He wagged his finger at the Gaul. ‘It is asking a great deal, but do you think you can get back among the Treveri without suspicion?’
‘I think,’ the Gaul nodded.
‘Good. Go back to them. Take up your former role but now, instead of gathering information for me, I would like you to sound out their druids and, if they are truly opposed to an attack, help spread their dissent among the warriors of the Treveri. Try not to get yourself caught though, and steer clear of these thugs they have recruited.’
The Gaul nodded and Labienus smiled sadly. ‘You know I want naught but peace for us all, and I know you will be returning to terrible danger, but I’m trying to bring matters to a close without strewing the countryside with the bodies of all our people. Go with your Gods and ours.’
As the Gaul held out weary hands to the man holding his spear and sword, Labienus turned to the duty centurion.
‘We have a full legion, barring a few wounded, but we are lacking in cavalry.’
The centurion’s face showed his low opinion of horse soldiers - an opinion shared by many of the legion’s officers and men.
‘Cavalry have their place, centurion. I have commanded mounted forces and while there are things that the legion can do that they cannot, there are activities that require the speed and flexibility of riders. We have less than three hundred horse - probably only half that if I look at the figures. I want that upped to more than a thousand, split into four alae, each with the few regulars we have mixed among the native levies.’
The centurion shook his head. ‘Sir, Caesar has already levied every cavalryman he has the right to. If we try and call for more levies, we are exceeding our agreements with the tribes.’
‘It seems curiously out of character for you to care, centurion?’ Labienus asked with an arched brow.
The centurion looked a little taken aback, but made a quick recovery and shrugged slightly. ‘I’m not over-bothered whether they get irritated about having more of their unwashed hordes recruited, true. But I’m not a lover of the idea, when faced with a sizable enemy, of stirring up the other tribes around us. I don’t want to suddenly find we’re also facing the Mediomatrici, the Leuci and all their little friends.’
Labienus smiled.
‘Not a thought I relish either, centurion, but also not something I intend to bring about. I want your most eloquent men, accompanied by a few of our native auxilia, to head to all the larger oppida within a day’s hard ride. They will petition the tribal councils for volunteers to help us against the Treveri.’
The centurion’s eyes widened. ‘That’s mad, sir.’
‘Remember to whom you speak, centurion.’
‘Apologies, sir, but these people don’t give two wet shits about us already - even the ones who are supposedly our allies. I really can’t see anyone volunteering to save us from the Treveri.’
‘That’s because you have haven’t thought of it from their point of view, centurion. You need to brief the men you send on the necessary angle of attack and bring up all the following salient points: the local tribes are peaceful now and have good trade relations with us. We are demanding nothing of them other than a small tithe agreed years ago with Caesar to help us against the rebels. The Treveri may be distant cousins to our locals, but you need to emphasise the fact that their leader has tried to petition the Germanics across the river to join him. None of the local tribes will like that. The Germanic peoples have only ever been aggressors and invaders. I think you’ll find that many of the Gauls hate the tribes across the river more even than they hate us. Moreover no settled, law-abiding and honourable Gaul will like the idea of an army of bandits, murderers and other scum moving into their lands. Appeal to their honour and their sense of self-preservation. Remind them that we are here trying to build links between our people, and remind them of the last few times the tribes across the river came into their territory. I think you’ll be surprised just how many volunteers you get.’
The centurion grinned. ‘No one likes a thief in their garden, that’s for sure, sir.’
‘Precisely. Succinctly put. Now get your best rhetoricians saddled and ready to go. We don’t know how long we have before the Treveri decide to come and stand on us, and I want a cavalry force to be reckoned with assembled by then.’
‘I still don’t see what good that will do us, sir,’ the centurion replied.
‘That, my good man, is because you have never ridden a horse into battle.’
As the centurion saluted and disappeared off to find the men he would need, Labienus watched the Gallic spy riding out through the gate towards the Treveri once again.
