Chapter Two

 

VARUS squinted into the grey blurry morning, the world lit by a watery, inefficient sun. This oppidum of the Bituriges – the latest in a long list – had a name, but he’d long since stopped bothering to commit such names to valuable memory, given that they flew by in a steady stream of campaigning. The low, elongated hill sat between two narrow stream valleys, its northern and southern edges protected by a wide ditch below the walls, the eastern and western by the valleys themselves.

On the Kalends of Januarius, Caesar had responded to a plea from the loyal factions of the Bituriges who had been ousted by rebels of their own tribe, and he had led out Varus’ cavalry wing, collecting the Thirteenth from Avaricon and the Eleventh from their own camp, heading west. The column of ten thousand men and horses had waded into Bituriges territory with, in Varus’ private opinion, a less-than-discriminate manner, and in the ten days since the army had marched, eleven such settlements had fallen. The rebellious nature of their early targets had been somewhat uncertain as far as the cavalry commander was concerned, for few men raised any kind of resistance to their attacks.

The enemy had been suicidally optimistic, attempting revolution in lands this close to Roman winter quarters. They had so few warriors among them anymore that a Roman action against them was like pitting hungry bears against condemned criminals in Rome’s entertainment pits. The two legions had barely broken a sweat, which was something to be grateful for, given that winter still had Gaul firmly in its icy grip and that none of the men were thrilled at leaving comfortable winter quarters and marching out into the wilds before the campaigning season had even appeared on the horizon.

But here they were.

Laniocon – that was the place’s name, he seemed to remember – stood defiant and proud on its turf mound with its strong Gallic walls surrounded by ditches and narrow defiles. And yet that defiance was mere show at best, if that. For atop those ramparts a spear point gleamed every few hundred paces. Five years ago, when Gaul had still been a wild and unexplored land for the legions, this place would have blinded onlookers with the number of shining bronze weapons and helms visible above the parapet. Now, after eight years of exhaustive war, most of its defenders were old men and children, and even they would be too few to hold back a scout party, let alone two legions and a wing of cavalry. It was almost laughable that one rider in twenty in this mounted force had been drawn from these very Biturige settlements over the years, though now their allegiance was tied strongly to Caesar, who had made them wealthier men than many of their former leaders could ever hope to be.

Laniocon was ripe for the picking.

A cavalry prefect rode towards him from the southern fields, freezing dew settling on his helmet and mail and giving him a strangely ethereal sparkle in the misty grey. Beside the prefect, three of the Gallic princes who commanded the native levies waited hungrily. And well they might, for each oppidum that fell made those men richer and more influential. Even the native auxiliaries knew that Caesar’s time as proconsul was almost up and that soon he would return to Rome. When he did, Gaul would become the command of some fat politician and things would settle into status quo, so every man who sought advancement in the land was currently jostling for position and gain in order to secure a better future in what would clearly soon be a Roman province. And those who weren’t thinking like that – the few who still laboured under the impression that Gaul would return to being a tribal land – would be disappointed, disenfranchised and poor when the inevitable happened.

The Bituriges in the last oppidum they had advanced on had seen their future clearly enough, and had delivered to Caesar the half dozen men they claimed had taken control in defiance of Rome. The six rebel leaders had sneered at their Roman captors and spat at the countrymen who had sold them out, but in response Caesar had been generous, and that oppidum had suffered no ill effect other than the expense of feeding the legions for a night before they moved on west towards Laniocon.

Here, though, at least Varus was more sure of the need for castigation, for the gates had closed with a resilient thud at the sight of the Roman forces marching against them. Despite the fact that their doom hung over them like a dark cloud among the endless grey, they had seemingly decided to hold out.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ the prefect asked, reining in his steed.

Varus squinted at the hill again, shrouded in a world of soul-crushing grey.

‘There’s little for the cavalry to do here, Prefect. Have the force split down into standard alae and assign them sectors of the circuit beyond the ditches and streams. We’ll form an outer cordon and watch, just in case this land has managed to muster up a few hundred reinforcements to send them. Remember Alesia, eh?’

The prefect nodded and sighed. ‘Why do they persist, sir? Surely they can see they’re beaten?’

