The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Balbus frowned.

  “Want some moral support?”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “I’ll be fine. See you shortly.”

  The other two officers waved at him and disappeared off through the ranks of tents, but Fronto made for the large headquarters in the centre. For a moment he dithered, unsure whether to knock or just stride inside confidently, but his plans disintegrated at the call from within.

  “Come in Fronto, and close the flap.”

  He stepped inside to see Caesar lying on his bed in the shade, no lamp lit to banish the dark.

  “Caesar?”

  “Headache” the general said, by way of explanation. Fronto stared into the dark as he let the leather flap drop into place, plunging them into stygian gloom. He blinked a couple of times and then slowly felt his way round the tent until he found the seat he knew to be there and sat down.

  “You do know that this is actually a lot less of a problem than you made out, Caesar, yes?”

  There was a moment of silence and then a tired voice said “go on…”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about the geography of this. Divitiacus and his Aedui are wading through Bellovaci territory, so they’re actually more to the west than the north. In actual fact, the Belgae are now more directly between the forces than they would have been near the marsh. In fact, if the Bellovaci learn about the Aedui, they’ll likely abandon the army to go home and defend their lands.”

  There was a sigh.

  “I suppose so. I was just looking forward to a single definitive victory.”

  Fronto smiled in the dark.

  “That was never going to happen among the Belgae, Caesar, and you know that. Everyone says that when they’ve no common enemy they fight each other. That sort of people aren’t going to give up in one big force. We’ll probably be fighting them tribe by tribe long after the big boys are under our heels. The way to do it is not in one big battle, but to put them down one tribe at a time and, if possible, to turn them into allies as we do it.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course.”

  “Caesar?”

  Fronto’s voice took on a worried tone. A headache was one thing, even one strong enough to make the general delegate all duties and retreat to his tent, but for him to meekly accept Fronto’s advice without an argument, a quip, or a little pomposity was truly unheard of.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, Fronto!” Slightly irritable now. “Of course. Now, what else?”

  Good. That was more like Caesar.

  “I’ve seen to everything here, but I’m assuming that we’ll probably be moving on shortly, and I doubt we’ll be back here, no?”

  Another sigh.

  “Would you like me to handle your scouts and spies while you recover?”

  “That would be good, yes. Thank you, Fronto. Now I think I should sleep.”

  Fronto stood in the darkness and turned, using the tiny sliver of grey to navigate his way to the door once again.

  “Be well, Caesar.”

  Trying not to open the flap wide and admit too much light, Fronto left the room and spied the dozen Gallic-dressed horsemen standing respectfully a distance away, beyond Ingenuus’ men who guarded the tent.

  “You speak Latin, yes?”

  “Yes,” confirmed the nearest man.

  “I don’t know what Caesar usually asks you to do, but the general is sleeping, and I’m to brief you. We need you to get back among the fleeing Belgae. Spend a few hours among them and find out their plans. Then get back here as soon as you can and report to Caesar or myself. Be subtle and careful. Clear?”

  The men nodded.

  “Good. Then go.”

  Without watching them leave, Fronto turned and strode back towards his own tent.

  “Wine!” he said, slapping his forehead. Veering off to the side, he strode in the direction of the quartermaster.

  * * * * *

  The morning was pale and watery, as was Fronto, blearily emerging from his tent like a cave dwelling creature coming out of hibernation.

  “What is it?” he grumbled, rubbing his bristly chin and blinking. This was going to be a powerful hangover.

  “The scouts are back and Caesar’s called for his officers, sir.”

  Fronto stared at the young guard in front of him; one of Ingenuus’ men, neat and smart, who had obviously been on guard.

  “Urgh.” Wincing, Fronto excavated a lump of crusted sleep from the corner of his eye.

  “Of course… the general’s had a long sleep, so he’s up at Aurora’s arse!” He became aware of the smirk the soldier was trying to hide. “Lead on!”

