When news of the defeat and capture of Vercingetorix reached Rome, the Senate decreed a thanksgiving of twenty days—which could not undo the damage Pompey and his new allies the boni had engineered for Caesar during that year of total war, knowing full well that Caesar did not have the time or the energy to oppose their measures personally. Though he was kept informed, the immediate urgencies of finding food for his legions, making sure his men’s lives were not risked needlessly and dealing with Vercingetorix had to take first place in Caesar’s priorities. And while agents like Balbus, Oppius and Rabirius Postumus the bankers strove mightily to avert disaster, they had neither Caesar’s consummate grasp of politics nor his unassailable authority; precious days were wasted couriering letters and waiting for replies.
Not long after he had become consul without a colleague, Pompey had married Cornelia Metella and moved completely into the camp of the boni. The first evidence of his new ideological commitment came late in March, when he took a senatorial decree of the previous year and passed it into law. A harmless enough law on the surface, but Caesar saw its possibilities the moment he read Balbus’s letter. From now on, a man who was in office as praetor or consul would have to wait five years before he was allowed to govern a province. A nuisance made serious because it created a pool of possible governors who could go to govern at a moment’s notice: those men who, after being praetor or consul, had refused to take a province. They were now legally obliged to become governors if the Senate so directed them.
Worse than that law was one Pompey proceeded to pass which stipulated that all candidates for praetor or consul must register their candidacy personally inside the city of Rome. Every member of Caesar’s extremely powerful faction protested vehemently—what about Caesar, what about the Law of the Ten Tribunes of the Plebs allowing Caesar to stand for his second consulship in absentia? Oops, oops! cried Pompey. Sorry about that, I clean forgot! Whereupon he tacked a codicil onto his lex Pompeia de iure magistratuum, exempting Caesar from its provisions. The only trouble was that he didn’t have the codicil inscribed on the bronze tablet bearing his law, which gave the codicil no power in law whatsoever.
Caesar got the news that he was now barred from standing in absentia while he was building his siege terrace at Avaricum; after that came Gergovia, after that the revolt of the Aedui, after that the pursuit which led eventually to Alesia. As he dealt with the Aedui at Decetia he learned that the Senate had met to discuss the allocation of next year’s provinces, now unavailable to the men who were currently in office as praetors or consuls. They had to wait five years. The Senate scratched its head as it asked itself where next year’s governors were to come from, but the consul without a colleague laughed. Easy, Pompey said. The men who had declined to govern a province after their year in office would have to govern whether they liked it or not. Cicero was therefore ordered to govern Cilicia and Bibulus to govern Syria, a prospect which filled both of these stay-at-homes with horror.
Inside his protective ring at Alesia, Caesar got a letter from Rome informing him that Pompey had succeeded in having his new father-in-law, Metellus Scipio, elected his consular colleague for the rest of the year. And—more cheering news by far—that Cato, running for next year’s consulship, had been ignominiously defeated. For all his admired incorruptibility, Cato couldn’t impress the electors. Probably because the members of the First Class of centuriate voters liked to think there was some sort of chance that the consuls (for a trifling financial consideration) would do a few favors when nicely asked.
*
So when the New Year came in, Caesar was still in Gaul of the Long-hairs. He couldn’t possibly cross the Alps to monitor events in Rome from Ravenna. Two inimical consuls in Servius Sulpicius Rufus and Marcus Claudius Marcellus were just entering office, a vexatious prospect for Caesar. Though it was something of a consolation that no less than four of the new tribunes of the plebs belonged to Caesar, bought and paid for. Marcus Marcellus the junior consul was already saying that he intended to strip Caesar’s imperium, provinces and army from him, though the law Gaius Trebonius had passed to give him his second five years specifically forbade the matter’s so much as being discussed before March of next year, fifteen months away. Constitutionality was for lesser beings. The boni cared not a fig about it if their target was Caesar.
Who, through the haze of misery which greyed his life at this time, found it impossible to settle and do what he ought to do: send for people like Balbus and his dominant tribune of the plebs, Gaius Vibius Pansa, sit down with them in Bibracte and personally instruct them how to proceed. There were probably a few tactics his people could try, but only if they met with him in the flesh. Pompey was basking in boni approval and rejoicing in the possession of a hugely aristocratic wife, but at least he was no longer in office, and Servius Sulpicius, the new senior consul, was an approachable and deliberate member of the boni rather than an intemperate hothead like Marcus Marcellus.
Instead of settling to deal with Rome, Caesar went on the road to subdue the Bituriges and contented himself with dictating a letter to the Senate on the march. In view of his stunning successes in the Gauls, he said, it seemed only fair and proper that he should be treated exactly as Pompey had been treated in the matter of Pompey’s governorship of the Spains. His “election” as consul without a colleague had been in absentia because he was governing the Spains. He was still governing the Spains, had done so throughout his term as consul. Therefore, would the Conscript Fathers of the Senate please extend Caesar’s tenure of the Gauls and Illyricum until he assumed the consulship in three years’ time? What was accorded to Pompey should also be accorded to Caesar. The letter did not deign to mention Pompey’s law that consular candidates must register for election inside Rome; Caesar’s silence on this point was a way of saying that he knew Pompey’s law did not apply to him.
Three nundinae would elapse between the sending of this missive and any possibility of a reply; like several more nundinae, they were spent reducing the Bituriges to abject petitioners for mercy. His campaign was a series of forced marches of fifty miles a day; he would be in one place burning, sacking, killing and enslaving, then turn up fifty miles away even before the shouting could warn anyone. By now he knew that Gaul of the Long-hairs did not consider itself beaten. The new strategy consisted of small insurrections timed to flare up all over the country simultaneously, forcing Caesar to behave like a man obliged to stamp out ten different fires in ten different places at one and the same moment. But these insurrections presumed that there would be Roman citizens to slaughter, and there were not. Food purchasing for the legions, all scattered, was done by the legions themselves marching in force.
Caesar countered by reducing several of the most powerful tribes in turn, commencing with the Bituriges, who were angry that Biturgo had been sent to Rome to walk in Caesar’s triumphal parade. He took two legions only, the Thirteenth and the new Fifteenth: the Thirteenth because it bore that unlucky number, and the Fifteenth because it consisted of raw recruits. This highest numbered legion was his “oddments box,” its men seasoned and then slipped into other legions when they fell in number. The present Fifteenth was the result of Pompey’s law early in the previous year stating that all Roman citizen men between seventeen and forty years of age must do military service—a law handy for Caesar, who never had trouble obtaining volunteers, but was often in trouble with the Senate for recruiting more men than he had been authorized to enlist.
On the ninth day of February he returned to Bibracte. The lands of the Bituriges were in ruins; most of the Biturigan warriors were dead and the women and children taken captive. Awaiting him in Bibracte was the Senate’s answer to his request for an extended term as governor. An answer he had perhaps expected, yet in his heart had truly believed would not be so, if only because to reject his petition was the height of folly.
The answer was no: the Senate was not prepared to treat Caesar as it had treated Pompey. If he wanted to be consul in three years’ time, he would have to behave like any other Roman governor: lay down his imperium, his provinces and his army, and register his candidacy in person inside Rome. What the answer didn’t argue about was Caesar’s calm assumption that he would be elected senior consul. Everyone knew it would happen thus. Caesar had never contested an election in which he did not come in at the top of the poll. Nor did he bribe. He didn’t dare to bribe. Too many enemies were looking for an excuse to prosecute.
*
It was then, looking down at that coldly curt letter, that Caesar made up his mind to plan for all eventualities.
