The officers in the room fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment.
‘What we really need to do’ Rufus said, scratching his chin, ‘is to somehow goad the enemy into making a full scale assault on this place. Do to them what they’re trying to do to us.’
Sabinus frowned.
‘It’s a nice idea, but the question is: how would we get them to commit to such a ridiculously suicidal act? They’ve been unwilling to commit to a large scale attack for three days because they know how costly it would be. That’s why they’re trying to get us to come out and meet them.’
Again, the officers fell into a silence that only served to emphasise the need for a solution, as the sounds of combat ringing on the distant west rampart intruded upon the meeting.
Slowly, Sabinus began to smile.
‘You have an idea?’
The commander turned his smile on the speaker, and it widened.
‘What could provoke the enemy into launching such a dangerously reckless attack?’
Galba shrugged.
‘Either desperation in the face of likely defeat, or the certainty of victory. Sadly, neither is true of Viridovix’s Gauls.’
‘At the moment, yes. But what if we could plant the seed of one of those notions among them?’
Galba tapped his lip.
‘How are you proposing to do that, general?’
‘Plancus?’
‘Sir?’
‘Do me a favour and send for that centurion of yours that helped us with their leaders.’
The Fourteenth’s legate, frowning with a lack of understanding, saluted and ducked out of the tent door, issuing quick orders to one of the guards outside before returning.
Galba was shaking his head as the legate dipped back in.
‘It would give us the edge, but however you go about tricking them into attacking us, as soon as they realise they’ve made a mistake, they’ll just retreat back to Crociatonum and this whole attritive nightmare will start up again. Without keeping them committed, matters won’t change much.’
Sabinus grinned at him and pointed at Plancus as the man returned.
‘That’s where he was right. We can’t cower behind the walls, because they’ll run away again, yet equally we can’t go out and meet them in battle, since they’ll walk all over us with sheer numbers. But… if we can get them to charge us, they’ll be exhausted when they reach the top of this long slope, and trapped against our defences. Then we can send the best, freshest men out and carry out the good old-fashioned Roman battle that Plancus is angling for, all the time keeping wearing away at them from the top of the walls.’
Galba frowned and drummed his fingers on his knee.
‘It has merit, sir. We’d need to give them more than just a reason to attack us, though. If you want a mad, exhausting charge, they have to believe that time is of the essence. Not an easy thing to achieve. If you can, though, we could use a day or so to perhaps set up some surprises for them. We picked up some very inventive ideas from the tribes in the Alpine passes last winter.’
Sabinus nodded, smiling.
‘Anything that helps give us that little bit more edge. I have some ideas but, until Plancus’ man gets here, let’s concentrate on how we deal with them once they’re here.’
The commander, along with his legates and tribunes, fell into an involved discussion, bandying ideas back and forth and picking apart every angle, and the tent buzzed with animated conversation a short while later when there was a polite knock on the tent frame by the door.
‘Come!’
The figure of the centurion who had accompanied them at the parley appeared in the doorway, standing respectfully to attention.
‘Come on in, man, and stand at ease.’
‘Yes general. How can I be of service?’
Sabinus smiled at the man.
‘I would like you to perform a rather special duty; a sort of recruitment officer.’
The centurion frowned, but remained silent. Sabinus laughed.
‘What’s your name, centurion?’
‘Cantorix, general.’
‘Well, Cantorix, I would like you to go back to the Fourteenth and pick out as many soldiers of a certain nature as you can find.’
‘Sir?’
‘I want you to put together a vexillation of men for a special mission, and I have three criteria for selection. Firstly, they need to look as Gallic as possible; no Roman style haircuts or clean shaven faces. Secondly, they need to be the most bloodthirsty, powerful bastards the Fourteenth has to offer. And thirdly, I don’t want anyone too virtuous and fair. Select the sort of men you wouldn’t play dice against; the sort of men you wouldn’t leave alone in your tent or let follow you down a dark alley. You get my drift?’
Cantorix nodded, uncertainly.
‘May I ask what will be required of them, general?’
Sabinus smiled.
‘Indeed you may, though I would prefer this information were not disseminated among the men yet, so keep your peace until you’ve organised the men and spoken with us again.’
He leaned forward.
‘We’re going to infiltrate Viridovix’s army with our own. You heard the other day that their army is accepting all the waifs and strays from all over Armorica, including rebels, bandits and any Roman haters? Well it’s time for you and your men to become rebels and bandits. You need to join them in the guise of Veneti refugees. You’ll tell them that Caesar has defeated the Veneti and is on his way north. In fact, you’ll tell him that we appear to be preparing to leave. It needs to sound desperate enough that they’ll want to deal with us as a matter of urgency.’
Galba smiled.
‘They’ll assume the two armies are about to join up. Yes… that would frighten them as a possibility: the three legions they face now suddenly becoming seven.’
‘Indeed,’ Sabinus nodded, ‘and it should be enough impetus to make them launch an attack. They’ll believe that they have to obliterate us before we get a chance to move out and join up with Caesar.’
Cantorix wore a faintly uncertain look.
