“Oak won’t work for them,” said Vorenus. “We’ll have to find birches or ash forced to grow straight up.”
“More stones for the artillery,” said Pullo.
“Send some men down to the Mosa.”
Several more centurions ran off.
“Last,” said Pullo, “what about letting Caesar know?”
Quintus Cicero had to think about that. Thanks to his big brother, who had loathed Caesar ever since he had opposed the execution of the Catilinarian conspirators, Quintus tended to mistrust Caesar too. Not that these emotions had prevented big brother Cicero from begging that Caesar take Quintus as one of his legates and Gaius Trebatius as a tribune. Nor, though Caesar was well aware how Cicero felt, did Caesar refuse. Professional courtesies between consulars were obligatory.
But what the family tradition of Caesar-detestation meant was that Quintus Cicero didn’t know the General as well as most of his other legates did, nor had he yet found his feet in his dealings with the General. He had no idea how Caesar would react if one of his senior legates sent a message full of alarm when there was no better reason behind it than a pricking left thumb and a presentiment that big trouble was brewing. He had gone to Britannia with Caesar, an interesting experience, but not one which had allowed him to see what kind of latitude Caesar gave his legates. Caesar had been in personal command from beginning to end of the expedition.
A lot hinged on what answer he gave Pullo. If he made the wrong decision, he wouldn’t be asked to remain in Gaul an extra year or two; he would suffer the same fate as Servius Sulpicius Galba, who had botched his campaign in the high Alps and had not been asked to stay. No use believing the senatorial dispatches; they had lauded Galba. Though any militarily acute individual who read them could see immediately that Galba hadn’t pleased the General one little bit.
“I don’t think,” he said to Pullo finally, “that it would do any harm to let Caesar know. If I’m wrong, then I’ll take the reprimand I’ll deserve. But somehow, Pullo, I know I’m not wrong! Yes, I’ll write to Caesar at once.”
In all of this lay some good luck and some bad luck. The good luck was that the Nervii were not yet mustered to arms and therefore saw no sense in spying on the camp; they simply assumed that its denizens would be going about their normal business. This enabled Quintus Cicero to fell his trees and get them inside, and start building his walls and his extra sixty towers around the perimeter. It also enabled him to lay in a great store of good round two-pound rocks for his artillery. The bad luck was that the Nervian council had decided on war, so a watch had been put on the road south to Samarobriva, a hundred and fifty miles away.
Carried by the usual courier, Quintus Cicero’s rather diffident and apologetic letter was confiscated along with every other letter the courier carried. Then the courier was killed. Some of the Druids among the Nervii read Latin, so to them went the contents of the courier’s pouch for perusal. But Quintus had written in Greek, another consequence of that pricking thumb. It was only much later that he realized he must have been listening when Vertico had remarked that the Druids of the northern Belgae were schooled in Latin, not in Greek. In other parts of Gaul, the opposite might be true; usefulness determined the language.
Vertico agreed with Quintus Cicero: there was trouble coming.
“I’m so well known to be a partisan of Caesar’s that I’m not welcome in the councils these days,” the Nervian thane said, eyes anxious. “But several times during the last two days some of my serfs have seen warriors passing through my land, accompanied by their shield bearers and pack animals—as if going to a general muster. At this time of year they can’t be going to war in someone else’s territory. I think you are the target.”
“Then,” said Quintus Cicero briskly, “I suggest that you and your people move into camp with us. It may be a little cramped and not what you’re used to, but if we can hold the camp you’ll be safe. Otherwise you might find yourself the first to die. Is that acceptable?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Vertico, profoundly relieved. “You won’t run short because of us—I’ll bring every grain of wheat we have—all the chickens and livestock—and plenty of charcoal.”
“Excellent!” said Quintus Cicero, beaming. “We’ll put all of you to work, never think we won’t.”
*
Five days after the courier was killed, the Nervii attacked. Perturbed because he should have had a reply, Quintus Cicero had already sent a second letter off, but this courier too was intercepted. Instead of killing him outright, the Nervii tortured him first, and learned that Quintus Cicero and the Ninth were working frantically to strengthen the camp’s fortifications.
