Chapter Six

 

‘We’re certain that we are in their lands?’ Marcus Antonius asked carefully. ‘We could cause ourselves more than a spot of bother if we move in and they turn out to be an allied tribe.’

Caesar watched the scene before him and replied to his friend and subordinate without moving his gaze. ‘They are Nervii. The scouts are natives, so they know these things. And in my gut I know they are. I can almost feel it in my blood. These animals ambushed us four years ago not a great distance from here and we fought hard for our lives. I stood in the line with the dying men that day, covered in the enemy’s blood, sweat and stink. I know the Nervii of old and accord them appropriate loathing.’

Antonius simply nodded, his own gaze playing across the oddly tranquil scene.

Not so for much longer.

The first settlement they had come across in Nervii territory was no city or oppidum. No fortress or druidic site. It was a simple village of poor, dirty and apparently frail farmers and their families. To Antonius - and to Fronto, standing on the periphery of the staff - they did not look capable of ambushing a sheep, let alone a sizeable force of Roman legionaries.

But Fronto knew otherwise.

They may look peaceful and frail, yet they were anything but. These very people may well have been among that force that almost halted the Roman campaign in Belgae lands four years ago. They may be the very men who besieged Cicero a matter of months ago. Yes, they held hoes and rakes, fed pigs and kneaded bread. But give them a rousing anti-Roman speech and in moments they would be wielding any blade they could lay hands upon and charging the hated Roman enemy. The Belgae were, as Caesar had once said, the bravest and the fiercest of all these peoples. Even their farmers were dangerous. Even the women.

The officers watched in silence as the two cohorts began to move in. As soon as the village - a shabby collection of huts that played home to some fifty souls - had been located, Caesar had ordered two cohorts of the Ninth ahead, sweeping to both sides in a wide arc and then moving in like pincers to surround the settlement and pin them against the approaching army.

Panic gripped the natives as the first signs of the two cohorts were seen between the trees and scrub, closing in on the village. A wall of steel and bronze and red wool, rattling, clanking and thumping, with the rhythmic crunch of booted feet in an ever-tightening circle of death, leaving only a single gap which even now was filling with the rest of the approaching army, moving around both sides of the small hillock that played host to the staff officers, like a river around an island.

Native women grabbed their dusty, half-naked children and ran into their huts as though a few handfuls of dried mud and wattle would stop the advance of a determined legion. The men variously grasped whatever offensive items upon which they could lay their hands and gathered in a group, or helped the women and children to ‘safety’, one man actually wasting time releasing a large horse from a corral gate and leading it by the reins to his hut!

Horses were expensive, after all.

‘Come!’ Caesar commanded and applied heels to horse, urging his steed down the gentle incline towards the village, where the panicked and desperate males had now formed up into a small warband of twenty or so, armed with scythes and sickles, shovels, and even the odd real sword here and there.

The Ninth legion’s ranks parted at calls from their centurions, clearing a path for the staff officers to traverse and reach the centre of activity. Caesar and his cadre of officers entered the small settlement, passing between a barn and a small pig pen where the beasts wallowed, grunting and carefree, unaware of the drama unfolding around them.

‘Galronus?’ the general asked, to which the Remi noble, commander of a large auxiliary cavalry wing, stepped his horse forward, falling in near Caesar’s side.

‘Sir?’

‘I will need my words translated to these people, since I doubt they have a word of Latin.’

Galronus nodded respectfully, and the general cleared his throat. With a wave of his hand, he gave a signal and small groups of legionaries detached from their units and began to move towards the various structures.

‘My soldiers will search each of your huts,’ he announced, pausing for Galronus to echo his words in the local drawl.

‘If you wish to see another dawn, you will drop your weapons and gather peacefully in the corral there, offering no resistance. Your women and children will leave their buildings and join you. If they do not leave the huts voluntarily, my men will drag them out, and if they offer continued resistance, they will simply be killed inside the huts. Do I make myself clear?’

There was the obligatory pause in translation, and then a long silence as the menfolk looked at one another in panicked indecision.

‘You number perhaps a score of men, while I command some thirty thousand in your lands alone. There is no doubt about your fate if you disobey, and you know who I am and what I will do. Now drop those weapons and move.’

By the time the translated words had become echoes among the huts, the men had begun to drop their spades and rakes and scythes, and a number of small groups of women and children and the elderly had started to appear, blinking, from the darkness of their hovels.

Caesar waited patiently as the villagers traipsed despondently into the horse corral. Two centuries of legionaries moved off at a command from Trebonius and surrounded the enclosure, leaving only the open gate for the remaining natives to move through.

When the last of the visible Nervii had entered the makeshift holding pen, the small parties of soldiers began to move into the buildings, most of them coming out a few moments later with a signal for ‘all clear’, others shoving panicked, screaming women out into the cold light, crying children clamped around their mothers’ legs, inhibiting their movement.

In one hut there was the sound of raised voices, the words indistinct, shouting in the Belgae tongue and then a blood-curdling scream, after which four legionaries emerged, grim faced and dragging two young boys, their mother’s blood still running from one soldier’s sword.

