Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  Again, Gallus had to bite his tongue. He’d seen first hand the results of Crassus’ conquest. Pacification by near-genocide. The mass burial pits were still visited by weeping relatives all up and down these lands. Still, the winter would soon be over and then his own legate would return, along with the general and the rest of the staff. Things would change then.

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  Crassus glared at him for some time and finally slid from his chair and stood, reaching out to the table and swiping his crimson cloak from the surface, fastening it around his shoulders.

  “Come with me.”

  Gallus nodded and, turning, followed the legate out of the headquarters. The air outside was cloying and unpleasant. A fog had settled earlier in the week and seemed to be set in for the duration, lifting only briefly during the height of the day before descending once again to wrap them in its damp embrace as the sun sank. The unpleasant weather was affecting the mood of the army, who had weathered the crisp cold winter reasonably well, but this damp fog was a whole different matter. It soaked into the clothes and made even the flesh feel soggy and cold, it cut down visibility and shut out the welcome gaze of the sun.

  The headquarters had been converted from the house of the Andean chief at Vindunum during the Seventh’s campaign last year. Indeed, the Seventh and their allied legions occupied the entire Gallic oppidum and the surrounding territory on this side of the river, the surviving population having been evicted to the far bank where they had set up makeshift huts to survive the winter. The ‘Pax Romana' as demonstrated by the great Crassus.

  Still grinding his teeth, Gallus strode out into the street behind the young commander as he glanced left and right. There were the standard legionary guards on duty outside the headquarters, as well as the granary and other stores, but here in the hub of Roman command, the higher proportion of the sparse figures visible bore the crests and plumes of officers.

  “You!”

  Gallus frowned as Crassus gestured to two tribunes standing huddled against the cold and studying a wax tablet. The tribunes looked up and Gallus vaguely recognised them from meetings and dice games. Men of the Eleventh, if he remembered correctly.

  The two tribunes turned and saluted the legate, standing at attention.

  “Identify yourselves.”

  “Quintus Velanius, tribunus laticlavius of the Eleventh, sir.”

  “Titus Silius, tribunus angusticlavius of the Eleventh, legate.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “Come with me.”

  The two men exchanged anxious glances and, as they fell into step with Gallus at the legate’s heel, they looked around at him questioningly. Gallus shook his head and made a face suggesting they should stay quiet.

  The three tribunes pulled their cloaks tighter around them against the numbing fog and traipsed on down the street toward the former centre of the oppidum. As they entered the main square, once more Crassus waved an arm at a man with a tribune’s plume.

  “Terrasidius? Join us.”

  The tribune, one of the junior, or ‘angusticlavius’ tribunes of the Seventh, turned and came to attention, saluting, before striding toward them. As the five men converged, Crassus gestured to one of the buildings around the square, converted for use as an office for the clerks of the various legions and the camp prefect, nominally Priscus, ex-primus pilus of the Tenth, but who was convalescing in Rome with his commander during the winter.

  The small group approached and Terrasidius stepped out ahead to open the door and stand aside politely until the others had entered, closing it behind him as he joined them. This building had clearly been a shop or a tavern before being commandeered by the Seventh. Three clerks worked studiously at desks in the large open room.

  “Find something to do outside” Crassus said flatly.

  The clerks looked up in alarm and saluted hurriedly before gathering their tablets and styluses in their arms and leaving the room in haste, making their way out of the front door and into the damp, depressing square outside.

  “Right.”

  Crassus turned to the four tribunes as he leaned back against a desk and folded his arms.

  “Tribune Gallus here informs me that we are being too harsh on the Andes here; that we cannot demand any more grain or supplies from them or we may push them into open revolt.”

  Gallus’ teeth continued to grind in irritation but, as the other three officers glanced across at him, he noted the sympathy and understanding in their eyes.

  “So” the legate continued circling his neck to the sound of bones clicking. “What are the options?”

