by Ray Gleason
“Any word of the battle?” I asked him.
He shrugged, “Nil! Not even a sound!”
We rode south in the tracks of the Aedui. We had gone about ten thousand passus when we found our scouts. They were in a narrow wooded cut between two low hills. Two had been killed by arrows; two more had been brought down with stabbing wounds to the abdomen, typical of a close ambush by infantry; one scout was missing. Their horses were gone. All the bodies had been stripped of their armor and weapons.
A trooper from our point element was examining the ground around the bodies.
“What happened here?” Madog demanded.
The trooper shrugged. “Men on foot . . . maybe fifteen . . . twenty at the most . . . They hid in the brush along the trail . . . went off in that direction . . . leading riderless horses.”
I translated for Agrippa.
“Where is Ailwuhnu?” Madog asked after the missing man.
Again the trooper shrugged. “He’s not here. Maybe they took him?”
Our other point man came back down the trail. “They had horses just over the rise,” he reported. “They retreated south toward the Helvetii.”
“The Aedui we’re tracking?” Madog demanded.
“No,” the trooper said. “The horses rode light. The Aedui had steel armor. These men did not.”
Madog was just about to respond when there was a commotion to our rear. One of our men was leading a horse carrying a wounded man. It was our missing explorator. He was doubled forward in his saddle. There was blood down his saddle and his right leg.
Madog recognized the man, “Ailwuhnu! What happened here?”
The man gathered his strength to face his chief. “Ambush, Lord,” he gasped. “They came at us . . . up out of the brush.” His companion steadied him in the saddle.
“The Aedui?” Madog began.
“No!” the man gasped. “Almaenwuhra! Germans!”
I translated that for Agrippa. “There are Krauts with the Helvetii?” he said to no one in particular. “What are they doing up here?”
The Sequani were helping Ailwuhnu down from his horse. I was no medicus, but the man had a deep stab wound in his lower right abdomen. His chances were not good. And, he could suffer for days.
“Bring up the medduhg!” Madog called down the line of riders. Then, he turned to Agrippa and said in Latin, “We have medicus for horse. He do what he can.”
While the Sequani were trying to make Ailwuhnu comfortable, Agrippa said, “We need to get back to the army; Krauts this far north is not a good sign.”
“I am same,” Madog nodded. “I leave companions here. Take care of thing. Then we go.”
Madog dismounted and walked over to where the medduhg was treating the wounded trooper. I saw Madog take the hand of the wounded man as they spoke. Then, they embraced briefly. Madog touched the man’s cheek as a father saying farewell to his child, then he remounted.
A rider came up beside me. It was Athauhnu.
“Ailwuhnu is Madog’s sister’s son,” he said. “This is not a good thing.”
“What will they do?” I asked.
Athauhnu shrugged, “What they can. If he cannot travel, the medduhg will give him drugs to make him comfortable before the cuhthraulai, the daemons, possess his gut. Then he’ll help him to tir ieuenctid.”
“The Land of Youth,” I echoed remembering Gran’pa’s tales. “You mean the medduhg will . . . he’ll kill him?”
Athauhnu nodded. “Ie! It is . . . un drugaretha . . . a mercy. There is no honor for a warrior to die drenched in his own piss and shit after hours of agony. The medduhg will send him to the feasting hall of heroes. It is an honorable death.”
Athauhnu left me to follow his ala down the trail. I looked back to where the medicus was attending to Ailwuhnu. He was propped up against a tree. His eyes were closed; his face was pasty white, almost greenish, covered with sweat. He would be feasting with the heroes before the sun was down. For the first time in my career as a soldier, a thought formed clearly in my mind: fortunae deae gratias ago. I thanked the goddess Fortuna that it was not me. I turned my horse and followed Athauhnu.
Since we did not know the outcome of the battle, Agrippa led us to where the camps had been when we departed that morning. They were still there, but the legionaries, who had been left behind, were dismantling them. Agrippa found the legate, Pulcher, and asked him for news of the battle.
“Battle!” Pulcher snorted. “There was no battle. Our imperator allowed the barbarians to escape right out from under his ample snout. Those hairy Gauls are still laughing themselves sick over the incompetence of—” Then, Pulcher thought about what he was about to say and continued, “There was no battle. The army’s in camp ten thousand passus to the west. You’ll find Caesar there.”
