Chapter Sixteen

 

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

 

‘Fabulous timing!’ Gaius Volcatius Tullus grumbled as he hurriedly strapped on his cuirass with the help of his body slave. The waiting tribune, drawn from the Thirteenth among the cohorts that had remained by the great river, was clearly nervous about rousing his commanding officer, and with good reason. Tullus knew from bitter experience that a defensive position in daily danger of siege by a vastly numerically-superior army could hardly be allowed any leeway in their lives. He knew his reputation was already that of a martinet, and he was aware of some of the names the men had assigned to him, but he also knew that, should the worst happen and the entire Germanic race cross the river in force, the only chance they stood was with rock-hard discipline.

‘I do not believe they are here to challenge us sir.’

‘Clearly not, tribune. Had they intended violence, they would likely have battered you with rocks and not words. Still, the fact remains that it has been mere days and the fortifications are far from ready. I care not what they wish to discuss, I would rather do it from a position of utmost security, sure that we can hold them off if things turn ugly. You say they are Ubii?’

‘They say they are, sir.’

Tullus nodded and followed the tribune out of his command tent, across the muddy, busy camp, filled with work parties and men coming off duty, even at this early hour. Past the duty centurion, who saluted sharply and gestured his men out of the way, along the timber structure - one of the strongest, most stable bridges Tullus had seen constructed in a single campaign, and testament to the skill of Caesar’s engineers. The far end of the bridge had been torn up, only the stumps of the piles rising like wooden fangs from the swift torrent, and a gap of some hundred paces lay between the jagged timber bridge-end with its hastily constructed palisade of stakes and planks and the grassy bank upon which stood the ambassadors, for such Tullus had to assume they were.

‘Welcome to the Ubii,’ Tullus announced, spreading his arms in the style of an orator.

‘Greeting, commander,’ replied one of the more richly-appointed of the tribesmen. ‘I ambassador for friend tribe.’

‘You have my attention.’

‘Chatti wish cross river. Kill Eburones for Caesar.’

Tullus pursed his lips. ‘I’ve heard the name Chatti.’ He frowned as he dredged his memories of numerous briefings and maps. His eyes narrowed. ‘They’re from the east. Are they not part of the Suevi people?’

The Ubian ambassador shook his head, but his eyes betrayed the truth. ‘Chatti not Suevi. Chatti friend of Ubii.’

Tullus folded his arms. ‘No. The Chatti are a sub-tribe of the Suevi. I don’t care whether they’re close friends, ambassador, no Suevi scum will cross this river while I remain in command. That tribe has a history of violence against Rome; recent history, too’

‘But Caesar offer war and plunder to tribes against Eburones.’

‘Not to the damn Suevi he didn’t. The general would refuse, and you know that. Go and tell your Chatti friends to satisfy themselves with raiding in their forests. There will be no crossing for them.’

The Ubian ambassador started trying to wheedle and persuade, but Tullus turned his back on the man and strode away across the bridge. The tribune hurried along at his side. ‘Should we be sending out men to chastise the Ubii, sir? For supporting an enemy tribe, I mean.’

Tullus shook his head as he walked. ‘The Ubii have been our allies thus far. Did you see the man’s eyes? He was nervous. You have to remember, tribune, that he and his people stand between half a million Suevi warriors and this river. He’s concerned with self-preservation, that’s all. You might perhaps send some scouts out to check the situation and offer him sanctuary on this side of the river for him and his own people. No one else.’

The tribune saluted and scurried off.

‘Sir?’

Tullus looked up to see the duty centurion saluting. ‘Ah good. It seems the Suevi and their sub-tribes are starting to take an interest. Double the work parties and shorten rest breaks. I want this place able to withstand anything by sunset tomorrow.’

‘Yessir. But sir?’

‘What is it, centurion?’

‘A courier from the Fourth Cohort, Eighth Legion stationed half a day downriver, sir.’

‘And?’ prompted Tullus with exaggerated patience.

‘It seems a tribe called the Sugambri are requesting permission to cross the river and take up Caesar’s offer, sir.’

‘Are they an allied tribe? I seem to remember mention of them before in less than friendly terms.’

‘We had a clash with them a few seasons back, sir, but they’ve been taking oaths of allegiance for the past two years.’

‘Your opinion of them, centurion?’

‘Germans, sir. Untrustworthy bastards to a man, sir.’

‘Your opinion is duly noted, centurion. Unfortunately, Caesar has made an open offer of Eburone plunder and, while I feel sound refusing passage to an unknown quantity subject to an enemy tribe, it would send out entirely the wrong message to refuse the promise of loot to an allied tribe. Tell the courier to allow them passage.’

The centurion nodded and scurried away.

