Chapter Fifteen

 

By the Rhenus River, a day’s march north of the confluence with the Mosella.

 

‘Any news of the Suevi, General?’

Priscus fell into position next to Marcus Antonius, a few paces from Caesar, who peered out across the wide, fast-flowing Rhenus with an unreadable expression.

‘They are gone east, but so recently that their wake is almost still visible on the water’s surface.’ Caesar huffed irritably.

‘Perhaps this is a good thing?’ Antonius asked quietly. ‘We’ve a lot to concentrate on this side of the river, and I hear the Suevi have more warriors than their land has trees.’

Caesar turned his irritation on his senior commander. ‘We do not flinch from chastising our enemies, even be they ten feet tall and breathe fire, Marcus, which the Suevi most certainly do not, for all the rumours.’

Priscus nodded to himself. He had no doubt whatsoever that Caesar would march his legions through the river and to the edge of the world if he had a grudge with the Suevi. It had been a long journey up the Rhenus, punctuated by visits from couriers along the way. Firstly, two men from Fronto’s party had reached them with tidings that were both hopeful and unpleasant. The deaths of several of his men and the knowledge that a spy and betrayer had been among them and escaped unharmed was bad enough. To hear that the Segni were likely rising against them and that Ambiorix was still uncaptured had been enough to plunge Caesar’s mood into unplumbed depths. But at least the treacherous Eburone king was almost in Fronto’s grasp by the sound of it.

Labienus’ riders had reached them only two days ago, and the news that the inventive commander had yet again trounced the Treveri, invested a trustworthy figure as their leader and taken their sworn oaths as well as the heads of the lead conspirators and over a thousand slaves had lifted the mood of every officer in the column. Except Caesar. All the general had been able to say about the matter was that Labienus should have dug in and waited for the rest of the army. Priscus had privately formed the opinion that jealousy over Labienus’ success was suppurating in Caesar’s head, and doing no good there.

Labienus was on his way north, apparently, and not far away. The two armies would meet, probably at the confluence of the rivers they were both following and after that, Caesar would turn his attentions to the Eburones and the hunt for Ambiorix would begin in earnest. But if the general set his eyes on the Suevi for a while, it might buy Fronto the time he needed to bring Ambiorix to justice.

To some extent the whole purpose of Fronto’s hunt had become moot now. An attempt to halt the destruction of the Belgae was largely pointless, with the Nervii all-but gone, the Menapii thoroughly beaten down and their lands ravaged, the Treveri smashed and installed under a pro-Roman king, and only the Eburones and the small tribes like the Segni and the Condrusi left untouched.

And yet Fronto had continued, doggedly. The wax tablet Biorix had borne, apparently unread, though Priscus could not confirm that in the legionary’s inscrutable eyes, had briefly and succinctly informed him that, although he had heard of Caesar’s deprivations, his friend was not about to give in. He was moments away from Ambiorix and, regardless of any agenda of Caesar’s, Fronto believed him to have a connection to, or knowledge of, the Arverni and this ‘Esus’ character, and he would capture and interrogate him if it cost every last man.

Yes, a good thing: chasing down the Suevi and buying Fronto the time. Priscus would give his right arm to know the identity of Esus. Well, Antonius’ right arm, anyway.

‘The Ubii in this area are as loyal as any tribe can be,’ Priscus noted. ‘We’ve never had cause to face them yet. We can cross the river in their boats at leisure and then move against the Suevi.’

Caesar shook his head. ‘We bridged this river years ago and beat back the tribes beyond, showing them how easily we could get to them should we have the need, just as we did to the Menapii with our causeways. But it seems the Suevi have forgotten this. They have retreated into their forest and think themselves safe. I will have another bridge here, and this one will stay, this time.’

‘Is that a good idea?’ Antonius frowned.

‘The Ubii here will not attack us as we build it,’ Caesar replied. ‘Last time, such a venture was considered impractical and too difficult, and the enemy on the far bank did their best to prevent us completing it. This time we have a peaceful locale and prior experience. I expect construction to be speedy and trouble-free.’

‘And what of Ambiorix?’ asked Antonius, drawing his infernal wine flask from his cloak.

Priscus could have strangled the man at that moment.

Caesar simply tapped his lip in thought. ‘Yes, an extra delay could be trouble.’

‘But the Suevi?’ nudged Priscus, glaring at Antonius, who seemed entirely oblivious.

Again, Caesar turned. ‘Yes. We will concentrate the bulk of our forces on the bridge and the Suevi beyond, while Labienus makes his way here - along the ‘victory clivus’,’ he added with a trace of bitterness, ‘and joins us. But we can spare most of the cavalry. They are of little use in the German forests, after all.’

