Chapter Fourteen

 

Hillside in Treveri lands.

 

Andesaros of the Treveri brushed aside the stray braid that continually hovered on the periphery of his vision and sat on a wide, flat rock, peering down into the valley ahead. Behind him, his warbands took advantage of the pause in the journey to eat, drink, share jokes and boast about what they would do to the Romans when they had overwhelmed them.

Two small groups had broken off from the sizeable army and were making their way forward to him. One of his loyal bodyguards stepped close to him, putting a meaty hand on this hilt of his sword, but Andesaros waved him away negligently. It was only the other two chieftains come to interfere yet again. Besides, what use were these impressive bodyguards? They hadn’t done much to save his uncle’s life, after all. There was in fact every chance that this big man fondling his sword pommel was one of those who had attempted to claim Roman gold for Indutiomarus’ head. Andesaros had long-since decided to keep such men at a good distance, relying on his own solitude, wits and reflexes rather than the muscle of others.

‘Why have we stopped?’ snapped Dunohorix of the Mediomatrici, sliding from the back of his horse angrily. ‘Every hour we stop for something. You promised us Roman blood and Roman spoils!’

Behind him, also dismounting, Solemnis of the Tribocci was nodding his agreement. Solemnis was a weasel who simply agreed with whichever greater man stood next to him at the time, but Dunohorix was a necessity. Without him, the army would halve.

‘My scouts ride back at speed, see? I would know what spurs them to such pace before I walk into it.’

The Mediomatrici chieftain harrumphed, but fell silent and stood poised. Unity was needed and they all knew it. Soon, the tribes from across the Rhenus would join them, and their ranks would swell immensely, but the three chieftains would have to work in close consort or risk losing control of the army to the madmen of the Suevi and their battle-crazed allies. Once or twice, Andesaros had regretted accepting that lunatic Ambiorix’s advice and making pacts with the dogs from across the river. He had almost ten thousand men right now, with the elements of the other two tribes added to his own. He should be able to destroy that one legion easily without the aid of the Germanic lunatics, but Ambiorix had been cautious and talked him into a treaty that would seriously diminish potential spoils and glory, but would treble the size of his army. Whatever it took. His uncle would be avenged. This ‘Labienus’ - a womanish peace-lover’ they said - would pay for the dishonourable demise of Indutiomarus, beheaded in a ford by traitors with a lust for Roman coin.

‘How far are we from the legion?’ Solemnis asked, betraying what sounded like a hint of nerves to Andesaros.

‘Four hours,’ he replied calmly. ‘Across the river on a rise.’

The men fell silent once more, waiting as the four scouts galloped across the open grassland and up the slope towards the leaders of the army. Andesaros stood and smoothed his clothes, making sure his torc and arm rings were in clear view.

‘My lord,’ the lead scout greeted him, bowing his head in the saddle. The other three followed suit, breathing heavily from their ride.

‘What news do you bring me?’ he demanded of the men.

‘The crows gather, my lord.’ The scout gestured off to the west. ‘More legions approach, along with artillery, supply wagons and their traitorous Gaul allies.’

Andesaros closed his eyes for a moment.

‘What now?’ demanded Solemnis of the Tribocci in a voice edged with panic.

‘Yes,’ sneered Dunohorix. ‘What now, leader of warriors?’

Andesaros sighed. ‘How far away are these new legions?’

‘A day, lord, maybe two.’

The chieftain pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘An estimate of numbers?’

‘Fifteen thousand at a guess, with support.’

‘Too many for us,’ Solemnis trembled.

‘Without the tribes beyond the Rhenus,’ nodded Dunohorix. How far away are your Germanic friends?’

‘Who can say? Who can ever predict the Suevi? They could be beyond that rise or still by the river.’ He sighed and straightened. ‘But the Romans do not know we are coming, so we are not pressed for time. We cannot run the risk of being overwhelmed, and we are still a good distance from the Roman camp, so we shall wait here for our allies before we commit.’ He gestured to the scouts. ‘Keep track of the Roman reinforcements, but send out men to the east and north. I want to know where the Suevi are and how soon they will be here.’

As the scouts nodded again and turned their mounts to carry out the orders, Dunohorix narrowed his eyes at Andesaros. ‘We could destroy the Romans and leave before their reinforcements arrive. And they might already be aware of us. They seem to know everything.’