Moments was all it took, and so far with miraculously only one death.

Fronto had watched it all in hard silence and noticed that Galronus had not flinched or looked away either. It was a hard fact that with these people there was no distinction in war between warriors and the rest. He remembered with a sudden ache the Germanic woman that autumn so long ago who had sunk her teeth into his ankle and very nearly done for him. The Nervii had plotted twice before to defeat the legions, and their underhanded sneak attacks had been brutal and costly. They could not be allowed to do the same again under the command of Ambiorix.

He hardened his heart against the violent demise of the poor unseen woman. She would not be the last. The legionaries moved to close the gate, but the centurion in charge halted them, selecting one middle-aged farmer with a tap of his vine stick.

As the man was dragged out by the legionaries, the gate closed behind him, other work parties moved around the farm. Some were igniting hastily-made torches and then moving to the huts of the village, holding the flames to the thatch or wattle until the fire caught and raced across the walls and roofs of the buildings, quickly turning them into an inferno. Others rounded up all the animals of the village, that fine horse retrieved and led to the cavalry detachments, much to the sullen chagrin of its owner. The pigs, sheep, cows and chickens were butchered quickly and efficiently, loaded into the empty supply carts that were being brought forward, where they would provide good fresh meat for the army. Other units began to move off into the vegetable plots and the granary, gathering the food, uprooting or harvesting everything of any value and storing it for the legion’s consumption. The village would be utterly devastated within half an hour of their arrival.

But the scene at the centre was the important part, and they all knew it, Roman and Nervian alike.

The farmer was manhandled to the central space, where the temperature was now becoming uncomfortably warm from the burning huts all around. The damp earth had been churned to mud by so many feet. One of the auxiliary cavalry drawn from the Remi stepped forward to join the centurion who stood near the captive. The pair waited quietly while the two legionaries hauled the farmer into position and then kicked him hard in the back of the legs, dropping him painfully to his knees with a squawk.

One soldier grasped his hands and yanked them up behind him, eliciting another yelp of pain, while the other drew his pugio dagger and tested the edge with his thumb, nodding his satisfaction.

Everything fell to an eerie silence, broken only by the cries of the animals being slaughtered and the tears and wails from the women and children in the corral - and from some of the menfolk.

‘Where is King Ambiorix of the Eburones?’ Caesar said, with deliberate slowness and clarity, enunciating each word carefully, so that there could be no mistaking what it was that he asked. The Remi cavalryman next to the centurion repeated the translation equally slowly and carefully. The farmer simply stared at his captors in panicked misery, shaking his head with what appeared to be genuine incomprehension.

The centurion looked around at Caesar with an unspoken question. The general nodded and, at a gesture - reminiscent of that of the editor of a gladiatorial combat - the legionary put his pugio beneath the farmer’s chin and opened his throat from one ear to the other.

Blood spurted, fountaining out onto the wet dirt. The cut was so wide, deep and professional that the watching Romans saw the man’s face change colour rapidly, going from a ruddy and healthy pink, through purple to a rubbery grey. His eyes bulged and his mouth worked silently but he remained in position, held in place by the iron grip of the legionary behind him. At another nod from the centurion, the soldier let go and the dead farmer, still twitching, fell to his face in the mud.

By the time two more soldiers had arrived and grabbed the farmer’s arms to drag him away, he had stopped kicking. The legionaries hauled him over to one of the burning huts and, taking his arms and legs, cast him into the flames to be consumed by the conflagration. By the time they had finished their grisly disposal and returned to the central space a second farmer - this time a young man, fresh faced and defiant - had been hauled out of the pen and to the centre. The performance was repeated and the man sank to his knees in the churned mud and blood, his defiant, cold blue eyes fixed on Caesar. Back in the pen his woman screamed her love and fear for him.

‘Where is Ambiorix of the Eburones?’ asked Caesar slowly. The Remi horseman repeated the translation. The farmer simply heaped more scorn and arrogance into his cold gaze and at Caesar’s nod, the centurion gave the order.

The young farmer’s blood arced and sprayed, adding to the russet coloured mud before them.

As the body was hauled away, leaving dark red streaks through the dirt, the young Crassus appeared between Fronto and Antonius, his face bleak and unsettled. If ever there was a sign that he was not a facsimile of his father and brother it was the difficulty that he was clearly experiencing in watching such efficient brutality. The older Crassus brother would - Fronto knew - have performed the task with gusto, and his father would have positively revelled in it.

‘What happens if they don’t know? Any of them, I mean? Will they all die?’ Crassus’ voice was little more than a whisper, but Galronus and Caesar both apparently heard and turned their heads while the next victim was being brought out.

‘We decided to set the limit at ten,’ Antonius replied quietly so that the natives would not hear, in case any might speak Latin. ‘After that it’s slavery for the rest.’

