The Helvetian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  One afternoon, Agrippa shared with me that he had a little brother named Marcus back home in Asisium. Their father had died when both boys were young, and Agrippa had to assume the role of pater familias for his brother, younger sister, Vipsania, and their mother. Marcus was only fourteen, five years younger than Agrippa. Marcus idealized his older brother and wanted to follow him into the army when he was of age.

  With a start, I realized that, as we were riding with Madog’s Sequani through the lands of the Aedui, thousands of passus north of the Rhodanus in Gallia Comata, trying to avoid being ambushed by enemy war bands and trying to make contact with a large and menacing enemy force, I would be turning seventeen on my next birthday.

  I reported to Caesar’s praetorium as ordered. When I arrived, Labienus and Caesar were conferring in front of the operations map. Caesar was asking, “What if we attempted to shorten our supply lines by moving the supply depot down the Rhodanus to a position directly south of our location? Surely, we could float our supplies and equipment down the river on barges. That would also shorten the route from our port in Massalia.”

  “That would shorten our supply lines,” Labienus agreed. “And, if the Helvetii continue to march west, we may eventually have to do just that. But, that will not solve our immediate problem of feeding the men and the livestock. Also, we’d have to reconnoiter and establish supply routes south to the river. That would strip away part of our infantry force, while at the same time we are facing a numerically superior enemy. No! The only solution is to draw supply from the Aedui—either with their help, as they promised, or despite them.”

  Caesar seemed to ruminate over what he had been told, finally asking, “What are your recommendations, Titus?”

  “I see only two options, Caesar,” Labienus answered. “One, we send out foraging parties and take what we need from the surrounding settlements. Granted, we could pay for what we take, but we need food and fodder immediately. Second, you summon Diviciacus and demand he make good on his promises. Threaten to take hostages if need be, but you’ve got to put his colei in the vice and get him moving!”

  Caesar thought about that for a few heartbeats. “What if we strip our ranks for venatores and send them out to bring back game?”

  Labienus shrugged, “Venatores would be useful to augment our rations with meat, but I doubt that they can supply the entire army with food. Besides, even if most of the hunters manage to avoid being picked off by enemy cavalry, how much game do you think they’ll find within ten thousand passus of our army after the Helvetii have gone through and stripped everything? And, hunting does nothing to alleviate our fodder shortages.”

  It was then that Caesar noticed me. “Ah! Insubrecus! You ride with Agrippa’s Sequani. How are the Gauls feeding their horses?”

  I shrugged, “They let them graze when they’re in a secure location and far enough off the line of march so that there’s foraging available. Sometimes, they just go into an Aedui village and demand food and fodder for keeping the Helvetians moving away. The farmers aren’t altogether pleased with it, but with Helvetii and German raiding parties in the area, they recognize the necessity of keeping the Sequani on their side.”

  Caesar thought about this briefly. Then said, “Bene! There’s our answer, Labienus. We’ll put Diviciacus’ balls in a vice, like you say. Summon him to me here. Meanwhile, we’ll send out a limited number of foraging details to the nearby villages . . . detail the Eleventh and Twelfth. There are plenty of Gallic speakers among the soldiers in those legions. Remind the Gauls in the villages that it’s the Roman army that’s keeping the Helvetii and Germans at bay, and the Roman army needs to eat. We will pay for what we take. Detail a member of the quaester’s staff to accompany each detail. He’ll designate what’s useful to the army . . . Have him draw funds from the treasury for payment . . . standard rates for anything taken. Take care to leave the Gauls enough to survive until the next harvest. Rome is their friend, not their oppressor. Put a junior tribune, an angusticlavus, in charge of each detail, with a centuria of muli from the legions. We must use moderation in this. The men will only take action to defend themselves or the supplies. I want no incidents with the friendlies. We are swimming in a sea of Gauls, so stirring up a storm is not in our interest. In fact, I will personally brief all the angusticlavi and centurions before they go out. The message to Diviciacus should be clear: fulfill his promises to supply the army, or we’ll take what we need.”

