by Ray Gleason
Publicola grunted his seeming assent to Caesar’s introductory barbs. I was beginning to wonder why this man was in a position of trust when Caesar continued, “Publicola will be in command of my embassy to Ariovistus. I believe even a hair-faced Kraut who’s still wringing water from the Rhenus out of his skivvies will be suitably impressed with the width of Publicola’s purple stripe and his consular pedigree.”
Caesar saw my look of confusion. “Tertius here is not cut from the same political cloth as his father and older brother. . . He’s making a go of it in the army . . . What is it now, Tertius . . . three. . . four years under the eagles?”
Publicola nodded toward Caesar and grunted.
I took a good look at Publicola. He was tall—a good six pedes and a palmus–and athletically thin, giving the impression of a tightly wound ballista, ready and able to lash out suddenly at anything it was aimed at. His hair color hung between light brown and dark blond, betraying some Sabine or perhaps even Gallic ancestry. And, of course, it was stylishly cut in the Roman fashion, as if he had just come from a posh hair stylist on the Palatine and had not been chasing long-haired barbarians through the hills of Gaul like the rest of us. His eyes were a deep blue that seemed to mimic the depths of a cloudless summer sky, and like those of a god in the firmament, they seemed to miss nothing that happened below. While his nose was aristocratically long, sharp, and thin; his mouth, a bloodless slash across his face, hovered over a well-shaved, sharply cleft chin.
In short, I saw and took an immediate dislike to the consular nob, Tertius Gellius Publicola; I determined to stay clear and never turn my back on the pompous gobshite.
Back then, my judgment of men was quick, shallow, and uninformed. The Macedonian - Caesar’s little “Egyptian Kitten,” as he called her - had an expression for it. She described her youth as her “salad days,” when she was green in experience and cold in judgment. When she said that, she was barely twenty-one, pharaoh of both Egypts, lover of the most powerful man in the Roman world, and carrying his child. I find myself thinking of her often these days. Perhaps her restless lemur is reaching out to me from the land of the dead. She has as good a reason to do so as I have to resist her enticements, even from beyond the tomb.
Then, I heard Caesar’s voice cutting through my fog of nostalgia and the fumes of cheap wine clouding my brain: “I’m sending an ala of legionary cavalry from Publicola’s Ninth as an honor guard . . . I want to put on a bit of a show for these hairy mentulae . . . I will also need the Sequani cavalry to ensure safe passage east of the Arar to the Rhenus. But, between here and the Arar is Aedui territory, so I’ve requested a cavalry escort from Diviciacus. Insubrecus Decurio! Do you believe that mixing the Aedui and Sequani in a single detail will cause problems?”
It took me a few heartbeats to disengage myself from my dislike of Publicola, but I responded, “Combining the Aedui and Sequani might be difficult, even if it might serve a common cause. The warriors are young . . . They seek glory and reputation . . . They listen to their anger and desires, not their heads.”
“I will tolerate no petty-minded, trivial disruptions of our mission, Decurio,” Publicola interrupted. “I will hold you responsible for the behavior of your barbarians.”
“Tribune, a century of animosity and warfare between peoples can hardly be dismissed as trivial—” I began.
“Please! Gentlemen!” Caesar intervened. “Stay focused! We need both the Aedui and the Sequani on this mission. I’m sure Diviciacus recognizes the critical nature of our embassy and will choose his men carefully. As far as the Sequani go, the turma of Adonus Dux has served us faithfully throughout the Helvetian campaign. They understand Roman discipline well enough not to be distracted from their mission . . . or at least to be controllable in these circumstances. Do you not agree, Insubrecus?”
I was not at all sure I agreed with Caesar’s assessment, but there was no way I was going to do anything to support Publicola’s position on this. “Tecum consto, Imperator,” I nodded.
