Chapter Two

 

Titus Atius Labienus, commander of the Twelfth Legion, lieutenant of Caesar and pro-tem representative of Rome in the eastern Gallic and Belgic lands, struggled into his cuirass while the body slave laced up his boots, and then held it in position while the young Samnite laced up the armour.

‘It is beyond me why I need be armoured in order to receive one of my own spies.’

The legion’s senior centurion, Baculus, officially confined to the sick hut but proving somewhat difficult to contain, leaned heavily on his stick, his grey features shining unhealthily.

‘Firstly because as senior officer in the region, legate, it is a matter of principle. Secondly, because your scouts and spies are natives and, given what’s happened this past winter, I would not advise any Roman to get too close to one of them without armour on, especially someone of value.’

‘My spies and scouts are Mediomatrici, centurion. They are our allies, not the enemy.’

‘They have spent months wintering among the Treveri, legate, and the Treveri would like nothing more than to tear out your heart through your arse. Better safe than regretful, sir. Buckle up and look good.’

Labienus sighed as the slave handed him his baldric with the fine sheathed blade attached. Settling it over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes.

‘You need to be back in the sick hut, centurion. The medicus has told me that he’s considering putting a guard on the door to stop you straying.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me a bit of fresh air and exercise won’t cure.’

‘On the contrary, the medicus tells me that even a minor wound can kill if the infection takes hold too strongly, and that the infection which eats away at your wound is brutal and life-threatening. He puts the fact that you are still alive thus far down to the fact that you are - and I quote - ‘a pig-headed angry bastard’. I do not like to countenance a future for the Twelfth Legion in which you are not there to bully them around, so kindly go back to the sick hut, lie down and stop interfering with the running of things until the physician pronounces you ‘healthy’.’

Baculus managed to sneak in an unhappy grumble before saluting quickly, so that he could grab back hold of his stick for support, and turning to leave.

‘Get better, and do it quickly. Things are too unsettled around here for me to be missing such an important officer.’

Labienus watched the centurion leave and shook his head with a slight smile. The medicus had actually told him that Baculus was generally out of danger and would stay that way as long as he didn’t overdo things and set himself back. The chances of the veteran sitting back and not overdoing things were, he had decided, miniscule.

‘Am I ready?’

The slave nodded. ‘Yes, Domine.’

Labienus shrugged his shoulders so that the red cloak hung slightly better and then strode from his quarters - one of only five wooden buildings in the camp, the rest of the men making do with their tents. The mud, despite the periodic fall of near-freezing rain, was being kept well under control in the camp by the judicious use of timbers sunk into the main thoroughfares for stability, and scattered gravel and chippings brought by the men from a local rock outcropping.

Nodding a greeting to some of his tribunes and centurions who were going about their business around the headquarters and the larger officers’ tents, he strode off down the gentle incline towards the north gate.

Two of the veteran legionaries assigned to guard their commander fell into step behind him and escorted him towards the small knot of men gathered inside the gate. A Belgic warrior in his colourful tunic and wool trousers stood rubbing his hands as legionaries held his steed by the bridle, kept his spear and sword out of reach and blocked off any possible route for the native to escape into the camp. Labienus sighed. What the Twelfth had experienced earlier in the winter had put the men on guard enough, but the news of what had happened to Sabinus, Cotta and Cicero had brought about an atmosphere where no Gaul would be given a sliver of respect, let alone outright trust. Sad, really. Labienus was still sure that Gaul could be tamed peaceably if only the army and its more rabid officers could be persuaded to a more tactful approach. Of course Caesar’s own actions did little to promote such a diplomatic solution.

‘Have you confirmed his identity?’ he asked the duty centurion as he approached the knot of men.

‘Aye sir,’ the centurion - a surprisingly young man for such a role - nodded, passing over a wax tablet with a list of names and details. ‘Litomaros. Birth mark shaped like a fat amphora on the left shoulder and ‘L’ shaped scar on lower left of belly. Unless they’ve been very creative, it’s him.’

Labienus nodded, satisfied. He’d sent a dozen men out among the Treveri and their sub-tribes in the area to gain intelligence and provide forewarning of any trouble, and on Baculus’ recommendation had had each one’s distinguishing features noted to provide proof of identity should they return. Labienus had shaken his head at the time and replied that such a means of security stopped a man masquerading as one of the spies, but did not mean they could not be turned. Baculus had grunted and said that half a measure of safety was still better than nothing. Despite his misgivings, Labienus had to admit that he felt that little bit more sure when the centurion had confirmed it.

‘Litomaros?’ he said, gesturing for the other soldiers to step aside and moving forward to face the spy.

‘Legate.’ The man bowed his head respectfully.

‘What news from the Treveri?’

‘Trouble, sir,’ the Gaul replied, his face dark.

‘Indutiomarus stirring up his tribe for another try on us?’

