The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Paetus!” growled Priscus once again.

  He turned to Balbus.

  “I think we’d best inform Caesar that Paetus has attacked Fronto and fled.” He frowned. “Question is: where’s he fled to?”

  * * * * *

  Divitiacus of the Aedui and several of his nobles rode out ahead of the huge Gallic force that was milling around on the plain ahead. As he approached the head of the Roman column, the staff officers arrived from their position further back along the line while the men sighed and rested their feet from the four day march along the river valley into the lands of the Bellovaci.

  “My lord Divitiacus” Caesar greeted the Aedui chief with as deep and respectful a bow as he could manage on horseback. Divitiacus gave him a traditional Roman military salute. “General.”

  “What news of the Bellovaci?”

  The Aedui chieftain pulled his horse alongside the general and shrugged.

  “We have fought and burned our way from Lutetia all the way here, Caesar. The main force was absent, fighting you, though even their women and children fought us as best they could. It was tragic really. I dislike having to take war against women.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “It is tragic, and all soldiers try not to, but sometimes civilians will just not listen to reason and must resist. I hope you have not incurred too many casualties?”

  Divitiacus shrugged again.

  “Hardly any until the Bellovaci returned to their lands. About a week ago we started to meet actual warriors in small tribes. We have fought and defeated each small army we came across, but were always surprised at their low numbers until yesterday. Then we discovered where they have all gone.”

  Caesar raised an eyebrow.

  “They are in the greatest oppidum they control; a town called Bratuspantium, about a mile down the valley from here. There they’ve held against us for four days and have caused us a lot of deaths. We outnumber them, but they’re in a strong position and won’t sally forth to deal with us.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “But now the Aedui will join Rome on the field and the Bellovaci will tremble before our might.”

  Divitiacus shook his head.

  “I’m afraid not, Caesar. The Bellovaci will not sue for peace as others have. They are too proud. Their warriors would rather die than submit to Rome. Even their women and children, as we’ve seen.”

  Caesar frowned, thoughtfully.

  “But it will take days to remove them from an oppidum, even with my best engineers. If they will not come out to meet us and they will not accept treaty, then we must make them bow before us!”

  Priscus caught a glimpse of the general’s face as he addressed the Aedui chieftain and he knew that look. He hardened himself for whatever he was about to overhear.

  After a moment, Caesar turned to Labienus and Sabinus, both of whom sat ahorse behind him.

  “I assume Fronto took prisoners after that fracas by the Aisne? Are any of them Bellovaci?”

  Sabinus nodded.

  “Almost a hundred, some pretty badly wounded though. They’re chained up at the rear of the supply column, in the charge of the Thirteenth.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “In a minute we’re going to move out to Bratuspantium. While we do, have the prisoners brought forward under guard.”

  Bratuspantium was, as had been intimated, an impressive fortress, with thick, high walls and a wide ditch, as defensive as Noviodunum and more besides. The Bellovaci lined the walls, with archers, slingers, stone and spear-throwers ready to repel any threat. They were clearly no more concerned about the arrival of seven legions of Romans than they were about the large numbers of Aedui that had been whittling down the defenders through great attrition for days now.

  Priscus stood in his accustomed position at the head of the Tenth and the front of the Roman column, with only Caesar’s staff between him and the defences of the Bellovaci. From here he could see the prisoners being marched along the side of the column; mostly the walking wounded, with occasional old men and the braver women who had accompanied their tribe into battle.

  A good job Fronto wasn’t here. The legate was conscious now, but would remain with the medical staff until tomorrow morning for observation. It was, Priscus thought, a damn good thing. There was a man accompanying the prisoner column who the primus pilus recognised; a man whose job it was to extract information from a reticent source. Every legion had such a man, though they were rarely called upon. This one, Manlius of the Ninth, had a reputation that surpassed the others, and which made him Caesar’s first choice for that least pleasant of activities.

  The Gauls of the Thirteenth Legion marched the prisoners out ahead of the column, to where Caesar and Sabinus stood, alongside Divitiacus. Priscus was close enough to hear the low conversation between the army’s leaders, intended to be unheard by the legions.

  “What do you intend to do?” Divitiacus sounded nervous.

  “I shall persuade the Bellovaci to peace.”

  “You will execute their fellows?”

  “In a manner of speaking…” Caesar turned that frightening feral smile on him and then, as the prisoners were lined up, he cleared his throat and called out in a voice loud enough to reach the walls of Bratuspantium and be heard within.

  “Leaders and warriors of the Bellovaci…”

  He gestured with both arms widely.

  “You have shut yourself in a trap. My army will slowly close that trap and squeeze you to death, if that is your will. I have been warned that you will not surrender to the will of Rome and that you will not fight us in open and honourable warfare. Therefore you leave me no choice but to use every weapon at my disposal to make you accept our will.”

  He turned and gestured to Manlius, who began, with the aid of two legionaries from the Thirteenth, to hammer a huge stake into the ground and bind ropes to it.

  Caesar nodded, stony-faced.

  “I give you this first great chance to prevent further bloodshed and to make peace with Rome. What is your answer?”