‘Calm yourself,’ the Treveri’s new leader smiled. ‘With only a small advantage in numbers we could end up mired in a siege like my uncle did, and would then be at the mercy of their new legions. They do not know of us, my friend. I have men among the horse in their camp. I know their thoughts and moves before they do. We stay here, wait for the Suevi, and then we wipe this Labienus from the land forever.’

 

* * * * *

 

‘I am giving serious thought to having you strapped into your cot,’ snapped Labienus, watching the grey face of Baculus as he stumped across the mud towards them.

‘I heard a commotion, sir. Horses too.’

Labienus nodded wearily. ‘Scouts have arrived with news.’

‘Important news. It sounds to me, sir, like you’re mobilising the legion for war.’

‘I am, Baculus. But I am not mobilising the hospital. Your presence will not be required.’

‘But…’

‘Stay here, centurion. That is an order which I will not see disobeyed.’

Baculus sagged, only partially intentionally. ‘The Treveri?’

‘Yes, centurion. The Treveri.’

‘I warned against leniency.’

‘Yes, thank you, Baculus. I stand by my decision. Because it failed in this instance does not necessarily make it the wrong decision.’

‘We can beat them?’ Baculus enquired, assuming this was the case, given the legion’s mobilisation.

‘I very much hope so, centurion. My spies in their camp tell me they are but fifteen miles from here and they outnumber us by perhaps two-to-one.’

‘Sounds like a dangerous option to me, sir,’ Baculus muttered.

‘It is an informed decision, centurion. My scouts also tell me that two legions - the Seventh under Plancus and the Ninth under Trebonius - are perhaps a matter of hours away to the west, but other scouts also tell me that a force of Germanic warriors that outnumber them are also hours away to the northeast. Thus it becomes something of a race. I am working on the assumption that the Germanic tribes are coming at the behest of the Treveri, and if I can remove those Treveri from this equation before they get here, I can perhaps prevent a bloodbath on a scale none of us really want to witness. I face twice my number now, or at best we end up besieged in camp by nightfall, with three legions against fifty thousand men - that’s at best. At the worst the Germans get here first and we end up trapped, with the other legions unable to reach us. You see? My decision is rather made for me. We march out to defeat the Treveri while we can and send out riders to the reinforcement legions to join us with all haste.’

Baculus nodded unhappily. ‘The odds are still not good. You would be better with a few veteran centurions among your number, sir.’

‘I have them, Baculus. Just get back to your cot and get better. You still look like the recently-excavated dead.’

Baculus shook his head miserably and turned, tottering a little, to head back towards his sick bed, listening to the sounds of the legion and their support and auxilia preparing for the march. The idea of them moving into battle without him was unbearable.

Labienus had better flatten the whole damn tribe this time.

 

* * * * *

 

Quadratus peered off into the distance, watching the hillside beyond the river, where several thousand Gallic warriors were encamped. They were perhaps half a mile away, with the deep, fast river cutting through the land half way between them, creating a dangerous barrier, with its steep slopes on both banks and the torrent at the bottom. Even though it was officially a ford, he wouldn’t want to try crossing it on foot, especially within range of the enemy. Any attempt to cross in sight of the opposition was doomed to heavy casualties, which was why both armies were arrayed within plain sight, and yet neither moved.

Around him, the army was still manoeuvring, preparing for battle. The legion had settled into cohorts in preparation, standing in ordered rows with gleaming mail and bright shields presented towards an enemy who showed no signs of movement. The auxiliary cavalry were in position, Quadratus among them, to one side and near the front of a field with a gentle slope the river, bounded by trees and scrub and a low rise behind.

Quadratus was nervous. From what he heard, there were many thousands of blood-hungry Suevi bearing down on them, and two legions somewhere close by. Labienus had sent riders out to the Seventh and Ninth and Quadratus has assumed the others were to join them here for the attack. And yet there had been no sign of the reinforcements, though they’d had ample time to meet up. Had they been directed to the camp instead, in case the Suevi hit there while the army was absent? He had asked Labienus, but the commander had simply smiled knowingly and tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial manner as was his wont.

‘I don’t like this.’

The cavalry decurion close by frowned. ‘Sir?’

‘We’re outnumbered and our reinforcements have disappeared into thin air. Half the Germanic nations are descending on us and we prepare for battle here. The Treveri won’t attack across that river. They’d have to be insane to try it. So what do we do? Sit here and wait until the Suevi arrive to carve us into small pieces?’

The decurion nodded nervously.

‘And this terrain?’ Quadratus grumbled. ‘Facing the river on a slope towards the enemy, but with the hill and the woods at our rear. It’s almost as though Labienus is trying to sacrifice us all.’

