The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Priscus snorted.

  “I hate defences and sieges. Give me a good open field and a sword any day.”

  Fronto opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again when he saw, over Priscus’ shoulder, legate Balbus of the Eighth striding down to the causeway.

  “Evening all. That’s looking very strong.”

  The older legate nodded appreciatively as he looked up and down the defences. Fronto smiled.

  “Afternoon stroll, Quintus?”

  Balbus chuckled.

  “Not quite. Now most of the work’s done, Caesar wants the legions moved forward to the new line and camped behind it. I think he’s worried that the Belgae think we’ve lost interest.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “He doesn’t want to commit to battle yet, but the last thing we want them to do is to leave. Are we dismantling the main camp?”

  Balbus shook his head.

  “The reserves are to stay in the camp.”

  “Reserves? We have reserves?”

  Balbus nodded wearily.

  “You’ve been busy, so you’ve not seen what’s been happening. The two new legions have all but cut themselves off. None of the veterans will talk to them, because they’re Gaulish foederati who don’t speak Latin well. There have been fights and arguments; thefts and vandalism. It’s turning into an administrative nightmare. My officers are spending most of their time policing the men.”

  He sighed.

  “I spoke to Caesar about integration. I was seriously considering transferring some of the eighth out to them and taking some of them back in return, but Caesar won’t have it. He doesn’t think it’ll improve morale in general, so much as destroy the morale of the Eighth. It is entirely possible that he’s right as well.”

  Fronto nodded and Balbus squared his shoulders.

  “So essentially Caesar’s separating the forces. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth, as reserves, are going to stay in the camp while the other five legions move up to the new line.”

  “I suppose it’s a solution for now. Things will have to change eventually though.”

  With a nod to Tetricus and Priscus, Fronto joined Balbus and the two began to stroll back up the grass towards the camp.

  They had walked less than fifty yards before they became aware of the sound of thundering hooves behind them. Stopping and turning, they saw half a dozen cavalry riding for the camp gate. Among them, Fronto noted the plume of a senior officer. Waving his arm, he stepped out towards them.

  “Ho, Varus! What’s happening?”

  The commander of the cavalry steered his horse toward the two legates with a deft twist of his knees.

  “We’ve got trouble. Another big force of Belgae has turned up a few miles further out.”

  Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  “You sure they were Belgae?”

  “What? Yes of course I’m sure.”

  “They couldn’t be any other sort of Gauls?” Fronto probed gently.

  Varus stared at him.

  “What the hell have you been drinking, Fronto.”

  Gritting his teeth, he dropped from the horse lightly to the grass.

  “No, these are definitely Belgae. At least ten thousand of them; maybe fifteen. And they’ll be in camp with their friends in an hour or so.”

  “Damn it!”

  Fronto ground his teeth.

  “Caesar’s plans are just going to have to change. At the very least we need to whittle their numbers down while we wait.”

  He looked up at Varus.

  “Balbus and I are coming with you to see Caesar.”

  “We are?” the older legate said with mild surprise and then hurried to catch up with the other two, Fronto walking with his hands clasped behind his back and his head down, Varus leading his horse by the bridle as his troopers went to water and rest their steeds.

  “We’re going to have to goad them into sending some kind of force out somewhere we can meet them,” Fronto murmured. “I don’t suppose you could get your cavalry round behind them and destroy this relief force?”

  Varus shook his head.

  “Not really. Not in time. We’d likely end up trapped between two armies of Belgae.”

  “Then we’re going to have to either provoke them into coming to us or find another way to pick off a number of them. Your man Lucilius did a good job earlier. Maybe he could think of something?”

  Varus shrugged.

  “Whatever we try, the terrain will be dangerous and the Belgae will be well prepared.”

  He looked up into the purple sky.

  “And it’s too late to do anything tonight anyway. It’ll have to be in the morning.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Fair enough. Gives us a night to work something out anyway.”

  He smiled at Balbus.

  “Actually, I think I’ve changed my mind. I’ve seen quite enough of Caesar for one day. Priscus will deal with moving the Tenth, and I presume you’ve set Balventius to moving your lot. Shall we retire to my tent for a beverage or two? It seems like an awful long time since I’ve seen you socially.”

  Balbus chuckled, rubbing his fist.

  “That it does. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, the last time I had to break your nose!”

  Fronto smiled weakly.

  “Yes, well…”

  He turned to Varus.

  “After you’ve reported to Caesar, come join us. We should talk.”

  Varus nodded.

  “I’ll find you.”

  It was a little less than an hour later, with the last glow of the sun finally vanishing in the west, when Varus, divested of his armour and weapons and looking tired though relaxed in just tunic and breeches, finally knocked on Fronto’s tent.

  “Come on in.”

  He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the low lamp light. Fronto’s tent looked exactly how Varus would have imagined: the furniture was pushed back against the walls, heaped with dirty clothes and junk, his armour in a pile near the door where he had dropped it, and the centre of the tent covered with rugs and cushions, all set around a low table on which sat a pair of dice, several piles of sesterces and goblets and jugs of wine.