It was a gamble. But it was always worth gambling a little if the stakes were the prevention of a full scale war. Now to make the camp impregnable, or as near as damn it. It was always worth preparing for the worst.
* * * * *
Sextius Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, veteran of dozens of engagements and eighth highest-ranking man in the camp - including several pointless boyish junior tribunes - struggled upright at the end of his cot.
‘Lie down, centurion,’ said the orderly from across the room, where he was engrossed in some arcane medicinal duty involving bottles and dangerous looking liquids.
‘I will forget that you just tried to impose an order on your senior centurion, soldier.’
‘With respect, Primus Pilus, the medicus’ authority exceeds your own in this place, and I speak with his authority, given by the man himself.’
‘Unless you want that authority bottled and stuffed up your arse, go about your business and forget that you saw me,’ Baculus growled. He was being unusually bad tempered, he knew, but his temper had seemed to decline with his general state of health. He looked to one side, to where a legionary he didn’t know was grinning. The man’s smile disappeared as Baculus’ glare passed across him. ‘Laugh it up, lad. It’s your diseased bowels polluting the air in here that’s half the reason I’m vacating for a bit. If you keep farting like that you’re going to turn inside out. Every morning I expect to see your liver hanging out of your arse.’
The soldier, embarrassed, turned his gaze down to the bed.
‘That’s better.’
He struggled to his feet, tottered a little, and then reached out for the stick at the foot of the bed. Grasping it, he staggered towards the door. While most of the men were still in their military tunics, soaked with sick-sweat, Baculus had also retained his belt and baldric’d sword. He wouldn’t be parted from them until he was dead, and probably not even then. With a deep breath - one that he wished he hadn’t taken in this nauseating miasma - he took a few unsteady steps across the room until he managed to strengthen his stride, and pulled open the door.
The valetudinarium of this more or less permanent temporary camp consisted of the sick-hut in which he was currently confined, a tent that performed a similar role for the less fortunate, a surgical tent and the medicus’ own quarters. As was often the case, the hospital complex was kept as far apart from the headquarters and the barrack lines as possible. In the case of this particular camp, that put it out near the east gate, close to the stables and the workshop tent, away from the bulk of the population, in case of infection.
The upshot was that when Baculus pulled open the door, he was confronted with the area given over to the small cavalry detachment that had accompanied the Twelfth to its winter quarters.
Small no longer. Two days ago, new allied auxiliaries had started riding in, in groups of a dozen or more - sometimes nearing a hundred - and now the entire cavalry section had been expanded to cater for them. The workshops had been taken down and stored, their space donated for more stabling. He’d heard men grumbling that their amenities had been removed - three large communal social/mess tents that were only ever erected in winter quarters - in order to provide space for the new horsemen to make camp.
He’d peeked out of the door a few times over the past two days, keeping an eye on things and watching the
cavalry contingent grow. He’d wished Labienus would drop by so he could get some answers over this whole thing, but the legate had not appeared and, despite his resilience and refusal to obey the outspoken physician, Baculus would have to admit if pressed that he was weak as a kitten and really could not bring himself to go find his commander.
But this morning things were different. He’d heard the warning blasts from the legion’s musicians, summoning the men to stand to, indicating an enemy force in view. This had been followed only a short while ago by sudden frenzied activity among the cavalry outside. Baculus could hardly contain himself any more.
‘You!’ he snapped at one of the few regular cavalrymen he could see.
‘Sir?’ replied the soldier, startled, turning with the reins of his horse in his hand.
Taking a deep breath, Baculus hobbled out of the building and onto the lightly-gravelled road. ‘I’m feeling a little weak. I need your horse.’
The trooper opened his mouth to argue, noted the look on the centurion’s face, and saluted, holding forth the reins. Baculus hobbled over and without the need for a request, the soldier helped him into the saddle, grunting with the effort.