The native warrior cleared his throat, rubbing his cold hands together. Labienus noticed his frosting breath and realised the man must have ridden twenty miles or more in the freezing morning air. With a gesture to wait, he turned to the legionaries beside him. ‘Someone get this man some heated wine. Can you not see he’s chilled to the bone?’

As one of the men ran off, Labienus filed away the looks on the other men’s faces for later attention. Not one of them cared that a native might freeze to death.

‘Right. Now tell me the news.’

‘Treveri are unhappy at Roman warband camp in their lands.’

‘This is nothing new. Are they unhappy enough to make war on us?’

‘Treveri know they are too small to beat Roman warband. Indutiomarus try to talk other tribes to attack Rome, but they not fight.’

‘Good. There is still some sense in this land, then.’

‘So Indutiomarus send men across river to German tribes.’

The legionaries shared a worried look and Labienus tried to keep his composure without reacting obviously to such unsettling news. If the tribes across the Rhenus decided to join the Treveri in force, then the Twelfth Legion would likely be a mere stain on the memory of the campaign in a few weeks, just like Sabinus and Cotta’s command a few months back.

‘How many?’

The Gaul shook his head. ‘Suevi and Ubii and Chatti refuse to help.’

Labienus felt his spirits lift at such news. It seemed unlike those tribes not to take the opportunity for a little havoc and plunder among the lands of their Gallic cousins and against the might of Rome, but Labienus could be grateful for their recalcitrance without seeking the reasons.

‘So the Treveri do not come? Why then did you feel the need to leave them and seek me out?’

The Gaul took a steadying breath. ‘Indutiomarus not needing Germans now. Chief gather to his boar standard all thieves, murderers, bandits, killers and rebels in Gaul and Belgae lands. His army grow with men who hate Rome.’

‘How large can an army be if it’s formed of countryside brigands?’

The Gaul frowned as if the question made no sense.

‘Is it really a force that presents a threat to us?’ Labienus rephrased.

‘Yes,’ the Gaul replied. ‘You surprise how many Gauls hate Rome and run to Indutiomarus because their druid say not fight.’

Labienus sighed. He would not be at all surprised, if he were to admit it. It was a surprise, however, to hear that the druids were counselling non-confrontation. While Labienus was of firm belief that the Gallic tribes and their leaders could be persuaded to a diplomatic solution, the druids had always seemed immovable objects in the path of peace. What was their game?

He pursed his lips. ‘There are enough to do to us what the Eburones did to Cotta and Sabinus?’

Again the Gaul nodded.

‘Then we are faced with three choices. We abandon camp, give the Treveri the run of the countryside, and join up with Caesar’s army back west. Upside: no one dies unnecessarily. Downside: the Treveri are given a victory and the freedom to cause further trouble. Or, we sit and hold tight and work on our defences in the belief we can hold against a siege until Caesar arrives and breaks them, like he did with Cicero. Upside: we have time to strengthen our position. Downside: we are trapped and if Caesar does not come, the Twelfth become a memory. Or… we strengthen ourselves while weakening them.’

The duty centurion frowned as he leaned closer. ‘Sir?’

‘The man said the druids are counselling peace. The Treveri still have druids among them, and still listen to them. There will be warriors of honour within the tribe who are in two minds about any attack. If they recognise that the druids are against it and that half their army is made up of criminals or men from tribes they don’t even know, a lot of their warriors might find cause to desert any attack.’

He wagged his finger at the Gaul. ‘It is asking a great deal, but do you think you can get back among the Treveri without suspicion?’

‘I think,’ the Gaul nodded.

‘Good. Go back to them. Take up your former role but now, instead of gathering information for me, I would like you to sound out their druids and, if they are truly opposed to an attack, help spread their dissent among the warriors of the Treveri. Try not to get yourself caught though, and steer clear of these thugs they have recruited.’

The Gaul nodded and Labienus smiled sadly. ‘You know I want naught but peace for us all, and I know you will be returning to terrible danger, but I’m trying to bring matters to a close without strewing the countryside with the bodies of all our people. Go with your Gods and ours.’

As the Gaul held out weary hands to the man holding his spear and sword, Labienus turned to the duty centurion.

‘We have a full legion, barring a few wounded, but we are lacking in cavalry.’

The centurion’s face showed his low opinion of horse soldiers - an opinion shared by many of the legion’s officers and men.

‘Cavalry have their place, centurion. I have commanded mounted forces and while there are things that the legion can do that they cannot, there are activities that require the speed and flexibility of riders. We have less than three hundred horse - probably only half that if I look at the figures. I want that upped to more than a thousand, split into four alae, each with the few regulars we have mixed among the native levies.’

The centurion shook his head. ‘Sir, Caesar has already levied every cavalryman he has the right to. If we try and call for more levies, we are exceeding our agreements with the tribes.’

