The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

Next to him, Decius laughed.

  “Frankly, I don’t care,” added Galeo. “If it’s alcoholic, I’ll drink it.”

  “Well said.”

  The four Romans walked towards the beckoning leader of the oppidum.

  The moon rose high over Bibrax, now partially denuded of trees, and over the plain below, littered with the refuse of an army long gone. Everything looked so peaceful, particularly through the thin veil of drunkenness. The other Roman officers had long since collapsed into a stupor and would regret their activity in the morning. Fronto had, for better or worse, a cast-iron stomach and the alcohol tolerance of a marble quarry, and was now nicely hazy after a solid six hours of celebrating. The only Roman who had stayed with him was Decius, something of a prodigious drinker himself, it appeared. The prefect yawned and dangled his bare feet off the wall’s edge.

  “It might sound a bit weird, sir, but I think I might be a bit sorry to go back to the army.”

  Fronto laughed drunkenly.

  “For the sake of all that’s good, stop calling me sir. Even Galeo stopped eventually. We’re both officers and patricians. When there are no ‘miles’ around, I think you can safely use my name.”

  A pause ensued.

  “Anyway,” he said suddenly, startling his companion, “how come you ended up as a prefect of a minor auxiliary unit? Your family’s got to be better off than mine, and probably more popular, given that I’m as popular in political circles as a turd in a city bathhouse.”

  Decius laughed.

  “I have a nasty habit of speaking my mind. Get’s you in trouble, that kind of thing.”

  Fronto’s turn to laugh.

  “You have no idea…”

  “Well the problem is that I served in the Seventh from the outset. It was good in the early days. But then early last year before all this started we got assigned Crassus as a legate. Now I know he’s one of the leading lights of Rome and all that, and I suppose I don’t really want to talk out of turn, but…”

  “But the man is an arsehole of the highest order. Yes, I’ve noticed. But if you’re in the Seventh, why aren’t you out west with him getting massacred by angry Gauls?”

  Decius chuckled.

  “Well I inadvertently mentioned something about his ancestors having evolved from goats. He demanded I resign my commission in his legion and return to Rome. But legate Balbus was looking for men to take on his auxiliary units at the time. So I accepted a demotion. I left the Seventh and all my glory and honour to come live with a bunch of Greek hunters in the Eighth.”

  Fronto frowned.

  “That’s a hell of a pay cut.”

  “As you mentioned, my family’s not poor. I just need to stay away from home at the moment. My wife’s just had her third baby and her mother’s living with us.”

  Fronto laughed.

  “Shouldn’t you be back bringing up your child, though?”

  “I don’t think you heard me, Fronto. I’ve been in Gaul for a year and a half, and my wife’s having her third baby…”

  “Oh.”

  Fronto looked down at his feet.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. When I do one day get back to Rome, I shall make it a very messy and public divorce and I shall get rid of her and her harpy of a mother in one fell swoop.”

  Fronto tried not to laugh as Decius mimed a swoop with his hand, and the effort and momentum caused him to topple over sideways. He failed.

  “I think I should have a word with Balbus. You need to be in a more commanding position than this. I imagine he can find room for another tribune.”

  “Thanks. Now where’s that beer. I need to drink ‘til I’ve forgotten about Vespilla and her harpy mother again.”

  Chapter 7

  (Caesar’s camp by the Aisne River.)

  “Laconicum: the steam room or sauna in a Roman bath house.”

  A cheer went up among the men of the Tenth as their legate, dirty, limping and dishevelled, plodded through the wooden gate of the enormous camp. Behind him came the various auxiliary units, elated by their victory at Bibrax, but weary and largely suffering on account of bad heads. The linen tunics of the archers and slingers were stained brown and grey, and the Roman prefects who led them marched in traditional fashion, but with a stiffness and tiredness to their gait.

  Fronto smiled at the men at the gate and returned their salute. He wondered how these auxiliary missile troops felt about being cheered by professional, well-trained legionaries. It must be odd for them. He smiled again to himself. As far as most of the army would be concerned, Fronto and his officers had pulled off an impossible task.

  Standing by an armaments cache on the main via, Priscus, the primus pilus of the Tenth, laughed and folded his arms.

  “Fortuna certainly kisses your arse, sir.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Priscus, you have no idea. I am Fortuna’s servant. I make her luck!”

  He threw up his arm to halt the advance of his column.

  “I’m going to take the prefects to headquarters. Can you have somewhere set aside for these units to relax and stand down?” He smiled wearily. “Oh, and send someone to Cita and requisition some good wine for them all. They bloody well deserve it, and it’ll wash the taste of Bibrax’s nasty beer out of their mouths.”

  Priscus raised an eyebrow.

  “Could cause resentment in the legions, sir, if you show such favour to non-citizens? No one’s giving our lads any wine.”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “They may not be citizens, but they just fought hard and well for Rome. Get the wine. If anyone complains, I’ll deal with it personally.”

  Priscus nodded and beckoned to a couple of legionaries standing at attention nearby. While he relayed the appropriate orders, Fronto turned to look back along his column, formed up four-abreast.

  “Decius, Galeo and Pansa. Follow me.”