‘The commander always knows what he’s doing, sir.’

‘I certainly hope so. We’ve been here over an hour. If the Treveri were going to attack, they’d have done so by now, while we were still manoeuvring into position and setting up. With the Suevi closing every moment, the situation is getting untenable. We’re going to have to decamp soon and return to the fort, else we’ll be butchered here.’

‘Here he comes, sir.’

Quadratus straightened as he saw Labienus walking his horse forward to where the cavalry sat on the periphery of the army. ‘Sir,’ he saluted as the senior commander approached.

‘What do you think?’ Labienus asked, his voice clear and unshaken.

Quadratus could almost have kicked the man. To display apparent indecision in front of the ordinary soldiers was never a good move for morale, but in front of the native horse, it could lead to mass desertion.

‘Sir?’

‘What do you think? I am thinking that they will not come for us?’

Quadratus, teeth grinding, nodded. ‘Could have told you that earlier, sir. They have no reason to. Our reinforcements are nowhere to be seen, but the Suevi cannot be more than an hour or two away. All the Treveri have to do is sit tight on that hill and watch us die.’

Labienus took a deep breath and turned it into a sigh. ‘I am beginning to think you are right. We are endangering ourselves with every breath we wait here. Time to return to the fort and hope the other legions join us before the Treveri and their Germanic allies.’

He raised his hand in defeat.

‘Very well, give the orders. We fall back.’

Quadratus, his eyes burning with irritation, nodded and began to give the orders. As his signifers, musicians and decurions relayed the commands, Labienus waved to him.

‘Walk with me, Quadratus.’

The cavalry prefect walked his horse forward as the commander began to amble gently back across the field, the legions already responding to signals and turning, marching back across the slope towards the rise and the woods, beyond which, at some fourteen miles distance, lay their fort. What a disastrous waste of effort. Quadratus could almost scream with frustration.

‘You disapprove of my decisions, prefect?’

‘Never, sir.’ Yes… yes I do!

‘And despite having served under my command for more than a season, you do not think to question why I push for such pointless advances only to abandon my position and retreat without forcing the issue?’

‘Sir?’

‘Quadratus, I never do anything uninformed or without serious contemplation of all possible results first. Unfortunately, I cannot always make my intentions clear, even to such as yourself.’

Quadratus frowned again as they approached the rear edge of the field, where the army was already moving away from the river, across the ridge and back towards the fort.

‘Respectfully, sir, if you’re going to metaphorically pull a dove out of my arse, I would appreciate enough warning to metaphorically drop my underwear first.’

Labienus barked out a laugh and kicked his horse into a slightly faster pace as he rose to the crest of the hill. Grumbling, Quadratus joined him, and stopped suddenly at the hill top.

‘What? Where?’

‘Your next questions, I think, will be when and how, since the who is plain?’ Labienus chuckled as the pair looked down upon the bulk of the Seventh and Ninth legions arrayed for battle, safely out of sight of the Treveri beyond the river, the ridge keeping them obscured. ‘The ‘what’ is fifteen cohorts drawn from the Seventh and Ninth, along with their artillery hidden in the treeline. The auxilia and five more cohorts have returned to secure our fort and accompany the whole of Caesar’s baggage train that is now entrusted to us. The ‘where’ is safely out of sight of the Treveri. The ‘when’ is all the time we’ve been setting up, they have already been ready to fall into place. They arrived immediately after us from the south, unnoticed. And the ‘how’? Well, I think that’s obvious. Dispatch riders organised everything. Now the Twelfth will fall into position with them, and three legions will await the Treveri attack.’

‘What attack?’ bumbled Quadratus, feeling as though a rug had been whipped out from under his feet.

‘That, my friend, is why I could not inform you of my plans. Just as I have my spies and scouts among the Treveri and the Mediomatrici, this new king has his spies among our Gallic auxilia under your command. Everything had to look natural to them, so I relied upon your fury and irritation at my decisions translating nicely to them. Even now, half a dozen of your riders will have slipped away from your units and taken news of the authenticity of our fearful retreat to the Treveri. They will, of course, want to deal with us before we can get safely behind fort walls.’

‘A feint? This whole thing has been a giant feint?’

‘Indeed. I wondered over the past few weeks whether to weed out the spies in our ranks. My own spies have identified a number of theirs, of course. But it struck me that misinformation could be more useful than securing our own information.’ He smiled at the exasperated prefect. ‘Now. If you would be so good, Quadratus, perhaps you can reform your cavalry in the space we have left over to the right side of the slope. But signals only. No horns or whistles. Let’s keep the Treveri completely in the dark, eh?’