‘Problem, centurion?’
‘Not as such, general, but this is a lot to ask of men who have been treated like an inferior unit from the outset and continually assigned to menial tasks. Morale has never been high in the Fourteenth, because they know the other legions look down on them. I’m not saying they wouldn’t do it, sir. Of course not, but I feel duty bound to my men to report the situation as it stands.’
Sabinus’ eye flickered irritably.
‘I wasn’t aware that the situation was that bad.’
‘With respect sir, nobody is aware, because nobody ever asks.’
The general let out a low grumble, the twitch still evident. He was barely controlling his temper, and the centurion bit his tongue as he waited. ‘Then we have a problem. The Fourteenth are the only legion that can do it. Perhaps we can apply a little incentive?’
‘Sir?’
‘For the morale of your men, I offer phalerae to every survivor who takes a part, along with a crown to pin to the legion’s standards. If such is not enough of an incentive, there are other, more ‘disciplinary’ methods, if you follow me. I understand the plight of the Fourteenth and the stigma that has become attached to them, but I cannot allow the attitude of the men to dictate our strategy. The legions serve Rome, not the other way around.’
Cantorix pursed his lips.
‘Yes sir. I meant in no way to imply that the men were rebellious or anything, sir, and a little recognition does buy a great deal of morale, sir.’
Sabinus leaned back in his chair and nodded.
‘Go select your men Cantorix; as many as you can find. It’s time to teach the ‘free Gauls’ the cost of liberty.’
* * * * *
Cantorix, centurion in command of the Third century in the Third cohort of the Fourteenth Legion, wrinkled his nose in disgust. The grand Roman officers in this army still thought of the Gauls as a s
ingle people with a common culture and identity, a laughable idea to Cantorix, who had been raised as one of the Segusiavi, far from here, near the borders of Roman territory. The Segusiavi had traded with Rome for as long as the tribe could remember; many spoke Latin and some even Greek, and wine - not beer - was the beverage of choice among the more wealthy.
How far removed could he be from these coastal ‘barbaroi’ who lived in relative squalor, many still running into battle naked to prove their vitality and resisting the inevitable march of progress. Yet the Roman-born officers saw them all the same, assuming that these men, enlisted into the Roman army a little over a year ago, but from a very civilised culture and already largely ‘Roman’ in their outlook, would find it a simple job to assume the guise of the northern Veneti warriors.
He ground his teeth, wondering whether to try and affect a local accent. The idea would likely be a disaster. He would stand more chance of sounding like a native Greek than a native of Armorica.
Beside him, Idocus, a flaxen-braided optio from the Fifth cohort, held out a pair of trousers and stared at them as though they might bite him.
‘Do these Unelli not understand the principle of washing clothes?’
He sniffed the material and recoiled. Cantorix gave him a lopsided smile.
‘Be fair; a man died in them a few hours ago. He probably soiled himself.’
‘Thanks’ the optio replied drily. ‘I wish we had time to take them to a river and give them a good scrub. I’m worried I might catch something. These trousers smell like a sick dog with an arse infection.’
‘Just stop complaining and put the damn things on.’
The other thirteen men were busy climbing into their new clothes, mostly with looks of disgust and one even holding his nose. Cantorix shook his head. Thousands of men to choose from, and the general had clearly expected him to produce a large force. The fact was, though, that over the last year, most of the men of the Fourteenth had adopted the Roman style so thoroughly that very few legionaries retained enough of a Gallic look to even attempt this. These fifteen were the only ones with the appropriate physical and mental qualities that the centurion believed could even faintly pass as natives.
They had waited until the last attack by the Unelli and their allies, not long before sundown, and, once the enemy had returned to their town, the squad of soldiers had had their pick of disguises and armament from among the hundred or so enemies killed in the latest engagement close to the wall.
Cantorix straightened and held the torc up to his neck for a moment, but then decided against it. They had to look nondescript; no good wearing or carrying anything that could easily be identified as belonging to a fallen warrior of the Unelli.
Rolling his shoulders, he allowed the clothing to settle and watched Idocus trying to tie the trousers around his waist while touching as little material as possible with his hands.
‘Will you stop buggering around?’
The optio looked at him with distaste.
‘I have to eat with these hands. I may never feel clean again.’
Cantorix stepped across to the doorway of the tent and turned to his men.
‘Alright. Let’s get moving. Come on.’
The other fourteen soldiers finished their dressing and gathered the swords, axes and spears before filing out into the early evening gloom.
‘Right. Simple route. Out of the back gate of the camp, down the hill and a quarter of a mile out into the woods, then we swing out wide and come at Crociatonum from the west. Once we leave the gate, I don’t want to hear a word spoken in Latin and remember to concentrate on your conversation. Don’t even think Roman, or it’ll still show through. And no discipline or attention. Try not to look like legionaries. Got it?’
The men nodded, variously grinning and grimacing. They were, as the general had requested, the sort of men who, if they were not in the army, would be robbing and murdering for profit. He watched them with interest as they filed past into the evening air. On the bright side, they really looked like thieves and vagabonds, and they smelled like refugees who had been travelling for days without a change of clothes. Possibly they could pull this off after all.