  He stepped out ahead of the column and turned as the three officers made their way from the bulk of their men and converged on the legate.

  “Sir?”

  Fronto smiled wearily.

  “I’m going for debriefing with the general. You three gentlemen were instrumental in our success yesterday and I want to make sure Caesar knows that, so I want you all to accompany me.”

  The three men shared surprised glances, but nodded respectfully.

  “Shouldn’t we clean up a bit before seeing Caesar?” asked Pansa, indicating his drab and dirty red tunic, torn in several places and with stains that may now be permanent.

  Behind him, Priscus laughed.

  “Caesar’s used to seeing the legate looking like that. It’ll come as no surprise, I’m sure.”

  Fronto shot an irritated glance at his second-in-command and then turned back to the three prefects.

  “Right now, you look like you’ve just fought a nasty action. You look like victorious soldiers. If you get smartened up, you’ll not stand out quite so much.”

  Without waiting further, he turned and started marching up toward the command block in the centre of the camp. The legions had done a tremendous job in his absence. The bridge across the Aisne was strong and wide enough for two carts; a camp protected the far side with a palisaded annexe that contained all the supplies and supply wagons that constantly rolled across the countryside back and forth to keep the legions fed. Very efficient, but nothing quite as impressive as this fort.

  Tetricus had constructed on this hill above the river a camp of traditional rectangular shape, but the dimensions and the fortifications were breathtaking. Once or twice in his career, Fronto had come across a camp big enough to accommodate two, or even three, legions, but this was on another scale entirely. A single camp large enough to hold the bulk of seven legions, plus all their auxiliary units, cavalry and artillery. It was almost mind-blowing to see. The four men had walked fully ten minutes from the gate before they came to the edge of the principia: more than a dozen campaign tents, with Caesar’s great headquarters at the centre.r />
  The general’s guard maintained their perimeter and stepped forward to challenge the four scruffy men approaching.

  “State your name and purpose!”

  “Gods,” Fronto laughed, “Ingenuus has you lot on form, doesn’t he? Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto of the Tenth Legion, accompanied by three auxiliary prefects, to see the general.”

  The two men before him saluted and one turned and ran off into the principia. The other remained at attention.

  “If you would just bear with us while we inform the general?”

  Fronto nodded and the four men stood, kicking idly at the dried mud and few surviving tufts of grass on the ground. After almost a minute, the guard returned and beckoned, escorting them into the general’s tent.

  As they entered, pausing to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, Caesar rose from his seat behind the table.

  “It is good to see you alive, Fronto. I was starting to worry. Last night I poured a libation on the altar of Mars and asked him to bring you back unharmed.”

  Fronto sighed wearily.

  “With respect, general, it wasn’t Mars that did it. It was us; myself, the three officers behind me and their men.”

  Caesar blinked.

  “Did it? Did what?”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Brought you the Remi, safe and sound. Bibrax stands firm. In fact yesterday it stood firm amid a sea of Belgae around thirty thousand strong.”

  The general was clearly astonished.

  “You succeeded? I had assumed you harried the enemy and pulled out? You actually succeeded?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Not only that, but you remember those chieftains we met back at Durocorteron? Iccius and Antebogus or something?”

  “Antebrogius” corrected the general absently.

  “Yes, well it turns out that Bibrax was Iccius’ village. Good job we did go, eh?”

  The general’s eyes flashed momentarily at the barely-veiled note of accusation in the legate’s tone.

  “Then you gentlemen did me a great service.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “At the very least I’d say these three need seriously looking at for decoration and promotion.”

  Caesar nodded thoughtfully.

  “Identify yourselves, gentlemen.”

  “Titus Decius Quadratus, auxiliary prefect of the Eighth.”

  Decius saluted wearily. As he stepped back into line, the next man stepped forward.

  “Servius Galeo, auxiliary prefect of the Eleventh.”

  Another step forward.

  “Vibius Pansa, auxiliary prefect of the Twelfth.”

  Caesar smiled benignly. Fronto knew that smile and how the general had perfected it such that it looked so genuine.

  “Well, gentlemen. We’ll have to see what we can do for you all.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “However, that may have to wait. That’s the other thing. On the way back here, we skirted round the edge of the Belgae. All of them. Judging by the relaxed atmosphere in the camp, I presume you’re not aware of them?”

  Caesar frowned.

  “I have scouts out far and wide. They were last reported about twenty miles distant… They can’t be anywhere near yet? We’d have had reports.”

  Fronto shook his head and pointed at the tent’s doorway.

  “They’re out there. What looks like half a million of them to me. And they’re so close that if you pissed off a high ladder you could probably hit them!”

  The general’s frown deepened and he leaned forward, placing the flats of his palms on the table.

  “How close?”

  “Two miles. Maybe a little further. And I can tell you this: there are a bloody lot of them.” He turned to the prefects behind him.

  “How many d’you reckon, Decius?”

  The prefect frowned.

  “I reckon their camps cover about eight miles or more.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Something like that. And they’ve burned everything they’ve come across between Bibrax and here. I think you’ve got a big fight waiting for you just out of sight.”

  Caesar growled.