Quadratus shook his head in wonder and let out a relieved laugh.

‘It’ll be my pleasure, sir.’

 

* * * * *

 

Andesaros gave a satisfied smile.

‘You hear that, Dunohorix? Solemnis? The Roman commander retires to his fort in defeat. Our Suevi allies close on him and he finds himself in grave danger. Now he must seek the safety of his walls and the legions that are likely converging there.’

‘If they reach the fort, we will have to dig them out,’ Dunohorix grumbled. ‘It will be hard. Like opening a stubborn oyster with one hand. And all the glory and loot will fall to the Suevi. We will have nothing to show for throwing our support behind you. Ambiorix continues to steer us wrong.’

‘Not if we take them now,’ Andesaros said calmly.

‘What?’ Solemnis looked more nervous than ever.

‘The weather is good. It has been dry for some time so the ground is good. We have hours ‘til dark. The river banks will be solid, for all they are steep, and the river is lower than it has been for many months. The Romans are in disarray and on the retreat. My spies tell me that their morale is poor and their belief in their commander is waning. We will fall upon their retreating numbers. Even if they manage to reach the safety of their walls, they will have lost half their number by then, including…’ he smiled and stressed the last part as he scoured the eyes of his fellow chieftains, ‘their support wagons and supplies, which are always at the rear, slower than the rest.’

‘We could crush them,’ Dunohorix smiled grimly.

‘We can. Rouse your men. Promise them Roman blood and Roman treasure once more. Then join us. We charge at once. We must move fast to catch them while they are far from safety.’

He watched the two chieftains run back to their men. Revenge was in his grasp. His uncle’s ignominious death would be paid back ten thousand-fold. And the Treveri, over whom he still had only the most tenuous grasp, could be made to accept him as their true and only king, forged in battle against Rome.

Today was a fine day for the kin of Indutiomarus and the nation of the Treveri.

 

* * * * *

 

Ianuarius hauled on the wheel, turning it despite the massive resistance it put up. His arms had grown muscular in the two years he had served with the Ninth, and there was little weight he could not manage when required. With a grunt, he gave another half-turn and his fellow artillerist snicked the lock into place.

‘Which one?’

The young fellow, more of an assistant than a companion engineer, sounded enthusiastic as he peered between the branches.

With a roar, the Treveri force had seethed across the river mere moments earlier. Ianuarius’ ballista had been the last to be settled into position, and he had worried that he wouldn’t have time to set it up before the volleys began. It had been a near thing.

‘No one if you don’t put the bloody bolt in the groove!’

The young recruit flushed in embarrassment and dropped the heavy iron projectile into the slot, wedging it up against the mechanism.

‘So which one?’

‘Always make the first shot count, Marcius. It’s the only shot you’ll get where you have the luxury of aiming and the opportunity to be careful. Subsequent shots can just be ploughed into the bulk of the men, but the first one should always be a good one. First choice will always be an officer for preference. If one doesn’t present itself, then a good warrior. You can always identify them by the quality of their armour. Look for a lot of bronze or iron and some sort of decorative helmet crest. Horsemen are easiest, of course, but sometimes a great warrior on foot is more important than an ordinary horseman. So be choosy. At first.’

Ianuarius lifted the heavy artillery piece and swivelled it, sighting down the timber and estimating distance.

‘See him, there?’ he pointed.

The young soldier shook his head and shrugged.

‘Him with the bronze helmet. There’s a boar standard near him and he’s well-dressed. A leader, he is. Good first choice. About three hundred paces. Difficult, but quite achievable.’ His tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as he made minute adjustments that would look virtually invisible to the young engineer next to him.

‘Now. Get it locked in.’

The assistant locked the ballista into place vertically and Ianuarius swivelled it a couple of finger widths left and right, and then squinted between the leaves and aimed.

The enemy had almost reached the crest of the ridge when the single horn blast echoed out through the afternoon air.

Ianuarius released the bolt and was already beginning to winch the tension back into the machine while the bolt was in the air, nodding to the assistant to select a second missile.

 

* * * * *

 

Andesaros of the Treveri urged his men on up to the ridge with imprecations and exhortations to battle and glory, citing the womanly cowardice of Rome and the fear with which they carried themselves from battle with the glorious warriors of the Treveri.

