Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘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 sur
rendered. 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.