Crassus seemed slightly relieved to discover that there would be an end to it at some point. ‘And if none of them know the answer?’ the young legate persisted. ‘It seems farfetched that such low peasants would know of the doings of kings.’

Galronus shook his head. ‘They know. That last man knew. You could see it in his eyes - in the defiance and arrogance. He knew, and he took the knowledge with him to his Gods. And if he knew then others do too. Do not be fooled by their rustic appearance. I am Belgae and I know these things - no man in these lands is less than a warrior, no matter how much he kneads the bread.’

Caesar nodded his agreement and the two men turned back to the scene as the third victim, this time a woman, was dropped to the bloody, wet earth on her knees.

‘Where is Ambiorix, king of the Eburones?’

A repeat in translation.

The woman spat a string of words at Caesar and received a slap to the cheek from the knife-wielding legionary. The slap was hard enough to break cheek or jaw, as the loud crack announced, and the woman slumped slightly. Caesar threw a questioning look at the Remi translator, but he shook his head and replied that the woman had simply cursed Caesar for a devil.

‘And now she is useless anyway since she cannot answer through her ruined jaw,’ the general added irritably. At a gesture, the centurion gave the order and her throat was opened.

Fronto watched impassively along with the other officers, including the slightly pale Crassus, while the next few farmers and their wives were brought out, questioned, and executed quickly and efficiently. Crassus muttered his gratitude that the Ninth had been vanguard and therefore given this grisly task, and not his Tenth. Fronto fought the irritation at that last part, but could only echo the young legate’s gratitude that the Tenth had not been set to executing farmers.

Seven dead now, their bodies blazing in the inferno of one of their homes.

Crassus gave a sharp intake of breath as he watched a boy of perhaps seven summers being dragged from the pen. The lad’s parents were shouting desperately and clawing at the hard legionaries holding them back.

‘Where is Ambiorix of the Eburones?’

‘Surely he cannot know?’ Crassus whispered in a hollow voice.

‘Unlikely,’ Antonius nodded, ‘but his parents might, and it could shock some sense into them all.’

Crassus watched in horror as the boy shook, making his throat-cutting a difficult chore, but the legionary was a professional, and held the boy’s head while he was dispatched. The rising wails and shrieks from the corral confirmed the effect this brutal display had had upon the locals.

Caesar gestured, and the centurion gave the commands, but the Remi translator waved his hand and shouted something to Galronus. The cavalry officer turned to Caesar and raised his own arm to pause the string of deaths.

‘Three of the Nervii are shouting Avenna,’ he said quietly.

‘And what is Avenna?’ Caesar asked.

‘The Nervii are quite advanced for a Belgic tribe,’ Galronus said, with what appeared to be grudging respect. ‘Almost as advanced as the Remi,’ he added pointedly. ‘They have a council, like the Roman senate and a capital city like Rome, which is the heart of their tribe. Avenna is less than a day’s march north of here.’

‘Avenna sounds as likely a place to find Ambiorix as anywhere else, then,’ Antonius noted.

‘More likely than most,’ agreed Caesar. ‘Very well.’ He returned his attention to the centurion and raised his voice. ‘End it. We are done here and ready to move on.’

The centurion nodded and began shouting his orders to the men. As the last of the livestock and grain was being loaded, the huts burning down now to orange embers billowing with black smoke, the rest of the villagers were roped together at neck and wrist and sent off with three centuries of men to lead them back to Samarobriva and a future of slavery, the profits of which would supplement the income of the army by a minute sum.

‘It seems almost too good to be true,’ Fronto noted to Antonius. ‘To pin the bugger down so quickly, I mean.’

‘Agreed,’ the other officer replied. ‘With any luck we’ll deal with him in short order and the army can be moved out into garrisons to deal with these various other threats we keep hearing about.’

Fronto nodded, though he couldn’t help but fear that this was far from over yet. Something was still nagging him about that Arverni noble back in Bibracte and the way the man had spoken of Ambiorix. There was mystery wrapped up in all of this and he couldn’t believe it would all be this easy.

 

* * * * *

 

Avenna was, Fronto had to admit, impressive. As far as Gallic or Belgic defended settlements went, it ranked up there with the best. It was not large, being perhaps a third of a mile across at the widest point, and claimed no benefit from the topography, lying fairly low in an area of even lower, featureless ground.

But its defences were solid.

A low earth rampart had been topped with a wall of the type they now knew was typical of the Gallic peoples: constructed from a framework of wooden beams, the outer of which was faced with heavy stones between the supporting timber, the inner backed by a solid, earthen bank, and the framework itself packed throughout with a core of rubble and dirt.

It was a solid system and a good one, very hard to bring down with siege engines.

The oppidum seemed to have been constructed in three sections, with a separate enclosure to the west, consisting of perhaps a quarter of the whole, with its own west-facing gate, while the main enclosure with its southern entrance contained a further individual and double-walled hill at its easternmost edge.

‘Why the three sections?’ Antonius mused.

