The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  “However,” the general went on, “I do not believe that you are an appropriate spokesperson or translator for these chiefs as you do not have their interests at heart. We have men of the Belgae with us who can translate.”

  He turned and addressed Labienus.

  “Ask Galronus of the Remi to join us, will you?”

  Labienus rode off down the column and Caesar turned once more to the druid.

  “You can consider yourself relieved of your task, or honour, or obligation, or whatever it is that keeps you here with the chieftains. Go wherever it is you wish to go and I hope that we never meet again.”

  “I echo your hope.”

  The druid explained the situation quickly to the chiefs, gave the Roman column one long, hard, look and wheeled his horse to ride off. There was a pause for a few minutes, during which the four Ambiani looked unsure and regularly turned to see the lone figure riding away down the valley. Fronto turned to Priscus.

  “Druids and chieftains arguing and splitting up? I can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad one…”

  Priscus grumbled.

  “Bad. That means he’s going somewhere where they still hate us to stir them up.”

  The two men fell into a thoughtful silence until, a moment later, the familiar figure of Galronus cantered to a halt beside the commanders. He exchanged brief words with the four chiefs and they nodded.

  “Good, Caesar. Chiefs know who I am. I translate for you.”

  The general nodded.

  “Thank you. Firstly, please inform the Ambiani that I am grateful for their offer. I accept peace with them and accordingly would like to extend them the same terms as we came to with the Remi. That they defy their own druids to join us is an honour and deserves to be treated as such.”

  Galronus smiled and nodded, turning to repeat Caesar’s words in the guttural language of the Belgae. As the four men listened, Fronto noticed a sag of relief among them. They had been unsure of Caesar’s reaction and genuinely frightened for their people. Once again, Fronto wondered what Caesar had done to press so much fear into the Belgae.

  The chieftains gabbled something in reply, and Galronus turned to Caesar.

  “Ambiani very grateful for Rome’s friend. They want agree all terms. They meet in council chamber this evening with officers to arrange details.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “However, before we settle the legions for the night, I need to know the lay of the land, so that I can best decide how to proceed when we leave Samarobriva. What can they tell us of the surrounding tribes?”

  Again, Galronus translated, and the four men entered into a deep, involved conversation for several minutes as the Roman officers stood patiently, watching the exchange.

  “Chiefs say” the Remi leader replied finally, “land east of here Viromandui land, but not just Viromandui there. They say big force east of here. In Viromandui land is army of them and Nervii. You get to east of Ambiani land and lesser chiefs there have more knowledge of Nervii.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “The Nervii? So soon? I thought we would be able to forge more alliances and consolidate our hold before we had to face them.”

  Galronus shook his head.

  “Nervii come south for Romans into land of Viromandui.”

  “What can you tell me of the Nervii?”

  Galronus shrugged.

  “Nervii hate Romans. Nervii hate Germans and Gauls.” He laughed. “Nervii hate Belgae… Nervii hate everybody.”

  “So we’ll not find anyone willing to treat with us to the north?”

  Again the Remi noble shook his head.

  “Nervii not trade with Gauls or Romans. No wagons go there. Nervii not accept foods or drinks. No wine or even beer among Nervii. They say luxury make men weak…”

  “Sacred Bacchus” Fronto exclaimed to Priscus, but loudly enough to be heard by the staff. “We’ve come a thousand miles north only to find the bloody Spartans!”

  There was a chorus of stifled laughs among the front ranks of the Tenth Legion and Fronto instantly regretted his outburst as the General gave them all a sharp look. Ah well. Let the men laugh now. Sounds like they wouldn’t be laughing when they met the Nervii.

  “Nervii already condemn all Belgae for joining Rome. They threaten to kill any Belgae warrior who not fight Rome. You never speak to Nervii, Caesar. When you meet them, you fight.”

  Fronto nodded, more soberly this time. On the bright side, that sounded better: a straight fight. No political wheedling, no pretence, and no sieges; just two armies in a sea of grass, battering each other repeatedly until one was dead. A test of military might.

  Caesar turned to the staff.

  “Make temporary camp, gentlemen. Tonight we thrash out alliance details with the Ambiani, but tomorrow we march to meet the Nervii.”

  He became aware suddenly that the front ranks of the Tenth were listening intently. The general had almost forgotten the ordinary soldiers were there, and that would never do. One must always play to the crowd if one wanted to leave the arena a hero. He jacked his voice up a notch.

  “We will take Roman law and power to the Nervii and, when we have defeated them, Rome will acknowledge us heroes and all the lands from the Mare Nostrum to the coast of Britannia will call us either ally or master!”

  A cheer went up from the Tenth. You had to hand it to the sly old bastard… he knew how to work an audience. Only a couple of hundred men of the First Cohort in the Tenth would have heard that, but the word would pass and by nightfall his speech would be replaying in the mind of every soldier on the plain. And the bugger had been devious enough to include the phrase ‘ally or master’, both mollifying the Aedui and Remi in the column, and reminding them of the importance of their alliance.

  The coming days would be interesting ones.

