Silius offered up a silent prayer for his friend as he concentrated on the terrain ahead. They would have to ride like never before to get out of Veneti territory. This was a coordinated attack, which meant that those villages and farmers they had spoken to, enquiring of the tribe’s capital, had been betraying their presence and plans to an unseen enemy.
He would have to tell Crassus…
His thoughts exploded into slivers of painful flashing light as a heavy stone cracked against his skull, knocking the sense from him and throwing him clear from the horse that, panicked by the melee and noise, ran on heedless of its rider.
Silius lay for a moment on the grass, stunned and confused. He reached around to the back of his head and his hand came away slick with blood. Not a good sign.
His wits began to return rapidly, but not before he realised he was done for. Figures were approaching, brandishing spears and swords: Celts. Silius craned his neck painfully and could just make out the distant, retreating figure of the cavalry soldier, fleeing the scene. At least word might get back to Crassus of this betrayal. Silius closed his eyes, painfully. The question was: what would Crassus do in response? The man’s only answer to trouble was the tip of a sword, which meant that Silius would be likely used as an example by the tribesmen.
He opened his eyes again and tried to roll onto his side to rise, but a heavy skin boot pressed against his chest and pushed him back to the ground. A Celtic warrior, missing a number of teeth and with patterns painted across his cheeks, grinned down at him and said something in his guttural language, gesturing with the spear point to emphasise his incomprehensible words.
Silius slumped back. Hopefully this grinning lunatic would make it quick.
A groan caught his attention and he turned his head slightly to see two more of the Gauls dragging Velanius across to him by the shoulders, his feet trailing in the wet grass. At least he must be alive. Silius would have company while he died.
The senior tribune was dumped, unceremoniously, next to him, and tried to rise slowly until another foot pressed against his back and pushed him to the ground. Velanius exhaled another groan and turned his head to look at his companion.
“I think we might be in trouble, Titus.”
“This depends upon your friends” a voice above said in passable Latin with a thick Gallic accent.
Silius turned back to look up in surprise, as did his fellow tribune. A new figure had joined the Gaulish warriors around them. His charcoal grey robes were decorated with animal images and strange designs, while his straggly beard appeared to have small bones tied in among the braids. The man held a long sword of the Celtic style, etched with further arcane designs.
“Druids? Great. Just when I thought we’d struck rock bottom.”
The heavy-set druid shook his head, like a disapproving father.
“The world is so much more complex and wondrous than you blindfolded Romans ever deem possible, and the people in it so varied and astounding. You, just as almost every other Roman I have ever met, have the manners of a goat.”
He turned to the warrior beside him and issued a command. As two of the Gauls disappeared on some unknown task, the druid leaned over them.
“We shall have to teach you a few manners if you are to enjoy the hospitality of Crosicum. The chief is less jovial than I and may take offence.”
Silius glared at their captor as the two warriors returned with a fishing net that they threw over the two Romans and pulled tight. Velanius tried to struggle out of the way, but a broken arm seemed to be giving him great trouble. Silius shook his head. They were at the mercy of this man now and trying to escape at this point was futile.
Craning his head and rising as far as the restraining net would allow, now that the foot had been removed from his chest, he followed the line of the huge fishing net and saw that it was attached to a rope which in turn led off to the saddle of a horse. With a heavy heart, he turned to his friend.
“Brace yourself, Quintus. We’re in for a rough journey.”
Decimus Brutus, staff officer and friend of the Julii, leaned against the outside wall of the headquarters along with Varus, the cavalry commander, and Felix, primus pilus of the Eleventh, passing a skin of wine back and forth. Leaning to the side, he pressed his ear to the door once more.
Within, he could still hear Crassus raging, amid the sound of things being thrown.
“Always a professional, eh?”
Felix grinned at him.
“Not entirely unexpected though. That trooper’s news was bad enough, but add to that the lack of any communication from Gallus or Terrasidius over the last two weeks and it begins to look like our good commander has made more that a mere tactical error. All this on top of the news that Galba and the Twelfth are on the way to restock from our stores. He’s having a bad day.”
Varus nodded.
“I’ve lost a few good men this week, if all the corn gathering missions have fallen foul of such Gaulish atrocity.”
“It’s worse than that” Brutus frowned. “This is the first sign of insurrection. It may not be a full blown rebellion yet, but that all depends on how we handle it. And you know damn well what Crassus will do. He can’t afford any blemishes on his precious reputation.”
“Should we go back in and see if we can calm him down? It’s been an hour. He can’t have much furniture left intact in there.”
Brutus shook his head and pointed down the road toward the main square.
“I’m not sure that’s an option.”
A small party had entered the street below and were making their way up the hill toward the headquarters. A group of legionaries surrounded two men who led their horses on foot. The Gaulish warrior was no surprise, his bronze torc and mail shirt marking him as a noble. The grey robed druid by his side was, however, a different matter.
“Varus? Be a good fellow and go in to tell Crassus that he has company.”
