(Ianuarius: The Andean oppidum of Vindunum in northwestern Gaul)
“Have you made an example among the locals?”
The tribune sighed inwardly but was careful to keep his expression neutral. He’d managed to avoid much direct contact with Crassus, but word got around.
“With respect, legate, we’ve made an occasional example, but it really is no good. They simply don’t have the grain to spare and no amount of beating is going to make more grain grow.”
He winced, aware that he could have overstepped the mark there. Crassus may be only one of several legates with a command at Vindunum, but Caesar’s orders had been clear. Crassus was in overall command of the army in this region over the winter months. There were many rumours as to the reason for the extra power granted to the man, but the most common was that Caesar needed to tighten the bonds between himself and the legate’s father in Rome.
Crassus stared at him, silent, those piercing eyes boring into his skull.
“Also, legate, the Gauls are a proud people. If you push them hard, they don’t bend, sir; they break. I and the other officers are walking a fine line between keeping them subjugated and trying not to fan the flames of revolt. The failure of the Belgae’s revolt last year may have settled things for now, but they will only take so much.”
“I fear you forget your place, tribune…”
Gallus, senior tribune of the Ninth, ground his teeth, irked at such a rebuke from the commander of a different legion. A complaint to legate Rufus would be no use; Rufus was as powerless as he to put the influential Crassus in his place.
“I mean no disrespect, sir…”
Somewhere deep within, Gallus laughed at his own words.
“…It's just that the Andes have been nothing but accommodating and helpful. Given that we have effectively displaced them and tithed their stores during a fairly harsh winter, I feel we should be rewarding them, rather than punishing them. Perhaps we can send to Caesar and request that extra supplies be sent up from Narbonensis?”
Crassus swept a hand angrily through the air.
“I have conquered Armorica with one legion, tribune! Imagine that! While the rest of the army was bogged down with the Belgae, the Seventh alone pacified the whole of the north west! Do you think I am about to crawl to Caesar with my tail between my legs and beg for some extra supper?”
Again, Gallus had to bite his tongue. He’d seen first hand the results of Crassus’ conquest. Pacification by near-genocide. The mass burial pits were still visited by weeping relatives all up and down these lands. Still, the winter would soon be over and then his own legate would return, along with the general and the rest of the staff. Things would change then.
“What are your orders, sir?”
Crassus glared at him for some time and finally slid from his chair and stood, reaching out to the table and swiping his crimson cloak from the surface, fastening it around his shoulders.
“Come with me.”
Gallus nodded and, turning, followed the legate out of the headquarters. The air outside was cloying and unpleasant. A fog had settled earlier in the week and seemed to be set in for the duration, lifting only briefly during the height of the day before descending once again to wrap them in its damp embrace as the sun sank. The unpleasant weather was affecting the mood of the army, who had weathered the crisp cold winter reasonably well, but this damp fog was a whole different matter. It soaked into the clothes and made even the flesh feel soggy and cold, it cut down visibility and shut out the welcome gaze of the sun.
The headquarters had been converted from the house of the Andean chief at Vindunum during the Seventh’s campaign last year. Indeed, the Seventh and their allied legions occupied the entire Gallic oppidum and the surrounding territory on this side of the river, the surviving population having been evicted to the far bank where they had set up makeshift huts to survive the winter. The ‘pax Romana' as demonstrated by the great Crassus.
Still grinding his teeth, Gallus strode out into the street behind the young commander as he glanced left and right. There were the standard legionary guards on duty outside the headquarters, as well as the granary and other stores, but here in the hub of Roman command, the higher proportion of the sparse figures visible bore the crests and plumes of officers.
“You!”
Gallus frowned as Crassus gestured to two tribunes standing huddled against the cold and studying a wax tablet. The tribunes looked up, and Gallus vaguely recognised them from meetings and dice games. Men of the Eleventh, if he remembered correctly.
The two tribunes turned and saluted the legate, standing at attention.
“Identify yourselves.”
“Quintus Velanius, tribunus laticlavius of the Eleventh, sir.”
“Titus Silius, tribunus angusticlavius of the Eleventh, legate.”
Crassus nodded.
“Come with me.”
The two men exchanged anxious glances and, as they fell into step with Gallus at the legate’s heel, they looked around at him questioningly. Gallus shook his head and made a face suggesting they should stay quiet.
