Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (13 page)

Even as many of their compatriots were still descending the slope beneath the steady, flinty eyes of the legion, Treveri and bandit alike began to throw down their arms in surrender.

Quadratus grinned. The legate was a crafty old sod.

* * * * *

Titus Labienus walked his horse forward between the ranks of the First and Second cohorts, his command party close behind. A musician and his standard bearers accompanied him, along with his camp prefect and the tribunes.

And Baculus.

That man turned up like a bad smell any time anything happened, despite having received direct commands to stay in his convalescent cot from both medicus and legate. But despite the man’s borderline defiance and his bad temper, his tendency to become outspoken when in discomfort, and his pale grey, wheezing and disconcerting illness, it was always comforting to have the veteran centurion close by, and Labienus could hardly deny it. That was why he let Baculus get away with as much as he did.

The small mounted party reached the crest of the hill and spread out as much as possible, the musician and standard bearers - and the tribunes, surprisingly - hanging back slightly to allow Baculus to take prime position at the front. One of the native scouts in his party rode forward to join them at the legate’s gesture.

Labienus peered down at the field before him and felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Treveri standards were in the hands of Quadratus’ men. Though he could not see Indutiomarus, it seemed almost certain the man was captive or dead. Either suited just fine.

‘People of the Treveri!’ he announced, just to make sure he had their full attention, though the majority of the enemy were now looking back and forth despondently between the cohorts atop the slope and the cavalry in the ford and were dropping their weapons to the turf. The native scout relayed a translation in a deep, booming voice.

‘People of the Treveri, you have brought unlawful and unsought war upon the forces of Rome, who are here in this place with the blessing of your own Gaulish assembly to defend your lands from the aggressive Germanic tribes beyond the Rhenus and from the treacherous Eburones.’

He paused to let the scout translate.

‘You have besieged our garrison in contravention of your prior agreements with Rome. The penalty for such transgressions is clearly written as death!’

A number of the frightened Treveri picked up their weapons again, fearing the worst as the translation was relayed.

‘But that penalty has been paid by your leaders,’ Labienus continued ‘whose standards even now rest in the hands of my cavalry. Your king has paid your price, which is fitting, since it was he who led you into this fool’s crusade in the first place. I have no wish to persecute an entire tribe of loyal, peaceful and noble Belgae for the whims of a dangerous fool.’

The crash of more and more weapons falling to the floor spoke eloquent volumes as to the opinions of the surrendering tribesmen.

‘Moreover, I make no distinction in my magnanimity between the great Treveri and the mercenaries and vagabonds who have flocked to their banner. I have conditions for your surrender, and I know that you will not be so foolish as to refuse them, particularly since they are so light.’

Another pause for translation, and Baculus leaned closer. ‘I know this is not going to be a popular suggestion, legate, but you have one of the more powerful tribes in the east in your grasp here, and they’ve already risen against us twice. You have the singular opportunity right now to remove them from the board of the great game entirely.’

‘I will not execute an entire tribe, centurion, who were already wavering in their loyalty to their king in light of their oaths to us.’

‘They wavered for
fear
of us, sir, not for any oath. And anyway, those who wavered had already left. Those who remain here are the ones who stayed loyal to that royal menace Indutiomarus. And what of the thugs, murderers and thieves among them? You’ll free them too?’

Labienus turned an angry glare on the centurion.

‘I know all the arguments. I heard them all when I consulted the tribunes, including - I note - the value of the prisoners in terms of the slave trade. But I am not Caesar. Caesar may have the habit of executing and enslaving entire peoples, but if we are ever to have Gaul settled like Hispania or Illyricum or Greece, we have to start building bridges more often than we burn them. Caesar’s tactics have led us to five years of stamping out the fires of rebellion on half a dozen occasions each season, and it is time to try and create some sort of lasting peace.’

Turning his attention back to those at the bottom of the slope, Labienus cleared his throat.