Agrippa was about to walk away, when Pulcher spoke again, “When you see the imperator, tell him I have obeyed his order and released the Aeduan prisoner, Dumnorix!”
We found Caesar’s castra along a ridgeline south of where the battle with the Helvetii was to have taken place. As we entered the camp of the Tenth Legion, we could sense the sullenness and resentment of the soldiers. Through no fault of their own, the enemy had escaped. So, the halfhearted pursuit of an enemy they believed they could have defeated would continue. And still, no new rations had been issued. The men had long ago exhausted their supplies of fresh meat and wheat; even their marching rations of jerky and buccellatum were gone. Even worse, the posca, their beloved sour wine, was a memory. To fill their stomachs, they could look forward to nothing but barley and water, usually a punishment ration, while their enemy ate well and had been allowed to walk out of their trap, with nothing but contempt for them. They blamed their officers; they blamed Caesar.
We found Caesar’s praetorium in the center of the camp. As we dismounted, we saw Ebrius, his clerk, standing outside the tent.
“You might want to think twice about going in there,” he warned us. “The boss is not having a good day.”
Agrippa ignored the scriba and entered. Madog and I followed. Even in the outer cubiculum, we could hear Caesar’s voice, “I don’t care what his excuse is . . . whether he lost his nerve . . . whether he’s blind . . . or whether he’s just bloody incompetent. He’s relieved of his command! He’s not fit to serve in this army! I want him out of camp before the sun sets!”
We slipped into Caesar’s office. Labienus seemed to be in the line of fire of Caesar’s tirade. He was still dressed in his battle armor, his helmet locked under his left arm.
Caesar looked over and saw us. “Agrippa,” he said, “I suppose you have more good news for me?”
Before Agrippa could answer, Ebrius entered the tent.
“Pardon my interruption, Imperator,” he apologized, “but the senior centurions are outside as you ord . . . er . . . requested.”
Caesar nodded. “You are dismissed, Labienus, but don’t go far. Agrippa! I need some time with my officers in private; then we’ll talk.”
When we got outside, Agrippa turned to Labienus, “What in the name of Dis happened, sir? Why are we still here? What happened to the enemy?”
Labienus held up his hand to silence Agrippa. I could see the fatigue and frustration in his eyes.
“It was a good plan, and it should have worked,” Labienus began. “But, it turned into a complete cluster. I got my two legions into position above the enemy a good hour before dawn. The Helvetii had no idea we were up there. They must have detected Caesar approaching just after dawn because we could see the camp begin to stir. A battle line was forming down toward our left front, just like Caesar planned. The warriors were forming up the musters and pushing them forward. The enemy had their backs to us . . . no idea we were there. Then, it all just came apart. The Helvetii began to melt away from the intended battle position and began to move to the west as if there was no threat approaching. They must have detected our presence up on the hill because a group of them began pointing up toward our position. Luckil
y, there wasn’t enough discipline down there to organize an attack, or we could have been immerda. A bunch of the Helvetii dropped their bracae and showed us their backsides before they walked away . . . really pissed my boys off. They wanted to run down there and stick their pila through the Helvetians’ bracae … I had all I could do to keep them together.”
“But what happened?” Agrippa persisted.
“I’m getting to that,” Labienus continued. “I sent riders to find Caesar. He was digging in here, wondering what the hell had become of me. It seems that when he was coming up the road toward the Helvetii, he had sent some exploratores forward to make contact with my division . . . an ala of Roman cavalry under an angusticlavus named Considius. He couldn’t have chosen a worse officer for that assignment. Considius has been with the army since the time Marius was fighting Sulla. The man is as blind as Homer . . . can’t see past his own nose, and all of his cronies have been covering for him. He reported to Caesar that my hill was occupied by the enemy and my division was nowhere to be found. So Caesar halted the advance and veered off to the south to find some high ground in case the Helvetii attacked him. By midday, I was sitting on my hill, watching the dust of the enemy escaping to the west, and Caesar was on his hill, wondering where I was . . . all because of a blind scout. A blind scout! It would be damned funny if I had any sense of humor left.”