  This was a classic Caesarian performance: take in information, process it quietly and quickly, and then deliver an explosion of decisions and instructions.

  While Caesar spoke, Labienus was muttering, “Bene . . . bene,” while furiously taking notes on a tabula.

  Finally, Caesar asked, “Habesne quaestiones ullae, Labiene? Any questions?”

  “N’abeo,” Labienus muttered, still writing.

  “What do you think, Insubrecus?” Caesar asked me. “How will the Gauls react?”

  I shrugged. “Difficult to say, Patrone. Armed Roman soldiers are entirely different from Gallic cavalry to these people, but payment will help. The quaester will need to pay the village headman, not the individual farmers. Also, it may be good to barter a bit. The Gauls consider that more . . . uh . . . gracious . . . more civil than just forcing a fixed price.”

  “Good point,” Caesar agreed. “Did you get that, Titus?”

  “Barter a bit . . . more civil,” Labienus muttered not looking up from his tabula. Finally, he stopped writing.

  “Titus,” Caesar began, “thank you! Go arrange the foraging details with the quaester and the primi pili of the Eleventh and Twelfth. Detail the tribunes yourself. That lad, Caecina—the one who commanded the vexillatio, the detail that escorted the Tigurini back to the Rhenus—he’d be a good choice for this. But only our ‘brighter lamps,’ eh? Initially ten teams: five north and west, five south and west. Stay clear of the enemy. Also, find Agrippa and that Madocus Dux who commands the Sequani cavalry and have them report to me. I want them to shadow the foraging details going north.”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Imperator!” Labienus said.

  “Bene!” Caesar acknowledged. “Insubrecus! You stay! I need to talk to you about something.”

  Labienus and his tabula left the praetorium on his mission, and Caesar gestured me over to his field desk. He gestured to a chair, “Sedeas, Insubrece!”

  Caesar picked up a couple of the tabulae stacked on his desk. “I’ve reviewed the work you’ve done on my journals, and I’m pleased . . . quite pleased. I’ve made a few minor changes.”

  He handed me the stack. I opened the first and recognized the opening lines of the first entry, “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.” Then, I noticed where Caesar had inserted a correction. Caesar wrote, “nostra, in our language, they are called Gauls.”

  “Patrone,” I said, “we call ourselves Gah’ela, which is close to the Latin word used in the text, ‘Galli,’ so there’s really no need—”

  “I understand that,” Caesar interrupted. “But, this book is not meant for language scholars and geographers. It’s meant for the plebes in the forum. The word Galli represents the things of Roman nightmares: giant, bloodthirsty, invincible savages from the dark forests of the frozen lands to the north . . . and these are our victories . . . nostra. Subtle, I agree, but sometimes suggesting is more powerful than stating.”

  I nodded my agreement. Caesar went on, “But, that’s not the reason I asked you to stay. I received a response from Consul Gabinius, about . . . about our little problem.”

  With that, Caesar had my complete attention. I replaced the tabulae on his desk.

  “I’m actually quite surprised at how quickly the consul responded,” Caesar continued. “Almost as surprised as I was by the response. In short, Gabinius denies all knowledge of any attempt on your life.”

  “Patrone! Sed igitur quis?” I began.

  Caesar held up his hand to silence my protest. “I believe the consul. He has no reason to
lie and every reason to tell the truth in this matter. Since I made it clear to him that this was a matter of patrocinium, and therefore a matter of the dignitas of my family, he could very well have brought up the dignitas of his family. You did put a shameful mark on his son’s face with that pugio of yours, and the consul could have horse-traded for some political advantage. But, he didn’t. He simply said he and his son were not involved in this thing.”

  “I was only defending myself, Patrone—” I protested.

  Again, Caesar stopped me, “I know that, Gai. I believe Gabinius understands that, too. But, I also believe this line of inquiry is a dead end.”

  As I was mulling that over, Caesar said, “There is one more thing.”

  “What is that, Patrone?” I responded.