His gaze played across the heads of the staff and legates gathered by the river and fell upon a small, eagle-nosed man with unruly hair growing in a circle around a bald pate, like a hill rising from a forest. ‘Basilus?’

The officer, a cavalry prefect with little time in Gaul, turned in surprise. ‘General?’

‘I want Varus and Antonius with me across the river. You have command of the cavalry, barring the few units I will keep in support here. Take them into the Eburone lands and start ravaging. Without infantry support you will be able to do little to oppida, towns and fortresses, so steer clear of them, and avoid pitched battles with only horse at your command. But you will be able to start the process for me. Burn their crops, kill their livestock, and destroy farms and villages as you find them.’

Basilus saluted, looking slightly stunned at his sudden acquisition of an important command, but Caesar had already returned his attention to the others and the river.

‘The Suevi, and then, once Basilus has the Eburones starving and at the peak of despair, we move on Ambiorix.’

Priscus shivered at the thought of what such deprivations might mean for the small party of Romans busily hunting the man deep in Eburone lands.

 

* * * * *

 

Lucius Minucius Basilus peered through the foliage at the point where the track passed over the crest of the hill and descended into the wide, shallow valley. Behind him, the cavalry of Caesar’s army still poured into position, making their way between the tall, narrow trees, winding across the cold, fast stream filled with large, jagged rocks and forming up within the forest as best the tightly-packed trees allowed.

‘What do you think, sir?’ the prefect beside him asked, smoothing the ruffled mane of his mare.

Basilus frowned at the settlement below. The fields were beginning to glow with healthy grain, marking the clear approach of summer at last, and farmers and peasants moved about the crops tending them and weeding. In the centre of the valley, the settlement itself sat peaceful and quiet.

‘I’m in two minds, Catilo.’ He sighed and pursed his lips. Caesar had been quite specific. They were to avoid anything that might lead to a siege or a pitched battle. Small farms and villages were fair game to his depredations, but towns and fortresses were out of the question. Clearly this was a town, but it was surrounded by extremely weak defences, and the cavalry would have little difficulty overrunning the place. The defenders on the low ramparts were few and far between and the populace worked the fields, the gates of the place standing wide open. ‘I think we will take the place with precious few casualties, and this could be one of the greatest symbolic victories of the campaign, causing consternation and fear among the Eburones as word spreads. How fast could you get to those gates?’

Catilo grinned. ‘If we keep to the trees and move stealthily, we can get damn close before we move out into open ground. We can be on them before they have time to shit themselves, sir.’

‘Right. We’ll take the place, then. Take two alae down to the closest treeline and as soon as you’re in position, head for the nearest gate. I don’t care what you have to do, I want you to be sure you take that gate and hold it until the rest of us get there.’

Catilo nodded, and Basilus turned to the other prefect approaching at the far side.

‘Portius? Catilo’s going to take and hold the gate. I’m going to take half the cavalry straight for the settlement as soon as he’s there. The moment we break cover for the town, you take the other half and ravage the fields. Kill everyone you find and chase any survivors off into the woods. Once you’ve done that we’ll fire the crops.’

Portius nodded and turned to give the orders to the decurions as Basilus once more regarded the town below.

‘You poor unsuspecting barbarians. I’m about to turn your world upside down and then set fire to it.’

 

* * * * *

 

‘What do you mean, he’s here?’ Fronto snapped angrily.

Ullio, standing in the doorway and blocking the morning sunlight, shrugged. ‘He arrived last night, late at night.’

‘Well where is he then?’

‘He was escorted to one of the houses outside the walls. He has a large number of armed men with him. Segni as well as Eburones, so the king thought it prudent to keep him outside until morning.’

Fronto ground his teeth. The knowledge that he was a matter of moments away from Ambiorix set his pulse pounding with possibilities, but with Cativolcus in charge here, there was nothing he could do until the king had made his move.

‘What happens now, then?’

Ullio leaned against the door frame casually. ‘Once the sun is suitably high and Ambiorix has been forced to wait for a while, he will be invited into the town with only a small guard, to visit the king.’

‘Why wait?’

‘Ambiorix is not a patient man, and is given to imprudent and precipitous action if he is pushed. The longer we make him wait, the more likely he is to make a mistake, and the king wants him angry and off-balance enough to take the tainted drink without having one of his men taste it first.’

‘He may not be stupid enough to do so anyway.’

Again, Ullio shrugged, arms folded. ‘You do not know Ambiorix. He is a man given to displays of his own power. He would not accept a drink proffered by the king, but if the king has an expensive wine open on his table and a cup of it in front of him, Ambiorix will not be able to resist taking the drink. He will want to make it clear that whatever Cativolcus owns, he can take. The poisoned wine will be present, but not offered.’

