It was early evening when he arrived, utterly exhausted; Samarobriva was immediately plunged into a disciplined frenzy of activity. One messenger went at a gallop to Marcus Crassus, twenty-five miles away; he was ordered to bring the Eighth on the double to garrison Samarobriva in the General’s absence. A second messenger galloped for Portus Itius and Gaius Fabius, who was ordered to take the Seventh and march for the lands of the Atrebates; Caesar would meet him on the Scaldis River. A third messenger galloped for the camp of Labienus on the Mosa to apprise him of developments, but Caesar didn’t order his second-in-command to join the rescue mission. He left that decision to Labienus, who he privately thought might be in like case to Quintus Cicero.
At dawn the whole of Samarobriva could see Marcus Crassus’s column in the distance. Caesar left with the Tenth at once.
Two legions, each a little under full strength; that was all the General could bring to the relief of Quintus Cicero. Nine thousand precious men, veterans. There could be no more of these stupid mistakes. How many Nervii? Fifty thousand had stayed to die on the field several years before, but it was a very populous tribe. Yes, there could be as many as fifty thousand more around the beleaguered camp of the Ninth. Good legion. Oh, not dead!
Fabius made good time to the Scaldis; he met up with Caesar as if they were engaged in a complicated drill maneuver upon the Campus Martius. Neither man had needed to wait an hour for the other. Seventy more miles to go. But how many Nervii? Nine thousand men, no matter how veteran, wouldn’t stand a chance in the open.
Caesar had sent the Nervian serf on ahead in a gig as far as he dared, since he couldn’t ride, under instructions to send the spear back into Quintus Cicero’s camp with a yellow feather tied to it. But he was a serf, not a warrior. He did his best, hoping to get the spear over the breastworks into the Roman camp. Instead it buried itself in the junction between the breastworks and the log wall, and there undetected it remained for two days.
Quintus Cicero got it scant hours before a column of smoke above the trees told him that Caesar had arrived; he was on the point of despair because no one had seen a spear with a yellow feather on it, though every pair of eyes had searched until they watered, fancied yellow in everything.
Coming. Only nine thousand men. Can’t just rush in. Need to scout and find a piece of ground where nine thousand can beat many thousands. Bound to be an Aquae Sextiae here somewhere. How many of them are there? Get a message to me with details. Your Greek is good, surprisingly idiomatic. Gaius Julius Caesar Imperator.
The sight of that yellow feather sent the exhausted Ninth into paroxysms of cheers, and Quintus Cicero into a fit of weeping. Wiping his indescribably dirty face with an equally dirty hand, he sat down, aching back and crippled leg forgotten, and wrote to Caesar while Vertico got another spear and serf ready.
Estimate sixty thousand. Whole tribe here, serious muster. Not all Nervii. Notice lots of Menapii and Condrusi, hence the numbers. We will last. Find your Aquae Sextiae. Gauls getting a bit careless, got us burning alive in the wicker cages already. Notice more drinking, less enthusiasm. Your Greek isn’t bad either. Quintus Tullius Cicero Legatus Superstes.
Caesar got the letter at midnight; the Nervii had massed to attack him, but darkness intervened, and that was one night the messenger detection squad forgot to operate. The Tenth and the Seventh were spoiling for a fight, but Caesar wouldn’t oblige them until he found a field and built a camp similar to the one at which Gaius Marius and his thirty-seven thousand men had beaten a hundred and eighty thousand Teutones over fifty years before.
It took him two more days to find his Aquae Sextiae, but when he did, the Tenth and the Seventh trounced the Nervii—and accorded them no mercy. Quintus Cicero had been right: the length of the siege and its fruitless outcome had eroded both morale and temper. The Nervii were drinking heavily but not eating much, though their two allies, having come later to the war, fared better at Caesar’s Aquae Sextiae.
The camp of the Ninth was a shambles. Most of its housing had crumbled to ashes; mules and oxen wandered hungrily and added their bellows to the cacophony of cheers which greeted Caesar and his two legions when they marched inside. Not one man in ten was without a wound of some kind, and all of them were sick.