  He fell silent, but none of the tribunes fell into the trap. Crassus nodded to himself.

  “One: we banish the Andes altogether and send them to leech off one of the other tribes in this benighted land, while we commandeer their remaining stocks. Certainly the easiest option, and their own stores should see the army through until spring, when we will move again.”

  Gallus noted the almost despairing looks on his peers and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately not to comment.

  “Two: We send to Narbonensis or Cisalpine Gaul in Caesar’s name for extra supplies. Of course, it would be more than a month before anything gets to us and we run the risk or putting forth the appearance that the better part of seven of Rome’s elite legions cannot even gather enough supplies to keep themselves fed.”

  He peered at the tribunes and allowed his gaze to rest on Gallus.

  “Or three: we extend our demands to other tribes. At the risk of testing tribune Gallus’ ‘bend-or-break’ theory, we procure every ounce of provision we need from the various tribes we have conquered.”

  One of the tribunes cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  “No opinions, gentlemen?”

  Velanius of the Eleventh scratched his chin. Gallus noted that he winced in anticipation as he opened his mouth.

  “It has been a harsh and freezing winter, legate. Most of the tribes will be in a similar state. I’m not at all sure how much they will be able to spare. Back down on the coast of the Mare Nostrum, however, where it’s been warmer…”

  His voice tailed off and he fell uncomfortably silent.

  “Since the lot of you seem to be so concerned about the tender feelings of these pointless barbarians, it strikes me that I could hardly find any better men to send.”

  Straightening, he strode across to the wall, where a map was pinned to the timber, giving the locations of the local tribes and settlements, along with the disposition of the various scouts and spies. He examined the map for some time while the tribunes watched unhappily. Finally, he tapped his fingers on the vellum.

  “There you go: Gallus, you’ll take a detachment of cavalry as a bodyguard and go to the Curiosolitae. Their capitol is some turd hole near the north coast. We checked it out briefly last year and it was hardly worth our attention, but there’s good farmland around them. You should be able to get fully half of what we need from them. I would suggest you threaten them with the heel of the Roman boot, but you can use your charm if you prefer.”

  Ignoring the rising colour in Gallus’ face, he turned to the others, his finger sliding down the map and coming to rest on the jagged lines of the southern coast of the peninsula.

  “The Venati are somewhat fractious and spread out and will be more difficult to deal with. We’re not even sure where their centre is, so you two” he gestured at Velanius and Silius, “will need to take two turmae of cavalry and go find them and draw supplies from them. I’m not expecting them to have much corn but, from what I read, they’re fishers, so you may be able to procure us stocks of seafood.”

  Lastly, his finger strayed up and right, deeper inland and back toward better-known territory and came to rest somewhere around forty or fifty miles north of Vindunum.

  “Terrasidius? You can take a detachment to the Esubii. They should be nice and easy to deal with and will have surplus corn stocks if I’m not mistaken.”r />
  The legate fell quiet, still regarding the map, his chin cupped in a hand. The tribunes stood in uncomfortable silence, shuffling their feet. After a pregnant pause, Crassus turned, an expression of feigned surprise on his face.

  “Are you still here?”

  Without waiting for further admonishment, the tribunes turned and made their way out of the building and out of sight of the legate. As they left the relative comfort of the low, dark interior and stepped out into the grey cloth of mist, they kept walking until they were at the far side of the square and safely out of earshot of both the office window and any other human being.

  “Arsehole!”

  The other three turned in surprise at Gallus’ outburst, but understanding quickly claimed their expressions.

  “He really has no idea just how much of the time we spend trying to smooth over relations with the Gauls after he wanders around Armorica kicking them out of the way. It’s almost as though he wants them to revolt.”

  Velanius nodded unhappily.

  “The Venati are an argumentative bunch. They fight for fun in their village squares; I’ve seen it — bare knuckle fighting until they’re lying comatose just to work up an appetite for dinner. I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to approach them and broach the idea that they should give us a sizeable chunk of their fish. I have a horrible feeling about this.”