The three tribunes pulled their cloaks tighter around them against the numbing fog and traipsed on down the street toward the former centre of the oppidum. As they entered the main square, once more Crassus waved an arm at a man with a tribune’s plume.
“Terrasidius? Join us.”
The tribune, one of the junior, or ‘angusticlavius’ tribunes of the Seventh, turned and came to attention, saluting, before striding toward them. As the five men converged, Crassus gestured to one of the buildings around the square, converted for use as an office for the clerks of the various legions and the camp prefect, nominally Priscus, ex-primus pilus of the Tenth, but who was convalescing in Rome with his commander during the winter.
The small group approached, and Terrasidius stepped out ahead to open the door and stand aside politely until the others had entered, closing it behind him as he joined them. This building had clearly been a shop or a tavern before being commandeered by the Seventh. Three clerks worked studiously at desks in the large open room.
“Find something to do outside” Crassus said flatly.
The clerks looked up in alarm and saluted hurriedly before gathering their tablets and styluses in their arms and leaving the room in haste, making their way out of the front door and into the damp, depressing square outside.
“Right.”
Crassus turned to the four tribunes as he leaned back against a desk and folded his arms.
“Tribune Gallus here informs me that we are being too harsh on the Andes here; that we cannot demand any more grain or supplies from them, or we may push them into open revolt.”
Gallus’ teeth continued to grind in irritation but, as the other three officers glanced across at him, he noted the sympathy and understanding in their eyes.
“So” the legate continued circling his neck to the sound of bones clicking. “What are the options?”
He fell silent, but none of the tribunes fell into the trap. Crassus nodded to himself.
“One: we banish the Andes altogether and send them to leech off one of the other tribes in this benighted land, while we commandeer their remaining stocks. Certainly the easiest option, and their own stores should see the army through until spring, when we will move again.”
Gallus noted the almost despairing looks on his peers and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately not to comment.
“Two: We send to Narbonensis or Cisalpine Gaul in Caesar’s name for extra supplies. Of course, it would be more than a month before anything gets to us, and we run the risk or putting forth the appearance that the better part of seven of Rome’s elite legions cannot even gather enough supplies to keep themselves fed.”
He peered at the tribunes and allowed his gaze to rest on Gallus.
“Or three: we extend our demands to other tribes. At the risk of testing tribune Gallus’ ‘bend-or-break’ theory, we procure every ounce of provision we need from the various tribes we have conquered.”
One of the tribunes cleared his throat, but said nothing.
“No opinions, gentlemen?”
Velanius of the Eleventh scratched his chin. Gallus noted that he winced in anticipation as he opened his mouth.
“It has been a harsh and freezing winter, legate. Most of the tribes will be in a similar state. I’m not at all sure how much they will be able to spare. Back down on the coast of the Mare Nostrum, however, where it’s been warmer…”
His voice tailed off, and he fell uncomfortably silent.
“Since the lot of you seem to be so concerned about the tender feelings of these pointless barbarians, it strikes me that I could hardly find any better men to send.”
Straightening, he strode across to the wall, where a map was pinned to the timber, giving the locations of the local tribes and settlements, along with the disposition of the various scouts and spies. He examined the map for some time while the tribunes watched unhappily. Finally, he tapped his fingers on the vellum.
“There you go: Gallus, you’ll take a detachment of cavalry as a bodyguard and go to the Curiosolitae. Their capital is some turd hole near the north coast. We checked it out briefly last year, and it was hardly worth our attention, but there’s good farmland around them. You should be able to get fully half of what we need from them. I would suggest you threaten them with the heel of the Roman boot, but you can use your charm if you prefer.”
Ignoring the rising colour in Gallus’ face, he turned to the others, his finger sliding down the map and coming to rest on the jagged lines of the southern coast of the peninsula.
“The Venati are somewhat fractious and spread out and will be more difficult to deal with. We’re not even sure where their centre is, so you two” he gestured at Velanius and Silius, “will need to take two turmae of cavalry and go find them and draw supplies from them. I’m not expecting them to have much grain but, from what I read, they’re fishers, so you may be able to procure us stocks of seafood.”
Lastly, his finger strayed up and right, deeper inland and back toward better-known territory and came to rest somewhere around forty or fifty miles north of Vindunum.