With a thrill of battle-hunger and the golden glow of vengeance fulfilled, he crested the rise across which the fleeing legionaries had passed mere heartbeats earlier.

And his future changed before his very eyes.

Rank after rank after rank of Romans stood implacable and immobile, their shields presented in a solid line, their dreadful javelins already raised and held at the shoulder, awaiting the command. There were so many of them that Andesaros simply could not wrap his thoughts around their presence, let alone how quickly they had reformed to meet him and his tribe.

One thing was instantly clear:

They had lost before the first blow was struck.

He gave a shout to his signallers, and the carnyxes began to wail out the retreat, standards waving to direct the Treveri back to the river. As he turned to take in the whole, disastrous scene, he saw Dunohorix of the Mediomatrici lifted from his horse, a Roman artillery bolt tearing a wide hole through his chest and casting him aside like a child’s raggy doll, the missile’s momentum hardly slowed as it carried on and passed into the shoulder of a warrior behind him.

Andesaros blinked.

More and more bolts and stones were whipping out of the bushes and trees to either side, the clatter of releasing ballistae joined by the thump of loosing catapults. He knew the sounds well from many previous battles. He knew what they would do.

A huge warrior clad in bronze and iron rushed towards the fallen Mediomatrici leader, and then suddenly he was gone. Or at least half of him was, the onager shot - a shaped rock more than a hand-span wide - striking him in the back, smashing the spine to fragments and neatly separating the body in two halves, the top of which disappeared off into the mass of panicked warriors.

Andesaros turned to the far side, confirming that more hidden artillery were releasing from the treeline to that edge of the field. His eyes picked out the panicked shouts of Solemnis of the Tribocci, shrieking at his men to flee the field. Briefly, he caught the young chieftain’s eyes and recoiled at the accusation they launched at him. Then, Solemnis too was gone, an iron bolt smashing through him and driving him from his horse.

‘Retreat!’ he bellowed.

A sound behind him made his blood run cold. Though he could not translate the Latin words, he knew it for what it was, given that it was repeated along the line by every officer of the legions and followed by the noise of a thousand men tensing.

He turned and dived from his horse, using the men around him and his own steed as cover from the horrible, deadly rain of pila that arced up into the air, seemed to hang there for dreadful heartbeats, and then plunged down among the panicked, pushing and shouting mob.

Andesaros struggled to his feet, and then found himself tumbling to the ground once more when a disgruntled warrior of his own distant kin snarled and gave him a hard punch to the jaw. As he floundered on the floor, the warrior spat on him and ran for the river.

This would be a difficult loss to recover his position from.

There would have to be a lot of casting of blame elsewhere. Fortunately, both other leaders were dead, and Ambiorix gone north somewhere, saying he sought the Segni for his alliance. Blame would be easy to apportion with such little of it falling upon his own shoulders. As long as he could leave the field safely, he could rally those who survived.

Again, he picked himself up and dusted down his muddied tunic, casting a brief glance back at the legions, now marching on the Treveri at an unstoppable pace.

His world went crimson, then black, and ended.

 

* * * * *

 

‘See that?’ Ianuarius grinned at his assistant. ‘Two nobles in one fight. And that one through the neck. Bet you couldn’t match that in a month of trying.’ He turned and bellowed to his equal, aiming the next ballista along. ‘See that, Petreius? Two! You owe me two jars of wine, you old cheapskate.’

 

* * * * *

 

Quadratus sat ahorse expectantly, his eyes on Labienus, waiting for the command. The legions had crossed the ridge, driving the Treveri before them in panic, their leaders dead already. The cavalry would likely be required for mopping up - chasing down the survivors and bringing them back, but with the narrowness of the ford area, they would not be expected to move until the infantry were not blocking the field.

The legate of the Twelfth, lieutenant of Caesar and commander of the southern forces in Gaul, smiled and walked his horse over casually.

‘Prefect?’

‘Sir.’

‘Would you be so good as to take your horse and harry the enemy for a good few miles? Make them regret their decision. No need to bend over backwards to give them quarter - they’ve had their chance. If they surrender, have them guarded, then roped and enslaved. If not, run them down until you’re within sight of their walls, then return to us.’

Quadratus grinned.

‘It would be a pleasure, sir.’

The commander turned to his signifers and musicians. ‘Sound the halt. I don’t want the legions racing across Gaul after the Treveri. They’re beaten and the cavalry will finish the job.’ He turned to the tribunes sitting nearby along with the other two legates. Plancus looked satisfied, and Trebonius stretched and rolled his shoulders.

