The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  It went against the grain to betray his people but then, as he continually reminded himself, these were no longer his people. These were Caesar’s people.

  And so, his decision made, Paetus had crossed the Aisne, dangerously and alone at first light and, cold and wringing wet, had started to traipse north.

  For the first few days, he travelled slowly and carefully, moving from copse, to wood, to gulley, to brush, being certain to avoid any signs of life. He knew the geography here as well as any roman. During interminable briefings in Caesar’s tent he had stared again and again at the maps of the Belgae lands. Straight north would take him through the lands of the Suessiones and then along the dangerous edge between the Bellovaci and the Remi. That in itself was perilous, but at least once he was ten miles north he’d be free of Roman scouts, as Caesar travelled west to meet the Aedui.

  Paetus’ journey would cross two more rivers and then into the lands of the Nervii and their allies. He would make for Nemetocenna, the only oppidum important enough to be marked on Caesar’s map, though to which tribe it belonged he had no idea.

  And gradually, over the days of aching legs and stumbling through scratchy thorns, Paetus’ resolve had hardened like a diamond, more and more; his confidence had grown, and he had begun to travel in open ground. As the sun rose and set time and again on his slow and uncertain journey, Paetus had changed, though he couldn’t see it himself. His ample frame, fattened from years of living well and little or no exercise, had become already visibly leaner and thinner. Days or privation and non-stop movement had his muscles calling out for release, but he didn’t stop; daren’t stop.

  So now, the Paetus who stepped in the early evening into the circle of fire light, was bulky, but muscular, his clothes torn, stained and dirty and barely recognisable as Roman, let alone as military garments, his face part-hidden behind a thick beard and his hair tatty and unkempt. Calida would have shrieked had she seen him.

  The barbarian warriors, four of them in all, sat around a central camp fire, their weapons driven point-first into the ground by their sides for easy retrieval, spears gathered in bundles and horses tethered to a sapling. The smell of roasting pork was almost tortuous to Paetus in his current condition, having lived for days now on only a few berries and a raw rabbit he’d been lucky enough to take by surprise.

  A twig cracked beneath his foot and the Belgae lurched to their feet, twisting, their muscular arms hauling great blades from the dirt as they did so.

  Paetus held both his arms wide, the flats of his palms facing the barbarians in a gesture, he hoped, of peace and surrender. By the Gods, they’d been fast. He was sure the one who grasped a spear could have turned, thrown and impaled him before he’d even put his arms out. But not only were these Belgae sober and sombre, they were alert and shrewd. Their first moves had been merely preparation as they apprised themselves of the situation and decided whether the man should die immediately or not.

  “I presume it would be a long shot to suggest that any of you speak Latin?”

  The men crumpled up their faces in incomprehension.

  “You speak Roman?” he translated himself, shrugging.

  One of the men, presumably the leader of the scouts, frowned and asked him something in the guttural tongue of the Belgae.

  “I don’t understand” he replied, trying to make appropriate motions with his hand and his ear. “I need to speak to a leader? A man who speaks Latin?”

  Incomprehension.

  “Chief?” he asked desperately. “Druid?”

  He sighed at the blank mask that was his companion.

  “I was trying to get to the Nervii? To the oppidum of Nemetocenna?”

  A spark of understanding glittered for a moment in the man’s eye.

  ‘Thank Jupiter’ thought Paetus to himself and smiled in relief as the fifth and unseen Nervii scout hit him hard across the back of the head with a branch.

  * * * * *

  Paetus awoke slowly, his vision returning as the scene around him swam into focus. There was a throbbing in his head like he’d never felt. He went to reach for the back of his head, where he suspected there was a wound, but discovered his arms were bound behind his back at both wrist and elbow. He focused.

  He was lying on a stone-flagged floor covered with straw. It was dirty and itchy, but dry, which meant he was inside somewhere. Yes… he could make out the rectangles of light that were windows. And the breeze… of course the barbarians didn’t glaze their windows like the ‘civilized’ Romans. There was heat from somewhere though. He stretched, trying to look all around and examine his situation. He was in a low building of some sort of wood and mud mixture, with a thatched roof. No sign of stonework here; the structure was apparently one room, roughly twenty feet by fifteen, and decorated only with rough timber table and chairs and a fire pit blazing away in the centre.

  Though he was alone in the room, he could see the door, which rested over an inch from ground level, leaving a thin line of light that displayed the shadow of the legs of a man, presumably on guard. Paetus wriggled, trying to find a reasonable position to stand, but the scouts had bound his ankles and knees as tightly as his arms. At least they hadn’t gagged him.

  “Hey?”

  There was no answer. Paetus realised he’d actually hardly made a noise at all. He drew a deep breath and forced his parched and unused throat to rasp out loudly.

  “Hey you? Anyone there?”

  There was a shuffle outside and conversation in the low, guttural tone of the Belgae. Paetus wished he’d spent some time on this campaign learning their damned language, but then who knew he’d need it? The shadow legs moved, leaving a straight line of light.