‘It seems curiously out of character for you to care, centurion?’ Labienus asked with an arched brow.

The centurion looked a little taken aback, but made a quick recovery and shrugged slightly. ‘I’m not over-bothered whether they get irritated about having more of their unwashed hordes recruited, true. But I’m not a lover of the idea, when faced with a sizeable enemy, of stirring up the other tribes around us. I don’t want to suddenly find we’re also facing the Mediomatrici, the Leuci and all their little friends.’

Labienus smiled.

‘Not a thought I relish either, centurion, but also not something I intend to bring about. I want your most eloquent men, accompanied by a few of our native auxilia, to head to all the larger oppida within a day’s hard ride. They will petition the tribal councils for volunteers to help us against the Treveri.’

The centurion’s eyes widened. ‘That’s mad, sir.’

‘Remember to whom you speak, centurion.’

‘Apologies, sir, but these people don’t give two wet shits about us already - even the ones who are supposedly our allies. I really can’t see anyone volunteering to save us from the Treveri.’

‘That’s because you have haven’t thought of it from their point of view, centurion. You need to brief the men you send on the necessary angle of attack and bring up all the following salient points: the local tribes are peaceful now and have good trade relations with us. We are demanding nothing of them other than a small tithe agreed years ago with Caesar to help us against the rebels. The Treveri may be distant cousins to our locals, but you need to emphasise the fact that their leader has tried to petition the Germanics across the river to join him. None of the local tribes will like that. The Germanic peoples have only ever been aggressors and invaders. I think you’ll find that many of the Gauls hate the tribes across the river more even than they hate us. Moreover no settled, law-abiding and honourable Gaul will like the idea of an army of bandits, murderers and other scum moving into their lands. Appeal to their honour and their sense of self-preservation. Remind them that we are here trying to build links between our people, and remind them of the last few times the tribes across the river came into their territory. I think you’ll be surprised just how many volunteers you get.’

The centurion grinned. ‘No one likes a thief in their garden, that’s for sure, sir.’

‘Precisely. Succinctly put. Now get your best rhetoricians saddled and ready to go. We don’t know how long we have before the Treveri decide to come and stand on us, and I want a cavalry force to be reckoned with assembled by then.’

‘I still don’t see what good that will do us, sir,’ the centurion replied.

‘That, my good man, is because you have never ridden a horse into battle.’

As the centurion saluted and disappeared off to find the men he would need, Labienus watched the Gallic spy riding out through the gate towards the Treveri once again.

It was a gamble. But it was always worth gambling a little if the stakes were the prevention of a full scale war. Now to make the camp impregnable, or as near as damn it. It was always worth preparing for the worst.

 

* * * * *

 

Sextius Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, veteran of dozens of engagements and eighth highest-ranking man in the camp - including several pointless boyish junior tribunes - struggled upright at the end of his cot.

‘Lie down, centurion,’ said the orderly from across the room, where he was engrossed in some arcane medicinal duty involving bottles and dangerous looking liquids.

‘I will forget that you just tried to impose an order on your senior centurion, soldier.’

‘With respect, Primus Pilus, the medicus’ authority exceeds your own in this place, and I speak with his authority, given by the man himself.’

‘Unless you want that authority bottled and stuffed up your arse, go about your business and forget that you saw me,’ Baculus growled. He was being unusually bad tempered, he knew, but his temper had seemed to decline with his general state of health. He looked to one side, to where a legionary he didn’t know was grinning. The man’s smile disappeared as Baculus’ glare passed across him. ‘Laugh it up, lad. It’s your diseased bowels polluting the air in here that’s half the reason I’m vacating for a bit. If you keep farting like that you’re going to turn inside out. Every morning I expect to see your liver hanging out of your arse.’

The soldier, embarrassed, turned his gaze down to the bed.

‘That’s better.’

He struggled to his feet, tottered a little, and then reached out for the stick at the foot of the bed. Grasping it, he staggered towards the door. While most of the men were still in their military tunics, soaked with sick-sweat, Baculus had also retained his belt and baldric’d sword. He wouldn’t be parted from them until he was dead, and probably not even then. With a deep breath - one that he wished he hadn’t taken in this nauseating miasma - he took a few unsteady steps across the room until he managed to strengthen his stride, and pulled open the door.

The valetudinarium of this more or less permanent temporary camp consisted of the sick hut in which he was currently confined, a tent that performed a similar role for the less fortunate, a surgical tent and the medicus’ own quarters. As was often the case, the hospital complex was kept as far apart from the headquarters and the barrack lines as possible. In the case of this particular camp, that put it out near the east gate, close to the stables and the workshop tent, away from the bulk of the population, in case of infection.

The upshot was that when Baculus pulled open the door, he was confronted with the area given over to the small cavalry detachment that had accompanied the Twelfth to its winter quarters.