They will not let me be all that I should be. That I am entitled to be. Yet they will accommodate a quasi-Roman like Pompeius. Bow and scrape to him. Exalt him. Fill him with ideas of his own importance, all the while sniggering at him behind their hands. Well, that’s his burden. One day he’ll discover what they really think of him. When the circumstances are right their masks will drop, and Pompeius will be genuinely devastated. He’s exactly like Cicero when Catilina seemed certain to be consul. The boni espoused the despised bumpkin from Arpinum to keep out a man who had the blood. Now they espouse Pompeius to keep me out. But I will not let that happen. I am no Catilina! They want my hide, for no better reason than that my excellence forces them to see the extent of their own inadequacies. They think they can compel me to cross the pomerium into Rome to declare my candidacy, and, in crossing the pomerium, abandon the imperium which protects me from prosecution. They’ll all be there at the electoral booth ready to pounce with a dozen trumped-up suits for treason, for extortion, for bribery, for peculation— for murder, if they can find someone to swear I was seen sneaking into the Lautumiae to throttle Vettius. I’ll be like Gabinius, like Milo. Condemned in so many different courts for so many different crimes that I will never be able to show my face in Italia again. I will be stripped of my citizenship, my deeds will be erased from the history books, and men like Ahenobarbus and Metellus Scipio will be popped into my provinces to lake the credit, just as Pompeius took the credit for what Lucullus did.
That will not happen. I will not let it happen, no matter what I have to do to avert it. In the meantime I will continue to work to be allowed to run in absentia, my imperium intact until I assume the imperium of the senior consul. I do not want to be known as a man who acted unconstitutionally. Never in my life have I acted unconstitutionally. Everything has been done as the mos maiorum says it should be done. That is my greatest ambition: to attain my second consulship within the bounds of the law. Once I become consul, I can deal with all their trumped-up charges by using the law legally. They know that. They fear that. But they cannot bear to lose. For if they lose, they admit that I am better than they are in every conceivable way, from brilliance to blood. For I am one man, and they are many. If I defeat them within the law, they will be as chagrined as the sphinx and have no other recourse than to jump over the nearest cliff.
However, I will also plan for the worst. I will begin to do those things which will ensure that I succeed outside the law. Oh, the fools! They always underestimate me.
Jupiter Optimus Maximus, if that be the name you would like to hear; Jupiter Optimus Maximus, of whatever sex you prefer; Jupiter Optimus Maximus, who is all the Gods and forces of Rome fused into one; Jupiter Optimus Maximus, contract with me to win! Should you do this, I hereby swear that I will accord you those sacrifices which do you the greatest honor and give you the most satisfaction….
*
The campaign to reduce the Bituriges had taken forty days. As soon as Caesar had arrived back in the camp just below the mount of Aeduan Bibracte, he assembled the Thirteenth and the Fifteenth and donated to every man in both legions one female Biturigan prisoner whom he could keep as a servant, or sell to the slavers. After which he gave every ranker a cash bonus of two hundred sesterces, and every centurion a cash bonus of two thousand sesterces. Out of his own purse.
“This is my thanks for your wonderful support,” he said to his soldiers. “What Rome pays you is one thing, but it is time that I, Gaius Julius Caesar, gave you something out of my own private purse as a special thank-you. The past forty days have seen little booty, yet I’ve taken you out of your well-earned winter rest and asked you to march fifty miles a day for almost every one of those forty days. After a terrible winter, spring and summer in the field against Vercingetorix, you deserved to sit back and do nothing for six months at least. But did you grumble when I said you’d be marching? No! Did you complain when I asked you for Herculean efforts? No! Did you slacken pace, did you ask for more to eat, did you for one moment give me less than your best? No! No, no, no! You’re the men of Caesar’s legions, and Rome has never seen your like! You’re my boys! As long as my life shall last, you’re my beloved boys!”
They cheered him hysterically, as much for his calling them his beloved boys as for the money and the slave, who also came out of his private purse; the profits from the sale of slaves belonged exclusively to the General.
Trebonius looked sideways at Decimus Brutus. “What’s he up to, Decimus? It’s a wonderful gesture, but they didn’t expect it and I can’t work out what possessed him to make it.”
“I had a letter from Curio in the same bag which brought Caesar a letter from the Senate,” said Decimus Brutus, speaking too softly for Mark Antony or the tribunes to hear. “They won’t let him stand in absentia, and the mood in the House is to strip him of his imperium as soon as possible. They want him disgraced and sent into permanent exile. So does Pompeius Magnus.”
Trebonius grunted scornfully. “That last doesn’t surprise me! Pompeius isn’t worth one of Caesar’s bootlaces.”
“Nor are any of the others.”
“That goes without saying.” He turned and left the parade ground, Decimus walking with him. “Do you think he’d do it?”
Decimus Brutus didn’t blink. “I think… I think they’re insane to provoke him, Gaius. Because yes, if they leave him no alternative he’ll march on Rome.”
“And if he does?”
The invisible blond brows rose. “What do you think?”
“He’d slaughter them.”
“I agree.”
“So we have a choice to make, Decimus.”
“You may have a choice to make. I don’t. I’m Caesar’s man through thick and thin.”
“And I. Yet he’s no Sulla.”
“For which we ought to be thankful, Trebonius.”
Perhaps because of this conversation, neither Decimus Brutus nor Gaius Trebonius was in a talkative mood over dinner; they lay together on the lectus summus, with Caesar alone on the lectus medius and Mark Antony alone on the lectus imus, opposite them.
“You’re being mighty generous,” said Antony, crunching through an apple in two bites. “I know you have a reputation for open-handedness, but”—he wrinkled his brow fiercely, eyes screwed closed—”that’s a total of one hundred talents you gave away today, or near enough.”
Caesar’s eyes twinkled. Antony amused him intensely, and he liked that good-natured acceptance of his role as butt.
“By all that Mercury holds dear, Antonius, your mathematical skills are phenomenal! You did that sum in your head. I think it’s time you took over the proper duties of quaestor and let poor Gaius Trebatius do something more suited to his inclinations, if not his talents. Don’t you agree?” he asked Trebonius and Decimus Brutus.
They nodded, grinning.
“I piss on the proper duties of quaestor!” growled Antony, flexing the muscles in his thighs, a sight which would have had most of feminine Rome swooning, but was quite wasted on his present audience.
“It’s necessary to know something about money, Antonius,” said Caesar. “I realize you think it’s liquid enough to pour like water, witness your colossal debts, but it’s also a substance of great usefulness to a would-be consul and commander of armies.”
“You’re avoiding my point,” said Antony shrewdly, tempering insolence with a winning smile. “You’ve just outlaid one hundred talents to the men of two of your eleven legions, and given every last one of them a slave he could sell for a thousand more sesterces. Not that many of them will this side of high spring, as you made sure they got the juiciest, youngest women.” He rolled over on his couch and began flexing the muscles in his massive calves. “What I really want to know is, are you going to limit your sudden generosity to a mere two of your eleven legions?”
“That would be imprudent,” said Caesar gravely. “I intend to campaign throughout the autumn and winter, taking two legions at a time. But always different legions.”
“Clever!” Antony reached out to pick up his goblet, and drank deeply.
“My dear Antonius, don’t oblige me to remove wine from the winter menu,” said Caesar. “If you can’t drink in moderation, I’ll require abstinence. I suggest you water it.”
“One of the many things I don’t understand about you,” said Antony, frowning, “is why you have this tic about one of the best gifts the Gods have ever given men. Wine’s a panacea.”
“It is not a panacea. Nor do I deem it a gift,” Caesar said. “I’d rather call it a curse. Straight out of Pandora’s box. Even taken sparingly, it blunts the sword of one’s thoughts just enough to prevent splitting a hair.”
Antony roared with laughter. “So that’s the answer, Caesar! You’re nothing but a hairsplitter!”
*
Eighteen days after his return to Bibracte, Caesar was off again, this time to reduce the Carnutes. Trebonius and Decimus Brutus went with him; Antony, much to his displeasure, was left to mind the shop. Quintus Cicero brought the Seventh from winter quarters in Cabillonum, but Publius Sulpicius sent the Fourteenth from Matisco, as Caesar didn’t require his services.
“I came myself,” said Quintus Cicero, “because my brother has just written to ask me to accompany him to Cilicia in April.”
“You don’t look happy at the prospect, Quintus,” said Caesar gently. “I’ll miss you.”
“And I you. I’ve had the three best years of my life here with you in Gaul.”
“I like to hear that, because they haven’t been easy.”
“No, never easy. Maybe that’s why they’ve been so good. I—I--I appreciate your trust in me, Caesar. There have been times when I deserved a roaring-out, like that business with the Sugambri, but you’ve never roared me out. Or made me feel inadequate.”