  Gallus’ grim expression revealed his own thoughts on the matter quite clearly. He turned and rounded on Terrasidius.

  “See how he favours his own legion? Cushy job you got there, asking for a handout from a friendly tribe that’s almost drowning in excess corn.”

  The tribune from the Seventh shrugged.

  “You can call it favour if you like and, yes I get the easy tribe, but when we start moving in spring, you’ll head back to your own legates and get on with it. I’ll still be wandering around behind my illustrious leader, trying to remove the stick from his arse!”

  Gallus stared at the tribune for a moment and burst out laughing.

  “Fair enough. He won’t be expecting us to leave until the morning. Too late in the day to set out now. Anyone else here fancy a drink? There’s two taverns in this shithole that they left in service, and I know which one doesn’t spit in the beer for Romans!”

  The three men nodded, relieved to have their thoughts turned from the task ahead, and strode off toward the tavern with its friendly warmth.

  “This had better be the right place; I’m truly sick of getting the run-around with these people.”

  Tribune Velanius nodded miserably, shrinking deeper into the crimson wool cloak as his horse plodded slowly through the bone-soaking drizzle.

  “You know how some sailors say that the seas go on to the north and west to the end of the world and then irrigate the Elysian fields?”

  Silius eyed him suspiciously.

  “Yes. You do know you can’t irrigate anything with sea water?”

  “Well you can quite bloody believe it! The further north we get from Rome the wetter, colder and more miserable it gets. If it weren’t for all the cliffs and rocks, I’d say it would be hard to tell where the land ends and the sea begins in this place.”

  His companion gave a small laugh and turned to look at the cavalry escort. One of the outriders was returning.

  “Now we’ll find out.”

  The pair drew their steeds to a halt and sat in the miserable rain as the cavalry trooper approached and reined in.

  “Sir” the trooper said, giving a half bow in the saddle, “there’s a sizeable settlement up ahead on a spur of rock above the sea. It’s a lot bigger than any of the other villages we’ve seen. I think we’ve found our town.”

  “Good. Form up an honour guard. Let’s do this properly.”

  As the cavalry settled into lines of twelve men to either side with a small van- and rear-guard, the two tribunes held their breath as they approached the crest of the hill. They still had no idea how they would go about their mission, but the time seemed finally to be upon them when they would have to decide.

  Slowly they rode to the top of the hill in a stately procession. Beyond, the open countryside, dotted with copses, stretched out, swooping down and then up to the now all-too-familiar line of jagged cliffs and coves that formed the coast of north western Gaul. In the centre of the view, a headland stood proud, rising higher than those to either side. Ramparts protected the landward side, while cliffs formed the defence of the rest, with jagged rocks and heaving seas below. Within the walls, a typical Gaulish town lay, squat and grey-brown with random, curving streets. Smoke rose from a multitude of roofs, warming the occupants and warding off the chill rain.

  “Even that place is starting to look good when you’ve been on horseback in the rain for so damn long.”

  Velanius pointed down at the near side of the town.

  “Will you look at that!”

  “What?”

  “The approach. It would take Neptune and Mars working together to take that place!”

  Silius peered through the rain, trying to pick out more detail and, as he did, he understood his companion’s fascination. The town was all but impossible to access from the sea, given the steep cliffs and the fact that the whole headland was surrounded by partially submerged rocks. But the land approach was no better. The walls were as thick and high and impressive as any they’d seen these past two years in Gaul, but to even reach the walls, an attacker would have to descend the slope to sea level, crossing a narrow causeway that stood perhaps a hundred yards wide.

  “That would be a killing zone if they had archers on those towers.”

  Velanius shook his head.

  “Better than that. It’s still a fairly low tide right now. That causeway will be underwater a lot of the time, and those nasty rocks will be hidden just below the waves. This place isn’t a town, it’s a damn fortress.”