About that time, the six primi pili of the legions left Caesar’s tent. I had seen men look grimmer, but that was at a funeral. Ebrius beckoned us into Caesar’s office. “The imperator will see you now,” he intoned.
Caesar was sitting in a slouch beside his field desk, legs extended in front of him. He was staring intently at the ground. “My senior centurions tell me that after today’s calamitas, they cannot guarantee the loyalty of my troops,” he said as we entered. “What good news do you boys have for me?”
Agrippa reported what we had seen and heard around Bibracte. Caesar said nothing. He just rubbed his forehead and shook his head.
When Agrippa reported the ambush by Germans and the death of Madog’s nephew, Caesar said, “Germans . . . that’s all I need . . . Germans this far west of the Rhenus. My condolences to you and your family, Madocus Dux. Your nephew died in the service of Rome. His name will be remembered.”
“Thank you, Caesar,” Madog responded. “He died like a warrior . . . a good death.” Madog’s voice sounded hollow, exhausted.
“Parisi and Belgae delegations in Bibracte . . . A Roman riding with a Belgae war band . . . Renegade Aedui horsemen somewhere in my rear . . . A Roman senatorial telling the Senones that if they attack us, Rome will not take offense. Do I have it all, Agrippa?” Caesar asked.
Agrippa nodded, but then said, “One more thing, Imperator! Pulcher reports that he has released Dumnorix, according to your order.”
When Agrippa said this, Caesar’s head jerked up. He stared at Agrippa for a few heartbeats, then said in a low voice, “Quid dicebas tu?”
“Imperator,” Agrippa responded, “Legate Pulcher reports that he released the Aeduan, Dumnorix.”
“He did what?” Caesar shouted jumping to his feet. “Iste stulte . . . that . . . that verpa! He did what?”
“Released Dumnorix . . . the Aeduan,” Agrippa stammered.
“Cacat!” Caesar shouted, his fist slamming down on the desk. “Labienus! Send a detachment of my praetoriani back to those camps . . . bring that podex, Pulcher, here . . . to me! Stat’! Iste fellator. .. That half-wit better have a good explanation, or I’ll crucify him!”
Suddenly, Caesar’s eyes became unfocused. He stumbled, barely able to steady himself on the field desk. Labienus rushed forward and took his arm. Without taking his eyes off Caesar, he said, “Insubrecus . . . quickly . . . find Spina, the medicus . . . Bring him here! Agrippa! Madocus! Wait outside!”
I flew out of the tent, past a startled Ebrius. I ran over to the medical tent, less than thirty passus away. “Spina! Spina, Medice!” I shouted.
I heard his thick, Aventine accent from one of the rear compartments, “Who’s dat? Whadda you want? I’m ovah hee’ah!”
“Medice!” I shouted. “I’m here to bring you to—” Then, I stopped myself. Yelling out that the commander of the army was near collapse was not conducive to morale, especially after a day like this.
Spina came out of the back. “You callin’ for me, or what?” he asked.
“Yes, Medice,” I said, lowering my voice, “please accompany me to the praetorium . . . stat’.”
“The praetorium?” Spina started. Then, he whispered to me, “Is da boss havin’ one of his spells?”
I nodded at him. He nodded and then went back into the tent where jars of herbs and drugs were stored. He packed something into a loculus and said, “Okay, let’s get adda hee’ah!”
As we walked back to the praetorium, he recognized me, “You’re dat tiro I patched up a while back, ain’t cha? Duh one who got stabbed by duh slave who wasn’t a slave, right?”
“Recte,” I confirmed.
“How’s dee ahm?” he asked.
It took me a heartbeat to realize he was asking me how my arm was. “Good as new,” I told him.
“Bene!” he said. “Looks like yaw getting up in duh world. A decurio in less than a year . . . a praetorian to boot! Dat’s impressive!”
By that time we were at the praetorium, Spina was immediately passed straight through to Caesar’s cubiculum. I saw Agrippa and Madog still standing outside.
“What’s this all about?” I asked.
Agrippa just shrugged, but he looked worried.
Madog said in his broken Latin, “Sometimes gods enter in man’s anger—” Then, he stopped. Either his Latin or his knowledge had failed him.
After a bit, Spina came back out. “Youse can go back in now. He wants to tawk to yas. Not too long. He needs to sleep.” Then, he walked back toward the medical station, whistling some tuneless sounds.