“My dear Quintus,” said Caesar with his warmest smile, “why should I have roared you out? You’ve been a wonderful legate, and I wish you were staying until the end.” The smile faded, the eyes looked suddenly into the distance. “Whatever the end may be.”
Puzzled, Quintus Cicero looked at him, but the face bore no expression whatsoever. Naturally Cicero’s letter had recounted events in Rome in great detail, but Quintus didn’t have the truly intimate knowledge of Caesar possessed by Trebonius or Decimus Brutus. Nor had he been in Bibracte when the General rewarded the men of the Thirteenth and Fifteenth.
Thus when Caesar set out for Cenabum, Quintus Cicero, heavy-hearted, set out for Rome and a legateship he knew perfectly well would be neither as happy nor as profitable as working with Caesar. Under big brother’s thumb again! Preached at, deprecated. There were times when families were a painful nuisance. Oh, yes…
It was now the end of February, and winter was approaching. Cenabum was still a blackened ruin, but there were no insurgents in the area to contest Caesar’s use of the oppidum. He pitched camp very comfortably against its walls, put some of his soldiers into any houses still standing, and had the rest thatch the roofs and sod the walls of their tents for maximum warmth.
His first order of business was to ride to Carnutum and see Cathbad, the Chief Druid.
Who looked, thought Caesar, very much older and more careworn than he had those many years ago: the bright golden hair had gone to a drabber shade of grey-and-gold, the blue eyes were exhausted.
“It was foolish to oppose me, Cathbad,” the conqueror said.
Oh, he did look every inch the conqueror! Was there nothing could wipe away that incredible air of confidence, that vigorous and forthright crispness which oozed out of the man? Haloed his head, limned his body? Why did the Tuatha send Caesar to contest with us? Why him, when Rome has so many bumbling incompetents?
“I had no choice” was what Cathbad said. He lifted his chin proudly. “I assume you’re here to take me captive, that I am to walk with the others in your triumphal parade.”
Caesar smiled. “Cathbad, Cathbad! Do you take me for a fool? It’s one thing to take warrior prisoners of war or end the activities of rebellious kings. But to victimize a country’s priests is absolute insanity. You will note, I hope, that no Druid has been apprehended, nor prevented from going about his work of healing or counseling. That’s my firm policy, and all my legates know it.”
“Why did the Tuatha send you?”
“I imagine they entered into a pact with Jupiter Optimus Maximus. The world of the Gods has its laws and accommodations, just as our world does. Evidently the Tuatha felt that the forces connecting them to the Gauls were diminishing in some mysterious way. Not from lack of Gallic enthusiasm or want of religious observance. Just that nothing remains the same, Cathbad. The earth shifts, people change, times come and go. As do the Gods of all peoples. Perhaps the Tuatha are sickened by human votive sacrifices, just as other Gods became sickened. I do not believe that Gods remain static either, Cathbad.”
“It’s interesting that a man so welded to the political and practical attitudes of his country can also be so truly religious.”
“I believe in our Gods with all my mind.”
“But what about your soul?”
“We Romans don’t believe in souls as you Druids do. All that outlasts the body is a mindless shade. Death is a sleep,” said Caesar.
“Then you should fear it more than those who believe we live on after it.”
“I think we fear it less.” The pale blue eyes blazed suddenly with, pain, grief, passion. “Why should any man or woman want more of this?” Caesar demanded. “It is a vale of tears, a terrible trial of strength. For every inch we gain, we fall back a mile. Life is there to be conquered, Cathbad, but the price! The price! No one will ever defeat me. I will not let them. I believe in myself, and I have set a pattern for myself.”
“Then where is the vale of tears?” asked Cathbad.
“In the methods. In human obstinacy. In lack of foresight. In failing to see the best way, the graceful way. For seven long years I have tried to make your people understand that they cannot win. That for the future well-being of this land, they must submit. And what do they do? Fling themselves into my flame like moths into a lamp. Force me to kill more of them, enslave more of them, destroy more houses, villages, towns. I would far rather pursue a softer, more clement policy, but they will not let me.”
“The answer is easy, Caesar. They won’t give in, so you must. You have brought Gaul a consciousness of its identity, of its might and power. And having brought it, nothing can take it away. We Druids will sing of Vercingetorix for ten thousand years.”
“They must give in, Cathbad! I cannot. That’s why I’ve come to see you, to ask that you tell them to give in. Otherwise you leave me no choice. I’ll have to do to every inch of Gaul what I’ve just done to the Bituriges. But that’s not what I want to do. There won’t be anyone left save Druids. What kind of fate is that?”
“I won’t tell them to submit,” said Cathbad.
“Then I’ll start here at Carnutum. In no other place have I left the treasures untouched. Yet here they have been sacrosanct. Defy me, and I’ll loot Carnutum. No Druid or his wife or his children will be touched. But Carnutum will lose those great piles of offerings accumulated over the centuries.”
“Then go ahead. Loot Carnutum.”
Caesar sighed, and meant the sigh. “The remembrance of cruelty is scant comfort in one’s old age, but what I am forced to do, I will do.”
Cathbad laughed joyously. “Oh, rubbish! Caesar, you must know how much all the Gods love you! Why torment yourself with thoughts you, of all men, understand have no validity? You won’t live to be old, the Gods would never permit it. They’ll take you in your prime. I have seen it.”
His breath caught; Caesar laughed too. “For that I thank you! Carnutum is safe.” He began to walk away, but said over his shoulder, still laughing, “Gaul, however, is not!”
*
All through the early days of a very hard and bitter winter Caesar drove the Carnutes from pillar to post. More of them died frozen in their fields than at the hands of the Seventh and the Fourteenth, for they had no shelter left, no homes, no havens. And a new attitude began to creep into Gallic behavior; where a year before the people of neighboring tribes would gladly have taken the refugees in and succored them, now they shut their doors and pretended no one cried for help. Attrition was beginning to work. Fear was conquering defiance.
At the midpoint of April, with winter at its worst, Caesar left the Seventh and Fourteenth in Cenabum with Gaius Trebonius, and set off to see what was the matter with the Remi.
“The Bellovaci,” said Dorix simply. “Correus kept his men at home instead of going to the muster at Carnutum, and the two thousand he sent with Commius and his four thousand Atrebates came back from Alesia unscathed. Now Correus and Commius have allied themselves with Ambiorix, who has returned from across the great river. They’ve been scouring all the peatlands of Belgica for men—Nervii, Eburones, Menapii, Atuatuci, Condrusi—and further south and west too—the Aulerci, Ambiani, Morini, Veromandui, Caletes, Veliocasses. Some of these peoples did not go to Carnutum; some survived intact by running quickly. A great many men are gathering, I hear.”
“Have you been attacked?” asked Caesar.
“Not as yet. But I expect it.”
“Then I’d better move before you are. You’ve always honored your treaties with us, Dorix. Now it behooves me to act.”
“I should warn you, Caesar, that the Sugambri aren’t happy at developments between you and the Ubii. The Ubii are waxing fat supplying you with horse warriors, and the Sugambri resent it. All the Germani, they say, should be so favored, not just the Ubii.”
“Which means the Sugambri are crossing the Rhenus to help Correus and Commius.”
“So I hear. Commius and Ambiorix are very active.”
This time Caesar called the Eleventh out of winter camp at Agedincum, and sent to Labienus for the Eighth and Ninth. Gaius Fabius was given the Twelfth and the Sixth and sent to garrison Suessionum on the Matroma River, dividing the lands of the Remi from those of the Suessiones. The scouts came in to report that Belgica was boiling, so the legions were shuffled round again: the Seventh was sent to Caesar, the Thirteenth was shifted to the Bituriges under Titus Sextius, and Trebonius inherited the Fifth Alauda to replace the Seventh at Cenabum.
But when Caesar and his four legions entered the lands of the Bellovaci they found them deserted; serfs, women and children were attending to affairs at home while the warriors congregated. On, the scouts reported, the only piece of elevated and dry ground in the midst of a marshy forest to the northwest.