Fronto, however, had spent years traipsing around similar fortifications all over Gaul. He shrugged. ‘There’s very little uniformity in the Gauls’ settlements, even within the same tribe, so unless you get in and have a look, there’s no knowing for sure, but I’d wager that the separate western enclosure is a sacred druid grove. You can see even from here that there’s no smoke from household fires rising over the top, and there seem to be a lot of treetops there. If not religious, then it’s perhaps some sort of animal and farming compound? The main section is the city itself - you can see the chimney smoke rising. The heavily fortified hill is interesting. I’d expect that’s where their council meets, and their leaders live.’

Antonius nodded. ‘Seems a fair assessment. And here’s mine: this place is too bloody strong by far. It’ll take a week to demolish enough of those defences to get inside in sufficient numbers. The cavalry are no use, and any infantry assault is going to be extremely costly. Have you seen that gate?’

Fronto grunted an affirmative as he squinted into the slightly misty cold air. The huge, heavy walls - easily the height of two men - turned sharply inwards, forming a wide approach to the gatehouse, which was set back some way, providing a killing zone perhaps twenty paces wide and as deep before any attacker could reach the huge double gated entrance with its tower above. An attack there would invite death from a hundred arrows, bullets and rocks. Not that the rest of the defences would be any easier, of course. Antonius was right about the cost in manpower.

‘Then let’s hope we don’t need to breach it then, eh?’

Ahead, Caesar gave the signal and the knot of mounted officers, along with Caesar’s bodyguard under the command of young Ingenuus, trotted out ahead of the slowly assembling army, making for the gate. Fronto glanced to the side to see his own bodyguard drawn up behind Masgava and Palmatus. They looked somewhat unhappy at remaining with the legions, but Fronto had put his foot down and refused to let them join the staff officers. The general kept giving him funny looks and he was sure it was something to do with his new singulares unit. What he really didn’t need at the moment was something else to irritate Caesar. The man still barely acknowledged Fronto’s existence, despite Antonius’ frequent attempts to bring him around. If this went on for much longer, it would hardly be worth remaining in Gaul.

Grumbling under his breath, Fronto rode on with the other officers, sticking close to Priscus and Antonius as they approached the solid, defiant ramparts of the Avenna oppidum. Already the walls were thronged with Nervii, standing with spears or bows and watching the assembling might of the republic on the plain before them. It had to be a daunting sight, and yet there appeared to be no trace of fear or panic emanating from the city.

As the party approached the gatehouse, more and more figures appeared on the ramparts above and around them, and Fronto began to spy that killing zone before the gates with some trepidation. For a moment he wondered whether Caesar intended to ride straight into that deadly space, but then the general held up his hand and the column halted, Ingenuus and three of his men riding to the front to flank their commander.

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then a groan and a series of thumps as the gate was unbarred and swung open ponderously. A small party of Nervii strode out through the portal on foot, armoured in mail and Gallic helmets, with russet coloured or grey or brown woollen trousers and a variety of equally dour tunics and cloaks. They wore little in the way of jewellery or accoutrements, barring a few torcs or arm rings that indicated their noble rank or their worth as warriors. Three men behind them carried standards bearing stylised wolves and boars, and another group held the huge carnyx horns aloft, preparing themselves. Fronto clenched his teeth against what he knew was coming, and just in time, as the horns started blarting out their ‘dying bovine’ song of discord.

Antonius, next to him, paled.

‘If that is their idea of a fanfare, then the whole world should thank us for trying to silence them for good!’

Fronto shook his head. ‘That’s tuneful. You should hear the songs of the Armorican tribes. It’s like a swan trying to swallow a tuba! Or a dog having one inserted from the rear, perhaps.’ He grinned, his teeth grinding slightly.

The party of Nervian nobles stopped some twenty paces from the Romans, safely within the reach of their own archers and right in the centre of the killing zone, Fronto noticed. Whatever you could accuse the Nervii of, they apparently were not daft.

‘Say your piece, Caesar of the Romans, and begone!’ barked out one of the Nervii in surprisingly good Latin. Studying the crowd, Fronto picked out the ubiquitous druid, safely lodged amid the nobles, wearing a dirty grey robe and clutching a staff like some sort of badge of office.

‘Arrogant sods, aren’t they?’ muttered Antonius. ‘Do they not see the thirty thousand men lining up behind us?’

‘Ridiculously, they’re not afraid,’ Fronto replied. ‘Even if there were only ten of them, they’d show no fear. The Belgic tribes are all mad, and the Nervii are the worst of them. You’ve met Galronus, yes?’

Caesar raised himself slightly in the saddle, though he already towered over the horseless Nervian nobles.

‘You afford us neither fear, nor respect,’ he said loudly, ‘not that I expected any such thing. But if you think to turn us away so easily, you are not simply brave, but deluded.’

He waited for the words to sink in. The general always knew how to treat with his opposing numbers, and a meaningful pause was only one weapon in his verbal arsenal.

