And just to top it all off, the morning had been the first cold and grey one he could remember for months. His force had only been travelling for an hour when the clouds had broken, and the rain began to come down in diagonal rods. He was already soaked and chilled to the bone, and it was only mid morning… clearly Fortuna was shitting on him today. He could only hope that meant she was saving all her good stuff for Caesar against the Aduatuci.
He smiled grimly.
The general had, this morning, ordered the haruspices that travelled with the staff to gut a goat and read the omens for their next campaign. The strange thin and balding men in their white robes and shiny hats had carefully lifted out and examined each organ in order and had finally pronounced the omens to be good. Labienus had been standing next to Fronto when the legate had said quite loudly ‘but not for the goat.’
In fact, Fronto had been very dour and quiet this morning. It was not the Fronto they all remembered, and this new facet of his personality, that kept reminding them of the perils they faced, was starting to infect the staff across the board.
On the bright side, Labienus had snatched the goat carcass when it was done with for the officers’ dinner tonight.
He had to do something to ‘blow out the cobwebs’ as they said. Travelling at this slow walk was just killing his spirits ever further. He took a deep breath and leaned across to the tribune beside him, a man he did not know who had been drawn from the Eleventh.
‘I’m riding on ahead to that rise; I need a little space for a moment.’
The tribune saluted, looking exceedingly unsure.
‘Sir, you need to take a guard.’
Labienus laughed.
‘I’ll not leave the sight of the column. I’m only going up the hill, not heading for Illyricum. Besides, no self respecting ambusher is going to be out in this. Even the druids will be inside by a fire. We’re the only idiots in this half of the world to be outside today.’
The tribune laughed.
‘Apart from Caesar, sir!’
Labienus snorted.
‘With the luck the general has, a small patch of cloudless blue sky’s probably following him. He is descended from Venus, after all.’
Another laugh from the tribune.
‘Just be careful sir. There’s nobody here who can replace you.’
Labienus nodded darkly as he set off ahead at a canter. The man was right. There was not a soldier in the column above the rank of tribune. Oh, there were Procillus and Mettius, of course, who would be invaluable when it came to politics and treaties, but then they were spies and diplomats; no use if a million Celts fell out of the trees as they passed.
He kicked his horse into an extra turn of speed and rode up the slope. The rain was just as heavy, just as wet and just as cold but, for some reason, not half as depressing when you were racing through it at speed.
He was starting to feel a little lighter and easier as he reached the top of the hill and turned to view the long column snaking away behind him so far that it disappeared into the grey murk. Perhaps things would be a little easier if he continued to do this throughout the journey. Maybe Procillus and Mettius would appreciate the opportunity to leave the column... but probably not. The pair of them were travelling in a covered wagon and had made no attempt to venture out into the weather; not something a commanding officer could do, really.
He sighed and turned back to the view ahead.
‘Juno, what happened here?’
Labienus stared at the dip beyond the ridge. To the left was the forest they’d been skirting for the last hour and which had given rise to his fantasies of tree-dwelling Belgae. To the right: a wide shallow bowl that had played host to a large camp; perhaps as large as the Belgae’s camp where Rufus had massacred the warriors of the Atrebates.
Rough tents and shelters formed from logs, branches and ferns formed the bulk of the camp, with burned-out grey campfires dotted around, the whole thing arrayed around a central complex of buildings; presumably a local farm.
But the camp was not the issue.
The camp was not empty.
‘Juno, Dis and Nemesis!’
The bodies lay so thick in places that they were piled on top of one another. For a moment, he worried for his safety, the words of the tribune echoing through his mind. No, he was in no danger. Nothing down there was alive. Taking a deep breath, preparing for whatever fresh horror lay ahead, he walked his horse down the slope and into the depression.
He had barely reached the edge of the distressing sight when he was forced to pull his tunic up over his nose to try and block out the smell. These bodies were fresh; fresher than those of the army back at the river yesterday. They’d died during the night.
In fact, as he walked his horse slowly and carefully in among the piles of the dead, he realised that some of the fires were still smouldering slightly. They had only been untended a few hours, but now the rain was finishing them off.
So many bodies. More than at the battlefield. Many more. So many dead. And…
He drew a deep breath and fought back a tear that threatened to run down his cheek. Not a single warrior among them. Not a man between the age of twelve and sixty. Mostly women and children. Girls of five or six years old, covered in their own blood. Gutted.
He became aware of shouting behind him. Turning, he realised the tribune had brought a dozen cavalry over the slope. Of course he had. His commander had gone off on his own.
‘Sir!’
Labienus turned, his face ashen, and slowly walked his horse between the fires and the bodies, back to the riders who sat waiting for him, staring at the macabre array.
‘What happened here sir? The Aduatuci you think? Did they come here and do this?’
Labienus shook his head.
‘What is wrong with these people? With this world?’
‘Sir?’ The tribune looked genuinely confused.
‘No one did this to them, tribune. They did it to themselves.’
He stared at the piles again.
‘Brother killing sister, father killing daughter. Must be well over a hundred thousand of them here. More…’
The tribune shook his head, his mouth open.