“We’ll do something a little different,” said Caesar to Decimus Brutus. “Instead of marching one behind the other, we’ll put the Seventh, Eighth and Ninth in columns—agmen quadratum—on a very broad front. That way the enemy will see our total strength immediately, and presume we’re ready to wheel into full battle formation. The baggage will follow straight behind, and then we’ll tuck the Eleventh into the rear of the baggage train. They’ll never see it.”
“We’ll look as if we’re frightened. And only three legions strong. Good thinking.”
Sight of the enemy was a shock; there were thousands and thousands of them milling about that only piece of high, dry ground.
“More than I expected,” said Caesar, and sent for Trebonius, who was to pick up Titus Sextius and the Thirteenth on his way.
There were feints and skirmishes while Caesar put his men into a very strong camp. Correus, in command, would draw up for battle, then change his mind. This despite the fact that it had been agreed he should attack while Caesar was possessed of no more than three legions.
The cavalry Caesar had sent for from the Remi and Lingones arrived ahead of Trebonius, led by Dorix’s uncle Vertiscus, a doughty old warrior eager for a fight. Because the Bellovaci had not followed Vercingetorix’s scorched-earth policy, there was plenty of forage and grain to be had; as the campaign looked as if it might last longer than earlier expected, Caesar was anxious to acquire whatever extra supplies he could. Though Correus’s army refused to leave their high ground and attack in force, they proved a great nuisance to the foragers until the Remi came. After that it was easier. But Vertiscus was too eager for his fight. Despising the size of the Belgic group sent to harry the foraging party they were escorting, the Remi took off in pursuit and were led into an ambush. Vertiscus died, much to the delight of the Belgae; Correus decided it was time for a mass attack.
At which precise moment Trebonius marched up with the Fifth Alauda, the Fourteenth and the Thirteenth. There were now seven legions and several thousand horse troopers ringing the Belgae around, and the site which had seemed so perfect for attack or defense suddenly became a trap. Caesar built ramps across the marshes which divided the two camps, then took a ridge behind the Belgic camp and began using his artillery with devastating effect.
“Oh, Correus, you missed your chance!” cried Commius when he arrived. “What use are five hundred Sugambri now? And what do you expect me to tell Ambiorix, who’s still recruiting?”
“I don’t understand!” wept Correus, wringing his hands. “How did all those extra legions get here so quickly? I had no warning, and I should have had warning!”
“There is never warning,” said Commius grimly. “You’ve held aloof until now, Correus, that’s your trouble. You haven’t seen the Romans at work. They move by what they call forced marches—they can cover fifty miles in a day. Then the moment they arrive they’ll turn around and fight like wild dogs.”
“What do we do now? How can we get out?”
That, Commius knew. He had the Belgae collect all the tinder, straw and dry brush they could find, and stockpile it. The camp was chaotic, everyone scrambling to be ready for the escape, women and hundreds of ox carts compounding the Roman-trained Commius’s woes.
Correus brought all his men out in battle formation and sat them on the ground, as was their custom. The day passed; no move was made save surreptitiously to pile the wood, straw, tinder and brush in front of the lines. Then at dusk it was set on fire from end to end; the Belgae seized their chance and fled.
But the great chance had been lost. Caught while attempting an ambuscade, Correus found the steel and courage he had lacked when his position had been much better; refusing to retreat, he and the flower of his men perished. While the Belgae sued for peace, Commius crossed the Rhenus to the Sugambri and Ambiorix.
*
By now the winter was ending; Gaul lay quiet. Caesar went back to Bibracte, sending thanks and donatives of cash and women to all the legions, who found themselves, by legionary terms, very rich. A letter awaited him, from Gaius Scribonius Curio.
A brilliant idea, Caesar, to issue a collected edition of your Commentaries on the war in Gaul and make it available to all and sundry. All and sundry are devouring it, and the boni—not to mention the Senate—are livid. It is not the place, roared Cato, of a proconsul conducting a war he says was forced upon him to puff his exalted name and exaggerated deeds throughout the city. No one takes any notice. Copies go so fast there is a waiting list. Little wonder. Your Commentaries are as thrilling as Homer’s Iliad, with the advantage of being actual, of happening in our own time.
You know, naturally, that Marcus Marcellus the junior consul is being thoroughly odious. Almost everyone applauded when your tribunes of the plebs vetoed his discussing your provinces in the House on the Kalends of March. You have some good men on the tribunician bench this year.
It appalled me when Marcellus went a lot further in announcing that the people of the colony you set up at Novum Comum are not Roman citizens. He maintained you have no power in law to do so— yet Pompeius Magnus has! Talk about one law for this man and another law for that man—Marcellus has perfected the art. But for the House to decree that the people living on the far side of the Padus in Italian Gaul are not citizens and never will be citizens—that’s suicide. Despite the tribunician veto, Marcellus went ahead and had the decree inscribed on bronze. Then hung it publicly on the rostra.
What you probably do not know is that the result of all this is a huge shiver of fear from the Alps at the top of Italian Gaul to the toe and heel of Italia. People are very apprehensive, Caesar. In every town in Italian Gaul it’s being said that they, who have given Rome so many thousands of her best soldiers, are being informed by the Senate that they are not good enough. Those living south of the Padus fear their citizenship will be stripped from them, and those living north of the Padus fear they will never, never, never be awarded the citizenship. The feeling is everywhere, Caesar. In Campania I’ve heard hundreds of people saying that they need Caesar back in Italia—that Caesar is the most indefatigable champion of the common people Italia has ever known—that Caesar wouldn’t stand for these senatorial insults and gross injustices. It’s spreading, this apprehension, but can I or anyone else get it through those blockheads in the camp of the boni that they’re playing with fire? No.
Meantime that complacent idiot Pompeius sits like a toad in a cesspool, ignoring it all. He’s happy. The frozen-faced harpy Cornelia Metella has her talons so deeply embedded in his insensitive hide that he nods, twitches, heaves and wallows every time she gives him a nudge. And by nudge I do not mean anything naughty. I doubt they’ve ever slept in the same bed. Or had one up against the atrium wall.
So why am I writing to you when I’ve never really been your friend? Several reasons, and I’ll be honest about them all. First is that I’m sick to death of the boni. I used to think that any group of men with the interests of the mos maiorum so much at heart had to have right on their side, even when they made appalling political errors. But of late years I’ve seen through them, I suppose. They prate of things they know nothing about, and that is the truth. It’s a mere disguise for their own negativity, for their own utter lack of gumption. If Rome began to crumble around them physically, they’d simply stand there and call it a part of the mos maiorum to be squashed flat by a pillar.
Second is that I abominate Cato and Bibulus. Two more hypocritical couch generals I’ve never encountered. They dissect your Commentaries in the most expert way, though neither of them could general a bun fight in a whorehouse. You could have done this better, and that more expeditiously, and whatever more diplomatically. Nor do I understand the blindness of their hatred for you. What did you ever do to them? As far as I can see, merely made them look as small as they really are.
Third is that you were good to Publius Clodius when you were consul. His destruction was his own doing. I daresay that Claudian streak of unorthodoxy in Clodius became a form of insanity. He had no idea when to stop. It’s well over a year since he died, but I still miss him. Even though we’d fallen out a bit at the end.
Fourth is very personal, though it’s all tied in with the first three reasons. I’m shockingly in debt, and I can’t extricate myself. When my father died last year, I thought everything would right itself. But he left me nothing. I don’t know where the money went, but it certainly wasn’t there after he finished suffering. The house is all I inherited, and it’s mortgaged heavily. The moneylenders are dunning me unmercifully, and the estimable house of finance which holds the house mortgage is threatening to foreclose.
Added to which, I want to marry Fulvia. Well, there you are! I hear you say. Publius Clodius’s widow is one of the wealthiest women in Rome, and when her mother dies—it can’t be long now— she’ll be a lot richer. But I can’t do that, Caesar. I can’t love a woman the way I’ve loved her for years and years, and marry her, up to my eyebrows in debt. The thing is, I never thought she’d look at me, yet the other day she threw me a hint so broad it flattened me. I’m dying to marry Fulvia, but I can’t marry Fulvia. Not until I’ve paid my way and can look her in the eye.