The muster was complete; the Nervii moved immediately. Their progress was very different from a Roman march, even one at the double, for they ran at a tireless lope which ate up the miles, each warrior accompanied by his shield bearer, his body slave and a burdened pony on which were loaded his dozen spears, his mail shirt if he had one, his food, his beer, his checkered shawl of moss green and earthy orange, and a wolf pelt for warmth at night; his two servants carried their own needs upon their backs. Nor did they run in any kind of formation. The fleetest were the first to arrive, the slowest the last to arrive. But the last man of all did not come; he who arrived last to the muster was sacrificed to Esus, the god of battle, his body strung from a branch in the sacred oak grove.
It took all day for the Nervii to assemble outside the camp, while the Ninth hammered and sawed frantically; the wall and its raised breastworks were quite finished, but the extra sixty towers were still rising and the many thousands of sharpened stakes were still hardening in a hundred charcoal fires wherever there was enough vacant ground.
“Good, we’ll work all night,” said Quintus Cicero, pleased. “They won’t attack today, they’ll have a proper rest first.”
A proper rest for the Nervii turned out to be about an hour; the sun had set when they stormed the walls of the camp in their thousands, filling up the ditches with leafy branches, using their gaudy, feather-bedecked spears as hand holds to haul themselves up the log walls. But the Ninth was up on top of the walls, each two men with one of the long siege spears to take the Nervii in the face as they climbed. Other men stood atop the partially finished towers, using this additional height to launch their pila with deadly accuracy. And all the while from within the camp the ballistae lobbed two-pound river rocks over the walls into the boiling masses of warriors.
Full night brought a cessation to the hostilities, but not to the battle frenzy of the Nervii, who leaped and shrieked and howled for a mile in every direction around the camp; the light of twenty thousand torches banished the darkness and showed up the capering figures wielding them, bare chests coppered, hair like frozen manes, eyes and teeth flashing brief sparks as they turned and reeled, bounced into the air, roared, screamed, flung up their torches, caught them like jugglers.
“Isn’t this terrific, boys?” Quintus Cicero would shout as he bustled about the camp, checking on the charcoal fires, the artillerymen toiling stripped of their mail shirts, the baggage animals snorting and stamping in their stalls at so much noise. “Isn’t it terrific? The Nervii are giving us all the light we need to finish our towers! Come on, boys, buckle down to it! What do you think this is, the harem of Sampsiceramus?”
Then his back began to ache, and came an agonizing pain which shot down his left leg and forced him to limp. Oh, not now! Not an attack of that! It sent him crawling to his bed for days on end, a moaning rag. Not now! How could he crawl off to his bed when everyone depended on him? If the commander succumbed, what would happen to morale? So Quintus Cicero clenched his teeth and limped onward, finding from somewhere the resolution to unclench his teeth, smile, joke, tell the men how terrific they were, how nice it was of the Nervii to light up the sky…
*
Every day the Nervii attacked, filled up the ditches, tried to scale the walls, and every day the Ninth repulsed them, hooked the leafy branche
s out of the ditches, killed Nervii.
Every night Quintus Cicero wrote another letter in Greek to Caesar, found a slave or a Gaul willing to carry it for a huge sum of money, and sent the man off through the darkness.
Every day the Nervii brought the previous night’s courier to a prominent spot, brandished the letter, capered and shrieked until the courier was put to a fresh torture from the pincers or the knives or the hot irons, when they would fall silent and let the courier’s screams rip through the appalled Roman camp.
“We can’t give in,” Quintus Cicero would say to the soldiers as he limped his rounds; “don’t give those mentulae the pleasure or the satisfaction!”
Whereupon the men he addressed would grin, give him a wave, ask about his back, call the Nervii names big brother Cicero would have fainted to hear, and fight on.
Then came Titus Pullo, face grim. “Quintus Cicero, we have a new problem,” he said harshly.
“What?” asked the commander, keeping the weariness from his voice and trying to stand straight.
“They’ve diverted our water. The stream’s dried up.”
