The legionaries marched eight abreast in their tent octets, the rising sun glancing off mail shirts polished for a parade that hadn’t happened, each man, bareheaded, girt with sword and dagger and carrying his pilum in his right hand. He arranged his pack on a T- or Y-shaped rod canted over his left shoulder, his shield in its hide cover the outermost item suspended from this frame, his helmet like a blister on its top. In his pack he toted five days’ ration of wheat, chickpea (or some other pulse) and bacon; a flask of oil, dish and cup, all made of bronze; his shaving gear; spare tunics, neckerchiefs and linen; the dyed horsehair crest for his helmet; his circular sagum (with a hole in its middle for his head to poke through) made of water-resistant, oily Ligurian wool; socks and furry skins to put inside his caligae in cold weather; a pair of woolen breeches for cold weather; his blanket; a shallow wicker basket for carrying away soil; and anything else he could not live without, such as a lucky charm or a lock of his darling’s hair. Some necessities were shared out; one man would have the flint for fire making, another the octet’s salt, yet another the precious little bit of leavening for their bread, or a collection of herbs, or a lamp, or a flask of oil for it, or a small bundle of twigs for kindling. Some sort of digging implement like a dolabra or spade and two pickets for the marching camp palisade were strapped to the rod of the frame supporting each man’s pack, making it the right size for his hand to cup comfortably.
On the octet’s mule went a little mill for grinding grain, a small clay oven for baking bread, bronze cook-pots, spare pila, water skins and a compact, closely folded hide tent complete with guys and poles. The century’s ten mules trotted behind the century, each octet’s mule attended by the octet’s two noncombatant servants, among whose duties on the march was the important one of keeping their octet supplied with water as they moved. Since there was no formal baggage train on this urgent march, each century’s wagon, drawn by six mules, followed the century, and held tools, nails, a certain amount of private gear, water barrels, a bigger millstone, extra food, and the centurion’s tent and possessions; he was the only man in the century who marched unencumbered.
Four thousand eight hundred soldiers, sixty centurions, three hundred artillerymen, a corps of one hundred engineers and artificers and sixteen hundred noncombatants made up the legion, which was fully up to strength. With it, drawn by mules, traveled the Fifteenth’s thirty pieces of artillery: ten stone-hurling ballistae and twenty bolt-shooting catapultae of various sizes, together with the wagons into which were loaded spare parts and ammunition. The artillerymen escorted their beloved machines, oiling the axle sockets, fussing, caressing. They were very good at their job, the success of which did not depend on blind chance; they understood trajectories, and with a bolt from a catapulta they could pick off the enemy manning a ram or a siege tower with remarkable accuracy. Bolts were for human targets, stones or boulders for shelling equipment or creating terror among a mass of people.
They look good, thought Caesar with satisfaction, and dropped behind to start doing what he had to do through sixty centuries: cheer the men on and tell them where they were going and what he expected of them. A mile and a half from the first rank of the First to the last rank of the Tenth Cohort, with the artillerymen and engineers in the middle. Only after he had completed this task would Caesar dismount and walk.
“Give me forty miles a day and you can have two days at Nicaea!” he shouted, grinning widely. “Give me thirty miles a day and you can have shit duty for the rest of this war! It’s two hundred miles from Placentia to Nicaea, and I have to be there in five days! That’s all the food you’re packing, and that’s all the food you’re going to get! The boys on the other side of the Alps need us, and we’re going to be there before those cunni of Gauls know we’ve left! So stretch your legs, boys, and show Caesar what you’re made of!”
They showed Caesar what they were made of, and it was far more than it had been when the Sugambri had surprised them not so very many months ago. The road Marcus Aemilius Scaurus had built between Dertona and Genua on the Tuscan Sea was a masterpiece of engineering which hardly rose or fell as it crossed gorges on viaducts and curled round the flanks of towering mountains, and while the road which followed the coast from Genua to Nicaea was not nearly as good, it was considerably better than it had been when Gaius Marius had led his thirty thousand men along it. Once the rhythm was established and the troops became accustomed to the routines of a long march, Caesar got his forty miles a day despite the short winter hours. Feet had long since hardened in the training camp and there were knacks to coping with the fate of Marius’s mules; the Fifteenth was very conscious of its poor record to date, and very determined to expunge it.