‘You’ve thought all this through very carefully,’ Fronto noted with satisfaction. ‘What happens if you’ve misjudged Ambiorix and he doesn’t take the wine?’

The native hunter straightened in the doorway again. ‘Then things will have to be done my way, rather than the king’s.’ He made a gesture across his throat with a turned thumb.

‘Not acceptable,’ Fronto said firmly. ‘I need him to answer a few questions.’

‘I can disable and cripple him without inhibiting his tongue. Ambiorix likely thinks he can remove Cativolcus with the assassins he brings, but the king has plenty of men like me who can protect him and remove the enemy. We are prepared. Ambiorix has seen his last sunrise, but he will sing songs of betrayal to you before his darkness descends.’

‘Good,’ Fronto nodded. ‘I’d remind you that a lot rides on this. If I can question Ambiorix and then take his head to my general, Caesar can be made to see the Eburones as allies. The whole future of your tribe could hang on this morning’s events. Remember that, while you play your part. What do we do while this is all going on?’

‘Stay in the house. If there is any hint of you or your men abroad in Espaduno, Ambiorix will panic and everything will fall apart. Stay out of sight and I will fetch you when Ambiorix is busy shaking and babbling.’

Masgava stepped out into the light from the doorway to the rear room where he and his four men slept. ‘It ends today, then?’

Fronto nodded. ‘It ends today.’

 

* * * * *

 

Ambiorix toyed with the fine captured Roman helmet on his knee and huffed in irritation.

‘These delays are irksome, Garo.’

‘Cativolcus is a wily one, my lord. He will be surrounding himself with warriors before he deigns to see you. He will not make himself a target willingly.’

‘It matters not how many men he surrounds himself with while you are by my side, Garo.’

The second man in the room smiled a chilling smile. A Sicambri by birth, Garo had discovered a love of pain and an affinity with death early in his life. By the time he came of age, he had killed more than a dozen of his fellow tribesmen, women and children. His methods had become increasingly inventive, until one day he had been discovered in the process of dissecting a young girl to see what parts still pulsed after death. Before the wrath of the elders could be brought down on him, he had fled, crossing the Rhenus into Belgae lands and then Gaul, where he had sold his services as a killer to an endless array of nobles and warriors, honing his craft as he went. Finally, two years ago, he had found himself in the service of the Eburone king, back on the doorstep of his own tribe, and Ambiorix was gifted with a wide variety of enemies for Garo to deal with and plenty of coin to pay for it.

Ambiorix was right, of course. Cativolcus could surround himself with warriors, walls, shields and ditches, but it would avail him little. Garo could kill from the doorway, barely moving a muscle. One of the two poison-tipped darts of a Greek design stitched into his cloak clasp would do the trick. Or the small, light axe hanging behind his shoulder and beneath his cloak, which was perfectly weighted for throwing. There were a number of possibilities without even reaching him. If he happened to get close to Cativolcus, the options were endless.

Whatever happened this morning, Garo was certain the day would end with Ambiorix the sole king of the Eburones, and his former brother king greeting the afterlife.

Ambiorix smiled.

‘Are the men armed and prepared?’

‘And have been for an hour. As soon as the king sends for us we will be ready to move.’

‘No delays, Garo. As soon as we’re in his presence, do your job. They will almost certainly make us remove our weapons before we enter. There will follow a brief negotiation during which we will argue and I will be allowed to take my weapon for my own protection. I assume you will have weapons they will not notice?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Good. Then, as soon as…’

He stopped at a shout from the garden outside.

‘What was that?’

Garo stepped across and swung open the door of the small house where they had spent the night, to see two of the Segni warriors that accompanied them racing across the small lawn.

‘Romans!’

Ambiorix, his face creased into a disbelieving frown, leapt to the door. ‘What?’

‘Romans, lord king.’

‘Here? That’s ridiculous!’

But his eyes were already rising past the Segni warrior to the hillside beyond, where hundreds of crimson and glinting steel cavalry were emerging from the treeline and racing towards the valley floor. His eyes wide, Ambiorix turned to take in the whole scene. A few dozen of the riders had broken cover ahead and raced for the settlement’s gate, where even now they were forcing back the Eburone guards to secure it. The rest were coming in two huge groups, one for the town and one spreading out and riding into the fields.

‘How did they know we were here?’ wailed Bolgios, the new king of the Segni, as he ran for the hut’s door.

Ambiorix shook his head. ‘They didn’t. This is simply bad luck. They’re attacking Espaduno, not coming for the house. Caesar has turned his fires upon the Eburones.’

He smiled coldly. ‘The general has done me a favour, the idiot.’

‘What?’