‘And Mars keep a wide eye on them.’ He smiled wearily at the back of the retreating officer. ‘Untrustworthy bastards to a man!’

 

* * * * *

 

Furius glanced round at his friend Fabius as he waved the men on towards the centre of the village. ‘I’m going to check the headman’s hut. Give me a hand.’

He almost collapsed with laughter as Fabius nodded and reached out towards him, remembering only at the last moment that his hand was still bound tightly with linen, a bee-glue wrap splinted to try and heal the knife wound, hopefully with the bones straight. It was agony in cold or wet weather already and Fabius had given serious consideration to lopping the damn thing off at the wrist.

‘Oh you are such a bloody comedian.’

Furius grinned as he slapped his friend on the shoulder. With one useless hand and one fake eyeball, jokes were beginning to circulate among the men about which body part the veteran tribune would lose next. Some were even saying he deserved the name ‘Felix’ - the lucky - more than Mittius of the Eleventh, who had borne the nickname for a decade.

‘You can check the hut yourself,’ Fabius snapped irritably. ‘There’s no one here. Just like the last ten places, the tribe have fled at the news of the approaching force. Can’t really blame the bastards. Everyone knows what Caesar has in store for them.’

‘Caesar’s not in charge here.’

‘But Labienus is following the general’s orders.’

It was true. Despite the senior commander’s well-reported leanings towards conciliation with the tribes, he was taking his duty very seriously. For three days now they had scoured the great forest and each settlement they had come across had been recently deserted. And yet at each one, Labienus had paused the advance long enough for his scouts to seek out the hidden population. They had then been questioned by force and then executed. The commander had been conspicuously absent during the mass deaths, but had not once baulked at ordering them.

The Seventh, Tenth and Fifteenth Legions had continued to move deeper into the forest, all the time keeping in mind that they needed to leave the northern treeline and return to Cicero’s camp by the appointed date.

‘Hey, Furius?’

‘What?’ replied his friend as they began to move to the centre of the village, legionaries all about them ducking into hut doors to check for occupants and failing to find them, gathering anything combustible and throwing it into the huts to add to the conflagration that would take hold as soon as the commander gave the order.

‘I know this place.’

‘It looks the same as every other, mud-and-shit-soaked village in this Godsawful forest.’

‘Not quite. We’ve been here.’

Furius frowned and peered around. ‘No idea.’

‘Picture it deep in snow. Picture the headman hanging by his thumbs from that doorframe over there.’

Furius followed his gesture and his eyes widened. ‘Jove, you’re right. Best part of - what? - two years ago now.’

‘Bet I know where the people are hiding.’

His friend grinned and then turned to see Labienus striding across the dirt of the village centre, the legates Plancus, Crassus and Reginus at his heel. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes, tribune?’

‘I believe I know where the populace are, sir. It’s only about a quarter of a mile, but through thick forest. Fabius and I have been here before.’

Labienus failed to mask his surprise, but nodded without further question. ‘Take a couple of centuries of men and see if you’re right,’ the commander ordered. Beside him, young Crassus held up a hand to halt them. ‘I shall join you.’

The two tribunes shared a look and rolled their eyes, unseen by the senior officers. The youngest of the Crassus dynasty was open to his officers’ advice and certainly an easy man to serve, but he yet lacked the hardness that made a legion commander so efficient and feared. Despite Labienus’ humanitarian leanings, it was noted that he had that hardness in spades when it was required. As they crossed the village, Furius gestured to Atenos and Carbo, who were busy ordering the legionaries around at the centre of the settlement.

‘Two centuries with us, Carbo.’

The pink-faced, hairless veteran centurion relayed the orders to his signifer, who waved the standard and directed the two centuries to form up and follow.

‘Lead on, tribunes,’ Crassus nodded professionally, falling in somewhere halfway along the line, still on his horse and protected by the two centuries of men.

‘You won’t get through on a horse, sir,’ Fabius said, and Crassus frowned. ‘Got to push through deep woodland, sir,’ Furius added. Crassus took a deep breath, apparently weighing up the situation. To the pair’s surprise, and some disappointment, the legate nodded and slid from his horse, gesturing for a legionary to take the reins and lead it away.

As Crassus gestured for them to move off, Carbo and Atenos fell in alongside the two tribunes.

‘Where are we going, sir?’ Carbo asked quietly.

‘There’s a deep river gulley about a quarter mile from here. It’ll be where the villagers are hiding.’

‘And why is the legate coming with us?’ Atenos grumbled under his breath.

‘Because it’s his prerogative. Fronto would have done, too.’

‘Fronto’s more use than a wet flannel.’

‘I’d advise you to stow that attitude,’ Fabius hissed, though his face bore a smile. The four officers turned to peer back at Crassus, who was striding forward as though out for a summer stroll, the legionaries giving him plenty of space.