In Nicaea the soldiers got their promised two days of rest, while Caesar and his legates wrestled with the consequences of the letter Gaius Trebonius had waiting there for him.
We managed to get this information, Caesar, by abducting an Arvernian Druid and sending him to Labienus for interrogation. Why a Druid? you ask. Fabius, Sextius, Quintus Cicero and I talked it over and decided that a serf wouldn’t know enough but that a warrior might deem it preferable to die than say anything worth hearing. Whereas the Druids are soft. If our tribunes of the plebs had half as much genuine inviolability as the most junior Druid enjoys, they’d be running Rome a great deal more ruthlessly than they do.
Labienus was elected as interrogator because—well, I don’t really have to say, do I? Though I imagine the Druid was babbling what he knew long before Labienus had his irons red-hot in the fire.
Gaius Fufius Cita, his commissioners, the other Roman citizen civilians and a few Greek traders living in Cenabum were murdered at the beginning of February, though no one got through to tell us. The Carnutes shouted the news all the way to Gergovia on the same day the raid happened. Vercingetorix had been exiled from the oppidum, but the moment he heard about Cenabum he took over the Arvernian council and murdered Gobannitio. The next thing, he was calling himself a king. And every hothead among the Arverni was hailing him as king.
Apparently he went immediately to Carnutum and had a conference there with Gutruatus of the Carnutes and your old friend the Chief Druid, Cathbad. Our informant couldn’t say who else attended, except that he thought Lucterius, vergobret of the Cardurci, was there. And Commius! The call to arms went out after the conference ended.
This war is no laughing matter, Caesar. The Gauls are uniting from the mouth of the Mosa to Aquitania, and right across the country from west to east. Convinced a united Gaul has the numbers to throw us out, Vercingetorix intends to unite Gaul. Under his leadership.
They mustered outside Carnutum at the beginning of March for a winter campaign. Against us? you ask. No, against any tribes which refuse to join the cause.
Lucterius and fifty thousand Cardurci, Pictones, Andes, Petrocorii and Santones started off to make war on the Ruteni and the Gabali. Once they’re brought into the Gallic fold, Lucterius and his army will move on the Province, particularly at the Narbo and Tolosa end, to cut off our communications with the Spains. They’re also to spread dissension among the Volcae and the Helvii.
Vercingetorix himself is leading about eighty thousand men from the Senones, Carnutes, Arverni, Suessiones, Parisii and Mandubii against the Bituriges, who refused to have anything to do with the united Gaul idea. As the Bituriges own the iron mines, it’s easy to understand why Vercingetorix has to persuade them they’re wrong.
As I write this, Vercingetorix and his army are on the move into the lands of the Bituriges. Our Druid informant said that Vercingetorix will move against us when spring comes. His strategy isn’t bad. What he intends to do is to keep you isolated from us, on the theory that without you, we won’t come out of our camps. Where he intends to besiege us.
No doubt there is one question you’re burning to know the answer to: how did we come to abduct an Arvernian Druid in the first place? Why weren’t we sitting back enjoying winter inertia as Vercingetorix imagined we would? Blame
Litaviccus of the Aedui, Caesar. He’s visited me several times since the beginning of February, each time in the most casual way—dropping in after going to a wedding, that sort of pretext. I didn’t think anything of it until he arrived after the big March muster near Carnutum, when he informed me that Vercingetorix was “ruling” in Gergovia. I taxed him with the word, and he retreated too hastily, too offhandedly. He thought he was being very funny when he amended it to “vergobret without a colleague.” I split my sides laughing, escorted him off the premises, and sent that first letter to you.
Caesar, I have absolutely no concrete evidence which might lead me to think that the Aedui are contemplating a part in Vercingetorix’s united Gaul, but beware. My bones tell me they are in it. Or that the younger ones like Litaviccus are in it, even if the vergobrets are not. The Bituriges sent to the Aedui for help, the Aedui sent Litaviccus to inform me of this fact, and to ask if I’d mind their sending an army to help the Bituriges. If all that’s involved is an internal squabble, I said, then go ahead, send an army.
