(Iunius: 5 miles from the north coast of Gaul, several weeks prior to Caesar’s victory over the Veneti at the battle of Darioritum.)
“It’s an actual city, then?”
Galba shrugged.
“Crociatonum? By Roman terms, hardly. But it’s certainly bigger and more… civic, than the oppida and villages we’ve been coming across. All evidence points to it being the centre of the Unelli’s tribal lands, and it’s crawling with thousands of people.”
Sabinus nodded thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his lip as his horse danced impatiently.
“The Unelli do seem to be at the centre of this grouping. The question is how to approach the situation.”
The three legates, each sat ahorse beside the commander, frowned to a man.
“If what we’ve been hearing is true, there could be a massive army lurking there; more even than the thousands the scouts reported. I’d have to counsel caution” Galba said quietly.
Rufus nodded.
“At least until the scouts return and give us more detailed information. Perhaps we can set up a temporary camp here.”
Sabinus glanced up at Plancus, who wore a thoughtful look.
“Has anyone given thought to why the Unelli would be gathering an army?” the man asked quietly.
“Because the Veneti have stirred up this entire corner of Gaul” Sabinus said flatly.
“Not true,” the legate of the Fourteenth said, frowning. “Crassus’ reports stated that the leaders of the Unelli and the Lexovii, at least, were very much pro-Roman late last year. Of all the tribes he dealt with up here, the Unelli chieftains actually supported him and even lent him troops. Why then would they revolt now?”
Sabinus sat silent, staring at the legate. Plancus had a point. The man had built such a bad reputation in the first year or two of the campaign that the rest of the officer corps had reached the point where they were automatically ignoring his opinions, in much the same fashion as the legions were treating Plancus’ heavily-Gallic Fourteenth.
“Interesting,” he nodded finally. “Certainly the Lexovii have sent their warriors here; numerous scouts have confirmed that. Although we cannot be sure the same is true of the Curiosolitae, the same seems likely to be the case. But then that raises a second question: if they’ve gathered a large army here, why is it just sitting in their city and not marching south to help their countrymen fight off Caesar?”
The four men exchanged doubtful glances. This entire action was an unknown quantity and, while Sabinus had the might of three Roman legions at his beck and call, the reduced and largely untrained Twelfth, the unpopular Fourteenth, and the under-strength Ninth constituted less than two full legions between them in terms of proper numbers. If all three of these tribes had sent their strength to this place, then estimates were that the Roman force would be facing odds of at least three to one, if not more.
“Sir!”
The officers turned to the cavalry trooper who was trotting up the hill toward them.
“What is it, soldier?”
“One of the scout parties is returning, general.”
Sabinus smiled.
“Good. Some useful information, hopefully.”
The trooper frowned.
“Sir, I don’t think they’re alone. There is a small party of native riders following them.”
“Chasing them?”
Rufus squinted into the distance.
“I don’t think so. They seem to be riding casually. I think we’re about to have visitors, sir.”
Sabinus nodded and looked around him before turning to the buccina player.
“Have the legions fall in and put the call out for the tribunes to join us.”
As the horn blared out, he smiled at the officers around him. “I know the men are tired, but we need to make an impression here. We need to present a solid core of hardened officers.”
Turning to Plancus, he pursed his lips.
“Do you have any senior officers in the Fourteenth who are still predominantly Gaulish?”
Plancus nodded, his face sour.
“Most of my officers are still braid-haired Gauls, general. Only half of them understand me at all.”
Sabinus chuckled.
“I’d like one of the most senior to join us. It could be very useful having someone who speaks their tongue up here.”
Plancus saluted and wheeled his horse, riding the hundred yards or so to the head of the Fourteenth Legion, which was busy coming to full attention at the buccina call. As Sabinus and his officers watched the approaching parties, Plancus quickly returned, a centurion jogging along beside him. The general glanced down at the man, who stopped running and, without even a laboured breath, saluted and dropped into a formal posture.
“Centurion? I am given to understand you speak the dialect?”