‘They will kill Cativolcus for me. Oh we’ll lose Espaduno and its people, but it’s a small price to pay when you think that the Romans are about to make me undisputed king of the Eburones entirely by mistake!’

He laughed as he slapped Garo on the shoulder. ‘Saddle the horses. We must leave this place immediately.’

 

* * * * *

 

Basilus raced for the gate. His men were already in the fields, hacking down the Eburones as they attempted to flee, and a quick glance off to his left afforded him a view of a dozen warriors on horseback racing for the woods, surprised somewhere in the valley. It was a shame to let warriors escape, but the grand prize was the town. He would ravage, loot and burn the place to spread fear among the Eburones.

Tribesmen tried desperately to shut the gate in the face of the attacking Romans, but Catilo’s alae were there, keeping the entrance clear. With a whoop of victory, Basilus raced into the town, his sword coming down in a wide arc and taking the head of a local who was attempting to flee the scene.

‘Second ala to the left and Fifth to the right. Secure the walls and the gates. The rest of you take the town. Kill everyone.’

The roar of a victorious army surged across Espaduno as Basilus’ men raced through the streets, hewing tribesmen wherever they found them, chopping down the old and the young, men, women and children alike, without prejudice. This was to be an object lesson in fear for the last tribe on Caesar’s list.

Basilus could almost feel the weight of the decorations that would be heaped upon him. Could almost feel the warmth of Caesar’s grateful embrace.

With an ululating cry to Mars, he rode for the centre of the town. Barbarians or not, the centre of a town always held the centre of power. Senate, king or thug, men who ruled did so from the middle.

As panicked natives fled before him, Basilus, his best men following on immediately behind, made for the largest houses he could see - not dissimilar to the rest, but for slightly wider frontages and better quality shutters on the windows. His sword rose and fell, a spray of crimson arcing out through the air with every cut, the screams of his victims all-but lost among the general din of agony and panic that filled the settlement. As he burst from a mud-packed street into what appeared to be a village square - or possibly just a wider road, paved with cobbles - he saw two warriors emerge from the door of one of the larger buildings, catch sight of him and disappear back inside, slamming shut the door.

Reining in at the street/square’s centre, Basilus pointed at the house with his blood-slicked sword.

‘Get that door open. Every man in there is to be spared long enough to crucify them!’

Around him, men slid from their mounts and ran for the building, swords raised and shields held before them. The well-trained horses milled around a little, but made no attempt to leave the square as other cavalrymen arrived and pressed on into all side-alleys and streets, hewing at anybody they found in their path.

Basilus slid from his horse, tying the reins to the open shutter of another building, and caught sight through the window of two of the auxiliary cavalry - Gauls rather than Belgae from their kit - butchering the building’s occupants. One of them grabbed a woman who screamed and fought her captors. He shouted something in his native tongue at his companion, who was busy wrenching his sword out of the last victim, and the man rushed over to hold the woman, while the first trooper busily tried to drop his trousers.

‘Kill her and move on!’ Basilus snapped through the window at the surprised Gauls, then turned and strode across the street to the important building with the warriors.

The dismounted soldiers - mostly the rare Roman regular cavalry, with a number of auxiliary Gauls alongside - were shoulder-barging the door, which was shaking and cracking with each thump.

Basilus almost cried out in shock as someone grasped his shoulder and spun him around. His sword came up defensively, and he almost cut into the Belgic auxiliary officer before he realised he was an ally.

‘What?’ he snapped angrily.

‘This is madness!’ the cavalry officer spat into his face. ‘Stop this mayhem before it gets out of control!’

Basilus narrowed his eyes and pushed the officer off him, raising his sword threateningly. ‘You, soldier, are on notice of discipline. As soon as we’re finished here, I will deal with you myself. In the meantime, get your filthy barbarian hand off me before I remove it at the wrist.’

The officer, who Basilus realised was unusually wearing a Roman-style tunic along with his Gallic trousers, stepped back, though the fury and fire never left his eyes. ‘Two alae of your cavalry have just deserted in the face of this madness,’ the man said angrily. ‘If you don’t stop, hundreds more will be gone before you can burn the place. My own Remi have refused to enter the town and are waiting in the woods!’

‘Then your own Remi are also disobedient cowards and will face discipline in due course. Now get away from me!’

Turning back from the fuming officer he was just in time to see the door splinter and explode inwards, a burly Gaul tumbling in after it. In a matter of heartbeats, a dozen cavalry were inside and the sounds of murder began. Taking a deep breath to calm the anger raging in his blood, Basilus strode across, sword at the ready, and pushed in through the door.

Three native warriors lay in bloodied heaps on the floor, along with three of his own men, though it took a moment for him to separate them out in the gloom, five sixths of the body-count being of Gallic or Belgic stock, regardless of the side for which they fought.