The Tenth and Seventh set to with a will, undammed the stream and sent good clean water through, cheerfully demolished the log wall to build fires and heat water for baths, took the Ninth’s filthy clothing and washed it, stalled the animals in some measure of comfort, and scoured the countryside for food. The baggage train came up with enough to keep men and animals content, and Caesar paraded the Ninth before the Tenth and the Seventh. He had no decorations with him, but awarded them anyway; Pullo and Vorenus, already possessed of silver torcs and phalerae, got gold torcs and phalerae.
“If I could, Quintus Cicero, I’d give you the Grass Crown for saving your legion,” said Caesar.
Quintus Cicero nodded, beaming. “You can’t, Caesar, I know that. Rules are rules. The Ninth saved themselves; I just helped a bit around the edges. Oh, but aren’t they wonderful boys?”
“The very best.”
*
The next day the three legions pulled out, the Tenth and the Ninth headed for the comfort and safety of Samarobriva, the Seventh for Portus Itius. Even had Caesar wanted to, it wasn’t possible to keep the camp among the Nervii going. The land was eaten out where it wasn’t trampled to mud, and most of the Nervii lay dead.
“I’ll sort out the Nervii in the spring, Vertico,” said Caesar to his partisan. “A pan-Gallic conference. You won’t lose by helping me and mine, so much I promise. Take everything here and what we have left; it’ll tide you over.”
So Vertico and his people returned to their village, Vertico to resume the life of a Nervian thane, and the serf to go back to his plough. For it was not in the nature of those people to elevate a man above the station he was born to, even as thanks for great services; custom and tradition were too strong. Nor did the serf expect to be rewarded. He did the winter things he was supposed to, obeyed Vertico exactly as before, sat by the fire at night with his wife and children, and said nothing. Whatever he felt and thought he kept to himself.
*
Caesar rode upstream along the Mosa with a small escort of cavalry, leaving his legates and legions to find their own way home. It had become imperative that he see Titus Labienus, who had sent a message that the Treveri were too restless to permit of his coming to help, but had not yet summoned up the courage to attack him; his camp bordered the lands of the Remi, which meant he had help close at hand.
“Cingetorix is worried that his influence among the Treveri is waning,” said Labienus. “Ambiorix is working very hard to swing the men who matter onto Indutiomarus’s side. Slaughtering the Thirteenth did wonders for Ambiorix—he’s now a hero.”
“His slaughtering the Thirteenth gave the Celtae all sorts of delusions of power too,” Caesar said. “I’ve just had a note from Roscius informing me that the Armorici started massing the moment they heard. Luckily they still had eight miles to go when the news of the defeat of the Nervii reached them.” He grinned. “Suddenly Roscius’s camp lost all its appeal. They turned round and went home. But they’ll be back.”
Labienus scowled. “And winter’s barely here. Once spring comes, we’re going to be in the shit. And we’re down a legion.”
They were standing in the weak sun outside Labienus’s good wooden house, looking out over the serried ranks of buildings which spread in three directions before them; the commander’s house was always in the center of the north side, with little behind save storage sheds and depots.
This was a cavalry camp, so it was much larger than one required to do no more than shelter and protect infantry. The rule of thumb for infantry was half a square mile per legion for a winter sojourn (a short-term camp was a fifth this size), with the men billeted ten to a house— eight soldiers and two servant noncombatants. Each century of eighty soldiers and twenty nonco
mbatants occupied its own little lane, with the centurion’s house at the open end of the lane and a stable for the century’s ten mules and the six oxen or mules which pulled its single wagon closing off the other end. Houses for the legates and military tribunes were ranked along the Via Principalis on either side of the commander’s quarters, together with the quaestor’s quarters (which were bigger because he ran the legion’s supplies, accounts, bank and burial club), surrounded by enough open space to hold issue lines; another open space on the opposite side of the commander’s house served as a forum wherein the legions assembled. It was mathematically so precise that when camp was pitched every man knew exactly where he had to go, and this extended to night camps on the road or field camps when battle was imminent; even the animals knew whereabouts they had to go.
