The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Absolutely. But you’re going to have to leave a force on this side too.”

  The officers all turned to look at him.

  “Why?” enquired the general, his brow knitted.

  “Well if we’re going to spend more than a day or so here, then you can’t rely on rafts for crossing. You’re going to have to build a bridge. The supply line to feed an army this size is just too big and busy to rely on boats. The engineers can have a solid bridge here by nightfall. I’d suggest directly below the camp for protection. And then, because you can’t leave such a vital crossing unguarded, you’re going to have to put some sort of garrison at this end.”

  He shrugged.

  “Unless you’re intending to move on in the morning, of course.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “There are times I’m extremely grateful for your pragmatism, Fronto. Good thinking.”

  He turned back to the other officers, who were all nodding their approval.

  “Sabinus? Take one cohort from each legion and start constructing a camp on this side of the river.”

  Turning once more to Fronto, he frowned.

  “Who’s that tribune in the Tenth? You remember? The one who fortified Geneva for us?”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Tetricus, Caesar.”

  “He’s a good engineer, yes?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Probably the best in the army, general, yes.”

  “Good. I shall take the rest of the legions across and start the construction of the fortress. Get Tetricus to gather whoever he needs and set him to building the bridge. There should be plenty of timber for him here in this copse.”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “With respect, Caesar, you want Tetricus with you constructing the camp. If we end up fighting off a few million barbarians, I’d like Tetricus’ talents behind the defences. He’s a tactical engineering genius.”

  He gestured at the river.

  “Pomponius is my chief engineer. He’s the man who built that impressive bridge overnight last year when we were chasing the Helvetii. He’s the one you want for this.”

  Caesar waved an arm dismissively.

  “Whatever you think, Fronto. Just get me my bridge.”

  Fronto nodded and turned to head back to the Tenth.

  Tetricus was with the other tribunes at the head of the legion, chatting to Priscus, who wore his usual disgruntled look. The officers all turned as their legate approached.

  “Tetricus? I need you to go see Caesar. He’s building a camp for the entire army on that bluff across the river. I want you to make sure he does it well enough to withstand an attack by the Belgae.”

  Tetricus nodded and squinted across the river.

  “The location’s a good start. But we’ll want at least a triple ditch.”

  Fronto patted him on the shoulder as he stood marking out lines in the air with his fingers and muttering under his breath.

  “That’s the sort of thing, yes. Go on.”

  Tetricus looked up as though he’d forgotten momentarily where he was.

  “Mmph? Oh yes.”

  He turned to the nearest group of soldiers, the legionaries of the First Cohort, standing at attention behind Priscus.

  “You!” he pointed at a random legionary. “Find a groma and follow me.”

  Fronto smiled. Engineers were all the same; they drifted along in a daze until you prodded them and gave them a project, and then nothing short of an earthquake would distract them. His smile widened as he turned and wandered down the line of men.

  “Pomponius?” He called out as he reached the Third Cohort.

  One of the centurions, a young, fresh faced man, stepped out of the column and saluted.

  “Sir?”

  “How’d you like a task?”

  “A fun one, sir?”

  Fronto let out a light laugh.

  “Only an engineer would get to the end of a long march and look forward to building something!”

  “With respect, sir, marching doesn’t exactly tax the brain. I like to keep mentally limber too.”

  Another laugh.

  “Good. Get your kit together and get down to the waterline. Caesar wants a bridge wide enough and strong enough to carry the entire supply column built below that hill. You can draw what men you need from any of the legions.”

  Pomponius shrugged.

  “Got everyone we need in the Tenth, sir. Happier if we keep this party in our own house, eh?”

  Fronto shook his head in amusement.

  “You engineers are weird, you know that?”

  Leaving the centurion, he strode back to the head of the column to find Priscus tapping his foot impatiently.