  “The consul has asked me to take on his son as a tribunus militium,” Caesar stated. “It seems that his posting to Greece . . . well . . . that fell through. Gabinius had to make some deals and pull in some markers to get elected, and that soured his son’s posting to Greece. It seems that Gabinius and the proconsul to Greece are no longer in the same political camp. But, Gabinius is an associate of Pompey, and I need Pompey’s good will in supporting my interests in Rome. So, I really have no choice but to—”

  “Sed, Patrone!” I burst out.

  Caesar again raised his hand to silence me, “Gai! I have little real choice in this! It’s politics! Besides, there’s an old Roman saying, ‘Vincinia amici teneantur hostes magis. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’ I’ll find something to keep young Gabinius busy in the supply depot. He can keep Pulcher and the pack mules company. Or, I need someone to command the military port in Massalia. You’ll never see him, and he’ll be firmly under my thumb. His father and I both understand patrocinium and dignitas. There will be no problems having him with the army . . . none . . . I will not allow it.”

  It made sense, but I was not totally convinced.

  Caesar changed the subject. “I’ve been giving some thought to what you told me about the possibility of Roman interference with the Helvetii.”

  “Audio, Patrone,” was all I could muster. My mind was still trying to sort out the Gabinius news.

  “Ambitious Romans have been known to provoke barbarians on the borders of the imperium for the sake of military adventures,” Caesar explained. “According to your sources, while Piso and Messalla were consuls, Orgetorix took Roman silver from a senatorial in order to provoke the Helvetii to abandon their homeland. Messalla is not a soldier, and Piso expected to be given the Syria province, not Gaul. Rome’s golden boy, Pompey, celebrated his triumph for defeating Mithridates that year. Even he is not so ambitious that he would provoke a war in Gaul so soon after returning from Asia. That leaves Crassus. He certainly had enough gold to buy a mere Helvetian chief, and he was still smarting after Pompey stole his glory in the slave wars. The Senate only awarded him an Ovatio for defeating the slaves, not the Triumph he desired. He had the opportunity and the motive, I think. Defeating the tribe that played a leading role in the destruction of Longinus’ army would have assured him a Triumph. All he had to do was convince the Helvetii to invade our provincia and then convince the Senate to give him the command. He had more than enough gold to accomplish both.”

  I just nodded. All this was a bit beyond me, but I did recognize the name Crassus. The dressing down that Crassus Iunior had given me over the recent cavalry debacle was still fresh in my mind.

  “That still begs the question why Romans would be still involved with the Gauls, now the Aedui, it seems,” Caesar continued. “Crassus’ attention has turned east toward Parthia, so who is trying to buy betrayal from the Aedui, I wonder?”

  I correctly understood this as a rhetorical question and kept silent.

  “There are two distinct possibilities,” Caesar continued. “Pompey could be trying to engineer my defeat simply to take me down a few notches. He’s protective of his reputation as Rome’s premiere soldier, and he’s not the type of man who shares his glory with anyone . . . But, no . . . he’s now my son-in-law . . . married to my Iulia.”

  I realized Caesar was talking simply to hear himself out, so I remained silent.

  “Then there are the Optimates in the Senate, the last, sorry vestiges of Sulla’s excesses. They would do anything to bring me down. Cicero and Cato are too traditional to engineer the defeat of a Roman army in the field. Lucullus is filthy rich from the booty he brought home from Asia. He could buy half of Gaul, and he’s still smarting from being relieved from his command so that Pompey could finish off Mithridates and celebrate a Triumph. But, he’s an old man now. He seems content with his building projects and his fishponds. Bibulus has never forgiven me for upstaging him during our consulship. He tried to block my appointment as proconsul to Gaul. Pompey even thinks Bibulus is trying to assassinate him, but I doubt he’s capable of a complex plot. He can hardly plan his day competently. Then there’s Brutus. He’s young, but not without ambition. And, Pompey killed his father. But, no . . . that can’t be . . . He’s Servillia’s son . . . That would be close to patri—”

  Caesar suddenly interrupted his own monologue. He seemed to come out of his musings and return to his praetorium in the hills of Gallia comata. He again noticed me sitting in front of his desk.

