They cheered him hysterically, as much for his calling them his beloved boys as for the money and the slave, who also came out of his private purse; the profits from the sale of slaves belonged exclusively to the General.
Trebonius looked sideways at Decimus Brutus. “What’s he up to, Decimus? It’s a wonderful gesture, but they didn’t expect it and I can’t work out what possessed him to make it.”
“I had a letter from Curio in the same bag which brought Caesar a letter from the Senate,” said Decimus Brutus, speaking too softly for Mark Antony or the tribunes to hear. “They won’t let him stand in absentia, and the mood in the House is to strip him of his imperium as soon as possible. They want him disgraced and sent into permanent exile. So does Pompeius Magnus.”
Trebonius grunted scornfully. “That last doesn’t surprise me! Pompeius isn’t worth one of Caesar’s bootlaces.”
“Nor are any of the others.”
“That goes without saying.” He turned and left the parade ground, Decimus walking with him. “Do you think he’d do it?”
Decimus Brutus didn’t blink. “I think… I think they’re insane to provoke him, Gaius. Because yes, if they leave him no alternative he’ll march on Rome.”
“And if he does?”
The invisible blond brows rose. “What do you think?”
“He’d slaughter them.”
“I agree.”
“So we have a choice to make, Decimus.”
“You may have a choice to make. I don’t. I’m Caesar’s man through thick and thin.”
“And I. Yet he’s no Sulla.”
“For which we ought to be thankful, Trebonius.”
Perhaps because of this conversation, neither Decimus Brutus nor Gaius Trebonius was in a talkative mood over dinner; they lay together on the lectus summus, with Caesar alone on the lectus medius and Mark Antony alone on the lectus imus, opposite them.
“You’re being mighty generous,” said Antony, crunching through an apple in two bites. “I know you have a reputation for open-handedness, but”—he wrinkled his brow fiercely, eyes screwed closed—”that’s a total of one hundred talents you gave away today, or near enough.”
Caesar’s eyes twinkled. Antony amused him intensely, and he liked that good-natured acceptance of his role as butt.
“By all that Mercury holds dear, Antonius, your mathematical skills are phenomenal! You did that sum in your head. I think it’s time you took over the proper duties of quaestor and let poor Gaius Trebatius do something more suited to his inclinations, if not his talents. Don’t you agree?” he asked Trebonius and Decimus Brutus.
They nodded, grinning.
“I piss on the proper duties of quaestor!” growled Antony, flexing the muscles in his thighs, a sight which would have had most of feminine Rome swooning, but was quite wasted on his present audience.
“It’s necessary to know something about money, Antonius,” said Caesar. “I realize you think it’s liquid enough to pour like water, witness your colossal debts, but it’s also a substance of great usefulness to a would-be consul and commander of armies.”
“You’re avoiding my point,” said Antony shrewdly, tempering insolence with a winning smile. “You’ve just outlaid one hundred talents to the men of two of your eleven legions, and given every last one of them a slave he could sell for a thousand more sesterces. Not that many of them will this side of high spring, as you made sure they got the juiciest, youngest women.” He rolled over on his couch and began flexing the muscles in his massive calves. “What I really want to know is, are you going to limit your sudden generosity to a mere two of your eleven legions?”
“That would be imprudent,” said Caesar gravely. “I intend to campaign throughout the autumn and winter, taking two legions at a time. But always different legions.”
“Clever!” Antony reached out to pick up his goblet, and drank deeply.
“My dear Antonius, don’t oblige me to remove wine from the winter menu,” said Caesar. “If you can’t drink in moderation, I’ll require abstinence. I suggest you water it.”
“One of the many things I don’t understand about you,” said Antony, frowning, “is why you have this tic about one of the best gifts the Gods have ever given men. Wine’s a panacea.”
“It is not a panacea. Nor do I deem it a gift,” Caesar said. “I’d rather call it a curse. Straight out of Pandora’s box. Even taken sparingly, it blunts the sword of one’s thoughts just enough to prevent splitting a hair.”
Antony roared with laughter. “So that’s the answer, Caesar! You’re nothing but a hairsplitter!”