Varus rubbed his forehead and wiped away the fine film of dew that had settled on it. ‘The Gauls are just as proud of their history as we are, Prefect. Can you imagine in the same situation a Roman city just handing their heritage over to an invader?’

‘I suppose not, sir. It just seems so bloody futile, pardon the language.’

Varus sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Just a little longer, Prefect. The general thinks that the main stronghold of rebellion is at Argatomagon perhaps thirty miles west. Beyond that it’s mostly forests and farms until you’re in Pictone lands, so there’s no point in marching legions out there to round up a few cows and the odd toothless farmer. We’ll be back in quarters in a week.’

The prefect’s spirits rose a little at that thought as he saluted, turned and began to distribute orders among the princes with him before returning to the decurions of his own command.

The Eleventh had played the active role in the last fight while the Thirteenth had formed the defensive cordon, so this time the Eleventh under Rufio had split into cohorts and formed a ring around the oppidum, within Varus’ planned outer cavalry cordon, while the Thirteenth had formed up for the assault. Some few hundred paces south of the Gallic outer ditch, Sextius’ legion shuffled into tighter ranks as their centurions moved up and down the lines, jabbing mail-shirted chests and bellowing at occasional lax men. An opportunistic archer somewhere up on the rampart loosed a single arrow, which arced up gracefully past the defensive ditch and then plummeted into the thick grass between there and the waiting legion. Sextius had been careful to muster his force well beyond arrow range, but Varus acknowledged the fact that, standing on that wall and watching the army form ready, he’d have been tempted at least to try, too.

As the whistles and shouts of the officers continued in preparation, a horse broke from the command unit where Caesar in his red cloak murmured into the cupped ear of Aulus Hirtius, his secretary and confidante. Varus frowned as the rider made straight for him and hauled on the reins, pulling up his sweating mount and saluting.

‘Complements of the general, sir. He would like yourself along with a few turmae of regulars to follow on the heels of the Thirteenth and make sure the oppidum remains untouched. Caesar wants no repetition of Sidia.’

Varus rolled his shoulders. ‘I heartily agree.’ Sidia had been a notable fight four days ago, and the rebels there had managed to actually do some real damage to the Eleventh’s vanguard. In response, despite Caesar’s standing orders, the soldiers had gone in like Nemesis herself, taking out their avenging fury on the inhabitants, raping and burning freely. They had left Sidia a shadow of its former self, half the town a charred and smoking ruin.

This was not a campaign of occupation or suppression. These towns were nominally loyal to Rome now, and had simply been taken control of by a few bad elements. Consequently, Rome could not afford to have the settlements destroyed. The legions were here to liberate, not to violate.

Varus waved over one of his messengers. ‘Go and find decurions Oculatius, Granius and Annius. Tell them to muster their turmae to the rear of the Thirteenth in battle order.’ The courier saluted and rode off, and Varus continued to watch for long moments until he noted the three cavalry units forming and the Thirteenth settle ready for the advance. In that eerie silence that filled the field of battle while the army awaited the order to move, the commander turned his horse and trotted off across the wet, springy turf to join his men.

Barely had he reached the cavalry contingent when the general’s call went up by buccina and the various officers blew their whistles and yelled their commands, the men falling easily into their mile-eating step. Varus watched from his mounted position as the lead elements approached the oppidum’s defensive ditch, and he marvelled once again at the hardened professionalism of those men at the front. He had been in a few life-and-death fights himself, but it was different for a horseman, especially one in a position of command. It could never be compared to being given a shield and a sword and told to march straight at a wall into a hail of arrows, probably over agonising obstacles. It took a special kind of guts to do that and not falter.

Slowly the rear ranks of the Thirteenth began to move, following on with no less valour than their mates at the front, and Varus set his riders off at a stately pace in response. They advanced, the oppidum beginning to loom despite the low angle of the slope, and he found himself willing the centurions in the van to give the order. He’d seen where that opportunistic arrow had fallen. The front men must be in range now?