  In addition to Fronto and Balbus, the training officer of the Tenth, centurion Velius, and Aulus Crispus, legate of the Eleventh, sat around drinking and laughing. With a smile, Varus sank gratefully into a pile of cushions.

  “Gentlemen.”

  As he sat, Fronto leaned back and his face became serious for a moment.

  “Is there anyone around outside?”

  Varus shook his head.

  “Not nearby. Why?”

  Fronto sighed.

  “There’s something I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I’m going to anyway.”

  Balbus raised an eyebrow.

  “Very mysterious. You shouldn’t pass on secrets, Marcus.”

  Fronto laughed quietly.

  “I don’t think it should be a secret. Caesar wants it kept under wraps because he’s starting to get paranoid about people in his army being untrustworthy or leaking information to the Belgae.”

  He cast a glance round the room and smiled.

  “But I’d be willing to bet my career on you lot.”

  It was true. Balbus had no political leanings and Velius was a career centurion with no position in Rome. There was no guarantee that Crispus and Varus had no other agenda but, apart from the fact that they owed their commissions to Caesar, something about the pair of them just sat well with Fronto. He would be prepared to trust any one of these men with his life.

  “Thing is… I know why we’re sitting tight and not engaging the Belgae.”

  He leaned back, noting with interest the intrigued look on the faces of all of his companions expect Balbus, who merely nodded thoughtfully.

  “The Aedui” he stated and leaned back.

  Balbus nodded again.

  “I had a suspicion” he confirmed. “Didn’t want to voice it, since Caesar clearly intended to keep this qu
iet, but there was a glaring hole in Caesar’s attack plan, and there was only one logical solution.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “You’re ahead of the game, Quintus. Yes, Divitiacus and a sizeable Aedui army have been traipsing through the western edge of the Belgae lands, burning as they go. The Bellovaci tribe, I think it is.”

  Crispus smiled and poured himself another drink.

  “So Caesar’s waiting for the forces to join up? Or just to have them at the other side of the Belgae as a threat. Might be able to end this entire campaign peacefully if we can trap the Belgae in a vice and threaten them.”

  Varus shook his head.

  “We’ll still have a battle on our hands. I’ve seen these Belgae in action now. They’ll not lie down and give in. The only way we’re ever going to beat them in a straight fight without more legions is by being inventive and out-thinking them.”

  “Agreed,” Fronto added. “I saw them at Bibrax, and they’re not the sort of people to give up without a fight. We only succeeded because of a few clever moves.”

  Balbus scratched his head, deep in thought.

  “So I assume Caesar set all this in motion long before we even left Vesontio. The Aedui must have started moving the same time as us.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Caesar sent riders out to Divitiacus the same time he sent those couriers to Rome; to his sister.”

  He stopped for a moment, frowning. Varus took a swig from his goblet.

  “Caesar sent riders to Rome?”

  Fronto waved a hand.

  “Hang on. Yes. It’s a long story and one you might be better off not knowing.”

  Balbus shook his head.

  “Too late now. You’ve already told him enough.”

  The older legate turned to the cavalry commander.

  “Paetus; the camp prefect?”

  Varus nodded.

  “He’s involved with one of Caesar’s opposition in Rome.”

  Velius spluttered over his wine as Varus stared.

  “True,” admitted Fronto. “Caesar was all for getting rid of him one way or another, but it’s not really Paetus’ fault. He’s been used; he’s not really a traitor, so we found a way to use him ourselves. We turned him back on his patron in Rome. Caesar’s going to have him…”

  Suddenly, Fronto stared and then slapped his head.

  “Balbus, I think I’ve been stupid.”

  A questioning frown.

  “I should have realised. When I talked to Caesar a while back about Paetus and the couriers, for a moment he acted as though he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.”

  He ground his teeth.

  “And that’s because he hadn’t. He’d forgotten what he told me. He never sent anyone to Rome. The couriers he sent out were to the Aedui!”

  Balbus’ frown deepened.

  “That means that Paetus’ family are still in danger. No one’s watching over them after all. Would Caesar really do that? Are you sure about this, Marcus?”

  Fronto started to climb to his feet.

  “Quintus, I’m beyond sure. We’ve got to warn Paetus not to go along with Caesar. He’ll be endangering his wife and children.”

  Balbus grasped his wrist and pulled him back down to the cushions, a dark look on his face.

  “Too late, Marcus. Caesar had Paetus send his messages to Rome while you were off fighting at Bibrax…”

  Fronto let out a low animal growl.

  “That heartless, cold bastard.”

  The vicious edge to his voice made Varus and Crispus start with surprise. Fronto slammed his fist on the floor.

  “The old bastard deliberately had Paetus put himself and his family in danger. He could easily have stopped it, or protected them as he said he would. But no! The miserable old bastard just had Paetus sign a death warrant on his own family. If that Clodius is as nasty a piece of work as I hear, he’ll not flinch from gutting a woman and children.”

  Balbus’ jaw line hardened.

  “Not only that, but Caesar actually waited until you were safely out of the way before he set it in motion. I expect he thinks that you’d try and stop it.”