“Terrasidius? You can take a detachment to the Esubii. They should be nice and easy to deal with and will have surplus grain stocks if I’m not mistaken.”
The legate fell quiet, still regarding the map, his chin cupped in a hand. The tribunes stood in uncomfortable silence, shuffling their feet. After a pregnant pause, Crassus turned, an expression of feigned surprise on his face.
“Are you still here?”
Without waiting for further admonishment, the tribunes turned and made their way out of the building and out of sight of the legate. As they left the relative comfort of the low, dark interior and stepped out into the grey cloth of mist, they kept walking until they were at the far side of the square and safely out of earshot of both the office window and any other human being.
“Arsehole!”
The other three turned in surprise at Gallus’ outburst, but understanding quickly flooded their expressions.
“He really has no idea just how much of the time we spend trying to smooth over relations with the Gauls after he wanders around Armorica kicking them out of the way. It’s almost as though he wants them to revolt.”
Velanius nodded unhappily.
“The Venati are an argumentative bunch. They fight for fun in their village squares; I’ve seen it – bare knuckle fighting until they’re lying comatose just to work up an appetite for dinner. I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to approach them and broach the idea that they should give us a sizeable chunk of their fish. I have a horrible feeling about this.”
Gallus’ grim expression revealed his own thoughts on the matter quite clearly. He turned and rounded on Terrasidius.
“See how he favours his own legion? Cushy job you got there, asking for a handout from a friendly tribe that’s almost drowning in excess grain.”
The tribune from the Seventh shrugged.
“You can call it favour if you like and, yes I get the easy tribe, but when we start moving in spring, you’ll head back to your own legates and get on with it. I’ll still be wandering around behind my illustrious leader, trying to remove the stick from his arse!”
Gallus stared at the tribune for a moment and burst out laughing.
“Fair enough. He won’t be expecting us to leave until the morning. Too late in the day to set out now. Anyone else here fancy a drink? There’s two taverns in this shithole that they left in service, and I know which one doesn’t spit in the beer for Romans!”
The three men nodded, relieved to have their thoughts turned from the task ahead, and strode off toward the tavern with its friendly warmth.
* * * * *
“This had better be the right place; I’m truly sick of getting the runaround with these people.”
Tribune Velanius nodded miserably, shrinking deeper into the crimson wool cloak as his horse plodded slowly through the bone-soaking drizzle.
“You know how some sailors say that the seas go on to the north and west to the end of the world and then irrigate the Elysian fields?”
Silius eyed him suspiciously.
“Yes. You do know you can’t irrigate anything with sea water?”
“Well you can quite bloody believe it! The further north we get from Rome the wetter, colder and more miserable it gets. If it weren’t for all the cliffs and rocks, I’d say it would be hard to tell where the land ends and the sea begins in this place.”
His companion gave a small laugh and turned to look at the cavalry escort. One of the outriders was returning.
“Now we’ll find out.”
The pair drew their steeds to a halt and sat in the miserable rain as the cavalry trooper approached and reined in.
“Sir” the trooper said, giving a half bow in the saddle, “there’s a sizeable settlement up ahead on a spur of rock above the sea. It’s a lot bigger than any of the other villages we’ve seen. I think we’ve found our town.”
“Good. Form up an honour guard. Let’s do this properly.”
As the cavalry settled into lines of twelve men to either side with a small van- and rearguard, the two tribunes held their breath as they approached the crest of the hill. They still had no idea how they would go about their mission, but the time seemed finally to be upon them when they would have to decide.
Slowly they rode to the top of the hill in a stately procession. Beyond, the open countryside, dotted with copses, stretched out, swooping down and then up to the now all too familiar line of jagged cliffs and coves that formed the coast of north western Gaul. In the centre of the view, a headland stood proud, rising higher than those to either side. Ramparts protected the landward side, while cliffs formed the defence of the rest, with jagged rocks and heaving seas below. Within the walls, a typical Gaulish town lay, squat and grey-brown with random, curving streets. Smoke rose from a multitude of roofs, warming the occupants and warding off the chill rain.
“Even that place is starting to look good when you’ve been on horseback in the rain for so damn long.”
Velanius pointed down at the near side of the town.
“Will you look at that!”
“What?”
“The approach. It would take Neptune and Mars working together to take that place!”
