by Ray Gleason
I tried to recall what she had said. “I’m . . . well . . . I’m not sure . . . Anu . . . a red-haired queen.” The whole incident was fading from my memory like a dark night’s dream in the light of the day.
“Ah . . . Anu,” Grennadios was saying, “that is one of her people’s goddesses. I cannot make sense out of them. Her gods are all contradictions . . . The good that is evil . . . Death that is life . . . irrational . . . dark . . . Give me Apollo . . . or Aphrodite . . . gods a man can understand . . . not these dark, shadowy daimonai from that mist-shrouded island of hers beyond Oceanus.”
What had happened in the alcove continued to fade; now it was more a feeling than a memory. I could almost believe I dreamed it. Some of the old ones, the dark goddesses of my ancestors, were shape shifters, never constant, like dark smoke in a breeze. They revealed themselves in contradictory trinities . . . Even the Romans had their three-faced Hecate. These were mysteries not open to mortals, not accessible by reason, entities best ignored, never evoked, best left in dark places.
I realized that I was rubbing the Domina Fortuna medallion hanging under my tunic.
Grennadios was talking: “If Caesar does not come, what will happen to Vesantio?”
“Vesantio?” I returned to the tap room. “Vesantio will be gobbled up by Ariovistus . . . Why do you think will Caesar not come?”
“I think nothing,” Grennadios shrugged, pouring himself another cup of wine. “Four days ago, I passed Caesar’s camps west of the Arar . . . The fourth hour of the day and the army had not moved . . . What Roman army stays in camp that late? The Aedui told me the soldiers refuse to move . . . refuse to march east and face hoi Germanoi . . . I saw this . . . That is why I ask.”
“The Aedui told you this?” I asked. “We’re moving east toward the Rhenus in the morning, carrying Caesar’s message to Ariovistus.”
“You’re trelos . . . blameno . . . mad,” Grennadios shook his head. “There is no hope! Ariovistus has eyes everywhere. He’ll already know about the Roman mutiny. You will have no . . . no pleonektima . . . no leverage to bargain with him.”
“Bargain?” I snorted. “We are not here to bargain with Ariovistus! We’re here to provoke him.”
I realized I was revealing too much to Grennadios, so I changed the subject. “What do you know of a Roman merchant named Marcus Metius?”
“Metius?” Grennadios snorted. “Metius is no merchant . . . He is iktis . . . mustela . . . a rat-eater . . . He would trade his mother’s honor for a clipped drachma . . . He trades in information . . . He works for whomever will pay . . . He serves only himself.”
“Do you know anything about a Roman, who travels with him?” I asked. “A thug called Bulla.”
I thought I saw Grennadios’s eyes widen, then he shuddered. “That one? That one has no . . . no psyche . . . no life force in him . . . He is the bringer of death . . . That one you stay away from, phile mou.”
Stay away from him? If only I could.
“Have you seen him?” I asked Grennadios.
“Seen him? Here in Vesantio?” Grennadios made a sign with his fingers to ward off evil. “No! Eucharisto tous theous! No!”
Thank all the gods, indeed! I wondered what is worse: the evil you can see or the evil you cannot? The gods act in ways enigmatic to mortals.
“What will you do, my friend?” I asked him.
“Me?” Grennadios shrugged. “War is coming to Vesantio. Whether Caesar arrives or not, war is coming. Evra and I will return to Massalia. We’ll lose some business, but better to lose a few drachmai than your head.” Grennadios drew his thumb across his throat for emphasis.
I said farewell to Grennadios. With Bulla possibly lurking about, I wanted to get back to my billet in Bran’s dun before sunset.
The next morning during the first hour, we were on the road east. Troucillus asked me to ride with him, so Athauhnu was commanding our point element, Guithiru’s ala, and a contingent of riders from Vesantio under the command of Dai mab Gluhn. Ci’s troop rode as our rear guard. Most of Manius’ boys rode in the main column behind us. Manius and about ten of his troopers rode behind Publicola to our front. As usual, Metius seemed to be missing.