“Bene,” Caesar stated. “Enough talk about tribal jealousies. Let’s get back to our mission to Ariovistus. Publicola is in nominal command of the embassy . . . He and his men will provide the color and glitz that impresses those barbarians . . . Insubrecus, you will be under Publicola’s mandatum for this mission and will exercise overall command of the Gallic cavalry . . . You will also act as liason between them and the tribune here . . . You can release the Aedui as soon as you cross the Arar into Sequani territory . . . I have delegated Gaius Valerius Troucillus to deliver my message to Ariovistus . . . Like you, Insubrecus, he’s both a citizen and a Gaul . . . a member of the civitas Helviorum just south of the Rhonus . . . He speaks Gallic and Latin like a native, so you two have something else in common, and he’s an eques, a “knight,” so there’s another purple stripe to wave in front of Ariovistus . . . He’ll be accompanied by Marcus Metius . . . He’s a merchant who has had dealings with Ariovistus and his people . . . Metius is there to gather whatever intelligence he can from his contacts about enemy strength and intention . . . Any questions so far, gentlemen?”
“N’abeo,” I mumbled over my dried out tongue. Publicola grunted something that sounded about the same.
I had no specific questions, but something about Caesar describing Metius as a merchant who had had dealings with Ariovistus’ band troubled me. I remembered the Gallic contingent from Vesantio suspected that Roman merchants were somehow in league with the Suebii.
Caesar continued, “Troucillus and Metius will join you here tomorrow at the first hour, when you will depart for the Rhenus.”
Dios gratias, I thought, a whole day to recover from the wine fumes that are aiming to shatter my skull.
“I do not think for a second that Ariovistus will react well to my message . . . I don’t believe that he’ll openly attack an official embassy, but there’s no predicting how bararians will behave . . . So, get Troucillus there to deliver the bad news and then get out . . . Compe’enditis vos?”
I responded, “Compre’endo, Imperator!” Publicola grunted.
“I’m also sending a detail of fabricatores from the Ninth Legion under their praefectus, Appius Papirius Cerialis . . . I believe you know the man, Publicola?”
Grunt.
“His primary mission is assessing the defenses of Vesantio and the defensibility of the terrain approaching the gate . . . He will also be conducting a general route reconnaissance and identifiying sites for our legionary castra . . . Optimally, he will identify a battle ground for our confrontation with the Grunni in front of Belfort . . . One of your missions, Insubrecus Decurio, is to provide security for Cerialis and his men . . . Nonne liquet?”
“Liquet, Imperator!”
“Bene! Publicola! Once you have disengaged with the Krauts, you will fall back to Vesantio with Troucillus, Metius, and the fabricatores . . . Send a messenger back to me with Ariovistus’s reply to my ultimatum . . . Insubrecus Decurio! You and the Sequani will screen the approaches to the Gate from the east until the army arrives or the Grunni push you back . . . Try to stay between the enemy and whatever key terrain Cerialis indicates, but don’t get decisively engaged . . . If you are attacked, fall back to Vesantio . . . Vesantio must be held until I can get the legions up the valley of the Dubis . . . Publicola! If the Krauts attack the town, you will defend it with whatever forces you can scrape up . . . They will be mostly Sequani, so you’ll need to depend on Adonus Dux and Insubrecus Decurio to assist you . . . But under no circumstances are you to let Ariovistus take Vesantio . . . Vesantio must be held! Nonne liquet?”
“Clarissime, Imperator!” I actually thought I saw Publicola’s lips move that time!
“Bene!” Caesar concluded. You are dismissed. I have an officer’s call to conduct, and you have much to do to get ready . . . and, Insubrecus!”
“Ti’ adsum, Imperator,” I croaked.
“Get some sleep! I’ve seen crucified criminals who look better than you!”
“A’mperi’tu’, Im
perator!” I managed to spit out over Labienus’ chuckling.
IX.
De Iternere Ad Ararem
THE JOURNEY TO THE ARAR
We assembled outside the porta dextra of the Ninth Legion’s castrum just as the trumpets marked the end of the fourth watch. It was quite a circus: Roman cavalry all shined and glittering; two contingents of Gallic cavalry; the Aedui and the Sequani, trying to avoid each other; Roman engineers looking nervously at the horses they would have to ride through the hills; Caesar’s emissaries, Troucillus and Metius, each with his own comitatus of assistants and slaves; and Publicola and his “command group,” whom I dismissed as a gaggle of cooks, bottle washers, boot lickers, and cot fluffers of the Roman senatorial aristocracy.
Off to the side of this gaggle, some of Athauhnu’s boys were trying to organize the remount herd for the Sequani. I was riding Clamriu, but I was taking my German horse with me also. It was time to teach that Kraut nag how to be a proper Roman cavalry mount. What the Romans and the Aedui were doing about remounts, I had no idea. If they lost a horse, they could walk back to the army, as far as I was concerned.