Small no longer. Two days ago, new allied auxiliaries had started riding in, in groups of a dozen or more - sometimes nearing a hundred - and now the entire cavalry section had been expanded to cater for them. The workshops had been taken down and stored, their space donated for more stabling. He’d heard men grumbling that their amenities had been removed - three large communal social/mess tents that were only ever erected in winter quarters - in order to provide space for the new horsemen to make camp.

He’d peeked out of the door a few times over the past two days, keeping an eye on things and watching the cavalry contingent grow. He’d wished Labienus would drop by so he could get some answers over this whole thing, but the legate had not appeared and, despite his resilience and refusal to obey the outspoken physician, Baculus would have to admit if pressed that he was weak as a kitten and really could not bring himself to go find his commander.

But this morning things were different. He’d heard the warning blasts from the legion’s musicians, summoning the men to stand to, indicating an enemy force in view. This had been followed only a short while ago by sudden frenzied activity among the cavalry outside. Baculus could hardly contain himself any more.

‘You!’ he snapped at one of the few regular cavalrymen he could see.

‘Sir?’ replied the soldier, startled, turning with the reins of his horse in his hand.

Taking a deep breath, Baculus hobbled out of the building and onto the lightly-gravelled road. ‘I’m feeling a little weak. I need your horse.’

The trooper opened his mouth to argue, noted the look on the centurion’s face, and saluted, holding forth the reins. Baculus hobbled over and without the need for a request, the soldier helped him into the saddle, grunting with the effort.

‘You’ll have it back before you need it,’ said Baculus, noting the slightly panicked look on the soldier’s face as he shuffled into the saddle. Grasping the horns, he turned the beast and trotted it back to the headquarters section at the camp’s centre and then north towards the gate where there was a great deal of commotion. He could see from here a seething mass of Gauls assembled on the low rise opposite, with more still arriving from the northeast.

Wincing with effort, he held tight to the reins until he bore down on the party at the gate, and then slowed. Never a natural horseman, his current condition made his control of the skittish beast less than impressive. The tribunes had gathered at the gate with Labienus and a number of standard bearers and musicians, and their horses were being led out by the camp equisio from the intervallum road that wound around inside the wall. Labienus and his lesser officers looked up at the sound of the approaching horse and the commander’s eyes rolled.

‘I thought you were confined to your cot, centurion.’

Baculus made to slide from the horse, but Labienus waved him to stop. ‘Stay in the saddle man. At least you won’t fall over up there. Besides, we’re mounting up, ourselves. I presume you’re aware of what’s happening?’

‘The Treveri have arrived. I thought my presence might be useful, sir? I should be in full armour I know, but there was not enough time to find it after two weeks of convalescence.’

‘Never mind that. Just try not to look as though the ferryman’s standing in your shadow and make sure you don’t pass out and fall off the horse. It would not convey the right impression.’

Baculus gave a weak salute and waited patiently as the officers mounted and the gate swung ponderously open. The number of warriors arriving across the open grassland to the north had fallen off, and it seemed almost the entire enemy force was here. As the small party of officers rode out of the gate, an honour guard of regular cavalry - along with a few carefully selected local volunteer noblemen - at their back, the centurion peered at the enemy ranks.

He had fought in almost every engagement of any worth in the five years since they’d first stepped into Gaul and felt he knew enough about Gallic warbands to form easy and fast opinions concerning their strength, morale and capabilities, but this was unlike any force he had laid eyes upon in that time.

Since every army they had faced had been formed by one or more major tribe, along with their lesser neighbours, the armies tended to have more than one knot of ‘royalty’ where a chieftain would direct the battle, surrounded by his close kin and personal bodyguard. The main force would be infantry, gathered around and in front of the leaders, usually with the more bloodthirsty or desperate for recognition at the front, jostling for position and itching to get into the fight. Behind them would be the lesser warriors: the older men who had nothing to prove, the farmers who had more to gain by staying alive than by winning prestige, and so on. The equipment would vary according to the wealth of the individual, and there was no rule to say the best armed and armoured would be at the front. In basic terms, it was barely-controlled chaos. The only disciplined force would be on one or other of the wings - the cavalry, mostly manned by noblemen, though again rarely armoured.

Such was the general makeup of Gallic forces.

Not so here.

Only one knot of leadership was in evidence, and that was at the rear, where Indutiomarus and his cronies ‘commanded’ the force. There was precious little evidence of cavalry and what there was seemed to be kept at the rear, in reserve. The bulk of the army, as usual, was formed by the infantry, but they were clearly organised in an unusual fashion, with the typical force - likely the Treveri themselves - at the rear, and the front ranks filled with slavering mercenary killers. These men were heavily armed, for Gauls, many bearing captured Roman equipment. These then would be the criminals and rebels that had flocked to the chieftain’s banner. The Treveri seemed not to be putting themselves forth for the chance of prestige, leaving the front with its dangerous initial clashes to the volunteers who had joined up either through pure hatred of Rome or more likely for the chance of loot that would follow the battle, a distinct gap separating the two groups.