Troucillus was saying, “I am now convinced that it was Bulla who murdered that Aeduan trooper west of the Arar, and despite Metius’ blustering, Bulla attacked you in Vesantio. I examined the bluff overlooking the river where he jumped, and I’m convinced he could have survived it. It’s not really a cliff, but a sandy bluff descending steeply down to the river. So, we must assume that Bulla’s still out there somewhere. Who this La Matrona is, I have no idea.”
“It’s Gabi,” I told him. “It has to be. Gabinia Pulchra Matrona . . . the daughter of the consul, Aulus Gabinius.”
Troucillus stared at me for a few heartbeats. “The consul’s daughter? You have accumulated some interesting enemies for one so young. Why would this Gabi of yours want you dead?”
I told Troucillus the story of what had happened in Massalia. He shook his head and laughed, “So, you have your own personal Tisiphone stalking you . . . It makes sense . . . My sources tell me Bulla has, or had, connections with the gangster Milo down in Rome . . . That would make him Pompeius’ man, the same camp your Gabi seems to be in . . . So, what does that tell us about our friend Metius?”
“That he can’t be trusted,” I inserted.
“No man can be trusted, as you say, until you discover where his interests lie,” Troucillus said. “We have to discover what his agenda is. We may not have to worry about it very long if Caesar doesn’t get the legions up here.”
I nodded. Seditio, mutiny, is an ugly word, almost as ugly as decimatio, decimation. I remember Strabo, my training officer in basic, telling my squad that mutiny and cowardice in the face of the enemy were crimes for which a legion could be decimated, decimum quemque occicere, every tenth man beaten to death by his mates.
I knew the army was restive about Caesar’s determination to move east this late in the campaigning season. To these men, Caesar was still an unknown entity, and his release of the Helvetii, allowing them to go back to their homelands instead of selling them off to the slavers for profit, won him no friends among the muli. Even worse, the veterani understood that Caesar had led them into a trap at Bibracte; only Bona Fortuna and Labienus’ capacity to maneuver the acies tertia, the third line, the army’s “forelorn hope,” prevented a complete disaster.
Now, Caesar wanted to drive them east toward the Rhenus, to face the Germans, the giant, blood-thirsty monsters from a Roman’s worst nightmare.
“I tried to convince Publicola to wait until his messengers return from Caesar’s camps,” Troucillus was saying, “but he would have none of it . . . He had his orders, and if Caesar wanted to countermand them, Caesar would have to send word to him . . . as if Caesar didn’t have enough on his plate with his army refusing to march . . . Sometimes these patricii, these tight-assed Roman aristocrats, don’t understand that they are not the center of everyone’s universe.”
This was the closest I had seen Troucillus come to breaking with the decorum of authority. I think he caught himself, though, because he suddenly changed the subject. “It reminds me of an old joke . . . What’s the difference between a Roman patrician and the god Iove?”
“Nescio,” I shrugged. “Not a clue.”
“Iove doesn’t think he’s a patrician,” Troucillus chuckled.
We arrived at the Gate by the fifth hour of the next day. We had followed the Dubis to a point where it turned back on itself toward the mountains to the south. Then, we continued north and west, following a tributary the Sequani called Afon Merchsoucana, the “Daughter of Soucana,” which meandered down from a valley. Finally, we arrived at what appeared to be a wide ridge between highground to the north and a line of mountains to the south. The cadeuhrn’s fintai had established a base and an observation point here, overlooking a valley to the east.
Troucillus and I rode forward to where Publicola was p
ositioned. “Welcome to Castrum Bellum, gentlemen” he announced. “The valley you see before you is the valley of the Rhenus. If Ariovistus wishes to invade Gaul, he must pass through here.”
The name Caer Harth, or Castrum Bellum, must have been some ironic joke.
The views were beautiful. The valley of the Rhenus stretched out before us, fading into distant blue mists in the northeast. The Gate itself seemed to rest on the southern shoulders of the mountains of the hunting god, Vosegus, whom the Romans call Mercurius. Across its southern flank marched the Montes Iuria, the mountains of the forest god, Ioros.
Tactically, Caer Harth was beautiful, according to our military engineer, Cerialius. His boys were already staking out the fortifications Caesar’s muli would dig when—or if—they arrived.
But, there was no caer, no fortress. The Sequani from Vesantio had set up some lean-tos for shelter while they overwatched the Rhenus. Other than a few shepherds’ huts, there was nothing here to prevent an army from just strolling through on their way down the Dubis into the valley of the Arar and eventually the Rhonus.