‘Give the lad a bit of support,’ Furius sighed. ‘Look at his family. He’s got a bit of a reputation to live up to. His dad owns half of Rome and his brother’s a war hero.’

‘Worth noting though,’ Atenos grumbled, ‘that since Fronto left and we got Crassus, the Tenth have rarely been fielded in a worthwhile action, and not won any renown.’

‘You Gauls and your bloody renown,’ grinned Carbo.

‘Anyway,’ Furius said, his voice lowering even further, to hide beneath the crunch of boots on rock, ‘I hear through the grapevine that Fronto is in line to retrieve his command. Crassus will be going back to Rome at the end of the season, and his father will have secured some big-nob post in the city for him.’

‘That’s just rumour,’ Fabius snorted. ‘His old man’s out in the desert, kicking Parthians about. He’s hardly going to stop in the middle of a big campaign and organise a sinecure for his youngest.’

‘Big word for you, that.’

‘Shut up,’ Fabius snapped, starting to get sick of his friend’s jibes. ‘Simple fact is: the only reason Crassus is here and with the Tenth is that his father didn’t know what to do with him, so he sent him to Caesar to mollycoddle.’

He paused, aware that his voice had risen, and turned, grateful to note that Crassus was paying no attention, instead passing the time of day conversationally with a legionary who looked thoroughly uncomfortable at the attention.

‘It’d be nice to get Fronto back,’ Atenos shrugged, and Carbo nodded. ‘He needs us. Needs looking after, he does.’

‘The poor bastard’s somewhere out here. Wonder how he’s getting on?’ Fabius mused.

‘Come on. Quiet for now,’ his friend urged, and they moved out of the village clearing, into the deeper woodland, stepping over fallen timber, circling around brambles and small thickets and snapping branches where necessary to facilitate their passage. Behind them the legionaries followed suit, staying in formation as best they could, and Crassus in the centre smiled as though enjoying the jaunt.

‘Off that way,’ Furius pointed to their left, and Fabius nodded, working their way off at an angle. A few moments later there was a cry of alarm from one of the legionaries as he slipped on loose earth and had to grasp a branch to prevent himself slipping down a slope off into the trees.

‘Watch your footing,’ Furius ordered. ‘There’s a bitch of a drop down there to the river. Anyone slips down there and you won’t be coming back.’

As the two centuries of men moved to the side to allow a wide berth around the area where the ground fell away, Fabius and Furius led the column to the gulley that ran down at a steep angle towards the ravine, along which they could now hear the roar of the river.

‘This is a way down?’ Carbo said, eyeing the treacherous rocky slope warily.

‘The only one we found. Valley narrows at the far end, but to a steep waterfall. This gulley goes all the way down. Everywhere else it’s a drop down a sheer cliff face. Which would you prefer?’

The Primus Pilus grinned. ‘To send the men down and sit at the top with a cup of wine, waiting, frankly. Still, let’s get it over with, eh sir?’

Furius laughed and began to clamber down the slope. Above, the legionaries jammed their pila into the ground or stacked them in bunches to collect later, slinging their shields round onto their backs on the carrying straps before attempting the descent, using both hands to steady and guide.

The gulley was difficult, but the men handled it stoically. Pausing after a few moments of climbing, Furius looked up to see Crassus beginning the descent, his white cloak already grubby and torn at the hem as he scooped it up to prevent it tangling his feet and draped it over his upper arm like a toga, struggling to keep it in position as he descended. Furius rolled his eyes.

The scene was so familiar as the two tribunes finally dropped the last few feet to the ravine’s lush grass: the icy, fast river, strewn with large rocks and boulders. Furius could see the body of the fallen Gaul in his mind’s eye, splayed across one of the boulders, broken and bloody. He shook away the memory, hearing something on the periphery of his senses. His eyes tracked it to the trees further upriver as they nestled beside the river

‘Come out,’ he shouted. ‘We know you’re here.’

There was a long silence.

‘Are you sure they’re here?’ Crassus said, landing on the grass with a thump and arraying his cloak once more.

‘We searched the area thoroughly a couple of years ago. Without going miles from their village, this would be the obvious place to hide. We chased a rebel courier out here and he fell from the cliff. He paused. ‘Fabius? You remember any of the names from the place.’

‘Of course I don’t. Do you?’

Furius grinned. ‘Lugius of the Eburones. Surrender yourselves to us and we will spare the women and the children. You’ve heard of the general’s orders for your tribe, I’m sure, so you’ll know you won’t get a better offer than that. Refuse us and everyone dies.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Lugius? He was the druid, yes?’

‘Indeed.’