Labienus’s camp was two square miles in extent, for he had two thousand Aeduan horse troopers as well as the Eleventh Legion. Each trooper had two horses and a groom as well as a beast of burden, so Labienus’s camp accommodated four thousand horses and two thousand mules in snug winter stables, and their two thousand owners in commodious houses.
Labienus’s camps were inevitably sloppy, for he ruled by fear rather than logic, didn’t care if the stables were not mucked out once a day or if the lanes filled up with rubbish. He also permitted women to live in his winter camp. This Caesar did not object to as much as he did to the look of disorder and the stench of six thousand unclean animals plus ten thousand unclean men. Since Rome couldn’t field its own cavalry, it had to rely upon non-citizen levies, and these foreigners always had their own code. They also had to be let do things their way. Which in turn meant that the Roman citizen infantry also had to be allowed women; otherwise winter camp would have been a nightmare of resentful citizens brawling with indulged non-citizens.
However, Caesar said nothing. Squalor and terror stalked one on either side of Titus Labienus, but he was brilliant. No one led cavalry better save Caesar himself, whose duties as the General did not permit him to lead cavalry. Nor was Labienus a disappointment when leading infantry. Yes, a very valuable man, and an excellent second-in-command. A pity that he couldn’t tame the savage in himself, that was all. His punishments were so famous that Caesar never gave him the same legion or legions twice during long stays in camp; when the Eleventh heard that it was to winter with Labienus its men groaned, then resolved to be good boys and hoped that the following winter would see it with Fabius or Trebonius, strict commanders yet not unmerciful.
“The first thing I have to do when I return to Samarobriva is to write to Mamurra and Ventidius in Italian Gaul,” Caesar said. “I’m down to seven legions, and the Fifth Alauda is grossly under-strength because I’ve been tapping it to plump out losses in the others. If we’re going to have a hard year in the field, I need eleven legions and four thousand horse.”
Labienus winced. “Four legions of raw recruits?” he asked, mouth turning down. “That’s over one-third of the whole army! They’ll be more a hindrance than a help.”
“Just three raw,” said Caesar placidly. “There’s one legion of good troops sitting in Placentia right at this moment. They’re not blooded, admittedly, but they’re fully trained and itching for a fight. They’re so bored they’ll end up disaffected.”
“Ah!” Labienus nodded. “The Sixth. Recruited by Pompeius Magnus in Picenum a year ago, yet still waiting to go to Spain. Ye Gods, he’s slow! You’re right about the boredom, Caesar. But they belong to Pompeius.”
“I shall write to Pompeius and ask to borrow them.”
“Will he oblige?”
“I imagine so. Pompeius isn’t under any great duress in the Spains— Afranius and Petreius run both provinces for him well enough. The Lusitani are quiet, so is Cantabria. I’ll offer to blood the Sixth for him. He’ll like that.”
“Indeed he will. There are two things you can count on with Pompeius—he never fights unless he has the numbers, and he never uses unblooded troops. What a fraud! I abominate the man, I always have!” A small pause ensued, then Labienus asked, “Are you going to enlist another Thirteenth, or skip straight to the Fourteenth?”
“I’ll enlist another Thirteenth. I’m as superstitious as the next Roman, but it’s essential that the men grow accustomed to thinking of thirteen as just another number.” He shrugged. “Besides, if I have a Fourteenth and no Thirteenth, the Fourteenth will know it’s really the Thirteenth. I’ll keep the new one with me for the year. At the end of it, I guarantee that its men will be flaunting the number thirteen as a good-luck talisman.”
“I believe you.”
“I take it, Labienus, that you think our relations with the Treveri will break down completely,” said Caesar as he began to walk down the Via Praetoria.
“Bound to. The Treveri have always wanted downright, outright war, but until now they’ve been too wary of me. Ambiorix has rather changed that—he’s a brilliant talker, you know. With the result that Indutiomarus is gathering adherents hand over fist. I doubt Cingetorix has the thews to resist now that there are two experts working on the thanes. We can’t afford to underestimate either Ambiorix or Indutiomarus, Caesar.”