  He sighed.

  “Which, of course, you would.”

  Fronto continued to growl quietly.

  “So do we tell Paetus?”

  “What good will that do?” replied Balbus. “There’s nothing he can do about it now. I suppose it’s possible you could persuade Caesar to send the riders that he never did, but I don’t think so.”

  Fronto shook his head, a determined look on his face.

  “I can do one better than that. I just hope there’s still time.”

  He turned to Varus.

  “I need half a dozen men with fast horses; Romans, too. Not Gauls. Think you can spare them?”

  Varus nodded, uncertainly.

  “The cavalry strength reports are always a mess anyway. What are you planning?”

  “I’ve got family in Rome as well, and a bored sister with money. If Caesar won’t do anything to protect Paetus’ family, then it’s up to me.”

  Varus sat back.

  “Pour me another wine. I suspect I’m going to need it.”

  * * * * *

  As the sun made its first appearance over the tree-lined hills to the east and the dew settled into the damp grass, Varus vaulted into his saddle. The cavalry section was quartered in a stockaded area near one end of the defensive line, close to a wide causeway crossing, and the pre-dawn morning had seen the camp alive with troopers, both regular and auxiliary, preparing for action. Caesar had called Varus to him in the middle of the night and the cavalry commander had blearily attended to be informed that the cavalry would be going into action first thing in the morning.

  Since then, Varus had had no time for sleep. Giving the call early, he had managed to marshal the entire mounted division in front of their stockade while it was still dark. Now, as he prepared to ride out and attempt a repeat of the cavalry’s previous successes, he slung his shield on its strap over his back and narrowed his eyes at the five men sitting astride their horses awaiting orders.

  “Sorry to take you out of the action. I’m sure you were looking forward to giving the Belgae a battering, but I need people I can trust with this.”

  Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew a scroll in a protective leather wrap, sealed with wax. Hesitating for a moment, he reached out and proffered it to the nearest rider. As the man took the scroll and tucked it away safely inside his cloak, Varus withdrew a second item; a small purse of coins. Handing it to the men, he fixed them with a serious gaze.

  “This should be enough to see to you Rome and back comfortably, using mansios wherever you can. Remember: you’re couriers for a legate, so steer clear of any trouble spots and stay as safe and inconspicuous as possible. Repeat your orders for me?”

  The man with the tightly-wrapped scroll nodded.

  “We’re to deliver this to the House of the Falerii opposite the temple of Bona Dea on the Aventine. It’s to go only into the hands of one of the two ladies of the house; no servants. Get there as fast as we can and then return to Durocorteron to find out where the army has moved to. Talk to no one about where we’re going, what we’re doing or who we’re doing it for.”

  Varus nodded.

  “And if neither of the Falerii ladies are there?”

  “Then we’re to ride on to their villa in Puteoli and deliver the message there.”

  Again Varus nodded, satisfied.

  “This is very important. Lives rest on your success. Now get going, and good luck.”

  The men saluted and then rode from the stockade towards the bridge across the Aisne at the rear of the huge camp. Varus watched them go and sighed. How the hell did he get caught up in intrigue like this? It was Fronto, he thought, almost laughing. The man was like a hub around which trouble gathered. Gods would be frightened to get too deeply involved with Fronto.

  Another smile, and he turned and rode back to join t
he cavalry prefects behind him.

  “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s go and show the Belgae how we make war.”

  Squaring his shoulders, he kicked his horse into motion and led the large cavalry contingent of Caesar’s army, fully equipped for battle, through the gate in the stockade and toward the crossing point of the ditch.

  The mile or so to the marsh passed peacefully, the dawn chorus twittering its song to the thousands of riders as they trotted, grim-faced, past nature’s morning spectacle. As the sun gradually rose higher, it washed the landscape of gentle rolling hills with a pale, watery light.

  Varus prepared himself. Though he’d seen the lay of the land several times and knew the Belgic position well, until he reached the scene, he really couldn’t decide how to proceed. Would it be best to attempt a repeat of Lucilius’ action to the east? Perhaps it would be best to take the army round to the west and try to skirt them until they could reach appropriate ground beyond the ridge? He was even tempted to send a few scouts into the marsh to see if it was shallower than it looked. If the cavalry could cross the marsh it would certainly make things easier, though that was extremely doubtful.

  His face hardened as they reached the plain where two of the recent actions had taken place. In the hours since the last attack, the Belgae had retrieved their dead, presumably to bury them and raise a mound somewhere back near their encampment. The Roman dead, of course, remained where they fell, starting to putrefy. The sooner they could get the Belgae to fight, the sooner this would be over and they could retrieve their own dead and give them a proper funeral.

  He mused again. His orders were to try and get the Belgae to march on the Roman lines but, if they continued to refuse, to harry them and reduce their numbers. Easier said than done, given this terrain.

  As they reached the foot of the low hill, he looked up at the familiar line of poplars and then turned back to his men. Signalling a halt, he gestured to the senior prefects and together the officers rode to the top of the hill to confer and make plans.