There was another long pause, but off along the ravine, among the stand of leafy trees, there was a shuffling and a few heartbeats later a figure emerged, hands raised in supplication. He was no druid, clearly - more a farmer, albeit a wealthy one.

‘And the rest of your people.’

‘We just farmer, Roman. Poor person. Not warrior.’

‘All the Belgae are warriors,’ replied Carbo with a raised brow. ‘We’ve experienced that a few times.’

‘What do you know of Ambiorix?’ Furius said clearly.

‘King disappear,’ the man replied. Furius peered intently at the farmer, but his face betrayed no subterfuge. ‘And have you heard any news of our officer Fronto, who hunts him?’

The man shook his head. ‘Other tribe hunt us. Your Caesar offer our land to German monster and they scour land, loot and rape.’

The two tribunes shared a look, and then nodded. ‘He’s telling the truth as far as he knows.’

Carbo waved an arm at his men. ‘Get into that thicket and round them up. Take them back to the village and then commander Labienus can decide what to do with them. He’ll stand by your offer, sir,’ he added, nodding to Furius.

‘Hold.’

They turned to see Crassus stepping across the grass. ‘How do you intend to herd dozens of prisoners up that slope? Besides, their fate is already decided by the standing orders of the general. Labienus will simply have them executed when they arrive.’

‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ Fabius frowned.

‘I’m suggesting nothing, tribune. I’m giving an order. I assume this ravine is sealed?’

‘We certainly couldn’t find any other way in.’

‘Then fire the woods and let us return to the top.’

‘Sir?’

‘It hasn’t rained for weeks, tribune. The trees and undergrowth will be like tinder. Fire the woods and we can get back up top and report the task complete.’

‘Sir, I gave my word…’

‘That you would spare the women and children if they surrendered. You’ve seen only one man. They have not surrendered. Burn the woodland and report back to the village.’

Furius watched in surprise as the legate took a deep breath and turned, hoisting up his cloak again and making for the narrow gulley that led back up towards the village above. ‘Don’t fall down and break anything, sir,’ he advised with an underlying current of desire.

As the legate disappeared along the crevasse towards the narrow sloping climb, Furius and Fabius turned to find Carbo and Atenos looking at them expectantly, the two centuries of men silent and pensive.

‘Well? You heard the legate: burn it.’

As Carbo, frowning his disapproval, set about giving his men their orders, and the panicked head-farmer dashed back into the woodland screaming warnings in his native tongue, Fabius and Furius strode back across the grass, away from everything.

‘If that little sod doesn’t get called back to Rome, he might find one night that he enters a latrine and never leaves.’

‘Careful what you say,’ Fabius hissed, but his expression sympathised with the sentiment. Frankly, he couldn’t wait for the season to end. The way the Eburones constantly melted into hiding in these woodlands, it could be months, rather than days before they brought the tribe to heel, and months longer serving under Crassus was starting to look unpleasant. He appeared to be turning into his brother.

 

* * * * *

 

Quadratus felt his nerves pinch at his courage as his cohort moved into the narrow river valley, jammed in a space barely a contubernium of men wide, between the pitted and holed sandstone cliff and the fast torrent of the unnamed mountain river. Despite the summer sun that had now been warming the lands of the Belgae for weeks, he shivered in this narrow defile. Somewhere down here the warriors of the oppidum known as Durolito were in hiding, crowded in the belief that they had escaped the might of Rome - the latest in a line of settlements that had been left as corpse-strewn charred ruins to attest to the wrath of Caesar, albeit carried out in his name by commander Trebonius.

The three legions under the commander - the Ninth, Twelfth and Thirteenth - had quickly discovered that the particular terrain they had been assigned was hopelessly unsuitable for moving such a large army in force, and Trebonius had given the order to split into three separate legions and stay close but to operate individually. It had been a sensible enough move, but sadly, a matter of hours later, the terrain had become yet denser and more tangled and undulating, and finally, Caninius, who now commanded the Twelfth, had ordered his legion to split into cohort-sized groups and move independently within a set area.

Cavalry being of little use in the woods, Quadratus had been placed in command of one cohort, with orders to take, interrogate, execute and burn Durolito - a small, eyrie-like fortress oppidum rising out of the forest like an island in a sea of whispering green. As with every other shithole they had encountered, the place had been deserted with the exception of lame livestock and starving stray animals picking through the town’s carcass.

One of the native trackers had quickly picked up the trail of the fled warriors and followed it down to the river valley, where it had been lost in the lush grass, but clearly they travelled downriver to the north. Or was it the west? Honestly, in these endless tracts of identical forest, Quadratus could not tell one place from another, and with the sun usually hidden by the leafy canopy, a sense of direction was hard to maintain.