“Better than Latin, sir.”
“Good.” He pointed at the approaching riders. “I would like you to listen carefully. So long as one of them speaks Latin, you shouldn’t need to be involved unless you hear something that makes interruption necessary. I would just like a trained ear on them.”
He smiled.
“Of course, if they don’t speak Latin at all, I may require a little translation.”
The centurion saluted again and Sabinus nodded with satisfaction. The man was clearly Gallic, from his stature and colouring and, while his flaxen hair had been trimmed down to fit well with a Roman helm, the bushy, drooping moustache clearly marked his origins.
Sabinus made a gesture to the approaching scouts and they rode off to one side to join the small cavalry detachment on the flank of the army.
The officers sat at the crest of the hill, tribunes from three legions forming up behind them, as they looked down the long slope toward the distant, messy sprawl of Crociatonum and the small party of almost a dozen riders approaching from that direction.
The general gave a last look round to his legions and the officers gathered behind him in their burnished glory. If anything spoke of the sheer power of Rome, it was this. Good. There was little else he could do until they knew what they were up against. He watched, alongside his silent officers, as the riders slowed to a halt and gathered in a small knot opposite them.
Sabinus had seen enough of these tribes over the last few years to immediately pick out the important characters. Rather than this being a deputation of chieftains from the various tribes, this was a strange and different gathering.
The man who took the centre and was clearly the leader of the party was a warrior of, at most, middling status. He bore the torcs and armour of a wealthy warrior, but not the jewels and decoration they had come to expect in chieftains and kings. The men around him were equally warriors rather than purely nobles, armed for brutality and not for parlay. The grey, brooding presence of a black-haired and bearded druid at the rear of the group gave further weight to this being anything but a peaceful party. Where were the chieftains and leaders?
Sabinus hid his bafflement, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
“I am speaking to the king of the Unelli, perhaps?”
The man on the lead horse folded his muscular, etched arms and his moustache twitched.
“You are Roman general, Caesar?”
Sabinus smiled mirthlessly.
“I am a Roman general, yes. Quintus Titurius Sabinus, commander of the Ninth, Twelfth and Fourteenth Legions. And you are?”
“I Viridovix. Leader of free Gaul.”
Sabinus drew a deep breath.
“A bold statement. The Unelli and their neighbours have been allies of Rome this past year. Yet now we are led to understand that you gather an army?”
Muttering in low voices among the Gauls increased at the question and, as Sabinus shot a sidelong glance to the centurion from the fourteenth to make sure he was paying attention, Viridovix turned his glare on the chattering men behind him, silencing them with a look. Sabinus nodded to himself. Whoever this man was, he had absolute authority here.
“Unelli chieftains weak… they grovel to southern apes. Warriors of Gaul not grovel, so we execute weak chieftains and form alliance as free Gaul.”
Sabinus nodded again.
“I see. You have pulled off a coup among your tribe. I hope for your sake that you can satisfy your people better than those who preceded you. A rise to power in such a fashion often acts as a spur for others to try the same. Your position could be more delicate than you imagine.”
Viridovix put his head on one side and the druid pushed forward through the crowd, leaning close enough to interpret for his leader. Sabinus was impressed at the deference the druid seemed to pay to this warrior. In two years of campaigning he had never seen a druid pay that sort of respect to any man.
Viridovix laughed.
“I not have time to mess words with general. I give this chance: go now. Run to Rome and hide behind big walls. You stay here, free Gauls will tear off heads and use as beer mug.”
Sabinus nodded.
“And I offer you one last ultimatum: disband this army, send the warriors back to their tribes, and this can end peacefully. I give my word that, should you offer no arms against us, we will continue to treat you as the allies you were.”
The Gaul sneered.
“One day. You gone when sun next up and you live.”
Without waiting for an answer, the powerful warrior wheeled his horse, followed by his companions, and rode back toward the city.
As soon as the figures were out of sight, Sabinus sagged.
“Looks like we’re in for a fair old fight, my friends.”
