Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (48 page)

The officer, perhaps in his mid to late twenties, neat haired and clean shaven with an old white-line scar that ran from one ear across his cheek and dented his nose, stepped forward. ‘General?’

‘Tullus. You held that fort in Lusitania for me for weeks against improbable odds. Care to repeat your success?’

The tribune bowed his head with a smile, and Priscus frowned. He didn’t know the man particularly, but he had vivid memories of that campaign, only two years before they first came to Gaul, and the stories of the siege of Centum Cellas had been blood-curdling. That this young, fresh faced officer had been the man commanding that fortress seemed ridiculous, and yet it was clearly the case. Priscus found himself looking at the tribune with a great deal of respect.

‘I am giving you a vexillatory command of twelve cohorts, drawn from across all the legions, auxiliaries and cavalry present. Dismantle the far end of the bridge and use the materials to fortify the structure. This will be your base of operations, but I would advise further fortlets along the river for perhaps thirty miles in each direction. Spread out your men. If the Suevi come, you will have a hard fight, but history tells me you will be up to the task.’

Tullus nodded his head again. ‘If I may, Caesar, why not simply dismantle the whole bridge?’

‘Because, Tullus, when I have dealt with the Eburones and their rat-holed king, I may decide to return to the Suevi issue, and then I will need the bridge.’

Again, Tullus nodded.

‘Very well,’ Caesar paused a moment, wincing as his strength began to falter, seeping out with such an unaccustomed long period on his feet. ‘Basilus is priming the lands of the Eburones for our coming. Tullus will protect our back from the Germanic tribes. Cicero? You will take command of the Fourteenth Legion, the artillery, and the baggage train. Take them downriver and then west past the deeper forest. We are only a matter of days away from the site of Sabinus and Cotta’s camp where Ambiorix won his great victory. I will have you reoccupy the camp, make use of the existing fortifications and create new ones. That place is a symbol of Ambiorix’s success, but
you
are a symbol of
ours
. You are the legate he and his men could not overcome. You will keep all our baggage safe there as a symbol that Rome can come back from any misfortune and will not bow our heads to barbarian power.’

Cicero’s expression momentarily faltered, displaying his disappointment at being given such a quiet, inglorious command, but he hid it well and bowed his acceptance.

‘You will also take the wounded of all legions with you. They will be better off with the baggage train than defending the Rhenus against Suevi or hacking their way through the deep forest.’

Again, Cicero saluted.

‘Labienus?’ the general asked, and then smiled as the hero of the Treveri war stepped forward. ‘You will take the Tenth, the Eleventh and the newly-raised Fifteenth, pushing ahead of Cicero downriver, but you will then move into the Arduenna forest from the north, seeking Ambiorix, and razing, killing and burning everything in your path.’

Labienus saluted, the distaste at this policy of burning the land sitting badly with him. Ignoring his expression, Caesar gestured to Trebonius.

‘You will take the Ninth, the Twelfth and the Thirteenth to the south, where the Condrusi and Segni lie. You will then push into the great forest from the south. Your orders are the same. Hunt, kill, burn.’

Trebonius saluted.

‘I will take veteran legions only - the First, the Seventh and the Eighth - and move at a forced march to the Sambre, where we will press into the forest from the west. The three forces will scour the forest and squeeze Ambiorix between us until we have him. It must be a quick campaign, though. To have all our legions out of touch beneath the great forest is tactically dangerous, so we will all return by the kalends of Quintilis, meeting at Cicero’s camp. By my reckoning that should give us near two weeks to move into the forest and find the recalcitrant king, allowing Cicero a week to reach camp and then a further week to put things in order, provide extra fortifications, annexes, hospital complexes and the like.’

He sank back gratefully into his chair.

‘Additionally, couriers and scouts will spread word of an offer. The Eburones have a history of violence like few others among the Belgae, and consequently many old enemies. Each and every tribe in the region is to be given free license to raid and kill among the Eburones with Rome’s blessing. Any tribe that offers information on Ambiorix that proves useful will be rewarded and relieved of their troop supply obligations for the next season. The Eburones will remember this season as the day their Gods abandoned them.’