‘Another mile and I’m going to sound the recall,’ he announced to the senior centurion. ‘We must have come too far from the oppidum now. Either we’ve missed them somehow or they’re fled to another oppidum or tribe.’

The centurion nodded his agreement - he had been just as unimpressed with the terrain as Quadratus. The commander felt nervous with his lot for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the change in command. He had become used to serving under Labienus and, although the infuriating man always kept him in the dark until the last moment, no man in the Treveri wars could say that Labienus was anything other than a tactical genius - to rival, or even surpass, Caesar, no less. No matter what the situation, the commander’s army always felt that Labienus would be able to pull them out of it intact and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

Trebonius was an unknown quantity to all.

And as for this Caninius, who was all-but new to Caesar’s army? Well, no one knew what to expect. Still, now everything was down to him - Quadratus. If only these damned Eburone warriors would show up.

‘Centurion? Sound unit recalls for half the men. I want the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth centuries to start pulling back and secure the entrance to the valley. The First, Second and Third can move on for another half mile or so, and then turn back and rejoin the rest. We’re chasing shadows here.’

The unit musicians blasted out on their cornus and buccinas, directing the different centuries and Quadratus sighed deeply. This damned forest was killing him by degrees. It had started with his sense of humour, then abraded his enthusiasm, finally chipping at the veneer of his confidence, and was starting to work on hollowing out his will to live. Eight days the army had been assigned to the forest, and he was only on the morning of day five. There would be another three days of this nightmare before they returned to legate Cicero’s camp. And unless someone else was having a lot more luck than Quadratus, all they’d have to show for it was a lot of dead farmers and burned huts, and still no lead on the lunatic Ambiorix. Which meant, of course, given what everyone knew of Caesar’s vow to kill the man, that the legions would almost certainly be given only a momentary breather and then sent back into the forest for a second shift.

‘Bollocks!’ he said to himself, with feeling. The senior centurion smiled knowingly at him.

A strange honk turned into a squeak in the middle of the chaos of musical calls and centurions’ whistles, and Quadratus scanned the various musicians to identify the discordant culprit. As his eyes fell upon the cornicen responsible, he was already reaching out to grab the centurion’s shoulder.

‘Ambush!’ he bellowed, watching as the musician fell, his long, curved instrument tipped and a stream of blood pouring from the end, choked through the mouthpiece while the arrow through his neck pumped blood into his throat.

Now other missiles were thrumming from the various hollows and cave mouths in the sandstone valley walls.

‘Ambush!’ he yelled again, the senior centurion taking up the call to arms. Other centurions and optios began to issue orders and within a matter of heartbeats the centuries were reforming into testudos, their shields forming boxes to protect them from the arrows and sling stones.

Quadratus scanned the cliffs and threw himself urgently to one side as an arrow whipped past.

‘Move! Each century make for the nearest cave or the cliff edge. Get inside under cover if you can!’

The call was repeated and Quadratus’ cohort split into six groups, the various native scouts and officers straggling along, not part of the defensive formations. Taking advantage of the fact that he carried no pilum or shield, Quadratus ducked nimbly behind a tree and then, keeping his eyes on the cliff, moved from bole to bole towards the sheer red-brown valley wall, keeping pace with the armoured units further along. Behind him there was a cry of agony and he turned to see the senior centurion, already sporting two feathered shafts, lifted by a third and hurled into the river, where he disappeared from sight.

This would never have happened under Labienus’ command, he grunted through gritted teeth while he scurried to the edge of the valley. As the centuries reached the cliff, their shields went above their heads, creating a solid roof, worrying less about the possibility of ground shots as their assailants began to drop rocks from the cliff entrances. Some of the luckier units managed to find wide cave entrances and moved into them.

Quadratus ducked along the edge of the cliff, eyeing the pitted surface with interest, until he reached another group of soldiers. ‘Did you notice how many caves?’ he asked as he ducked under the shield roof.

‘Several dozen, sir,’ the optio answered, ‘but only maybe ten that were wide enough for a man.’

Above Quadratus, rocks, stones and arrows pounded the shelter, and a narrow iron arrowhead punched through, emerging a few finger widths from his nose. He tried to stop shaking.

‘There are handholds carved in the rock,’ he said quietly. ‘I ran past two sets between here and those trees. That’s the only way in to the higher ones.’

‘We could starve them out?’ the optio asked hopefully.

‘Unlikely. This is a bolt-hole, so it’s probably well-stocked, and we have nothing. They’d have us dead to hunger before they emerged. We’ve only got one option as I see it, since we’ve no missile troops with us.’

The optio listened nervously, blinking occasionally as Quadratus outlined his thoughts.

‘Alright, sir. We’ll have to be quick, though.’