Galba nodded.
“Looks like my winter at Octodurus all over again. If they’ve overthrown their own leaders, they’re unlikely to stop just because of threats and cajoling.”
“Indeed. But the problem is that, for all my ultimatum, the outcome of any action here is hardly a foredrawn conclusion. At best we’re one man against three, but it could be a lot higher than that.”
Plancus cleared his throat.
“I despise even suggesting this, general, but might it not be a better idea to actually take him up on his offer and withdraw until we can field a larger, stronger army?”
Sabinus shook his head.
“The longer we leave this, the worse it could get. Remember the Belgae? We left them too long and they managed to gather half the northern world against us. We need to stop them now before their numbers double.”
Galba nodded with feeling.
“If word gets out that this ‘free Gaul’ has run off an army of three legions, we could see an uprising of the whole Gaulish people. The general’s right: we need to deal with it now.”
Sabinus realised that the centurion was standing at attention and almost vibrating with the need to interrupt.
“What did you hear?”
“Sir… they have no intention of giving us until tomorrow morning. They will come at night, once the sun has fallen.”
Sabinus sagged again.
“Oh hell. Anything else?”
“Yes sir. The army massed in Crociatonum is not just Unelli and Lexovii. There are many of Curiosolitae and also others. Refugees, bandits, rebels and many warriors of allied tribes unhappy at Rome.”
“Six to one?” hazarded Galba as he addressed his commander. Sabinus shrugged.
“Probably. It gets worse.”
“Much worse, general.”
Sabinus raised an eyebrow at the centurion. “Go on?”
“I heard mention of the Durotriges.”
“Durotriges?” Sabinus frowned. “Not heard of them.”
The centurion nodded.
“They are from across the water in Britannia, sir. Not sure what was said about them, because Viridovix silenced the man at that point.”
Sabinus nodded unhappily.
“I hope, for the sake of Mars, that we’re not facing an invasion of British Celts in addition. This could be a disaster.”
He turned back to the centurion.
“Thank you for your help, centurion. I am most grateful. You had best return to your unit.”
As the centurion saluted and strode off, Sabinus sighed and looked around at the three legates.
“We cannot run, but besieging an oppidum that holds such vast numbers could be considered tantamount to throwing ourselves on our swords. Anyone have any better idea than simply fortifying and praying very hard?”
The three men sat silent and glum until Rufus spread his hands and shrugged.
“There’s no better plan, general. We might be able to come up with something but, given the fact that in five or six hours we could be under attack by half a million Gauls, we should get fortifying as fast as we can.”
Sabinus nodded.
“At least we have good high ground here, with a nasty approach to all sides. If we’re going to be trapped rats, we couldn’t pick a better trap.”
He took a deep breath.
“Alright… break out the trenching tools. Let’s get ourselves dug in.”
Volusenus, senior tribune of the Twelfth, leaned across and muttered something to his legate, who nodded sagely and turned his serious, dark features on Sabinus.
“We are in very grave danger of repeating the disaster with which our year began in Octodurus.”
He tried to ignore the noise going on outside, but it was difficult. The three legions had constructed a large camp with all the standard defences during the afternoon following Viridovix’s ultimatum, but had barely had time even for that, let alone any extra measures, before the first attack came.
Since then the Gaulish assaults had come at regular intervals, three pushes a day for the last three days, each different from the last, as the enemy tested the Roman defences and capabilities. Each attack was carefully planned and slowly executed, a necessity given the long and steep slope atop which the Roman fort stood, between which they would retreat to the comfort and safety of the oppidum. While Sabinus had been unwilling to make any foray outside the defences, the Gauls were equally disinclined to commit a large force to the wholesale slaughter of a charge up the steep hill, across the ditches, and against the defended walls of the fort.
However, they never tired of finding inventive new ways to put the legions to the test, wearing them down and picking off as many as they could without fully committing.
