The prince smiled.
‘I’m forced to agree, but not only could I not have dissuaded them from their insanity, it’s undeniable that their revolt moves Rome’s frontier north of the mountains to the feet of the mountains themselves. And it also strips them of their last legions, other than those few men clinging on to the Winter Camp. And even they must surrender when the whole of Gaul rises against them. Rome might well decide to write off Gaul and Germania.’
Draco nodded.
‘I see your argument, and there is potential for such a decision to leave us all well alone, at least for a while until the empire regains its strength, but any emperor who started his reign by meekly accepting the loss of so many provinces could expect to be dead inside the year. And Vespasianus, as you well know, is no man’s fool. He will attack with every man he can spare, and any such Gallic empire will melt away like spring snow when the full heat of Rome’s wrath is turned upon it!’
He stared at Kivilaz for a moment, his expression thoughtful.
‘And now, more to the point, what of the Old Camp? Are the Romans ready to surrender? No other news will find a welcome here.’ Kivilaz bowed his head in recognition of the sentiment, and the watching wolf-priest standing at his back alongside Hramn, studied Draco’s face surreptitiously as the elder spoke again. ‘The Batavi and our allies have suffered enough loss at the hands of these men. Enough men have been killed, enough men wounded, enough men maimed and dishonoured by this man our allies have taken to calling the Banô, who takes men in the darkness and kills or disfigures them for his own amusement. So tell us, Kivilaz, what is this guidance you seek?’
‘It is our estimation, honoured elders, that the Romans can have little more than a week’s supply of food remaining, two at the most. We know to the last sack of grain what they had in store when the siege started, and we can estimate the amount of food they managed to ship in during the short time that Vocula managed to lift the siege. They must be within days of starvation.’
Draco shrugged.
‘So they will either surrender or die. Either eventuality will be greeted with the greatest of pleasure by the members of this council, Prince Kivilaz. We stand at your backs with a grim resolve that is the match of your own, and that of our sons and brothers of the tribe’s cohorts, and nothing other than Rome’s abject surrender will satisfy us.’
‘Quite so, Father of the Tribe. There remains one question to be answered, however, a matter of the greatest possible importance to our allies from across the great river.’
The elder tipped his head to one side, his eyes narrowing in question.
‘What question? What possible relevance can the men of the …’ He stopped speaking, then slowly nodded his understanding as the meaning of the prince’s words dawned on him. ‘Ah. I see. The Roman legions that surrender to the Gauls at Novaesium will be sworn to the service of their “empire” and their lives spared.’
‘Exactly. But where the legions at Novaesium will surrender tamely, without having killed a single one of our allies’ men, the legionaries in the Old Camp have resisted us for six months, and their defence has claimed the lives of thousands of men of a dozen tribes. Our allies are …’ he weighed the word for a moment, ‘obdurate in their insistence that their warriors be allowed to take their full revenge on whatever is left of the garrison when they surrender.’
Draco nodded with a hard smile.
‘Obdurate? I’m sure they are!’
Alcaeus kept his face carefully composed but his memory of the gathering of tribal war leaders two days before was still fresh in his mind. Led by the Batavi ally Brinno, King of the Cananefates, princes and kings of a dozen tribes from both sides of the great river had united to demand the lives of any captives as their natural right.
‘It is our lives that have been spent to take this fortress, Kivilaz of the Batavi, our men who have fought, and bled, and died in such numbers that no village in all our lands has been spared the wail and sob of mourning.’
Kivilaz had looked across the table at Brinno, his voice less strident than his ally’s but no less firm.
‘The Batavi have hardly been spared in that respect. Close on half of our cohorts will never march home to their families again.’
Brinno had shrugged.
‘Every man you lost has been avenged, if I am to believe the stories your man tells of the battle at Gelduba. Rome’s legions were grievously bled in that battle, and only saved from destruction by the purest of good fortune. Whereas our men, as well you know, have seen little blood in return for their suffering under the lash of the Romans’ arrow machines, and their cowardly use of falling stone and boiling water to defend their walls. But now they are running out of food, and the day of their reckoning is upon them. Our reckoning, not yours! There can be no quiet ending to this matter, not after they have so grievously insulted us with their cowards’ way of making war. We will not be gainsaid in this matter, not unless the Batavi wish to kindle the flames of hatred under the foundations of our alliance.’
Kivilaz looked around the council chamber, his face hard with certainty.
‘The tribal leaders will not be denied their revenge. And they will take that revenge whether we seek to prevent them from doing so or not. Too much water has passed under that bridge, Father of the Tribe, for any thought of allowing the Romans to surrender to be realistic.’
Draco nodded, looking to the men on either side as he replied.
‘I – we understand, Prince Kivilaz. So tell me, what is it that you propose?’
Novaesium, Germania Inferior, January AD 70
‘Soldiers of the imperial First Legion Germanica and the imperial Sixteenth Legion Gallica! I am going to speak to you today on a matter of the greatest importance to the empire, and therefore to yourselves!’