Two more warriors were still fighting doggedly, both wounded, while Basilus’ men laid into them.

‘Alive, damnit!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ve crucifixes to decorate!’

Behind the warriors, he caught sight of an old man with grey-white hair and a straggly beard, his high quality clothes and golden torc marking him out as some sort of nobleman. Basilus grinned evilly.

‘You! Surrender and I will consider halting the deaths!’ It was a bare-faced lie, but the old man couldn’t possibly know that. He was surprised to see the old nobleman smile at him, reach to the table next to him and pick up a flask of wine. The noble raised the flask in salute and took a deep pull at it.

‘Enjoy that,’ spat Basilus. ‘You’ll be thirsty on the cross.’

The old man, still grinning, spasmed for a moment and dropped the flask, which shattered on the ground. ‘Your general will kill you for this,’ the old man smiled as his legs crumpled beneath him and he collapsed to the floor, shaking violently.

‘Damn!’ Basilus snorted. ‘Just kill the lot of them. There’ll be no crosses today. Leave no one alive and no stone standing.’

He turned, still furious at this, to see the auxiliary officer who had manhandled him outside standing in the doorway, a look of defiance on his ugly, barbarian face.

‘Get out of the way!’ he snarled, stomping towards the door.

Without changing his evil expression, the Belgic officer stepped back out of his way, moving to one side not quite enough to clear the door, obliging Basilus to push him out of the way as he exited. His glorious mood at this unexpectedly easy victory was already gone in the face of impertinent natives, disobedient cavalrymen and a failure to take the leaders alive. He would settle his mood by burning the entire place to cinders and throwing any survivors they found onto the flames. The Eburones would hear of the campaign of Basilus and quake in fear. He would…

He almost jumped out of his skin for the second time in the day as once again a hand gripped his shoulder and hauled him around. His sword came up again automatically, but this time he had every intention of using it.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ snarled an old-ish man in a mail shirt, with a five-day growth of beard, heavy care-lines on his face and salt-and-pepper hair. It took Basilus half a heartbeat to realise it had spoken perfect Latin with a southern - Campanian? - accent. His sword was already on its swing but the man was remarkably fast, a gladius of unsurpassed quality easily knocking aside his own.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Basilus snapped, ‘but if you touch me again I will have you torn to pieces, soldier.’ It was an assumption that the man was a Roman, but a reasonable one - possibly one of his dismounted cavalrymen. Everyone was being so damn insolent today!

‘Fronto?’ said the impertinent auxiliary cavalry officer behind him.

‘Galronus?’ said the scruffy soldier in front with equal surprise.

Basilus, suddenly very confused, was further baffled to see other scruffy soldiers falling in behind this new irritation, one of them a black-skinned Numidian with more scars than there appeared to be room for on a body. A horrible feeling thrummed through Basilus and his blood chilled a little. He’d heard the name Fronto before. Something to do with Caesar and the staff.

‘Fronto?’ he asked weakly.

‘’Sir’ to you, you pointless moron,’ the scruffy soldier snapped, smacking the flat of his glorious blade painfully on Basilus’ forehead. ‘Declare yourself and your unit, soldier, before I have Masgava here tear off your arms and feed them to you.’

Basilus floundered, trying to understand what was going on, while a bruised lump began to form on his forehead. He found himself weakly announcing ‘Lucius Minucius Basilus, vexillatory cavalry commander, ravaging the Eburones on the general’s direct orders.’ He realised he was saluting like a junior tribune and almost stammering, and yanked his arm back to his side. ‘And you are?’

‘Marcus Falerius Fronto, former legate of the Tenth Legion, staff officer, commander of a small insurgent force, hunter of Ambiorix, and - most importantly - bloody furious!’

‘Sir?’ Basilus realised he was shaking, but couldn’t stop it.

‘What’s all this about, Galronus?’ Fronto asked, looking straight past Basilus.

The Belgic officer who’d been so insolent stepped past Basilus, eyeing him as though he were something the man had trodden in and would shortly wipe off his boot.

‘What he said. But he was told to steer clear of towns. Seems he is as tactically foolish as he is cruel and stupid.’

Basilus felt his ire rise, but he was still shaking with some unidentifiable fear. Fronto. He remembered hearing stories of the legate of the Tenth. A man who was usually to be found standing in the line with his men rather than at the back, directing things. A man who’d insulted Caesar and got away with it. A man who fought duels with assassins. Basilus suddenly felt the uncontrollable urge to urinate.

‘Well, Lucius Minucius Basilus, commander of whatever-you-said, have you any idea what you just did?’