Unhappily, the cavalry commander stepped across to the door, opened it gingerly and stepped inside. Ignoring the muted sounds of arguing voices from within, Brutus narrowed his eyes at the approaching party. A druid meant something important. This could be the opportunity they were looking for to smooth the matter over and avoid any further unpleasantness.
As the party came to the crest of the sloping street, the door beside them opened and Crassus emerged, head high and crimson cloak settled on his shoulders. Varus appeared at his shoulder, looking peeved. The only sign of the legate’s outburst and fury was the slightly wild look about his eyes.
The soldiers stopped in the street, saluted the officers and spread out to the sides, remaining alert. The two Celts, accompanied by the watch centurion, stepped forward. The centurion saluted and addressed Crassus directly.
“Sir, these two arrived at the gate seeking counsel with yourself. They have left their sizeable escort across the river and offered up their weapons as a gesture of goodwill.”
Crassus glared at the centurion and then shifted his obvious displeasure to the two Gauls.
“You are far from welcome here, and your presence in particular offends me, druid.”
The stocky, impressive man smiled a crooked smile.
“A sentiment echoed by the whole of Gaul toward yourself, Roman. However, I am not here to bandy insults, but rather to offer you an opportunity; some might say your only opportunity to keep your skins and your honour intact.”
Crassus’ wild eyes flashed dangerously.
“You dare to threaten me in my own camp?”
His voice had a high pitched tone that the officers recognised. Varus had moved forward next to the legate and Felix and Brutus joined him, reaching a position where they could prevent anything untoward happening.
The druid shrugged.
“You are invaders and, while many of our kin advocate a policy of fighting you until the last of us breathes and bleeds out, we are not all so short-sighted. We have the chance to coexist and avoid the bloodshed that others see as inevita
ble.”
Crassus continued to glare silently as the druid continued.
“Despite the arrogance of your sending collectors out to take the food from our children’s mouths to feed your hateful army, we are willing to negotiate terms.”
“Negotiate?”
Crassus’ voice had risen another notch and the warning signs were there for all to see.
“Yes, Roman. Last year when you beat the armies we sent out, you took many of our sons and daughters as hostages. Now we have done the same with your officers. Send our people back to us in peace and we will consider sending you the supplies you so desperately need as well as those men we have. Send our people back and we will extend to you the same courtesy.”
Crassus had gone pale and Brutus noted Varus’ hand hovering near the man’s elbow, ready to restrain him if necessary. The druid shrugged again.
“You will never subdue the Armorican tribes by force, but you may yet do it through respect and care. It is your choice, Roman.”
Falling silent, the man folded his arms and stood quietly, watching the expressions racing around Crassus’ face.
The legate pointed at the watch centurion.
“Have these two thrown in the stockade and send word to the provost to execute one hostage in ten.”
Varus grasped Crassus’ elbow and reached across to whisper something to him, but the legate wrenched his arm free and turned his back on the visitors, opening the headquarters’ door and entering, allowing it to slam behind him.
As the centurion and his men surrounded the two Gauls, Varus, Felix and Brutus exchanged worried looks.
“This is a major cock up of a situation” Felix said flatly.
“Understatement of the year” added Varus.
Brutus glanced back to catch the expressions of the two Gauls as they were pushed away down the street. There was no fear there; just defiance.
“Go with them and make sure they’re treated well and for Gods’ sake don’t let the centurion carry out that execution order or we burn our last bridge. I have to talk to Crassus.
“You did what?” Crassus screeched.
Brutus gripped the back of the chair behind which he stood, his knuckles whitening as he tried to restrain his temper.
“I stopped your execution order.”
The fire of anger danced in Crassus eyes and for a moment Brutus wondered just how far this man could be pushed before he did something truly dangerous.
“I would remind you, Brutus, that you are under my command at this time. Without Caesar’s countermanding orders, what I say goes here and I can not and will not have my orders disobeyed and countermanded by my lessers!”
Brutus ground his teeth and took several deep breaths before he trusted himself to open his mouth again.
“What’s done is done, Crassus. I have stopped the order and if you change it again, you’ll look either indecisive or idiotic, so leave it be.”
Crassus’ eyes took on that dangerous sparkle again and Brutus continued while he had the chance.
“Look, Crassus… there is an opportunity here to build a bridge and try to get things settled in Gaul. All you need to do is grant their paltry request. The hostages were a good idea when the war was just concluding last year, but we won’t need them if we can conclude a proper alliance with the tribes. If you just aggravate them, however, things could flare up here again and we’ll end up in the same situation as we were when the Belgae revolted last year. That almost cost us the Twelfth Legion!”
“No, Brutus. The reason last year caused you all so much trouble is that you left it too long. You let it build into a proper rebellion and you all paid the price by having to put it down again. I conquered this land myself with just one legion, and I will instil peace the same way. If they want to rebel, then let them. We are already in their lands and ready to put them down.”
Brutus shook his head.
“That’s not a clever approach…”
“Be quiet!”