But the fate of that army has this moment come to my attention. It set out, very strong and well armed, to march for the lands of the Bituriges. But when this force reached the east bank of the Liger, it sat down and didn’t cross. After waiting several days, it marched home again. Litaviccus has just left me after coming to explain why the Bituriges were left unassisted. Cathbad, he said, had sent a warning that it was all a plot between the Bituriges and the Arverni, that the moment the Aeduan army crossed the Liger, both the Bituriges and the Arverni would fall on it.
All too pat, Caesar, though why I think this I don’t know. My colleagues agree with me, especially Quintus Cicero, who seems to have a little warning voice about such things.
You will decide what to do, and it may be that we won’t know what you plan until we actually see you. For I refuse to believe that a pack of Gauls, with or without the Aedui, will keep you from joining us when you’re ready to join us. But be assured that we will be ready to leap into action at any moment from today until the summer. Pleading a suddenly unsanitary camp site, Fabius has picked himself and his two legions up and moved to a new camp site not far from Bibracte, on the Icauna near its sources, in case you need to know. The Aedui seemed pleased enough at this change, but who knows? I have become an Aeduan skeptic.
If you send news or troops or come yourself to Agedincum, be advised that all of us here would rather you skirted the lands of the Aedui. Genava to Vesontio, thence through the lands of the Lingones to Agedincum. That’s the way we’ve routed our messages. I am very glad we have Quintus Cicero. His experience with the Nervii has rendered him invaluable.
Labienus sends word that he will hold himself and his two legions where he is until he hears from you. He too has moved, and is billeted outside the Remi oppidum of Bibrax. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt that the main thrust of this insurrection will come from the Celtae of central Gaul, so we decided that we had best be situated within easy striking distance. The Belgae, Commius or no, have ceased to be a force to be reckoned with.
There was silence in the room when Caesar finished reading this communication aloud. Some of it they knew from Trebonius’s first letter, but this one provided definite information.
“We deal with the Province first,” said Caesar crisply. “The Fifteenth can have its two days, but after that it’s going to march without a pause to Narbo. I’ll have to ride on ahead—there’ll be panic everywhere, and no one will want the responsibility of starting to organize resistance. It’s three hundred miles from Nicaea to Narbo, but I want the Fifteenth there eight days after leaving here, Decimus. You’re in command. Hirtius, you’ll come with me. Make sure we have enough couriers; I’ll need to correspond constantly with Mamurra and Ventidius.”
“Do you want Faberius along?” asked Hirtius.
“Yes, and Trogus. Procillus can set out for Agedincum with a message for Trebonius. He’ll travel straight up the Rhodanus and then go through Genava and Vesontio, as advised. He can visit Rhiannon as he passes through Arausio to tell her that she won’t be leaving her home there this year.”
Decimus Brutus tensed. “Then you think we’ll be about this business for the entire year, Caesar?” he asked.
“If all Gaul is united, yes.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Lucius Caesar.
“You’ll travel with Decimus and the Fifteenth, Lucius. I’m appointing you legate in command of the Province, so it will be your job to defend it. You’ll make Narbo your headquarters. Keep in constant touch with Afranius and Petreius in the Spains, and make sure you monitor feelings among the Aquitani. The tribes around Tolosa won’t give any trouble, but those further west and around Burdigala will, I think.” He gave Lucius Caesar his warmest and most personal smile. “You inherit the Province because you have the experience, the consular status and the ability to function in my absence, cousin. Once I leave Narbo, I don’t want to have to think about the Province for one moment. If you’re in charge, my confidence won’t be misplaced.”
And that, thought Hirtius privately, is how he does things, cousin Lucius. He charms you into thinking you’re the only possible man for the job. Whereupon you will flog yourself to death to please him, and he’ll be true to his word—he won’t even remember your name once he’s out of your sphere.
“Decimus,” said Caesar, “summon the Fifteenth’s centurions to a meeting tomorrow and make sure the men have full winter gear in their packs. If there are any deficiencies, send a courier to me with a list of whatever I might have to requisition in Narbo.”