‘The Nervii have proved themselves to be repetitive enemies of Rome, rising against our armies time and again, despite the fact that we are here legitimately and at the behest of the Gallic assembly. It is the considered advice of many of my better officers and some of the senators of our republic that it is time for the Nervii to be removed from the world of men altogether, and left as nothing but a hollow memory of a people.’

Another pause to let that sink in, and Fronto noted a few heads turning at the implication of these words.

‘I took a significant step towards agreeing with them when news reached me that our great enemy, the traitor king,’ - the word spat almost as an insult - ‘Ambiorix of the Eburones, has entered into negotiations with the Nervii, among other tribes. Since I know that you are aware of the damage dealt to our legions by the traitor only short months ago - you yourself being involved to a great extent - you will know just how much we owe Ambiorix. This army will not stop killing and burning until he is found and made to suffer the consequences of his actions, and anyone who stands in the way of that retribution is begging to become a part of it.’

An uncomfortable silence.

Perhaps, despite their legendary bravery, the Nervii were realising now just how much they were putting their own necks on the line by maintaining an alliance with the fallen Eburones’ king.

‘Despite everything, in the hope that the lands of the Belgae can once more be settled into peace and harmony, I am willing to overlook the treacherous decision of your leaders to ally with this snake. If you deliver him to us - or give us the details of his whereabouts if he is not here - I will personally guarantee the life of each and every occupant of Avenna. If you do not comply, I will not leave this place until the charred remains of the houses are indistinguishable from the charred remains of your tribe. You know me as a man of my word, so consider this your final ultimatum. You have the count of one hundred to oblige or I give the order to cut down, burn, kill, rape and crucify every living thing my legions find in Avenna.’

Fronto found himself nodding at the sense of this. While the ultimatum was brutal and impossibly harsh, with the Nervii little other than the threat of utter annihilation would even make them blink. But Caesar had judged his words carefully before he gave them, and the deliberate, slow delivery had produced the desired effect: the small party of nobles were muttering among themselves. While displaying no obvious fear, they were clearly considering the clear threat to their very existence that the gathering legions posed.

The general turned to his standard bearer, holding aloft the ‘Taurus’ bull emblem of Caesar’s command party. ‘Give them the count out loud. Let’s keep their nerves frayed.’

As the signifer began to count down from one hundred in a loud, clear voice, the activity among the Nervian nobles became a little more frenetic and Antonius grinned. ‘He was always this good at playing people, you know? Even when I was a boy, he had my family at his beck and call.’

‘I know.’ Fronto sighed. ‘Look at the poor bastards. They know they’re done for. They’re just trying to decide whether they have any room to negotiate.’

The signifer had reached ‘thirty six’ when the Nervians turned back to the Roman party and the apparent ‘spokesman’ stepped out front. The druid, Fronto noted, had pushed his way angrily out of the rear of the party and was even now making for the gate.

‘At least we won’t have to make the assault,’ Antonius sighed with relief.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ Priscus muttered from behind them, and Fronto could only nod his agreement. Somehow he couldn’t see Caesar simply walking away from this.

The Nervian leader cleared his throat. ‘Since, though you are a low, murderous Roman beast, you are also noted as a man of your word, and you have vouchsafed the lives of our people, the council authorises me to inform you that your enemy Ambiorix is not at Avenna. He has not visited this place at all, but his small party of ambassadors approached our lands and treatied with us at the town of Asadunon, which is two days north of here, close to the border of our lands. Whether or not he was among them, we are not certain, but it is very likely the ambassadors remain there still. This is all the knowledge of them we have for you, and it is given freely in return for your clemency.’

Caesar smiled then and Fronto, catching the corner of it from one side, recognised that smile. He took a deep breath.

‘Prepare yourselves. Here it comes.’

Antonius turned a frown on him just as Caesar opened his mouth with his reply to the Nervii.

‘Do not mistake my offer for childish clemency, Nervian. I did not guarantee your freedom… just your lives.’

Turning away from the falling faces of the Belgic nobles, who were just now realising what they had done, Caesar gave his clear orders to the entire staff and all the senior officers assembled on the plain loudly enough to be heard even over the walls and inside the oppidum.

‘Take Avenna. Do not kill any man, woman or child unless they offer you resistance. When you have the town, chain every last occupant for the slave markets of Narbonensis, commandeer everything of value, butcher the animals, impound the grain and have everything shipped back to Samarobriva.’

The Nervii were blustering now, shouting imprecations and accusing Caesar of breaking his word. The general turned to them with an arched eyebrow.

‘I do not break my vows. Ever! I vouchsafed your lives and you have them, under the conditions I have set. If you resist, however, I am absolved, as you are committing suicide. Now you have my conditions, do not test me further.’

Without further exchange, Caesar turned his horse.

The first few arrows began to come, loosed by archers on the gate tower or the nearby walls, sent without the need of orders from a noble. Ingenuus and his cavalry threw up their shields to protect the general, but he was already almost out of range, having carefully stopped for the parlay at a distance that would render arrows largely harmless.

As the group moved back towards the army, the Praetorian horsemen sheltering their rear ranks, the Nervii rushed back into their gate and the huge timber portal began to close. Caesar turned to Antonius.

