Fronto grumbled but stepped back into line.
* * * * *
Paetus frowned and rubbed his chin. Once, as a young officer out in Hispania during the revolt of Sertorius, he had grown a beard. It was just easier on campaign, and the Hispanics all seemed to be bearded anyway. But since he had achieved higher position and returned from that campaign, he had never considered it again, until now. He had made the decision to leave very suddenly in the middle of the nightlong session with Fronto.
He felt bad about that. Fronto was one of the few truly decent men in Caesar’s army. He found himself thinking on that traitor Salonius from last year and wondering whether perhaps it was Salonius who had been the decent one, and not Caesar. Clearly not Caesar, in fact. But anyway, he had decided he had to leave so suddenly and so urgently, fuelled by grief and drink, that he had pommel-bashed poor Fronto, dropped the sword and ran. Unfortunately, that had left him in just his tunic, breeches and boots with no weapons or armour.
Getting out of the camp had been ridiculously easy. He had fallen in at the back of a group of off-duty legionaries who were leaving the fortification with a pass to go visit the oppidum, where the locals had thrown their taverns open to their new Roman allies, and had peeled off from the group once beyond and in the dark.
Of course, that idiotic decision made under the influence of Fronto’s wine had resulted in him standing in a clearing in some woodland perhaps three miles from the camp, rapidly sobering and wondering where the hell he was and where he was planning to go. He did not even know which direction he had been heading, until a short stroll through the woods had left him on the south bank of the river.
He had sat there, his mind gradually clearing, watching the dark waters rush by like his life seemed to be doing, and tried to think; tried to reason and decide what to do. Unlike many men of noble families in Rome, Paetus had actually fallen truly in love with his wife. Oh, he knew that her family were a liability; especially her idiot father, but she was truly a beautiful rose that had grown from that bed of dung. And while he could not care less what had happened to the old soak, Calida cared; he was her father after all, and for Calida’s sake, he had looked after the fool. And now all of this had spun around and turned on him. He had lost his beloved Calida and the children, the future of the line. And three men were to blame.
Calidus, the old arse, with his drinking, debauchery and gambling, that had brought his family to the brink of total poverty and had landed him in debt to one of the most notorious gangsters of Rome. He was the man who had actually started this whole mess. But there was no way for Paetus to take out his frustrations on his father-in-law, who would now be feeding the crows in Rome.
Then of course, there was Publius Clodius Pulcher, the man who had given the orders to butcher Paetus’ family. Clodius had to be punished, but that was a task for the future. The man was rich and powerful and guarded by many henchmen. Moreover, he was hundreds of miles away in Rome and currently far out of reach. Not forever though. By the waters of the Aisne, Paetus had vowed that one day he would find and kill the man. Personally. Enough to stare into Clodius’ eyes and tell the vicious shit why it was that he was dying.
But there was a closer, more immediate problem. The third man. A man in whom he had placed his trust and the lives of his family, and who had turned around and betrayed him, leaving Calida and the children to die at the hands of thugs without lifting a finger when he’d had the opportunity and the resources to save them easily. Yes, Caesar must suffer too. But that, again, was a thorny problem. Seven legions now stood between him and Caesar. Had he been thinking straight that night with Fronto, he would have bashed the legate and then taken the sword to the headquarters and cut the general’s throat there and then.
But then he would be executed and unable to revenge himself on Clodius. A complex problem. He would have to finish Caesar in Gaul first; get him back to Rome so that he could devote all of his time and the remaining funds of the family to bringing the two men down. But first he must stop Caesar, and that meant stopping Rome.
It went against the grain to betray his people but then, as he continually reminded himself, these were no longer his people. These were Caesar’s people.
And so, his decision made, Paetus had crossed the Aisne, dangerously and alone at first light and, cold and wringing wet, had started to traipse north.
For the first few days, he travelled slowly and carefully, moving from copse, to wood, to gulley, to brush, being certain to avoid any signs of life. He knew the geography here as well as any Roman. During interminable briefings in Caesar’s tent he had stared again and again at the maps of the Belgae lands. Straight north would take him through the lands of the Suessiones and then along the dangerous edge between the Bellovaci and the Remi. That in itself was perilous, but at least once he was ten miles north he would be free of Roman scouts, as Caesar travelled west to meet the Aedui.
Paetus’ journey would cross two more rivers and then into the lands of the Nervii and their allies. He would make for Nemetocenna, the only oppidum important enough to be marked on Caesar’s map, though to which tribe it belonged he had no idea.
And gradually, over the days of aching legs and stumbling through scratchy thorns, Paetus’ resolve had hardened like a diamond, more and more; his confidence had grown, and he had begun to travel in open ground. As the sun rose and set time and again on his slow and uncertain journey, Paetus had changed, though he could not see it himself. His ample frame, fattened from years of living well and little or no exercise, had become already visibly leaner and thinner. Days of privation and non-stop movement had his muscles calling out for release, but he did not stop; daren’t stop.
So now, the Paetus who stepped in the early evening into the circle of fire light, was bulky, but muscular, his clothes torn, stained and dirty and barely recognisable as Roman, let alone as military garments, his face part-hidden behind a thick beard and his hair tatty and unkempt. Calida would have shrieked had she seen him.