  “Gnaeus, we’ll be moving out any minute now. Pomponius is taking whatever he needs to build a bridge and Sabinus will be back in a minute to second a cohort. I’ll leave which one up to you. Oh, and Tetricus will require quite a few men to help with constructing a fort. Once they’ve separated off, take the rest of the legion with the others across the river and get into a defensive position. It’s going to be dark before all this is done and I don’t want any nasty Belgic surprises in the meantime.”

  The primus pilus grunted.

  “I’m sure with the dozen men I’ll have left in ten minutes we’ll be able to do a great deal!”

  Fronto laughed.

  “You wanted a fight and there’s one coming, so stop grumbling.”

  Priscus gave him a sour glare and then started passing word down the line.

  Fronto smiled and strode off back towards the command party, meeting Sabinus striding fast in his direction en route. The staff officer looked concerned.

  “What’s up?”

  Sabinus stopped and pointed back down the slope to the staff officers gathered around the general.

  “Think we’ve got trouble, Marcus. Three scouts coming hell for leather on the other side of the river, but one of them’s wounded.”

  The gentle comedy of dealing with determined engineers quickly forgotten, the seasoned campaigner in Fronto took over instantly.

  “Get those cohorts sorted and fortify here. We need to get moving. Priscus knows you’re coming. When you see him, tell him to get across that river now.”

  Sabinus nodded and jogged on toward the Tenth.

  Heading in the other direction, Fronto picked up speed and sprinted down the slope towards Caesar and his men. Twice, on the uneven ground, he almost lost his footing as his leg threatened to buckle beneath him. Ever since that German bitch had bitten into his heel last summer, his running had been impaired.

  As he slewed to a halt before the general, breathing heavily, he looked up and across the water.

  The scouts had now reached the far bank. The three auxiliary riders ploughed into the water, the middle one supported in his saddle by the arms of his comrades as he wavered around and slumped periodically.

  Fronto turned to Caesar.

  “With respect general, whatever the news is, you need to get the army moving across and fortifying. We can’t afford to waste time.”

  Caesar shook his head as it to shift a daze.

  “You’re absolutely right, Fronto.”

  He turned to Labienus.

  “Get the army moving.”

  As the staff officer marched off toward the group of tribunes gathered nearby to distribute the orders, Fronto looked down at the river. Pomponius and a few of his men were already at the waterline just downstream, taking measurements. The riders finally waded ashore on the near bank and two of them dismounted and led their horses up the slope to the officers, while the third remained in his saddle, clutching his neck, drenched in blood.

  “Report!” commanded Caesar.

  The two scouts saluted.

  “Ave, Caesar.”

  The general waved aside the niceties dismissively and with a little irritation.

  “What happened?”

  The smaller of the two men looked up at the general.
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br />   “The Belgae are close, sir. They seem to have split into two groups. The larger part is camped about twenty miles away, but a sizeable part of their army is besieging the Remi oppidum at Bibrax just downstream. The town won’t hold for long.”

  “Damn it!” the general barked. “Bibrax is too far north, right on the Remi’s border. They haven’t been sent a garrison unit yet, have they?”

  One of the officers in the crowd shook his head.

  “No sir. The garrison’s still with us. They were supposed to be heading to Bibrax when we’re finished here.”

  Fronto growled.

  “Got to do something, Caesar. Break a promise of protection to the Remi and you risk losing the alliance.”

  The general shook his head.

  “The Remi can’t expect us to have supplied troops to somewhere we haven’t even reached yet. And in the grand scheme of things, it’s just one barbarian town.”

  Fronto started to open his mouth and wave his hand angrily, but Caesar raised his voice and rode over the top of him.

  “I can’t send anyone. We need the legions here to get these camps constructed, else we’ll be in the same state as Bibrax when the enemy get here. They’re only eight miles away, Fronto. We’ve barely got time to get sorted even with our full complement!”

  Fronto growled dangerously.

  “We have to help them. Spare me one cohort and I’ll go help them.”

  “No.”

