The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

The nobleman gestured to the oppidum and, squinting, Fronto followed his finger. The walls atop the great rock were lined with Aduatuci, and not just warriors, but women and children too, all making a great noise and gesturing.

  “Aduatuci are clever” Galronus stated flatly. “They know what tower is for. They know they trapped and outnumbered. So why they make fun of you.”

  “Make fun?” Fronto stared.

  “They ask how such small men push such a big thing and they laugh.”

  Fronto grumbled.

  “They’re entitled to their fun, I suppose. Bravery in the face of certain defeat is hardly unknown, and you Belgae are, if nothing else, a brave people.”

  Galronus nodded.

  “Brave, true, but this stupid.”

  He turned suddenly and grasped Fronto by the upper arms.

  “Do not trust Aduatuci. Something wrong.”

  Fronto stared at Galronus, but his mind was whirling and he barely heard what the man had said to him. Instinctively as the man grasped his arms, Fronto had flinched; with both arms! His left arm had twitched. He stared down at the limb as the nobleman let go and he tried to move it. It hurt like hell and felt like trying to lift an ox with his finger, but there was definite movement.

  His arm was alive. Damn it all, his arm was healing!

  He grinned, first at Galronus, then at Crispus, and then back at the auxiliary officer again. Laughing, he slapped the man on the shoulder and grinned.

  “Thank you, Galronus. Thank you very, very much!”

  The man stared at him as though the legate had gone mad and he opened his mouth to speak, but Fronto shook his head.

  “If they’re up to something we have to pre-empt them.”

  He grasped Crispus and marched with him back towards the command party, where Caesar stood, flanked by Sabinus and Varus on the walkway near the gate.

  “What’s happening?” Crispus asked as he rushed alongside his peer across the causeway and in through the gate. A short climb up the boarded steps and they reached the parapet of the rampart. Sabinus turned with a smile.

  “What’s got you so animated, Fronto?”

  As the general and several of his staff officers turned to look at the two legates, Fronto pointed with his good arm, pausing only a second to twitch his left, at the oppidum.

  “The Aduatuci are up to something. We’ve been speaking to Galronus and he’s convinced of it. They’re up there laughing at us while we work on the engines of their destruction. They’re trapped and as good as dead, but they’re in high spirits. Whatever they’re planning we need to pre-empt it.”

  “And what do you suggest, Fronto?”

  “They’re laughing at us because they have a plan. We’ve already dealt with one almighty balls-up in this campaign because we underestimated them. Let’s not do it again. Get the legions back from across the river. Have the plates and bridge attached to the tower as fast as they can be. Tetricus said it would all be ready to go by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll bet if we pushed him, he could have it ready in the morning.”

  Caesar stared at him.

  “Fronto, you are the man who keeps telling me to listen to the engineers and to slow down and not throw troops away. And now you want me to launch a massive barely-prepared attack ahead of schedule? Is this one of your ‘bad feelings’ again?”

  Fronto glared at him.

  “Don’t make me sound like a superstitious lunatic, general. This is logical. Sensible even. Galronus knows these people better than all of us. He thinks they’re up to something, and I think he’s right. Hell, if there were plates on that tower, I’d launch the attack right now.”

  Caesar shook his head.

  “Whether it be logic or the Gods you think are driving you, Fronto, we’re not prepared for the attack. If it keeps you happy, treble the watch tonight and have everyone on standby, but we move when things are in position as planned.”

  Fronto’s teeth ground together, but the general’s face was set. He would not be persuaded. The legate turned and marched back down the slope and out of the gate, toward the First Cohort of the Tenth, standing in parade formation beside the tower, which was now upright and being secured onto its wheeled base. Locating the primus pilus at one end of the front line, he strode across, blinking as he passed suddenly from the sunlight into the deep shadow of the enormous tower, and then back out again.

  “Priscus!”

  The primus pilus of the Tenth, already at attention, saluted.