‘You’ll have it back before you need it,’ said Baculus, noting the slightly panicked look on the soldier’s face as he shuffled into the saddle. Grasping the horns, he turned the beast and trotted it back to the headquarters section at the camp’s centre and then north towards the gate where there was a great deal of commotion. He could see from here a seething mass of Gauls assembled on the low rise opposite, with more still arriving from the northeast.
Wincing with effort, he held tight to the reins until he bore down on the party at the gate, and then slowed. Never a natural horseman, his current condition made his control of the skittish beast less than impressive. The tribunes had gathered at the gate with Labienus and a number of standard bearers and musicians, and their horses were being led out by the camp equisio from the intervallum road that wound around inside the wall. Labienus and his lesser officers looked up at the sound of the approaching horse and the commander’s eyes rolled.
‘I thought you were confined to your cot, centurion.’
Baculus made to slide from the horse, but Labienus waved him to stop. ‘Stay in the saddle man. At least you won’t fall over up there. Besides, we’re mounting up, ourselves. I presume you’re aware of what’s happening?’
‘The Treveri have arrived. I thought my presence might be useful, sir? I should be in full armour I know, but there was not enough time to find it after two weeks of convalescence.’
‘Never mind that. Just try not to look as though the ferryman’s standing in your shadow and make sure you don’t pass out and fall off the horse. It would not convey the right impression.’
Baculus gave a weak salute and waited patiently as the officers mounted and the gate swung ponderously open. The number of warriors arriving across the open grassland to the north had fallen off, and it seemed almost the entire enemy force was here. As the small party of officers rode out of the gate, an honour guard of regular cavalry - along with a few carefully selected local volunteer noblemen - at their back, the centurion peered at the enemy ranks.
He had fought in almost every engagement of any worth in the five years since they’d first stepped into Gaul and felt he knew enough about Gallic warbands to form easy and fast opinions concerning their strength, morale and capabilities, but this was unlike any force he had laid eyes upon in that time.
Since every army they had faced had been formed by one or more major tribe, along with their lesser neighbours, the armies tended to have more than one knot of ‘royalty’ where a chieftain would direct the battle, surrounded by his close kin and personal bodyguard. The main force would be infantry, gathered around and in front of the leaders, usually with the more bloodthirsty or desperate for recognition at the front, jostling for position and itching to get into the fight. Behind them would be the lesser warriors: the older men who had nothing to prove, the farmers who had more to gain by staying alive than by winning prestige, and so on. The equipment would vary according to the wealth of the individual, and there was no rule to say the best armed and armoured would be at the front. In basic terms, it was barely-controlled chaos. The only disciplined force would be on one or other of the wings - the cavalry, mostly manned by noblemen, though again rarely armoured.
Such was the general makeup of Gallic forces.
Not so here.
Only one knot of leadership was in evidence, and that was at the rear, where Indutiomarus and his cronies ‘commanded’ the force. There was precious little evidence of cavalry and what there was seemed to be kept at the rear, in reserve. The bulk of the army, as usual, was formed by the infantry, but they were clearly organised in an unusual fashion, with the typical force - likely the Treveri themselves - at the rear, and the front ranks filled with slavering mercenary killers. These men were heavily armed, for Gauls, many bearing captured Roman equipment. These then would be the criminals and rebels that had flocked to the chieftain’s banner. The Treveri seemed not to be putting themselves forth for the chance of prestige, leaving the front with its dangerous initial clashes to the volunteers who had joined up either through pure hatred of Rome or more likely for the chance of loot that would follow the battle, a distinct gap separating the two groups.
‘Slow down,’ Labienus commanded the party. ‘Let’s give the man time to come out the front and talk to us. I’ve no intention of riding through or past his army to open negotiations.’
‘Seems little point in talking to them at all, as far as I can see, sir,’ one of the tribunes chimed in.