  * * * * *

  The legions had been on the move again for three more days, continuing eastward, through Ambiani territory and ever deeper into Viromandui lands. The scouts had been circling ahead of the column throughout the journey and what had begun as a positive, adventurous undertaking had now settled into the lull and quiet of an army that, having lost the initial impetus and lust for battle, was now settling into thousands of private worries about the coming conflict and the danger it brought.

  Fronto shaded his eyes to stare once again out to the front. Somewhere out there, a hundred thousand Belgae were waiting to make minced meat of any Roman that came within reach.

  A shape swam into focus. No… several shapes. On horseback.

  Fronto frowned for a second and then held up his hand to halt the column. He turned to the six tribunes marching along behind him. They looked generally unhappy about being relegated to traipsing along without their horses but, as Tetricus had pointed out to the rest of them, if Fronto was on foot, it would make them look lazy and feeble if they were to ride. Tetricus raised an eyebrow.

  “Something up, sir?”

  “Get word back to Caesar and the staff. Riders approaching.”

  The tribune nodded and turned to Priscus. Oh, he could run alongside the column and find the staff, but there was nothing in the world that moved faster than word of mouth. He told Priscus, who told his lead man, who passed the word back, and so on, through hundreds of lines of men until it reached the optio at the rear of the legion, who approached Caesar and, saluting, informed the general of the approach. By the time Tetricus could have reached the staff, Caesar and his closest consorts were already slowing as they reached the vanguard.

  There was a tense moment as they waited for the riders to come fully into view. And when they did, relief swept over many a man. Three of Caesar’s outriders with a native on a fourth horse. As they reined in, the general addressed them in a clear voice.

  “What news?”

  One of the scouts, a member of the Remi serving under Varus’ auxiliary units, saluted and spoke in clear, though accented, Latin.

  “This man is one of the Ambiani. He is w
ounded and was fleeing, sir. He is from a village on the banks of the Selle River.”

  Caesar shrugged.

  “Yes?”

  “The Selle is about ten miles north, Caesar. Not a wide or deep river, but it’s the border of Ambiani lands. But, Caesar…”

  “What?” demanded the general irritably.

  “He says the Nervii are on the north bank awaiting us.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “Did he say how many?

  The man shrugged.

  “I tried to ask him sir, but all he said was ‘all of them’. And not just the Nervii. He says he saw the standards of the Atrebates and the Viromandui and several small local tribes." He said there are too many to count. Like a field of wheat.”

  The general nodded thoughtfully, though Fronto frowned.

  “No sign of the Aduatuci?”

  The scout blinked in surprise and Caesar turned to glare at the legate.

  “The Aduatuci, Fronto? Explain?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “They’re a Belgic tribe from the east where…”

  “I know who they are, Fronto! My tent is littered with maps in case you hadn’t noticed. Why would you expect them?”

  Fronto looked momentarily taken aback. Galronus had told him about the Aduatuci, but hadn’t told Caesar? Was there a reason? Probably Galronus never got invited to briefings and never got asked. ‘Can’t drop him in it’, he thought to himself.

  “I heard the Remi levies talking. Apparently the Aduatuci are big supporters of the Nervii. Closest thing they have to allies. They’re very Germanic and they hate us. From what I’ve heard, I’m just surprised they’re not here. Perhaps we should be worrying about where they are?”

  Caesar fixed him with a long glance and then frowned.

  “I’d love to know where you hear these things, Fronto. I have men posted specifically to listen for gossip among both the legions and the levies and I never heard any such thing...”

  ‘Interesting’ thought Fronto. The fact that the general might be trying to infiltrate his own army had never occurred before, though it really should have done. He expected nothing less from the man.

  “How sure are you of your facts, Fronto?”

  “Positive, general. If the Aduatuci aren’t with the Nervii, then they’re either still on the way, or they’re waiting somewhere to close the door behind us when we meet the enemy.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Fronto. Timely as ever.”

  The scout cleared his throat.

  “There is something else, Caesar.”

  “What?”

  “The man says he saw the enemy rounding up all the local farmers. All the women, children, old men and so on have all been sent north. They were herded in hundreds on carts. The only people for many miles in any direction are either us, enemy warriors, or occasional Ambiani farmers who have been dispossessed by the Nervii.”

  Caesar grumbled under his breath. Fronto turned to Priscus, an unasked question in his eyes, but the primus pilus merely shrugged.

  The general leaned forward.

  “All their non-combatants are beyond our reach, then?”

  The man nodded.

  “They’ve been taken past a swamp, Caesar, to the north. It could take many days and many lives to find a way through to them.”

  The general leaned back again and then turned to address the staff and senior officers together.

  “Very well. We are ten miles from an enemy that outnumbers us and is prepared for us. They are so prepared, in fact, that they have withdrawn all non-combatants beyond our reach to remove any leverage and to clear out the locals that could cause trouble. This means we must be prepared for anything. If the Nervii have prepared this much, they have likely prepared more. We might encounter traps laid in the ground, siege engines, defensive works or anything. I have noted that the recent farms we passed have been harvested early; something I might note that none of my scouts seem to have spotted. An early harvest suggests to me that the Nervii have already removed any possible supplies we might draw from the natives, so we will be required to rely on the rations we carry, alongside anything that can be hunted and foraged as we travel. In other words, be alert and be prepared.”