‘Because of us?’
Labienus nodded.
‘Us and stupidity. They heard they’d lost. And our reputation among the Celts is not the most savoury. They’d probably been told we would come and rape and murder them. This is defiance, after a fashion.’
The tribune frowned.
‘What do we do, sir?’
Labienus wiped the trickling rain from his brow.
‘We’re civilised men, tribune. What would you expect us to do?’
The man stared for a moment and then, nodding, turned to the trooper behind him.
‘Get back to the column. Tell them to take an hour’s rest and have the centurions form up three centuries for burial detail. These civilians need a proper tumulus.’
The trooper saluted and turned to ride back over the crest to the army.
Labienus sighed and fished into the pocket of his breeches. His face taking on a slightly bleaker appearance still, he withdrew Paetus’ signet ring.
‘What a reputation we’re building for ourselves, eh Lucius?’
With a deeper sigh, he looked down sadly at the item in his hand and dropped easily from his horse. A grim expression on his face, he strode over to the nearest pile of corpses and stared down at it.
Crouching, he located the body of a young girl and sadly, rolled her over on the pile of people; likely her family. Her throat had been cut. Possibly, looking at the jagged mess, she had even done it herself. The blood had soaked into the bodies beneath, and her face was now alabaster white.
Reaching out he stroked her hair. She would be about the same age as his own daughter. Ignoring the tear on his cheek and biting his lip, he reached for her hand unfolded the fingers, turned it palm-up and dropped Paetus’ ring into it. Smiling sadly, he gently but firmly pushed the
fingers closed on the ring and patted her on the cheek.
‘We’re not all monsters, girl. One day your people will realise that. If there are any of you left.’
He stood, took a deep and heavy breath, and set his teeth together. Vaulting onto his horse, he walked it back up the slope.
‘Come on. We have a job to do.’
As he passed the centurions leading the burial parties back over the slope, he gritted his teeth and glared down at them.
‘With respect. And no looting!’
The centurion, clearly surprised, saluted.
‘Yessir!’
As Labienus rode back to the column, he finally felt a little peace descending on him. He had not had his heart in this particular task. He had envied those men riding off to chastise the Aduatuci, but not now. Now his purpose was really clear for the first time. Now he had a reason. He had to bring peace at whatever cost. He had to bring the Gauls and the Belgae into the fold. Not for Caesar; not even for Rome. For themselves. What happened here must never happen again.
‘Never again.’
He ignored the look of surprise his apropos-of-nothing comment raised from the tribunes.
No… never again.
Chapter 19
(On the plain before the oppidum of Aduatuca)
‘Laqueus: a garrotte usually used by gladiators to restrain an opponent’s arm, but also occasionally used to cause death by strangulation.’
Crispus frowned.
‘I cannot decide whether they have a very egocentric world-view or merely no imagination.’
Fronto nodded.
‘I see what you mean. The Aduatuci who live in Aduatuca.’
Crispus laughed.
‘No… they have no name for their town. I am informed by our Remi friends that they just call it ‘home’. Aduatuca is a name others have given to it, for ease of description.’
Fronto frowned.
‘So they believe themselves to be the centre of the world? That’s a little big-headed isn’t it?’
Another light laugh from Crispus.
‘Whereas our ‘Mare Nostrum’ shows no such weakness in character, eh?’
Fronto frowned blankly at him and then gave up, shrugged, and turned back to examine the oppidum they had travelled so many days to find.
Aduatuca, as the Belgae had named it, was a plateau with only one truly accessible side. The town stood atop cliffs and rocks that were jagged and uneven, and would make most siege techniques difficult. The remaining option would be to march directly up the one shallow slope, which was perhaps a hundred paces across, and assault the impressively-constructed double walls, crowned with piles of heavy stones with which to crush any attackers, and surrounded by sharpened stakes jutting from the ground and the walls like a bristling and deadly beard.
The legions had been hot on the trail of the Aduatuci ever since they’d left the Selle River and marched east but, no matter that the Romans had stripped out the slowest part of the army and travelled only with fast and healthy troops, the Aduatuci had simply travelled like the wind, managing to easily stay ahead of Caesar and almost taunting him. And now the Roman army assembled in units on the plain in sight of the oppidum but out of range.
Fronto sighed.
‘Ah well. Best go see what the general has in mind.’
Crispus nodded, and the two legates strode off to join the staff, who were gathering at the front with their commander. Caesar was rubbing his temples irritably.
‘Alright, gentlemen. It’s quite simple. I may have underestimated the time to get here and deal with the enemy, and so we need to deal with this fast. I want to be at Nemetocenna by the kalends of Septembris for the meeting of the tribes.’
Sabinus shook his head.
‘Sir, rushing these things is asking for trouble. Every time we’ve rushed a siege so far we’ve failed and taken heavy losses. Labienus can argue your position, especially with the diplomats you sent. You need to concentrate on this. Take Aduatuca with as few risks and losses as possible.’
Fronto nodded. ‘The legions are severely depleted.’