Even now, the morning attack had been under way for half an hour, enemy archers lurking among the trees at the bottom of the northern slope keeping up a steady volley that forced the defenders to remain low behind the parapet. Lacking strong auxiliary missile support, Sabinus’ force was unable to return fire, and tried to keep themselves as safe as possible from the deadly shafts, only appearing above the wall when the occasional small forays of brave Gaulish warriors made their way up the slope to the defences to attempt to pull the palisade down.
It was, in short, a war of attrition.
Galba raised his voice to be heard more clearly above the commotion outside.
“We’ve got to do something. The Gauls are trying to provoke us into making a mass sortie, and these nit-picking scuffles are hardly huge and noteworthy, but we can’t go on this way forever. Baculus estimates that we’re taking down three of them for each man of ours that falls, but there are perhaps seven or eight times as many of them to begin with. You don’t have to be a mathematician to work that problem out to its unpleasant conclusion.”
Sabinus nodded.
“I’m just grateful that we happened upon such a damn good position for the camp when we first arrived. If we were on low ground, they’d probably have wiped us out by now. It’s at least bought us the time to work out our next move.”
Volusenus cleared his throat.
“This may not be a very popular idea, general, but I think we need to give serious consideration to the possibility of using one of the lulls to withdraw. It was irritating having to do that at Octodurus, but if we hadn’t there would no longer be a Twelfth legion.”
Sabinus shook his head.
“We can’t run, tribune, no matter how sensible it might be. Caesar gave us specific orders: we’re to stop the tribes here from joining up with the Veneti. Even if the only way we have to keep them occupied is to let them chop bits off us, we have to stay and do that. No, we need a better solution, I’m afraid.”
Standing in the doorway, arms folded and a grim expression on his face, Plancus, legate of the Fourteenth, grunted.
“We should be launching the attack the barbarians keep asking for; meet them on the field like a real Roman army. Seven to one is nothing when a shield wall is involved.”
Sabinus glared at the man.
“Not a stroke of genius, man. We have little support of auxiliaries, artillery or cavalry, a lot of half-trained soldiers and a serious deficit in numbers. I think you underestimate the enemy.” He sighed. “But there is some validity to the fact that we need to change our approach and make our strengths work for us. While the enemy’s provision status is unknown, ours is somewhat limited.”
The officers in the room fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment.
“What we really need to do” Rufus said, scratching his chin, “is to somehow goad the enemy into making a full scale assault on this place. Do to them what they’re trying to do to us.”
Sabinus frowned.
“It’s a nice idea, but the question is: how would we get them to commit to such a ridiculously suicidal act? They’ve been unwilling to commit to a large scale attack for three days because they know how costly it would be. That’s why they’re trying to get us to come out and meet them.”
Again, the officers fell into a silence that only served to emphasise the need for a solution, as the sounds of combat ringing on the distant west rampart intruded upon the meeting.
Slowly, Sabinus began to smile.
“You have an idea?”
The commander turned his smile on the speaker and it widened.
“What could provoke the enemy into launching such a dangerously reckless attack?”
Galba shrugged.
“Either desperation in the face of likely defeat, or the certainty of victory. Sadly, neither is true of Viridovix’s Gauls.”
“At the moment, yes. But what if we could plant the seed of one of those notions among them?”
Galba tapped his lip.
“How are you proposing to do that, general?”
“Plancus?”
“Sir?”
“Do me a favour and send for that centurion of yours that helped us with their leaders.”
The Fourteenth’s legate, frowning with a lack of understanding, saluted and ducked out of the tent door, issuing quick orders to one of the guards outside before returning.
Galba was shaking his head as the legate dipped back in.
“It would give us the edge, but however you go about tricking them into attacking us, as soon as they realise they’ve made a mistake, they’ll just retreat back to Crociatonum and this whole attritive nightmare will start up again. Without keeping them committed, matters won’t change much.”
Sabinus grinned at him and pointed at Plancus as the man returned.