  “Sir?”

  “Come with me.”

  Priscus exchanged brief words with his signifer and then strode across to join the legate, who had walked back across the grass and was gesturing at Galronus. The three men converged at a spot not far from the impressive tower.

  “Fronto?” A combined greeting and question from the Remi officer.

  Fronto grinned at the two men with him.

  “I have another suicidally reckless mission, and I’m looking for volunteers.”

  * * * * *

  Labienus took a deep breath, acutely aware that he was, right now, not a staff officer, general, legate or any sort of soldier, but the very embodiment and representation of Rome herself. What happened at this council could shape the future of Gaul, the Belgae and Rome. And it was all down to him. Well, in truth there were others, but the responsibility rested in him. Procillus and Mettius would take on the minutia, dealing with the details, but it was up to him to make the impression.

  And so, this morning, once he’d been informed that the last of the chieftains had arrived, he had been to check over his preparations once again. In the six days since the fort was completed, all of the interior buildings had been replaced with permanent wooden structures. An aqueduct had been dug, lined and paved from a spring a quarter of a mile to the north, and even now a bathhouse was almost complete outside the walls.

  But despite these great advances, there was a more important achievement.

  He, Pomponius, and an Aedui auxiliary cavalry prefect by the name of Septimius had entered the oppidum of Nemetocenna that second morning, entirely alone; no honour guard or legionaries; on foot and unarmed. The surprise that registered on the faces of the Atrebates inhabitants had made him smile. The three men, in their best dress uniforms, had found their way to the centre of the oppidum and located the council hut, or chief’s hut, or whatever they called it. Septimius, a Gaul who could speak their tongue, had accosted a frightened-looking fish seller and asked who was currently in charge. After much conversation, the man hurried off and brought back an old man; a nobleman presumably, who had been too old to go to war. He had limped into the square and stopped in front of the Romans. And so, Labienus had made contact with the Atrebates on a personal level.

  They had asked permission, politely, of the old man, to use the long building for the upcoming council and the man had shrugged and, somewhat bitterly, told them to do whatever they wanted.

  So, as Labienus had planned, he now walked in to a council chamber that was both Belgic and Roman. He had had two of the engineers manufacture glass panes. Oh, it was rough stuff, not being the forte of military manufacturers, but it let in the light and kept out the wind. Consequently the interior was light and warm, the fire pit in the centre blazing away.

  By the door there were two tables on which stood flasks of beer and amphorae of good wine from the famous vineyards of Pompeii. Glasses and mugs rested there waiting to be filled. A trough of clean water for washing sat close by, and two more tables, awaiting food that would be provided by the soldiers later.

  The most important change that he’d wrung from this building, though, was the furniture. Previously the walls had been decorated with the standards and armaments of the Atrebates, while the floor was covered with skins and furs to sit on while looking up at the great wooden throne of the chief. These were gone. Well, not entirely; one wall retained the symbols of Belgic pride and power. The other held Roman standards and maps of both the Empire and of Gallic and Belgic territory
. And between these two symbols stood a ring of seats, equal in size and quality; one for each of the chiefs that had been summoned and five for he, Procillus, Mettius, Pomponius and Septimius.

  The door swung shut behind the Roman contingent and Labienus cast his gaze around the room. The leaders of the tribes turned in their seats to look at him. He was saddened by the fact that several of them were either far too old to have fought in the battles, or much younger than one would expect. Several of these men had only ruled their people for a matter of weeks, and several had few people to rule.

  “Good morning” he announced loudly. “I understand that many of you cannot speak my language, so prefect Septimius here will translate for those of you who cannot.”

  Next to him, the Aeduan auxiliary rattled off the translation in a passable Belgic dialect. Silence greeted both his words and their echo. Hoping this was not a sign of things to come, Labienus strode through the room and found a free seat. The other Romans also sat, flanking him.