‘You will turn over to us one hundred hostages of noble birth to ensure your continued goodwill’ he paused and whispered sidelong ‘Good enough?’ at which Baculus simply shook his head in exasperation, and then continued. ‘You will take a renewed oath to Rome that you will not raise arms against her in future times, and that you will make no alliances with other tribes without the consent of both the Gaulish assembly and the Proconsul or his appointed representative. If you agree to this oath and to the giving of hostages, you will be permitted to return to your lands as free men to continue your lives, though your weapons will stay with us.’

He waited for the relayed translation again, and for the enemy to deliberate before replying. Whatever minor nobles and/or druids remained among them would accept the terms, of course. They were more than merely generous. And they were also the only feasible option. The rest of this meeting was a formality. The threat of the Treveri had been neutralised with the death of Indutiomarus, as he’d planned from the beginning.

‘This is going to come back and bite you on the behind, legate.’ Baculus grumbled quietly enough not to carry to the others nearby. Labienus narrowed his eyes in irritation.

‘What will be, will be, centurion, as the Gods will it. But for now, I will take the renewed oath of the Treveri, their hostages and their weapons, while you will return to the camp forthwith and clamber into that sick cot of yours and not emerge again unless your own backside is on fire. Do you understand me?’

Baculus saluted, grumbling, and turned to ride away.

Leniency was a mistake, and the centurion knew it.

Chapter Four

Palmatus raised himself from the horse’s back to rub his sore rear end once again and Fronto rolled his eyes. Yes, the former legionary was a trained infantryman and had never ridden a horse for more than a few moments in his life before signing on with Fronto, but the man had now ridden over three hundred miles and even if he was never destined to make a horseman he should at least by now be numb enough to resist the pain.

Masgava gave a low chuckle.
That
man, on the other hand, seemed to have an almost preternatural affinity with horses despite not having ridden one since leaving his native land in a wheeled wooden cage. He put it down to his people’s native abilities with riding beasts, be they horse or camel.

Fronto himself was a little sore, given the lack of time he had spent in the saddle recently, but he was damned if he was going to show it in front of the others. Galronus, of course, was unaffected. It was like sitting on a comfortable couch for a man so born to the beast.

‘This place is so green.’ Palmatus frowned. ‘And damp.’

‘Like the lands of Cisalpine Gaul,’ Fronto nodded. ‘I spent plenty of time around Cremona and it’s much the same there.’

‘This is the first time I’ve ever been north of Rome,’ Palmatus said in a flat voice. ‘It’s different to Armenia and Pontus, I’ll give you that. Less barren rock. More squelching.’

Masgava gave a deep belly laugh and slapped Palmatus on the shoulder. ‘You should try the ergs and dunes of Numidia, my friend.’

‘Anyway…’ Fronto interrupted before he was treated to yet another diatribe on the glories of Masgava’s homeland. ‘That town is Bibracte. It covers the whole hill. Big place with a couple of nice taverns. There’s the place where the Gaulish chieftains’ assembly usually meets, and an old druidic site that’s gone out of use. Should be a Roman supply station in a compound outside the walls too, but I can’t make it out and, since Cita left and Priscus was in charge, who knows how the supply lines have been organised. You can just see a couple of hills over to the north from here, looks suspiciously like a pair of boobs from this angle. That’s where we finished off the Helvetii five years ago.’

‘So a lot happened here is what you’re saying?’ Palmatus mumbled irritably.

‘Moan if you like, but after all those small Roman way stations and local hovels since Massilia, it’ll be nice to be somewhere civilised for a change.’

‘Civilised?’ Palmatus cocked an eyebrow sarcastically and received a cold look from Galronus of the Remi for his efforts.

‘May not look it,’ Fronto replied blithely, ‘but this place is almost a home from home after five years of passing backwards and forwards through it. Even the first year we were here the place was welcoming, and you can get proper wine here. Not just that frothy brown latrine water that Galronus’ people make.’ He flashed a cheeky grin at the Belgic prince, who simply shrugged. Galronus had moved to Roman wine as his chosen tipple more than a year since.

‘Bloody hell!’ Fronto said in astonishment and reined in his horse suddenly. The others hauled to sharply, looking about for whatever had caused their friend such consternation.

‘Trouble?’

‘Not now. A few years ago, yes. Come over here.’ Kicking his horse into life, Fronto trotted over to a low, curved ridge. The others joined him curiously.