Despite waiting for it, Varus felt his heart flutter at the sudden call for testudo given by the lead centurion just as they closed on the ditch. In near-perfect timing, the front ranks shifted into their individual centuries, and several hundred shields clonked into position forming a defensive shell around and above the men. Not even a pause or a missed step. The Gauls up on the ramparts reacted almost instantly, sending out a cloud of missiles at the advancing army. Again, Varus could not help but compare the five or six dozen arrows whispering through the air towards them with the arrow storms of thousands of shafts that had hailed out over oppidum walls earlier in the campaign. It was pitiful by comparison, but in reality they still represented a very real danger, as the odd blood-curdling scream attested. No matter how well-trained or efficient a century might be at forming the testudo, there would inevitably be a few gaps, especially when terrain dictated a change in elevation, and on occasion stray arrows found those gaps.

As the testudo centuries reached the lip of the defensive ditch and began to descend, the formations broke up a little, and the falling missiles found more and more targets. Varus couldn’t see the action from his position at the rear, even on horseback, but he could picture it after so many other sieges and counter-sieges over the years. Those men who fell would probably take down one or two others with them, and here and there the formation would collapse, but as soon as things fell apart, the centurions and their optios would be there, calling out and blowing their whistles, sending men to plug gaps. Indeed, a moment later he saw the first men cresting the far side of the ditch and beginning the march up the slope, their formations quickly put back together and once more largely impervious to missiles.

The arrow storm, now joined by sling stones, continued to thud down on the shields as the legion approached the south rampart, and Varus was afforded a good view of the action up the slope as he continued his sedate advance with his riders at the rear. The walls here looked to be a little higher than they had at Sidia, and Varus found himself worrying that the new tactics the two legions had adopted would be insufficient to gain the rampart. His fears were allayed as the whistles of the leading centurions sent out the orders and the lead testudo broke into a run as though they intended to barge the oppidum’s wall aside.

As they had practised many times this past week, the lead centuries reached the walls and came to a halt still in solid testudo formation, with their shield-roof up and interlocked, and the rear men in the units dropped to a kneeling position, their raised shields forming a lower step. At that same command, the second centuries following on behind broke into a run, their own testudos unfolding as they charged, using the lower shields as the step they formed and leaping up onto the precarious roof of shields.

Here and there a man slipped, his hob-nailed boots raking the painted surfaces of the shields, and plummeted off to the grassy slope at the side. But the majority of the men, now well-practised, ran up the roof of the testudo and at the Gallic walls, with which they were now more or less of a height.

The defenders panicked, suddenly faced with the presence of Romans right under their noses instead of at the base of a high wall. A few of the braver or smarter ones fought off the attackers for a few moments before succumbing, but many simply stepped back in consternation, uncertain of what to do now that their defences apparently counted for nothing.

What happened next was a matter of conjecture for Varus, as the cavalry officer and his riders at the rear of the legion reached the defensive ditch and had to carefully manoeuvre their beasts down the slope and then back up the far side, losing track completely of the struggle at the front. By the time the riders were back up onto the gentle slope and making for the oppidum’s defences, the ramparts were already swarming with legionaries and a mix of alarmed Gallic cries and victorious Latin shouts announced that the southern gate had fallen.

The legion surged forward up the slope with renewed energy, the missiles now falling only occasionally, and even then loosed wild and in panic. Varus held his men back as the centuries swarmed over the walls and through the gate into the city, and as soon as the gatehouse stood open, he pushed his way in behind them, leading his riders.

It seemed that the rebels still had some fight in them since the battle continued to rage in the streets as the doomed enemy fell back through the narrow streets of the oppidum, trying to hold back the Roman tide while seeking somewhere to either hide or make a stand. Varus looked this way and that, painfully aware of the fact that once an army got its blood up and was in the mood to pillage and burn it would take more than an officer with a loud voice to pull them back into line.

Fortunately, it seemed that most of the centurions had their men under tight control, and those units who had lost a centurion in the advance were continuing under the able command of their optios. Here and there a man would run into a clearly empty house with the intent to pillage, and Varus would send two of his men to bring the man back out.

Things were becoming more complicated as the local loyalists, who had been languishing in a town under the control of violent rebels, came rushing out into the streets, waving their arms and trying to explain desperately to the attacking force that they were not the enemy. Fortunately, after so many days of such actions the legionaries were experienced in this type of fight and avoided combat with women and children and anyone before them who was clearly unarmed.