  “Two of my men at the back will be coming round as we converse, offering you local beer or wine brought from Italia. I urge you to try the wine, but will understand if you do not. Meats, cheese, and bread will be brought at noon.”

  Again, as Septimius’ echo died away, the room remained stony silent.

  “Very well, I can see that none of you is interested in entering into neighbourly negotiations. I can entirely understand that, but let me lay out a few truths for you…”

  Next to him, Septimius continued to translate. The looks on several of the older chiefs hardened.

  “You are a proud people and you see us as an occupying enemy. To a point, you are correct. However, I will point this out: Rome currently has treaties with most of the tribes of Gaul and legate Crassus has taken the eagle as far as the western sea. Caesar is, as we speak, completing his campaign. Rome is here and no matter how much you may wish it or pray to your Gods for it, Rome is not going to go away.”

  He waited for Septimius to catch up.

  “But there are benefits we bring. With Rome as your partner, you need never fear incursions from across the Rhine again. You will prosper. Our traders will bring exotic goods from desert lands further than any Celt has ever travelled, and in return will purchase your own wares.”

  Another pause.

  “Rome brings peace and prosperity… but…” he smiled. “For those of you who just like to fight, we can use a good warrior!”

  As Septimius translated that last, a laugh actually went up from a few of the chiefs and low muttered conversation started here and there. Labienus waited for a moment. This was the breakthrough, but he mustn’t waste it. He could lose them any minute.

  “Quite seriously, my lords,” he said, giving that last the most respect his could muster, ”we are at a junction. We have warred against you and, without wanting to play any naming games, the Belgae initiated hostilities.”

  He noted the change in several of the chief’s faces. He almost ruined it there, but it needed to be said. They must be aware of everything pertinent to this meeting.

  “But that war is over. And while there will always be those who will seek confrontation, I myself have seen firsthand both the horrors and stupidity that go hand in hand with the glory and booty.”

  He took a deep breath. Here was the other point where he could lose them.

  “Six miles north of where we fought a hard battle against worthy opponents, including your own warriors, we found the elderly, the women and the children of your people who live south of that field. Every single person there had taken their own life rather than co-exist with Rome, which is, frankly, idiotic.”

  The room had gone quiet once again.

  “Traditionally, Rome has taken slaves after a campaign, yes. And yes, it still happens, but we do not rape and murder, nor do we enslave entire peoples. So, as I say, the war is over. As far as Rome is concerned, we have peace with you all. What you do with that peace is up to you, but I urge you to think on this: You have all lost greatly. What you need now is time to grow and heal once again, and Rome is willing to help you and support you in this.”

  There were gentle murmurings around the room.

  “Rome is not a city; it is an idea. An idea that encompasses all who let it. The tribes of the Alps or the southern coast have considered themselves part of that idea for generations now and they have wine, and aqueducts and theatres and arenas and…” he gestured at the walls of the hut. “And windows… and most of all, they have peace.”

  He leaned back in his seat.

  “I have the authority to represent Caesar and Rome, and I am here to open negotiations with you. My proposal is this:”

  He stood.

  “Each tribe signs a treaty with Rome. Each tribe will donate money and goods to Caesar’s army, in quantities to be determined later, but that will not exceed what each tribe can easily spare. Each tribe will supply troops for the army, proportionate to both the size of the tribe and the current manpower available. Each tribe will open their gates to Rome and its couriers, soldiers and merchants.”

  He noted the sourness to the silence now.

  “In return, Rome will, as we are currently doing with a few of your tribes, train your warriors in the art of Roman warfare. We will give you engineers that will help you improve your lot. We will grant trade concessions such that you will pay no tax on imports from Roman merchants. You will receive the protection of our army and limited rights under Roman law. Once your levies and tithes are made there will be a consolidation period of three years during which you can heal your land and your people and return to strength before a standard provincial tax is levied, by which time you will be able to afford it.”

  He smiled.