  “Then either my native scouts are defecting to the Belgae or the enemy have caught and killed every last one of them.”

  He smashed his fist on the table.

  “How can I have been so blind?”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Simple. I wasn’t here.”

  The general gave him a weak and humourless smile.

  “What’s the terrain like between here and there, do you know? I’m planning blind, here.”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “A couple of low grassy humps and the odd belt of trees, and then a wide plain.”

  Galeo shook his head and stepped forward.

  “If I may, sirs?”

  The general and his legate nodded at him.

  “Well it looks like a plain at first glance from a distance, where we marched past, but I saw tell-tale signs. That plain’s a marsh at the moment. I think it probably gets flooded by the Aisne over winter and spring and stays swampy until high summer. There’s reeds in clumps and there are herons perching and flying around. It’s never quite dry, I’d say. In fact, I think that’s why the Belgae made their camp where they did: the marsh lies between us.”

  Decius made a sour face.

  “Got to be plagued by insects there.”

  A nod.

  Fronto frowned.

  “How come you noticed all this? Looked like a green plain to me.”

  Galeo smiled.

  “I come from the wetlands at the coast near Aquileia, sir. And I know my birds, sir.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “Then there’s no clear field of battle near the enemy. They’ll have to come round the edge of the marsh. That should even up the odds a little.”

  He stood silently for a moment, tapping his thumb on his lower lip absently and then looked up suddenly, as though he’d forgotten the officers were there.

  “Mmm? Oh yes, sorry Fronto. I think you four had best go bathe, change and get some rest. I’ll be calling a general meeting of the staff some time this afternoon, but I’ll send for you then.”

  He frowned again.

  “On your way out, have someone go and find Varus and send him to me. I have a job for the cavalry.”

  Fronto nodded and, saluting, the four officers filed out of the tent.

  Bees buzzed and added their gentle hum to the background noises of a military camp at rest. Fronto smiled. It was a nice time of year. Better savour the next hour or two, since the next few days promised to be busy.

  “Well I don’t know about you three, but I’m looking forward to rinsing out my mouth with some good, old-fashioned Roman wine for a change. Care to join me, relaxing in the laconicum with a nice wine?”

  “Laconicum?” Decius raised an eyebrow.

  “Alright,” Fronto grinned, “the river, if you must know!”

  * * * * *

  Quintus Atius Varus inhaled deeply, sucking down the warm fragrant air of early summer. Barbarians the Gauls and the Belgae might be, but they had some lovely land up here in the north. The air seemed to be fresher than it was back home in Italy; lighter and cleaner. He glanced around him at the cavalry, two alae of regulars.

  His orders were clear. Examine the terrain between the two armies and report back, preferably without engaging enemy scouts or outriders. Oh, a job like this could be done by scouts for the Romans, but from what Caesar had said, his scouts kept mysteriously disappearing, so the task needed a little more force this time.

  Varus smiled.

  And, of course, he and his men would be able to report the terrain with a soldier’s eye, rather than the basic geography relayed by a native scout.

  The crest of a hill loomed ahead, crowned by a thin row of poplar trees as if nature’s own crest surmounted the helmet of the land. Steering the steed with his knees, he made for the avenue of trees. Th
ey were spaced evenly, planted by the design of some unknown hand, rather than naturally seeded.

  As they approached the rise, Varus gave commands using hand and arm motions. The two alae peeled off to either side and came to a halt in formation. Off to the left, a large thicket cut off the view of the plain stretching away, and a similar knot of tangled trees lay to the right. Motioning to the officers, he walked his horse gently toward the crest. The two cavalry prefects trotted up to join him as they reached the top.

  Varus whistled through his teeth quietly.

  “Shit, that’s a lot of Belgae!”

  The three riders, largely sheltered from view by the thin avenue of trees, looked down the slope with a growing sense of awe. A sizeable marsh began at the foot of the slope and stretched away to within a few yards of the Belgae. The swampy ground was enclosed off to the left by a ridge, along which Fronto and his men must have come this morning. The other end, however, meandered off to the edge of the Aisne River with which it was almost level. Varus’ trained military eye spotted the possibilities. That area looked marshy, for certain, but it was the area that had now dried out and sealed off the water inland. It would be easily crossable by cavalry and would probably present no great problem for infantry, but you wouldn’t want to actually fight there, just in case.

  The impressive thing, though, that seized Varus’s gaze and held it, was the camp of the Belgae. He’d been sceptical of the reports from Fronto that the force covered a width of eight miles. It sounded such a long way.

  And yet, looking down from here, the line of camps stretched from the river bank to the crest and was perhaps two miles thick as well.

  “What would you say, Casco? Does that look like three hundred thousand Belgae?”

  The prefect beside him shrugged.

  “Respectfully, sir, it’s damn near impossible to tell when they have no formation.”

  The prefect on the other side of him shook his head.

  “Not that many, sir. They’re spread out.”

  Varus turned and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, there’s a lot, sir, don’t get me wrong, but not a third of a million. Remember seeing Ariovistus’ army at Vesontio last year? Well I reckon there’s about twice as many here. Ariovistus had about seventy thousand men.”