To aid the swift return to control, Varus was pleased to see a few of the more enterprising loyal townsfolk pushing the fleeing rebels back out into the street before the Romans where they could be cut down without a chance to hide, and more than once he spotted locals busily kicking a captured rebel to death. After all, these men had brought a legion to their doorstep, and the loyalists blamed their revolting kinsmen for this much more than they did the Roman officers.

As the horsemen reached the central square of the oppidum with some sort of temple facing them, Varus sent his decurions and their units off in various directions with a remit to keep the peace and make sure the legion was behaving itself. Oddly, as the legionaries continued to push the few remaining rebels back through the streets and the loyal inhabitants largely stayed safely out of the way, Varus watched his horsemen melt away into the oppidum and found himself more or less alone in the packed earth square, just his standard bearer and tuba-player and a small honour guard of regular cavalrymen in attendance. The sounds of battle now seemed strangely distant and muted, though no birdlife yet filled the cold, damp, grey air. He leaned his head to one side, listening carefully to see if he could pick out any area of trouble where he might have to take a more personal command to ensure Caesar’s orders were complied with.

The sound had almost been a scream, but had then dropped to what sounded like a muffled whimper. Varus’ eyes narrowed as he peered around the square, still listening intently. A scraping noise could have been entirely innocent, though something was troubling the cavalry officer and he dropped from his horse, handing his reins to a trooper as he strode towards the temple from where he was sure the noises were coming.

A two-storey building perhaps twenty feet square and constructed of timber and daub with thatched roof, the temple was dusty, unsophisticated and wet. The door facing the square was closed and its iron hinges were rusty. Varus approached and slowed as he neared the door. His hand went to the pommel of his sword and he momentarily wished he wore a shield, but he had not been part of the attack and had not bothered arming properly for combat. There was no noise issuing from the temple, but he was now absolutely sure something was amiss. The air had that leaden silence that tells of people deliberately holding their breath. His fingers slid down to the carved bone grip of his sword and closed into a fist. Slowly, carefully, he drew the blade. Perhaps he should shout for his men?

No.

Knowing that despite the grey dullness of the January weather, the interior of the temple would be extremely dim, he closed his eyes for a count of twenty, allowing them to acclimatise to the darkness, and then reached up with his free hand and unlatched the door, pushing it open even as he stepped forward.

He opened his eyes as he entered, cutting down the exposure to the outside light to a minimum. His nostrils were assaulted with a smell of mixed ordure, sweat and old blood. The temple consisted of a single room, the second storey more of a small tower with roof lights that illuminated the ground floor. A fire pit occupied the very centre, full of blackened wood, soot and ash, and the walls were daubed with crude designs and figures. At the far side, two tall stones, each higher than Varus, stood close to the wall, each carved with lumpen, misshapen figures, and a statue of a moustachioed man, highly stylised, with bulbous limbs and bulging eyes, stood between the stones.

On the floor, beneath the statue, a legionary knelt, his tunic hoisted up and his pale buttocks exposed in the light. His shield lay off to one side with his helmet and sheathed sword. As Varus’ eyes picked out every last detail, he registered the girl’s legs beneath the legionary, the heels thumping the packed earth of the floor desperately. At the sudden intrusion, the legionary looked around and Varus caught sight of the soldier’s terrified victim, struggling to fight off her attacker even with the legionary’s knife at her throat.

‘Get off her.’

‘Piss off.’

Varus blinked. Common soldiers did not speak to senior officers in that sort of manner, and it took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t wearing a helmet or cloak, and that silhouetted in a doorway he could be anyone.

‘Get off that woman, soldier. Now!’

He was rewarded with a response this time as the soldier rose, leaving the half-naked girl on the ground, pinned down with a nailed boot as he turned to look at the new arrival.

‘I don’t answer to donkey boys. Piss off and find your own girl.’

Varus felt the anger bubbling up inside him. ‘This girl is no rebel. Rape of the loyal subjects of Rome is a serious offence, legionary.’

He felt his nerves twang for just a moment as he registered just how big the soldier was. He was a bruiser and a veteran, going by his well-used but well-maintained equipment.

