The revolt of the Bellovaci had failed.
He hoped that when his people back in the camp realised all was lost, they might tear open Commius of the Atrebates and leave his flayed corpse hanging from a tree for the crows. It ate at him that his best men would die here for his error in judgement, but what really burned into his soul was the fact that he would die in this valley without getting a chance to personally gut the silver-tongued Atrebate for what he had done.
‘Come, my king.’
He turned and frowned at his bodyguard. ‘What?’
‘We must get you away from this place.’
‘There is no escape,’ he replied in the hollow voice of a defeated man.
‘Your guards can force a path through the enemy, my king.’
‘No they cannot. Even around the valley top, they will be forty lines deep. No. We fight here, and we die here.’
The man continued to plead, but Correus snarled defiance and turned, seeking out the most important man on the field. His eyes fell on a man with a transverse crest, marking him as a centurion. As the combatants parted for a moment, he also saw the man’s harness full of medals and the torcs and corona hanging from it. A veteran, heavily decorated. A worthy opponent.
He marked the man with a gesture of his sword and started to move towards him, though the Roman had not returned the sign that had been indicative of the desire for a personal duel of heroes. Shrugging as he closed on the man, a legionary swung up at him as he passed, and Correus swept his own blade down, turning the gladius aside and taking the tips from all four knuckles. The man screamed and dropped the sword, staring down at his hand, and Correus took the opportunity of the lowered face to bring his sword down heavily, hacking into the flesh and bone at the back of the man’s neck. He felt the spine go and the soldier fell away, curiously at one and the same time limp, yet twitching.
Another legionary came to stop him, but his bodyguard was there and pushed the man out of the way, killing him on the third stroke. Correus once more set his gaze upon the centurion, and suddenly his world exploded into a blurred kaleidoscope. It took a moment after the blow to his head to realise that someone had killed his horse and that he was now on the ground, his head swimming from contact with the hard turf. Desperately he realised he was surrounded by Romans, and none of them were the centurion. One of his bodyguard fought off a legionary, pushing him back into the crowd, and then reached down to help him up.
Correus gripped the man’s free hand, but then the guard’s fingers stiffened and the pointed tip of a gladius emerged through the side of his neck, showering the king in a torrent of his man’s blood. Desperately, he wiped the worst away, rolling to one side so that the body fell not on him, but on open grass.
Trying to recover his wits, he pulled himself painfully upright, realising only as he saw the centurion’s crest between two other soldiers that his sword had disappeared somewhere in the fall. Angry beyond reason, he reached down to his belt and drew his fighting knife – a weapon of last resort for a true warrior.
‘Come for me, Roman!’ he bellowed in thickly-accented Latin.
The centurion actually turned and noticed him, but it was an unseen legionary who answered.
‘Gladly, Gaul,’ came a voice from off to his left and he felt a horrific pain in his side as a pointed blade punctured his mail shirt end on, driving deep into muscle and then organs.
Hissing, more in shock at the lack of honour in the man than from the pain, he turned. The legionary had already accounted him dead, turning to his friend and laughing at his little moment of humour.
Correus lashed out and caught him in the cheek, driving his knife in, shattering teeth and splintering jaw, slicing through the tongue with its bland jokes. The soldier screamed, though the wound muffled the noise. Correus, king of the Bellovaci, was dead, and he knew it. Apart from the mortal wound in his side, he felt two more blows, one of which ruined his leg and the other slid between his ribs. But none of that stopped him taking out his fury on the laughing legionary.
‘Not so… funny… now…’
By the time the fifth wound he took severed Correus spinal cord and he flopped useless onto the ground, his blood and intestines pouring out onto the grass, he knew he had stabbed the legionary many dozens of times. The man was, miraculously, still alive, for he was shrieking in horror at his ruined body, each limb shredded and his torso full of rents and holes.
Correus felt the darkness closing on his senses and with it came an odd feeling of peace. The din of battle seemed to fade away and suddenly the centurion’s crest was in front of him, upside down as the man leaned over him.
