Once the Roman force was inside, forming up into shield walls and squares, the fort had effectively fallen and many of the enemy had clambered over their own defences, fleeing down the slopes and into the woodland, leaving their comrades behind and running for their lives. Those who remained and surrendered had been surprisingly few in number.
Crassus stood in the central space before the enemy commander’s tent, his standard bearers, cornicen and the other tribunes behind him, various senior centurions about and legionaries lining the square. Before him and under guard, perhaps two dozen richly attired and adorned Celts knelt, their heads bowed. Roman spears hovered close to their necks.
The legate looked up and gave Rusca a rare and uncharacteristic smile.
“Ah, tribune. My congratulations and thanks for a very successful action. Is the cavalry commander not present?”
Rusca smiled back at him.
“Galronus has gone for a while. I doubt he’ll return before nightfall. He and his men went off to hunt down the fleeing enemy. Whether he intends to return with them in chains, or just ‘chastise’ them, I’m not sure.”
Crassus nodded in satisfaction.
“He is to be commended.”
The legate turned his attention back to the cowering men before him.
“Who is your leader?”
There was a pregnant pause and finally one of the kneeling figures spoke in a deep, cracked voice.
“I am Beltas of the Cantabri. I lead this camp.”
Crassus shook his head.
“You led this camp. I am impressed with the scale of your adoption of our ways, though I am somewhat dismayed to find you using them against us, particularly in the defence of another people.”
The man remained silent.
“Good. At least you know when not to talk. Not all the Cantabri crossed the mountains to fight us?”
“No, general.”
Crassus nodded.
“Good. I do not want to be remembered as the man who destroyed an entire people. You realise that I am not afforded a great deal of room for mercy?”
Silence again.
“You must die, Beltas; you and your followers. I cannot have the peoples of Aquitania and Spain believing they can rebel as much as they like without punishment. You have forced my hand to this, but you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that I will carry no campaign against your people across the mountains. You will suffer for what you have done, but your wives and children will live on safe in their homes, so long as they stay there.”
The legate turned to the tribunes behind him.
“Round up every survivor you can find from the area, marshal them here in the fort and then split them into tribal groupings. There are at least a dozen different peoples involved here, some Aquitanian and others Spanish. Take them in those groups and crucify them in all the high places so that they can be seen from afar.”
A moan of dismay rose from several of the kneeling men.
“Make sure that any Spanish tribesmen are raised on their posts in the passes that lead down from the mountains to greet any reinforcements that may be tempted to continue on against us.”
He turned to walk away, but stopped, tapping his lip as though with an afterthought.
“But I shall still show the little mercy that I can. Should any man request mercy, you may cut and break them to speed their death. Moreover, any survivor you find that you feel should be too young or too old to take up arms, send them home and tell them to stay there and grow crops.”
As the legate strode away, Rusca wandered across to him.
“Mercy? Is it wise?”
Crassus shrugged.
“With the will of the Gods, this will be our last battle in Gaul and I have no wish to provoke any further rebellion. Hopefully this will have broken resistance but not prompted the surviving tribes to continue the troubles. We will wait three days to see if any other force turns up and then I shall send to Caesar my compliments and the message that Aquitania is ours. I don’t think we will see any trouble in those three days.”
Rusca nodded.
“But we stay here as garrison for now, sir? To be sure?”
The legate nodded.
“For now. At least until Caesar clears my return to Rome. Summer passes rapidly, tribune, and I have no desire to winter with the troops another year.”
Rusca nodded his heartfelt agreement. The more he thought about Rome and its pleasant diversions, the more he yearned for it. Perhaps they would all return soon, if the general had managed to suppress the Veneti.
Chapter 18
(Sextilis: Darioritum, Caesar’s camp on the Armorican coast.)
Fronto drummed his fingers irritably on the tent frame, half hoping that the noise would distract the general inside enough to open up. The courier had been inside for five full minutes now, while Fronto paced back and forth, grumbling, under the watchful eyes of Brutus, Roscius and Crispus. Sighing, he rapped angrily on the wood and then began to pace once more.
“You’ll wear a rut in the turf, then we’ll all trip over it on our way out.”
Fronto threw a dark look at Brutus and continued to stomp in the springy grass.
“Well we’re clearly not going home, anyway.”
“What makes you think that?”
Fronto pointed at the tent door in an exaggerated gesture.
“Don’t you think that if everything was tidy and neat and dealt with, the general would have bounded out of there like a spring lamb, all smiles and so on? No. Something’s happened.”
Brutus frowned. The messages of Sabinus’ success on the north coast of Armorica and then the remarkable news that Crassus had tamed Aquitania had come in swift succession, a cause for celebration throughout the army, both officers and men alike. It did appear that finally the general’s claim to have conquered Gaul could actually be said to be accurate. The northwest was settled, the south west cowed, the centre and southeast largely allied with the general…
Which left the northeast; the territory of the Belgae and the Germanic tribes, under the watch of Titus Labienus and his small force. The past two weeks had seen the celebratory atmosphere fade once more as the army settled into an uneasy wait for news from the northeast. And this morning, just as Fronto had finished bathing away his bad head and dressed in clean gear, Labienus’ riders had finally arrived and made straight for the general’s tent.