The barbarian warriors, four of them in all, sat around a central camp fire, their weapons driven point-first into the ground by their sides for easy retrieval, spears gathered in bundles and horses tethered to a sapling. The smell of roasting pork was almost tortuous to Paetus in his current condition, having lived for days now on only a few berries and a raw rabbit he had been lucky enough to take by surprise.
A twig cracked beneath his foot, and the Belgae lurched to their feet, twisting, their muscular arms hauling great blades from the dirt as they did so.
Paetus held both his arms wide, the flats of his palms facing the barbarians in a gesture, he hoped, of peace and surrender. By the Gods, they’d been fast. He was sure the one who grasped a spear could have turned, thrown and impaled him before he had even put his arms out. But not only were these Belgae sober and sombre, they were alert and shrewd. Their first moves had been merely preparation as they apprised themselves of the situation and decided whether the man should die immediately or not.
‘I presume it would be a long shot to suggest that any of you speak Latin?’
The men crumpled up their faces in incomprehension.
‘You speak Roman?’ he translated himself, shrugging.
One of the men, presumably the leader of the scouts, frowned and asked him something in the guttural tongue of the Belgae.
‘I don’t understand’ he replied, trying to make appropriate motions with his hand and his ear. ‘I need to speak to a leader? A man who speaks Latin?’
Incomprehension.
‘Chief?’ he asked desperately. ‘Druid?’
He sighed at the blank mask that was his companion.
‘I was trying to get to the Nervii? To the oppidum of Nemetocenna?’
A spark of understanding glittered for a moment in the man’s eye.
‘Thank Jupiter’ thought Paetus to himself and smiled in relief as the fifth and unseen Nervii scout hit him hard across the back of the head with a branch.
* * * * *
Paetus awoke slowly, his vision returning as the scene around him swam into focus. There was a throbbing in his head like he had never felt. He went to reach for the back of his head, where he suspected there was a wound, but discovered his arms were bound behind his back at both wrist and elbow. He focused.
He was lying on a stone-flagged floor covered with straw. It was dirty and itchy, but dry, which meant he was inside somewhere. Yes… he could make out the rectangles of light that were windows. And the breeze… of course the barbarians did not seal their windows with blinds and drapes like the ‘civilised’ Romans. There was heat from somewhere though. He stretched, trying to look all around and examine his situation. He was in a low building of some sort of wood and mud mixture, with a thatched roof. No sign of stonework here; the structure was apparently one room, roughly twenty feet by fifteen, and decorated only with rough timber table and chairs and a fire pit blazing away in the centre.
Though he was alone in the room, he could see the door, which rested over an finger width from ground level, leaving a thin line of light that displayed the shadow of the legs of a man, presumably on guard. Paetus wriggled, trying to find a reasonable position to stand, but the scouts had bound his ankles and knees as tightly as his arms. At least they had not gagged him.
‘Hey?’
There was no answer. Paetus realised he had actually hardly made a noise at all. He drew a deep breath and forced his parched and unused throat to rasp out loudly.
‘Hey you? Anyone there?’
There was a shuffle outside and conversation in the low, guttural tone of the Belgae. Paetus wished he had spent some time on this campaign learning their damned language, but then who knew he would need it? The shadow legs moved, leaving a straight line of light.
He lay there in the silence for a long moment wondering what was happening and was just considering calling out again when he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel approaching the building. He tried to look as confident and defiant as he could, though truly he was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of his chosen course of action.
The door swung open, Paetus’ pupils shrinking to pinpoints in the bright morning light that flooded in through the door momentarily before three figures blocked the aperture. Two men entered while the third remained outside, closing the door.
‘I am not here as your enemy’ Paetus announced. ‘You can loosen my bonds. I sought you out and have no intention of running.’
There was another exchange in their tongue, and then the two figures settled, cross-legged on the floor before him.
One was a man decorated with bronze and gold and wearing the highest quality furs and wools, clearly a chieftain. The other… well even cross-legged it was clear the man was extremely tall and well built. But there was more… he was familiar. His long, grey hair and beard, the white robe, the flax circlet and the broadsword and staff. In a flash of déjà vu, Paetus recognised the druid that had addressed the meeting of chiefs at Bibracte last year. A Roman hater, for sure. That could go well for him… or it could go hard.
‘What are you doing here, Roman?’
Paetus sighed and relaxed slightly.
‘It is,’ replied Paetus sadly, ‘a very long story. But fortunately, the story and my motives are irrelevant. I am here to help you.’
The chieftain asked the druid something in their language once again, and the druid replied. A translation, presumably.
‘You are one of the Roman commanders. We are not stupid. The beard does not hide your stink. You are still alive because I am intrigued. Boduognatus here wants to skin you and fly your flesh from a standard when we find your legions. He is a simple man. So, unless you are done with your skin, talk to me, but talk fast and keep everything to the point. I must translate your words and speaking your tongue makes me retch.’