Behind him he heard the familiar nasal whine that announced Plancus was winding himself up to say something stupid.
‘They’re right, sir. Think of how expensive it will already be to restore the manpower of the legions. It will cost a fortune, sir.’
Fronto frowned. To think of the men of the legions in terms of a mere commodity irritated him on both professional and personal levels. But the man had added to their point and any angle that might make Caesar careful should be attacked. The general frowned.
‘So what do you all suggest? Talk to me.’
Fronto cleared his throat.
‘Can’t assault that slope. Remember Noviodunum? I’ll bet Plancus does. We could take the gates, but it would cost us a quarter of the army doing it, and that’s too high a price to pay.’
‘So you expect our men to climb the cliffs, Fronto?’
The legate shrugged.
‘I’m just warning you off a really dangerous attack. What you need is Tetricus. He’ll have ideas.’
‘Then get him.’ Caesar continued to rub his temple, wincing.
As Fronto turned and strode back to the ranks of the Tenth, he pondered on his patron. The more time he spent with Caesar, the less he liked him. The man had always had his vicious side, certainly, which had shown on several occasions during the Hispanic campaign, but he seemed to be getting worse. Indeed, his mood, his health and his judgment all seemed to have declined over the last year or more.
Perhaps life would be easier if he left Caesar’s clientele and found someone else? It was not like he needed the money or the political leg up. He served with Caesar, as he always had, because the general often left him alone to do his job and he could soldier on in his own way. Maybe Pompey would have use for him?
He shook his head. He was Caesar’s man. So the general was going through a bad patch. A man who changed his allegiance for ease and comfort was… well wasn’t Fronto. Besides, he knew he was a moderating influence on the general and, without him, how many good men would die in fruitless pursuit of glory?
Tetricus smiled as he approached.
‘Had a feeling you might be sending for me, sir.’
Fronto smiled.
‘Get your thinking head on. Caesar’s in a hurry as usual, but I don’t want to lose too many men.’
‘Yes,’ the tribune smiled. ‘Already had some thoughts.’
The two men turned and strode toward the command unit when a shout suddenly went up. Squinting into the distance, they began to run as they saw a flood of men pouring down the slope from the gate of the oppidum. Calls went up from the various cornicens, and the legions tightened formation into solid shield walls, waiting for the order to attack. Fronto and Tetricus veered off and made a beeline for the staff who were now pulling back between the legions to a position of safety at the rear.
As they reached the group of officers, Fronto frowned.
‘There’s only a few thousand of them. What can they possibly hope to achieve in open battle?’
Caesar smiled.
‘It matters not. The legions will obliterate them and then we will besiege their town.’
Fronto remained unconvinced and, as the command party reached a small rise where they could observe events, he studied the enemy warriors pouring across the turf toward them. This was no ordinary Belgic attack. These men were unarmoured and carried only spears; moreover, they were forming into what looked like a phalanx.
‘General?’
‘Hmm?’ Caesar turned to look at him.
‘Something’s up. This is too stupid to be true, and I don’t believe they’re idiots.’
The general sighed.
‘Just for once, Fronto, have a little faith in your own eyes. The terms are definitely favourable to us.’
They watched a moment longer until Caesar took a deep breath and bellowed out to the men ‘advance!’
&nbs
p; Along the lines, centurions took up the call and their cornicens relayed the orders. Within moments, three legions: the Tenth, Eighth and Eleventh, began to march slowly, inexorably forward with the crash of steel and the crunch of boots, closing on the relatively small phalanx of Belgae. Fronto watched with trepidation, his breath held. This was wrong.
The Roman lines rolled forward across the plain and, as he watched, suddenly the Belgae stopped in perfect order perhaps two hundred paces from the advancing legions. The front row with their spears went into a crouch as, behind them, two rows of men lifted bows, already strung and with arrows nocked. Calmly, smoothly, and with a discipline that would satisfy the strictest centurion, they drew back in unison and released. As the flight of perhaps two hundred arrows arced into the air and the Aduatuci fetched another arrow from their quiver, the next two rows behind them released another volley.
The legions, unprepared for missile attack, sustained dozens of casualties from the first assault. The lines faltered for only a moment before the centurions, ever professional, called for the testudo formation. The second flight of arrows struck home with brutal effect just as the legions reformed, a protective roof of shields going up just in time to save them from the third volley.
Caesar, satisfied that his legions were now protected, smiled as his men closed on the Belgae but once again, Fronto was startled to realise, the enemy were ahead of the game. They had stayed out of range of the Roman pila just long enough to launch a painful, stinging assault, and now that their edge was gone, the formation merely broke, and they ran back toward the oppidum, unencumbered and far faster than the pursuing legions.
‘Cavalry to intercept!’ Caesar shouted, but Fronto stepped in front and shook his head.
‘Don’t, general.’
‘What?’
‘They’ll never get there in time. The cavalry are marshalled behind the legions. If they do catch them it’ll be right under the walls, and they’ll drop boulders on us.’
Caesar ground his teeth for a moment and then snarled.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 91