  As he shuffled along behind the guard in the direction of Caesar’s tent, he saw Balbus approaching with Varus. The latter was clean-shaven and bright, but the older legate was clearly enjoying this morning as much as Fronto was. He smiled. On the bright side, they’d both be feeling better than Sabinus who, this morning, probably wished he was dead. The two legates shared a look and entered the tent.

  Many of the staff and senior officers were already present and seated. Fronto and Balbus walked around the edge and sank gratefully into their chairs. The general tapped impatiently on the table and then cleared his throat.

  “My scouts have returned and confirmed the situation, gentlemen.”

  He tapped on the map behind him, indicating the territory to the west.

  “The surviving force, numbering probably around a hundred and twenty thousand has made for the lands of the Suessiones. There they plan to disperse to protect their own lands and wait to see what our next move is. It would appear that the Bellovaci have become aware of the Aedui in their lands and have already gone off ahead on their own.”

  The general paused and registered the surprise on many officers’ faces at news of their Gaulish allies.

  “I am sure of Divitiacus’ ability to deal with them on his own, so I intend to concentrate on the rest. We will not give the Belgae enough time to pull a huge army together again, but will move on them swiftly, one tribe at a time. But in the first instance, while they’re still largely together and disorganised, I want to damage them further. We are only a day behind them and can easily catch up.”

  He smiled grimly.

  “I want to follow them closely and keep harrying them. I want to encourage them to panic and disperse and, as soon as they have, we will make for the Suessiones’ capital at Noviodunum, where we will bring that tribe and any allies that remain to battle and either absorb or annihilate them. Once that is done, all of the southern Belgae will be under our control: the Bellovaci, Suessiones and the Remi. Divide and conquer, gentlemen… divide and conquer.”

  There was a shuffling noise at the rear. Fronto turned to look and he and Balbus almost let out an explosive burst of laughter. Sabinus was sheepishly stumbling around the periphery and looking for a seat. He resembled one of the homeless drunken old soaks that lived in the outfall pipe of the cloaca maxima in Rome. There was a general good humoured murmur, though Fronto turned and watched the disapproving frown on the general’s face.

  Caesar cleared his throat.

  “So this is what you will do: Varus? You will take the cavalry and harass the enemy as they flee. You will need to split into three forces to herd them in the correct direction along the river, so… Pedius and Cotta? I am assigning you to Varus on cavalry duty.”

  He gestured at Varus.

  “I want you out there and engaging them in the next few hours. As soon as we’re done in here, get the cavalry moving. Keep pushing them west into the Suessiones’ land. And don’t bother having them decamp first. Just get going.”

  Varus nodded professionally. Fronto smiled. The young cavalry prefect he’d seen at Vesontio last year had evaporated, to be replaced by this professional veteran who had just had two of Caesar’s most senior staff officers placed under his command.

  The general wheeled.

  “Right behind them will be half the army. The Eight
h, Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh are all fresh and at full strength. Those four legions under their commanders will move out immediately after the cavalry at the fastest possible pace. Again, they need to take only their weapons and armour. Leave the decamping and transport. Just get caught up. Varus will be keeping them busy until you arrive.”

  He turned to the officer on his left.

  “Labienus? I’m putting you in overall command of that force. The legates all know what they’re doing…”

  He cast a pointed look at Fronto and Balbus.

  “… despite current appearances… but I want a cohesive strategy and that means an overall command system. Kill as many of them as you have to with as few losses as possible. Don’t let them change course, and don’t allow them to form up into a proper army again. You will need to play this carefully to keep them moving. Be a shepherd and only cull where necessary.”

  Labienus nodded and the general straightened.

  “The Twelfth have been mopping up the survivors by the marsh and burying the dead. Galba will return shortly. Once he is here, the Twelfth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth will break camp and accompany the slow-moving artillery and baggage. I will stay with them and we will transport all the gear of the cavalry and the other four legions until we meet up and find the place for our next campaign camp.”