*
Eighteen days after his return to Bibracte, Caesar was off again, this time to reduce the Carnutes. Trebonius and Decimus Brutus went with him; Antony, much to his displeasure, was left to mind the shop. Quintus Cicero brought the Seventh from winter quarters in Cabillonum, but Publius Sulpicius sent the Fourteenth from Matisco, as Caesar didn’t require his services.
“I came myself,” said Quintus Cicero, “because my brother has just written to ask me to accompany him to Cilicia in April.”
“You don’t look happy at the prospect, Quintus,” said Caesar gently. “I’ll miss you.”
“And I you. I’ve had the three best years of my life here with you in Gaul.”
“I like to hear that, because they haven’t been easy.”
“No, never easy. Maybe that’s why they’ve been so good. I—I--I appreciate your trust in me, Caesar. There have been times when I deserved a roaring-out, like that business with the Sugambri, but you’ve never roared me out. Or made me feel inadequate.”
“My dear Quintus,” said Caesar with his warmest smile, “why should I have roared you out? You’ve been a wonderful legate, and I wish you were staying until the end.” The smile faded, the eyes looked suddenly into the distance. “Whatever the end may be.”
Puzzled, Quintus Cicero looked at him, but the face bore no expression whatsoever. Naturally Cicero’s letter had recounted events in Rome in great detail, but Quintus didn’t have the truly intimate knowledge of Caesar possessed by Trebonius or Decimus Brutus. Nor had he been in Bibracte when the General rewarded the men of the Thirteenth and Fifteenth.
Thus when Caesar set out for Cenabum, Quintus Cicero, heavy-hearted, set out for Rome and a legateship he knew perfectly well would be neither as happy nor as profitable as working with Caesar. Under big brother’s thumb again! Preached at, deprecated. There were times when families were a painful nuisance. Oh, yes…
It was now the end of February, and winter was approaching. Cenabum was still a blackened ruin, but there were no insurgents in the area to contest Caesar’s use of the oppidum. He pitched camp very comfortably against its walls, put some of his soldiers into any houses still standing, and had the rest thatch the roofs and sod the walls of their tents for maximum warmth.
His first order of business was to ride to Carnutum and see Cathbad, the Chief Druid.
Who looked, thought Caesar, very much older and more careworn than he had those many years ago: the bright golden hair had gone to a drabber shade of grey-and-gold, the blue eyes were exhausted.
“It was foolish to oppose me, Cathbad,” the conqueror said.
Oh, he did look every inch the conqueror! Was there nothing could wipe away that incredible air of confidence, that vigorous and forthright crispness which oozed out of the man? Haloed his head, limned his body? Why did the Tuatha send Caesar to contest with us? Why him, when Rome has so many bumbling incompetents?
“I had no choice” was what Cathbad said. He lifted his chin proudly. “I assume you’re here to take me captive, that I am to walk with the others in your triumphal parade.”
Caesar smiled. “Cathbad, Cathbad! Do you take me for a fool? It’s one thing to take warrior prisoners of war or end the activities of rebellious kings. But to victimize a country’s priests is absolute insanity. You will note, I hope, that no Druid has been apprehended, nor prevented from going about his wor
k of healing or counseling. That’s my firm policy, and all my legates know it.”
“Why did the Tuatha send you?”
“I imagine they entered into a pact with Jupiter Optimus Maximus. The world of the Gods has its laws and accommodations, just as our world does. Evidently the Tuatha felt that the forces connecting them to the Gauls were diminishing in some mysterious way. Not from lack of Gallic enthusiasm or want of religious observance. Just that nothing remains the same, Cathbad. The earth shifts, people change, times come and go. As do the Gods of all peoples. Perhaps the Tuatha are sickened by human votive sacrifices, just as other Gods became sickened. I do not believe that Gods remain static either, Cathbad.”
“It’s interesting that a man so welded to the political and practical attitudes of his country can also be so truly religious.”
“I believe in our Gods with all my mind.”
“But what about your soul?”
“We Romans don’t believe in souls as you Druids do. All that outlasts the body is a mindless shade. Death is a sleep,” said Caesar.
“Then you should fear it more than those who believe we live on after it.”
