Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

  “Women?”

  “Yes. I note that women, like slaves, can be tortured. Whereas no free man, however low his status, can be tortured. I also note that polygamy is permitted.”

  Cathbad drew himself up. “We have ten different degrees of marriage, Caesar,” he said with dignity. “This permits a certain latitude about the number of wives a man may acquire. We Gauls are warlike. Men die in battle. In turn, this means that there are more women among our people than men. Our laws and customs were designed for us, not for Romans.”

  “Quite so.”

  Cathbad drew a breath audibly. “Women have their place. Like men, they have souls, they change places between this world and the other world. And there are priestesses.”

  “Druids?”

  “No, not Druids.”

  “For every difference, there is a similarity,” said Caesar, the smile reaching his eyes. “We elect our priests, a similarity. We do not permit women to hold priesthoods which are important to men, a similarity. The differences are in our status as men—military service, public office, the payment of taxes.” The smile disappeared. “Cathbad, it isn’t Roman policy to disturb the Gods and worshiping practices of other peoples. You and yours stand in no danger from me or from Rome. Except in one single respect. Human sacrifice must cease. Men kill each other everywhere and in every people. But no people around the margins of Our Sea kills men—or women—to please the Gods. The Gods do not demand human sacrifice, and the priests who believe they do are deluded.”

  “The men we sacrifice are either prisoners of war or slaves bought for the specific purpose!” Cathbad snapped.

  “Nevertheless it must stop.”

  “You lie, Caesar! You and Rome do threaten the Gallic way of life! You threaten the souls of our people!”

  “No human sacrifice,” said Caesar, unmoved and immovable.

  Thus it went for several hours more, each man learning about the mind of the other. But when the meeting ended, Cathbad left a worried man. If Rome continued to infiltrate Gaul of the Long-hairs, everything would change; Druidism would dwindle and vanish. Therefore Rome must be driven out.

  *

  Caesar’s response had been to begin negotiating for the elevation of Tasgetius to the Carnute kingship, by chance vacant. Among the Belgae combat would have decided the issue, but among the Celtae—including the Carnutes—the elders decided in council, with the Druids very carefully watching—and lobbying. The verdict had favored Tasgetius by a very narrow margin, and had depended on his undeniable blood claim. Caesar wanted him because he had spent four years in Rome as a child hostage and understood the perils of leading his people into outright war.

  Now all of that was gone. Tasgetius was dead and Cathbad the Chief Druid was running the councils.

  “So,” said Caesar to his legate Lucius Munatius Plancus, “we’ll try a deterrent. The Carnutes are a fairly sophisticated lot, and the murder of Tasgetius may not have been a design for war. They may have killed him for tribal reasons. Take the Twelfth and march for their capital, Cenabum. Go into winter camp outside its walls on the closest dry ground you can find, and watch. Luckily there’s not much forest, so they shouldn’t be able to surprise you. Be ready to deal with trouble, Plancus.”

  Plancus was another of Caesar’s protégés, a man who, like Trebonius and Hirtius, relied heavily upon Caesar to advance his career. “What about the Druids?” he asked.

  “Leave them and Carnutum severely alone, Plancus. I want no religious aspect to this war; that stiffens resistance. Privately I detest the Druids, but it is not my policy to antagonize them any more than I have to.”

  Off went Plancus and the Twelfth, which left Caesar and the Tenth to garrison Samarobriva. For a moment Caesar toyed with the idea of bringing Marcus Crassus and the Eighth into camp with the Tenth, as they were only twenty-five miles away, then decided to leave them where they were. His bones still insisted that the brewing revolt would be among the Belgae, not among the Celtae.

  His bones were right. A formidable adversary has a habit of throwing up men capable of opposing him, and one such capable man was emerging. His name was Ambiorix and he was co-ruler of the Belgic Eburones, the selfsame tribe in whose lands the Thirteenth Legion of raw recruits was wintering inside the fortress of Atuatuca under the “exactly equal” joint command of Sabinus and Cotta.

  Gaul of the Long-hairs was far from united, particularly when it came to congress between the part-German, part-Celtic Belgae of the north and northwest, and the pure Celtic tribes to their south. This lack of congress had benefited Caesar greatly, and was to do so again during the coming war-torn year. For Ambiorix didn’t seek any allies among the Celtae; he went to his fellow Belgae. Which let Caesar fight peoples rather than one united people.