‘Brave. Stupid, but brave.’ The Roman officer leaned down, gently pulled open the king’s mouth and pushed a small silver coin under his tongue before driving his own blade in deep and speeding up the advance of the blessed darkness.
* * * * *
Varus sat astride his mount, shivering in the cold of the morning, and glanced across at Brutus, who looked equally uncomfortable. Trebonius rode slightly ahead of them alongside Caesar in the place of honour for a victorious commander. Behind them marched the legions – all seven in good array and better spirits, their eagles leading the way. It was an impressive column. One of the largest displays of Roman forces Varus had seen in all his years in Gaul. Seven legions.
And ahead, across the narrow river which ran into that same defile that emerged some miles distant at the baggage valley that now served as a mass grave for eight thousand Bellovaci, stood the camp of the enemy.
And its gate was open.
‘Sound the horns,’ Caesar commanded. ‘Let’s see what happens.’
The cornicen blew their instruments, issuing the standard call for parley or recognition. As they fell silent again, there was a long pause. Varus watched intently as occasional figures appeared in the gateway up the slope. It was no oppidum or city, but a simple temporary camp atop a hill, surrounded by a hastily erected fence, and the gate was simply an area where the fence had been removed.
Still, that gate, such as it was, was open, which suggested surrender rather than defiance.
A moment later, half a dozen riders emerged through the gap and began to wend their slow way down to the waiting Romans. Varus watched with interest. They were all nobles, but he could see no sign of Commius of the Atrebates, a man who after years of repeated contact he would recognise quickly. The ambassadors reined in their horses close to Caesar and bowed. It did not escape Varus’ notice that the general did not return the gesture, and he knew Caesar well enough to know that that fact presaged no good for the ambassadors.
‘Proconsul,’ the first man greeted Caesar. He was well turned out and wearing enough gold that he sagged slightly under the weight, like a wet tent. His old, grey braids hung down by his ears and the loose steel-coloured hair at the rear whipped in the breeze.
‘Yes.’
The man looked somehow taken aback by the curtness of the general’s response.
‘I am Orcetrix of the Bellovaci. I speak for the tribe in the absence of Correus.’
‘Death,’ corrected Caesar.
The man looked confused at the way this was going, and Caesar fixed him with a cold glare. ‘Correus is not absent. He is dead. He lies in a field of eight thousand of your tribe who sought to ambush us. Stop attempting to fawn and dissemble. I have terms, but you may speak your piece first.’
Caesar was angry. Varus knew that such coldness was much more indicative of ire in the general than was shouting. Orcetrix seemed to have come to the same conclusion, for he licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat.
‘Caesar is famed far and wide for his clemency.’
Varus almost burst out laughing. The general didn’t look particularly clement right now. But the noble was continuing unabated. ‘Correus was a troublemaker, rousing our people to war against Rome. We have long lived under the shadow of his fury and his autocracy. Now that your blessed arrival has rid us of his dangerous presence,
we are at last free to follow our hearts’ desires, which are to hold tight and dear to our alliance with Rome.’
Caesar sniffed in the cold air.
‘Is that it?’
‘We offer payments of appropriate tribute and the granting of noble hostages against such a dreadful miscalculation ever happening again, in return for an agreement to allow our people to go in peace and settle once more in our villages.’
Varus felt sorry for the man. He could see Caesar’s fingertips drumming impatiently on the saddle.
‘And what of the other rabble rouser? Commius of the Atrebates?’
The man looked suddenly very nervous.
‘We are unable to locate him, Caesar. He was last seen several hours ago. No one seems sure when he slipped away from the camp, but his five hundred Germans are also gone, so we assume he has fled to the far side of the Rhenus.’
Caesar nodded but Varus noted the irritated drumming on the saddle increase in furious pace.
‘Clemency, you say?’