  He folded his arms and scanned the crowd in the tent.

  “Is that all clear? Any questions or comments?”

  Fronto cleared his throat.

  “With respect, Caesar, there are still quite a few Belgae unaccounted for. According to the numbers you got from the spies and the Remi before we moved into Belgae lands, we’ve only come across half or two thirds of them. We can be fairly sure the rest aren’t out to the west. If the Bellovaci are rushing that way to protect their lands, then there’s no allies out there. We know they’re not south ‘cause that’s where we came from. They can’t be west as that’s all Gallic and Germanic lands and we’d have heard. That means they’re north and when the legions follow the survivors, they’ll have free reign behind us.”

  Caesar frowned and rubbed his neck.

  “So what are you suggesting, Fronto?”

  You need a rearguard, Caesar. A strong rearguard. All your cavalry will be out west and you’ll be weighed down by the wagons. I’d suggest you send three legions west, not four. Then have two legions accompanying the baggage and artillery and two playing rearguard. In fact, I’d be tempted to keep a small cavalry unit to act as scouts and outriders for the column.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “I suppose that’s sensible. And we need to be sure of our supply lines anyway. Very well. I’ll keep the Eleventh and Twelfth for rearguard and the Thirteenth and Fourteenth with the baggage. The Eighth, Ninth and Tenth will go west under Labienus.”

  Ten minutes later, Fronto was standing, still grey, bleary and unshaven, by the standards of the Tenth in their shrine. Priscus sat on the altar to victory, an act that was highly sacrilegious, and folded his arms.

  “So we’re actually going to have a chance to fight?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “It’s not going to be much of a fight. We’re just pursuing a fleeing army and nipping at their heels. Varus and his cavalry left five minutes ago. Caesar wants the three legions ready to move, unburdened by crap, within the hour. I want the Tenth out front and ready in half that time. We’ve a reputation to maintain, Gnaeus.”

  The primus pilus laughed.

  “You’re certainly living up to yours. If you want us to look good, go bathe and shave while we decamp. You smell like a latrine and you look awful.”

  “Thanks again.”

  The legate sighed.

  “But a bath does sound good. Right, I’ll go bathe sharpish and I’ll see you on the ‘parade ground’ out front in forty minutes.”

  The primus pilus nodded and tapped the nearest standard.

  “I’m looking forward to it. So is Balventius. We talked last night. To be honest, we’re all a bit sick of watching auxiliaries and Gauls hogging all the glory. Are you sure you remember how to command a legion? You’ve been an auxiliary prefect for the past few weeks, really.”

  “Shut up!”

  Fronto glowered at his subordinate’s grinning face and, turning, left the legion’s command tent. Watching the upheaval around the camp, he strode down the slope to the river. Finding the shelf by the water’s edge that the legions had flattened and decked out with planks for this purpose, he wandered over to the large wooden chest that lay on one side.

  The container was unlocked and opened to reveal jars of olive oil, strigils, and clean sponges. Fronto stretched and began to remove his tunic, breeches and various accoutrements. The early morning chill brought out gooseflesh as he stood, naked, on the wooden platform. Reaching down, he grasped the olive oil container and proceeded to tip it out into his hand and rub it into his cold flesh. In a nice civil bath house within the empire, the process was relaxing and refreshing; often with the help of a slave and, in the better establishments, accompanied by wine, bread and cheese, and music. The experience in the field was a little less relaxed.

  He shivered as he hurriedly rubbed the oil into his calf. At least it led to very quick and efficient bathing. Once he was fully oiled, he replaced the oil container in the chest and, picking up the strigil, stepped off the wooden surface and onto the discoloured turf nearby. Slowly, he worked at removing the oil and grime with the curved blade, the gloop falling away in gobbets to the grass. Finally, he finished his routine and stepped forward and down into the water.