“That’s where he was right. We can’t cower behind the walls, because they’ll run away again, yet equally we can’t go out and meet them in battle, since they’ll walk all over us with sheer numbers. But… if we can get them to charge us, they’ll be exhausted when they reach the top of this long slope, and trapped against our defences. Then we can send the best, freshest men out and carry out the good old-fashioned Roman battle that Plancus is angling for, all the time keeping wearing away at them from the top of the walls.”
Galba frowned and drummed his fingers on his knee.
“It has merit, sir. We’d need to give them more than just a reason to attack us, though. If you want a mad, exhausting charge, they have to believe that time is of the essence. Not an easy thing to achieve. If you can, though, we could use a day or so to perhaps set up some surprises for them. We picked up some very inventive ideas from the tribes in the Alpine passes last winter.”
Sabinus nodded, smiling.
“Anything that helps give us that little bit more edge. I have some ideas but, until Plancus’ man gets here, let’s concentrate on how we deal with them once they’re here.”
The commander, along with his legates and tribunes, fell into an involved discussion, bandying ideas back and forth and picking apart every angle, and the tent buzzed with animated conversation several minutes later when there was a polite knock on the tent frame by the door.
“Come!”
The figure of the centurion who had accompanied them at the parlay appeared in the doorway, standing respectfully to attention.
“Come on in, man, and stand at ease.”
“Yes general. How can I be of service?”
Sabinus smiled at the man.
“I would like you to perform a rather special duty; a sort of recruitment officer.”
The centurion frowned, but remained silent. Sabinus laughed.
“What’s your name, centurion?”
“Cantorix, general.”
“Well, Cantorix, I would like you to go back to the Fourteenth and pick out as many soldiers of a certain nature as you can find.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to put together a vexillation of men for a special mission and I have three criteria for selection. Firstly, they need to look as Gallic as possible; no Roman-style haircuts or clean shaven faces. Secondly, they need to be the most bloodthirsty, powerful bastards the Fourteenth has to offer. And thirdly, I don’t want anyone too virtuous and fair. Select the sort of men you wouldn’t play dice against; the sort of men you wouldn’t leave alone in your tent or let follow you down a dark alley. You get my drift?”
Cantorix nodded, uncertainly.
“May I ask what will be required of them, general?”
Sabinus smiled.
“Indeed you may, though I would prefer this information were not disseminated among the men yet, so keep your peace until you’ve organised the men and spoken with us again.”
He leaned forward.
“We’re going to infiltrate Viridovix’s army with our own. You heard the other day that their army is accepting all the waifs and strays from all over Armorica, including rebels, bandits and any Roman haters? Well it’s time for you and your men to become rebels and bandits. You need to join them in the guise of Veneti refugees. You’ll tell them that Caesar has defeated the Veneti and is on his way north. In fact, you’ll tell him that we appear to be preparing to leave. It needs to sound desperate enough that they’ll want to deal with us as a matter of urgency.”
Galba smiled.
“They’ll assume the two armies are about to join up. Yes… that would frighten them as a possibility: the three legions they face now suddenly becoming seven.”
“Indeed,” Sabinus nodded, “and it should be enough impetus to make them launch an attack. They’ll believe that they have to obliterate us before we get a chance to move out and join up with Caesar.”
Cantorix wore a faintly uncertain look.
“Problem, centurion?”
“Not as such, general, but this is a lot to ask of men who have been treated like an inferior unit from the outset and continually assigned to menial tasks. Morale has never been high in the Fourteenth, because they know the other legions look down on them. I’m not saying they wouldn’t do it, sir. Of course not, but I feel duty bound to my men to report the situation as it stands.”
Sabinus’ eye flickered irritably.
“I wasn’t aware that the situation was that bad.”
“With respect sir, nobody is aware, because nobody ever asks.”
The general let out a low grumble, the twitch still evident. He was barely controlling his temper and the centurion bit his tongue as he waited. “Then we have a problem. The Fourteenth are the only legion that can do it. Perhaps we can apply a little incentive?”
“Sir?”
