For a moment he worried that the man might be dead, but a groan answered that question.
As the commander rose painfully, three of his men rushed over and hauled the pained Gaul to his feet, stripping him of anything he might use to fight back. Varus turned this way and that to check the situation and was relieved to see that his strategy had worked. The men who had fled the ambush had not been prepared for a second surprise. Neither escapee had made it to the top of the bank before those two other hidden units had caught them. One had twisted to fight and had fallen and snapped his neck on the hard earth. The other, though, was in custody, the men busy demanding his blade from him.
Varus looked at the wounded man by the stream.
‘You’re coming back to our camp now, my friend, where we are going to have a little chat about your tribe and their allies, where they are, and what their intentions are.’
‘He will tell you nothing,’ spat the disarmed one at the hill crest, ‘and neither will I.’
‘Well you just told me that you speak excellent Latin,’ smiled Varus. ‘I wonder if you understand the word
scourged
?’
The enemy scout paled, and Varus gave an unpleasant chuckle. ‘Take him to the cavalry. We’ll pry a little on the journey back.’
* * * * *
Caesar stood on the wet, cold grass, the latest fine mizzle falling about him like a downward-drifting fog. Behind him, the men of the Eleventh legion worked to get his command tent erected so that he could shelter from the weather. Two of his praetorians had hurried over to raise a cloak above him and keep off the fine rain, but the general had waved them away. What harm could the weather do other than make his helmet plume hang limp?
It had been decided to make camp on the hill of Bellomagos and, though the term
hill
might be over-exaggerating the rather feeble rise in the centre of this unbelievably flat region, Caesar had campaigned through the territory a few times before and recognised the rarity here of any kind of rise. A mole’s spoil heap in this land could be labelled a hill.
The four legions were still pulling into position, and the last would still be arriving just before nightfall. The Bellovaci oppidum, a squat site with heavy, low walls surrounding a collection of stone and timber buildings, was deserted and had been emptied of all life and goods, and brooded from its position by the river. The Roman camp was already taking shape, the basic markers in place, and soon the initial base for the new campaign would be complete and inhabited – seemingly the
only
inhabited place in these lands. The army had passed through Veliocassi territory, witnessing no sign of the tribe whose land it was, and into Bellovaci territory with still no human being to greet them. It was, even to a practical old soldier like Caesar, strange and eerie.
He was, however, under no illusion as to what it meant. Commius’ rebel sentiments had clearly had a lot more effect here than those poor disillusioned revolutionaries and bandits to the south-west. The Belgae had not suffered as deeply as many others in the last brutal year of the war, and they were the only people in the whole region who might still be able to raise a force large enough to make a spirited attempt to resist Rome. And these consistently empty oppida pointed as clear as any signpost to a single force of the enemy marshalled in one location. If only they also held directions…
A legionary scurried up through the drizzle and saluted as he came to a stop, his breathing laboured.
‘Sir. Large force of allied cavalry spotted to the north. They’ll be here shortly, general.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Once they arrive, have the commander report to me here.’
The soldier saluted again and ran off, and the general used the flat of his hand to wipe the excess moisture from his face. The men of the Tenth were being as efficient as ever, but he still wished they would hurry in their task. He’d had another ‘episode’ this morning – luckily just after his morning address and before he had emerged from his tent for the journey – and what he had initially thought to be weakness and trembling following his fall had taken quite some time to dissipate. In fact, he’d still had to hide the shakiness of his hands as he mounted his horse and led the column out. And he knew from bitter experience that the prolonged after-effects of his attack presaged another one all too soon. He would fall and shake again before he slept tonight.
If
he slept tonight. Sleep had always been a rare and sporadic thing for Caesar, but it seemed to be becoming more and more elusive with each passing year.
Once again he mused on what it was that had contributed heavily to last night’s loss of sleep. A missive had arrived in camp from Gaius Servilius Casca back in Rome, and it had brought troubling news. The new consuls seemed Hades-bent on defying him. Sulpicius Rufus and Claudius Marcellus were supposed to be
supporting
him. Rufus had been a friend at times, and Marcellus had aided him in his struggles against the excesses of Crassus. And yet now that they had achieved the consulship, neither man seemed to have remembered the effort Caesar had put into supporting their bid for the position. Rufus had withdrawn, apparently having nothing to say either for or against Caesar, but his reticence had allowed Marcellus free rein to object to everything Caesar did.
The last time he had been back in Cisalpine Gaul, he had enfranchised the largely-native town of Comum, adding settled veterans to its population and moving the whole city to a new location, draining swamps and reordering the place along traditional Roman lines, and all largely at his own expense. After all, the people of Comum had been among his most loyal and avid supporters in his time as their governor, and had supplied good men for his legions. And in return, last year he had granted citizenship to the place, renaming it Novum Comum and making it a Roman city.
Theoretically, of course, only the senate had the right to make such a grant, but it was common practice for proconsuls, powerful governors and victorious generals to make such grants and then have them ratified by the old fools in Rome. And so he had sent his grant in to the senate and they had approved it as per usual, only for the arrogant Marcellus to overturn it, arguing that his grants had been invalid and illegal.
Such opposition was bad enough, but Casca, who sat in the senate and regularly fed back useful gossip, had also intimated that Marcellus was pushing to have Caesar recalled, and
that
smacked of a plot. As proconsul he was immune from prosecutions, and he would be again, once he became consul. But if the yapping dog Marcellus could manage to drag him back early, before he could achieve consulship, the many enemies awaiting him in Rome would make merry sport of dragging him through the courts for anything their little corroded hearts desired.