Silius peered through the rain, trying to pick out more detail and, as he did, he understood his companion’s fascination. The town was all but impossible to access from the sea, given the steep cliffs and the fact that the whole headland was surrounded by partially submerged rocks. But the land approach was no better. The walls were as thick and high and impressive as any they had seen these past two years in Gaul, but to even reach the walls, an attacker would have to descend the slope to sea level, crossing a narrow causeway that stood perhaps a hundred paces wide.
“That would be a killing zone if they had archers on those towers.”
Velanius shook his head.
“Better than that. It’s still a fairly low tide right now. That causeway will be underwater a lot of the time, and those nasty rocks will be hidden just below the waves. This place isn’t a town, it’s a damn fortress.”
As they descended the slope, the seaward dip and its tidal causeway disappeared from view. The first of a number of small copses rose up to either side of the road, granting blessed, if momentary, relief from the worst of the bleak drizzle that seemed to travel horizontally in this country.
“I’d be willing to come to some very favourable terms if they’ll just supply me with a towel, a warm hearth and a bowl of broth!”
Silius laughed again.
“Don’t start on about your stomach again. I spent most of yesterday listening to you banging on about it.”
Velanius opened his mouth to deliver a stinging retort, but instead his mouth formed into a shocked ‘O’ while his eyes widened. Behind his companion and the line of miserable cavalry troopers, a vague figure appeared like a ghost between the boles of the trees, a long spear thrusting out ahead. The tribune had not even the time to call a warning before the spear caught the nearest rider just under the ribs on his left side, plunging in deep through his torso, to emerge at the opposite collar bone. The shocked rider opened his mouth to scream, and a gobbet of blood was all that issued as he toppled from the horse.
Velanius was aware that he’d shouted something, though he could not remember what it was in the sudden confusion. They had no chance, and that was clear from the outset. There must be dozens of men lining the sides of the road, hidden in the trees, each armed with a long thrusting spear. Almost the entire cavalry guard died in the first few moments of this brutal and well orchestrated attack.
“Ride!” bellowed Silius, jerking his knees to guide his beast around the falling horses and men to either side.
Velanius needed no further urging. The escort lines beside them were gone, horses and men alike on the ground, flailing in a growing lake of blood as the Gaulish spearmen stepped out of the eaves and finished their victims off with repeated stabs of those wide, leaf-shaped spear heads.
Both ahead and behind, more attackers had emerged with their spears held out before them, blocking the road in both directions.
“Shit, Silius, we’re trapped.”
“Jump them. Have you never jumped a horse?”
The men from the woods to the side had finished off the escort, while those both ahead and behind moved in on the van- and rearguard. Time was up; any more delay and they would merely be caught between those same spearmen. With a last gestured to Velanius, Silius kicked his horse into speed and began to race toward the front doors of the trap ahead, grasping the mane. The four troopers that formed the vanguard were clearly in trouble. Two were already down, and one was fighting to control his wounded horse.
As Silius, with Velanius close by, raced toward the scene, they saw the struggling trooper caught simultaneously by two spear thrusts that lifted him bodily from the saddle and vaulted him across and down to the turf.
The sound of pounding hooves attracted his precious attention, and he was as surprised as he was relieved to see one of the rearguard troopers pulling alongside at a run, apparently with the same idea of escape.
Silius had been a rider from a young age, spending time on the family estate outside Aquinum exploring the countryside on one or other of his father’s horses. Seeing the distance left to ride and the height of the blockade, as the Gauls began to pay attention to the three men bearing down on them, he adjusted his posture, kicked as much extra speed as he possibly could and prepared himself.
The Gauls were well aware of what was happening and equally prepared to stop it. Silius was the first to reach them, leaping his steed high over the men. He closed his eyes and made silent vows to Fortuna as his horse sailed through the open space, the steed of the cavalry trooper close by to his left and behind.
When his mount's hooves touched the earth beyond the Gauls, his heart soared, relief flooding through him, boosted all the more by the sound of the trooper’s horse reaching the ground once more.
The screech behind them told all too well of Velanius’ failure. A fair weather rider with little experience at the jump, the other tribune had left it too late. As he coasted low over the Gauls, several spears plunged into the steed, killing it before it even hit the ground.
