“What?”
“Watching the men setting camp. I’ve never really spent a lot of time watching it, but it’s such a smooth, regimented system. Paetus has got the procedure drilled so heavily into the heads of the men that I’m not really doing anything useful. Just watching.”
Fronto grumbled.
“You need to be careful saying things like that. In this army, that kind of comment could land you the job permanently.”
“You’re a ray of sunshine as usual, Marcus.”
Another grumble.
“I have this horrible feeling…”
Sabinus frowned.
“Not sure I like the sound of that. You had a bad feeling about this and we lost half the damned army.”
The legate nodded.
“I’m torn. There’s very little I can think of that I’d less rather do that go with Labienus and set up political allegiances and make deals and pacts. But on the other hand, Nemesis is making my head itch. There’s something looming and I think it’s got something to do with the Aduatuci.”
Sabinus laughed, though Fronto detected a definite edge to it.
“You’re a practical man, Fronto. You always have been. Don’t tell me you’re turning into some sort of haruspex?”
Fronto laughed, but noted that subtly, at waist level, Sabinus had made the sign to ward off evil. He opened his mouth to say something suitably disparaging, but clamped it shut again as a voice from behind called his name. He turned to see Balbus hurrying up the slope alongside Priscus.
“What’s important enough to make you two run?”
Balbus heaved down air, his face rosy, and Priscus took a deep breath. Something about his expression set the legate very much on edge.
“You need to come see this, Fronto.”
Sabinus blinked. While it was generally understood and accepted that Fronto and his Primus Pilus had a somewhat informal relationship, to address his commander in such a fashion in front of two more senior officers was something of a breech of etiquette. What had Priscus so riled that he forgot entirely about propriety?
Fronto’s brow furrowed.
“Tell me.”
"They've found Velius. I wasn't kidding... you need to see it."
“It?” Suddenly Fronto was running in the direction from which the centurion had come, the other three hot on his heels. “Where?”
Priscus, quickly catching up, pointed off toward the woods to the west.
“How the hell did he get there? He must have fallen in the midst of the Atrebates, like I did.”
There was no answer from the primus pilus, but he picked up speed and jogged out ahead to lead the way. Sabinus and Balbus caught up with Fronto and the three men, in varying states of exhaustion, ran on after the centurion.
The way through the woods was easy. Fronto hadn’t ventured to them since the battle’s end, but was aware that they had harboured a sizeable part of the Belgic army prior to the fight. There was hardly any undergrowth left, and what there was had been trampled flat.
Indeed, as the four men passed under the eaves, Fronto became aware of just how many men must have hidden here behind their wicker screens covered in leaves, preventing them from being seen by the Roman army on the slope. And not all of the footprints he could identify, some bare-footed, some in Celtic boots and other in caligae, were heading to the battlefield. There were a number of tracks that told the story of the survivors of the Atrebates and the Nervii who had fled into these woods and picked their way quietly through them. Probably some escaped to run home to their families, but others fell foul of Varus’ men at the wood’s western edge and were now in chains.
Suddenly he became aware of conversation. Peering between the trees and plants, he spotted around a dozen legionaries with an optio in a small clearing. Priscus was making straight for them.
The legate found, as he stepped from the deeper wood into the clearing, that his pulse had quickened and there was an uncomfortable lump in his throat. During the hours of waiting while the men searched through and retrieved all of the Roman bodies on the battlefield, Fronto had, sadly and slowly, begun to come to terms with the idea that Velius had gone. It seemed impossible when he thought about that grizzled face; the man had always seemed near indestructible but, realistically, it was actually astounding that only one of the three of them had died, given the suicidally reckless action they had undertaken.
But despite the enormity of it, he had just about come to terms. Velius was dead and a new position had opened up in the centurionate of the Tenth. A new chief training officer would have to be selected. It seemed ironic that there was a good chance that whoever was selected would themselves have been trained by Velius.
Suddenly the legionaries parted, having spotted the officers approaching the scene, and Fronto felt the bile rise in his throat.
“Gods!”
The smell of meat, both raw and burned, assailed his nostrils. Sabinus, next to him, had gone white.
A frame had been hastily constructed by bending two saplings and nailing them to the boles of trees, resulting in a diagonal cross between two trunks. On the frame was tied the remains of a man, his headless body, missing both hands and feet and opened from neck to groin, hanging limp from the vines that held him. For a moment Fronto almost asked how they knew this was Velius, but then his roving gaze caught the sight of the head, impaled on a spear nearby.
The charring smell came from the ashes of a small fire, where the hands and feet and what was presumably a pile of internal organs had been burned, presumably in some sort of ritual. He averted his eyes. Looking at the head was making him an unpleasant mix of queasy and angry.
“Druids!” a voice barked.
His head snapped round to Sabinus, who was still pale, but now displaying a grim snarl.
“What?”
“Druids,” the man repeated. “This is what they do: death rituals. This wasn’t the work of ordinary men. I know the ordinary plebs back in Rome think all barbarians are nine feet tall and eat babies, but you and I know the truth. Look at Galronus. It’s not Celts that do this; or even Belgae. It’s druids that do this.”