  As they descended the slope, the seaward dip and its tidal causeway disappeared from view. The first of a number of small copses rose up to either side of the road, granting blessed, if momentary, relief from the worst of the bleak drizzle that seemed to travel horizontally in this country.

  “I’d be willing to come to some very favourable terms if they’ll just supply me with a towel, a warm hearth and a bowl of broth!”

  Silius laughed again.

  “Don’t start on about your stomach again. I spent most of yesterday listening to you banging on about it.”

  Velanius opened his mouth to deliver a stinging retort, but instead his mouth formed into a shocked ‘O’ while his eyes widened. Behind his companion and the line of miserable cavalry troopers, a vague figure appeared like a ghost between the boles of the trees, a long spear thrusting out ahead. The tribune had not even the time to call a warning before the spear caught the nearest rider just under the ribs on his left side, plunging in deep through his torso, to emerge at the opposite collar bone. The shocked rider opened his mouth to scream and a gobbet of blood was all that issued as he toppled from the horse.

  Velanius was aware that he’d shouted something, though he couldn’t remember what it was in the sudden confusion. They had no chance, and that was clear from the outset. There must be dozens of men lining the sides of the road, hidden in the trees, each armed with a long thrusting spear. Almost the entire cavalry guard died in the first few seconds of this brutal and well orchestrated attack.

  “Ride!” bellowed Silius, jerking his knees to guide his beast around the falling horses and men to either side.

  Velanius needed no further urging. The escort lines beside them were gone, horses and men alike on the ground, flailing in a growing lake of blood as the Gaulish spearmen stepped out of the eaves and finished their victims off with repeated stabs of those wide, leaf-shaped spear heads.

  Both ahead and behind, more attackers had emerged with their spears held out before them, blocking the road in both directions.

  “Shit, Silius, we’re trapped.”

  “Jump them. Have
you never jumped a horse?”

  The men from the woods to the side had finished off the escort, while those both ahead and behind moved in on the van- and rear-guard. Time was up; any more delay and they would merely be caught between those same spearmen. With a last gestured to Velanius, Silius kicked his horse into speed and began to race toward the front doors of the trap ahead, grasping the mane. The four troopers that formed the vanguard were clearly in trouble. Two were already down and one was fighting to control his wounded horse.

  As Silius, with Velanius close by, raced toward the scene, they saw the struggling trooper caught simultaneously by two spear thrusts that lifted him bodily from the saddle and vaulted him across and down to the turf.

  The sound of pounding hooves attracted his precious attention and he was as surprised as he was relieved to see one of the rearguard troopers pulling alongside at a run, apparently with the same idea of escape.

  Silius had been a rider from a young age, spending time on the family estate outside Aquinum exploring the countryside on one or other of his father’s horses. Seeing the distance left to ride and the height of the blockade, as the Gauls began to pay attention to the three men bearing down on them, he adjusted his posture, kicked as much extra speed as he possibly could and prepared himself.

  The Gauls were well aware of what was happening and equally prepared to stop it. Silius was the first to reach them, leaping his steed high over the men. He closed his eyes and made silent vows to Fortuna as his horse sailed through the open space, the steed of the cavalry trooper close by to his left and behind.

  When his hooves touched the earth beyond the Gauls, his heart soared, relief flooding through him, boosted all the more by the sound of the trooper’s horse reaching the ground once more.

  The screech behind them told all too well of Velanius’ failure. A fair weather rider with little experience at the jump, the other tribune had left it too late. As he coasted low over the Gauls, several spears plunged into the steed, killing it before it even hit the ground.

  Silius, already racing away from the scene with the one remaining cavalry trooper, afforded himself only a quick, sad glance back to see that Velanius had been thrown clear and had hit the ground hard, likely breaking bones with possibly fatal results. Several of the Gauls were running toward the heap that was the senior tribune of the Eleventh Legion.