‘You threatening me, donkey boy?’

Varus cleared his throat. If the man had recognised him as cavalry, then he had probably also noted the apparent rank and seemed not to care. Moreover, Varus realised that now he had threatened the man with serious punishment, the legionary had less to lose.

He hefted his sword as the towering legionary stepped towards him. Freed, the girl curled in pain and shame, sobbing around her nakedness and the rents in her belly the nails of the legionary’s boot had caused. Varus snarled.

‘Name, century and cohort, legionary!’

‘Last chance, horseman. Leave the room and go hump your mare again.’

Varus raised his sword so that the tip hovered around the man’s neck height. He was no stranger to combat, though usually from horseback and in the open field. ‘Name, soldier.’

‘Ampelius,’ barked the legionary as, with lightning speed for such a big man, he jumped two paces forward, ducking left. Varus felt a moment of panic as he tried to bring his sword to bear. The legionary had recognised the long cavalry blade for what it was and had leapt in too close to allow for its effective use. Varus tried to step back, but the door had swung shut behind him and he was trapped. He angled his arm, trying to bring his sword close in defence, even if it might be useless as a weapon.

The legionary raised his dagger, an evil light in his eye, and only by some miracle did Varus manage to jam his sword in the way. He couldn’t possibly use it to fight from this distance, but the flat of the blade caught the legionary’s wrist, holding the plunging knife away from his neck. The man was strong and Varus’ sword awkward and heavy at this angle, and he could feel the blade being pushed downwards by the legionary.

The pressure on his sword was relieved so suddenly that he almost fell backwards with the movement. He stared in surprise at the legionary’s face as the man’s eyes widened in shock and pain and, as the brute stepped stiffly backwards, Varus caught a glimpse of the Biturige girl gripping Ampelius’ gladius in shaking hands, the tip still jammed in the soldier’s shoulder. With a grunt, the legionary stepped back again and the girl wrenched out the gladius, the sound of cracking bone accompanying the move as she retreated across the room. The enraged legionary, seemingly forgetting the presence of Varus entirely, spun painfully round, a low growl rising in his throat.

Varus smiled, calculating effective distance as the man took a third and then fourth step away from him, bearing down on the girl. Quietly, the cavalry officer raised his long sword, pulled it out to one side, and then delivered a hefty strike with the flat of the blade on the side of the legionary’s head. Ampelius jerked to one side with the blow, and he tottered and fell to the ground, shaking. Varus stood for a moment with his sword lowered, the tip pointed at the prone legionary, then raised his gaze to the girl. She was clutching her torn tunic around herself with one hand and wielding the gladius defensively with the other. Waving his flattened palm at her in a gesture for calm, Varus crouched carefully and rolled the legionary over, plucking the knife from his fingers. Ampelius was out cold but breathing, and the wound in his shoulder had been agonising and had actually chipped the bone, but was far from fatal and leaked blood only slowly. Varus rose once more and focused on the girl.

‘Do you speak Latin?’

‘Bit.’

‘I am sorry for the conduct of this man. He should not have done this. He will be sentenced to a flogging with the barbed whip for this.’

The girl stared at him in incomprehension. ‘Bit’ had clearly been a correct appraisal. Varus tried to give her a reassuring smile. She would have no idea what would happen to her attacker, but it would not be enough. Not for the man who had so brutally raped her. Varus found his own sensibilities a little unaccepting of the result too, and a nasty smile replaced the reassuring one.

‘Him?’ he tried, and the girl nodded. ‘Yours,’ Varus added, trying to mime giving her the prone soldier. The girl frowned in confusion and when Varus took a step towards her she held up the gladius in defence. The officer nodded and pointed at the sword. ‘Sword.’ Then at her: ‘you’. Then at the legionary on the floor. For another moment, the girl’s confusion reigned, but then it cleared as understanding dawned. From the violent, vengeful look in her eye, Varus decided that Ampelius’ future looked less than rosy. In fact, the man might shortly be dreaming of mere barbed whips. With a nod of approval, Varus cast one last spiteful look at the disobedient legionary and turned, opening the door and leaving the building. His small honour guard was still waiting in the square, and Varus gestured to two of them.

