“You speak our language well” the general noted with interest.
The man shrugged.
“Rome seems to think we Celts are like hogs, floundering in our own swill and unable to read or learn. One would think that after two years of carving a path through our world that you, at least, would now know different. We are Belgae; proud and strong.”
Caesar sighed.
“I had no idea this was just a meeting for you to posture. You waste my time.”
Damiacus laughed.
“Were we to meet under different circumstances, Lord Caesar, I fear you would find we have much in common. Like you, I abhor unnecessary posturing. I wish to see the Aduatuci victorious and strong.”
Caesar let out another sigh.
“Posturing, you see.”
Damiacus laughed again.
“However, also like you, I detest waste. The Aduatuci are the last Belgic tribe to stand against you and, whatever may become of us, we will always have that. We were the last. But we can see clearly, and only a fool fights on when there is no hope. I would rather the Aduatuci lived to be proud that they were the last than they slip from history in one glorious fight to extinction. I have sons I wish to see grow.”
Caesar nodded.
“An attitude that does you credit, Damiacus, but please come to the point.”
The chieftain smiled.
“There are so many more of you than us. We have strong walls and high cliffs, but you have with you the means to destroy our walls and, in only a few days, you have constructed a machine of nightmare dimensions that can reach our town and deliver your troops. We have no hope of victory.”
He drew a deep breath, and Caesar was about to comment, when the Aduatuci leader cast his great sword from the wall to the ground before them. As the general blinked in surprise, other warriors across the line of walls cast their weapons to the ground.
“We ask you to accept our surrender, general Caesar. We give you our oath, as your other Belgic allies have. We wish an end to hostilities and would ask that you treat with us as you have with others, as an ally. In return, our weapons are yours.”
As he said this, bundles of swords, spears and bows were tipped from the walls and towers onto the grass below, gradually building a mound of discarded weaponry.
“Say the word and the gates of our oppidum will be thrown open to you. Will you accept peace with the Aduatuci?”
Caesar turned to Sabinus, whose look of relief was clear.
“You wanted peace, Quintus. It appears you have it.”
He turned back to the wall.
“The word is given. We will ask for a small measure of booty and in return we will accept you as an ally, Damiacus of the Aduatuci. I shall return with my men at noon.”
The Aduatuci chief bowed from the wall.
Sabinus smiled as the Roman column turned and rode back toward the legions.
“Tetricus must be starting to feel very unfulfilled. Every time he builds something impressive for battle, the enemy surrenders as soon as they see it, and it never gets used.”
Caesar sighed with relief.
“Frankly, I’m glad of it. We’ve lost so many men in these last few months it’ll take a great deal of money and effort to refill the ranks.”
The two men rode with their escort across the damp grass and past the great bulk of the glistening war tower. Ahead, the legions were being massed before the rampart. Clearly, in the general’s absence, someone had decided that the enemy fanfares meant activity one way or the other and had put the legions on alert. Caesar smiled. That was why his army was more effective than that of Pompey or the elder Crassus. His unique approach to military command, associating set officers with particular legions on a semi-permanent basis, meant that his army was capable of functioning well even without orders from the top. That was why men like Fronto and Balbus were worth a hundred Pompeys.
Cicero, in full dress armour and looking uncomfortable in the damp and drizzle, came striding out from the colour party of the Tenth Legion, their flags and standard flapping and waving in the wet breeze, the signifers weighted down with soggy wolf pelts over their helms.
“Caesar? What news? Tetricus informed us that you’d gone to parlay, so I put the legions on standby.”
The general nodded.
“Perhaps a little premature, but a good decision nonetheless. The Aduatuci have surrendered and are discarding their weapons and opening their gates. We will wait the morning out and hope that the weather lifts. At noon, we will ride with the first cohort of each legion and enter the oppidum. I want the place occupied. This Damiacus is far too sure of himself and Fronto’s staunch belief that they’re up to something has set my neck itching. I’ll accept their surrender and oath, but only when we’ve got the town thoroughly under our control.”
Cicero nodded.
“I was wondering whether perhaps legate Fronto was with you, sir?”
Caesar shook his head.
“I very much suspect the legate will have been practicing debauchery and drink last night. Check his tent.”
The officer’s face took on a worried look.
“Begging your pardon, Caesar, but we already have. I don’t think he slept there last night. And the chief signifer for the Tenth, Petrosidius, says they’ve not seen their Primus Pilus all morning either.”
Caesar smiled.
“Fronto and Priscus? Find the empty amphora, Cicero, and follow the trail. Be sure they’re at the end of it.”
* * * * *
Priscus stretched his shoulders. The night had been surprisingly cold and with dawn had come a change in the weather. The cold drizzle would have been numbing had he and Galronus not located an apparently unused shed in a pig farm not far from the ropes but, even here, after waiting half the morning they were starting to feel chilled.