‘They will resist, of course. You have a solid reputation, Antonius - built upon your years in the east - for ending engagements quickly and decisively. Take Avenna for me. Do it quickly and with as few losses as possible.’

Marcus Antonius nodded to his friend and commander, and turned to the rest of the staff as the general rode off to where other members of his guard were overseeing the erection of his headquarters tent.

‘Alright. You heard the general. We need to take Avenna quick and easy. I need ideas.’

 

* * * * *

 

‘This wasn’t what I had in mind when I said he needed a small force.’ Fronto eyed the soldiers around him.

‘We are a small force’ Palmatus replied with a shrug.

‘I was thinking more like three centuries to a cohort. Not less than twenty men who barely know each other.’

‘How did you get volunteered for this?’

‘Sort of by accident. Antonius asked for ideas. I gave him one, but he thought it was mad and unfeasible. I tried to convince him it could be done and next thing I know, I’m being told to make it happen. In the old days Caesar would either have listened to me and given me a full unit to command or given me a flat no. Antonius is an odd one. Unpredictable, I’d say.’

‘Priscus reckons he’s dangerous,’ Palmatus added quietly.

‘He might be right. But there’s no denying that he’s also good at what he does.’

‘Sounds like someone else we all know.’

‘Shut up.’

Fronto looked around at the men once again.

He had just shy of two contubernia of soldiers, with his friends commanding one each.

Palmatus’ squad of eight men consisted of hand-picked and dangerous legionaries from the Tenth - and one from the Eighth who had been recommended as a homicidal lunatic, which had sparked Palmatus’ interest enough to give him a try out. The former legionary had settled on a unit of traditional soldiers, for all their oddities, since he knew the drill and the commands well.

Masgava’s squad consisted of three Gauls drawn from the auxiliary cavalry, two Cretan archers from Decius’ auxiliary cohort, a slinger from a Balearic cohort and an engineer from the Ninth who had been with the army since the action at Geneva five years ago and had been involved in nearly every project since. There was still one space left in the contubernium, but he and Fronto had decided to leave it empty until he could locate Biorix, who would likely still be serving with the Thirteenth.

So in all: eighteen men, himself included. Against the most important and best fortified city of the most dangerous tribe among the clearly battle-mad Belgae. The more he thought about it, the more deranged it sounded.

Still, he had insisted himself into this situation, and now there was a certain amount of professional pride involved. He knew it could be done, and so now he had to prove it, not just to Antonius the disbeliever, or even to himself. But to Caesar. The old man might be made to reconsider his position if Fronto gave him Avenna.

The small knot of men - a motley collection to be sure - stood in a low, tree-lined dell, where a trickle of spring water flowed into a stream, a weathered, unrecognisable shapeless lump of an ancient Gaulish deity overseeing the flow. A sacred spring. For luck, Fronto pulled the small figurine of Fortuna from his neckline, kissed it, splashed sacred water over it and then dropped it back onto the thong beneath his tunic.

He was unarmoured. In fact, he wore no helm and carried no shield, clad in only a drab tunic and with his sword on the baldric - just like the rest of his unconventional singulares. This action was about being fast and quiet, not slow and well-defended. His gaze played across the other fourteen figures in the dell. He had tried to remember names, but he’d only been introduced to them twice, and simply could not hold them. He knew there was a man called Quietus, because the irony of taking him on a crazed hectic night-time raid was not lost on him, but he couldn’t remember which one he was. He had the suspicion, with ever increasing irony, that he was the big fellow who kept snorting his runny nose and appeared to have a permanent twitch.

The missing three men were even now on their way back. He could hear them moving through the undergrowth, light as cats, recognisable only because he was expecting them and because they were making the strange ‘kua kua’ noise of the little crakes that inhabited the lower swampy areas of the region.

The trio of native riders had been the obvious men to send out as scouts and had disappeared on their mission half an hour ago, and it was with a great sense of relief that Fronto watched them appear through the brush and slide down into the hollow, pausing only to make a brief devotion at the spring and take a sip of water before reporting to Fronto.

‘How is it?’

‘Poorly defended.’ One of the scouts scratched a map in the dirt with a stick, drawing the three circles of the settlement’s walls, two linked like a figure 8 and a third within the eastern, larger, loop. He pointed to the one at the west. ‘You were correct in your thoughts, sir. It is a nemeton - a sanctuary of the shepherds. There are three buildings only, and a grove that is still used. The ramparts are guarded by men from the main city, but widely-spaced. They do not apparently consider it important to defend. They know it is separated from the city itself by a wall.’

‘And that is true,’ Fronto smiled. ‘But it is a mental weak spot. They will not expect an attack to come through there. Two things bother me, and two things only. How do you three feel about mounting an attack through this ‘nemeton’?’

The three Remi horsemen shrugged. To the Remi, the Nervii would be more of an enemy than Rome could ever be. Until Caesar had brought the army here, the tribes of the Belgae had spent hundreds of years at war with each other. And the Remi may still respect the druid class, but these were Nervii druids.