This was, indeed, the gateway to Gaul, and the gates were wide open.
At the eighth hour, Metius made his appearance, from the east. He was accompanied by a dozen riders. Their horses were first rate, but their equipment was mixed. Most didn’t have helmets or loricae. What body armor they had was of boiled leather and padded jackets; only two had chainmail, but the steel rings were rusted and broken. Four of five carried swords of various vintages; the rest carried lances, of which only six or seven had iron points.
Most of Metius’ escort wore unkept beards, which were braided to keep them out of the riders’ faces. Their hair, also braided, hung down their backs. They were mostly blond, with some shades of red and light brown. In other words, Krauts!
They dropped back a few passus from our encampment, unsure of their welcome and hesitant to find out. It was probably good judgment on their part, for as soon as they appeared, Dai’s men were on their feet, hands to their sword hilts. My Sequani quickly reinforced their compatriots from Vesantio. If Caesar wanted a war with Ariovistus, we could have easily started it right there.
Metius, however, understood the Gallic protocol and began waving a wooden wand of negotiation. The Sequani relaxed a bit, but did not move their hands far from their weapons.
Publicola walked over to Metius, who dismounted at the edge of our encampment. They talked briefly. Metius nodded, then called over to his escort in a guttural language I assumed was German. One of them, a rider wearing a helmet and a chainmail lorica and carrying a spatha, answered Metius. Then, the rider, who I now assumed was their leader, gave a few guttural commands to his troop, who dismounted but did not come any closer. The Sequani spread out across their avenue of approach to our camp, but also held their ground.
Publicola and Metius walked into our camp, Publicola calling for Troucillus. As Troucillus replied, he beckoned to me to go with him. As we approached together, I hung back to the left of Troucillus. I had no desire to get any closer to Metius, or Publicola for that matter. I saw Manius Tallus walking over to us uninvited. Publicola gave him a patrician “who-invited-you” look down his long Roman nose, but decided not to further challenge his presence.
“Ariovistus has agreed to meet with Caesar’s emissaries,” Metius announced. “The day after tomorrow at the sixth hour at a place called Collis Pecorum, the Hill of the Flocks.”
“How far?” Publicola asked.
“Two hours northeast,” Metius responded. “Ariovistus’ Suebii will guide us.”
Manius snorted when he heard that. Publicola gave him a dirty look, but was even more displeased when he heard me call out in Gah’el for Dai.
Dai walked over to us from his impromptu picket line facing the Suebii. “You wish to speak to me, a Pen?” He addressed me in Gah’el, giving Troucillus a nod, and then, after a heartbeat, acknowledging Publicola’s presence.
“Are you familiar with a place called uh bruhn uh gouarteg?” I asked him, translating “Hill of Flocks.”
Dai shrugged, “There are many. It’s any place where the herders shelter their sheep and cattle from the heat . . . That is, before the troubles started.”
“This one’s about a two-hour ride into duhvruhn uh Rhain,” I added.
“The valley of the Rhenus,” Dai nodded, then thought. “Yes . . . I know the place . . . We use it as an observation point when we’re scouting against the Almaenwuhr.”
“Is it defensible?” I asked.
Dai shook his head. “There is line of sight only to the east and south. North and west, there are wooded hills and ridges, which could hide an army.”
“So,” I surmised, “if we were to approach this place directly from here, we could be seen, but we could not see what was on the hill or behind it.”
Dai affirmed, “We never come in from the south . . . We would be visible for miles and would not know what we were riding into . . . From here, uh bruhn uh gouarteg should only be approached from the west, and even then very carefully . . . The Almaenwuhr could come down from the north and not be seen.”
Troucillus was translating for Publicola and Manius. “It’s a bloody death-trap,” Manius snorted. “We’d be ridin’ into a shaggin’ ambush by a superior force, and we’d have nowhere to withdraw.”
Publicola was just about to speak when Troucillus interrupted, asking Metius, “What did you share with Ariovistus concerning our mission or Caesar’s situation?”
Metius responded, “I only told him that you are delivering a message from the Roman proconsul.” Metius’s face was unreadable.