‘Slow down,’ Labienus commanded the party. ‘Let’s give the man time to come out the front and talk to us. I’ve no intention of riding through or past his army to open negotiations.’

‘Seems little point in talking to them at all, as far as I can see, sir,’ one of the tribunes chimed in.

‘I agree that little is likely to come from it other than a little name calling,’ Labienus smiled, ‘but I have some of our most important local nobles with us and I want them to get a good look at this force of vagabonds and murderers so they remember just why they’re here when the fighting starts.’

Baculus nodded his agreement and the party slowed. ‘It looks to me very much like the goat-buggerer has no intention of moving.’

The tribunes, frowning at the language, turned to look disapprovingly at Baculus, though Labienus simply nodded, used to the senior centurion’s outspoken tongue. ‘I suspect you’re right, centurion. It looks like there will be no parlay today.’

‘Then why are we still riding towards them, sir?’ the inquisitive junior tribune hazarded.

‘Tell him, Baculus.’

The centurion rubbed his grey, sweating forehead. ‘Because it’s how things are done in a civilised war, and we want the local royalty to see us as the righteous ones. We do things by the rules and then when the Treveri and their hired bandits fail to meet our standards, the locals will see what they’re facing and steel themselves a little.’

‘Precisely. Now we’re close enough that our allied volunteers can see the quality of the shaved apes at the front of Indutiomarus’ force. Our friends can see that these men are killers, bandits, rapists, thieves and the like, and the sight will confirm what we initially informed them, sealing them to our cause.’

Baculus shook his head slightly as they approached. ‘Something bothers me though, sir. Their army’s more than twice the size of ours and the way it’s formed it should be even less organised and disciplined than usual. And yet look: there’s a gap between the front rank of mercenaries and the rear where the Treveri wait. Why? It’s not like they use our tactics? They’re not going to rotate the ranks during battle, so why the gap?’

The officers and their escort rode slowly towards the line of waiting Gauls, close enough now to pick out the armour and the torcs and arm rings of the warriors, to see their spiked hair and drooping moustaches. Close enough that if Baculus had a rock in his hand, he…

‘Retreat!’ he shouted at the party. The tribunes and the commander turned to face him, frowns creasing their foreheads. Baculus was already turning his beast.

‘Back to the camp!’ he yelled. Labienus turned his frown on the enemy in time to see the front ranks crouch or bow, the gap between the two infantry forces suddenly filling as the archers and slingers that had hidden there rose to their feet, weapons in hand.

‘Mars protect us!’ barked the legate in consternation as enemy weapons were discharged with the hiss and hum of airborne arrows and the zip and whine of sling stones.

Three of the escort cavalrymen, used to manoeuvring their horses in battle, charged forward to protect Labienus, arriving just in time to take half a dozen strikes to their shields that were meant for the Roman commander. Labienus looked in grateful surprise at the three men as he turned his horse to retreat. Two of the men bore the professional straight faces of career cavalrymen. The third tried to smile, but a torrent of crimson erupted from his mouth and he slumped forward over his saddle, his shield falling to the grass below. Two arrows jutted from his back between the shoulder blades where they had ripped straight through the mail with the force of a short-distance blow, and a third stood proud from the back of his neck, driven in so far it had almost emerged from his windpipe.

Labienus rode for the camp, watching the talkative young tribune suddenly stiffen in his saddle as he wheeled his horse and then tumble to the ground, an arrow jutting from his lower back.

Two of the volunteer noble cavalrymen were already down, thrashing about on the ground in agony, their horses bolting for safety, and a third was trying to control his mount, which had taken an arrow in the flank and was dancing in a panic.

A second volley from the hidden archers and slingers began, this time at a sporadic release rate, but now the party was on the move, harder to hit and at a greater range. Another of the regular cavalrymen went down, a sling bullet smashing a dent in his helmet so deep it shattered his skull beneath, and another tribune’s horse was struck, though he managed to keep the pained beast enough under control to head for the fort.

By the time they were out of range of the missiles another half dozen arrows and bullets had struck, but the reduced force at such a distance caused only bruising and stinging pains. Leaving seven men dead or dying on the grass, the Roman ambassadorial party reached the north gate of the camp and rode inside, their horses dancing excitedly.

‘Well, it would appear that the negotiations are over before they began,’ Labienus sighed, shaking his head and climbing down from his horse. ‘It’s my belief that the majority of the Gauls consider missile volleys and traps to be lacking in honour, so I think that tells us all we need to know about Indutiomarus’ intentions and abilities. He clearly plans to conduct this attack in a most atypical fashion.’