  “This issue bears watching, Gai,” he said. “I think our friend, the one whose men ran from the cavalry battle, what did you call him? The dumus rex?”

  “Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno,” I offered. “The dunorix of the Aedui, the king’s brother.”

  “That’s the one!” Caesar agreed. “He bears watching. He may be the key to this.” Then, Caesar seemed to have an idea. “And, he may be just what I need to put pressure on his brother.”

  At that point, Caesar’s scriba stuck his head into the cubiculum, “Imperator! The tribune, Agrippa, and his Gaul are here as ordered.”

  “Bene,” Caesar responded. “Send them in!”

  I rose as Agrippa marched into the room in full kit, helmet tucked under his left arm. He assumed a stiff position of attention and reported to Caesar, “Imperator, Lucius Vipsanius Agrippa, Tribunus Militium, defert ut imperatus!”

  I noticed that Madog hung back, watching the Roman show.

  “Laxa, Tribune,” Caesar responded. “Sit down here. Madocus Dux! Please . . . sit! I wish to talk to you about a mission. Please sit, all of you.”

  We sat, and Caesar called out to his clerk, “Scriba! A jug of posca . . . and four cups!”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Imperator,” responded a bodiless voice from beyond the tent flap.

  I wondered briefly how Caesar managed to have a supply of posca while many of the legionary muli were considering boiling their boot straps for soup.

  As we all settled in front of Caesar, he began, “While we’re waiting for the posca, tell me how things are going out there.”

  Always an awkward question to answer in front of the commander, especially considering how prickly the absent legate, Crassus, was of his “prerogative.”

  Agrippa, as the senior officer on our side of the desk, waded in. “Imperator, the main body of the enemy continues to move slowly west, as you know. We notice that their depredations have lessened considerably since they left the lands of the Sequani.”

  Madog audibly grunted when Agrippa stated this.

  “We believe that it is due to the pressure our army is putting on them . . . We are still experiencing aggressive counter reconnaissance, mostly from their cavalry . . . But small infantry units, usually no more than a centuria in size, have, at times, attempted to engage us. According to your orders, we have avoided contact whenever possible—”

  Caesar interrupted Agrippa’s report, “Bene . . . What about you, Madocus? What are you seeing out there?”

  Madog shrugged, “Agrippa, to be truthful . . . very dangerous . . . Helvetii and German everyplace . . . want fight.”

  “Bene,” Caesar agreed. “But, I heard you react when Agrippa said that enemy damage ha
s lessened since the enemy entered Aedui territory. Why do you think that is?”

  Madog shrugged again, “Aedui buy them, I think . . . Give Helvetii silver . . . No burn, no steal . . . Give Helvetii food . . . maybe you food . . . Kill Sequani . . . No kill Aedui.”

  Caesar’s clerk entered the cubiculum with a pitcher of posca and cups. As he set them down on the desk, Caesar asked, “Were you sure to test the posca, Ebrius? Is it up to your standard?”

  “I assure you it is, Imperator,” the clerk responded without batting an eye. “And, I guarantee it’s not poisoned.”

  “Glad you’re looking out for me,” Caesar responded. I assumed this was a well-rehearsed routine between them. “You may go. We’ll pour ourselves.”

  As the clerk, Ebrius, left, Caesar asked, “Will you do the honors, Insubrecus?”

  As I poured, Caesar began his briefing. “Tomorrow, I’m sending out ten foraging details . . . wagons and a century of muli from the Eleventh and Twelfth Legions. There’ll be an angusticlavus in command and a centurion with the infantry. I’m sending one detail straight north. They’ll be the most exposed team . . . close to the enemy . . . hilly country . . . perfect for ambushes. I want you to screen them to the west and make sure they have a clear route out and back . . . Pretty standard cavalry mission. They’ll pull out at first light tomorrow when the signal for ending the fourth watch sounds.”

  When Caesar finished, we all took the opportunity to sip the posca. Ebrius was right. The posca was prime. It hardly burned the back of my throat at all as it went down; it had a nice aftertaste of honey and herbs.