Crispus shook his head dismissively.
“Don’t read anything into it yet, Marcus. Only the Gods and the entrails of goats know the future. You’ve just been on edge ever since Priscus’ last letter.”
Again, Fronto stopped pacing to throw an irritated look at one of his friends, and there was a muted warning in that gaze.
“Oh come on, Fronto. You’ve been so edgy since then, your friends have been walking on egg shells. Your patience seems to have all but vanished. Why won’t you tell anyone what was in the letter.”
“Aulus, you of all people should know when you need to keep that nose out of things. It’s personal, alright?”
Brutus shook his head.
“ It’s not just the letter… I think he’s been like this ever since Balbus left.”
Fronto drew a deep breath. His face was beginning to colour.
“Why don’t you lot piss off and stop trying to analyse my mood? I just want to get home and…” he threw his arms up in the air “I just want to go home, right?”
The others fell silent, unwilling to provoke the older legate again. Fronto had been quick to anger for the last fortnight. He had been involved in three brawls and had blackened the eye of one of the staff officers who had had the unfortunate luck to remark on men of Balbus’ age being allowed to remain in command while in Fronto’s earshot.
“I just want to go home” Fronto repeated as though to himself, his gaze falling to the floor.
He’d been unaware of the general’s presence until Caesar’s smooth voice spoke nearby.
“Not quite yet
, I’m afraid, Fronto.”
He looked up sharply to see the general standing in the tent’s doorway. The man moved with such silence and grace when he wanted to and had made no noise as he lifted the tent flap aside.
“Come in” he addressed the officers.
Fronto was first through the flap and, while the other three walked across and hovered by chairs until the general returned to his desk, the legate of the Tenth simply sank straight into a chair. The general gave him a sharp look, but then seated himself and gestured to the rest to do the same. A cavalry trooper, still dirty and fully equipped from his ride, stood to attention to the side of the table.
“I expect you’re all eager to know the situation?”
“We’re not going home. That means someone else needs a kicking” Fronto said flatly.
Again, Caesar’s sharp gaze passed across the legate. Brutus frowned. Could it be that even the general was treading carefully around him?
“There will be a little delay in our campaign’s conclusion, yes. Labienus has done some sterling work among the Belgae. It appears that Nemetocenna is becoming something of a cultural centre, where the locals are beginning to learn a more civilised tongue and to appreciate the benefits of heated floors, fresh water supplies, and the security afforded by Rome. He believes he has the trust of the local tribes now to the extent that he feels a caretaker garrison will soon be entirely unnecessary.”
The general leaned back.
“He has a number of men due their retirement and has requested that they and any others among our own legions who are amenable be granted funds and lands around the Belgae. He believes that mixing our veterans in the local environment will help lead them toward becoming more Roman.”
Fronto let out a low rumble.
“What was that?”
The legate looked up, his head still lowered so that his eyes shone white, and slightly pink, in the dim tent interior.
“I said: why the hell are we not going home then?”
Caesar’s eyes flashed again momentarily and then he forced a smile, clearly covering his irritation.
“Not all of the north-eastern tribes are settling with Labienus’ view of the future. Two tribes…” Caesar unrolled the scroll on the table and scanned down it once more “the Morini and the Menapii, are causing trouble.”
Brutus frowned.
“They’re coastal tribes if I remember my geography correctly? On the north coast, opposite Britannia, yes? Is the fleet to be mobilised?”
Fronto shook his head.
“Screw the fleet. Labienus has a cohort of legionaries, loads of auxiliary units and enough cavalry to flatten a small country. Why can’t he deal with them? Is he too busy teaching Belgic children to read and massaging the feet of their women?”
The general glared at him again.
“Try to act like a commander in the army of Rome, Fronto, and not a petulant child. The bulk of Labienus’ forces are spread out all along the Rhine, making sure that the German tribes don’t decide to cross and get involved. To withdraw them to deal with two rebellious tribes would be to put the entire Belgic region in danger of German raids or even invasion. The tribes across the Rhine have not forgotten the chastisement at Vesontio two years ago.”
He sighed and stood.
“I am allowing the remainder of the day to put the army in order. They have languished here a full month now, but it is time to gather their equipment, to take down the tents and prepare to move. In the morning we march for the coast, collect Sabinus and his forces, and then turn east. I will not return to Rome while any of Gaul is still refusing us. Gaul must be settled before we leave.”
The vanguard reined in on a low hillock, the army stretching out along the plain behind them. Caesar narrowed his eyes at the forests ahead as the senior officers walked their horses forward to join him.