‘Congratulations, Labienus. It seems you are turning smashing the Treveri into something of a habit. Caesar is planning to come and crush the Treveri against your forces. He will start to worry that you’re outshining him.’

Labienus laughed. ‘Hardly, I fear. I just lead them. They’re still Caesar’s men, and they know it. Let’s start moving the legions back to the fort. We’re going to have to create a sizeable annexe, given the growing size of the army here.’

‘Only a temporary one,’ Trebonius said, wearily, reaching into his cloak and withdrawing a sealed scroll case, which he passed over to the commander. ‘Caesar is planning to come here as soon as he’s dealt with the Menapii and combine the forces against the Treveri, but then we’ll all be moving on to deal with the Eburones. That you’ve managed to crush the Treveri before he arrives will just hasten our departure, I’m sure.’

Labienus nodded as he broke the seal and scanned the lines of neat handwriting. ‘Then we had best send riders north to inform Caesar of recent events. Since he no longer needs to aid us against the Treveri, he may wish us to march north and meet him.’

‘I hope not,’ Trebonius gave a tired smile. ‘I’m a little sick of marching.’

‘Let’s get back to the fort, and then we can discuss it all in comfort.’

‘Do you not want to speak to their leaders and set terms for their surrender?’ Plancus frowned.

‘I shall send a deputation to their capital, which is less than ten miles from here.’ He laughed. ‘Given the fact that I saw all three standards taken and all their leaders fall in the attack, I wouldn’t know who to threaten, anyway! We’ll give them a few days for the tribe to take out their anger on the rest of Indutiomarus’ relatives and decide who might lead them better and then we’ll talk to this new king. The Treveri are unlikely to support any further rebellion now.’

He smiled a tired smile at the other legates. ‘In the meantime, we need to get you gentlemen and your forces settled in.’

He turned his horse to see three riders approaching, escorted by a centurion and a contubernium of men.

‘Sir,’ the officer saluted and gestured to his charges. ‘Scouts from the northeast.’

‘What news of the Suevi?’ Labienus asked pensively. Were five cohorts enough to protect the camp?

The rider, clearly worn out from his ride, gave a weary salute. ‘Sir, the Germans have halted. We spotted other riders, and it seems they have their own scouts ranging out ahead of them. I can only assume they have learned of the battle, since as soon as the riders spoke to the Suevi chiefs, the whole lot of them turned and started to walk back towards the Rhenus.’

Labienus sagged and Trebonius chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘How does it feel to frighten off the whole Germanic nation?’

‘A bit of a relief, to be honest,’ Labienus smiled. ‘I was still half-convinced that the Suevi would ignore the death of their allies and come for us anyway. They’re not a people to be easily put off.’

‘Is there any chance of us catching them before they reach the Rhenus?’ Trebonius mused.

‘Little,’ Labienus said. ‘They travel light, living off forage and pillage, so they can move faster than us. Besides, they likely still outnumber us, even without the Treveri, so I’m not sure it would be a wise plan of action. Let us return to camp and thank Minerva for turning them back.’

Plancus nodded. ‘It’s been a long journey to travel straight into a battle. I for one could do with a bath, a meal, and a lie down.’

 

* * * * *

 

Publius Sextius Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, eyed the wagon suspiciously.

‘I shall ride a horse.’

‘No you shall not,’ announced the medicus, who, without warning, snatched away the vine staff of office upon which Baculus was resting most of his weight. Relieved of its support, the centurion staggered and fell into the waiting arms of the medical orderly. ‘You cannot stand unaided. You quite clearly should not be riding. You also seem unable to grasp the simple concept of rest and recovery. Had you stayed in bed and rested as you were ordered and not poured every vial of medicine the staff gave you onto the ground when they weren’t looking, you would be almost back to full health by now. Instead, you continually push yourself to the limit and consequently you are still months from well.’

‘You said the infection was cleared up?’

‘The infection has gone. What you have now is exhaustion, and atrophied muscles due to your protracted stay in my care. You, Baculus, are your own worst enemy. There is nothing that impedes your full healing but your own inability to rest. Now get in that cart and sit still until we reach tonight’s camp site.’

Again, Baculus eyed the cart. The hospital was being evacuated for the journey and the wounded and sick who were incapable of walking or riding had been assigned to the carts - eight men to a cart, except for this one, which held four officers.