  “Nemetocenna will become the focus of Roman influence here; a garrison town and a capital, but each of your civitas… your most important oppida will receive attention, to help them grow and become strong and important. In short, we need to take, but we also wish to give. Not a conquest, but a partnership.”

  One of the older chieftains waved a hand at him and rattled something off in their own tongue. Septimius translated quickly.

  “He says that what you offer is for them to stop being Belgae and become Romans, and that is no choice.”

  Labienus shook his head.

  “Rome is an embracing mother. Some of our peoples speak Greek rather than Latin. Some speak their own African languages. We do not stop them worshipping their own Gods… indeed, we take their Gods into our own pantheon. You have a sacred grove here in Nemetocenna. It may have escaped your notice, but if you watch, you will see our men going to pour libations and make offerings there. We do not seek to stamp out your culture, but to learn from it and embrace it.”

  He laughed.

  “One of my good friends, a senior officer in our army, has lost his taste for good Campanian wine, favouring Gallic beer. This partnership I speak of can only succeed if we try to make it so, but it will also only fail if you make it. Now, the whole point of negotiation is that all points are flexible. I have made the opening offer. Tell me what it is that you seek and we will find an arrangement that suits us all.”

  There was a long silence, during which two legionaries came round with drinks. Several chiefs waved them on and, as Labienus watched, a young chief of perhaps seventeen years, hovered for a moment over a mug of beer and then, with a smile, selected a glass of Pompeian. The young nobleman looked up at Labienus and spoke in his guttural language, the translation by Septimius almost instantaneous.

  “There are eighteen tribes of the Belgae. Only seventeen are here. What news of the Aduatuci?”

  Labienus stopped for a moment and selected a mug of beer. Time to build bridges, but… what news of the Aduatuci, indeed?

  * * * * *

  Fronto growled as he held the end of the rope to stop it flapping around. The others were absolutely right, of course. There was no way he could have climbed the cliffs with them, but he’d been expecting to tie the
rope around his waist and for them to haul him up afterwards. Priscus had told him in fairly blunt terms that they couldn’t risk taking a one-armed man with them, and he’d been left with the job of guarding the rope. Above him, the long cord wobbled as the four men climbed.

  His plan for a few men dressed as Gauls to sneak into the oppidum and try to ascertain what it was the Aduatuci were up to appeared to proceeding adequately without him. Priscus and Galronus had each selected a man to take with them; Galronus had chosen a Remi warrior who had visited this place before, while Priscus selected a man called Mutiatus, renowned for his climbing ability.

  Mutiatus had climbed the cliff in three stages, one stretch at a time, anchoring a rope and then returning for another coil to manage the next stretch. The whole process had taken well over an hour, but now there were three ropes that reached up the side of the oppidum, and Fronto’s scouts were climbing them to the unknown dangers above. The legate grumbled again as the movement on the rope ceased. That meant that Galronus was over a third of the way up. Priscus must be at the top by now.

  The edge of the oppidum was unwalled at this point. There was no real need for man-made defences here; no army could climb the cliff in sufficient numbers to pose a threat. Instead, the ground had been cleared of scrub and bushes so that, if the need arose, the defenders could gather at the edge and cast rocks and missiles at any attackers.

  Priscus dropped into a crouch next to Mutiatus as the other two reached the cliff edge behind him. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. With no shield of armour, he was dressed like the other three: a bare minimum. Gallic clothes and boots, a sheathed Celtic sword and a helmet to hide his Roman features. Mutiatus wore the same, and the two Remi could manage without helmets.

  He scanned the scene from where he crouched. There were a number of oak and ash trees scattered around that provided the only cover until they reached the first buildings. The construction here was much like the rest of the Gallic and Belgic settlements he’d seen: stone courses at the bottom with timber construction above and thatched roofs. There seemed to be no plan to this part of the town, with houses scattered like the trees, each with its own little garden.