  The Atuatuci were reduced to a handful—no allies there since Caesar had sold the bulk of the tribe into slavery. Nor could Ambiorix hope for co-operation from the Atrebates, with their Roman puppet king, Commius, plotting to use the Romans as a lever to create a new title, High King of the Belgae. The Nervii had gone down badly several years before, but it was a very large and populous tribe which could still field a terrifying number of warriors. Unfortunately the Nervii fought on foot, and Ambiorix was a horseman. Worth seeing what mischief he could brew there, but they wouldn’t follow a horse leader. Ambiorix needed the Treveri, in whose ranks horse soldiers reigned supreme; the Treveri were also the most numerous and powerful people among the Belgae.

  Ambiorix was a subtle man, unusual in the Belgae, with an imposing presence. As tall as a full-blooded German, he had lime-stiffened, flax-fair hair that stood out like the rays around the head of the sun god Helios, his great blond moustache drooped almost to his shoulders, and his face with its fierce blue eyes was nobly handsome. His narrow trousers and long shirt were black, but the big rectangular shawl which he draped around his body and pinned upon his left shoulder bore the Eburone pattern of checks, black and scarlet on a vivid saffron-yellow background. Just above his elbows were twin golden torcs as thick as snakes, just above his wrists were twin golden cuffs studded with lustrous amber, around his neck gleamed a huge golden torc with a horse’s head at either end, the brooch securing his shawl was a great cabochon of amber set in gold, and his belt and baldric were made of gold plates hinged together and set with amber, as were the scabbards of his longsword and dagger. He looked every inch a king.

  But before he could acquire the power to persuade other tribes to join his Eburones, Ambiorix needed a victory. And why look further afield than his own lands to find it? There sat Sabinus, Cotta and the Thirteenth Legion like a guest-gift. The problem was their camp; bitter experience had taught the Gauls that it was virtually impossible to storm and take a properly fortified winter camp. Especially when, as in this case, it was built upon the corpse of a formidable Gallic oppidum which Roman expertise had rendered impregnable. Nor would surrounding Atuatuca and starving it out work; the Romans counted on the enemy’s being clever enough to do that. A Roman winter camp was furnished with good fresh water aplenty, food aplenty and sanitary arrangements which ensured disease was held at bay. What Ambiorix had to do was to lure the Romans out of Atuatuca. His way to secure his end was to attack Atuatuca, being careful to keep his Eburones out of harm’s way.

  What he didn’t expect was that Sabinus would give him a perfect opening by sending a delegation to demand indignantly of the King what he thought he was doing. Ambiorix hurried to answer in person.

  “You’re not going out there to talk to him, surely!” said Cotta when Sabinus began to don his armor.

  “Of course I am. You ought to come along too, co-commander.”

  “Not I!”

  Thus Sabinus went alone save for his interpreter and a guard of honor; the parley took place right outside Atuatuca’s front gate, and Ambiorix was accompanied by fewer men than Sabinus had with him. No danger, no danger at all. What was Cotta on about?

  “Why did you attack my camp?” Sabinus demande
d angrily through his interpreter.

  Ambiorix produced an exaggerated shrug and spread his hands, eyes wide with surprise. “Why, noble Sabinus, I was merely doing what every king and chieftain is doing from one end of Gallia Comata to the other,” he said.

  Sabinus felt the blood drain from his face. “What do you mean?” he asked, and wet his lips.

  “Gallia Comata is in revolt, noble Sabinus.”

  “With Caesar himself sitting in Samarobriva? Rubbish!”

  Another shrug, another widening of the blue eyes. “Caesar is not in Samarobriva, noble Sabinus. Didn’t you know? He changed his mind and departed for Italian Gaul a month ago. As soon as he was safely gone the Carnutes murdered King Tasgetius, and the revolt began. Samarobriva is under such huge attack that it is expected to fall very soon. Marcus Crassus was massacred nearby, Titus Labienus is under siege, Quintus Cicero and the Ninth Legion are dead, and Lucius Fabius and Lucius Roscius have withdrawn to Tolosa in the Roman Province. You are alone, noble Sabinus.”