  There was a resounding silence in answer to his call.

  “Very well. Continue, centurion Manlius…”

  Priscus watched with growing unease as an old man with a leg wound was drawn, limping, from the column of prisoners and tied tightly to the stake. His worst fears were confirmed when Manlius collected from his kit a small flask of oil and drizzled it over the old man’s head. The torturer stopped in front of the prisoner and gave him an unpleasant grin. Priscus felt like applauding as the prisoner spat a mixture of oil and saliva in the centurion’s face. Centurions like Manlius gave the rank a bad name. The job might be a necessary one at times, but there was no call for anyone to enjoy it so much.

  Priscus looked away as Manlius worked the firesteel with a flicking noise. Keeping his head erect and straight, the primus pilus focused instead on Divitiacus of the Aedui, whose own face had become a mask of horror. Yes…a damn good job Fronto wasn’t here right now. There was a sudden explosive noise just out of his field of vision to the right, accompanied by an agonised shrieking.

  Caesar, he noticed, barely blinked.

  For three minutes they stood in silence like a still painting on the wall of a villa, locked in the seemingly eternal torture of a relative innocent. Three minutes though, Priscus knew, for he counted each second past as Caesar stared at the oppidum while Divitiacus stared at him. And throughout each tick in his mind, the sound of burning slowed and quietened to become the crackle and hiss of crisping flesh and burning fat.

  Priscus’ teeth ground as Caesar once more addressed the Bellovaci.

  “That is one of your people. Possibly the father of one of you on the walls? He is dead. Painfully, horribly, and unnecessarily dead. Because you will not listen to reason. I offer peace and an end to this horror. What is your answer?”

  There was a silence once more. Caesar placed his hands on his hips and drew a breath, but Divitiacus stepped in front of him.

  �
��General, this is not war. This is torture and murder. Let us tear down their walls instead. It is slow, but it is war!”

  Caesar’s eyes flicked briefly to him and then back to Bratuspantium.

  “I have almost a hundred other fathers, wives and children here” he called, “and be sure that before we reach the end, my legions will have rounded up others; farmers and woodsmen of your kin that live nearby. I will do what I must to end this war today.”

  He waited, as Divitiacus shook gently, and turned to Manlius.

  “A woman this time. Quartered.”

  Priscus took a very deep breath and kept his head rigidly straight, his eyes on the officers. Off to his right, he heard the sound of a woman being restrained and then, slowly and horrifically, even over her screams, he could hear the sound of the saw. Behind him among the men, someone vomited.

  Divitiacus growled at the general.

  “I will have none of this, Caesar. If you persist in this madness, the Aedui will leave.”

  Caesar turned the coldest, most snake-like expression Priscus had ever seen on the leader of the Aedui.

  “You are treaty-bound with Rome. If you leave this field you will break that treaty and I will be forced to deal with the Aedui instead. Do you value your ethics enough to make an enemy of Rome and myself?”

  For a long moment, Divitiacus wavered, and then finally nodded and, turning, went to join his army who were looking on this display of Roman might with a mix of astonishment and horror. The screaming had stopped and Priscus could hear the sounds of several things being dragged across the grass. He winced as Caesar once more addressed the Bellovaci.

  “I tire of asking, so this will be the last time I speak to you. You have only to accept Roman law and this will end. Until you do so, I will continue to deal with your kin.” He turned and addressed the men beside him, but loud enough to be heard as far as the walls.

  “Manlius? Continue your work. Be creative and very visual. Allow one minute only between victims. Sabinus? Have a party of three alae of cavalry sent out to round up any of the Bellovaci they can find outside the city. Labienus? Have camp set here. We may be here for the night.”

  Once again, Divitiacus left the folds of the Aedui and marched across to the general.

  “Caesar? What can we do to stop this?”

  The general glared at his ally.

  “The Aedui have no more part in this. You will remain here until Bratuspantium falls and, once the Bellovaci are with us, you will retire to your own lands and stay out of trouble. Unless I call for you again, the Aedui are forbidden from forming an army.”

  Divitiacus stared at him.

  “And be grateful that I am sending you back. Rome needs strong allies, not weak ones!”

  The two leaders stood, locked in an embrace of mutual dislike and distrust as the screaming started once more behind them.

  The purple twilight dwindled as Priscus sighed and walked over to the medical cart where Fronto lay recovering. The sun had set only a quarter of an hour ago and there was still a deep cerulean glow about the valley. Fronto groaned.

  “Where the hell have you been? I hope you’ve brought wine.”

  Priscus shook his head.

  “No wine for you for a few days. Got some for me though. Need to celebrate… or something.”

  “What’s happened?”

  Priscus sighed again.

  “The gates of Bratuspantium opened an hour ago and the Bellovaci submitted unconditionally to Caesar’s whim.”

  Fronto smiled and then winced at the pain on his scalp.

  “The old bastard. He may have dropped Paetus in the shit, but he can still win over the enemy, can’t he, the silver-tongued old snake?”

  “I suppose so” agreed Priscus soberly, picturing the scores of charred and dismembered bodies he’d watched being shovelled into a pit on the way here.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Chapter 13

  (River valley outside Samarobriva)

  “Samarobriva: oppidum on the Somme River, now called Amiens.”