  He turned back to the scouts and gestured Labienus to join them.

  “Take the chief engineer from each legion, along with two alae of cavalry and tribune Tetricus of the Tenth. Move ahead to the river opposite the Nervii and check the ground very, very carefully. Find the absolute best position for a camp and I want to know every inch of ground around that site. Once you’ve done so, return to the column immediately. As soon as we get there, I want camp set up immediately. I need to engage them on good ground, but they outnumber us two or three to one, so I want a good defensive position ready to begin with.

  Fronto stepped out from the front ranks of the Tenth.

  “Caesar? If I might suggest, it would be worth having some of the Remi forward there too. They know the enemy and their customs and they know the land better than us.”

  The general nodded.

  “Have Galronus join the advance party.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “I’d like to accompany them too, Caesar. I have an odd feeling about all of this.”

  Caesar shook his head quietly.

  “No, Fronto. We’re about to go to war against a very prepared enemy. Did you not hear what I’ve been saying? I want all of my legates to stay with their legions. I keep the same man with the same legion season after season for a reason, Fronto. You are tied to the Tenth like Balbus is tied to the Eighth. It makes you better officers and it makes them better legions.”

  “I’d still be more comfortable if I’d seen for myself what lay ahead, Caesar. As I said: I have a bad feeling.”

  The general laughed.

  “Keep you old woman superstitions under control, Fronto. Sacrifice a goat if you can find one, but I want you to stay with the Tenth until we are sure of what’s happening.”

  Fronto grumbled, but stepped back into line.

  * * * * *

  Paetus frowned and rubbed his chin. Once, as a young officer out in Spain during the revolt of Sertorius, he’d grown a beard. It was just easier on campaign, and the Spanish all seemed to be bearded anyway. But since he’d achieved higher position and returned from that campaign, he’d never considered it again, until now. He’d made the decision to leave very suddenly in the middle of the night-long session with Fronto.

  He felt bad about that. Fronto was one of the few truly decent men in Caesar’s army. He found himself thinking on that traitor Salonius from last year and wondering whether perhaps it was Salonius who had been the decent one, and not Caesar. Clearly not Caesar, in fact. But anyway, he’d decided he had to leave so suddenly and so urgently, fuelled by grief and drink, that he’d pommel-bashed poor Fronto, dropped the sword and ran. Unfortunately, that had left him in just his tunic, breeches and boots with no weapons or armour.

  Getting out of the camp had been ridiculously easy. He’d fallen in at the back of a group of off-duty legionaries who were leaving the fortification with a pass to go visit the oppidum, where the locals had thrown their taverns open to their new Roman allies, and had peeled off from the group once beyond and in the dark.

  Of course, that idiotic decision made under the influence of Fronto’s wine had resulted in him standing in a clearing in some woodland perhaps three miles from the camp, rapidly sobering and wondering where the hell he was and where he was planning to go. He didn’t even know which direction he’d been heading, until a short stroll through the woods had left him on the south bank of the river.

  He’d sat there, his mind gradually clearing, watching the dark waters rush by like his life seemed to be doing, and tried to think; tried to reason and decide what to do. Unlike many men of noble families in Rome, Paetus had actually fallen truly in love with his wife. Oh, he knew that her family were a liability; especially her idio
t father, but she was truly a beautiful rose that had grown from that bed of dung. And while he couldn’t care less what had happened to the old soak, Calida cared; he was her father after all, and for Calida’s sake, he’d looked after the fool. And now all of this had spun around and turned on him. He had lost his beloved Calida and the children, the future of the line. And three men were to blame.

  Calidus, the old arse, with his drinking, debauchery and gambling, that had brought his family to the brink of total poverty and had landed him in debt to one of the most notorious gangsters of Rome. He was the man who had actually started this whole mess. But there was no way for Paetus to take out his frustrations on his father in law, who would now be feeding the crows in Rome.

  Then of course, there was Publius Clodius Pulcher, the man who had given the orders to butcher Paetus’ family. Clodius had to be punished, but that was a task for the future. The man was rich and powerful and guarded by many henchmen. Moreover, he was hundreds of miles away in Rome, and currently far out of reach. Not forever though. By the waters of the Aisne, Paetus had vowed that one day he would find and kill the man. Personally. Enough to stare into Clodius’ eyes and tell the vicious shit why it was that he was dying.

  But there was a closer, more immediate problem. The third man. A man in whom he’d placed his trust and the lives of his family, and who had turned around and betrayed him, leaving Calida and the children to die at the hands of thugs without lifting a finger when he’d had the opportunity and the resources to save them easily. Yes, Caesar must suffer too. But that, again, was a thorny problem. Seven legions now stood between him and Caesar. Had he been thinking straight that night with Fronto, he would have bashed the legate and then taken the sword to the headquarters and cut the general’s throat there and then.

  But then he would be executed and unable to revenge himself on Clodius. A complex problem. He would have to finish Caesar in Gaul first; get him back to Rome so that he could devote all of his time and the remaining funds of the family to bringing the two men down. But first he must stop Caesar, and that meant stopping Rome.