  White-faced, Sabinus nodded jerkily. “I see. I thank you for your candor, King Ambiorix.” He turned and almost ran back through the gate, knees shaking, to tell Cotta.

  Cotta stared at Sabinus with jaw dropped. “I don’t believe a word of it!”

  “You had better, Cotta. Ye Gods, Marcus Crassus and Quintus Cicero are dead, so are their legions!”

  “If Caesar had changed his mind about going to Italian Gaul, Sabinus, he would have let us know,” Cotta maintained.

  “Perhaps he did. Perhaps we never received the message.”

  “Believe me, Sabinus, Caesar is still in Samarobriva! You’ve been told lies designed to make us decide to retreat. Don’t listen to Ambiorix! He’s playing fox to your rabbit.”

  “We have to go before he comes back! Now!”

  The only other man privy to this conversation was the Thirteenth’s primipilus centurion, known as Gorgo because his glance turned soldiers to stone. A hoary veteran who had been in Rome’s legions since Pompey’s war against Sertorius in Spain, Gorgo had been given the Thirteenth by Caesar because of his talent for training and his toughness.

  Cotta looked at him in appeal.

  “Gorgo, what do you think?”

  The head in its fantastic helmet with the great stiff sideways crest nodded several times. “Lucius Cotta is right, Quintus Sabinus,” he said. “Ambiorix is lying. He wants us to panic and pull stakes. Inside this camp he can’t touch us, but the moment we’re on the march we’re vulnerable. If we stick it out here for the winter we’ll survive. If we march, we’re dead men. These are real good boys, but they’re green. They need a well-generaled battle with plenty of company to season them. But if they’re called on to fight without some veteran legions in the line with them, they’ll go down. And I don’t want to see that, Quintus Sabinus, because they are good boys.”

  “I say we march! Now!” Sabinus shouted.

  Nor could he be bent. An hour of reasoning and arguing later Sabinus was still insisting on a retreat. Nor could Cotta and Gorgo be bent. At the end of another hour they were still insisting that the Thirteenth stick it out in the winter camp.

  Sabinus stormed off in search of food, leaving Cotta and Gorgo to look at each other in consternation.

  “The fool!” Cotta cried, not caring that he was insulting a legate in the hearing of a centurion. “Unless you and I can talk him out of retreating, he’ll get us all killed.”

  “Trouble is,” said Gorgo thoughtfully, “he won a battle all on his unaided own, so now he thinks he knows the military manual better than Rutilius Rufus, who wrote it. But the Venelli aren’t Belgae, and Viridovix was a typical thick Gaul. Ambiorix is not typical and not thick either. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  Cotta sighed. “Then we have to keep trying, Gorgo.”

  Keep trying they did. Night fell with Cotta and Gorgo still trying, while Sabinus just grew angrier and more adamant.

  “Oh, give over!” Gorgo yelled in the end, patience exhausted. “For the sake of Mars, try to see the truth, Quintus Sabinus! If we leave this camp we’re all dead men! That includes you as well as me! And you might be ready to die, but I’m not! Caesar is sitting in Samarobriva, and may all the Gods help you when he finds out what’s gone on here for the last twelve hours!”

  The kind of man who wouldn’t stomach the attendance of King Commius at a Roman council was certainly not going to stomach this from a lowly centurion, primipilus veteran or not. Face purple, Sabinus went for him, one hand upraised, and slapped him with an open palm. That was too much for Cotta, who stepped between them and knocked Sabinus off his feet, then fell on him and pounded him unmercifully.

  It was Gorgo who broke them up, aghast. “Please, please!” he cried. “Do you think my boys are deaf, dumb and blind? They know what’s going on between us! Whatever you decide, decide it! This sort of thing isn’t going to help them!”

  On the verge of tears, Cotta stared down at Sabinus. “All right, Sabinus, you win. Not Caesar himself could reason with you once you’ve made up what passes for your mind!”

  *

  It took two days to organize the retreat, for the troops, all very young and inexperienced, couldn’t be persuaded by their centurions not to overload their packs with personal treasures and souvenirs, nor to relinquish their extra gear and souvenirs in the wagons. None of it worth a sestertius, but so precious to seventeen-year-olds keen to cement their yearned-for military careers with memories.