  “Mare Nostrum: Latin name for the Mediterranean Sea (literally ‘Our Sea’)”

  Fronto frowned as the column came to a halt once more and Priscus grumbled irritably next to him. They both shaded their eyes again to see the small party of riders making their way toward the Roman force from the open gate of Samarobriva, capital of the Ambiani.

  “Just the leaders, I’m sure of it” the legate noted, his frown deepening. “Not even an honour guard. What the hell is going on? Is this really the Belgae?”

  Priscus shrugged noncommittally.

  “Are you complaining about not having to besiege that place?”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “Well no… just what did Caesar do to the Bellovaci, ‘cause whatever it was apparently frightened the shit out of their neighbours?”

  Priscus grasped Fronto’s shoulder and leaned close enough to whisper in his ear.

  “How much do you trust me?”

  “With my life, you know that.”

  “Then take my word for it... you don’t want to know and it’ll do no good getting all riled up about it. Suffice it to say that it was one of those ‘Julian moments’ that you despise.”

  Fronto rumbled deep in his throat.

  “I can well imagine. Ah well. Nemesis always marks those that need taking down. Either Caesar really does have the blood of Venus, or one day Nemesis will have her way with him.”

  Priscus smiled.

  “Very pious, I’m sure. I don’t know about Nemesis, but I’m pretty sure there are a few senators that would like to wedge their foot up his arse.”

  Fronto grinned at his second in command.

  “Alright. That’s an end to it. We’re his army, after all.”

  They turned to look ahead once more and Fronto’s suspicion was confirmed. Four of he party of five riders wore the accoutrements of senior noblemen, their gold and bronze torcs and jewellery marking them as extremely wealthy. The fifth, Fronto noted with surprise, and a little suspicion, wore a dark grey robe belted at the waist with a great flax belt, intricately woven. He wore no jewellery, but his long hair and braided beard were as black as his eyes, colouring that Fronto had not yet seen among these northern tribes. The man carried a staff whose tip was carved into the shape of a dragon.

  “Druid!” whispered Priscus with indrawn breath. “This could be trouble.”

  The sound of hoof beats drew their attention and Caesar, Sabinus and Labienus arrived from their position further back.

  “What can you see, Fronto?”

  “Looks like four chieftains and a druid, general. No guards.”

  “Curious.” Caesar turned and frowned down at Fronto. “I like my legates to look important. You should be on horseback.”

  Fronto shrugged; he hated riding on marches. It wasn’t that he felt guilty particularly, though that was a part of it. More it was that he was not that good a horseman, and found it quite difficult to make the beast walk at the same pace as the legions.

  “The jarring hurts my head, Caesar. Wounded, remember?”

  The general’s face darkened momentarily as he was reminded of Paetus’ treachery and subsequent violence and disappearance.

  “Very well, but at least stand straight. This could be important.”

  The officers tidied themselves subtly as they waited for the five riders to close with them. Finally they did so and Fronto noted with interest how the four chiefs came abreast and bowed slightly to Caesar, while the druid stayed apart and sat glowering haughtily.

  “Gentlemen” Caesar said clearly, “I presume you are the chieftains of the Ambiani?”

  The druid nodded, his mouth turned down at the corners with a sour expression.

  “They are. They do not speak Latin, so I am here to translate before I leave this place.”

  Caesar opened his mouth to speak and then glared sharply at Fronto as the legate interrupted.

  “You’re not stay
ing around, your druid-iness?”

  “The Ambiani have abandoned their pride and so I abandon the Ambiani. And I have no wish to spend any more time than necessary with the men who shamed my brother Divitiacus…”

  Caesar started.

  “Your brother?”

  “My brother druid.”

  Fronto turned to stare at Priscus, whose face was an equal mask of surprise.

  “Divitiacus is chief of the Aedui?” Fronto said, unsurely.

  “Chieftain and druid. A man usually of vision, though by putting his trust in you, I fear his vision has abandoned him. Yet now you have forsaken him and he will return to the old ways, I hope. This is immaterial. I am not here to pass the time of day with you, Romans. Let my companions speak, and then I can leave.”

  Caesar frowned for a long moment and then nodded.

  There was a brief, slightly heated exchange in their own language between the chiefs and the druid, and then the dark eyed man sat high in his saddle.

  “My lords the leaders and kings of the Ambiani wish to submit their land, their kin and all of their goods to the will of Caesar to do with as he sees fit, in the hope that the general will show them mercy and kindness and look upon them not as enemy or victim, but as friend and ally.”

  The man almost spat the last words, the bitterness clear in his mannerisms.

  “For myself, I expect nothing of the sort. I hear of what you did to the Bellovaci. Our pride is greater than yours, as, I believe, are our morals.”

  Caesar sighed.

  “I understand your distrust and even your hatred. Druids are an insular and distrustful group. But I mean no harm to any who will join me in making these lands a safer place.”

  He ignored the sneer on the Druid’s face and Priscus was extremely grateful the general was facing away and couldn’t see the look on Fronto’s.