The legate couldn’t find a reason to argue. Sabinus was probably right. And Fronto just couldn’t think straight; was frightened to open his mouth in case the sight and the stench made him vomit.
Priscus took one look at the senior officers and addressed the optio and his men.
“Get this cleared up. All the body parts need to be put away in a bag for cremation and funeral, but the guts and all the wood… just burn it.”
He took a deep breath.
“But leave the head. I’ll bring the head.”
The optio saluted and he and his men began the grisly task as Priscus stepped in front of the three officers. Fronto blinked.
“Why the head?”
“Because that’s what you need to see. That’s why I brought you.”
The primus pilus turned and strode in a business-like fashion across to the head, sitting atop its spear and glaring at them, in a manner that looked disturbingly accusative to Fronto.
The officers walked across behind him, focusing on the head, while at the same time trying not to think too hard about it. Priscus, in a no-nonsense fashion, marched up to the grisly object and pointed.
“There.”
“What?” Fronto frowned as he examined the remnant of his officer. It was extremely unpleasant, messy, and clearly a statement to the commanders of the Roman army, but it was equally clearly just Velius’ head on a spike.
“The mouth.” Priscus jabbed with his finger.
“What’s that?” Fronto leaned closer, swallowing against the unpleasant smell and the bile that threatened to rise. There was something in the mouth of the severed head; something dark, smooth and oily.
Priscus shrugged.
“Don’t know. Thought I’d better wait so that you’d seen it first. Want me to take it out?”
Fronto wavered for a moment. He wasn’t ent
irely sure he wanted to know what the object was.
“Yes. Take it out.”
The three men watched tensely as Priscus reached in and, slowly and carefully worked the object loose with his fingers before withdrawing it. As the small, oily object came loose with an unpleasant noise, a gobbet of thickened blood followed it. Once more bile rose into Fronto’s mouth and he had to turn and spit into the undergrowth. Velius’ tongue had been removed to make room, probably burned in the fire along with the rest of the viscera.
“What the hell is it?”
Priscus turned the object over in his hands several times, frowning at the unpleasant liquids that ran across his knuckles.
“It’s a bag. A pouch. Leather but waxed or oiled for waterproofing.”
Fronto stared.
“So what’s in it?”
Priscus stared down at the unpleasant article.
“I think finding that out’s the commander’s prerogative, sir.”
Fronto stared at the small, shiny bag. Funny how the chain of command and all proprieties of officerhood came out when they were trying to decide who would do the worst tasks.
“I can’t. I’ve only got one working hand.”
Priscus glared at his commander for a moment and the clearing was blanketed in an uncomfortable silence. Moments passed until Sabinus stepped forward.
“Alright then, children. I’ll look.”
Clenching his teeth, fighting back the urge to retch at the coagulated blood on the smooth leather, he retrieved the pouch and began to work at the tiny string at one end. As he unknotted it and gently worked the aperture open, Fronto found he was holding his breath.
“Well?”
Sabinus held the pouch up, allowing the light to illuminate the opening. He stared into it for a moment.
“Sabinus…” Fronto prompted.
With a frown and a shrug, the staff officer tipped the pouch up and its contents tumbled out onto his palm.
“It’s a ring. And a note.”
“A note?” Balbus frowned at it quizzically. “That’s parchment! Where in the name of Jupiter did a barbarian druid get hold of good Egyptian parchment?”
Fronto stared.
“And that’s a Roman ring. A good one, too.”
He reached out and grasped the parchment, struggling one-handed to unroll the small sheet.
“It’s in Latin. Well-written too.”
“What does it say, though?” Priscus was tense and staring.
“Gods, I can hardly read it, it’s so small.” He held the paper up to his face and squinted.
“It says…” he took a breath. “No matter how many tribes you make bend to your will, the Gods and their priests will never accept you. Savour your petty victory for, in time, all of Gaul will pucker to spit you back out.”
He paused.
“Crap, who is this man? ‘All Gaul will pucker’? He sounds like a slave in a Plautus comedy!”
Balbus nodded.
“May sound all very literate, but don’t ignore what that message is actually saying. He's warning us... or possibly threatening us, I suppose... that the Druids will continue to raise resistance to us. We can pacify all of Gallic and Belgic lands, but there's always the German tribes and even Britannia to the north that look to the druids. And, of course, we may have pacified places now, but what happens as soon as we withdraw the legions?”
Fronto nodded.
“Given the amount of influence these druids have over the barbarians, I think maybe if Caesar really does want Gaul, he’s going to have to deal with the druids somehow.”
“Fronto…”
The legate turned to Sabinus, who was staring at him and holding out the ring.
“What?”
The staff officer swallowed.
“This is Paetus’ ring.”
The four officers fell silent, staring at the small item of jewellery in Sabinus’ hand.
“Then I suppose we know what became of our runaway” muttered Balbus.
Fronto nodded sadly.
“Poor bastard can’t have got far. I hope they dealt with him quickly and not like this!”