‘Give the preparatory order,’ the commander said quietly. The optio turned and passed on the orders, seeing them repeated down the lines, so that each man in each century knew what they were doing.

‘Let’s hope I do’, thought Quadratus, eyeing the score of dead legionaries out across the narrow grass strip of the valley. Above, yet more rocks pounded the shield roof, the occasional squawk announcing where they had penetrated the defence. Under the shield-shelter, every other man passed his pilum to a tent mate and, as soon as all six centuries had called their readiness, the optio looked at Quadratus.

‘Do it!’

Like the ground parting in an earthquake, the shield roof split in half, three centuries’ worth of legionaries taking half a dozen sharp steps back and pulling back their arms, pilum readied. Without waiting for an order, they each released, every man having picked a target from among the wide, weathered holes in the sandstone wall.

With a clatter and crash, accompanied by a surprisingly - and satisfyingly - high number of pained shrieks, the pila arced up and into the cave mouths. Even before they struck, though, the rest of the men, abandoning their shields to the ground, began to clamber quickly up the handholds towards the caves above, other soldiers crowding around the bottom, eagerly awaiting their turn.

The legionaries out on the grass hurriedly extricated the extra pilum from their spare hand, where it was held behind the shield, and readied it for a second wave. Quadratus was kicking himself for having agreed to leaving the spare pila back with the supplies for ease of movement in the woods, but at least they’d brought one each. Some of the cohorts had elected to travel without pila at all for speed.

Pausing, Quadratus counted to six. No good aiming the second volley too quickly - targets would be fewer and the climbing soldiers in more danger. On six, he gave the wave to the centurion out with the lines of men, who dropped his arm. The second wave of two hundred pila rose into the air just as - satisfyingly - the heads of the defenders emerged once again, preparing to drop more rocks. The pila wreaked a terrifying toll on the Eburones, and Quadratus smiled in relief as he saw the first legionary haul himself up into the mouth of a cave and realised he had time to draw his sword before moving in.

Devoid of further pila, the men back across the grass ran forward. Raising their shields, they formed a roof over the legionaries who waited to climb as the Belgic missile attack began again, though much lighter and in dribs and drabs. A number of the cave mouths were now being contested by angry legionaries.

Quadratus sighed and stepped back as he watched an Eburone archer, bow still in hand, suddenly appear from a cave mouth, mid-fight, stumbling backwards into the abyss, the legionaries below opening up their shield roof to allow him the room to plunge to the ground and land in a crack of splintering bones.

All along the cliffs men were spidering up the red rock and disappearing into the caves, swords and daggers in hands and looks of sheer bloody murder on their faces.

It would be over in a matter of heartbeats. Quadratus’ shoulders sagged, and he leaned back against a thick sapling. A veteran cavalry commander, he had been dubious about being given command of an infantry force, but Caninius had been insistent. He’d not had enough senior officers to assign to the various separate cohorts in this action, and Quadratus had been needed.

One thing was certain: when they turned back north to Cicero’s camp, and the senior command decided to admit that Ambiorix was gone, he would be damn well returning to a cavalry command. Screw this walking lark!

Somewhere above, a legionary shouted some joke about Icarus with a raucous belly laugh, and a shrieking Eburone warrior emerged at speed from the cave mouth, plunging to his doom.

 

* * * * *

 

Venitoutos was proud. Generations of his family had borne the pride of the Belgae in their blood, defending their lands from their ancient ancestors across the Rhenus or from Gaulish incursions or, of course, the interminable internecine wars the Eburones fell prey to with their neighbour tribes.

He was no king or noble. He was no druid or warrior with an arm full of rings and a glittering blade. He was a farmer, and a father, and a grandfather. But he was Eburone, and any time his king or his people had called, he had hauled on his grandfather’s torn mail shirt and hefted the spear resting in the corner of his hut, bade the women farewell and marched off to teach the enemy what it meant to be Belgae.

Venitoutos was proud.

Four years previously, he had been at the Sabis River when the great Belgic alliance had stood firm in the face of Caesar’s army, and had almost stopped the general. The scar all down his left arm was a daily reminder of that almost-victory. Last winter, he had been called on by his king to wipe out the Roman forces who had the gall to winter in Eburone lands. His lack of hearing in his left ear and the ache in his left knuckles hearkened back to that battle.

The Romans had learned time and again what it meant to face the Belgae.

Yes, Venitoutos was proud.

But he was also a father. And a grandfather. And heartily sick of death. It was one thing to bring war to Rome or a belligerent neighbour, in defence of his people. It was another to provoke the Roman bull that stomped around their lands, grinding the people beneath its hooves. That would be inviting Caesar’s war machine to murder his family, and the twins and the others deserved better.