We reentered Caesar’s cubiculum. He was sitting at his desk, drinking something that smelled of wine, vinegar, and something else—something sweet and cloying. He seemed relaxed, his eyes lidded and heavy. Labienus was standing next to him.
Caesar looked up at me and asked, “Insubrecus, are you familiar with the story of the Gordian’s Knot?”
I remember the Stick telling us the tale during a class on Greek culture. I recited, “When Gordias became the king of Phrygia, his son, Midas, dedicated a chariot to Zeus and tied its shaft with an intricate knot of cornel bark. He declared whoever could undo the knot was the rightful king of Phrygia. Later, Alexander arrived in Phrygia, when it was a province of Persia. When challenged to prove himself worthy of the throne by undoing the knot, Alexander sliced it in half with his sword. That night, there was a violent thunderstorm. Alexander took this as a sign that Zeus was pleased and would grant Alexander many victories.”
Caesar nodded. “Not lyrical, but accurate, Insubrecus. All these stories and reports of Romans, Belgae, Krauts, and whatnot have become a knot I do not have time to unravel, so I’m just going to slice it open!” Caesar announced. “Tomorrow at dawn, this army marches on the Aeduan capital … we march on Bibracte!”
XII.
Bibracte
BIBRACTE
Et quod a Bibracte, oppido Haeduorum longe maximo et copiosissimo, non amplius milibus passuum XVIII aberat, rei frumentariae prospiciendum existimavit; itaque iter ab Helvetiis avertit ac Bibracte ire contendit.
“The town of Bibracte, by far the largest and most prosperous settlement of the Aedui, was not more than eighteen miles away. Since Caesar estimated that the town would provide him a supply of grain, on the next day, he diverted his route of march away from the Helvetians and toward Bibracte.”
(from Gaius Marius Insubrecus’ notebook of Caesar’s journal)
During the fourth watch, Caesar assembled his six legions in the dark valley north of the camps. I was again assigned to Agrippa and Madog’s Sequani cavalry. Our mission was to screen Caesar’s advance t
o the east. Once we came abreast of Bibracte, we were to swing around it to the east and seal its northern approaches. Caesar hoped he could trap any Gallic deputations still in the oppidum and any Romans accompanying them. My mission was to ensure that any prisoners we took were delivered to Caesar’s interrogators in a condition to talk.
As we rode through the darkness, my head was fuzzy from lack of sleep and a bit too much of Caesar’s posca the night before. I don’t know what strange and exotic herbs Spina had dosed Caesar with, but it put the imperator into one of his rare loquacious moods. He kept Labienus and me up well into the second watch, talking about his vision for Rome and his frustrations with the antiquated, doddering machinery of the res publica.
“These old fools in the Senate just don’t understand Rome’s position through the extension of our imperium,” he was saying. “They think they’re still ruling a city and the farmlands around it. Marius . . . even Sulla . . . taught them the foolishness of that. One strong man with the support of the army can set their whole house of straw ablaze.”
“But, Caesar,” Labienus protested, “these institutions . . . our laws . . . the Twelve Tables . . . prevent too much power from falling into the hands of a single man. Our ancestors understood this from the tyranny of the kings. The mos maiorum, the tradition of our ancestors, is sacred.”
Caesar retorted, “The mos maiorum didn’t stop Sulla from killing hundreds of his enemies for their estates, did it? He just ignored it, and the Senate quaked in their red boots while he did it. Why? He had an army to back him up, an army loyal to Sulla’s purse, not to the Senate.”
“We have restored the res publica since Sulla—”
“Bah!” Caesar snorted. “The sacred mos maiorum! When fides and pietas encounter silver and greed, they melt away! And there is the heart of it! Rome is not ruled by virtus; it’s ruled by avaritas . . . and Rome’s greed seems to have developed an infinite desire for plunder. So she extends the imperium, grasping more and more. We do not rule our provinces; we rape them! We say we send out proconsuls and propraetors to protect the interests of the res publica . . . to bring Romanitas to the barbarians . . . But what do they really do? They enrich themselves and their masters in the Senate! The only difference between a Roman army and a pack of brigands is size and discipline. If you encounter either, they’ll strip you bare and leave you bleeding!”