Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (10 page)

“
I know what I mean, Fronto. Shut up.”

Turning back
to Balventius, he pointed at him.

“
Paetus’ family are now under my protection, though I cannot be
seen to coddle them or Paetus becomes useless as a source of
misinformation. Do you remember my niece Atia and her husband,
Octavius?”

Fronto
nodded.

“
I met them in Rome at a party a few years ago. Nice, I
remember.”

“
Octavius passed on to the Elysian Fields a couple of years ago
but, with the way things are in Rome, Atia maintained his
bodyguards to protect her and the children. They number quite a few
and Octavius chose good men. They have Paetus’ family under
observation. The minute anything turns against them, they will be
whisked away to the safety of Atia’s villa.”

He smiled.

“
So. Balventius, I need you to start paving the way with
Paetus. I want him thoroughly with us. I want him to be ready to
sell his father to protect his wife if needed.”

He ignored the
disapproving looks Fronto was throwing at him.

“
And you, Fronto? I want you to start thinking of how we can
use this. Bear in mind that the stronger I become and the weaker my
enemies, the better position I am in to protect and advance your
sister and yourself. Think hard.”

He stood
again, scraping the feet of the chair across the floor.

“
I think that’s it, gentlemen. Get yourself an hour’s rest or
food. Fronto? Balbus? We reconvene with the rest of the officers in
an hour. Time to start preparing. We march on the Belgae
tomorrow.”

Chapter 4

(Durocorteron,
in the lands of the Remi)

“
Curia: the meeting place of the senate in the forum of
Rome.”

“
Pilum: the army’s standard javelin, with a wooden stock and a
long, heavy, lead point (plural ‘pila’).”

Caesar’s
sudden decision to move had caused a stir among the legions. They
had been encamped around Vesontio for months and had become settled
in their ways. Though everyone knew they would be moving off on
campaign soon, the legions’ officers had been assuming they would
wait for word of Crassus, and then suddenly Caesar had given the
entire army one night’s notice. Every man had been short on sleep
when they were called to attention by the cornicens and
subsequently packed their gear, stowed their baggage in the wagons,
secured the artillery for transport and systematically took down
the defences, demolishing the palisades and infilling the ditch as
was the tradition with a departing army.

Then had begun
the interminable journey. In actual fact, the army had only been on
the road for two weeks, but it felt like so much longer. A legion
could travel fast, but out here with only native dirt tracks
instead of good Roman paving, in unknown territory that had to be
scouted in advance of the column, and with the ancillary wagons,
staff, artillery and other clutter of seven legions and the command
section, travel was painfully slow; sometimes as little as ten
miles in a day.

But then, that
was the price you paid for having your entire support system with
you. This was no small punitive expedition, but a show of Roman
power with a fully supported army. The merchants and tavern keepers
in Vesontio had been sad to see such a rich source of revenue
leaving their land, though they would live fat and wealthy for the
next year at least; Caesar had ordered the quartermasters to stock
up for the campaign and, with a great deal of foresight, Cita had
purchased every last spare grain of corn available in a twenty mile
radius around Vesontio. Back in that city, men would be rubbing
their hands with glee while stacking their denarii.

And finally,
three days ago, they had reached the lands of the Remi. The scouts
had returned to inform the staff that the ‘capital’ of that tribe
was just over twenty miles distant.

Since arriving
in the territory of the Belgae, the pace of the army had almost
halved again as they moved forward with great caution, the
outriders constantly circling the huge mass of troops. Caesar had
called the officers to him that night and stated his intention to
camp at the centre of Remi lands. It served a threefold purpose:
firstly, it was the safest place within the Belgae’s territory;
secondly it was a hub for trade, politics and information; and
thirdly, a show of such strength amidst the Remi would serve to
remind them of the power of Rome and the wisdom of alliance.

And so, last
night, they had made camp four miles from the town and
prepared.

This morning,
a fresh and gleaming Roman army numbering some thirty thousand
regular troops, along with thousands of cavalry, mostly of Gallic
auxiliary status, slowly tramped and stomped their way over the
hill and toward the river and the wooden bridge that gave access to
the Remi’s oppidum of Durocorteron. The sight must have been
overwhelming for the ordinary folk of the tribe.

Without
sending a single man across the river to the Remi, the legions, as
prearranged, began to set up huge temporary camps; three in all,
each large enough to accommodate fifteen thousand and the necessary
gear. The men had worked hard and, within two hours, camp had been
established, even before the last of the huge military column had
arrived on the scene. A wide ditch and rampart surrounded each
camp, and once the baggage arrived, a defensive palisade was formed
of the sharpened stakes that were carried in the wagons and could
later be undone and stowed for reuse.

The show must
have been mind-boggling for the locals. Certainly, by the time the
camps were complete, in the late morning, the number of native men,
women and children watching them intently from across the river had
grown to number in the hundreds. Caesar had deliberately kept the
army from interacting with them; every centurion and optio had
their orders. Whether these Belgic folk shouted disparaging things
at the men, or even enticing ones, the soldiers barely glanced at,
let alone acknowledged, them.

The afternoon
had set in with the legions setting watches and passwords, creating
their temporary workshops, mucking out the horses and all the
regular daily camp duties. Everything the general did here was
designed to both worry and impress the leaders of the Remi.

And it must be
working. For now, as the sun began to sink from the sky and
afternoon began to give way to evening, many of their civilian
observers had become bored and left, but a number of well-dressed
and armed warriors had taken up stations on the far bank and the
bridge. Fronto stood on the rampart of his camp and watched them
with interest. With the quality of their armour, they were likely
the chieftain’s own men. He was just wondering how long they would
watch before trying to force some sort of interaction, when a
commotion began up the hill in the centre of the town.