‘I agree that little is likely to come from it other than a little name calling,’ Labienus smiled, ‘but I have some of our most important local nobles with us and I want them to get a good look at this force of vagabonds and murderers so they remember just why they’re here when the fighting starts.’
Baculus nodded his agreement and the party slowed. ‘It looks to me very much like the goat-buggerer has no intention of moving.’
The tribunes, frowning at the language, turned to look disapprovingly at Baculus, though Labienus simply nodded, used to the senior centurion’s outspoken tongue. ‘I suspect you’re right, centurion. It looks like there will be no parlay today.’
‘Then why are we still riding towards them, sir?’ the inquisitive junior tribune hazarded.
‘Tell him, Baculus.’
The centurion rubbed his grey, sweating forehead. ‘Because it’s how things are done in a civilised war, and we want the local royalty to see us as the righteous ones. We do things by the rules and then when the Treveri and their hired bandits fail to meet our standards, the locals will see what they’re facing and steel themselves a little.’
‘Precisely. Now we’re close enough that our allied volunteers can see the quality of the shaved apes at the front of Indutiomarus’ force. Our friends can see that these men are killers, bandits, rapists, thieves and the like, and the sight will confirm what we initially informed them, sealing them to our cause.’
Baculus shook his head slightly as they approached. ‘Something bothers me though, sir. Their army’s more than twice the size of ours and the way it’s formed it should be even less organised and disciplined than usual. And yet look: there’s a gap between the front rank of mercenaries and the rear where the Treveri wait. Why? It’s not like they use our tactics? They’re not going to rotate the ranks during battle, so why the gap?’
The officers and their escort rode slowly towards the line of waiting Gauls, close enough now to pick out the armour and the torcs and arm rings of the warriors, to see their spiked hair and drooping moustaches. Close enough that if Baculus had a rock in his hand, he…
‘Retreat!’ he shouted at the party. The tribunes and the commander turned to face him, frowns creasing their foreheads. Baculus was already turning his beast.
‘Back to the camp!’ he yelled. Labienus turned his frown on th
e enemy in time to see the front ranks crouch or bow, the gap between the two infantry forces suddenly filling as the archers and slingers that had hidden there rose to their feet, weapons in hand.
‘Mars protect us!’ barked the legate in consternation as enemy weapons were discharged with the hiss and hum of airborne arrows and the zip and whine of sling stones.
Three of the escort cavalrymen, used to manoeuvring their horses in battle, charged forward to protect Labienus, arriving just in time to take half a dozen strikes to their shields that were meant for the Roman commander. Labienus looked in grateful surprise at the three men as he turned his horse to retreat. Two of the men bore the professional straight faces of career cavalrymen. The third tried to smile, but a torrent of crimson erupted from his mouth and he slumped forward over his saddle, his shield falling to the grass below. Two arrows jutted from his back between the shoulder blades where they had ripped straight through the mail with the force of a short-distance blow, and a third stood proud from the back of his neck, driven in so far it had almost emerged from his windpipe.
Labienus rode for the camp, watching the talkative young tribune suddenly stiffen in his saddle as he wheeled his horse and then tumble to the ground, an arrow jutting from his lower back.
Two of the volunteer noble cavalrymen were already down, thrashing about on the ground in agony, their horses bolting for safety, and a third was trying to control his mount, which had taken an arrow in the flank and was dancing in a panic.
A second volley from the hidden archers and slingers began, this time at a sporadic release rate, but now the party was on the move, harder to hit and at a greater range. Another of the regular cavalrymen went down, a sling bullet smashing a dent in his helmet so deep it shattered his skull beneath, and another tribune’s horse was struck, though he managed to keep the pained beast enough under control to head for the fort.
By the time they were out of range of the missiles another half dozen arrows and bullets had struck, but the reduced force at such a distance caused only bruising and stinging pains. Leaving seven men dead or dying on the grass, the Roman ambassadorial party reached the north gate of the camp and rode inside, their horses dancing excitedly.
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 6