‘Perhaps I could join one of the ordinary soldiers’ carts?’ he asked hopefully. Aboard this vehicle were Clemens, standard bearer for the Third Cohort, Second Century of the Twelfth, who Baculus knew well enough to know he was prone to travel sickness, an optio from the Seventh suffering from a gut wound after the Treveri fight and who smelled like he might pass away on the journey, and Dentio, a prefect that was suffering from foot-rot and was delirious much of the time. A worse set of travelling companions he could not imagine. ‘When we get there I’ll be covered in vomit and innards and have a headache.’

‘In the cart.’

‘Problem?’ asked Labienus, passing by on his horse on a brief inspection of the column.

‘Just the usual, sir,’ muttered the medicus, gesturing at Baculus with the purloined vine staff.

‘Get in the cart, centurion,’ ordered Labienus.

Grumbling, Baculus snatched back his staff and clambered with some difficulty aboard the cart.

Four days had passed since the defeat of the Treveri and scouts had brought overtures of peace from the new Treveri leader. It had pleased the officer corps to discover that the man who had risen to rule the Treveri once more was Cingetorix, a long-time supporter of Caesar who had been deposed and exiled by Indutiomarus. The tribe’s anger at their recent leaders’ foolish decisions had driven them back to the loyalty of Roman client kings.

As soon as Labienus had confirmed that the tribe were settled and there was little likelihood of further trouble, he had made the decision to march north with the entire army and follow the river to the Rhenus, since Caesar’s army would be moving south along that course. En route, the army would make a stop at the Oppidum of Vindunaco, where Cingetorix now held court, in order to receive the renewed vows of the Treveri.

It would be a long, slow journey, and Baculus was dreading every moment of it.

 

* * * * *

 

Ambiorix placed his prized helmet on the table and dusted the silver boar atop it with his fingers. A helmet made for a Roman general, it had once belonged to Sabinus, one of Caesar’s top men before Ambiorix had taken it, with the man’s head still inside. He had ripped off the red crest, replacing it with something more appropriate and now it was a masterpiece of propaganda. The helmet announced to every warrior who saw it ‘here is a man who beat the best Rome had to offer’.

If only he could repeat his success, but that damned Caesar was in the way at every turn. He had almost had Cicero’s head last winter, straight after the first legion’s demise, and he’d almost crushed that man’s army, but for Caesar’s untimely arrival on the scene.

Then he’d set about rebuilding his army, knowing that, if he’d done it once, he could do it again, but Caesar had pre-empted him and launched campaigns against everyone who would speak to him before the winter was out.

The Nervii had been eager to join him once more, and had agreed to marshal their forces and meet him at the site of his greatest victory in the spring, but Caesar had taken his men north while the winter’s chill was still in the air and had torn the Nervii apart and burned what was left. Then the Menapii, who had been hesitant at first. They had managed to stay free of Roman interference for years by hiding in their infernal swamps. But shown what Caesar was doing to Gaul, and with a great deal of persuasion and wheedling, they had finally agreed to commit to his cause at the appointed place and time.

And then Caesar had shown up there yet again, like a bad smell in a small hut, and had bridged the rivers and swamps of the Mosa and the Rhenus and reduced the Menapii to a gaggle of blubbering women, effectively tearing out another of Ambiorix’s greater allies.

The Treveri had been a true hope, too. Indutiomarus had taken control of the tribe and despite a number of their most powerful men professing continued loyalty to Rome, had committed them to the cause. That Rome-lover Cingetorix had been exiled and powerless. If Ambiorix had risen to lead them, he’d have killed the man rather than exiling him, but the Treveri were a divided and uncertain tribe and his execution might have turned much of the tribe against Indutiomarus.

In the end, they had proved unequal to the task. That fool had managed to lose a battle against one single legion, a battle he should have won with little difficulty. And his nephew had risen to seek revenge for him and managed to fail yet again. This Labienus was beginning to become as troublesome as Caesar himself.

Allies were hard to find in these days, and Caesar was removing them as fast as Ambiorix could secure them. Damn the druids and their pet Arvernian chief. Vercingetorix counselled caution and delay and because he had the druids tucked in his purse, most of Gaul and the Belgae would not even speak to Ambiorix, busying themselves with preparations for Vercingetorix’s grand scheme. A few druids had flocked to his cause, bringing with them small tribes and a few dissenters, but he was on the edge and increasingly abandoned by the people, while that grinning Arverni lunatic secured a huge army that milled around deep in Gaul doing nothing.

Could they not see that in preparing for a war in months to come they were missing the opportunity of winning one now?