So here’s my proposal. The way things are going in Rome, you’re going to need the most capable and brilliant tribune of the plebs Rome has ever produced. Because they’re slavering at the very thought of the Kalends of March next year, when your provinces come up for discussion in the House. Rumor has it that the boni will move to strip you of them immediately, and, thanks to the five-year law, they’ll send Ahenobarbus to replace you. He never took a province after his consulship because he was too rich and too lazy to bother. But he’d walk upside down to Placentia for the chance to replace you.
If you pay my debts, Caesar, I give you my solemn word as a Scribonius Curio that I will be the most capable and brilliant tribune of the plebs Rome has ever produced. And always act in your interests. I’ll undertake to keep the boni at bay until I go out of office, and that’s not a hollow promise. I need at least five million.
For a long while after reading Curio’s letter Caesar sat without moving. His luck was with him, and what marvelous luck. Curio as his tribune of the plebs, bought and paid for. A man of great honor, though that wasn’t really a consideration. One of the most stringent rules of Roman political behavior was the code governing those who accepted bribes. Once a man was bought, he stayed bought. For the disgrace was not in being bought, but in not staying bought. A man who accepted a bribe, then reneged on the bargain, was a social outcast from that day forward. The luck lay in being offered a tribune of the plebs of Curio’s caliber. Whether he would prove quite as good as he thought was beside the point; if he was half as good as he thought, he’d still be a pearl beyond price.
Caesar turned in his chair to sit straight at his desk, picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote.
My dear Curio, I am overcome. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be permitted to assist you out of your financial predicament. Please believe me when I say that I do not require any services from you in return for the privilege of helping you in this matter. The decision is absolutely yours.
However, if you would like the opportunity to shine as Rome’s most capable and brilliant tribune of the plebs, then I would be honored to think you exerted yourself in my interests. As you say, I wear the boni around my neck like Medusa’s snakes. Nor do I have any idea why they have fixed on me as their target for almost as many years as I have been in the Senate. The why is not important. What matters is the fact that I am indeed their target.
However, if we are to succeed in blocking the boni when the Kalends of next March arrive, I think our little pact must remain our secret. Nor should you announce that you will stand for the tribunate of the plebs. Why don’t you find some needy fellow—not in the Senate—who would be willing to announce himself as a candidate, but be prepared to step down at the very last moment? For a nice fat fee, of course. I leave that to you. Just apply to Balbus for the wherewithal. When the needy fellow steps down just as the elections are about to begin, stroll forward and offer yourself as his replacement candidate. As if the impulse came upon you. This renders you innocent of any suspicion that you might be acting in someone’s interests.
Even when you enter office as a tribune of the plebs, Curio, you will appear to be acting for yourself. If you want a list of useful laws, I would be happy to furnish it, though I imagine you’ll have no trouble thinking of a few laws to pass without my guidance. When you introduce your veto on the Kalends of March to block discussion of my provinces, it will fall on the boni like a scorpion bolt.
I leave it to you to devise a strategy. There’s nothing worse than a man who doesn’t give his colleagues sufficient rope. If you need to talk a strategy over, I am your servant. Just rest assured that I do not expect it.
Though be warned that the boni are not yet come to the end of their ammunition. Before you step into office, I predict that they will have thought of several more ways to make your task more difficult. And possibly more perilous. One of the marks of the truly great tribune of the plebs is martyrdom. I like you, Curio, and don’t want to see the Forum knives flash in your direction. Or see you pitched off the end of the Tarpeian Rock.
Would ten million make you a completely free man? If it would, then you shall have ten million. I’ll be writing to Balbus in the same bag, so you may talk to him at any time after you receive this. Despite what is seen as a tendency to gossip, he is the soul of discretion; what Balbus chooses to disseminate has been very carefully worked out beforehand.
I congratulate you on your choice of a wife. Fulvia is an interesting woman, and interesting women are rare. She believes with a true passion, and will cleave to you and your aspirations absolutely. But you know that better than I. Please give her my best regards, and tell her I look forward to seeing her when I return to Rome.
There. Ten million well spent. But when was he going to be able to return to Italian Gaul? It was June, and the prospect of being able to leave Further Gaul grew, if anything, more remote. The Belgae were probably now completely finished, but Ambiorix and Commius were still at liberty. Therefore the Belgae would have to be drubbed once more. The tribes of central Gaul were definitely finished; the Arverni and the Aedui, let off lightly, would not be listening to any Vercingetorix or Litaviccus again. As the name Litaviccus popped into his mind, Caesar shuddered; a hundred years of exposure to Rome hadn’t killed the Gaul in Litaviccus. Was that equally true of every Gaul? Wisdom said that continued rule by fear and terror would benefit neither Rome nor Gaul. But how to get the Gauls to the point whereat they could see for themselves where their destiny lay? Fear and terror now, so that when it lightened they were grateful? Fear and terror now, so that they always had it to remember, even when it no longer existed? War was a passionate business to peoples other than the Roman people; those others went into war boiling with righteous anger, thirsting to kill their enemies. But that kind of emotion was difficult to sustain at the necessary fever pitch. When all was said and done, any people wanted to live at peace, pursue an ordinary and pleasant life, watch their children grow, eat plenty, be warm in winter. Only Rome had turned war into a business. That was why Rome always won in the end. Because, though Roman soldiers learned to hate their enemies healthily, they approached war with cool business heads. Thoroughly trained, absolutely pragmatic, fully confident. They understood the difference between losing a battle and losing a war. They also understood that battles were won before the first pilum was thrown; battles were won on the drill field and in the training camp. Discipline, restraint, thought, valor. Pride in professional excellence. No other people owned that attitude to war. And no other Roman army owned that attitude more professionally than Caesar’s.
*
At the beginning of Quinctilis came very disturbing news from Rome. Caesar was still in Bibracte with Antony and the Twelfth, though he had already issued orders to Labienus to reduce the Treveri. He himself was about to depart for Ambiorix’s lands in Belgica; the Eburones, Atrebates and Bellovaci had to be shown for once and for all that resistance was useless.
Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the junior consul, had publicly flogged a citizen of Caesar’s colony at Novum Comum. Not with his own white hands, of course; the deed was done at his order. And the damage was irreparable. No Roman citizen could be flogged. He might be chastised by being beaten with the rods which made up a lictor’s fasces, but his back was inviolate, legally protected from the touch of a knouted lash. Now Marcus Marcellus was saying to the whole of Italian Gaul and Italia that many people who deemed themselves citizens were not citizens. They could and would be flogged.
“I won’t have it!” said Caesar to Antony, Decimus Brutus and Trebonius, white with anger. “The people of Novum Comum are Roman citizens! They are my clients, and I owe them my protection.”
“It’s going to happen more and more,” said Decimus Brutus, looking grim. “All the Claudii Marcelli are cast from the same mold, and there are three of them of an age to be consul. Rumor says each of them will be consul—Marcus this year, his first cousin Gaius next year, and his brother Gaius the year after that. The boni are running rampant; they’re dominating the elections so completely that one can’t foresee two Popularis consuls getting into office until you’re consul, Caesar. And even then, will you be saddled with another Bibulus? Or—ye Gods!—Bibulus himself?”
Still so angry that he couldn’t laugh, Caesar thinned his lips to a straight line and glared. “I will not suffer Bibulus as my colleague, and that’s that! I’ll have a man I want, and I’ll get a man I want, no matter what they try to do to prevent it. But that doesn’t alter what’s happening right now in Italian Gaul—my province, Decimus! How dare Marcus Marcellus invade my jurisdiction to flog my people?”
“You don’t have a full imperium maius,” said Trebonius.
“Oh well, they only give that kind of imperium to Pompeius!” snapped Caesar.
“What can you do?” asked Antony.
“Quite a lot,” said Caesar. “I’ve sent to Labienus and asked to detach the Fifteenth and Publius Vatinius. Labienus can have the Sixth instead.”
Trebonius sat up. “The Fifteenth is well blooded by now,” he said, “but its men have only been in the field for a year. And, as I remember, all of them come from across the Padus. Many of them come from Novum Comum.”