I suspected somewhere among the ash and trash we were dragging behind us, the Roman emissaries and our consular nob had packed the pheasant tongues, quail eggs, and fine wines of the Latin hills, items that no purple-striper would go to war without. That was fine with me. My Sequani would be protecting the baggage and would certainly levy a generous tariff from their charges.
I found Athauhnu briefing his ala commanders, Guithiru and Ci, the “Hound.”
“A Pen,” I addressed him in Gah’el. “Is your troop ready to move out?”
Athauhnu responded in Latin, “We wear Caesar’s steel, receive Caesar’s silver, obey Caesar’s orders, Decurio, so we speak Caesar’s language. Ben’ dictu, m’infantes?”
“Bene, Dux,” Guithiru and Ci agreed.
“And a proper pair of Romans we have here,” I laughed. “Have you taken Roman praenomina for yourselves? Ci, you’re alright, but no Roman could hope to pronounce ‘Guithiru.’”
“Meet Caeso and Caius,” Athauhnu introduced, “the two decuriones of the First Sequani Cavalry Turma.”
I nodded toward the newly minted Caeso and Caius, “Salvete, decuriones! Adonus Dux, what is the strength of the First Sequani Cavalry Turma for this mission?”
“Decurio,” he reported, “Caeso’s ala mounts twenty-three riders and Caius’ twenty. My command section mounts seven. We are taking sixty-five mounts, all fit and proper.”
“Bene,” I continued my role as the Roman commander. “Supply?”
“The men are carrying five days’ rations on their saddles . . . That should be more than enough to get us to the Arar and out of the lands of the Aedui. Once we have returned to our homeland, we will be supplied by our people,” Athauhnu reported.
“And the horses?” I continued.
“The horses are fat on Roman grain and will be content once they are again feeding in Sequani grasslands,” he reported.
“Bene, Dux!” I agreed. “I haven’t been given the order of march, but it’s a safe bet that you will be marching within the column until we cross the Arar. I know that you have no reason to love the Aedui, but Caesar asks you to bury your animosities and tolerate their presence among us. Until we reach the Arar, they are our allies on this mission.”
“Invidias?” Caius Ci asked.
“Casineba,” Athauhnu translated. “Hostility.” Then to me, “A’mperi’tu, Decurio!”
“Bene, m’amice!” I nodded. “Let me go introduce myself to our socii from the Aedui.”
“Do you want me to hold your purse while you’re among those abactores?” Athauhnu asked.
“No, my friend, I should be fine,” I replied, wondering briefly how Athauhnu had learned the Latin word for ‘cattle rustlers.’”
I rode over to where I had seen the Aedui gathering. Compared to my Roman-equipped Sequani, they were a motley looking bunch. Some wore armor of boiled leather and some had only padded jackets; some had various helmets of steel or bronze, while others were bare-headed; some wore long Gallic spatha, others short Roman gladii, and some carried nothing but gaea, the Gallic throwing spears. Few had shields.
I spotted a rider who I assumed was their chief. He wore a chainmail lorica and a conical steel helmet with long cheek guards. A spatha in a polished leather sheath decorated with a diamond pattern of silver wires hung on his left side suspended by a leather baldric. He wore a thick, four-strand torc of twisted silver wire; a silver armband nestled on his right arm.
When he saw me approaching, he grunted, “Romana non dico.”
“I speak Gah’el,” I answered him in his own language. “I’m Gaius Marius Insubrecus, Decurio. I’m called Arth mab Secundus among my people, the Insubres. The Soucanai call me Arth Uthr.”
The man looked me up and down. I’m sure he took in my Roman armor and sashes of rank. His eyes hesitated for a brief heartbeat on the five-strand golden torc, the symbol of a warrior and chief, that hung about my neck. Then, he inclined his head toward me.
“A Pen,” he answered, repecting my golden torc. “I am Morcant mab Cuhnetha, leader of ten. I command these riders of the Aineduai under the authority of Duuhruhda mab Clethguuhno, Uucharix of the Aineduai. My orders are to escort you Romans and those Soucanai mutts to the river of Souconna.”
The name Cuhnetha was somehow familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it. So, I answered Morcant, “I thank you, Chief. Those riders of the Soucanai are the friends of the Caisar and of the Roman people, who request that they be treated with respect.”