‘I’m going to report to the general. You two stay here and guard that door. Whatever you hear from inside, leave the door shut. No one goes in until the girl comes out. Then take her gently to a medicus and have her fed and looked over.’

The two men looked at one another in incomprehension, but saluted and took up position. Varus crossed to his steed and pulled himself up into his saddle. If things were going to settle into the Pax Romana in Gaul, it was time someone started to take steps in that direction.

 

* * * * *

 

Two days later, Caesar’s army marched forth to repeat their success at the oppidum of Argatomagon on the south-western fringe of Biturige lands. The weather had turned less clement, and the sky intermittently spat down rain, sleet and hail depending upon Jupiter Pluvius’ mood. Yet despite the depressing wintry climate, the attitude of the legions remained optimistic and strong, partially through the ease of the campaign and partially the regular donatives Caesar paid them from captured goods.

Varus sat astride his mount, watching the Eleventh climb the gentle slope towards heavy ramparts which sat on a low ridge enclosing a tired-looking settlement that was sizeable, if sparsely inhabited. The warriors lined up on the parapet watching the might of Rome roll inexorably towards them were also few and far between, more like frightened mice than the heart of any rebellion.

Varus couldn’t help wonder how the general’s information had been so far off this time. With each and every action through these weeks of campaigning, the intelligence drawn from the Biturige loyalists had been accurate and had led to success time after time. Yet those same sources had apparently noted this very oppidum as the centre of the rebellion, the home of the revolt’s leaders.

Had the real enemy flown the coop before the Romans arrived?

A pitiful smattering of arrows and sling stones fell from the rampart, rattling off the painted surfaces of hundreds of red and black shields. Varus had seen stauncher resistance put up by wandering warbands than by this supposed nest of vipers.

The cavalry officer sat and watched patiently as the last ranks of the legions moved on, the riders starting out at a walk behind them. Once more, the regular squadrons had been given the task of keeping the legions from rapine and pillage, though for some reason Caesar had stuck his confidante, Aulus Hirtius, in with them. And Varus knew the general well enough to know that there would be a very specific reason for such a decision.

He looked across at the spindly figure in the polished bronze cuirass in time to catch Hirtius giving him an appraising look. He tried not to glower in reply. He failed. Urging his steed forward, Varus blinked irritably as his face was spattered with a fresh dose of wind-borne sleet.

Unlike Laniocon, this fortress exhibited no strong defensive ditch and consequently Varus had a continuous view of the action ahead at the crest of the hill, over the serried ranks of the Eleventh. It was clearly a truly one-sided engagement, the legions reaching the ramparts with few casualties, most of their difficulties coming in the form of churned mud underfoot rather than sharpened iron and bronze ahead. Soldiers slid and slipped, struggling to remain upright, but beyond that the siege was very much a foregone conclusion. As Varus watched, the ladders went up among the front ranks. For all the poor defence of this place, the walls were considerably higher than the previous settlement, and the testudo trick would be inadequate to reach the top. Consequently, rather than spend days on end constructing vineae and siege towers, the commanders had had their men cut and construct siege ladders. Looking at the pitiful resistance, the decision had been a good one. Nothing else would be needed. The missiles stopped coming as the few men on the walls were forced to concentrate on the myriad ladders clunking against the stonework instead. Warriors pushed them back with forked sticks, sending the climbing legionaries tumbling back down among their own ranks, and for a moment it seemed the advance might falter.

But there were simply too few defenders, and the Romans were well-prepared and determined. More and more ladders clunked against stone, while the men on the walls had to run ever more desperately to keep them back. Finally the first legionary reached the parapet with glee, vaulting over the top and laying into the men running at him with their forked sticks. The unfortunate victorious legionary went down under a pile of four natives, stabbing and jabbing with their sharpened staves, but by that time another three legionaries were over the top, many more following close on their heels. The fight was over before it began, and within half a dozen heartbeats the only figures visible on the walls were Roman, forcing the few remaining defenders back down into the town. Barely one cohort of the legion had seen any action when the call went up and the oppidum’s gate opened, admitting the Eleventh en-masse.