Vocula stared bleakly out across the ranks of legionaries paraded before him, seeing in their faces the disinterest and hostility he had been warned to expect by Antonius. His trusted first spear had spent most of the previous day taking quiet soundings of his two remaining legions, and little of what he had related to the legatus the evening before had held any encouragement for the Roman. Taking a mouthful of the wine that Vocula had poured for him, he had shaken his head in bemusement as he’d told the other man what he had discerned in the course of his discussions with his peers.
‘I’m afraid it’s this far and no more, Legatus. Both legions are pretty much united in the matter. The soldiers are refusing to march any further and at least half of their officers are in full agreement with them. They’re tired, demoralised and utterly susceptible to persuasion that the time for them to give unquestioning service to Rome is at its end. And, as you suspected, messengers are moving between the Gallic cohorts and our own men with complete freedom, with a purpose that’s not hard to work out. Both the First and the Sixteenth’s first spears are at their wits’ end, and neither of them seems to have any answer to the question as to how they might get their men to march north again. I told them that they’ve lost control of their legions and neither of them could deny the accusation. They’re passengers, Legatus, and they’re taking the path of least resistance to avoid having their men turn on them like the masterless dogs they are.’
The legatus had nodded slowly.
‘And we know what’s going to happen next. Mutiny, encouraged by that treacherous animal Classicus. I will either be murdered or imprisoned, more likely the former than the latter if I’m any judge of a situation. The legions will go over to the Gallic cause and our shame will almost be complete. All that’ll be left is for those poor bastards in the Old Camp to realise that there’s no relief force to rescue them, and that they have the simple choice between surrender and starvation. But I won’t live to see that sorry day. Which means that I have nothing to lose from telling that leaderless rabble exactly what I think of them.’
He played a disgusted glare across the two legions’ ranks, allowing the silence to stretch out, then barked out a derisiv
e laugh.
‘Not that many of you men care about the fate of the empire, do you? Like those Gallic dogs who have followed us south, sending their spies into my army’s camp to suborn you to their rebellious cause, you believe that Rome’s empire is at an end!’ He paused again, looking across the ranks of men. ‘You fools! There is enough military strength marching north from Italy to crush their “Gallic empire” into the dust of next summer like an overripe plum stamped on by a hobnailed boot! You see Batavians to the north, Germans to the east and Gauls to the west and the south, and you believe that neither Gaul nor Germania will ever again be ruled from Rome! I see the same enemies as you, but all I can see are armies of dead men waiting for their time to enter the Underworld. Fresh legions will march over the Alps very shortly, and they will crush the Gauls, and anyone foolish enough to align with them! They will bury the Batavians in the mud of their Island and chase the German tribes back across the Rhenus, then choose the time and place at which to exact Rome’s revenge on them in their turn! But that revenge will be taken, you can be sure of that, whether a year or decades from now. And it will most assuredly be taken upon you too, if you’re foolish enough to succumb to the blandishments of men who wish to establish their own piss-pot of an empire!’
He fell silent again, waiting for any man to challenge his assertion, but both legions stood in perfect silence.
‘I also understand that not only does our military position appear to be precarious, but that many of you are dissatisfied politically as well, if self-interest and concern for the contents of your purses can be dignified with the description of “politics”! You thought you’d chosen an emperor in Vitellius who would consider your interests as his first priority!’ Antonius smiled grimly at the legatus’s euphemistic turn of phrase in describing the soldiers’ greed in placing their general on the throne. ‘But now your emperor is Vespasianus, and not the man you wanted! You see the likelihood of you all becoming “rich soldiers” as small, as you believe he will look to reward his loyal legions first! And you’re right! A year-long civil war will have left the imperial treasury bare, without the gold required to pay donatives, so you’ll have to be content with your lot! But that’s not what the Gauls are telling you, is it?’
He shook his head angrily.
‘I know what their spies and agitators are telling you! “Join us, and we will rule the land north of the Alps together! Join us, and share the riches of a new empire! Join us, and kill your officers!”’ Antonius smiled again at the looks of horror on the other legates’ faces, as they realised their predicament. ‘“Join us and rule everything north of the mountains!”’ Vocula’s voice softened from its previously hectoring tone. ‘And you fools are going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to rise up and murder your commanders, in the name of a Gallic empire that will be crumbling even as you help the Gauls to found it! I give it six months, no more, and you’ll all be facing the dissolution of your legions and being sentenced to spend the rest of your pitiful lives as unpaid labour in some dark corner of the empire, those of you that aren’t immediately executed for treason!’ He grinned at them, openly contemptuous. ‘Who knows? Perhaps the commanding general will have you all crucified, as an example to others, one every fifty paces along the course of the Rhenus! I would!’
The soldiers stared back at him in amazement, and he raised his voice to bark defiantly at them.