He handed the reins of his horse to the nearest soldier and rubbed his hands together in a business-like fashion. ‘Moreover, it tells us that either Indutiomarus is unwilling to field the Treveri unless he has to or, more likely, the Treveri themselves are less willing to bring the fight to us than the mercenaries. Either way, the main force we face now is the mercenary army he has attracted and they will have no discipline. They will falter at our defences unless he can commit the Treveri as well. I am decided as to our course of action, gentlemen, but it is all a matter of timing. We need the time to be just right before I put my plan into action and until then we need to hold them off and keep our defences and morale strong.’

‘I will see to the disposition of the men, sir,’ Baculus announced, swaying slightly in his saddle with weariness.

‘You will do nothing of the sort, centurion. You will report to the medicus and return to your bed and stay there until either your infection passes and you take on a healthy complexion or until we are desperate enough that I am forced to send for you.’

Baculus began to shake his head, but Labienus held up a warning finger. ‘The medicus tells me that every time you come out and about and push yourself to the limit, not only do you endanger your life, but you also set back your healing progress by several weeks. Simply: if you do not lie down and rest, you will never heal and I will be forced to have you put down like a horse with a broken leg. Now go!’

The Primus Pilus stared helplessly at Labienus and finally sagged a little, saluted and turned his horse to ride back through the camp. Labienus, he knew, had been nicknamed ‘soft touch’ by the soldiers. The commander knew nothing of it of course, and Baculus had already disciplined every man he heard use the phrase. And it was, to some extent, a fair appraisal. Of all of Caesar’s officers, only Titus Labienus had repeatedly - even constantly - attempted peaceful relations and diplomatic solutions with the Gauls. One man had even called him ‘Gaul-lover’ and had been scourged until his back ran red for his wit. But while they were right about his desire to avoid conflict where possible, there was still a steel in Labienus that Baculus could see and respect. The man might favour the diplomatic option, but he would never put his army in the situation in which Sabinus and Cotta’s force had found itself a few months back. And he would brook no argument, even from Baculus.

The legate had a plan, and the centurion knew his commander well enough to know that a shrewd, tactical military mind churned away within that peaceable exterior. Despite being outnumbered and cut off from the rest of the army by a force whose capabilities and actions they could not predict, Baculus felt certain that Indutiomarus would rue the day he brought a force against the Twelfth.

 

* * * * *

 

Labienus cinched the belt around his cuirass and stood still while the slave brushed out the long red plume on his helm.

‘You don’t have to do this, sir,’ said one of the junior tribunes, quietly.

‘Yes I do, Lentulus. I know you’ve studied your Herodotus and the like but no amount of tutoring can match the experience of long-term command, and you’re very new to this. A good commander knows when to sit back and when to throw in his lot with the soldiery. That is where half of Caesar’s genius lies, and it is he who taught me the value of ‘getting involved’. The value of the boost in morale and strength it gives the men to find their commander among them in the thick of it far outweighs the danger I will face. And that is why I must look as ‘noble Roman’ as possible. Caesar wears his crimson cloak and rides a white horse so that the men can see him and take heart that he’s with them. A horse is of little value when under siege, but I can do my part, and I shall do so.’

‘But legate, why go to such lengths to levy local cavalry and then allow ourselves to be besieged? It makes no sense! We should have met them in direct conflict on the hillside before they reached the camp. Now our cavalry cannot be deployed and we sit and wait while they continually harry our defences.’

Labienus sighed patiently.

‘Lentulus, the cavalry are part of my long-term plan, so please stop concerning yourself too much. I realise that I am keeping my strategy somewhat obfuscated but we must learn the lesson from ourselves. I have spies among the Treveri and their allies and bearing that in mind we cannot rule out the possibility that there are enemy spies among our own native levies. It has not even been unheard of for a legionary to turn informant for promises of rich reward, though I would prefer not to suspect my own men of such low dealings. I will continue to keep my strategy contained until the time arises to open the carceres and let the horses run. Now… you stay here, go over my latest engineers’ reports and make sure I’ve missed nothing. If you can think of anything to add, be my guest and do so.’

Leaving the exasperated young tribune, Labienus strode out into the cold, slightly damp late winter air in his most resplendent gear. Lentulus was almost laughably young and naïve, but Labienus could remember being just like him as a junior tribune in Vatia’s army against the Cilician pirates. Still, in this current situation, better the boy kept himself busy with the records than getting in the way on the defences.

The camp was quiet, but it was a quiet that Labienus knew well. It was that specific, eerie, leaden quiet that presaged another attack. The thugs and bandits that made up roughly half of Indutiomarus’ force had committed themselves to the assault almost immediately, but had not come with the force and skill of a tribal war band or a professional army, and had broken on the defences like a small wave on the beach.

They were doing damage, for sure, and two rows of tents had been taken from their occupants and given over to the medicus for extra hospital space. Men were being brought in at a steady stream, wounded by blades and missiles, and the area left largely clear - due to being the site of the most recently backfilled latrine pits - was now stacked with bodies awaiting the pyre when timber supplies and time allowed.