  He lay there in the silence for several minutes wondering what was happening and was just considering calling out again when he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel approaching the building. He tried to look as confident and defiant as he could, though truly he was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of his chosen course of action.

  The door swung open, Paetus’ pupils shrinking to pinpoints in the bright morning light that flooded in through the door momentarily before three figures blocked the aperture. Two men entered while the third remained outside, closing the door.

  “I am not here as your enemy” Paetus announced. “You can loosen my bonds. I sought you out and have no intention of running.”

  There was another exchange in their tongue, and then the two figures settled, cross-legged on the floor before him.

  One was a man decorated with bronze and gold and wearing the highest quality furs and wools, clearly a chieftain. The other… well even cross-legged it was clear the man was extremely tall and well built. But there was more… he was familiar. His long, grey hair and beard, the white robe, the flax circlet and the broadsword and staff. In a flash of déjà vu, Paetus recognised the druid that had addressed the meeting of chiefs at Bibracte last year. A Roman hater, for sure. That could go well for him… or it could go hard.

  “What are you doing here, Roman?”

  Paetus sighed and relaxed slightly.

  “It is,” replied Paetus sadly, “a very long story. But fortunately, the story and my motives are irrelevant. I am here to help you.”

  The chieftain asked the druid something in their language once again and the druid replied. A translation, presumably.

  “You are one of the Roman commanders. We are not stupid. The beard does not hide your stink. You are still alive because I am intrigued. Boduognatus here wants to skin you and fly your flesh from a standard when we find your legions. He is a simple man. So, unless you are done with your skin, talk to me, but talk fast and keep everything to the point. I must translate your words and speaking your tongue makes me retch.”

  Paetus nodded, uncomfortably in his current position, but he was fairly sure that nothing he could say right now would make them treat him like a man. That could change, though…

  “I am no longer Caesar’s man. I am Roman, yes, and I will
not aid the Belgae in bringing war against Rome, but Caesar is not Rome. I believe it is not unknown for Celtic tribes to develop a ‘blood feud’ that causes constant war. Suffice it to say that Caesar and I now have a blood feud.”

  “You chatter like a mindless bird. I said keep it to the point. You say you hate Caesar. I believe the phrase you seek is ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? I have heard this said by Romans and it shows, I might add, a very narrow view of motive.”

  Paetus shrugged.

  “Whether you agree with it or not is not the issue. I am willing to help you destroy Caesar’s army and drive him from your lands. It is in my interest that Caesar is unsuccessful in his conquest and is forced to return to Rome a failure.”

  The druid frowned.

  “While I may say that I seriously doubt your honesty and I have absolutely no reason to believe what you tell me, I will warn you that if you can interest us enough to make me prevent your death, Boduognatus here will certainly make sure of the truth of this. It will be extremely painful and possibly disfiguring, so I advise you if you are lying to tell me so now.”

  Paetus gritted his teeth. He had not considered the possibility that they would torture him. Possibly death if they didn’t believe him, but torture? He hardened himself. He was set on a course of action and, to bring down Caesar, he would give an eye and an arm if he needed. Nemesis would be with him.

  “I am telling the truth. I have a plan of attack that will give you enough of an edge to take Caesar’s army and crush them into the dirt. Are you willing to listen?”

  The druid held another brief conversation with the Nervian chieftain, and then turned back and nodded.

  “Speak.”

  “Caesar has seven legions, as well as auxiliaries and cavalry.”

  “We know this. We know all about the legions and their commanders and the traitorous Belgae and Gauls who serve with them to the detriment of their own peoples.”

  Paetus nodded.

  “Do you know the marching order?”

  The druid frowned.

  “You are so strictly controlled that you even march in a set order?”

  “Yes.” Paetus smiled. At last he was getting somewhere. “That is how you can beat Caesar. It will all depend on the land. You will have to find a barrier that they must cross; probably a river. When they reach it, Caesar will have five legions to the front. Each legion will be marching eight abreast, with the Tenth Legion being the vanguard. Behind them will come the Eighth, then the Ninth, the Eleventh and the Twelfth. After these legions will be the commanders, with the bulk of the cavalry contingent. After them is the baggage train, which is long, slow and cumbersome. And behind that, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions, the rest of the cavalry, and the few auxiliary units attached to them.”

  “I fail to see how this helps us.”

  “Wait,” Paetus said with a predatory smile. “It is simple. When the column reaches an obstacle that requires the army to stop for a while, the front legions will begin to construct a camp. Gradually, as the other legions catch up, they will join in and then enter the camp. If you place warriors in cover somewhere to the sides and wait as you count off the first five legions and the baggage train comes into sight, you have three advantages.”

  He looked intently at the druid, who was now listening, rapt. Good.

  “Firstly, the front legions, who are the five veteran ones and are your most dangerous opponents will be trapped against the river and surrounded by the Belgae. Secondly, the only reserves are a way back beyond the baggage train and will take time to catch up and engage and, even when they do, they are newly raised legions who are not experienced in true warfare. Moreover, they are Gauls by birth and perhaps could be persuaded to revolt if the circumstances are right.”