“You know what to do, Pullo. Start digging wells. Upstream from the latrines. And start digging cesspits.” He giggled. “I’d pitch in and help, but I’m afraid I’m not in a digging mood.”
Pullo’s face softened: was there ever such a cheerful and unquenchable commander as Quintus Cicero, bad back and all?
Twenty days after that first assault the Nervii were still attacking every morning. The supply of couriers had dried up along with the water, and Quintus Cicero had to face the fact that not one of his messages had got through the Nervian lines. Well, no other choice than to continue resistance. Fight the bastards off during the day, use the nights to repair the damage and make a supply of whatever might come in useful the following dawn—and wonder how long it would be before the dysentery and the fevers commenced. Oh, what he’d do to the Nervii if he lived to get out of this! The men of the Ninth were still unbroken, still in good spirits, still working frantically when they were not fighting frantically.
The dysentery and the fevers started, but suddenly there were worse problems to cope with.
The Nervii built a few siege towers—not a patch on Roman siege towers, naturally, but fully capable of wreaking havoc when they were close enough to serve as platforms for Nervii spears. And for a bombardment of Nervii boulders.
“Where did they get their artillery from?” cried the commander to Vorenus. “If those aren’t trusty Roman ballistae, then I’m not the great Cicero’s little brother!”
But since Vorenus didn’t know any more than Quintus Cicero did that the artillery came from the abandoned camp of the Thirteenth Legion, the appearance of Roman ballistae was simply an additional worry—did it mean all Gaul was in revolt, that other legions had been attacked and defeated, that even if the messages had gotten through, no one was alive to answer?
The stones were bearable, but then the Nervii became more innovative. At the same moment as they launched a fresh assault on the walls, they loaded the ballistae with blazing bundles of dry sticks and shot them into the camp. Even the sick were manning the walls, so there were few to put out the fires which began all over that town of wooden houses, few to blindfold the terrified baggage animals and lead them into the open. Slaves, noncombatants and Vertico’s people tried to split themselves in two and cope with this new horror while doing all the other things they had to in order to keep the Ninth fighting atop the walls. But so strong was the Ninth’s morale that the soldiers never even turned their heads to see their precious possessions and food go up in flames, fanned by a bitter early winter wind. They stayed where they were and fought the Nervii to a standstill.
In the midst of the fiercest attack, Pullo and Vorenus took a bet that each was braver than the other, and demanded that the Ninth be the judges. One of the siege towers was pushed so close that it touched the camp wall; the Nervii began to use it as a bridge to leap onto the defenders. Pullo produced a torch and flung it, rising from behind the shelter of his shield; Vorenus produced another torch and rose even higher from behind his shield to fling it at the siege tower. Back and forth, back and forth, until the siege tower was blazing and the Nervii fled, their stiffened hair in flames. Pullo grabbed a bow and quiver of arrows and demonstrated that he’d served with Cretan archers by nocking and shooting in one fluid movement and never missing. Vorenus countered by stacking pila and throwing them with equal speed and grace—and never missing. Neither man sustained a scratch, and when the attack ebbed the Ninth shook their heads. The verdict was a draw.
“It’s the turning point as well as the thirtieth day,” said Quintus Cicero when the darkness came and the Nervii wandered off in undisciplined hordes.
He had summoned a little council: himself, Pullo, Vorenus and Vertico.
“You mean we’ll win?” asked Pullo, astonished.
“I mean we’ll lose, Titus Pullo. They’re getting craftier every day, and from somewhere they’ve got hold of Roman gear.” He groaned and beat his fist on his thigh. “Oh, ye Gods, somehow we have to get a message through their lines!” He turned to Vertico. “I won’t ask another man to go, yet someone has to go. And right here and now we have to work out a way to make sure that whichever man we send can survive a search if he’s apprehended. Vertico, you’re the Nervian. How do we do it?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Vertico in his halting Latin. “First of all, it has to be someone who can pass for a Nervian warrior. There are Menapii and Condrusi out there too now, but I don’t have access to shawls of the right pattern. Otherwise it would be better to pass the man off as one of them.” He stopped, sighed. “How much food survived the fireballs?”