“For the morale of your men, I offer phalerae to every survivor who takes a part, along with a crown to pin to the legion’s standards. If such is not enough of an incentive, there are other, more ‘disciplinary’ methods, if you follow me. I understand the plight of the Fourteenth and the stigma that has become attached to them, but I cannot allow the attitude of the men to dictate our strategy. The legions serve Rome, not the other way around.”
Cantorix pursed his lips.
“Yes sir. I meant in no way to imply that the men were rebellious or anything, sir, and a little recognition does buy a great deal of morale, sir.”
Sabinus leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“Go select your men Cantorix; as many as you can find. It’s time to teach the ‘free Gauls’ the cost of liberty.”
Cantorix, centurion in command of the Third century in the Third cohort of the Fourteenth Legion, wrinkled his nose in disgust. The grand Roman officers in this army still thought of the Gauls as a single people with a common culture and identity, a laughable idea to Cantorix, who had been raised as one of the Segusiavi, far from here, near the borders of Roman territory. The Segusiavi had traded with Rome for as long as the tribe could remember; many spoke Latin and some even Greek and wine, not beer, was the beverage of choice among the more wealthy.
How far removed could he be from these coastal ‘barbaroi’ who lived in relative squalor, many still running into battle naked to prove their vitality and resisting the inevitable march of progress. Yet the Roman-born officers saw them all the same, assuming that these men, enlisted into the Roman army a little over a year ago, but from a very civilised culture and already largely ‘Roman’ in their outlook, would find it a simple job to assume the guise of the northern Veneti warriors.
He ground his teeth, wondering whether to try and affect a local accent. The idea would likely be a disaster. He would stand more chance of sounding like a native Greek than a native of Armorica.
Beside him, Idocus, a flaxen-braided optio from the Fifth cohort, held out a pair of trousers and stared at them as though they might bite him.
“Do these Unelli not understand the principle of washing clothes?”
He sniffed the material and recoiled. Cantorix gave him a lopsided smile.
“Be fair; a man died in them a few hours ago. He probably soiled himself.”
“Thanks” the optio replied drily. “I wish we had time to take them to a river and give them a good scrub. I’m worried I might catch something. These trousers smell like a sick dog with an arse infection.”
“Just stop complaining and put the damn things on.”
The other thirteen men were busy climbing into their new clothes, mostly with looks of disgust and one even holding his nose. Cantorix shook his head. Thousands of men to choose from, and the general had clearly expected him to produce a large force. The fact was, though, that over the last year, most of the men of the Fourteenth had adopted the Roman style so thoroughly that very few legionaries retained enough of a Gallic look to even attempt this. These fifteen were the only ones with the appropriate physical and mental qualities that the centurion believed could even faintly pass as natives.
They had waited until the last attack by the Unelli and their allies, not long before sundown, and, once the enemy had returned to their town, the squad of soldiers had had their pick of disguises and armament from among the hundred or so enemies killed in the latest engagement close to the wall.
Cantorix straightened and held the torc up to his neck for a moment, but then decided against it. They had to look nondescript; no good wearing or carrying anything that could easily be identified as belonging to a fallen warrior of the Unelli.
Rolling his shoulders, he allowed the clothing to settle and watched Idocus trying to tie the trousers around his waist while touching as little material as possible with his hands.
“Will you stop buggering around?”
The optio looked at him with distaste.
“I have to eat with these hands. I may never feel clean again.”
Cantorix stepped across to the doorway of the tent and turned to his men.
“Alright. Let’s get moving. Come on.”
The other fourteen soldiers finished their dressing and gathered the swords, axes and spears before filing out into the early evening gloom.
“Right. Simple route. Out of the back gate of the camp, down the hill and a quarter of a mile out into the woods, then we swing out wide and come at Crociatonum from the west. Once we leave the gate, I don’t want to hear a word spoken in Latin and remember to concentrate on your conversation. Don’t even think Roman, or it’ll still show through. And no discipline or attention. Try not to look like legionaries. Got it?”