For while Venitoutos was proud, he was also willing to see reason. The Eburones had lost all, no matter what their most noble leaders believed. Now all the ordinary folk could do was stay out of sight of the armoured monster crunching across their land, protect their loved ones, and wait for everything to settle down and Caesar to turn his sights elsewhere.

If he’d known anything about King Ambiorix or his location, he would gladly have given it to the Romans in return for his family’s ongoing safety. But even that was no use. He knew nothing.

And so he and his kin hid, in a manner most unfitting of the Eburones.

The Romans had passed through here three days ago in force, their steel and crimson ranks laying waste, executing every Eburone they found and burning the farms and villages. In this very valley three other farms had been fired, the bodies of their owners cast into the flames. And the settlement at the river head had gone the same way. Venitoutos had crouched in the bushes near the main road with his wife and children keeping the grandchildren quiet with hands over their mouths as he watched old Aneunos die miserably and their general - Labienus, apparently - ordering the death of his children with a detached coldness.

Somehow the Romans had moved down the valley quite thoroughly, burning and killing, but had missed two farms, one of them being Venitoutos’. He had given thanks to Arduenna for her shelter and protection and had promised to carve a stone to her when this was all over.

Then, yesterday, the Romans had returned. He’d found it hard to credit such bad luck, but listening in from a hiding place close to the main track, he’d heard the Remi scouts talking - he had not a word of Latin, but the Romans employed so many of his own people that he needed none. The scouts had talked about crossing the path of Labienus’ army and the fact that they’d found only one intact farm in the valley. Caesar, who himself seemed to command this second army, had burned that other farm and crucified the family, leaving them to die at the beaks and claws of the birds or the growling hollowness of starvation, their limbs gradually dislocating as they hung. The scouts had muttered about the other two Roman forces in the forest and about turning north again to the cursed camp of Sabinus and Cotta, where the wagons waited, and Venitoutos had felt a small thrill at the memory of his tribe’s victory over that camp.

Venitoutos had waited until the army had moved on, offered up yet more prayers to the great Goddess, passed his farm - now the only one surviving in the valley - and painstakingly took down the crucified family. Only the old man and one of the children would survive, and Venitoutos had taken care to deal with the dead in the old way.

Three armies.

Romans everywhere!

It was hard to credit, and it certainly sounded the death knell for the Eburones.

And this morning, as he stood in the doorway of his hut and breathed in the warm summer air of the forest, Venitoutos found himself wondering what he had done that had so angered the unseen powers? For all Arduenna’s protection, the valley had succumbed to two Roman armies and now he watched his family scurry down the bank to their last-ditch hiding place by the stream and closed his eyes.

This army was making straight for him. Though they were likely bound for some unknown location, they would be unable to pass without spotting the farm.

That they were not Roman hardly mattered.

Venitoutos had seen them at dawn, two miles from here where they had stopped to check out a burned farm and had felt a surge of hope at the sight of his fellow warriors, gathered together into a warband. He had almost rushed from the trees to welcome them when he had spotted the differences. These were not Eburones. Not even Belgae. They were the Germans from beyond the great river.

And that meant, if anything, more danger than the Romans.

It was common knowledge, spread by word of mouth in a matter of days, that the Romans had offered up the Eburones’ throats and purses to any tribe who wished to take them, with Caesar’s blessing. The tribes beyond the river had generations of hate and strife in common with the Eburones and being offered their carcass to pick over would be more than tempting for them. For all the Germans hated Rome, they were not above performing her dirty work for her if it meant loot and murder and a little revenge on an age-old enemy.

And what they would do to the Eburones would make crucifixion look like mercy. The gut post, the burning rack, the skinning knife. And, of course, raping all the women regardless of age, and often the men and boys too. It would make a clean Roman death look like paradise.

And so here they went once more, hiding in the woods.

Even as he heard the first sounds of the approaching warband, he gave his hut a regretful glance, wishing he could have preserved more, had there been time, and scurried off down the bank towards the stream and the copse where their few prized possessions were stored.

Sliding down into the undergrowth, he kissed his wife’s head and pulled the inquisitive twins down from the upper foliage and into better cover. The family held their breath.

The raiders burst from the far side of the farmstead’s clearing like water from a shattered dam. Hundreds of men, tattooed and painted, decorated with torcs and arm rings, mostly bare-chested, but occasionally clad in mail, poured from the trees and into the hut and the barn and the store house and even the hen coup. Their sounds of disappointment were audible even from this distance as they found the farm deserted and poor. One or two took out their anger on the few remaining chickens, smashing them against the wall of the hut and even tearing at their feathered flesh with jagged teeth.