Ambiorix ground his yellowed teeth and took a deep breath. The knowledge that the Treveri were even now swearing a new oath to Rome and that Caesar was marching south to recombine his army did little to calm his mood, but he must appear calm now. In control.

The two men seated to his left had the distinct appearance of men unsure as to whether they were doing the right thing. Bolgios, nobleman and warrior, master of hundreds, cousin to the chieftain of the Segni, fiddled nervously with his braid. Should his cousin discover how deeply Bolgios plotted to overthrow him, the nervous weasel would now be decorating a wooden stake, his head scooped out for a cup. The druid beside him looked less nervous, but his face still displayed unease.

The knock came at the door.

‘Come in.’

A burly warrior pushed open the door and a dozen men followed him into the gloom, each of them bulky and prepared for war. Each wearing an arm ring with the snake of Arvernus. Each wearing a face of stone. In their presence, even Ambiorix felt a momentary thrill of nerves. Behind them came another druid, this one tooled for war like his companions. His large sword at his side complemented a staff of oak which had been shod with iron and sharpened to a point. The man even had the audacity to wear a coronet, as though he were some sort of king.

‘You have no place here, Arverni,’ Ambiorix announced with fire in his tone.

‘We have a place wherever trouble risks our plans,’ replied the warrior-druid in a thick, southern accent. ‘The one we call Esus has a careful schedule for the coming months. Events in Rome itself are falling into place to aid our cause, and soon - as omens and prophecies have foretold - Caesar’s grip on this land will falter as he struggles to retain his place in his own country.’

Ambiorix narrowed his eyes at the druid, noting with interest how the Arverni warriors were moving around the walls of the room, making to surround him. Such an expected, easily-anticipated manoeuvre.

‘And I am ruining these plans, so now you mean to kill me?’

The druid smiled coldly, and Ambiorix felt the panic in the Segni rebels next to him. Bolgios’ hand went to the hilt of the knife at his belt, as though the short blade could stop a dozen swords.

‘You have lived all winter and spring, king of the Eburones, because your faltering, insignificant rebellion has served to keep Roman eyes on the north-east and distracted them from the greater events taking place elsewhere. Sadly, all your allies have failed you and now you are all-but alone. Even your would-be German supporters are fleeing back across the river to their wild lands. All you have left is the Eburones, and your brother king Cativolcus is with us, so we cannot, sadly, allow you to wrest control of them from him.’

‘I am not an easy man to kill, Arverni,’ Ambiorix snarled.

‘Perhaps so. But die, you must. Caesar and his hounds are on your scent, and now you have no army to hide behind. You know too much about the cause to allow you to live long enough to fall into Roman hands.’

Ambiorix leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. ‘You may find that I am more resourceful yet than you believe.’

The druid frowned at him, but it was already too late. The thin cord loop that had lowered from the darkness above slipped around the neck, dragging the old man’s white beard against his throat as it tightened. The druid gagged and panicked, his fingers coming up to the cord that was throttling the life out of him, but the two men lying on the beam above simply hauled hard enough to lift him from the floor. There was a crunch as cartilage gave way and the druid’s eyes bulged.

Bolgios and his own druid were on their feet now in surprise, but Ambiorix waved them back to their seats nonchalantly.

All around the edge of the room, Arverni warriors were shaking with death-twitches as spears thrust down from the shadowed rafters above them drove through the space between neck and collar bone, driving down through their bodies and emerging near the hip to pin them to the floor.

Ambiorix scanned the room to make sure that none of the Arvernian assassin party had escaped his own killers, but they were all busy shaking and leaking out their lives. He rose slowly, casually, and strode over to the hanging druid, who was gasping his last, peering at him with interest.

‘Rest assured, old man, that I have a long way to go yet before I am done. Despite Treveri idiocy, with the help of my friends here, the Segni will soon be ours, and Cativolcus is old and feeble and will present no impediment to my seizing back my tribe. As soon as I have those two, the Suevi can be persuaded to cross again and join us, and I will find more allies among those who hate your slow indolence almost as much as they hate Rome.’

He prodded the druid, who swung back and forth as he dangled, the last of his life flickering and dying in his eyes.

‘Stupid, stupid man. And go to the Gods knowing that should the day come that I do fall to our enemy, I will do everything in my power to make sure they know all about Vercingetorix and your Arverni revolt.’

He turned to Bolgios and the living druid.

‘Time to deal with your dog of a cousin and put the crown upon your head. Time rolls on, my friends.’