Then, I remembered. “Perhaps you would tell me why the penaf of the Wuhr Tuurch does the bidding of the Wuhr Blath as a mere leader of ten.”
Morcant’s eyes widened for a brief heartbeat, but he immediately recovered his composure. “What do you know of my people?” he challenged.
“What your father, Cuhnetha, shared with me when he offered me and my men his hospitality and a jug of his red mead,” I answered him.
Morcant’s face reddened, “A fine lot of good that did him! Are yours the band of Soucanai pigs who burned his hall?”
“Burned his hall?” Now it was my turn to be surprised. “I rode with the Soucanai. His hall had already been burned when we arrived at his dun. He blamed the fianna of Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno, your king’s brother. Who told you that Soucanai attacked your father?”
“Duuhruhda . . . the king himself . . . he came to me as soon as he heard—” Morcant stuttered. “Why would the king lie about such a thing?”
“Who knows why anyone lies?” I countered. “Think about it yourself, Morcant. Does not your father believe that Clethguuhno, the king’s father, murdered your grandfather to steal your birthright? Is not Deluuhnu, the king’s brother, now a heroor, an outlaw, who under our laws is deprived of his head-price and is to be denied shelter and bread by all Aineduai?”
“That is the doing of the Romans,” Morcant stammered. “The Caisar condemned Deluuhnu—”
“I fought in the battle in which Deluuhnu betrayed his own people and mine to the River People and the Almaenwuhr,” I persisted. “I watched as his fianna abandoned Aineduai, Soucanai, and Rhufeiniaid to their deaths. And, you ask me why his brother would lie to you? You know the answer, Morcant! When is the last time you saw your father? Did you ask him who attacked his dun? Or, do you accept the word of that sarf, that snake who calls himself the Uucharix of the Aineduai?”
Morcant had no answer. “I was supposed to return home after the River People fled from our lands . . . but Duuhruhda . . . the king himself . . . he came to me and asked me to undertake this task . . . Once I get you to the River of Soucanna, I will lead my men back to my father’s dun, and he will tell me the truth of this.”
“I have told you the truth of it, Morcant, as your father told it to me. There is no other truth to be learned.” I placed my hand on my golden torc. “Until we reach the river of Soucanna, I am your pe
nadur. The Soucanai are our companions on this journey. I ask you and your men to treat them as brothers.” Before Morcant could protest, I pulled Clamriu’s head about and trotted off toward our forming column.
I hoped that I could keep the Aedui and the Sequani apart until we crossed the Arar. I estimated we would arrive on the banks of the river in four or five days, and during that time, the Aedui would be out screening our column and the Sequani riding within it. The tricky part would be keeping an eye on things when we halted for the night.
We almost made it.
Our Roman circus didn’t get moving until well into the second hour. Most of the delay was in trying to collect the ash and trash that Publicola and our Roman envoys were dragging along. Publicola, of course, blamed the Gallic contingent, who had been waiting patiently with their horses since the first hour. Which meant, of course, he blamed me.
I was well aware that I was being tested. Caesar had given me my first independent responsibility as the officer in charge of the Gallic cavalry. Essentially, I was now riding in Agrippa’s saddle. I wasn’t quite sure whether Caesar was testing my ability to lead the Gauls or my ability to get along with such a pompous twit as Publicola. Probably both. I have long since learned that the Roman army has no shortage of such broad-striped, pompous idiots in positions of authority. In order to get things done, it’s often necessary for competent Roman officers to be able, seemingly, to acquiesce to the most ridiculous attitudes and pronouncements of a senior officer whose broad purple stripe is blinding his judgment, then conveniently ignore it all in order to get a critical job done, even if it meant abjectly apologizing for having misunderstood the intention of an order. It was another aspect of Romanitas, the “Roman game,” that I was just then learning.
Some might wonder why Caesar entrusted me with such reponsibility when I was so young and inexperienced. I had only turned seventeen a few weeks prior and had been in the army only a few months.
Romans do not believe that leadership ability is gained by experience; it is given by the gods themselves. The gods show their favor to a nation by gifting it with heroes. So, to the Romans, the age and experience of a man is, to a certain degree, irrelevant. If the gods gift him with the ability to lead armies to victory, that leadership manifests itself whenever the opportunity presents itself.