‘Err… yes, Caesar? For those of us who found ourselves carried to war against you at the whim of those who would guide our movements against our will.’
‘My intelligence puts one Orcetrix of the Bellovaci on the hillside opposite Alesia with the Gallic relief force last autumn. Are you about to deny the presence of either yourself or your tribe in a grand revolt against Rome last year?’
‘Ah. Well, now…’
‘You claim to be pushed into war, and yet we know you rose against us last year, even if you managed to flee the scene largely undiminished. Perhaps we should have chastised those who came to Vercingetorix’s aid following our victory over the Arvernian. Then you would have had neither the strength nor the numbers to do such a thing again this winter.’
‘Yes, Caesar, but, well… you see, the thing is…’
‘Silence.’ Caesar’s anger was made manifest in his tone of voice and even though it came out as little more than a quiet hiss, the word cut straight through the man’s blustering and silenced him.
‘You are rebels and enemies of Rome. The only reason I am even remotely tempted towards leniency is that I wish to settle Gaul and put an end to the endless wars. Here are my terms.’
The man looked hopeful at the general’s words, but Varus could imagine what Caesar saw as lenient at this point, and he doubted it matched up with Orcetorix’s ideas.
‘In addition to the noble hostages that you have already offered, it seems an appropriate punishment that perhaps a fifth of your army, and the best of it, from what I can see, already lies as carrion. However, I cannot allow such a large force to remain at arms. You will deliver to us all weapons in this camp, and one man in every four of fighting age will be taken to the slave markets to ensure that you are unable to attempt something like this again.’
The man looked stunned. ‘But Caesar…’
‘I am not finished. We have impounded your entire baggage train, which I presume, given the fact that we found your settlements stripped clean, contains your winter and spring food stores. I recognise that your people will perish without that grain, and so you are to be given the opportunity to purchase it back at the standard trade rate set by my chief quartermaster, which is six silver denarius per bushel, or whatever your local coinage equivalent makes up.’
‘General…’
‘The gold on your person alone would probably feed a family for a year. See that you gather enough payment to provide for your people. That is what a leader does, rather than attempting to pin the blame for his failures upon the dead. These are my terms, and they apply equally to each tribe involved in this revolt. I presume those others behind you represent your allies? Return to your camp and make the appropriate arrangements. When you have the hostages, the slaves, the weapons and the grain payments for me, return and our transaction will be completed.’
He stopped drumming his fingers and raised his hand, pointing at the quailing man’s face.
‘The legions will camp here for two days before they are once more distributed appropriately. And when I leave Bellovaci territory, pray to each and every god you recognise, Orcetrix, that I never have to return, for if I find myself brought back here to sort out trouble again, I will have new shield covers for every man in my twelve legions made out of your people’s skin. Do you understand me?’
Orcetrix cowered, nodding, and backed away.
Varus watched the dejected party leave. Caesar had been angry. That much was clear. But something deep inside insisted on highlighting the fact that perhaps eight thousand able-bodied slaves, plus the loot from the wagons and the weapon sales, and finally the huge ransom that would be paid for the grain would altogether amount to a sum fit for a king. The proconsul would probably make more from this outcome than he had from the silver mines of the Bituriges or the trade ports of the Carnutes.
Another tribe’s riches had become Caesar’s.
Chapter Nine
MOLACOS looked at the broken Roman and slowly removed the cult mask from his face. The weeping, agonised soldier looked up in horrified fascination at the ruined face of the thing behind the mask and quailed despite everything that had already been done to him.
‘Who will be able to answer my questions? I grow tired of interrogating Romans and my time is precious. Tell me where to go and I will grant you the mercy of a quick death and not give you to Catubodua, the avenging widow, who waits outside the door with her roll of skinning knives.’
The soldier whimpered through a face full of tears, blood and snot, and after a pause, Molacos sighed and rose, making for the door.
‘No. Wait,’ wailed the man.
‘I am listening.’