“I think we fear it less.” The pale blue eyes blazed suddenly with, pain, grief, passion. “Why should any man or woman want more of this?” Caesar demanded. “It is a vale of tears, a terrible trial of strength. For every inch we gain, we fall back a mile. Life is there to be conquered, Cathbad, but the price! The price! No one will ever defeat me. I will not let them. I believe in myself, and I have set a pattern for myself.”
“Then where is the vale of tears?” asked Cathbad.
“In the methods. In human obstinacy. In lack of foresight. In failing to see the best way, the graceful way. For seven long years I have tried to make your people understand that they cannot win. That for the future well-being of this land, they must submit. And what do they do? Fling themselves into my flame like moths into a lamp. Force me to kill more of them, enslave more of them, destroy more houses, villages, towns. I would far rather pursue a softer, more clement policy, but they will not let me.”
“The answer is easy, Caesar. They won’t give in, so you must. You have brought Gaul a consciousness of its identity, of its might and power. And having brought it, nothing can take it away. We Druids will sing of Vercingetorix for ten thousand years.”
“They must give in, Cathbad! I cannot. That’s why I’ve come to see you, to ask that you tell them to give in. Otherwise you leave me no choice. I’ll have to do to every inch of Gaul what I’ve just done to the Bituriges. But that’s not what I want to do. There won’t be anyone left save Druids. What kind of fate is that?”
“I won’t tell them to submit,” said Cathbad.
“Then I’ll start here at Carnutum. In no other place have I left the treasures untouched. Yet here they have been sacrosanct. Defy me, and I’ll loot Carnutum. No Druid or his wife or his children will be touched. But Carnutum will lose those great piles of offerings accumulated over the centuries.”
“Then go ahead. Loot Carnutum.”
Caesar sighed, and meant the sigh. “The remembrance of cruelty is scant comfort in one’s old age, but what I am forced to do, I will do.”
Cathbad laughed joyously. “Oh, rubbish! Caesar, you must know how much all the Gods love you! Why torment yourself with thoughts you, of all men, understand have no validity? You won’t live to be old, the Gods would never permit it. They’ll take you in your prime. I have seen it.”
His breath caught; Caesar laughed too. “For that I thank you! Carnutum is safe.” He began to walk away, but said over his shoulder, still laughing, “Gaul, however, is not!”
*
All through the early days of a very hard and bitter winter Caesar drove the Carnutes from pillar to post. More of them died frozen in their fields than at the hands of the Seventh and the Fourteenth, for they had no shelter left, no homes, no havens. And a new attitude began to creep into Gallic behavior; where a year before the people of neighboring tribes would gladly have taken the refugees in and succored them, now they shut their doors and pretended no one cried for help. Attrition was beginning to work. Fear was conquering defiance.
At the midpoint of April, with winter at its worst, Caesar left the Seventh and Fourteenth in Cenabum with Gaius Trebonius, and set off to see what was the matter with the Remi.
“The Bellovaci,” said Dorix simply. “Correus kept his men at home instead of going to the muster at Carnutum, and the two thousand he sent with Commius and his four thousand Atrebates came back from Alesia unscathed. Now Correus and Commius have allied themselves with Ambiorix, who has returned from across the great river. They’ve been scouring all the peatlands of Belgica for men—Nervii, Eburones, Menapii, Atuatuci, Condrusi—and further south and west too—the Aulerci, Ambiani, Morini, Veromandui, Caletes, Veliocasses. Some of these peoples did not go to Carnutum; some survived intact by running quickly. A great many men are gathering, I hear.”
“Have you been attacked?” asked Caesar.
“Not as yet. But I expect it.”
“Then I’d better move before you are. You’ve always honored your treaties with us, Dorix. Now it behooves me to act.”
“I should warn you, Caesar, that the Sugambri aren’t happy at developments between you and the Ubii. The Ubii are waxing fat supplying you with horse warriors, and the Sugambri resent it. All the Germani, they say, should be so favored, not just the Ubii.”
“Which means the Sugambri are crossing the Rhenus to help Correus and Commius.”
“So I hear. Commius and Ambiorix are very active.”