They had watched the area of cliff where they had arrived for an hour or more last night, waiting for the group of warriors to abandon the place. There was no doubt they’d take the rope with them anyway, but Priscus would have liked to check whether Fronto was still hidden near the bottom or had left. Unfortunately, the warriors had set up camp there and spent the night. Indeed, as the night progressed, the hidden investigators saw pairs of Aduatuci warriors taking up positions all along the cliff, presumably watching for any further intrepid Roman scouts.
The primus pilus crawled across the small hut and peered out through the cracks in the battered wooden door. Behind him, Galronus shivered.
“Warriors?”
Priscus nodded.
“They’re still there. There’s only two now, but I think that’s because they’re posting pairs of lookouts around the hill. We’re not getting out that way.”
Galronus hunched closer to ward off the chill.
“Then we die here. No way out.”
Priscus shrugged.
“There’s always a way. You’ll learn this about Rome, my friend. We’ll rule the world one day because we never give up; we just find the way that no one else has noticed.”
Galronus looked unconvinced.
“But,” the centurion said, squaring his shoulders once more, “we won’t find a way out cowering in a pig-keeper’s shit shed. We need to head down into the main town again.”
The Remi officer blinked.
“Back? You mad. We die there!”
Priscus grinned.
“Look at it this way: they’re watching the cliffs now. They know someone got in that way, so we won’t get past them. But they won’t be looking for anyone back in the town. Our friends must have gone to Elysium without mentioning us, or there’d have been more commotion. And they only noticed the other two ‘cause they had bodies over their shoulder. We’re inconspicuous, and you speak the language.”
“But where we go when we get to centre?”
Priscus shrugged.
“Who knows, but we’ll work that out when we get that far. It’s easier breaking out of a place than breaking in.”
“You mad as Fronto.”
“We’ve known each other a long time.”
The primus pilus smiled and pulled his Celtic tunic up, allowing air to circulate round his armpits. There was an unpleasant waft of strong body odour.
“Come on.”
Galronus scrabbled to his feet and Priscus shoved the partially-rotten door open as quietly as he could. Glancing between the tree trunks, he could see the pair of warriors at the point of ingress the night before. Taking a deep breath, he slipped out of the hovel and around the side, out of sight of the lookouts on the cliff edge. Galronus was out and at his heel mere moments later.
Taking a deep breath, Priscus strode from the shed, past the main farm building. There was little point in sneaking here. Two men running around the oppidum, crouched and ducking from alley to doorway would be far more likely to stand out than two men dressed as locals and strolling calmly along the street.
“Where we go then?”
Priscus shrugged.
“I’d like to get close to the walls. Let’s try and skirt the very centre and make our way to the end of the defences.”
Galronus nodded unhappily and fell into step beside him, glancing around nervously at the empty street as they left the farm yard.
“For the love of Venus, will you stop looking so bloody suspicious?”
* * * * *
Caesar frowned.
“What do you mean nowhere?”
Tetricus shrugged.
“Just that, sir. The whole camp’s been searched, and everywhere along the ramparts. Varus has got scouts out now behind the camps, checking the woodlands, but I don’t think they’ll turn anything up. If Fronto and Priscus were in the woods getting drunk last night, I’m sure they’d have come back under cover once the rain began.”
The general growled.
“Where are they, then? Fronto’s nothing if not direct, and he never misses the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’ to me. It’s a vexing and worrying development.”
Tetricus nodded.
“There is another possibility, of course” Sabinus interjected.
Caesar raised an eyebrow.
“That he and Priscus went to spy on the Aduatuci.”
The general frowned.
“I know Fronto can be impulsive, but…”
He turned to Tetricus.
“Have Varus send out scouts toward the oppidum; right up to the cliff if necessary.”
The tribune nodded and left the tent to find the cavalry commander and relay the orders. Once they were alone again, Caesar turned to Sabinus.
“Something is going on here. Fronto was right. Have the first cohort from each legion assembled. I’m not waiting until noon. We’re going now, and the rest of the army should stay on high alert.”
Sabinus nodded.
“A sensible idea, if I may say, sir.”
Fronto groaned and rolled over.
Grass. Confusion flooded his mind. Wet grass. And red. Lots of red. Sticky. Smelled like tin.
For a horrible moment, his memory took him back a year to that night when he’d found the body of Cominius in his tent. But no. As his brain swam slowly into focus, he realised the thumping and pain in the back of his skull was from a wound. He prodded it tentatively, and something moved. ‘Not good’, he thought, as he almost blacked out from the pain.
He strained, thinking back to last night.
The cliff!
“Shit!”
Hurriedly, he began to push himself to his feet, but slipped in the blood and came down with a bang, almost knocking himself out again. He waited a moment for his head to clear and then, very slowly and carefully, he arched his back and began to pull himself into a seated position.
Yes, something was definitely wrong. Priscus and Galronus and their companions were gone. Were they dead? Did the Aduatuci hold them prisoner? Something had to be done.
Ignoring the warnings of his body, the legate pulled himself upright. Staggering slightly, he turned to take in his situation. He was only a hundred yards from the cliff… Within throwing range!