Paetus nodded, uncomfortably in his current position, but he was fairly sure that nothing he could say right now would make them treat him like a man. That could change, though…
‘I am no longer Caesar’s man. I am Roman, yes, and I will not aid the Belgae in bringing war against Rome, but Caesar is not Rome. I believe it is not unknown for Celtic tribes to develop a ‘blood feud’ that causes constant war. Suffice it to say that Caesar and I now have a blood feud.’
‘You chatter like a mindless bird. I said keep it to the point. You say you hate Caesar. I believe the phrase you seek is ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? I have heard this said by Romans, and it shows, I might add, a very narrow view of motive.’
Paetus shrugged.
‘Whether you agree with it or not is not the issue. I am willing to help you destroy Caesar’s army and drive him from your lands. It is in my interest that Caesar is unsuccessful in his conquest and is forced to return to Rome a failure.’
The druid frowned.
‘While I may say that I seriously doubt your honesty, and I have absolutely no reason to believe what you tell me, I will warn you that if you can interest us enough to make me prevent your death, Boduognatus here will certainly make sure of the truth of this. It will be extremely painful and possibly disfiguring, so I advise you if you are lying to tell me so now.’
Paetus gritted his teeth. He had not considered the possibility that they would torture him. Possibly death if they did not believe him, but torture? He hardened himself. He was set on a course of action and to bring down Caesar he would give an eye and an arm if he needed. Nemesis would be with him.
‘I am telling the truth. I have a plan of attack that will give you enough of an edge to take Caesar’s army and crush them into the dirt. Are you willing to listen?’
The druid held another brief conversation with the Nervian chieftain, and then turned back and nodded.
‘Speak.’
‘Caesar has seven legions, as well as auxiliaries and cavalry.’
‘We know this. We know all about the legions and their commanders and the traitorous Belgae and Gauls who serve with them to the detriment of their own peoples.’
Paetus nodded.
‘Do you know the marching order?’
The druid frowned.
‘You are so strictly controlled that you even march in a set order?’
‘Yes.’ Paetus smiled. At last he was getting somewhere. ‘That is how you can beat Caesar. It will all depend on the land. You will have to find a barrier that they must cross; probably a river. When they reach it, Caesar will have five legions to the front. Each legion will be marching eight abreast, with the Tenth Legion being the vanguard. Behind them will come the Eighth, then the Ninth, the Eleventh and the Twelfth. After these legions will be the commanders, with the bulk of the cavalry contingent. After them is the baggage train, which is long, slow and cumbersome. And behind that, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions, the rest of the cavalry, and the few auxiliary units attached to them.’
‘I fail to see how this helps us.’
‘Wait,’ Paetus said with a predatory smile. ‘It is simple. When the column reaches an obstacle that requires the army to stop for a while, the front legions will begin to construct a camp. Gradually, as the other legions catch up, they will join in and then enter the camp. If you place warriors in cover somewhere to the sides and wait as you count off the first five legions and the baggage train comes into sight, you have three advantages.’
He looked intently at the druid, who was now listening, rapt. Good.
‘Firstly, the front legions, who are the five veteran ones and are your most dangerous opponents will be trapped against the river and surrounded by the Belgae. Secondly, the only reserves are a way back beyond the baggage train and will take time to catch up and engage and, even when they do, they are newly-raised legions who are not experienced in true warfare. Moreover, they are Gauls by birth and perhaps could be persuaded to revolt if the circumstances are right.’
The druid had an unpleasant glint in his eye now. The chief was asking him something, but the druid ignored the man, waving a han
d at him dismissively. Paetus was impressed. He knew these priests held a powerful place in the northern societies, but to have the authority to silence a powerful chieftain with just a gesture? If only the druids could be persuaded to the Roman view. Still, he had almost won them over.
‘And thirdly, and most importantly for both you and I, the command staff will be there, jammed between the Twelfth Legion and the supply train. And if you time things exactly right and are very, very disciplined, like a Roman army would be, you could get Caesar. Cut the head from the snake and watch the body wither, my friend.’
He saw the druid flinch at those last words and worried for a moment whether he had just ruined his whole argument by insulting the man. But no. He sighed and relaxed as the druid turned to the chief and they had a very heated conversation. Finally, the huge man turned back to Paetus.
‘If what you say is true, we could end the Roman invasion of our lands in one quick move. A decisive battle. Probably at the Selle River. The Romans are busy putting down the cowardly Bellovaci dogs right now and will then turn north. They will have to cross the Selle at some point and, when they do, we can be waiting for them.’
Paetus smiled and nodded.
‘A river they must cross? Yes. That would be it.’
The druid frowned.
‘What do you ask in return for this important knowledge, Roman?’
Paetus smiled.
‘Three things. Three very small things.’
He watched the man’s face carefully.
‘When the battle is concluded, and the Belgae are free, I will be freed and given food and horse to return to Rome.’
The druid shrugged noncommittally.
‘Also, when you attack, I be allowed to watch. If Caesar is to die, I want to watch his blood spill to the earth.’
The druid nodded.
‘I can do better than that, Roman. If this comes to pass, I will put you in the front of the attack with them.’
Paetus opened his mouth to object, but realised that arguing would be of no use with this man.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 80