Would they burn the hut? Venitoutos cast yet another prayer up to the great Goddess Arduenna that his farm might escape this latest deprivation. The wind rustled the leaves in noncommittal answer. The Goddess was known to be fickle and easily enraged. Having admitted - if only to himself - to his wish to see an end to it all, would she still shelter him? Arduenna had a dangerous sense of humour and was quick to anger.

And those two traits were never more in evidence than now, as the tribesmen turned their attention from the hut, leaving it unburned, unbroken and entirely intact, only to focus on the footprints left in the soft, dewy morning grass.

Venitoutos cursed under his breath. He’d sent the others around across the tree roots and down the scree slope to avoid leaving just such a trail, yet in his haste to join them, he’d forgotten to do so himself and had left a line from the hut to their hideout.

‘Come out!’ snarled a voice in harsh, Germanic tones.

Venitoutos remained silent, though he could hear the faint crying of the children beneath their mother’s hands and her own muttered panic.

‘The Sugambri are here now, little man,’ a huge, blond creature with a broken nose bellowed from the slope, slowing as he approached the copse. ‘No need to fear the Romans now!’

No, Venitoutos thought to himself. Now I need to fear the Sugambri.

But the sad truth remained that they were trapped. Before them stood the farm clearing full of Germans. Behind them was the narrow stream gulley that was treacherous and would slow them in full sight of the enemy. And the copse was small. It would not take the Sugambri long to root them out. Now, their only hope was negotiation.

But he’d been thinking about this all morning, ever since he’d seen the Germanic raiders. In bringing the Roman armies so close to the farm that he could smell their wine-soaked breath, Arduenna had given him a gift. She had placed in his hands the one thing that might buy off the Sugambri.

With a deep breath, he gestured to the family to remain silent and hidden and clambered up out of the undergrowth, staggering into plain sight. On shaking legs, holding his arms out in a gesture of supplication, he walked a few paces and stopped before the Sugambri war leader.

‘Greetings great chief.’

‘Where are your goods,’ the man replied absently, peering past him at the copse.

‘I am a poor farmer with no wealth,’ he replied. ‘I have nothing to adorn such great men. Just a few tools and some rat-eaten grain.’

‘You have warm and comfortable women, I’ll wager,’ leered the German, still looking past him.

‘And if I could offer you riches and glory and easy victory, what would its value be to you?’

For the first time, the Sugambri leader’s eyes slid back towards Venitoutos and settled on his face, the big brow creasing into a frown.

‘Riddles?’

‘No riddles, great chief. We have nothing. We are beneath your attention. But only a day north of here - two at the most - is the camp at the Fortress Valley, where the Eburones slaughtered their legion in the winter.’

‘A place of corpses and ghosts,’ spat the German.

‘More than that,’ smiled Venitoutos. ‘The Roman general has placed all his army’s wealth and supplies there while he raids this forest. Think of the plunder from ten legions, great chief. Think of the glory in slaughtering the small guard and taking from Caesar everything of value. More than that: think what damage you will do to Rome! You could cripple their army.’

The Sugambri leader was clearly interested, his lip working away in silent calculation. His eyes widened momentarily as he estimated the goods that would be required to support such an army.

Venitoutos smiled. He had the man. It was a prize no raiding chief could ever pass up.

‘You are sure of this?

‘I heard if from the scouts of Caesar’s army, though they knew not that I was listening. Lead the Sugambri to greater glory than pillaging a simple farmstead.’

Two other war leaders were now making their way across the damp grass, one of them tall and powerful on a horse, his wire-haired chest bared and marked with patterns that protected him from earthly harm and from divine magics.

‘Why do you delay, Adelmar?’

‘This farmer knows of the Roman baggage train.’

‘So?’

‘Think on it, Gerwulf! All the supplies for ten legions. With only a small guard. And the whole Roman army in this stupid forest looking for their coward king. We could take it all and be across the river back in our own land before Caesar even hears we have been there!’

The mounted chieftain nodded, with a smile.

‘It would be a good raid, I am thinking.’

His nod was echoed by the third chief. ‘I agree.’

‘Then we will abandon this pointless journey, picking over a carcass already stripped by Caesar and we will find this baggage train and take it for our own. Send out riders to draw the other warbands to us.’

Venitoutos smiled. Arduenna protected her own and this time, even despite his failing courage, she had continued to do so, with no cruel joke.

He was still smiling as his head bounced down the grass leaving a fine red spray, coming to rest a few feet from the copse, from which issued a chorus of screams.

Adelmar turned and smiled at Gerwulf, wiping his bloodied sword on a pelt hanging from his belt.

‘Kill the men,’ he ordered one of the nearby warriors. ‘But fetch the women. I have needs to sate before we leave.’

High in the treetops, a woodpecker laughed hard and long above the untouched farm buildings.