But it was all remarkably easily fought off and contained. While Labienus had lost maybe two dozen men to the ‘dead pile’ and more than a century’s worth to the hospital, it was a smaller figure than most sieges would have brought on. And the number of Gallic dead in the ditches around the camp was substantially larger by comparison. A satisfactory situation.

Two things had occurred to Labienus as he ran his reports this morning:

Firstly: while the situation was perfectly acceptable to Labienus, the failure to make a dent would be driving Indutiomarus mad and soon he would snap and commit the Treveri to the attack as well. When he did that, one of two things would happen. Either the Treveri would turn on the man and refuse, which was Labienus’ main hope and great suspicion, or they would throw their full weight into the attack, and in that case the camp would be overrun before the next sun set.

A gamble.

Secondly, that the troops were well provisioned, well armed, and not being particularly tested in the current attacks. They were handling the siege with all the professionalism he could have hoped for, but there was every likelihood of them becoming over-confident and lax, believing their position unassailable. By going among them as he was, he could help fight off the ennui that would be infecting the defenders, as well as gauging the enemy’s situation. All he needed was a sign that Indutiomarus’ control was faltering.

The quiet was reaching that tense point and would snap at any moment. Another attack was about to launch - he could feel it crackling in the air. With a smile of self-assuredness, he slowed his step as he approached the east gate. This side had not seen a concerted attack yet, and he felt certain it was due, but he didn’t want to arrive too early and stand uselessly in the chilly air, passing the time of day with the men.

Almost as if he had given the signal himself, a roar arose beyond the walls as he reached the earth bank and the wooden steps built into it which led up to the gate top walkway. Climbing the steps with practiced ease, he emerged atop the wall just as the first shower of arrows and stones whipped, whined and thudded into the defences. The centurion in command of the section saluted, holding his shield - circular and smaller than the legionaries’ - up behind his head to deflect the missiles as he stood proud. His men cowered behind the parapet and their large shields waiting for the barrage to end and the infantry assault to begin.

‘How goes it, centurion?’

‘Very good, sir. The ‘braid-monkeys’ seem to have little heart for it.’

‘Pray it stays that way, soldier.’

‘Oh I do sir, but I’d be happier down on the grass out there, facing them in a shield wall.’

‘I’m sure, but my purpose is other than the complete destruction of the Treveri and the corresponding losses to the Twelfth.’

The centurion looked a little unsure, but the cacophonic honking and booing of the Gauls’ carnyxes ordering the infantry forward drew their attention. Labienus stepped across to the wall and peered over the top. The mob of unsightly, disorganised killers was coming again, swarming across the grass, passing the archers and slingers who were stepping back away from the fight, and thundering towards what remained of the ditches.

Had it been Romans on the outside, or some of the more civilised and advanced Gaulish tribes, men would have come forward first, covered with shields and carrying bundles of sticks and earth to fill in the ditch and make crossing easier. Not so with this rabble of criminals. They had simply charged and filled the ditch with corpses in the first two attacks. It was grimly effective, if very costly to the attackers.

‘Best get back down, sir. Here they come.’

Labienus rubbed his neck and drew the blade from his sheath. ‘I think it’s time to get my sword dirty, don’t you?’

The centurion grinned. ‘I’ll try and leave you one, sir.’

‘That’s the spirit. Share the fun.’

They both turned their gaze back to the exterior, where the enemy were pounding across the triple ditch, the bodies of their former compatriots forming an effective causeway.

‘Ready, men!’ the centurion bellowed. ‘To the wall!’

The soldiers, who had been sheltering behind shields and parapet leapt up and forward, taking their places at the timber palisade and preparing to meet the attack.

Labienus found a gap where a slick of blood rapidly drying on the timbers marked the absence of a man - wounded or dead - and fell in between two legionaries who instinctively moved slightly apart to allow him plenty of room. He had no shield - had decided against one to allow for a more impressive profile among the men - and so drew his pugio dagger from its sheath and held it in his free hand. The men were not leaning into the wall to get a good view of the attackers - that was a good way to receive a spear point in the eye.

A moment later there was a barked Gallic curse in front and below Labienus - hidden by the wall - and grubby fingers came over the parapet, gripping the timber and whitening as they took a man’s weight. The wavering tip of a sword appeared, glinting, as the man tried to get high enough to take a swing at the defender he couldn’t yet quite see.

With a grim smile, Labienus reversed his grip on the dagger and slammed the blade down onto the clutching fingers, easily severing all but the thumb and digging into the wood beneath. Blood sprayed from the stubs of the fingers before the hand disappeared outside once more, withdrawn with a howl of agony.

The sword point also vanished and, despite the danger in doing so, Labienus leaned forward to take a quick look. A long blade sliced out and cut through the air a few finger widths from his face as he pulled back. Startled, he forced himself to grin at his neighbour as though it had been intentional and even amusing.