Brutus blinked. Crassus may temporarily outrank him in this particular place and time, but there was no less nobility, power and rank behind Brutus than the commander.
“Speak to me like that again, Crassus, and when you leave this building it will be with a limp; do I make myself clear?” Brutus hissed through clenched teeth.
It was Crassus’ turn to blink in surprise. Brutus was, to Crassus’ mind, one of those soft, boyish officers, who had come out to war like a child on an outing, wanting to see how things were done. Brutus had nothing really to gain from his command, while he, as son of the great Marcus Licinius Crassus, needed to stamp his coins with victory slogans. He needed the prestige. Money was half the battle in Rome these days, but without Patrician blood, no matter how rich and how influential a man was, people always looked at you as though you were in some way lacking. Military victory and a triumph was the way round that.
“Listen, Brutus. You don’t need this victory but I do. It’s as simple as that. I can’t have this taken away from me. I won’t have this taken away from me!”
Brutus raised his eyebrows; it was like dealing with a petulant child.
“You had a victory last year and you’ll have the opportunity for others. Now is a time for conciliation.”
“No. We’re past that. I will stand on their neck until they beg to go to Rome in chains.”
Inwardly, Brutus sighed. There would be no persuading the commander and he could see that now. He would have one last try and then have to take matters into his own hands.
“At least inform Caesar. Let him have his say. It is, after all, his army; paid for with his money.”
Crassus narrowed his eyes.
“And have Caesar pull my backside out of the flames? Or worse still, blame me for this fiasco and remove me from command? Hardly, Brutus. Mark my words: I shall have this fledgling revolution stamped out within the month and will inform Caesar of events only when I have them firmly under control once more. Now you’ve done enough damage for the day. Don’t you have anything better to do? I have to think.”
Brutus glared at him for a moment, stood and, saluting in the most half-hearted fashion possible, turned and left the room, taking care to allow the door to shut quietly. Slamming doors and stamping feet in a childish tantrum was best left to the great Imperator Crassus.
Angrily, he marched on down the street toward the north gate, where the prisoner stockade lay. He could see it from the slope; a mini camp in itself, with its own palisade, divided into sections and surrounded by defences and guards. The number of Gauls in there seemed to grow every time he looked, and every one of them would be a nobleman of one local tribe or another.
At the bottom of the hill, just inside the decumana gate, Varus and Felix were returning from delivering the prisoners. Brutus waved at them until he got their attention, and then pointed to a small, almost hidden garden off the main street. As soon as he was sure they’d seen, he strode off down that side passage and into the peaceful tranquillity of the Celtic garden.
Unlike the ordered rows and graceful arcs of a Roman garden, this small, irregularly-shaped space was a muddle of jumbled shrubs, flower beds and fruit trees, with a small pond and a rustic seating area. It was in no way an organised formal garden and should be a mess, yet it had been created with such an instinctive knowledge of nature that everything fitted perfectly, blending in with the features around it to such an extent that, when taken as a whole, the effect was charming and relaxing.
That was what Brutus needed a little of right now: charming and relaxing. Crassus was neither.
He was just musing over what benefits Rome could reap through the infusion of a little Gaulish thinking when Varus and Felix rounded the corner and entered the garden. Brutus beckoned to them.
“Have a seat. I think we have a problem.”
Varus nodded as he strode across and collapsed onto one of the benches.
“I didn’t think you’d have much luck with Crassus. He’s a stony-faced and stony-h
earted imbecile.”
Brutus shook his head sadly.
“No, he’s far worse than that, Varus. He’s a six year old with an inferiority complex. His daddy is rich and powerful and all his peers are more noble than him. He’s desperate to be better than the rest of us. I think your argument with him back near the Rhine after the Ariovistus affair made him realise that being one of the nobiles was no replacement for a noble lineage. He will lead us into the wolf’s mouth and watch the whole army burn rather than admit he can’t manage something.”
Felix nodded sourly.
“I can quite believe it. I served under his father fifteen years ago when that Thracian dog Spartacus was roaming around Italia with his gladiators and slaves. The old bastard had two legions decimated for cowardice, because they lost the field to Spartacus. He was a nasty piece of work and clearly the apple has not fallen far from the tree.”
“The question then” Brutus sighed “is what we can do about it?”
Felix shrugged.
“He’s the commander. If he wants to take the legions to crush the local tribes, we can hardly say no, no matter how much we might disagree. One of the prime requisites for being a primus pilus is obedience to the chain of command.”
Brutus stared at the grass.
“It’s a delicate situation. I’ve pushed about as far as I dare and there’s no way I can stop Crassus from carrying out his little punitive war.
He straightened and flexed his shoulders.
“But I can put a little cushion in place for us to fall back on. Its possible Crassus is right, I suppose. He might be able to nip any insurrection in the bud and solve it all before it becomes a major problem. I very much doubt that’s the case, but I can’t ignore the possibility…”
Varus and Felix turned their expectant faces on him.
“But I can give him a month to try, and I can use that time to get things ready in the event he fails.”
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