“Exactly,” said Caesar.
“And Publius Vatinius,” said Decimus Brutus thoughtfully, “is your loyalest adherent.”
From somewhere Caesar found a smile. “I hope no loyaler than you or Trebonius, Decimus.”
“What about me?” demanded Antony indignantly.
“You’re family, so pipe down,” said Trebonius, grinning.
“You’re going to send the Fifteenth and Publius Vatinius to garrison Italian Gaul,” said Decimus Brutus.
“I am.”
“I know there’s nothing legal to stop you, Caesar,” said Trebonius, “but won’t Marcus Marcellus and the Senate take that as a declaration of war? I don’t mean genuine war, I mean the kind of war which takes place between minds.”
“I have a valid excuse,” said Caesar, some of his usual calm returning. “Last year the Iapudes raided into Tergeste and threatened coastal Illyricum. The local militia put them down; it wasn’t serious. I will send Publius Vatinius and the Fifteenth to Italian Gaul to, and I quote, ‘protect the Roman citizen colonies across the Padus River from barbarian invasion.’ ”
“The only barbarian in sight being Marcus Marcellus,” said Antony, delighted.
“I think he’ll interpret the wording correctly, Antonius.”
“What orders will you issue Vatinius?” asked Trebonius.
“To act in my name throughout Italian Gaul and Illyricum. To prevent Roman citizens’ being flogged. To conduct the assizes. To govern Italian Gaul for me in the way I would myself were I there,” said Caesar.
“And where will you put the Fifteenth?” asked Decimus Brutus. “Close to Illyricum? In Aquileia, perhaps?”
“Oh, no,” said Caesar. “In Placentia.”
“A stone’s throw from Novum Comum.”
“Quite.”
“What I want to know,” said Antony, “is what does Pompeius think of the flogging? After all, he established citizen colonies across the Padus in Italian Gaul too. Marcus Marcellus imperils his citizens as much as he does yours.”
Caesar lifted his lip. “Pompeius said and did absolutely nothing. He’s in Tarentum. Private business, I understand. But he’s promised to attend a meeting of the Senate outside the pomerium later in the month, when he drifts through. The pretext of the meeting is to discuss army pay.”
“That’s a joke!” said Decimus Brutus. “The army hasn’t had a pay rise in a hundred years, literally.”
“True. I’ve been thinking about that,” said Caesar.
*
Attrition continued; the Belgae were invaded yet again, their homes burned, their sprouting crops raked out of the ground or ploughed under, their animals killed, their women and children rendered homeless. Tribes like the Nervii, who had been able to field fifty thousand men in the early years of Caesar’s campaign in Gaul, were now hard put to field one thousand. The best of the women and children had been sold into slavery; Belgica had become a land of old people, Druids, cripples and mental defectives. At the end of it Caesar could be sure that no one was left to tempt Ambiorix or Commius, and that their own tribes, such as they were, were too afraid of Rome to want anything to do with their former kings. Ambiorix, elusive as ever, was never found or captured. And Commius had gone east to help the Treveri against Labienus, quite as thorough in his campaign as Caesar was.
Gaius Fabius was sent with two legions to reinforce Rebilus and his two legions among the Pictones and the Andes, two tribes who had not suffered disastrously at Alesia, nor been in the forefront of resistance to Rome. But it seemed as if, one by one, all the peoples of Gaul determined on a dying gasp, perhaps thinking that Caesar’s army, after so many years of war, must surely be exhausted and losing interest. That it was not was manifest once again: twelve thousand Andeans died in one battle at a bridge over the Liger, others in more minor engagements.
Which meant that slowly, surely, the area of Gaul still capable of fighting back was shrinking steadily southward and westward, into Aquitania. Where Lucterius was joined by Drappes of the Senones after his own people refused to shelter him.
Of all the great enemy leaders, few were left. Gutruatus of the Carnutes was turned over to Caesar by his own people, too terrified of Roman reprisals to succor him. Because he had murdered Roman citizen civilians at Cenabum, his fate was not entirely in Caesar’s hands; a representative council from the army was also involved. Despite all Caesar’s arguments that Gutruatus should live to walk in his triumphal parade, the army got its way. Gutruatus was flogged and beheaded.
Shortly after this, Commius encountered Gaius Volusenus Quadratus for the second time. While Caesar went south with the cavalry, Mark Antony was left in command of Belgica; he finished the Bellovaci completely, then went into camp at Nemetocenna in the lands of the Atrebates, Commius’s own people. Who were so afraid of further Roman attrition that they refused to have anything to do with Commius. Having met up with a band of like-minded German Sugambri, he sought refuge in brigandage and wreaked havoc among the Nervii, in no condition to resist. When Antony received a plea for help from the ever-loyal Vertico, he sent Volusenus and a very large troop of cavalry to Vertico’s assistance.
Time had not diminished Volusenus’s hatred of Commius one little bit. Aware who was commanding the brigands, Volusenus set to work with enthusiastic savagery. Working systematically, he drove Commius and his Sugambri in the manner of a shepherd his sheep until finally they met. There ensued a hate-filled duel between the two men, who charged at each other with lances leveled. Commius won. Volusenus went down with Commius’s lance right through the middle of his thigh; the femur was in splinters, the flesh mangled, the nerves and blood vessels severed. Most of Commius’s men were killed, but Commius, on the fleetest horse, got clean away while attention was focused on the critically wounded Volusenus.
Who was conveyed to Nemetocenna. Roman army surgeons were good; the leg was amputated above the wound, and Volusenus lived.
Commius sent an envoy with a letter to see Mark Antony.
Marcus Antonius, I now believe that Caesar had nothing to do with the treachery of that wolf’s-head Volusenus. But I have taken a vow never again to come into the presence of a Roman. The Tuatha have been good to me. They delivered my enemy to me, and I wounded him so badly he will lose his leg, if not his life. Honor is satisfied.
But I am very tired. My own people are so afraid of Rome that they will give me neither food nor water nor roof over my head. Brigandage is an ignoble profession for a king. I just want to be left in peace. As hostage for my good behavior I offer you my children, five boys and two girls, not all by the same mother, but all Atrebatans, and all young enough to turn into good little Romans.
I gave Caesar good service before Volusenus betrayed me. For that reason, I ask that you send me somewhere to live out the rest of my days without my needing to lift a sword again. Somewhere devoid of Romans.
The letter appealed to Antony, who had a rather antique way of looking at bravery, service, the true warrior code. In his mind Commius was a Hector and Volusenus a Paris. What good would it do Rome or Caesar to kill Commius and drag him behind the victor’s chariot? Nor did he think Caesar would feel differently. He sent a letter to Commius together with his envoy.
Commius, I accept your offer of hostages, for I deem you an honest and a wronged man. Your children will be drawn to the attention of Caesar himself. He will, I am sure, treat them as the children of a king.
I hereby sentence you to exile in Britannia. How you get there is your concern, though I enclose a passport you may present at Itius or Gesoriacus. Britannia is a place you know well from your days of service to Caesar. I presume you have more friends than enemies there.
So great is the length of Rome’s reach that I cannot think of anywhere else to send you. Rest assured you will see no Romans. Caesar detests the place. Vale.
The last gasp of all happened at Uxellodunum, an oppidum belonging to the Cardurci.
While Gaius Fabius marched off to finish reducing the Senones, Gaius Caninius Rebilus pushed on south toward Aquitania, knowing that reinforcements would soon arrive to swell his two legions; Fabius was to return the moment he was satisfied that the Senones were utterly cowed.
Though both Drappes and Lucterius had led contingents in the army which came to relieve Alesia, they had not learned the futility of withstanding siege. Hearing of the Andean defeat and Rebilus’s approach, they shut themselves up inside Uxellodunum, an extremely lofty fortress town atop a hill rucked inside a loop of the river Oltis. Unfortunately it contained no water, but it did have two sources of water nearby, one from the Oltis itself, the other a permanent spring which gushed out of rocks immediately below the highest section of wall.