‘Put the fear of the Gods into the Eburones?’ he said, weakly, it coming out more as a question than the proud statement he’d intended.

‘No, no, no,’ Fronto said, his brow lowering as he wagged the forefinger of his free hand in admonishment. ‘No, Basilus. What you have just done is ruined a month of my work, disrupted my hunt, laid waste to a settlement that was about to declare loyalty to Caesar and, prize of all your blunders this morning, spooked the traitor king Ambiorix into flight!’

Basilus felt panic set in and his stomach churned unpleasantly. He urinated a little.

‘Sir?’

‘Ambiorix was here. In my sights. In a matter of hours he would have been in my hands and spilling every secret he knew about rebellions in Gaul, while his brother king helped bring the Eburones back into the arms of Rome as an ally. Instead, you and your men blundered in from the forest and Ambiorix turned tail and fled, or so Ullio tells me.’

‘Ullio?’

‘The Eburone who has played host to my men and I in our sojourn here.’ Fronto thumbed a gesture towards a furious local, who was fiddling with the point of a wicked-looking knife. ‘Ullio could possibly track the villain, though he might be disinclined to try, given what YOU HAVE JUST DONE TO HIS KINSMEN!’ The spray of spittle that accompanied this last hoarse shout spattered across Basilus’ face and his bladder finally gave in and let go.

Fronto rolled his eyes and pushed the man aside.

‘Galronus, you’re now in charge of this debacle. Try and rein the men in and halt the madness. Take this piddling little moron with you and try and keep him out of trouble. I’m going to see Cativolcus and find out if there’s any way we can salvage anything from this.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Palmatus said quietly, emerging from the king’s house and shaking his head. ‘The king’s bodyguard are all dead and he appears to have taken the yew-poison meant for Ambiorix.’

Fronto reached up and cradled his forehead in his free hand.

‘Today just gets better and better.’ He gestured at Basilus with his sword. ‘Get out of my sight and do whatever Galronus tells you. If I see you again today, I might just gut you myself.’

He turned to Ullio as Galronus led the disconsolate, leaking commander away.

‘I cannot adequately express my regret for what happened here, Ullio. Hopefully we can halt the damage before it becomes absolute. I would like to lay the blame at Basilus’ feet, but for all his lunacy, he was acting on the general’s orders, and Caesar is unaware of what we know. I suspect the only hope for your tribe’s peace just evaporated.’

Ullio nodded. ‘There is now one undisputed king of the Eburones, and while many might not approve of him, while he has druids on his side, no one is going to challenge him. Perhaps if he were to meet his end, one of my lord Cativolcus’ kin would step in to rule us.’

‘I know I have no right to ask this of you, Ullio, especially after what just happened, but is there any way I can persuade you to helping us track Ambiorix down?’

The hunter sagged. ‘Ask me again later, after we have attended to the dead and the wounded and I have had my fill of beer. And,’ he cast an evil look at the retreating form of Basilus, ‘after I have looked for my sister-son and learned whether he and his family are alive.’

‘Would you like help?’

Ullio shook his head and turned, walking away down the street. Over the top of the chaos, the sound of Galronus’ call to muster outside the walls rang from a dozen horns.

‘Disaster,’ muttered Fronto.

‘So close,’ added Masgava. ‘We should get going and see if we can pick up his trail.’

Fronto shook his head and rubbed his thumping temple. ‘We stand virtually no chance in these woods. Our best hope is that Ullio will help us. He knows these lands like no other, but he must have today to recover and mourn before we consider trying to follow.’

‘What will happen to Basilus,’ asked Palmatus quietly.

Fronto felt the thumping head worsen. ‘Knowing Caesar, he’ll probably get a bloody decoration!’

Behind him, Aurelius peered off into the forest with a mixture of resignation and fear and made the signs to ward off evil.

 

* * * * *

 

Caesar rubbed tired eyes, sagging in his campaign chair as the officers assembled on the low grassy bank beside the Rhenus. The past few days had not been good for the general. Half a week it had taken to bridge the great river - a speed and efficiency that had stunned even those who achieved it. The bridge was every bit as strong and wide and powerful as the one they had both built and dismantled upriver a few years ago, and this one was planned to stay, at least until the season ended.

As soon as the bridge was complete, Caesar had marched across it with his officers and the Tenth Legion’s First Cohort and met with the local Ubii leaders, who had gathered there, curious to ask the general why he had once more bridged their river.

The Ubii had confirmed that the Suevi had retreated into their great forest, skirmishing with the locals as they passed, likely frustrated at being cheated of battle, victory and spoils to the south. They had also assured Caesar that Ambiorix had not crossed the Rhenus anywhere in their territory or that of their allies. Caesar had drawn from them renewed oaths and the promise that if Ambiorix appeared anywhere in their lands they would send the general his head. All had seemed to be to the good, especially when that same day the advance scouts of Labienus’ army had arrived from the south, the rest of the three legions and the baggage hoving into view during the afternoon.