“Can you hold here for the winter?”
The horse’s teeth gleamed. “Oh, yes. I have a little idea as to how to tempt the Treveri into a battle they can’t win. It’s important to push them into precipitate action. If they delay until the summer, there will be thousands upon thousands of them. Ambiorix is boating across the Rhenus regularly, trying to persuade the Germani to help; and if he succeeds, the Nemetes will decide their lands are safe from German incursions and join the Treveri muster as well.”
Caesar sighed. “I had hoped Gaul of the Long-hairs would see sense. The Gods know I was clement enough during the early years! If I treated them fairly and bound them with legal agreements, I thought they’d settle down under Rome. It’s not as if they don’t have an example. The Gauls of the Province tried to resist for a century, yet look at them now. They’re happier and better off under Rome than ever they were fighting among themselves.”
“You sound like Cicero” was Labienus’s comment. “They’re too thick to know when they’re well off. They’ll fight us until they drop.”
“I fear you’re right. Which is why each year I get harder.”
They stopped to let a long parade of horses led by grooms cross from one side of the wide thoroughfare to the other, off to the exercise yards.
“How are you going to tempt the Treveri?” Caesar asked.
“I need some help from you, and some help from the Remi.”
“Ask, and you shall receive.”
“I want it generally known that you’re massing the Remi on their border with the Bellovaci. Tell Dorix to make it look as if he’s hurrying every trooper he’s got in that direction. But I need four thousand of them concealed not too far away. I’m going to smuggle them into my camp at the rate of four hundred a night—ten days to do the job. But before I begin, I’ll convince Indutiomarus’s spies that I’m a frightened man planning to leave because the Remi are withdrawing. Don’t worry, I know who his spies are.” The dark face warped itself, looked terrifying. “All women. After the Remi start coming in, I assure you that not one of them will get any messages out. They’ll be too busy screaming.”
“And once you have the Remi?”
“The Treveri will appear to kill me before I can leave. It will take them ten days to muster and two days to get here. I’ll make it in time. Then I’ll open my gates and let six thousand Aedui and Remi cut them up like pork for sausages. The Eleventh can stuff them into the skins.”
Caesar left for Samarobriva satisfied.
*
“No one can beat you,” said Rhiannon, her tone smug.
Amused, Caesar rolled onto his side and propped his head up on one hand to look at her. “That pleases you?”
“Oh, yes. You’re the father of my son.” ‘
“So might Dumnorix have been.”
Her teet
h flashed in the gloom. “Never!”
“That’s interesting.”
She pulled her hair out from under her, a difficult and somewhat painful task; it lay then between them like a river of fire. “Did you have Dumnorix killed because of me?” she asked.
“No. He was intriguing to create trouble during my absence in Britannia, so I ordered him to accompany me to Britannia. He thought that meant I’d kill him over there, away from all eyes which might condemn me for it. He ran away. Whereupon I showed him that if I wanted him killed, I’d have him killed under all eyes. Labienus was pleased to oblige. He never liked Dumnorix.”
“I don’t like Labienus,” she said, shivering.
“Not surprising. Labienus belongs to that group of Roman men who believe that the only trustworthy Gaul is a dead one,” said Caesar. “That goes for Gallic women too.”
“Why didn’t you object when I said Orgetorix would be King of the Helvetii?” she demanded. “He is your son, yet you have no son! At the time Orgetorix was born I didn’t understand how famous and influential you are in Rome. I do now.” She sat up, put her hand on his shoulder. “Caesar, take him! To be king of a people as powerful as the Helvetii is a formidable fate, but to be the King of Rome is a far greater fate.”
He shrugged her hand off, eyes flashing. “Rhiannon, Rome will have no king! Nor would I consent to Rome’s having a king! Rome is a republic and has been for five hundred years! I will be the First Man in Rome, but that is not to be Rome’s king. Kings are archaic; even you Gauls are realizing that. A people prospers better when it is administered by a group of men who change through the electoral process.” He smiled wryly. “Election gives every qualified man the chance to be the best—or the worst.”
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 475