The journey had been long and tedious since Darioritum, despite the camaraderie of the reunion with Sabinus and the tales he had to tell of his Gaulish warriors and their infiltration of the enemy. Sextilis with its welcome glorious sunshine and armour-heating temperatures had given way to September with its earlier nights that drew in with a chill, particularly this close to the roiling northern sea. Often the officers would awake in the morning to find that the night had brought with it a sprinkling of rain that left the morning grass damp.
The change in the season, following such a brief summer, affected the mood of every last man and there was little joy to be found among the seven legions of Caesar’s army.
The knowledge that they were travelling to put down yet another insurrection by the ever rebellious Gallic tribes also frayed at the edges of Roman nerves across the whole range of rank and file. The officers had initially fallen in line with Caesar’s hope for a brief punitive push before turning south, but the past four days in the territory of the Morini had forced a change of plan.
Like the Veneti before, who had abandoned all their settlements and retreated to their coastal fortresses, the Morini and the Menapii had taken all the goods they could transport, left their oppida and villages, and disappeared into the deep woodland that stretched from the lands of the Belgae to the marshy delta of the Rhine.
The tribes had been short-sighted in only one regard. Had they not left tracks, they could have disappeared without trace and the army of Rome might have searched the northern lands for a year without pinning down any number of the enemy to fight. But the Menapii particularly had been unwilling to leave anything behind for the Romans that they might save, and the wreckage done to the landscape by the traversing of thousands of feet and heavily laden carts spoke clearly not only of the directions that the tribes had taken, but also of how recently they had done so.
And now, here at what felt like the end of the world on an afternoon when the weather was threatening to turn inclement, the officers came to a halt with their general on the low rise, watching the tracks in the dirt before them that disappeared into the eaves of the forest in four different places.
“Do we split the legions and send them in, Caesar?”
The general turned to look at Sabinus and shook his head.
“No; it would be suicidally reckless to string out the army in the depths of the forest with the enemy already ensconced. It would be all too easy for them to decimate the legions that way. We need to meet them on open ground, which means forcing them out of there.”
Fronto frowned and gestured expansively at the forest’s edge.
“Easy enough to say, but there’s a hundred miles of woodland there. They could survive there almost indefinitely, especially with all their goods they’ve taken in. We could send in scouts?”
Again the general shook his head.
“These are their woods; they know them well. Our scouts would likely never return.”
“So what do we do?”
“Firstly we make camp, and we make well-defended camp at that.”
He turned and cast his gaze left and right along the tree line.
“Sabinus and Crispus? Take the Eleventh to the northwest and make camp within sight of the sea, close to the woodland; that’s about fifteen miles. As you travel, have signal stations set along the route. Rufus? You head east for twenty miles and do the same. Galba? You follow them and go a further twenty. We will create a cordon around these woods and keep them trapped and penned in while we work. Sooner or later they will have to show themselves.”
Fronto grumbled.
“We could be here for a year doing that. And what happens when they just move further and further east and then leave the woodlands and pass round the end of your cordon?”
The general smiled.
“Always so negative and pessimistic, Fronto. The lands to the east of that line are already being patrolled by Labienus’ cavalry and auxiliaries. The chances of the enemy fleeing the forests there are ridiculously small. And as for a timescale, I don’t think you need to worry too much. I have no intention of just sitting by and waiting for them to
become bored enough to seek us out.”
He spread his arms to take in the whole forest before him.
“There is nowhere they can take ship across the sea, the Rhine delta is too dangerous to cross, and we hold the south. Once we’re encamped and the cordon is up, we will begin the task of deforestation. Some of the timber will be used to further fortify our positions around the woodland. As for the rest: I’m certain that Labienus could use the timber to build his ‘new Rome’ among the Belgae, and the rest will fetch a small profit back in Cisalpine Gaul. Let us see how long the Morini and the Menapii can last as the forest disappears around them.”
“Months” Fronto grumbled under his breath as he looked at the gloomy, looming eaves of the woodland.
Fronto mopped his brow and contemplated replacing the helmet on his head, but shrugged and let it hang by his side instead.
“Carbo?”
The primus pilus of the Tenth turned at hearing his name and saluted before striding over, his vine staff jammed beneath his arm.
“Sir?”
“I know this is going to sound petty, Carbo, but I was rather hoping the tents would go up first before you started chopping the forest down?”
The centurion smiled, the sweat running from beneath the brow of his helmet and trickling down his cheek to his chin. Thunder was coming; probably before nightfall, and the lack of air was almost unbearable.
“Camp prefect gave us all orders, legate, supported by the general. Caesar wants the palisade, mound and ditch up before anything else.”
Fronto rolled his eyes.
“I notice that doesn’t apply to him. His tent is up and furnished already.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, sir” Carbo grinned, “it isn’t seemly for a senior officer to be parading round like that in front of the men. If you’re not going to wear your armour, you should be all togate and patrician.”
Fronto stared at him.
“It’s as sweaty as a Numidian’s boot here. I’m having enough trouble breathing in this armpit of a country without slapping on layers of leather and steel too. I don’t know how you can stand it under all that equipment.”
Gallia Invicta mm-3 Page 40