Off to the right, a loop of rope appeared from the far side and settled on a protruding tip of one of the wall’s constituent stakes. The legionary closest lowered his shield and leaned in, using his gladius to saw at the rope even as it tightened. Such an enemy tactic could be effective if not dealt with quickly, as it would only take one stake pulled out of the palisade with ropes and brute force to begin the complete collapse of a section of wall.

The legionary sawed madly at the thick cable and was so intent on his work that he did not see the next attacker reach the top of the parapet and stab out with his sword. Labienus shouted a warning, but he was too late - the long Celtic blade jabbed deep into the legionary’s shoulder and he cried out, dropping his own sword. With a howl of triumph, the Gaul began to climb over the palisade. Recovering himself from the painful and debilitating - yet clearly non-mortal - wound, the legionary leaned forward and head-butted the attacker, the bronze brow of his helm smashing and pulping the man’s face. As his victim fell away down to the ditches below, the soldier hissed in pain and, collecting his sword, shuffled back towards the steps down to the camp’s interior.

‘Reserves!’ bellowed the centurion, but half a dozen legionaries standing at the bottom of the grass bank were already moving, climbing up to take the place of the wounded and dead, orderlies among them coming to help the injured back to the capsarii who tended them a little further from the wall.

Labienus heard the next Gaul before he saw him, and ducked aside as a spear shaft appeared, lunging for his head. Contemptuously, he knocked the spear aside against the timbers and brought his sword down in an arc, cutting the leaf-shaped blade from its tip. The man withdrew the broken shaft, but there was no time for Labienus to revel in his latest success, as a Gaul with a scarred face and a tarnished torc appeared atop the wall, propelled up by his fellows, heavy sword already swinging.

Labienus ducked the scything blade and lunged out with his gladius, jabbing it deep into the man’s chest, twisting it and wrenching it from side to side for good measure before withdrawing it. The man gurgled and disappeared over the wall again, dead before he hit the ground.

A noise resembling the anguished cries of a family of wounded oxen echoed out across the field and the attack broke off once more, men rushing back across the ditches towards the Treveri force on the far rise.

‘That was bloody brief!’ the centurion announced, peering out over the parapet at the retreating Gauls.

‘Shorter than usual, sir,’ an optio agreed a little further along.

Labienus peered into the mass of Gauls. What the others had failed to notice was that the call of the dreadful carnyxes was different from the ones that had sounded the recall in the previous dozen assaults. This was a new call.

‘Watch them, centurion. Most importantly, watch the commanders and the Treveri themselves, and forget this rabble in front. If you see any concerted movement before I do, shout out.’

Tensely, he watched the mercenary Gauls return to the fold of the enemy. Though he could not say what the call precisely meant, he was convinced that this was the crucial moment - the tipping point for the battle. His breathing slow and deliberately calm, he squinted into the air, shivering in sudden recognition of the chill now that the brutal activity had stopped and his blood was cooling.

‘There! Did you see that?’ He pointed at the enemy with his dagger.

The centurion shook his head. ‘No, sir. What?’

‘The Treveri. They’re splitting up.’

A moment’s silence, and then the centurion cleared his throat. ‘I see it, sir. Three groups separating off from the main force. A new tactic you think, sir?’

Labienus gripped his blade tight. ‘I hope not. If it is, we could be in trouble. Either they’re moving off to get into position around the other sides or…’

He paused and a grin spread across his face.

‘No. No new tactics or attack. They’re leaving.’

‘The Treveri, sir?’

‘Not yet; not as a tribe at least. But some of them are. Look. They’re following noblemen and a druid. They’re leaving the field.’ He laughed out loud as he managed to locate the figure of Indutiomarus on a horse near the back of the army. The rebel leader was yelling and gesticulating angrily at the departing sections of his force.

‘Excellent. Everything is falling into place. Prepare for another assault, centurion. This will be a brutal one, too. That lunatic is going to throw everything he can at us now, because he knows as well as I do that unless he makes significant in-roads in the next hour, that will not be the last time he watches whole chunks of his army depart. Pass the word round the walls. Hold the defences, but don’t do anything stupid. No heroics. I just want the camp secure, not a bloodbath.’

‘Sir?’

‘I have something else in mind.’ Labienus grinned as he moved to the stairs down into the camp. Spotting one of the legionaries on courier duty awaiting orders, he gestured the man over.

‘Go find Quadratus at the stables and tell him to have every trooper equipped and in the saddle in the next half hour and every native levy on horseback and armed. Their time is about to come.’

With any luck he would be able to end this entire uprising with minimal carnage, remove the ongoing threat and bring the Treveri back onto Rome’s side. There were days when Mars clearly looked down favourably upon him, and today seemed to be one of those days. Indutiomarus had better hope his Gods were watching over him too.