“Enough for seven or eight days,” said Vorenus, “though the men are so sick they’re not eating much. Maybe ten days.”
Vertico nodded. “Then it will have to be this. Someone who can pass for a Nervian warrior because he is Nervian. I’d go myself, but I’d be recognized immediately. One of my serfs is willing to go. He’s a clever fellow, thinks on his feet.”
“That’s well and good!” growled Pullo, face filthy, tunic of metal scales ripped from neck to sword belt. “I see the sense of it. But it’s the search worries me. We put the last note up the messenger’s rectum, but those bastards still found it. Jupiter! I mean, maybe your man will get through without being accosted, but if he is accosted, he’ll be searched. They’ll find a note no matter where it is, and if they don’t, they’ll torture him.”
“Look,” said Vertico, wrenching a Nervian spear out of the ground nearby.
It was not a Roman weapon, but it was workmanlike; a long wooden shaft with a large leaf-shaped iron head. As the long-haired Gauls loved color and decoration, it was not naked. At the place where the thrower held it, the shaft was covered by a woven webbing in the Nervian colors of moss green and earthy orange, and from the webbing, secured by loops, there dangled three goose feathers dyed moss green and earthy orange.
“I understand why the message has to be in writing. Caesar might not believe a message from the mouth of a Nervian warrior. But write your message in the smallest script upon the thinnest paper, Quintus Cicero. And while you write, I’ll have my women unpick the webbing on a spear which looks used but not warped. Then we’ll wrap the message around the spear shaft and cover it with the webbing.” Vertico shrugged. “That’s the best I can suggest. They search every orifice; they search every scrap of clothing, every strand of hair. But if the webbing is perfect, I don’t think it will occur to them to take it off.”
Vorenus and Pullo were nodding; Quintus Cicero nodded to them and limped off to his wooden house, unburned. There he sat down as he was and took the thinnest piece of paper he could find. His Greek script was tiny.
I write in Greek because they have Latin. Urgent. Under attack from Nervii for thirty days. Water sour, latrines infested. Men sick. Holding out, don’t know how. Can’t much longer. Nervii have Roman gear
, shooting fireballs. Food up in smoke. Get help to us or we’re dead men. Quintus Tullius Cicero Legatus.
The Nervian serf belonging to Vertico was a perfect warrior type; had his station in life been higher, he would have been a warrior. But serfs were a superior kind of slave, could be put to torture, and would never be allowed to fight for the tribe. Their lot was to farm; they were lowly enough to use a plough. Yet the man stood calmly and looked unafraid. Yes, thought Quintus Cicero, he would have made a good warrior. More fool the Nervii for not allowing their lowly to fight, but lucky for me and the Ninth. He’ll pass muster.
“All right,” he said, “we’ve got a chance to get this to Caesar, but how does Caesar get his message to us? I have to be able to tell the men that help is coming or they might go under from sheer despair. It will take Caesar time to find enough legions, but I must be able to say that help is coming.”
Vertico smiled. “Getting a message in isn’t as difficult as getting one out. When my serf returns, I’ll tell him to attach one yellow feather to the spear bearing Caesar’s answer.”
“It’ll stick out like dog’s balls!” cried Pullo, aghast.
“So I would hope. However, I don’t think anyone will be looking too closely at spears flying into the camp. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him not to attach the yellow feather until just before he throws,” said Vertico, grinning.
*
Caesar got the spear two days after the Nervian serf passed through the Nervian lines.
Because the forest to the south of Quintus Cicero’s camp was too dense for a man on an urgent mission to negotiate, the serf had no choice but to travel on the road to Samarobriva. It was so heavily guarded that it was inevitable he would be stopped sooner or later, though he did well, evaded the first three watches. The fourth watch detained him. He was stripped, his orifices probed, his hair, his clothes. But the webbing on the spear was perfect; the message lay beneath it undetected. The serf had lacerated his forehead with a piece of rough bark until it looked like the result of a blow; he swayed, mumbled, rolled his eyes, endured the search ungraciously and tried to kiss the leader of the watch. Deeming him hopelessly concussed, the leader let him go south, laughing.
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