This time Caesar called the Eleventh out of winter camp at Agedincum, and sent to Labienus for the Eighth and Ninth. Gaius Fabius was given the Twelfth and the Sixth and sent to garrison Suessionum on the Matroma River, dividing the lands of the Remi from those of the Suessiones. The scouts came in to report that Belgica was boiling, so the legions were shuffled round again: the Seventh was sent to Caesar, the Thirteenth was shifted to the Bituriges under Titus Sextius, and Trebonius inherited the Fifth Alauda to replace the Seventh at Cenabum.
But when Caesar and his four legions entered the lands of the Bellovaci they found them deserted; serfs, women and children were attending to affairs at home while the warriors congregated. On, the scouts reported, the only piece of elevated and dry ground in the midst of a marshy forest to the northwest.
“We’ll do something a little different,” said Caesar to Decimus Brutus. “Instead of marching one behind the other, we’ll put the Seventh, Eighth and Ninth in columns—agmen quadratum—on a very broad front. That way the enemy will see our total strength immediately, and presume we’re ready to wheel into full battle formation. The baggage will follow straight behind, and then we’ll tuck the Eleventh into the rear of the baggage train. They’ll never see it.”
“We’ll look as if we’re frightened. And only three legions strong. Good thinking.”
Sight of the enemy was a shock; there were thousands and thousands of them milling about that only piece of high, dry ground.
“More than I expected,” said Caesar, and sent for Trebonius, who was to pick up Titus Sextius and the Thirteenth on his way.
There were feints and skirmishes while Caesar put his men into a very strong camp. Correus, in command, would draw up for battle, then change his mind. This despite the fact that it had been agreed he should attack while Caesar was possessed of no more than three legions.
The cavalry Caesar had sent for from the Remi and Lingones arrived ahead of Trebonius, led by Dorix’s uncle Vertiscus, a doughty old warrior eager for a fight. Because the Bellovaci had not followed Vercingetorix’s scorched-earth policy, there was plenty of forage and grain to be had; as the campaign looked as if it might last longer than earlier expected, Caesar was anxious to acquire whatever extra supplies he could. Though Correus’s army refused to leave their high ground and attack in force, they proved a great nuisance to the foragers until the Remi came. After th
at it was easier. But Vertiscus was too eager for his fight. Despising the size of the Belgic group sent to harry the foraging party they were escorting, the Remi took off in pursuit and were led into an ambush. Vertiscus died, much to the delight of the Belgae; Correus decided it was time for a mass attack.
At which precise moment Trebonius marched up with the Fifth Alauda, the Fourteenth and the Thirteenth. There were now seven legions and several thousand horse troopers ringing the Belgae around, and the site which had seemed so perfect for attack or defense suddenly became a trap. Caesar built ramps across the marshes which divided the two camps, then took a ridge behind the Belgic camp and began using his artillery with devastating effect.
“Oh, Correus, you missed your chance!” cried Commius when he arrived. “What use are five hundred Sugambri now? And what do you expect me to tell Ambiorix, who’s still recruiting?”
“I don’t understand!” wept Correus, wringing his hands. “How did all those extra legions get here so quickly? I had no warning, and I should have had warning!”
“There is never warning,” said Commius grimly. “You’ve held aloof until now, Correus, that’s your trouble. You haven’t seen the Romans at work. They move by what they call forced marches—they can cover fifty miles in a day. Then the moment they arrive they’ll turn around and fight like wild dogs.”
“What do we do now? How can we get out?”
That, Commius knew. He had the Belgae collect all the tinder, straw and dry brush they could find, and stockpile it. The camp was chaotic, everyone scrambling to be ready for the escape, women and hundreds of ox carts compounding the Roman-trained Commius’s woes.
Correus brought all his men out in battle formation and sat them on the ground, as was their custom. The day passed; no move was made save surreptitiously to pile the wood, straw, tinder and brush in front of the lines. Then at dusk it was set on fire from end to end; the Belgae seized their chance and fled.
But the great chance had been lost. Caught while attempting an ambuscade, Correus found the steel and courage he had lacked when his position had been much better; refusing to retreat, he and the flower of his men perished. While the Belgae sued for peace, Commius crossed the Rhenus to the Sugambri and Ambiorix.
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