“I doubt there’ll be anything,” said Decimus Brutus, relaxed again. “One thing I’ll grant Mamurra: he’s a superb praefectus fabrum. The bills he submits are grossly exaggerated, but he never skimps on quality or quantity.”
“Which reminds me that I’ll have to write to him about more artillery. I think each legion should have at least fifty pieces. I have a few ideas about increasing its use on the battlefield. We don’t soften the enemy up enough before we engage.”
Lucius Caesar blinked. “Artillery is a siege necessity!”
“Definitely. But why not a necessity on the battlefield too?”
*
By the next morning he was gone, cantering in his habitual four-mule gig, the resigned Faberius bearing him company, while Hirtius shared a second gig with Gnaeus Pompeius Trogus, Caesar’s chief interpreter and his authority on everything to do with Gaul.
In every town of any size he paused briefly to see the ethnarch if it was Greek or the duumviri if it was Roman; they were apprised of the situation in Long-haired Gaul in a few succinct words, directed to start enlisting the local militia, and given authority to draw on armor and armaments from the nearest depot. By the time he departed, the local people were going busily about doing as they had been told and waiting anxiously for the arrival of Lucius Caesar.
The Via Domitia to Spain was always kept in perfect condition, so nothing slowed the two gigs down. From Arelate to Nemausus they crossed the great fens and grassy swamplands of the Rhodanus delta on the causeway Gaius Marius had constructed. From Nemausus on, Caesar’s halts were more frequent and of longer duration, for this was the country of the Volcae Arecomici, who had been hearing rumors of war between the Cardurci and the Ruteni, their neighbors on the north. There was no doubt whatsoever of their loyalty to Rome, nor of their eagerness to do as Caesar commanded.
In Ambrussum a party of Helvii from the western bank of the Rhodanus were staying en route to Narbo, where they hoped to find a Roman in residence sufficiently senior to advise them. They were led by their duumviri, a father and son given the Roman citizenship by a Gaius Valerius; they both bore his name, but the father’s Gallic name was Caburus, his son’s name Donnotaurus.
“We have already received an embassage from Vercingetorix,” said Donnotaurus, worried. “He expected us to leap at the chance to join his strange new federation. But when we declined, his ambassadors said that soo
ner or later we would beg to join.”
“After that we heard that Lucterius has attacked the Ruteni and that Vercingetorix himself has moved against the Bituriges,” said Caburus. “Suddenly we understood. If we do not join, then we will suffer.”
“Yes, you will suffer,” said Caesar. “There’s no merit in trying to tell you otherwise. Will you change your minds if you are attacked?”
“No,” said father and son together.
“In which case, go home and arm. Be ready. Rest assured that I’ll send you help as soon as I can. However, it may be that all my available forces will be engaged in a bigger struggle elsewhere. Help might be long in coming, but it will come, so you must hold,” said Caesar. “Many years ago I armed the citizens of Asia Province against Mithridates and asked them to fight a battle without a Roman army anywhere near. I had none. But the Asians beat the legates of old King Mithridates unaided. Just as you can beat the long-haired Gauls.”
“We’ll hold,” said Caburus grimly.
Suddenly Caesar smiled. “Not entirely without assistance, however! You’ve served in Roman auxiliary legions; you know how Rome fights. All the armor and armaments you want are yours for the asking. My cousin Lucius Caesar isn’t far behind me. Gauge your needs, and requisition them from him in my name. Fortify your towns and be prepared to take your villagers inside. Don’t lose any more of your people than you can help.”
“We’ve also heard,” said Donnotaurus, “that Vercingetorix is dickering with the Allobroges.”
“Ah!” said Caesar, frowning. “That’s one people of the Province might be tempted. It’s not so long since they were fighting us bitterly.”
“I think you’ll find,” said Caburus, “that the Allobroges will listen intently, then go away and pretend to discuss the offer for many moons. The more Vercingetorix tries to hurry them, the more they’ll prevaricate. You may believe us when we say they won’t join Vercingetorix.”
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