  The druid had an unpleasant glint in his eye now. The chief was asking him something, but the druid ignored the man, waving a hand at him dismissively. Paetus was impressed. He knew these priests held a powerful place in the northern societies, but to have the authority to silence a powerful chieftain with just a gesture? If only the druids could be persuaded to the Roman view. Still, he had almost won them over.

  “And thirdly, and most importantly for both you and I, the command staff will be there, jammed between the Twelfth Legion and the supply train. And if you time things exactly right and are very, very disciplined, like a Roman army would be, you could get Caesar. Cut the head from the snake and watch the body wither, my friend.”

  He saw the druid flinch at those last words and worried for a moment whether he had just ruined his whole argument by insulting the man. But no. He sighed and relaxed as the druid turned to the chief and they had a very heated conversation. Finally, the huge man turned back to Paetus.

  “If what you say is true, we could end the Roman invasion of our lands in one quick move. A decisive battle. Probably at the Selle river. The Romans are busy putting down the cowardly Bellovaci dogs right now and will then turn north. They will have to cross the Selle at some point and, when they do, we can be waiting for them.”

  Paetus smiled and nodded.

  “A river they must cross? Yes. That would be it.”

  The druid frowned.

  “What do you ask in return for this important knowledge, Roman?”

  Paetus smiled.

  “Three things. Three very small things.”

  He watched the man’s face carefully.

  “When the battle is concluded and the Belgae are free, I will be freed and given food and horse to return to Rome.”

  The druid shrugged noncommittally.

  “Also, when you attack, I be allowed to watch. If Caesar is to die, I want to watch his blood spill to the earth.”

  The druid nodded.

  “I can do better than that, Roman. If this comes to pass, I will put you in the front of the attack with them.”

  Paetus opened his mouth to object, but realised that arguing would be of no use with this man.

  “And thirdly, when it is over and I am to leave, you give me Caesar’s head to take with me.”

  The druid held a brief consultation once more with his chieftain and the two nodded.

  “On the condition that all of this plays out as it should, we will agree to your terms. However, before that may happen, the chieftains must all agree on the same course of action which, given this information, is likely, but far from certain.”

  He smiled unpleasantly and gestured to his companion.

  “And, of course, before the matter is taken before the chiefs, Boduognatus here must be sure of the authenticity of the information.”

  Paetus started and turned to look at the chieftain, who had slowly, and with a horrible rasping noise, pulled a long and surprisingly jagged knife from its sheath.

  He swallowed nervously.

  ‘For Calida. Nemesis protect me.’

  Chapter 14

  (Approaching the river Selle)

  “Dolabra: entrenching tool, carried by a legionary, which served as a shovel, pick and axe combined.”

  “Bacchanalia: the wild and often drunken festival of Bacchus.”

  The column waited, shuffling its feet in anticipation as the officers, having gathered at the head of the column, went into a last tactical discussion before the army passed the last half mile to the chosen site.

  “Caesar, I’m still concerned about the absence of the Aduatuci,” Sabinus said quietly.

  Fronto nodded. The same thought had gone through the mind of every senior officer in the army. He stared at Caesar.

  Fronto had wrestled with his conscience over the matter of Paetus several times since the night the man had vanished. While he was still angry with Caesar over the betrayal, now was not the time for a confrontation. The entire army was in dangerous enemy territory. Besides, Paetus had not stuck around to make his point, but had disappeared, presumably back to Rome.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I’ve spoken to both the Remi and Bellovaci auxiliaries se
rving with us. They all say the Aduatuci are the ones to watch. The Nervii are vicious and tough, but the Aduatuci are much the same and cunning besides. What if the Aduatuci are sweeping round behind us?”

  The general nodded.

  “I’m hoping that the Aduatuci are either late, or are not coming at all to the aid of the Nervii, but you’re both right. We do need to be prepared. I want a few changes made. As soon as the column begins to arrive at the Selle, have the cavalry sent across the river to harry the Nervii and their allies.”

  The general cleared his throat and vaulted from his horse. As the other mounted officers joined him, he began to draw in the flat dirt with a handy stick.

  “This is the lay of the land according to our scouts.”

  He drew a wavy line across the patch and tapped it.

  “The river. Only about twenty feet wide here and not more than about three feet deep. Crossing it should not be a problem, but that means it’s not a problem for them either.”

  He marked out several areas with hatching on the near side of the river.

  “There are a lot of areas of copses and scrub, but the scouts have checked them out and they’re empty and too overgrown to hide any real number of men.”

  He drew a set of arrows to denote slopes.

  “There’s a gentle decline down to the water at this side, and then a low hill opposite with areas of woodland around the crest. My scouts estimate around a hundred thousand of them on the other side of that rise in a camp, which suggests they’ve been there a while.”

  He drew a large mass there.

  “Presumably they either believe they can keep their numbers hidden from us, or perhaps they’re worried about our artillery range and are keeping out of direct line. Either way, so long as they remain safely behind that hill, we have time for the entire column to arrive and to set up camp here.”

  He drew a square on the slope descending to the water.