‘Good. And you two?’ He looked across at the archers. ‘How fast can you get a fire arrow off?’

‘With a ready-prepared arrow, a count of twenty at most.’

‘Impressive. Try to be faster. Time will likely be an issue.’

He looked around at everyone again. ‘Alright. Is everyone happy with their tasks?’

There were a variety of nods and mumbled affirmatives and he took a deep breath. ‘Let’s do it then.’

With no further words - there would be no more speech until stealth was no longer an issue - the group scurried out of the dell and through the scrub land. The shadows were now becoming intermixed and almost indistinguishable in the fading light. The timing had been very carefully selected. Dusk would help mask their movements, given the sparse cover that nature had afforded them, and the men on the walls would be weary, their eyes tired, and less alert than usual. Plus Roman forces attacked during the light - usually working from dawn, so no one would expect this.

But it had to be done quickly. The scouts had had the reasonable light to work by. Now the attack would go ahead in the dim hazy indigo of evening. But they had to achieve their goal while there was still enough light for Antonius to bring the army to bear.

Moving from tree to tree and ducking behind scrub, trying to stick to the hollows afforded by streams or natural ditches, the motley assault moved across the flatland towards the western end of the oppidum. Squinting as he went, Fronto finally started to see the walls more clearly and could pick out the men on watch there. He smiled in gratitude. The druidic grove was indeed sparsely guarded, with only three men visible from this southern approach. Three men. Perfect. Thank you, Fortuna.

On and on they crept, as fast as they dared - the natives faster than Fronto would have recommended, but still they closed on the ramparts without an alarm going up, and Fronto found himself gripping the figurine on the thong through his tunic, mouthing prayers and offers as they moved.

Masgava gave a silent hand signal and the attack separated into three groups, one peeling off to the left and the other right, six men in each group, including one missile weapon and one native. Fronto followed the one to the right, the man in front of him a stocky legionary with a rope coiled over his shoulder - again one of three. The engineer from the Ninth, Fronto noted. Iuvenalis, he seemed to remember suddenly.

His world had then shrunk from an attack of eighteen men to an assault by six. He realised that the archers had gone off the other ways and his unit was relying on the slinger. Some might say slingers were less effective, but Fronto had nearly had his brains knocked out of his head with a slingshot twice now, and he would disagree. The Remi scout led the group, the slinger behind, then two lithe and dangerous looking legionaries that he vaguely recognised, followed by the engineer, and then him.

It took what appeared to be only a couple of dozen heartbeats to reach position behind an ailing yew tree and its surrounding undergrowth, and the Remi gave another little crake call. It was answered in only a few heartbeats by a ‘kua kua’ from somewhere nearby, out of sight. A heart-stoppingly long pause was finally followed by a third call.

No sooner had that final noise risen than the Spaniard who had been crouched near the tree, bullet already in his sling, rose and whipped it round just once, his arm coming up and over as he released the cord at the top of the arc. It amazed Fronto to watch a skilled slinger at work, and there were no better than those drawn from the Balearic Islands. Youths and the unskilled would whirl the damn thing round for hours, making a ‘whup-whup’ noise. Even the damned treacherous tribune Hortius a couple of years ago had whirled it three times before striking Fronto, but a truly skilled professional would be able to rotate it just once, the only sound being the faint flap of the loosened thong after and the hum of the bullet through the air.

The figure on the rampart disappeared instantly, thrown backwards by the blow to the face, most certainly dead before his feet left the ground. As Fronto strained to look left, the next man had also gone and even as he squinted he saw the third vanish silently, a shaft - invisible at this distance - through his throat.

The wall was clear.

Without the need for commands, the engineer with the rope ran forward and uncoiled it, holding the end near the iron grapple - a naval design, but put to good use here too. With a few test swings, the soldier heaved the rope up over the rampart. Fronto couldn’t see the other groups, but the engineer with his party was clearly an expert, and the grapple caught and held, even when he tested his considerable bulk on it. Pulling it taut, he nodded to the Remi scout, who grasped hold and began to climb fast, hand over hand and legs dangling.

Fronto hated climbing ropes. Always had. It was one of the few exercises Masgava had had him doing last year that he truly loathed. But now, at least, he was grateful for the practice.

By the time the Remi had reached the top - Fronto mentally noted that he must learn these men’s names - the engineer was already on his way up and the slinger was spitting on his hands and rubbing them ready for the climb.

Fronto, determined not to be that officer who was ‘just along for the ride’, made sure he was next, before the other two legionaries, and as the slinger, light, lithe and energetic, neared the top of the rope, Fronto grasped and began to haul.

Once more he marvelled over the difference last year’s fitness regime with Masgava had made. As he struggled up the rope, using his feet and his hands both to pull and push, he considered how two years ago he would never have stood a chance of making it to the top, let alone quickly and without exhausting himself.