From here,
Fronto could see up the main road between heavy, low buildings and
scattered oak trees. Up there must be some kind of centre; perhaps
a marketplace even? And something was happening there. Between the
branches and trunks of the trees he could see light; the flickering
light of many torches. The legate dithered for a moment as to
whether to alert the command, when a noise like a bull being
castrated sprang up on the hill.

Fronto jumped
slightly at the sudden cacophony, before realising it was supposed
to be music; a fanfare presumably. And there was movement high on
the hill.

He reached
across to the legionary next to him on the bank.

“
Leave your weapons here. Get to the principia as fast as you
can and inform the general and his staff that we’re about to have
guests.”

The soldier
saluted and turned, dropping his shield and pilum, and ran as fast
as he could toward the rear of the huge camp. The three
fortifications had been carefully placed in a horseshoe around the
near end of the bridge, such that each rampart was the same
distance from it. The central camp, that of the Ninth and the
Tenth, also accommodated the senior staff.

Fronto watched
with fascination from the rampart as a procession of sorts began to
make its way down the main road of the oppidum toward the Romans.
The group numbered around a hundred and at first glance appeared to
be some sort of strange parody of a Roman military column. As they
got closer, Fronto gradually picked out more detail, though the
awful noise was setting his teeth on edge and forming the beginning
of a headache.

First came
four men blaring out ‘dying goose’ sounds through tall bronze horns
with flared ends shaped into the likeness of wolves. Behind them
came four more with a horrifying instrument that involved the
squeezing of some sort of bag. The resulting noise sounded like a
deflating ox. Fronto stared at them with a strange mixture of
horror and amusement. Behind the ‘musicians’ came the standard
bearers. No flags here, just poles with bronze animals on them;
boars, wolves and bears. And behind that was a crowd of warriors in
their ceremonial gear, Fronto presumed, surrounding two well
dressed tribesmen on white horses. The warriors on either side of
the column lit the way in the dusk with burning torches.

The Remi
probably thought it was impressive. Indeed, it might have been
impressive if it weren’t for the deflating animal sounds. Fronto,
trying to keep his men in position with a straight face, had to
bite his lip gently to refrain from sniggering.

Suddenly the
worst of the noise stopped. Fronto breathed deeply in relief and
then realised with horror that it was only a moment’s grace. The
airbags were now empty and the musicians re-inflated them with a
sound like a hundred men farting in a cave.

No amount of
lip biting could prevent the laugh that came then and, even as the
players began the full blare of the awful noise once again, all
around Fronto on the rampart men burst out laughing. Indeed, as he
listened carefully over the cacophony, he was sure he could even
hear men laughing at the other camps.

He gave them a
few seconds of laughter, but this sort of thing looked bad, even if
it was his own fault.

“
Silence!” he bellowed along the line, and the men of the Ninth
and Tenth Legions fell quiet and straightened
themselves.

By the time
the Belgae had reached the bridge, the staff were approaching
Fronto’s position inside the camp. Caesar, Sabinus and Labienus
climbed the slope with long strides and stopped next to the legate
of the Tenth.

“
What is the name of Charon’s teeth is that noise?” asked
Sabinus, a horrified look on his face.

Caesar smiled
at him.

“
Ceremonial music. I’ve heard those pipes before at Celtic
gatherings. Aren’t they awful?”

He turned to
Fronto.

“
Pass the word along here and to the other camps as quickly and
quietly as you can. I want silence from the men. Not a word or
movement. In fact, tell the other legions that their officers are
to remain in their camps.”

Fronto
frowned.

“
Are we not going out to meet them? I thought they wanted to be
our allies?”

Caesar shook
his head.

“
I don’t know how trustworthy they are, and this is our first
show to the Belgae. We want to be as powerful and impressive as
Rome can possibly be. I want word to spread from here. If we can
make the Remi tremble and fall in line, then it’s possible other
tribes of the Belgae will follow suit. Every tribe we can frighten
into submission means less warriors the leaders can call on against
us. This is the time for a show of strength, not
diplomacy.”

Fronto
shrugged and gave the word to two of his tribunes who began to make
their way along the wall, passing on the details.

The noise was
becoming unbearable now that the chieftains’ party had reached the
near bank. There was a brief pause then; trying to decide where
they should go, Fronto guessed. The two men on horseback consulted
for a moment and then the column moved on, heading for the central
camp. As they approached, finally reaching a position where the
men, their night vision blinded by the guttering torches, could
make out the Roman installations, Caesar stepped back from the
wall, gesturing for the other officers to do so.

As Fronto
dropped back down the slope, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“
Let them be challenged by the guards as though they were
nobodies,” the general smiled.

“
Do we open the gate?”

“
Most certainly not.”

Fronto
frowned. As the officers waited behind the stockade, they heard
someone address the legionaries on guard in the strange language of
the Celts.

The guard,
drawn tonight from the Ninth, answered in clear Latin.

“
Approach and be recognised.”

There was a
long pause and some heated discussion in that odd language again.
The centurion at the gate took a deep breath.

“
For the last time, advance and be recognised!”

As the
squabble among the visitors intensified, the centurion called along
the walls: “make ready!”

Two dozen men
on the embankment turned sideways and raised their pila into the
discharge position. The argument among the Remi intensified and
finally a voice called out in intelligible Latin.

“
Friends. Remi are friends of Rome. We must see your commander.
Bring your commander.”

The centurion
turned to look at Fronto and the officers nearby. Caesar made
smoothing motions with his hand and put a finger to his lips. The
centurion and his men stood silently.