Priscus cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen? Time to return to camp. I’ve got to deal with this.”
Fronto was about to argue until his primus pilus wrenched the disembodied head from the spear tip with a crunch, a squelch, and a rush of dark blood.
“He’s right. Let’s go see if they’ve finished with my tent. I’ll get some wine.”
Sabinus and Balbus nodded emphatically, and the former straightened.
“I’ll meet you there shortly.” He closed his hand on the signet ring and reached out to take the parchment from Fronto. “I need to deliver this to Labienus, and Caesar ought to see the note.”
Fronto relinquished the paper and, with a last glimpse back at the grisly clearing, turned and made for light, warmth and civilization.
* * * * *
Labienus shuddered. The vexillation he was taking from the legions had been prepared to move by first light and had been required to wait until the rest of the army was in order so they could take all the surplus gear on the carts. Caesar was travelling very light, with the legions and the cavalry and only two dozen wagons, leaving a half-mile train to head west with his lieutenant.
Three thousand men and a few cavalry. Enough of a force to deal with any small encounters, but Labienus repeatedly found his imagination playing out fantasies in which half a million Belgae, Britons, Gauls and Germans dropped from trees onto his slow-moving column.
And Gods, was it a slow moving column. He’d sent the couriers out in threes to deliver his message to the Belgic chieftains before they left, and then they’d started the long, mind-numbing journey to the oppidum of Nemetocenna. He’d marched with the legions many times in his reasonably illustrious career, and they could move fast. It had sometimes been the major cause of victories that the legions moved so fast and efficiently, surprising the enemy by cutting them off.
But a long supply train slowed things down; and then there were the wounded. The worst of them were in wagons which had to be manoeuvred very slowly and carefully so as not to jar the occupants; and alongside them came the walking wounded, though such a description was being especially kind to some of them, men who Labienus expected to die on the journey. And if the carts and the wounded weren’t enough, there were the prisoners all roped together and being herded along at the back with an escort drawn mainly from the Ninth.
He would be lucky if they reached Nemetocenna before the place fell down from the ravages of time! Caesar and the chieftains would already be there waiting when he arrived at this rate. He grumbled and rolled his shoulders, allowing his cuirass to settle into a slightly less uncomfortable position.
And just to top it all off, the morning had been the first cold and grey one he could remember for months. His force had only been travelling for an hour when the clouds had broken and the rain began to come down in diagonal rods. He was already soaked and chilled to the bone and it was only mid-morning… clearly Fortuna was shitting on him today. He could only hope that meant she was saving all her good stuff for Caesar against the Aduatuci.
He smiled grimly.
The general had, this morning, ordered the haruspices that travelled with the staff to gut a goat and read the omens for their next campaign. The strange thin and balding men in their white robes and shiny hats had carefully lifted out and examined each organ in order and had finally pronounced the omens to be good. Labienus had been standing next to Fronto when the legate had said quite loudly “but not for the goat.”
In fact, Fronto had been very dour and quiet this morning. It was not the Fronto they all remembered, and this new facet of his personality, that kept reminding them of the perils they faced, was starting to infect the staff across the board.
On the bright side, Labienus had snatched the goat carcass when it was done with for the officers’ dinner tonight.
He had to do
something to ‘blow out the cobwebs’ as they said. Travelling at this slow walk was just killing his spirits ever further. He took a deep breath and leaned across to the tribune beside him, a man he didn’t know who’d been drawn from the Eleventh.
“I’m riding on ahead to that rise; I need a little space for a minute.”
The tribune saluted, looking exceedingly unsure.
“Sir, you need to take a guard.”
Labienus laughed.
“I’ll not leave the sight of the column. I’m only going up the hill, not heading for Illyricum. Besides, no self respecting ambusher is going to be out in this. Even the druids will be inside by a fire. We’re the only idiots in this half of the world to be outside today.”
The tribune laughed.
“Apart from Caesar, sir!”
Labienus snorted.
“With the luck the general has, a small patch of cloudless blue sky’s probably following him. He is descended from Venus, after all.”
Another laugh from the tribune.
“Just be careful sir. There’s nobody here who can replace you.”
Labienus nodded darkly as he set off ahead at a canter. The man was right. There was not a soldier in the column above the rank of tribune. Oh, there were Procillus and Mettius, of course, who would be invaluable when it came to politics and treaties, but then they were spies and diplomats; no use if a million Celts fell out of the trees as they passed.
He kicked his horse into an extra turn of speed and rode up the slope. The rain was just as heavy, just as wet and just as cold but, for some reason, not half as depressing when you were racing through it at speed.
He was starting to feel a little lighter and easier as he reached the top of the hill and turned to view the long column snaking away behind him so far that it disappeared into the grey murk. Perhaps things would be a little easier if he continued to do this throughout the journey. Maybe Procillus and Mettius would appreciate the opportunity to leave the column... but probably not. The pair of them were travelling in a covered wagon and had made no attempt to venture out into the weather; not something a commanding officer could do, really.
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