‘My legate from the Fifteenth is on his way back to Rome. Gaius Antistius Reginus. He’ll be less than a week behind me, and will be passing through Gergovia on his way. He will be able to answer your questions.’
Molacos nodded. A legate. The commander of a legion. A man of senatorial rank and one of Caesar’s own circle. A rare opportunity to interrogate such a highly-placed man. Excellent.
‘Well done, man.’
Fishing in his pouch, he produced something and dropped it on the floor in front of the ruined soldier. The man stared at it. A snare, made of some sort of sharp cord, knotted to allow it to tighten. He’s seen such things used, used them himself when hunting rabbits to supplement the legion’s rations on the march. They occasionally killed by strangulation, but more often by biting into the windpipe and blood vessels as the animal struggled.
Molacos was rising.
‘What is this?’ the soldier gasped. ‘You said you would give me a quick death!’
‘And I have. You have until I open the door to kill yourself, or Catubodua will come in and do the job for you much more slowly. I suggest you are very quick. She is literally salivating at the thought of peeling you.’
He ambled towards the door, listening to the whimpering behind him. His hand closed on the door handle, pulling it inwards and even as Catubodua, her impassive mask hiding her hungry grin, strode past, he could hear the gagging noises as the soldier tried desperately to strangle himself in time.
Chapter Ten
FRONTO reached down and picked up the exquisite coloured glass containing the expensive Chian and took a sip. Barely watered at all, it warmed as it coated his mouth with a rich, velvety taste. He smiled.
‘If you want to just give me money, then give me money. You don’t have to muck about with all this.’
‘This?’ Balbus raised an eyebrow inquisitively and Fronto grinned at his old friend and, more recently, father-in-law.
‘You buy the best wines I can import at the standard full price I charge the unwitting and you save them for when Lucilia or myself visit. I’ve noticed this. Even Pamphilus and Clearchus have commented on it, and neither of them could outthink a milestone. You know I would just bring a good amphora when I visit anyway.’
‘You don’t think I save all of it for you, do you?’ Balbus
chuckled. ‘My favourite Greek medicus in the city tells me that thick red wine is actually good for my heart, and the less water I add the better. Imagine that? And so, if I’m not watering it down, of course I’m going to choose the very best. I’ve had trouble with the heart for years, but I’m currently in rude health and I intend to remain that way long enough to watch my grandsons take the toga virilis and get enslaved by some Roman girl with swaying hips and fluttering eyelashes.’
Again, Fronto grinned, though with a touch of sadness at the core of the smile. Balbus was perhaps two decades older than Fronto, and he himself was no glowing youth, long past the age when most Romans fathered their children. He hoped the old man’s heart would hold out that long. He made a mental note to take a jar of this very same vintage to the temple of Aesculapius… Asklepios, damn these Greek naming conventions… and use it as a libation in favour of the old man’s health.
‘Anyway, what were we talking about?’
‘You were worrying about your slaves,’ Balbus smiled, taking another pull on his wine and smacking his lips appreciatively.
‘Lucilia keeps pointing out that you have no issues with keeping slaves.’
‘Lucilia looks a lot but sees little.’
Fronto frowned. In his experience it was much the other way around. ‘Go on?’
‘There is not a single slave in this house, Marcus. Many of them were brought here as slaves, but I paid a good weekly stipend and set manumission at an easy target to reach. Of the slaves I have bought since I settled in Massilia, only two did not work hard, do me proud, and buy their own freedom within the year. And both of those two I sold in the end to the fishing concerns. One was lazy and one was greedy and neither had a future with my house, so now they work hard gutting fish, when they could have had an easy life here. I have seven former slaves, now freedmen and –women, working in my household and lands. And they all continue in their former roles, but for a decent wage. You’d be most surprised I expect to hear that the best paid of them all was a totally unbroken Aedui girl, who it turned out has an affinity with horses. She now manages my stable and has three lads working for her. I’ll not introduce you to her, given your history with comely Gauls…’
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 21