The gap between the rear ranks of the Eleventh and the following alae of horse opened up as the legion surged forward, pushing through the gate and into the heart of Argatomagon. Tapping his heels on his horse’s flanks, Varus moved forth at an increased rate, the rest of the cavalry with him, as well as Hirtius on his pale grey, ghostlike steed.

In moments the horsemen had reached the top of the slope and slowed as legionaries funnelled through the gate in the ramparts while their compatriots continued to swarm up the ladders and over the top. Varus watched Hirtius with interest as the general’s secretary sat impatient, clearly itching to get through the gate and into the oppidum. What was going on? Quietly, Varus called over one of his decurions.

‘Sir?’

‘I don’t expect much trouble from the Eleventh. They’ve had the speech enough times, but take the other two units and split up, keep things under control, anyway. I’m going to stay with commander Hirtius.’

The decurion slipped away, disseminating the orders, and Varus manoeuvred his steed closer to the staff officer who was almost riding into the rear ranks of the infantry in his impatience to be in. Half a hundred heartbeats later the cavalry were pouring through the gate in the wake of the soldiers who disappeared among the houses, securing every part of the oppidum. Hirtius rode into the centre of the open space, clearly taken by surprise by the lack of surrendering Gauls. The gathering area behind the gate was empty barring a few corpses and a legionary groaning as he clutched a broken leg.

Varus cleared his throat. ‘What now?’

Hirtius either heard nothing or feigned such, ignoring him, since he wheeled his horse and set his sights on an old native, who stood by the door of a hovel, his hands raised in surrender.

‘You!’ the staff officer shouted, causing the old man to jump nervously and rush out a response in his own tongue. ‘Do you have no Latin?’ Hirtius demanded, which simply raised a look of utter bafflement from the man. Varus was about to chime in when a younger Gaul appeared from the doorway, hobbling and using a crutch.

‘I talk bit Roman,’ the new arrival said.

‘Where are the rebel leaders?’ Hirtius demanded of the younger man.

‘Not know, sir. Some rebel in town. Some dead. Other gone.’

The staff officer bridled. ‘This town is the centre of the Biturige rebels. I want to know where those rebels’ leaders are.’

‘Hirtius,’ Varus said quietly, ‘I don’t think they’re here. Maybe they were, but they’re certainly not now. Look how easy it was to overrun the place.’

Hirtius flashed him a look that only deepened his concern, for in that gaze was a determination, but also a faintly sickened look, as though the officer was fighting his own spirit.

‘By direct order of Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul, I demand that the rebel leaders be delivered to us, and if they are not located and brought forth, every man of property and of fighting age in this settlement will be roped and chained and taken forth in recompense for the rebellious nature of this tribe.’

Varus narrowed his eyes. That was clearly Caesar speaking through Hirtius, and the general never did anything offhand. What could be gained by such an action? There were no rebel leaders here, just a few last desperate warriors and a city full of ordinary folk. The younger Gaul was explaining this in a desperate tone to the old man, who looked stunned. He then turned back to the two Roman officers.

‘Sir, my father and I are simply merchants, plying our trade in good Biturige metalwork. We are not rebels. We are loyal to the proconsul.’

Again, Varus caught the slightly sickened look in Hirtius’ eyes, and his own widened.

‘Is that what this is about, Hirtius?’

The staff officer turned to him.

‘Keep your nose out of this, Varus. The horse are your concern, not the general’s strategy.’

Varus slapped his head. ‘I thought the name of this place was familiar. Never misses a trick, our general, does he? I wonder if there were ever any rebel leaders here.’

Hirtius gave him that mixed, unpleasant glare again, and Varus issued a snarl and wheeled his horse, trotting out of the gate and back down the slope. It took him only a short while to locate Brutus, who was sitting under a shade that was already starting to sag from the weight of the tiny hailstones gathered atop it. The young officer was poring over a map of the territory while swigging water from a canteen. Varus reined in and dismounted, tying his horse to one of the posts.

‘You spend more time in staff briefings than me, Brutus. Did you know about this?’

Brutus frowned in incomprehension, and Varus indicated the oppidum of Argatomagon with a sweep of his arm. ‘This whole charade. Heart of the rebellion my arse. I’d say there were fewer rebels here than in any other place we’ve put down this month.’