He had been sending back increased funds of late, securing the support of the more important politicians and jurors, but the net that would prevent his fall was only half woven so far. He had to have time to complete it – which meant also more money, of course – and he needed the process of his return and elevation to consul to run smoothly, so that he would have the year of his consulship to put down his enemies and clear himself of any potential prosecutions. Years in the planning, and a treacherous former friend with a power complex was trying to undo everything.
His bitter, angry musings were swept aside by a cough. The chief centurion of the Eleventh and veteran of many campaigns, Titus Pullo, stepped before him, and over the man’s shoulder Caesar could see the vanguard of the cavalry riding up to meet him – half a dozen men on horseback.
‘Piss on Marcellus,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Sir?’ Pullo frowned.
‘Nothing, centurion. What did you want?’
‘Your tent is up, general. The furniture is being installed now, but you may want to shelter from the weather.’
‘Thank you, centurion.’
‘Pleasure sir.’ The big officer flashed him a rather impertinent grin. ‘Just give the word, general, and I’ll piss on this Marcellus myself.’
Despite the forwardness and insolence of the comment, Caesar couldn’t help himself and threw back his head with his first genuine laugh in days. ‘Why, I do believe you would, centurion. I’ll keep your offer in mind, though I’d rather prefer to do it myself.’
Again the centurion grinned, saluted, and then hurried off to shout at some legionary for dropping a brazier and spilling its contents in the tent doorway. Caesar repeated his gesture, wiping the water from his face and focusing on Varus as he rode in and then dismounted almost before his horse stopped, saluting and blinking away the rain. Behind the cavalry commander rode four regular troopers, and between them two natives huddled, bound tight and roped to the saddle. One of them was sitting at an odd angle, the slope of his shoulders suggesting a broken scapula or at least collar bone, and ribs.
‘Varus, it is heartening to see you. I had begun to fear for you and your men, since I had rather expected you to be here when we arrived.’
‘And we would have been, general, but we happened across these two sorry specimens at our furthest extent and, after a few exchanges with them, I thought it worth checking out their information while we were there.’
At last. Caesar smiled. Good news?
‘They were very talkative, after the first few moments. I have a small contingent of Remi and Suessione riders and, since it is their lands that are under threat from these rebels, I thought it appropriate to give them the job of initial interrogation. I watched for the first part, but when they started using the splinters from a broken spear shaft, I must admit I had to leave the scene. Yet whatever they did, they extracted a lot of information as we travelled, and all of it useful. I doubt the best interrogators here will get anything more from them, though you will want to try, of course, sir.’
Caesar, still smiling, nodded. ‘And their information?’
‘It is no good seeking Commius here, sir. The traitor has left, crossing the Rhenus in an attempt to raise the Germans to their cause.’
Caesar sucked on his lip for a moment. ‘He will not be so successful, I think. The tribes across the Rhenus have tangled with us several times and have always lost. Their own lands are under no threat, so they will be unwilling, I suspect, to enter battle with us to help people who have nothing to offer in return. We can ignore Commius. If he crosses back in the north we will have him, and if he tries it further south, he will find himself facing Labienus. I will send a message to the commander to warn him of the possibility. What then of the rebel force and this Correus who leads them?’
‘He seems to have put together a sizeable army, sir. Looks like we face not just the Bellovaci, but the Velocassi, the Caletes, the Atrebates, the Aulerci and even the Ambiani. Estimates of their numbers seem vague. Neither of these two is particularly high in their chain of command, but they both seem to think it will be the match of four legions.’
Caesar’s brow furrowed in surprise. ‘I had not anticipated such a strength. Even with the Belgae having largely escaped last year’s horrors, I had anticipated more or less half that number.’
Varus huffed in the cold air. ‘We approached the position of the enemy force as revealed by these two, general. I couldn’t estimate their numbers myself without getting too close and alerting their sentries. But judging from the smoke columns rising from their camp there are many thousand.’
‘And where are they?’
‘They took every member of every tribe and all their belongings, so that there would be nothing left for us to take. Their civilian population have been secreted somewhere in the endless woods in the heart of the region, but every man of the tribes who can bear arms has encamped on a high place, surrounded by a filthy and dangerous quagmire. Winkling them out is going to be a mighty tricky proposition, sir.’
‘Then we must draw them out to us; make them fight us on ground of our choosing.’
‘Might be trouble there, sir. Apparently the enemy are labouring under the impression that only three legions march on them – fortunately their intelligence on us seems to be poorer than ours on them. They are watching out to make sure none of the other regional forces are joining us, hence these living shadows that followed my cavalry around. If there are no other Roman forces imminent, and Correus believes he is facing three legions, then he thinks he outnumbers us and will probably come out to take us. But if he sees we are more numerous than that he will likely just sit in his camp and taunt us.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Definitely troubling. Either we face superior numbers and they will come to assail us, or we match their numbers but end up laying siege to what sounds like a perfect fortress.’
Varus huffed again and rubbed his hands. ‘And with the weather like this and no real baggage train with us, general, we can’t maintain a siege. They would only have to disrupt our foraging and we’d collapse.’
The general was still nodding, but now his eyes narrowed and sparkled with fierce intelligence. ‘Then let us play a ruse. We may not have a full baggage train, but we have the various carts and wagons we picked up at the last supply depot. We send the most experienced veterans – the Seventh, Eighth and Ninth in front in our usual formation, with one ala of your old-timers. The Eleventh will arm light and travel behind the baggage, out of sight until the last minute, along with the bulk of your cavalry. Then, with luck, the enemy will commit on sight of the three legions and they will be too late to pull back when the fast-moving, light-armed Eleventh and your other cavalry rush to take the field in support.’