Once they were all outside, the centurion nodded with apparent satisfaction, concealing his shaky nerves.
‘Right. Let’s go. Remember everything we agreed.’
As they strode across the grass of the camp, Cantorix noted the watching faces of the many legionaries who stood beside their tents. Many held a look of vague, unintentional contempt. Others, though, nodded respectfully, fully aware of what these ragged men were about to attempt.
The rear gate of the camp opened as they approached, without the need for orders, and the legionaries on guard saluted as they passed. Cantorix peered into the gloom as he broke into a jog, the light from the torches and braziers in the camp fading behind him.
He was impressed, as they reached the bottom of the slope and made for the eaves of the nearby woodland, at the singular lack of noise the men around him made. They moved like cats in the night, hardly a twig cracking when they passed among the boles of the trees. After a few moments the silence became oppressive and the centurion cleared his throat, speaking in his native Gallic tongue.
‘Alright. I think we’ve probably come far enough south. Let’s cut west and make our way round. Feel free to talk, but only in low voices. We’re supposed to be refugees and bandits, after all, not thieves. But remember to watch what you’re saying.’
He took a deep breath. ‘And don’t try to put on any kind of accent. It’ll just end up sounding stupid and obvious. We’ll just have to hope that they don’t know the Veneti accent that well. We’re more than a hundred miles from their lands, so that wouldn’t surprise me.’
One of the men grinned at him.
‘Are you doin’ all the talkin’, or are we all goin’ to chatter?’
Cantorix nodded back at the man.
‘You all need to talk; we spoke about that before. We’re not supposed to be soldiers, so act just like you would expect fleeing Veneti warriors to. Just leave the initial explanation of matters to me. Feel free to chip in with bits and pieces, but don’t get too creative.’
The man grinned.
‘Oh I know. Art of any scam’s keepin’ it simple as possible. So’s not to trip yerself up.’
The centurion smiled. ‘Precisely. So everyone should talk.’
‘‘cept Villu, ‘course.’
Cantorix glared at the man’s poor taste in jokes, and glanced across at the aforementioned man, who was grinning wide and displaying the messy hole where his tongue should be, result of some unknown incident many years ago.
‘Come on.’
Listening to the general conversation as they moved speedily through the woodland, the centurion began finally to relax a little. He had to admit that, to his own untrained ear at least, they sounded every bit the band of Gallic brigands. But then, truth be told, when you took away the mail and the tunic, that was very much what they were.
No surprise really that they were treated the way they were by the other legions. He resolved to try, once this was over, to get these men to mingle more with the other legions. Closing the cultural rift would require effort on both sides, after all.
He was still pondering on what could be done for the Fourteenth when they reached the edge of the woodland and gazed out across the open grass to the walls of Crociatonum, the fort they had so recently left rising from the crest of the impressive hill off to the right.
‘Alright. Let’s run. Try to look relieved.’
Breaking into a fast pace as they left the trees, the fifteen men sped across the open land, keeping low and moving like a pack of wolves on the hunt. They were perhaps four hundred paces from the walls when the shout went up from within.
Warily, mindful of the possibility of missiles being hurled at them before any opportunity was given to explain themselves, the unit slowed and raised their arms, indicating the fact that their h
ands were empty of weapons. They continued to walk like that toward the town’s solid gate until, perhaps ten paces out and without the need for an order, the unit came to a stop.
Cantorix, listening carefully, could just make out the noise of urgent discussion behind the gate. Screwing his eyes shut momentarily, he took a deep breath.
‘For Belenus’ sake, let us in. There’s thousands of Romans a cat’s fart away!’
He could not stop himself flinching, but managed to stay steady and not drop to the ground in case of missile attack. Straightening, he threw an angry glare in the direction of the optio who was stifling a small laugh.
‘Who are you?’ called a voice from an unseen figure above the gate.
‘I’m Cantorix of the Veneti!’
There was another muffled exchange and finally a figure appeared above the gate, tall and powerful, wearing bronze helm and a chain mail shirt, a heavy blade in his hand.
‘You bring us a message?’
Good; a chance. ‘A message? Shit, yes, I bring you a message. Let us in and get ready for the sky to fall.’
‘Explain yourself, stranger.’
‘The Roman, Caesar is about a day behind us with enough men to trample a forest.’
Cantorix was pleased to note a sudden, yet more urgent murmur behind the gate.
Off to his right, one of the men bellowed ‘Bloody Romans everywhere. How come you haven’t flattened that lot on the hill?’
The leader dipped down behind the parapet for a moment, and then reappeared from a discussion with his compatriots.
‘The Veneti have fallen to Caesar?’
‘I’m not bloody proud of it, but yes’ Cantorix snapped. ‘Now will you let us in? There was a lot of activity in that fort when we came past, and I don’t want to be standing in the open playing with myself when they decide to come and stand on my throat.’
He had to force himself not to smile as the urgent voices muttered again, a little louder and with a note of panic. The leader tilted his head to one side; a sign of worry, perhaps?
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 130