Brutus shrugged. ‘Perhaps they fled the oppidum? They have to have had plenty of warning of our approach, and the rest of their territory fell so easily. Maybe they were just sensible and ran into the wilds to preserve themselves. Doesn’t matter now anyway. The Biturige lands are back in loyalist hands, and there’ll be no further rebellion here.’

‘Brutus, there were never any rebel leaders here, I’d wager my family name on that. This is all about Caesar feathering his nest.’

Brutus frowned and gestured for him to go on, so Varus took the other campaign chair and unclasped his wet cloak, shaking it out and folding it.

‘Caesar’s enslaving the bulk of the populace, claiming that they’ve withheld the details of the rebel leaders. Another thousand slaves or two will be heading for Massilia and Rome in the morning.’

Again Brutus shrugged. ‘That’s the way of war. The beaten are enslaved. And those slaves till the fields and mine the stone for Rome. Don’t get too sentimental, Varus. This is still a war until the last rebel surrenders.’

‘But these are not rebels, Brutus. These are loyalists – just merchants and farmers and metalworkers. These are the same people as sought our help against the rebels in the first place. Enslaving them actually endangers the peace rather than securing it. If news of this reaches other allied tribes, we could find them turning against us. So we’ll have to maintain Caesar’s fiction if we want to keep the Pax Romana. Hirtius was not happy about doing it; I could see that in his eyes.’

Brutus offered the cavalryman his flask and when declined, stoppered it and put it away. ‘Why would Caesar do that just for a few thousand slaves, given how many he’s already taken?’

Varus leaned forward and examined the map closely. After a moment he sat back and tapped with his finger in a small cluster of places around their current location.

‘What are those?’

‘Mining settlements,’ Brutus replied with a frown.

‘And they belong to this oppidum.’

‘There are plenty of iron and copper mining communities in easier places.’

‘Brutus, these are silver mines, I reckon. Or if not, this is a place where silver is worked. Took me a while to realise it, but I wondered why I recognised the name of the place. Argatomagon. Argat is a regional corruption. I’ve heard it as Argad and Argant and even Arganto. It means silver. Argatomagon – ‘silver market.’ Damn it, it’s surprisingly close to the Latin, and the soldiers are already calling the place Argentomagus in our own tongue. The place has made its name through silver.’

‘Seems a little…’ Brutus paused. ‘You’re right, though, aren’t you? This place was identified as the centre of the rebellion because that’s where Caesar wanted it to be. Then we can secure silver and worked metals. There’ll be a small fortune at stake here. By raising rebellion, the idiot Bituriges have enriched the general by a heavy margin.’

Varus sagged. ‘If I were a cynical man, I might even be given to wonder whether this entire rebellion was fostered as an excuse to wrest the mines from the Bituriges.’

‘Don’t even think of saying that again, even here and to me. Men with those kind of opinions have a very short career expectancy in the proconsul’s command. I see what you’re saying, and it all smacks very heavily of the same kind of manoeuvring that led Caesar to drive the Helvetii into Gaul eight years ago and start this whole thing in the first place. But the fact remains that it’s done and no good at all will come of speculating in public.’

He sighed. ‘Besides, you know the score here. Caesar has to completely pacify the place within the year before he returns for his consulship. He will need to take every sestertius he can out of this place if he wants to stand a chance of power against Pompey back in Rome. Caesar has plenty of friends in the city, but Pompey currently has all the real influence. The general will need to buy the goodwill of half the senators in Rome to get anywhere.’

‘And he will have to pay the honesta missio for his disbanding legions,’ Varus added.

‘Precisely. Settling the men in southern Gaul will cost a lot of money.’

‘Well,’ Varus stretched and rolled his head, listening to the clicks in his neck, ‘the Bituriges are back under Rome’s wing now. But there are more rebellious tribes than them. We need to keep our eyes open for trouble in the north, I reckon. The Belgae are overdue a grumble.’

Brutus chuckled. ‘You are such an optimist, Varus. It’s almost like having Fronto back in camp. You’ll be grumbling about women and getting soaked in wine next.’

‘Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all week. Come on. Let’s go open an amphora and toast the Bituriges, unwitting bankers of Caesar’s career.’