  The march when it did begin was painfully slow, not helped by the sleet driving in their faces behind a howling wind straight off the German Ocean; the ground was both soaked and icy, the wagons kept bogging to the axles and were difficult to extricate. Even so, the day passed and the rugged heights of Atuatuca disappeared behind the shifting mists. Sabinus began to crow over Cotta, who set his lips and said nothing.

  But Ambiorix and the Eburones were there beyond the sleety rain, biding their time with the complacence of men who knew the terrain a great deal better than the Romans did.

  Ambiorix’s plan worked smoothly; he could not afford to let the Roman column, marching down the Mosa, get far enough away from Atuatuca to encounter any of Quintus Cicero’s men, for Quintus Cicero and the Ninth were very much alive. The moment Sabinus led the Thirteenth into a narrow defile, Ambiorix swung his foot soldiers to block the Roman advance and unleashed his horse soldiers on the tail of the column until it turned back on itself and prevented retreat out of the steep-sided gulch, perfect for Ambiorix’s purpose.

  The initial reaction was blind panic as screaming hordes of Eburones swarmed into both ends of the defile, their brilliant yellow shawls abandoned so that they seemed like black shadows out of the Underworld. The unversed troops of the Thirteenth broke formation and tried to flee. Worse was Sabinus, whose fear and dismay drove all military ideas from his head.

  But when the shock wore off, the Thirteenth steadied down, saved from immediate massacre by the narrow confines in which the attack took place. There was nowhere to flee, and once Cotta, Gorgo and his centurions got the milling recruits standing in proper rank and file to resist, the lads discovered to their delight that they could kill the enemy. The peculiar iron of a hopeless situation stiffened their spirits, and they resolved that they would not die alone. And while the troops at the head and the tail of the column held the Eburones at bay, the troops in the middle, helped by the noncombatants and slaves, began to throw up defensive walls.

  At sunset there was still a Thirteenth, hideously smaller but far from defeated.

  “Didn’t I tell you they were good boys?” asked Gorgo of Cotta as they paused to catch their breath; the Eburones had drawn off to mass for another onslaught.

  “I curse Sabinus!” Cotta hissed. “They are good boys! But they’re all going to die, Gorgo, when they deserve to live and put decorations on their standards!”

  “Oh, Jupiter!” came from Gorgo in a moan.

  Cotta swung to look, and gasped. Carrying a stick
on which he had tied his white handkerchief, Sabinus was picking his way across the dead at the mouth of the defile to where Ambiorix stood conferring with his nobles.

  Ambiorix, wearing his brilliant yellow shawl because he was one of the leaders, saw Sabinus and walked a few paces forward, holding his longsword in front of him, its tip pointing at the ground. With him went two other chieftains.

  “Truce, truce!” Sabinus shouted, panting.

  “I accept your truce, Quintus Sabinus, but only if you give up your weapons,” said Ambiorix.

  “Spare those of us who are left, I beg you!” said Sabinus, throwing sword and dagger away ostentatiously.

  The answer was a sudden swirling sweep of the longsword; Sabinus’s head soared into the air, parting company with its Attic helmet as well as its body. One of Ambiorix’s companions caught the helmet as it descended, but Ambiorix waited until the head had finished rolling before he walked to it and picked it up.

  “Oh, these shorn Romans!” he cried, unable to wrap Sabinus’s half-inch-long hair about his knuckles. Only by shaping his hand into a claw did he manage to lift the head high and wave it in the direction of the Thirteenth. “Attack!” he screamed. “Take their heads, take their heads!”

  Cotta was killed and decapitated not long after, but Gorgo lived to see the Aquilifer, dying on his feet, summon up some last reserve of strength and fling his hallowed silver Eagle like a javelin behind the dwindling Roman line.

  The Eburones drew off with the darkness, and Gorgo went the rounds of his boys to see how many were still on their feet. Pitifully few: about two hundred out of five thousand.

  “All right, boys,” he said to them as they huddled together in a sea of fallen comrades, “swords out. Kill every man who’s still breathing, then come back to me.”

  “When will the Eburones return?” asked one seventeen-year-old.