Silius, already racing away from the scene with the one remaining cavalry trooper, afforded himself only a quick, sad glance back to see that Velanius had been thrown clear and had hit the ground hard, likely breaking bones with possibly fatal results. Several of the Gauls were running toward the heap that was the senior tribune of the Eleventh Legion.
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 than 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 grain 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 inevitable.”
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 had 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 hearted 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.”
“Like what?” asked Varus suspiciously.
“Well firstly, I have to send a letter. I need to make Caesar aware of what’s happening.”
Felix shook his head.
“That’s just going to land you knee deep in the shit. When Crassus finds out, he’ll have you cut to ribbons for going behind his back and, to an extent he’ll be justified. It’s damn near mutiny.”
“Not quite. I shall write my monthly letter to my mother; she likes to be kept informed of my activity and also that of the general. They’re friends, you see. The Julii and the Junii go back a way, and Caesar is actually a distant cousin. I shall ‘accidentally’ drop a few hints about what Crassus is doing. You can guarantee that within a week of mother getting hold of the letter, Caesar will know everything.”
Varus shook his head.
“That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Brutus. And anyway, what if Caesar’s not in Rome, but in Cisalpine Gaul or Illyricum or somewhere else?”
“Then she’ll make sure that word gets to him. She knows Fronto’s mother quite well, and Fronto’s in Rome at the moment with Priscus and Crispus. Word will get back.”
Felix smiled a curious smile.
“Priscus and Crispus. Every time anyone says that it sounds like two characters from a Plautus comedy to me!”
“Anyway” Brutus went on, sparing a glare for the primus pilus by his side “on a serious note, the next thing we need to do is anticipate the trouble we’re going to be in when Crassus fails.”
“You thinking of raising your own legions, Brutus? I’m not sure the general would approve of that.”
“Not exactly. That would be even closer to mutiny, but the tribes we’re dealing with here are sailors born and bred. The Veneti almost live at sea, and all these tribes centre around coastal fortresses and towns. What we need is naval support; to have access to the tribes by land and sea. If Crassus pushes us into open war, we’ll be at a serious disadvantage otherwise, and I doubt he’ll even think about the possibility of naval action.”
Varus frowned at him.
“I don’t know much about the navy, but is it feasible to get the nearest fleet all the way from Italia to here in time to help?”
“Probably not. Plus I have no authority over them and even Caesar would have to apply to the senate for control of them. No. But we can build a fleet and man it ourselves in plenty of time.”
Felix laughed.
“Madness. How are you going to build the fleet without Crassus knowing? You’ll need to use the legions and Crassus will find out what you’re up to in no time. Then there’s manning the ships, even if you got them built. How many sailors do you know?”
Brutus smiled at the primus pilus.
“We can start constructing a fleet at Turonum. It’s only a day’s march from here, with a mercantile harbour on the Loire, which has naval access all the way to the sea. I’m sure we can siphon a few of the men away from the army to work on them. So long as we can get a few engineers who know what they’re doing, we can recruit the locals to do a lot of the basic labour. I can organise remuneration for them; the Junii are not short of a few denarii as I’m sure you’re aware. As for the crew, we’ll have to send to Narbo. The province is Caesar’s anyway, and the whole land is full of fishermen and sea traders, so we shouldn’t have any problems raising up a crew from there.”
He turned to Varus and grinned.
“If I supply you with the appropriate letters and finance, can you organise a few discreet cavalry officers to ride to Narbo and put things into motion?”
Varus shrugged.
“If you’re taking the responsibility for this, I can provide whatever you need.”
Nodding, Brutus turned to Felix.
“And how about engineers? Think you can spare a few good men from the Eleventh?”
The primus pilus grinned.
“You mean give them the option of continuing to dig latrines for the camp or go help design and build a navy away from our illustrious commander? They’ll bite my hand off.”
“Good” Brutus nodded. “And Galba’s coming any day now with the Twelfth. We can probably rely on some men from him, since Crassus has no idea about the Twelfth’s strength as it is.”
He stood, stretching.
“And I think that later I might swing by the headquarters of the Tenth. I don’t know their new primus pilus very well, but people say he’s got his head screwed on right, and if Fronto trusts him, then it’s worth seeing if he can spare a few men.”
He rolled his shoulders a couple of times and then smiled.
“Well, I shall see you fellows later on, at the tavern? I have to go write a letter home.”