He smiled and his smile was tired, but cold and dangerous.

‘This matter will be brought to a close within the month. Ambiorix’s time is up, as is that of his tribe. Are there any questions or comments?’

The officers shook their heads in silence. Caesar’s plan was well-founded and timed to a tee. If the army ever stood a chance of rooting out Ambiorix, this would be it.

Priscus cleared his throat. ‘While you’re all burning and scything your way through the forest, remember to be on the lookout for Fronto and his men. They are still in there somewhere - to the south at the last mention.’

Caesar and Antonius nodded their agreement.

‘Very well,’ the general said. ‘Brief your men and prepare for the off. We will end this Belgic campaigning season early, by the kalends of Quintilis, and then decide whether to press on against the Suevi’

Priscus could not help but picture Fronto and his small band, somewhere deep in that forest as the might of Rome began to squeeze from all sides. He threw up a quick glance to the heavens and formed a mental image of the lady Fortuna.

‘You’ve always looked after him,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t stop now.’

Chapter Sixteen

By the Rhenus River, a day’s march north of the confluence with the Mosella.

‘Fabulous timing!’ Gaius Volcatius Tullus grumbled as he hurriedly strapped on his cuirass with the help of his body slave. The waiting tribune, drawn from the Thirteenth among the cohorts that had remained by the great river, was clearly nervous about rousing his commanding officer, and with good reason. Tullus knew from bitter experience that a defensive position in daily danger of siege by a vastly numerically-superior army could hardly be allowed any leeway in their lives. He knew his reputation was already that of a martinet, and he was aware of some of the names the men had assigned to him, but he also knew that, should the worst happen and the entire Germanic race cross the river in force, the only chance they stood was with rock-hard discipline.

‘I do not believe they are here to challenge us sir.’

‘Clearly not, tribune. Had they intended violence, they would likely have battered you with rocks and not words. Still, the fact remains that it has been mere days and the fortifications are far from ready. I care not what they wish to discuss, I would rather do it from a position of utmost security, sure that we can hold them off if things turn ugly. You say they are Ubii?’

‘They say they are, sir.’

Tullus nodded and followed the tribune out of his command tent, across the muddy, busy camp, filled with work parties and men coming off duty, even at this early hour. Past the duty centurion, who saluted sharply and gestured his men out of the way, along the timber structure - one of the strongest, most stable bridges Tullus had seen constructed in a single campaign, and testament to the skill of Caesar’s engineers. The far end of the bridge had been torn up, only the stumps of the piles rising like wooden fangs from the swift torrent, and a gap of some hundred paces lay between the jagged timber bridge-end with its hastily constructed palisade of stakes and planks and the grassy bank upon which stood the ambassadors, for such Tullus had to assume they were.

‘Welcome to the Ubii,’ Tullus announced, spreading his arms in the style of an orator.

‘Greeting, commander,’ replied one of the more richly-appointed of the tribesmen. ‘I ambassador for friend tribe.’

‘You have my attention.’

‘Chatti wish cross river. Kill Eburones for Caesar.’

Tullus pursed his lips. ‘I’ve heard the name
Chatti
.’ He frowned as he dredged his memories of numerous briefings and maps. His eyes narrowed. ‘They’re from the east. Are they not part of the Suevi people?’

The Ubian ambassador shook his head, but his eyes betrayed the truth. ‘Chatti not Suevi. Chatti friend of Ubii.’

Tullus folded his arms. ‘No. The Chatti are a sub-tribe of the Suevi. I don’t care whether they’re close friends, ambassador, no Suevi scum will cross this river while I remain in command. That tribe has a history of violence against Rome;
recent
history, too’

‘But Caesar offer war and plunder to tribes against Eburones.’

‘Not to the damn Suevi he didn’t. The general would refuse, and you know that. Go and tell your Chatti friends to satisfy themselves with raiding in their forests. There will be no crossing for them.’

The Ubian ambassador started trying to wheedle and persuade, but Tullus turned his back on the man and strode away across the bridge. The tribune hurried along at his side. ‘Should we be sending out men to chastise the Ubii, sir? For supporting an enemy tribe, I mean.’