“So,” Troucillus continued, “you said nothing about the nature of the message or the rumors of a Roman mutiny?”
“I’ve already answered that question, Trocille!” Metius dismissed it.
Troucillus decided not to challenge the answer, but continued, “I don’t like it. Publicola, I recommend we hold here until we hear from Caesar. Even if we assume that Ariovistus knows nothing of Caesar’s situation or his message, when we deliver it, he may decide to answer it with our heads in a sack.”
Publicola shook his head. “We have already had that discussion, Trocille. A Roman officer obeys his orders, and I will obey mine.”
Troucillus’ shoulders sagged. Then, he said, “Let me at least suggest this. First, send those Suebii back to Ariovistus. Even if they are not part of a conspiracy against us, I can’t promise that the Sequani will not try to cut their throats if they have to look at them for two days. Dai’s troopers can lead us to the meeting.”
Metius seemed to be about to say something, but Publicola said, “Tecum consto . . . agreed.”
Troucillus continued, “Also, we won’t wait almost two days for Ariovistus to arrange a reception committee for us . . . First hour tomorrow, we’ll send out a contingent of our Sequani auxilia troopers under Insubrecus here . . . They can work their way around from the west and keep the meeting place under observation until we arrive.”
Again, Publicola nodded. Metius’ face was stone.
I was translating Troucillus’ Latin for Dai. When I translated the phrase “under Insubrecus here,” my literal third-person translation stuck in my throat. I was advancing into the territory controlled by Ariovistus, not some faceless Roman officer named “Insubrecus.”
“Constamus!” Publicola announced. “We are in agreement. Metti! Dismiss these . . . these pilosi barbarici . . . Send them back to their master.”
Then, he walked away.
Metius grumbled and walked toward the dismounted Suebii. After some discussion with their chief, which sounded to me like pigs grunting, the Suebii remounted and withdrew toward the northeast. They were obviously displeased with this change in their plans. I wondered briefly if Metius felt the same way.
Troucillus, Dai, Manius, and I watched the Suebii disappear down the ridgeline. Then, Troucillus said, “Dai! A Pen! Give them an hour; then take a patrol straight down their path. I don�
��t think they’ll go too far. Sweep them away. I don’t want them to see Arth’s advance tomorrow, and I definitely don’t want them dogging our tracks when we go to meet Ariovistus.”
Then, Troucillus turned to Manius. “Decurio! Detail a couple of your men, ones whom you trust, to keep an eye on Metius and his entourage. They are not to leave our encampment before we depart to meet with Ariovistus. If any of them try to leave, or if they should suddenly disappear from our camp, tell me immediately.”
“Even Marcus Metius, sir?” Manius asked.
“Especially Marcus Metius!” Troucillus confirmed.
XIV.
De Calamitate in Colle Pecorum
THE DEBACLE AT THE HILL OF FLOCKS
His mandavit Caio Valerio Trocillo et Marco Mettio quae diceret Ariovistus cognoscerent et ad se referent quos cum apud se in castris Ariovistus conspexisset exercitu suo praesente conclamavit quid ad se venirent an speculandi causa conantes dicere prohibuit et in catenas coniecit
“Caesar instructed these men, Gaius Valerius Troucillus and Marcus Metius, to find out what Ariovistus had to say and to report back to him. When Ariovistus saw them in his camp, among his army, he cried, ‘Why have they come here, if not to spy on us?’ Ariovistus gave them no chance to reply, but threw them into chains.”
(from Gaius Marius Insubrecus’ notebook of Caesar’s journal)
The next day, as soon as it was light enough to travel, I was off on my detail to the Hill of Flocks. I rode with Guithiru’s ala and two guides from Dai’s fintai. I also took our exploratores, Rhori and Drust, our scouts. I anticipated a need for their skills as hunters and trackers.
Athauhnu stayed behind with Ci’s ala. He would screen the rear of Publicola’s party as they approached the meeting place with Ariovistus.
Publicola had decided to put on a real Roman dog-and-pony show for what he anticipated to be an encounter with a ragtag collection of barbarians who would be overawed by Roman military grandeur. Manius’ boys spent the entire day before their departure polishing and cleaning their kits for what they hoped would merely be a long parade through the woods.