Then things had begun to decline.

Caesar had avowed his intent to move into the great forest of the Suevi and chastise them for thinking to invade Roman-protected lands, but the Ubii had made their own signs against evil and had warned Caesar in fearful voices not to pursue the Suevi into the great forest of Baceni.

The general had sneered at their superstitious attitude and announced that he held no fear of Gods-protected Germanic forests. If the domain of Arduenna held no fear for him, then neither would this forest. The Ubii had shaken their heads and intimated that this had nothing to do with Gods, as the Suevi believed only in blood, death, meat and what they could touch and see. The Baceni forest, they said, was a place haunted by evil things and even the Ubii who lived within its shadow would not go beneath its canopy willingly.

Scoffing, Caesar had dismissed the Ubii and taken three of his legions into the woods, along with a few cavalry scouts and the senior staff. Priscus had seen nothing to suggest the presence of spirits or monsters among the twisted, densely-packed boles of the forest, but something about the oppressive darkness of the woodland and the constant cracks and scuttles of wildlife made it… eerie in some way. The men of the legions had certainly shown their colours beneath its unhallowed boughs, every soldier clutching his luck charm or divine pendant, uttering prayers in an almost constant stream.

When they had come across a wooden frame some twenty feet long, decorated with the disembowelled and charred bodies of the Suevi’s latest victims, the general uneasiness among the soldiery had blossomed into genuine fear.

And yet still, even a day’s march into the forest, there had been no sign of the Suevi or their settlements. That morning, Caesar had called Priscus and Antonius to his tent, pitched in the widest space between the trees, and had admitted to feeling exceedingly unwell. He had not slept during the night and had become pale and drawn, vomiting up anything he attempted to consume.

That morning, only an hour from camp, the general had passed out in the saddle and only the quick reflexes of Aulus Ingenuus had prevented a bad fall. A brief confab between the officers had resulted in the decision to abandon the Suevi to their endless forest and to turn back to the Rhenus. Even Priscus, wishing to buy Fronto as much time as he could, had been grateful when the general, barely able to lift his head, had finally nodded his assent to their recommendation.

The army had managed to return from the forest in half the time it had taken to push within - a testament to the intense desire among the men to be away from its oppressive darkness and evils.

Rumours were rife among the men that the Suevi had somehow cursed the general and that he had succumbed to the evils of the Baceni forest. Caesar, too weak to walk among the men, tried to assure them that he had succumbed only to a perfectly natural fever brought on by exhaustion and the damp, unhealthy conditions of the lands they had recently traversed. The medicus had confirmed this diagnosis, assuring the officers and men that in a matter of days Caesar would return to full health, and the fact that many of the men were suffering from some form of fever or foot-rot supported the announcement, but soldiers will be soldiers, and they will always be superstitious.

Now, back at the Rhenus, the general was still too weak to walk for long or move among the men, and his colour was still lacking, but his appetite had begun to return, and he had picked at a plain meal that morning. Some of the sparkle had also returned to his eye.

Now, as the staff assembled, he looked almost eager.

‘Ah good,’ he said in a tired but enthusiastic voice. ‘Is everyone here?’

Priscus nodded and Antonius went to help as Caesar struggled from his seat, but the general waved his assistance away and stood, swaying slightly for a moment.

‘I am returning to health, gentlemen.’

A slight stagger forced him to grip his chair and force himself upright again.

‘I intend to begin moving into the Arduenna forest on the morrow, but I have been thinking about our position. It seems to be the opinion of natives, officers and scouts alike that the great forest is not suitable terrain for the army to move in its traditional form, with horse, baggage carts and artillery.’

Nods all round.

‘And the continued threat of the Suevi, who remain unchastised, must not be underestimated.’

More nods. No one wanted to move against the Eburones with the possibility of the Germanic peoples following on their heel.

‘This crossing point must therefore be defended against incursions. I intend to garrison the area against continued threat.’ He peered around the officers assembled and his gaze settled on a man in the uniform of a senior tribune. Priscus recognised him vaguely as a long-standing tribune of the Ninth. ‘Volcatius Tullus?’

The officer, perhaps in his mid to late twenties, neat haired and clean shaven with an old white-line scar that ran from one ear across his cheek and dented his nose, stepped forward. ‘General?’

‘Tullus. You held that fort in Lusitania for me for weeks against improbable odds. Care to repeat your success?’