Having only two legions, Rebilus when he arrived made no attempt to repeat Caesar’s tactics at Alesia; besides which, the Oltis, too strong to dam or divert, made circumvallation impossible. Rebilus contented himself with sitting down in three separate camps on ground high enough to ensure that a secret evacuation of the citadel could not succeed.
What Alesia had taught Drappes and Lucterius was that a mountainous supply of food was essential to withstand a siege. Both men knew that Uxellodunum could not be taken by storm no matter how brilliant Caesar was, for the crag on which the stronghold stood was surrounded by other rock faces too difficult for troops to scale. Nor would a siege terrace like the one at Avaricum work; Uxellodunum’s walls were so high and so perilous to approach that no feat of awesome Roman engineering could hope to surmount them. Once ensured adequate food, Uxellodunum could wait out a siege which lasted until Caesar’s tenure as governor of the Gauls expired.
Therefore food had to be found, and in enormous quantities. While Rebilus was making his camps, and well before he thought of additional fortifications, Lucterius and Drappes led two thousand men out of the citadel into the surrounding countryside. The Cardurci fell to with a will, gathering grain, salt pork, bacon, beans, chickpea, root vegetables and cages of chickens, ducks, geese. Cattle, pigs and sheep were rounded up. Unfortunately the chief crop the Cardurci grew was not an edible one; they were famous for their flax, and made the best linen outside of Egypt. Which necessitated incursions into the lands of the Petrocorii and other neighboring tribes. Who were not nearly as enthusiastic about donating food to Drappes and Lucterius as the Cardurci had been. What wasn’t given was taken, and when every mule and ox cart had been pressed into service, Drappes and Lucterius made for home.
While this foraging expedition was going on, those warriors left behind made life very difficult for Rebilus; night after night they attacked one or another of his three camps, so craftily that Rebilus despaired of being able to finish any fortifications designed to constrain Uxellodunum more thoroughly.
The huge food train returned and halted twelve miles short of Uxellodunum. There it camped under the command of Drappes, who was to stay with it and defend it against a Roman attack; then visitors from the citadel assured Drappes and Lucterius that the Romans were oblivious to its existence. The task of getting the food inside Uxellodunum devolved upon Lucterius, who knew the area intimately. No more carts, said Lucterius. The last miles would be on the backs of mules, and the final few hundred paces at dead of night as far as possible from any of the Roman camps.
There were many forest paths between the food train camp and the citadel; Lucterius led his contingent of mules as close as he dared and settled down to wait. Not until four hours after midnight did he move, and then with as much stealth as possible; the mules wore padded linen shoes over their hooves and were muzzled by men’s hands keeping their lips together. The degree of quietness was surprising, Lucterius confident. The sentries in the watchtowers of the nearest Roman camp—nearer, indeed, than Lucterius had wished—were bound to be dozing.
But Roman sentries in watchtowers didn’t doze on duty. The punishment was death by bludgeoning, and inspections of the Watch were as ruthless as unheralded.
Had there been wind or rain, Lucterius would have gotten away with it. But the night was so calm that the distant sound of the Oltis was clearly audible on this far side from it. So too were other, stranger noises clearly audible—clunks, scrapes, muffled whispers, swishes.
“Wake the General,” said the chief of the Watch to one of his men, “and be a lot quieter than whatever’s going on out there.”
Suspecting a surprise attack, Rebilus sent out scouts and mobilized with speed and silence. Just before dawn he pounced, so noiselessly that the food porters hardly knew what happened. Panicked, they chose to flee into Uxellodunum minus the mules; why Lucterius did not remained a mystery, for though he escaped into the surrounding forest, he made no attempt to get back to Drappes and tell him what had taken place.
Rebilus learned of the location of the food train from a captured Cardurcan and sent his Germans after it. The Ubii horsemen were now accompanied by Ubii foot warriors, a lethal combination. Behind them, marching swiftly, came one of Rebilus’s two legions. The contest was no contest. Drappes and his men were taken prisoner, and all the food so painstakingly gathered fell into Roman hands.
“And very glad I am of it!” said Rebilus the next day, shaking Fabius warmly by the hand. “There are two more legions to feed, yet we don’t have to forage for a thing.”
“Let’s begin the blockade,” said Fabius.
*
When news of Rebilus’s stroke of good luck reached Caesar, he decided to push ahead with his cavalry, leaving Quintus Fufius Calenus to bring up two legions at ordinary marching pace.
“For I don’t think,” said Caesar, “that Rebilus and Fabius stand in any danger. If you encounter any pockets of resistance on your way, Calenus, deal with them mercilessly. It’s time that Gaul put its head beneath the yoke for good and all.”
He arrived at Uxellodunum to find the siege fortifications progressing nicely, though his advent came as something of a surprise; neither Rebilus nor Fabius had thought to see him there in person, but they seized him eagerly.
“We’re neither of us engineers, and nor are the engineers with us worthy of the name,” said Fabius.
“You want to cut off their water,” said Caesar.
“I think we have to, Caesar. Otherwise we’re going to have to wait until starvation drives them out, and there’s every indication that they’re not short of food, despite Lucterius’s attempt to get more food inside.”
“I agree, Fabius.”
They were standing on a rocky outcrop with a full view of Uxellodunum’s water supply, the path down from the citadel to the river, and the spring. Rebilus and Fabius had already begun to deal with the path to the river, by posting archers where they could pick off the water carriers without being themselves picked off by archers or spearmen on the citadel walls.
“Not enough,” said Caesar. “Move up the ballistae and shell the path with two-pounders. Also scorpions.”
Which left Uxellodunum with the spring, a far more difficult task for the Romans; it lay just beneath the highest part of the citadel walls, and was accessed from a gate in the base of the walls immediately adjacent to the spring. Storming it was useless. The terrain was too rugged and the location such that it couldn’t be held by a cohort or two of troops, nor accommodate more.
“I think we’re stuck,” said Fabius, sighing.
Caesar grinned. “Nonsense! The first thing we do is build a ramp out of earth and stones from where we’re standing to that spot there, fifty paces from the spring. It’s all uphill, but it will give us a platform sixty feet higher than the ground we have at the moment. On the top of the ramp we build a siege tower ten storeys high. It will overlook the spring and enable the scorpions to shoot anyone trying to get water.”
“During daytime,” Rebilus said despondently. “They’ll just visit the spring at night. Besides, our men doing the building will be shockingly exposed.”
“That’s what mantlets are for, Rebilus, as you well know. The important thing,” Caesar said with a casual air, “is to make all this work look good. As if we mean it. That in turn means that the troops doing the work must believe I’m in earnest.” He paused, eyes on the spring, a noble cascade gushing out under pressure. “But,” he went on, “all of it is a smoke screen. I’ve seen many a spring of this kind before, especially in Anatolia. We mine it. It’s fed by a number of underground streams, from the size of it as many as ten or twelve. The sappers will begin to tunnel at once. Each feeder stream they encounter they’ll divert into the Oltis. How long the job will take I have no idea, but when every last feeder is diverted, the spring will dry up.”
Fabius and Rebilus stared at him, awestruck.
“Couldn’t we just mine it without the farce aboveground?”
“And have them realize what we’re actually doing? There’s silver and copper mining all through this part of Gaul, Rebilus. I imagine the citadel contains men skilled in mining. And I don’t want a repeat of what happened when we besieged the Atuatuci—mines and countermines twisting around each other and running into each other like the burrowings of a squadron of demented moles. The mining here must be absolutely secret. The only ones among our men who will know of it are the sappers. That’s why the ramp and the siege tower have to look like very serious trouble for the defenders. I don’t like losing men—and we’ll endeavor not to—but I want this business finished, and finished soon,” said Caesar.
So the ramp reared up the slope, then the siege tower began to rise. The startled and terrified inhabitants of Uxellodunum retaliated with spears, arrows, stones and fire missiles. When they finally realized the ultimate height of the tower, they came out of their gate and attacked in force. The fighting was fierce, for the Roman troops genuinely believed in the efficacy of what they were doing and defended their position strenuously. Soon the tower was on fire, and the mantlets and protective fortifications on either side of the ramp under severe threat.