‘It’s a ditch!’ Palmatus said with a snort. He saw the look on Fronto’s face - dreamy and distant - and smiled sympathetically. ‘Don’t get me wrong… it’s a very pretty ditch. Nice and wide. Almost like a bowl. Pretty. You shag someone here?’

It was a mark of how distant Fronto had suddenly become that he failed to reply with a sharp or witty line, instead just nodding as he scanned the depression.

‘Not a ditch. Too uniform.’ he replied eventually.

‘What?’

‘Man made.’ Fronto said with a sigh. ‘By the Tenth. Under the careful supervision of a man called Pomponius who still commands the legion’s major engineering works - or he did a year or two back anyway.’

‘So what is it?’ Palmatus frowned.

‘What does it look like?’ growled Masgava, his face dark. ‘It’s an arena. A gladiatorial ring. Seen enough of them in my time.’ He turned his spiteful look on Fronto. ‘Native sport? Entertainment for your men?’

Fronto saw the rising ire in his friend and shook his head. ‘No, Masgava. Not that. In actual fact only one combat was ever fought there. One of the combatants was a Gaul, yes. A native cavalry officer named Domiticus of the Aedui - from Bibracte as it happens. The other, though, was a Roman. Me, in fact.’

The other three riders stared at him, all anger draining from Masgava’s face to be replaced by a strange and complex mixture of curiosity, shock and sympathy. Fronto paused for a moment and smiled.

‘Well don’t get all morbid on me. After all, I won. Otherwise I’d not be here to show you it.’

He waited for another moment, but the silence weighed, so he shrugged. ‘Needed a show to boost the men's spirits as they were heading for starvation. And that bastard Domiticus had assassinated a good friend of mine - a tribune by the name of Cominius. I wanted revenge. The whole Tenth did, so there was nothing unfair or wrong about it. Domiticus met his Gods that day, and Cominius smiled at us from across the last river. And then I got so drunk that night that I couldn’t stand.’

‘You,’ Palmatus shook his head, ‘are a constant surprise. You know that, Fronto?’

‘I like to keep people guessing,’ the legate smiled. ‘Come on.’

The small party rode on, the former legionary, the Belgic officer and the ex-gladiator gazing up at the main oppidum of the Aedui as they approached, taking in its strong defensive walls and surprisingly urban style as far as possible from the outside. The town marched away up the slope and must occupy an area much larger than a lot of supposedly settled Roman towns.

Fronto rode slightly ahead, his gaze scouring everything he passed, his mind floating on a cloud of memory and seeing the place through five years of history. He could almost hear the buzzing of the summer bees, smell the flowers and the warm sun and feel the place pulsing in his blood. He’d not realised it, but not only had he missed life in the army, but he’d apparently, and curiously, missed Gaul, despite the fact that he’d seen much of it from a position knee deep in body parts.

His gaze strayed as they climbed the lower slopes and approached the outer edge of the town and its walls, and he felt uneasy suddenly.

The low rectangular earthwork off to his right had been the Roman supply station the last time he was here. Clearly it had been gone for a year or more now, the timber palisade and wooden huts pulled down and the Roman presence removed. He made a mental note to ask Priscus about the new system. Were they now wholly reliant on local produce, tribute from the tribes and foraging? Seemed unlikely, given the number of men Caesar had, so the supply line must have moved.

Causing him more consternation, though, was the fact that the last time he had been here, the town had clearly outgrown its walls and new homes and other small structures had been built on the slopes below.

No longer.

The walls reared up impressively, and no external constructions obscured the line of sight for any man atop them. The spread of the city had been halted and those offending buildings had been torn down, the wounds they had left on the land remaining to mark their passing.

His gaze took in the figures of Aedui warriors on the wall, watching with spears in hand.

Fronto felt a shiver run up his spine. Bibracte looked for all the world like a city on a war footing.

‘Is something wrong?’ Galronus asked, sensing Fronto’s discomfort.

‘Maybe. Not sure. I don’t like the way the walls have been cleared for line of sight and lookouts stand guard. It’s not the relaxed and peaceful Bibracte I remember.’