The tribune bowed his head with a smile, and Priscus frowned. He didn’t know the man particularly, but he had vivid memories of that campaign, only two years before they first came to Gaul, and the stories of the siege of Centum Cellas had been blood-curdling. That this young, fresh faced officer had been the man commanding that fortress seemed ridiculous, and yet it was clearly the case. Priscus found himself looking at the tribune with a great deal of respect.

‘I am giving you a vexillatory command of twelve cohorts, drawn from across all the legions, auxiliaries and cavalry present. Dismantle the far end of the bridge and use the materials to fortify the structure. This will be your base of operations, but I would advise further fortlets along the river for perhaps thirty miles in each direction. Spread out your men. If the Suevi come, you will have a hard fight, but history tells me you will be up to the task.’

Tullus nodded his head again. ‘If I may, Caesar, why not simply dismantle the whole bridge?’

‘Because, Tullus, when I have dealt with the Eburones and their rat-holed king, I may decide to return to the Suevi issue, and then I will need the bridge.’

Again, Tullus nodded.

‘Very well,’ Caesar paused a moment, wincing as his strength began to falter, seeping out with such an unaccustomed long period on his feet. ‘Basilus is priming the lands of the Eburones for our coming. Tullus will protect our back from the Germanic tribes. Cicero? You will take command of the Fourteenth Legion, the artillery, and the baggage train. Take them downriver and then west past the deeper forest. We are only a matter of days away from the site of Sabinus and Cotta’s camp where Ambiorix won his great victory. I will have you reoccupy the camp, make use of the existing fortifications and create new ones. That place is a symbol of Ambiorix’s success, but you are a symbol of ours. You are the legate he and his men could not overcome. You will keep all our baggage safe there as a symbol that Rome can come back from any misfortune and will not bow our heads to barbarian power.’

Cicero’s expression momentarily faltered, displaying his disappointment at being given such a quiet, inglorious command, but he hid it well and bowed his acceptance.

‘You will also take the wounded of all legions with you. They will be better off with the baggage train than defending the Rhenus against Suevi or hacking their way through the deep forest.’

Again, Cicero saluted.

‘Labienus?’ the general asked, and then smiled as the hero of the Treveri war stepped forward. ‘You will take the Tenth, the Eleventh and the newly-raised Fifteenth, pushing ahead of Cicero downriver, but you will then move into the Arduenna forest from the north, seeking Ambiorix, and razing, killing and burning everything in your path.’

Labienus saluted, the distaste at this policy of burning the land sitting badly with him. Ignoring his expression, Caesar gestured to Trebonius.

‘You will take the Ninth, the Twelfth and the Thirteenth to the south, where the Condrusi and Segni lie. You will then push into the great forest from the south. Your orders are the same. Hunt, kill, burn.’

Trebonius saluted.

‘I will take veteran legions only - the First, the Seventh and the Eighth - and move at a forced march to the Sambre, where we will press into the forest from the west. The three forces will scour the forest and squeeze Ambiorix between us until we have him. It must be a quick campaign, though. To have all our legions out of touch beneath the great forest is tactically dangerous, so we will all return by the kalends of Quintilis, meeting at Cicero’s camp. By my reckoning that should give us near two weeks to move into the forest and find the recalcitrant king, allowing Cicero a week to reach camp and then a further week to put things in order, provide extra fortifications, annexes, hospital complexes and the like.’

He sank back gratefully into his chair.

‘Additionally, couriers and scouts will spread word of an offer. The Eburones have a history of violence like few others among the Belgae, and consequently many old enemies. Each and every tribe in the region is to be given free license to raid and kill among the Eburones with Rome’s blessing. Any tribe that offers information on Ambiorix that proves useful will be rewarded and relieved of their troop supply obligations for the next season. The Eburones will remember this season as the day their Gods abandoned them.’

He smiled and his smile was tired, but cold and dangerous.

‘This matter will be brought to a close within the month. Ambiorix’s time is up, as is that of his tribe. Are there any questions or comments?’

The officers shook their heads in silence. Caesar’s plan was well-founded and timed to a tee. If the army ever stood a chance of rooting out Ambiorix, this would be it.

Priscus cleared his throat. ‘While you’re all burning and scything your way through the forest, remember to be on the lookout for Fronto and his men. They are still in there somewhere - to the south at the last mention.’

Caesar and Antonius nodded their agreement.

‘Very well,’ the general said. ‘Brief your men and prepare for the off. We will end this Belgic campaigning season early, by the kalends of Quintilis, and then decide whether to press on against the Suevi’

Priscus could not help but picture Fronto and his small band, somewhere deep in that forest as the might of Rome began to squeeze from all sides. He threw up a quick glance to the heavens and formed a mental image of the lady Fortuna.

‘You’ve always looked after him,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t stop now.’