Because the front was so limited in extent, most of the Roman soldiers were uninvolved in the battle; they crowded as close as possible and cheered their comrades on, while the Cardurci inside the citadel lined its ramparts and cheered too. At the height of it Caesar hunted his spectator troops away, under orders to go elsewhere around the stronghold’s perimeter and create a huge noise, as if a full-scale attack were being mounted on all sides.
The ruse worked. The Cardurci retired to deal with this new threat, which gave the Romans time to put the fires out.
The ten-storey siege tower began to rise again, but it was never used; beneath the ground the mines had been creeping forward inexorably, and one by one the streams feeding the spring were diverted. At about the same moment as the tower might have been manned with artillery and put into commission, the magnificent spring giving Uxellodunum water dried up for the first time ever.
It came as a bolt out of the clear sky, and something vital within the defenders died. For the message was implicit: the Tuatha had bowed down before the might of Rome, the Tuatha had deserted Gaul for love of Caesar. What was the use of fighting on, when even the Tuatha smiled on Caesar and the Romans?
Uxellodunum surrendered.
*
The next morning Caesar called a council consisting of all the legates, prefects, military tribunes and centurions present to participate in Gaul’s last gasp. Including Aulus Hirtius, who had traveled with the two legions Quintus Fufius Calenus brought after the assault on the spring began.
“I’ll be brief,” he said, seated on his curule chair in full military dress, the ivory rod of his imperium lying up his right forearm. Perhaps it was the light in the citadel’s meeting hall, for it poured in through a great unshuttered aperture behind the five hundred assembled men and fell directly upon Caesar’s face. He was not yet fifty, but his long neck was deeply ringed with creases, though no sagging skin marred the purity of his jaw. Lines crossed his forehead, fanned out at the far edges of his eyes, carved fissures down either side of his nose, emphasized the high, sharply defined cheekbones by cleaving the skin of his face below them. On campaign he bothered not at all about his thinning hair, but today he had donned his Civic Crown of oak leaves because he wanted to set a mood of unassailable authority; when he entered a room wearing it, every person had to stand and applaud him—even Bibulus and Cato. Because of it he had entered the Senate at twenty years of age; because of it every soldier who ever served under him knew that Caesar had fought in the front line with sword and shield, though the men of his Gallic legions had seen him in the front line fighting with them on many occasions, didn’t need to be reminded.
He looked desperately tired, but no man there mistook these signs for physical weariness; he was a superbly fit and enormously strong man. No, he was suffering a mental and emotional exhaustion; they all realized it. And wondered at it.
“It is the end of September. Summer is with us,” he said in a clipped, terse accent which stripped the cadences in his exquisitely chosen Latin of any poetic intention, “and if this were two or three years ago, one would say that the war in Gaul was over at last. But all of us who sit here today know better. When will the people of Gallia Comata admit defeat? When will they settle down under the light hand of Roman supervision and admit that they are safe, protected, united as never before? Gaul is a bull whose eyes have been put out, but not its anger. It charges blindly time and time again, ruining itself on walls, rocks, trees. Growing steadily weaker, yet never growing calmer. Until in the end it must die, still dashing itself to pieces.”
The room was utterly still; no one moved, even cleared his throat. Whatever was coming was going to matter.
“How can we calm this bull? How can we persuade it to be still, to let us apply the ointments and heal it?”
The tone of his voice changed, became more somber. “None of you, including the most junior centurion, is unaware of the terrible difficulties I face in Rome. The Senate is after my blood, my bones, my spirit… and my dignitas, my personal share of public worth and standing. Which is also your dignitas, because you are my people. The sinews of my beloved army. When I fall, you fall. When I am disgraced, you are disgraced. That is an omnipresent threat, but it is not why I am speaking. A by-product, no more. I mention it to reinforce what I am about to say.”
He drew a breath. “I will not see my command extended. On the Kalends of March in the year after next, it will end. It may be that on the Kalends of March next year, it will end, though I will exert every ounce of myself to prevent that. I need next year to do the administrative work necessary to transform Gallia Comata into a proper Roman province. Therefore this year must see this futile, pointless, wasteful war finished for good. It gives me no pleasure to witness the battlefields after the battles are over, for there are Roman bodies lying on them too. And so many, many Gauls, Belgae and Celtae both. Dead for no good reason beyond a dream they have neither the education nor the foresight to make come true. As Vercingetorix would have found out had he been the one to win.”
He got to his feet and stood with hands clasped behind his back, frowning. “I want to see the war ended this year. Not a merely temporary cessation of hostilities, but a genuine peace. A peace which will last for longer than any man in this room will live, or his children after him, or their children after them. If that doesn’t happen, the Germani will conquer, and the history of Gaul will be different history. As will the history of our beloved Italia, for the Germani will not rest with the conquest of Gaul. The last time they came, Rome threw up Gaius Marius. I believe Rome has thrown up me at this time and in this place to make sure the Germani never come again. Gallia Comata is the natural frontier, not the Alps. We must keep the Germani on the far side of the Rhenus if our world, including the world of Gaul, is to prosper.”
He paced a little, came to stand in the center of his space again, and looked at them from beneath his fair brows. A long, measured, immensely serious stare.
“Most of you have served with me for a very long time. All of you have served with me long enough to know what sort of man I am. Not a naturally cruel man. It gives me no pleasure to see pain inflicted, or have to order it inflicted. But I have come to the conclusion that Gaul of the Long-hairs needs a lesson so awful, so severe, so appalling that the memory of it will linger through the generations and serve to discourage future uprisings. For that reason I have called you here today. To give you my solution. Not to ask your permission. I am the commander-in-chief and the decision is mine alone to take. I have taken it. The matter is out of your hands. The Greeks believe that only the man who does the deed is guilty of the crime, if the deed be a crime. Therefore the guilt rests entirely upon my shoulders. None of you has a share in it. None of you will suffer because of it. I bear the burden. You have often heard me say that the memory of cruelty is poor comfort for old age, but there are reasons why I do not fear that fate as I did until I spoke with Cathbad of the Druids.”
He returned to his curule chair, and seated himself in the formal position.
“Tomorrow I will see the men who defended Uxellodunum. I believe there are about four thousand of them. Yes, there are more, but four thousand will do. Those who scowl the most, eye us with the most hatred. I will amputate both their hands.”
He said it calmly; a faint sigh echoed around the room. How good, that neither Decimus Brutus nor Gaius Trebonius was there! But Hirtius was staring at him with eyes full of tears, and Caesar found that difficult. He had to swallow, he hoped not too visibly. Then he went on.
“I will not ask any Roman to do the business. Some among the citizens of Uxellodunum can do it. Volunteers. Eighty men, each to sever the hands of fifty men. I will offer to spare the hands of any men who volunteer. It will produce enough. The artificers are working now on a special tool I have devised, a little like a sharp chisel six inches wide across the blade. It will be positioned across the back of the hand just below the wrist bones, and struck once with a hammer. Flow of blood to the member will be occluded by a thong around the forearm. The moment the amputation is done, the wrist will be dipped in pitch. Some may bleed to death. Most won’t.”
He was speaking fluently now, easily, for he was out of the realm of ideas and into the practicalities.
“These four thousand handless men will then be banished to wander and beg all over this vast country. And whoever should see a man with no hands will think of the lesson learned after the siege of Uxellodunum. When the legions disperse, as they will very shortly, each legion will take some of the handless men with it to wherever it goes into winter cantonments. Thus making sure that the handless are well scattered. For the lesson is wasted unless the evidence of it is seen everywhere.
“I will conclude by giving you some information compiled by my gallant but unsung clerical heroes. The eight years of war in Gallia Comata have cost the Gauls a million dead warriors. A million people have been sold into slavery. Four hundred thousand Gallic women and children are dead, and a quarter of a million Gallic families have been rendered homeless. That is the entire population of Italia. An awful indication of the bull’s blindness and anger. It has to stop! It has to stop now. It has to stop here at Uxellodunum. When I give up my command in the Gauls, Gallia Comata will be at peace.”
He nodded a dismissal; all the men filed out silently, none looking at Caesar. Save for Hirtius, who stayed.
“Don’t say a word!” Caesar snapped.
“I don’t intend to,” said Hirtius.