  As part of the work the engineers had done on this temporary bathing complex, a set of steps had been carved and decked down into the water, and a floor of wooden beams sunk into this side of the river, replacing the reeds and sucking mud that would have greeted him.

  Biting his lip, he stepped into the cold water, his toes curling at the sensation. A little further and his shins and calves complained. Then the knees; the thighs; his abdomen and then with one quick splash, he submerged completely, dropping to sit underwater on the wooden floor. He sat for a moment, adjusting to the refreshing cold, and then pushed himself back up.

  He crested the water with a splash and stood, chest deep, raking his fingers back through his hair. Rubbing his chin and neck, for a moment he considered whether he should leave it. Beards may not be popular in Rome, but they were fairly common among soldiers on campaign; especially with all these Gallic recruits.

  “No. Roman it is!”

  He shook his head and wiped the excess water from his eyes, stepping forward to the pile of gear on the wooden shelf. His dagger probably needed work, but it’d be sharp enough for a cursory shave. A closer one could come later, as he was short on time right now.

  He reached across and pulled at the coiled belt. The knife was gone.

  Instinct made him use bent knees to launch himself back out into the water, just as the figure leapt from the reeds and undergrowth to the side.

  Six feet out into the water, almost at the edge of the wooden platform, Fronto stared. It was a girl. Well, more of a woman than a girl, probably in her mid twenties and clearly Celtic. Her long strawberry blonde hair was plaited and braided and she wore a long tunic or dress of pale blue wool, belted in the middle with expensive-looking bronze, though stained with mud and blood.

  Her eyes were sharp and clear and she brandished Fronto’s knife and waved it in his direction threateningly.

  “What in the name of Venus?”

  He eyed her warily. She was pretty, certainly, and clearly strong in both mind and muscle, but that wasn’t always a good combination. His mind flashed briefly back to a pretty looking young German woman who tried to tear his tendon out with her teeth. Frowning and setting his jaw, Fronto wondered how to proceed.

  The woman gabbled something off in her tongue. Fronto looked her up and down once again. She was clearly one of the Belgae, but how the hell did she get down here? They didn’t usually bring their women
onto the battlefield, as far as he remembered. And she was clearly a noble or a woman of wealth from the bronze and gold belt and jewellery that adorned her. Perhaps she was a chieftainess? One of these warrior women rumour spoke of among the Celts? The barbarian version of an amazon? Taking a step forward, she kept the knife defensively between them and scooped up his clothes, leaving only his boots.

  “Dress!”

  He was so surprised at the sudden use of Latin that he merely stood and blinked. She had a strong Belgic accent, but there was no doubt about it. She could speak his tongue.

  “I said dress! I know how to use this!”

  Fronto shrugged and moved toward the river bank, his body still submerged to the chest.

  “I really don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve here, but your very best option is to run like Pluto himself is jabbing you in the arse. I expect you’ve heard horror stories about what Roman officers do to captives; I know I have; but, to be honest, I’m not the rape and murder type. I’d rather you took my knife and buggered off, so I can get dressed and go have a bite to eat.”

  The woman tipped her head to one side slightly.

  “Many of your words are not familiar to me, Roman. Now, dress!”

  Fronto emerged from the water, naked and pale. As he had hoped, the sudden appearance of naked masculinity caught her attention for a fraction of a second. It was involuntary and only momentary, but it was enough. As the legate rose from the surface, she failed to notice the stick in his hand; a sturdy pole that had been jammed into the riverbank by some helpful soldier, possibly to hang a cloth from.

  The stick came out of the water at a fast swing, whacking the woman on the wrist, and causing her to lose her grip on the knife. In a momentary panic, she dived for the blade, but Fronto was there first. She backed away, edgily, watching his every move.

  “Damn it” he grumbled.

  He frowned at her. Why did stupid things like this always happen to him?

  “Pick up my gear!”

  She did so, nervously.

  “Now throw me the breeches.”