Tullus shook his head as he walked. ‘The Ubii have been our allies thus far. Did you see the man’s eyes? He was nervous. You have to remember, tribune, that he and his people stand between half a million Suevi warriors and this river. He’s concerned with self-preservation, that’s all. You might perhaps send some scouts out to check the situation and offer him sanctuary on this side of the river for him and his own people. No one else.’

The tribune saluted and scurried off.

‘Sir?’

Tullus looked up to see the duty centurion saluting. ‘Ah good. It seems the Suevi and their sub-tribes are starting to take an interest. Double the work parties and shorten rest breaks. I want this place able to withstand anything by sunset tomorrow.’

‘Yessir. But sir?’

‘What is it, centurion?’

‘A courier from the Fourth Cohort, Eighth Legion stationed half a day downriver, sir.’

‘And?’ prompted Tullus with exaggerated patience.

‘It seems a tribe called the Sugambri are requesting permission to cross the river and take up Caesar’s offer, sir.’

‘Are they an allied tribe? I seem to remember mention of them before in less than friendly terms.’

‘We had a clash with them a few seasons back, sir, but they’ve been taking oaths of allegiance for the past two years.’

‘Your opinion of them, centurion?’

‘Germans, sir. Untrustworthy bastards to a man, sir.’

‘Your opinion is duly noted, centurion. Unfortunately, Caesar has made an open offer of Eburone plunder and, while I feel sound refusing passage to an unknown quantity subject to an enemy tribe, it would send out entirely the wrong message to refuse the promise of loot to an allied tribe. Tell the courier to allow them passage.’

The centurion nodded and scurried away.

‘And Mars keep a wide eye on them.’ He smiled wearily at the back of the retreating officer. ‘Untrustworthy bastards to a man!’

* * * * *

Furius glanced round at his friend Fabius as he waved the men on towards the centre of the village. ‘I’m going to check the headman’s hut. Give me a hand.’

He almost collapsed with laughter as Fabius nodded and reached out towards him, remembering only at the last moment that his hand was still bound tightly with linen, a bee-glue wrap splinted to try and heal the knife wound, hopefully with the bones straight. It was agony in cold or wet weather already and Fabius had given serious consideration to lopping the damn thing off at the wrist.

‘Oh you are such a bloody comedian.’

Furius grinned as he slapped his friend on the shoulder. With one useless hand and one fake eyeball, jokes were beginning to circulate among the men about which body part the veteran tribune would lose next. Some were even saying he deserved the name ‘Felix’ - the lucky - more than Mittius of the Eleventh, who had borne the nickname for a decade.

‘You can check the hut yourself,’ Fabius snapped irritably. ‘There’s no one here. Just like the last ten places, the tribe have fled at the news of the approaching force. Can’t really blame the bastards. Everyone knows what Caesar has in store for them.’

‘Caesar’s not in charge here.’

‘But Labienus is following the general’s orders.’

It was true. Despite the senior commander’s well-reported leanings towards conciliation with the tribes, he was taking his duty very seriously. For three days now they had scoured the great forest and each settlement they had come across had been recently deserted. And yet at each one, Labienus had paused the advance long enough for his scouts to seek out the hidden population. They had then been questioned by force and then executed. The commander had been conspicuously absent during the mass deaths, but had not once baulked at ordering them.

The Seventh, Tenth and Fifteenth Legions had continued to move deeper into the forest, all the time keeping in mind that they needed to leave the northern treeline and return to Cicero’s camp by the appointed date.

‘Hey, Furius?’

‘What?’ replied his friend as they began to move to the centre of the village, legionaries all about them ducking into hut doors to check for occupants and failing to find them, gathering anything combustible and throwing it into the huts to add to the conflagration that would take hold as soon as the commander gave the order.

‘I know this place.’

‘It looks the same as every other, mud-and-shit-soaked village in this Godsawful forest.’

‘Not quite. We’ve been here.’

Furius frowned and peered around. ‘No idea.’

‘Picture it deep in snow. Picture the headman hanging by his thumbs from that doorframe over there.’

Furius followed his gesture and his eyes widened. ‘Jove, you’re right. Best part of - what? - two years ago now.’