose’ sounds through tall bronze horns with flared ends shaped into the likeness of wolves. Behind them came four more with a horrifying instrument that involved the squeezing of some sort of bag. The resulting noise sounded like a deflating ox. Fronto stared at them with a strange mixture of horror and amusement. Behind the ‘musicians’ came the standard bearers. No flags here, just poles with bronze animals on them; boars, wolves and
bears. And behind that was a crowd of warriors in their ceremonial gear, Fronto presumed, surrounding two well dressed tribesmen on white horses. The warriors on either side of the column lit the way in the dusk with burning torches.

  The Remi probably thought it was impressive. Indeed, it might have been impressive if it weren’t for the deflating animal sounds. Fronto, trying to keep his men in position with a straight face, had to bite his lip gently to refrain from sniggering.

  Suddenly the worst of the noise stopped. Fronto breathed deeply in relief and then realised with horror that it was only a moment’s grace. The airbags were now empty and the musicians re-inflated them with a sound like a hundred men farting in a cave.

  No amount of lip biting could prevent the laugh that came then and, even as the players began the full blare of the awful noise once again, all around Fronto on the rampart men burst out laughing. Indeed, as he listened carefully over the cacophony, he was sure he could even hear men laughing at the other camps.

  He gave them a few seconds of laughter, but this sort of thing looked bad, even if it was his own fault.

  “Silence!” he bellowed along the line, and the men of the Ninth and Tenth Legions fell quiet and straightened themselves.

  By the time the Belgae had reached the bridge, the staff were approaching Fronto’s position inside the camp. Caesar, Sabinus and Labienus climbed the slope with long strides and stopped next to the legate of the Tenth.

  “What is the name of Charon’s teeth is that noise?” asked Sabinus, a horrified look on his face.

  Caesar smiled at him.

  “Ceremonial music. I’ve heard those pipes before at Celtic gatherings. Aren’t they awful?”

  He turned to Fronto.

  “Pass the word along here and to the other camps as quickly and quietly as you can. I want silence from the men. Not a word or movement. In fact, tell the other legions that their officers are to remain in their camps.”