As he reached the parapet, one of the men reached out and helped him over onto the rampart top, where he stayed in a crouch and scanned the area. The same was happening at the other two assault points. Because there was a good chance that other guards across the compound were watching the walls occasionally, the Remi scouts were standing, taking the position of the dead defenders, while the others crouched out of sight.

The area enclosed by this rampart was heavily green and wooded, with a small cluster of huts near a clearing at the centre, where rituals were presumably carried out. It was empty, apparently, or at least the priestly inhabitants were safely ensconced in their residences. The far rampart had men spaced wide-apart along it, around to the western and northern sides, but no alarm had been given. There was only one single guard on the wall between the nemeton area and the main town, and he appeared to be slumped, possibly asleep, but certainly inattentive in any case.

Where the two walled areas’ ramparts joined, Fronto had expected some sort of barrier, given the lack of a gate between the two enclosures, but it seemed he was in luck. The wall carried on uninterrupted from where he crouched all the way to the main gate, though the concentration of men increased there.

Even as he was turning to give a signal, he realised it was unnecessary. The parties that had scaled the walls further along were already in motion, led by the irrepressible Masgava and Palmatus. The Remi scouts remained in position to allay any suspicion while the other ten men scuttled along the wall to join him, keeping low and in the shadows.

In a matter of twenty heartbeats, fourteen men were gathered around Fronto and moving off, drawing their weapons with a quiet rasp and leaving the three Remi standing silent and still in position.

A thrill throbbed in Fronto’s blood and he realised only as he caught the worried expression of the legionary next to him that he was probably grinning like a jackal, or possibly a wolf. He was right where he should be at last, after almost two years of faffing about, and even more than that of meddling in political chicanery. He was in the midst of combat. He had trouble stifling the laugh that almost burst from him. The legionary next to him afforded him a couple of feet of extra space, in the manner that sane men avoid the mad.

He didn’t care.

The party of fifteen soldiers burst onto the main town’s defences like a wave breaking over rocks, overrunning the two guards standing closest, who hardly had the chance to see their death approach in the failing, dim light. Fronto felt his blade meet the resistance of only tunic and cloak before sliding between ribs and tearing the life from the Nervian guard, while his other hand went around the head and clamped over his mouth to prevent the cry. The next guard along the wall opened his mouth to yell a warning and toppled backwards, a dark arrow shaft jutting from his eye socket.

Other Nervii were trying to bring weapons to bear and shout out a warning, but Masgava was faster than any of them, dispatching one with a backhanded strike across the neck as he ran and then ploughing the other down to the wall top, knocking all the breath from him and killing him with one masterful blow. Behind him, legionaries moved to take care of others. Palmatus was pointing out targets before he himself slammed open the door to the tower above the gate and rushed inside.

They were here! It had sounded like an impossible task, as far as Antonius was concerned.

A cry went up from the wall at the far side, but they’d reached the tower above the gate. The game was up and they were discovered, but it no longer mattered. Two legionaries were busy putting down another guard.

‘Now!’ he yelled.

With the professionalism and discipline of the Roman military, his force split off and splintered. The archers and the slinger disappeared into the tower, along with another legionary, fast on the heels of Palmatus. Two brief squawks within announced the success of the Roman officer, and then two of the missile troops appeared at the openings, loosing arrows and bullets down at any defender they could see. The third was not visible for a long moment, but then finally appeared, his arrow blazing with golden fire as he drew his bow string back and released. The fiery shaft shot up into the air, trailing smoke like a comet.

Fronto and the engineer took up positions on the wall, to either side of the tower, preparing to hold the gate top from any more Nervii coming along the wall, which they would be doing in force as soon as the alarm had spread throughout Avenna and they had mobilised a stronger defence. The three Remi were now on their way to lend a hand, and the remaining legionaries split into two groups of four and descended the rear slope of the rampart, Masgava leading them as they rushed the men on duty at the gate below. The four Nervii on the ground had no chance, and were butchered with little resistance. Fronto peered over the edge and realised that he had lost two of those men in the assault, but Palmatus and three others were standing in an arc, preparing to meet the Nervii from the city, who were approaching with a roar, somewhere back among the houses, while the other two heaved open the gates.

A pained cry drew his attention and he looked along the wall to see that the three Remi scouts had run into a little trouble, one of them on the floor, yelping and clutching his stomach. The other two finished off their attacker and then granted their companion a mercy blow, finishing him off before running on to join Fronto at the gate,

The sound of the approaching legions began to rise above the action at the walls, and the rhythmic beat was a balm to him. Antonius, true to his word, had had the Ninth and Tenth poised ready to move at the signal, and even before the fire arrow had touched the ground the first cohorts were approaching the gate.

The Nervii were coming from inside. The legions were coming from outside.

It might appear to be a race, but Fronto knew better. The Nervii were unprepared and would be coming in dribs and drabs as they armed. The gatehouse and its killing zones were designed for easy defence and it would be just as easy for them to defend as for the Nervii. They would hold until the army were through. And then it would be easy. And bloody.

Fronto laughed like a man possessed.