  “One cohort” shouted Fronto jabbing a finger toward Caesar, spittle landing on the general’s cuirass. The rest of the senior officers melted away from the two of them, hardly appearing to move. Caesar’s face had gone purple. Behind him, Fronto could see Labienus making subtle, yet frantic motions to Fronto to stop.

  “Alright, just two centuries” he bellowed. “For Juno’s sake, that’s less than a hundredth of your men. For just that, we might be able to save Bibrax, our alliance, and even your reputation!”

  Caesar had begun to tremble slightly.

  “Fronto, your mouth runs like a thoroughbred horse. One more word from you and you can take your vine staff, your reputation and any hope of Julii patronage, and run off home with it.”

  The legate began to open his mouth again. He was clearly as angry as the general.

  “Fronto, I put up with your breathtaking disobedience and insolence because you may very well be the best commander that Rome has to offer, but this is my army and I will not risk it. If you wish to go help the Remi and risk your own life, by all means do so, but you will not take my legions with you.”

  Caesar had gone very pale now and the legate recognised the signs. The general had been pushed as far as he would go before he snapped, and Fronto had seen the results of that before in Spain. He shivered involuntarily and forced himself to calm down.

  “Very well, Caesar. You cannot spare your legionaries. What about the auxiliaries? Will you allow me to take auxiliary units and try?”

  The general glared at him for a long moment.

  “The Gallic cavalry will be no use in a siege, Fronto.”

  “We have other units, Caesar…”

  There was a long, tense silence.

  “Very well. Inform you primus pilus that he is in command of the Tenth in your absence and draw whatever non-legionary staff you require. I sincerely hope you succeed, though I still consider you foolish for trying.”

  Fronto locked the general with his gaze for a moment and then nodded and turned to run off toward the legions. As he passed the silent and shocked gathering of staff officers, Labienus stepped out and grasped him by the arm.

  “For the sake of Nemesis, Fronto, be very careful. We would miss you!”

  The commander of the Tenth gave him a lopsided grin.

  “Nemesis herself can’t shift me, Labienus. You know that!”

  With a laugh he turned and ran on. The Eighth Legion was now in the lead, marching down to the water’s edge ready to cross. He grinned at Balbus.

  “I’m going off on a little errand. Look after things here. Don’t let Caesar cock it up for the rest of us.”

  Balbus raised an eyebrow.

  “I know that look. Whatever you’re up to, do it carefully.”

  Fronto gave a mad laugh and ran on.

  * * * * *

  The oppidum of Bibrax was considerably smaller than the one they had seen recently at Durocorteron. The population of this place could not be higher than a thousand or fifteen hundred folk at most. Situated on a wooded plateau rising above the Aisne River, it was in a reasonably defensive position, but could not surely muster more than seven or eight hundred warriors at most. For a moment, Fronto wondered whether Caesar had been right and considered turning with his force and heading back to camp.

  Shaking his head, he once more cast his eyes over the panorama. There must be thirty thousand Belgae here at the very least. That was a very small portion of the Belgic army, but still enough to make the odds more than ten to one. He shook his head again and turned to look at his relief force, which threatened to make him laugh.

  He had been denied the regulars, and the Gaulish cavalry would be of little or no use. Following half an hour’s consultation with his fellow legates, he had selected the units he could and formed what must be the most bizarre military force ever commanded by a Roman patrician.

  His army, which numbered just under a thousand in total, was formed entirely of missile troops attached to the various legions. Slingers from the Spanish islands drawn from the Ninth and Tenth marched alongside Cretan archers from the Eighth, Eleventh and Twelfth with their short, flexible bows. And from the Thirteenth and Fourteenth: yet more archers, though these were dark as night, mustered from the Numidian peoples of northern Africa and freshly drawn from the training centre at Cremona for those newly-raised legions. Almost a thousand non-Roman soldiers, of whom half at most would be able to speak Latin with any real aptitude. The Roman prefects in charge of these irregular units all bore tired and resigned expressions, sure that the path of their career had reached a dead end. Indeed, on their eight mile hike from the bridge site, only one of the prefects had displayed any enthusiasm at all; a man called Decius, in charge of a unit of Cretans.