‘Yes! I’d have you all executed now, if I could! I despise you all! You were Roman soldiers at one time, but all you are now is honourless traitors getting ready to turn intention into deed and put a knife into the empire’s back! I see you all staring back at me with murder in your hearts, and do you know, I couldn’t care less! Kill me or spare me, it no longer matters! I’m sick to my stomach at the sight of you! Indeed I’m more troubled by your singular lack of courage than I am with the prospect of my own death! I was raised on stories of Roman bravery and steadfastness, legions fighting to the last man, if the need arose, rather than abandon their position, men who defied the odds and the enemy, even at the cost of their lives! And now what do we have? You! Weak-hearted cowards, ready to march behind Germans or Gauls, against Rome itself if so ordered! Not that you’ll ever get anywhere near Rome! Will you take orders from a Batavian? Will you mount guard duty for the Nervians? Of course you will! You have fortresses close at hand to fight from, plentiful grain to eat, and enough men to hold Novaesium’s walls until the relieving force arrives, but instead you cowards intend to abandon five hundred years of proud tradition, and spit on Rome for having “let you down”, don’t you? Well I’m done with you all! This is my last speech to you as your legatus augusti, so if you have the courage to fight on then choose some other leader who will offend you less! Do what you think right! And if you’re set upon my death, I’ll be in my tent …’ he paused and looked across the ranks with silent contempt, ‘if any man here has the courage to face me with a sword in his hand, knowing that the revenge Rome will surely exact for my murder will be slow, painful and humiliating! You fools!’
He turned and walked away, the legions behind him erupting into a hubbub of voices raised against his words as he offered Antonius his hand.
‘Go now, while they’re working out what to do. They won’t try to stop you, not with a full cohort behind you. March south and join the relieving legions, head for Vindonissa and meet up with the Twenty-first Rapax, they’ll see you right. And take these with you …’
He unbuckled his belt, handing his sword and dagger to the dismayed first spear.
‘I’d be grateful if you could deliver them to my wife, Helvia Procula. They’re an heirloom, handed down from the days of my grandfather, so I’d die happier knowing they’ll serve the next generation of my family.’
The centurion looked at him imploringly.
‘I’ll ask you one last time. Come with us, Legatus. You’re too good a man to sacrifice yourself—’
‘To sacrifice myself for Rome?’
‘Yes.’ Antonius’s tone was suddenly emphatic. ‘Yes. You’ve given this command everything you have, you’ve been undermined and frustrated by Rome and this damned civil war, and you can leave these … cunts to stew in their own juice with a clear conscience. Surely that has to be better than allowing them to murder you, alone and unregarded?’
Vocula stared back at him for a moment before replying, and when he spoke his tone was soft.
‘Except I won’t die alone, First Spear. The eyes of Rome will be upon me, and my example will spur Rome’s legions to vengeance on this scum. I know my people.’
‘Perhaps you do, Legatus. And I know Rome too, perhaps better than I’d like, after the events of the last few months, and I consider your example to be wasted on your people. But I’ll assure you of one thing, Gaius Dillius Vocula,’ he leaned close to the Roman, lowering his voice to make his words private between the two of them, ‘if any of these men takes a blade to you, as you seem to expect, their name won’t stay secret for long. And that man will need to bury himself very, very deeply if he wants to escape my vengeance.’ He raised the weapons the legatus had entrusted to his safekeeping. ‘And when I find him it’ll be your iron that takes his life, I promise you that.’
He stepped back and saluted crisply, nodded respectfully at the man he had come to consider a friend, then turned and walked away without looking back.
A mile down the road to the south Antonius stepped off the cobbled surface and shouted the order for his cohort’s short column to halt, waving for his deputy to join him at its head and looked back at the distant turf walls while he waited for the centurion to reach him. Their exit from the camp had been peaceful enough, the naked threat of their uncovered spearheads enough to reduce any potential hostility to a few barbed taunts flung by men who had been careful to remain anonymous in the watching crowd, but the fact that they were in effect running for their lives had nagged at him with every step of the march.
‘You just can’t walk away, can you?’
The grim-faced first spear shook his head.
‘No. I can’t. I know he’s told me to leave him to it, and that he’s happy to die here, but …’
‘You like him too much. So we’re going back for him?’
‘No. We’re not going back. I’m going back.’
The other man stared at him, realisation dawning as Antonius pulled off his helmet and handed it to his chosen man.
‘No. You can’t …’
His superior’s mirthless smile cut off his comrade’s protest.
‘Can’t I? Who’s going to stop me? Not you, not if you know right from wrong. Here, give me your helmet, Chosen.’
His men goggled at him as he settled the other man’s helmet on his head, handing over his own heavily decorated headgear.
‘But they’ll kill you alongside him!’
Antonius laughed.
‘What? That lot back there? Did you see anyone standing guard on the gate as we marched out?’ He turned back to the chosen man, reaching out a hand to take his brass-bound staff. ‘Give me your hastile and swap cloaks with me. You can hold my vine stick while I’m gone.’
‘And if you don’t come back do I get to keep it?’
The other centurion turned and looked him incredulously.
‘He’s about to walk back into a camp full of men who are more than ready to tear him to pieces, and you’re doing the “can I have your spare boots if you die” joke?’
Antonius shrugged, pulling the borrowed cloak over his shoulders and fastening it with the brooch the chosen man passed him, then took the heavy brass-bound staff that was his chosen man’s badge of office and weapon of choice when it came to imposing discipline on his men.
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