Suddenly, desperately, he began to run, floundering slightly, away from the oppidum. Behind him he heard shouting on the cliff edge in that guttural tongue. Uttering a prayer to Nemesis, he ran like the wind toward the ramparts.
And then he noticed all the activity. Legions were marching from the gate in the palisade toward the slope. What the in the name of Pluto were they doing? And small groups of horsemen were scattered across the plain, riding slowly.
His mind began to swim again. The activity and adrenaline, along with the pumping blood thumping through his brain, threatened to floor him once again. He stopped, woozily, and put his hands on his knees.
Just ahead, and as his legs gave out, he heard a comforting voice.
“Here he is! Tell the commander we’ve found one of them!”
Caesar gazed thoughtfully at the oppidum as the army approached the outer line of defences. The command party, led by the general himself, along with Sabinus and Cicero, was mounted, while their accompanying cohorts were afoot. Ingenuus’ guards rode in a protective cordon around the officers, while Varus’ regulars supplied extra support. In all, the general was as well protected as a man on a horse entering an enemy stronghold could be.
What in the name of the Magna Mater were the Aduatuci up to? Damiacus sounded so tremendously reasonable, and the Belgae were a proud people, so there was really no reason to suspect a problem. The tribes they had dealt with all summer had either submitted without the need for battle, or fought to the death.
He craned his neck to look up as the riders passed at a walk through the great open gate of the oppidum. Outside and in both directions along the wall, piles of weapons discarded in good faith told a story. Caesar’s imagination told another.
Behind the gates was a square unlike those Caesar had seen in most Gaulish or Belgic oppida. The ground was paved with flush stones in a style more reminiscent of Latium than the barbarian north. The buildings around the edge of the square were of familiar style, with stone courses to shoulder height, surmounted by timber and either wooden or thatched roofs. Here, at the square, they were tightly packed, almost in a Roman style, fronting the street though, as he looked up the main thoroughfare, also paved, toward the centre of the town, the buildings seemed to become more randomly placed.
There were no warriors on the walls. Perhaps a show of peace and surrender there, since men folk, along with the women and children, stood beside the doors to their houses, proud and erect as their Roman conquerors marched past, through the square and up the sloping street.
Six cohorts of men, even depleted as they were, numbered almost two thousand men and made an impressive sound and sight as they tramped through the streets, crunching and clanking. This was Rome, as always, imposing itself on the barbarians.
Some of the men stared angrily at the officers as they passed. Good, the general decided. To be unhappy about the situation and angry at Rome and its commanders was normal; to be expected. It eased Caesar’s tension a little. Fronto had been right; they had been a little too smug.
There was a clatter of hooves on the stone and Varus reined in next to him.
“I don’t wish to raise any further alarm, Caesar, but one of my men found Fronto.”
Caesar raised an eyebrow.
“Alarm, Commander?”
“Well, general, he was only a couple of hundred yard from the cliff and had been wounded in the head. Raises some questions about the motives of the Aduatuci, I’d say.”
“Wonderful. Just when I was starting to breathe a little easier.”
The general leaned back to speak to Cicero, riding close behind.
“Quintus? As soon as we get into the square, have the cohorts form into a square; battle formation, but defensive rather than ready to attack. I want to be prepared.”
Cicero nodded and turned to speak to the tribunes behind him as the
army rode out of the street and into the main square. Aduatuci warriors and their families lined the edges, while at the far end, atop a low stair, stood Damiacus and his advisors and guards.
The general drew a deep breath.
This was it. The end of the Belgae.
Fronto staggered, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him once again. Two of the cavalrymen had dismounted and rushed over to support the wounded officer.
“Gerroff me!”
“Sir?” One of the troopers grasped him regardless. “We’ve got to get you to the medicus right away. You’re pale as a Vestal’s underwear; must have lost a lot of blood.”
Fronto growled.
“I’m a little wobbly; that’s all. Haven’t got time for doctors. Send for Florus from the Tenth; he can keep me going.”
“Sir?” the man said urgently.
“More important things to do, soldier. Caesar’s mobilised the army?”
The trooper nodded uncertainly.
“The general has taken six cohorts into the city to accept their full surrender and to occupy the oppidum, sir.”
“Shit.”
“Sir?”
Fronto tapped his head, trying to get his fuzz-filled brain to work faster. He seemed to decide something and then grasped the shoulders of the trooper for support as he looked at the second, so far silent, rider.
“This man and I are going to find Florus and my horse. You get your friends and go find every legionary legate and auxiliary prefect on the field and tell them to mobilise for action. Tell them to be ready to march on the oppidum as soon as they’re in position.”
The trooper blinked.
“Sir? They surrendered.”
“Bollocks!”
“Sir, I don’t have the authority…”
“I do!” interrupted Fronto. “Get the army mobilised now!”
As the man remounted his horse and rode off toward the lines, Fronto smiled shakily at the other trooper.
“That gives us a few minutes to get my head seen to!”
The Belgae Page 44