  Now, Decius lay next to his commander on the brow of the hill, looking down at the scene with trepidation.

  “How in the name of Bellona do you intend to get past them, sir?”

  ‘How, indeed?’ Fronto thought to himself as he once more examined the situation.

  The oppidum rose amidst a carpet of Belgic warriors, who surrounded the town, keeping currently at a safe distance from the walls. The only way that stood remotely clear for access was to the south, where a steep slope of the hill came down straight to the waters of the Aisne. The Belgic leader had thought to cover every conceivable escape route, though, and had stationed a group of several hundred warriors on the far bank.

  “Only one way in, Decius. Just the one. And it’s wet.”

  The middle-aged prefect, badly-shaven and vaguely dishevelled, blinked.

  “Swim? Are you mad, sir?”

  Fronto grinned. He liked Decius. Scruffy and unshaven among officers was frowned on and often meant that man was more concerned about doing the job than pleasing his commander.

  “It has been said, yes.”

  He pointed down at the water.

  “Clearly there’s no way we can fight through them, so the only way is to sneak in. And the only way to sneak is to get into the water down here, wade along the bank to the slope and then climb up to the oppidum. There’s just no alternative I can see.”

  Decius frowned.

  “I suppose you’re right, but we’ll be right under the gaze of those warriors on the far side.”

  “True,” Fronto nodded, ”but the water’s fast and noisy and will cover our sound. And if we go at night, we can probably get right up to the walls without being seen.

  The prefect spluttered.

  “You seriously want to make a thousand men wade downstream
in a strong current silently in the dark?”

  He whistled gently though his teeth.

  “People are right. You are mad!”

  Fronto laughed quietly.

  “Don’t panic. We won’t be swimming; just wading in the shallows. The bank’s high enough that we should be covered from view.”

  Shading his eyes, Decius focused on the oppidum. ”They’re holding back from the walls because they’re busy undermining them. They must have picked off most of the missile-bearing defenders, but there’ll still be a few. The Remi are screwed when that wall collapses though, so we’d best hope it lasts until dark.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “If you look really carefully, you can see there’s no big piles of earth, so they can’t be very deep yet. We’ve got time. And I’ve got an idea, but we need to get in there first.”

  Decius grinned.

  “Fair enough. I’d better warn the others.”

  Fronto grabbed him by the wrist as he moved away.

  “Make sure they all know how quiet they’re going to have to be. I’ve seen Spanish warriors in bars. They sing like they’ve got delicate parts of them caught in a door.”

  Decius grinned.

  “Got it. Everyone very quiet; especially the Spanish.”

  The wait for darkness had been tense. Throughout the afternoon and evening, a four hour wait, the veteran commanders had become more and more twitchy, waiting for the off. It was anyone’s guess how the Spaniards, Greeks and Africans felt, but they were certainly fidgety and their officers had been forced to quieten them more than once.

  Up high on their viewpoint with a constant watch on the action below, they were far enough away from the Belgae that conversation should have gone unheard, but Fronto knew better than to risk it. All afternoon and into the evening the Belgae had worked at digging their three undermining tunnels beneath the walls of Bibrax. Now, heaps of earth outside showed how far they’d got, though they’d disappeared from view in the failing light around half an hour ago.

  And now, in traditional Celtic fashion, the Belgae had abandoned their assault for the night, safe in the knowledge they had Bibrax cut off and that it would fall tomorrow, and moved instead onto celebratory singing and drinking. Fronto smiled. It was not unlike the legions in a way. Still, a loud and drunken army would be considerably easier to sneak past. With a last glance toward the oppidum to be sure of his bearings, he wished them all a pleasant feast, offered up a quick prayer to Bacchus, and dropped down below the hill to issue the orders to move out.