The men nodded, variously grinning and grimacing. They were, as the general had requested, the sort of man who, if they weren’t in the army, would be robbing and murdering for profit. He watched them with interest as they filed past into the evening air. On the bright side, they really looked like thieves and vagabonds, and they smelled like refugees who’d been travelling for days without a change of clothes. Possibly they could pull this off after all.
Once they were all outside, the centurion nodded with apparent satisfaction, concealing his shaky nerves.
“Right. Let’s go. Remember everything we agreed.”
As they strode across the grass of the camp, Cantorix noted the watching faces of the many legionaries who stood beside their tents. Many held a look of vague, unintentional contempt. Others, though, nodded respectfully, fully aware of what these ragged men were about to attempt.
The rear gate of the camp opened as they approached, without the need for orders, and the legionaries on guard saluted as they passed. Cantorix peered into the gloom as he broke into a jog, the light from the torches and braziers in the camp fading behind him.
He was impressed, as they reached the bottom of the slope and made for the eaves of the nearby woodland, at the singular lack of noise the men around him made. They moved like cats in the night, hardly a twig cracking when they passed among the boles of the trees. After a few minutes the silence became oppressive and the centurion cleared his throat, speaking in his native Gallic tongue.
“Alright. I think we’ve probably come far enough south. Let’s cut west and make our way round. Feel free to talk, but only in low voices. We’re supposed to be refugees and bandits, after all, not thieves. But remember to watch what you’re saying.”
He took a deep breath. “And don’t try to put on any kind of accent. It’ll just end up sounding stupid and obvious. We’ll just have to hope that they don’t know the Veneti accent that well. We’re more than a hundred miles from their lands, so that wouldn’t surprise me.”
One of the men grinned at him.
“Are you doin’ all the talkin’, or are we all goin’ to chatter?”
Cantorix nodded back at the man.
“You all need to talk; we spoke about that before. We’re not supposed to be soldiers, so act just like you would expect fleeing Veneti warriors to. Just leave the initial explanation of matters to me. Feel free to chip in with bits and pieces, but don’t get too creative.”
The man grinned.
“Oh I know. Art of any scam’s keepin’ it simple as possible. So’s not to trip yerself up.”
The centurion smiled. “Precisely. So everyone should talk.”
“’cept Villu, ‘course.”
Cantorix glared at the man’s poor taste in jokes, and glanced across at the afore-mentioned man, who was grinning wide and displaying the messy hole where his tongue should be, result of some unknown incident many years ago.
“Come on.”
Listening to the general conversation as they moved speedily through the woodland, the centurion began finally to relax a little. He had to admit that, to his own untrained ear at least, they sounded every bit the band of Gallic brigands. But then, truth be told, when you took away the mail and the tunic, that was very much what they were.
No surprise really that they were treated the way they were by the other legions. He resolved to try, once this was over, to get these men to mingle more with the other legions. Closing the cultural rift would require effort on both sides, after all.
He was still pondering on what could be done for the Fourteenth when they reached the edge of the woodland and gazed out across the open grass to the walls of Crociatonum, the fort they had so recently left rising from the crest of the impressive hill off to the right.
“Alright. Let’s run. Try to look relieved.”
Breaking into a fast pace as they left the trees, the fifteen men sped across the open land, keeping low and moving like a pack of wolves on the hunt. They were perhaps four hundred yards from the walls when the shout went up from within.
Warily, mindful of the possibility of missiles being hurled at them before any opportunity was given to explain themselves, the unit slowed and raised their arms, indicating the fact that their hands were empty of weapons. They continued to walk like that toward the town’s solid gate until, perhaps ten yards out and without the need for an order, the unit came to a stop.
Cantorix, listening carefully, could just make out the noise of urgent discussion behind the gate. Screwing his eyes shut momentarily, he took a deep breath.
“For Belenus’ sake, let us in. There’s thousands of Romans a cat’s fart away!”
He couldn’t stop himself flinching, but managed to stay steady and not drop to the ground in case of missile fire. Straightening, he threw an angry glare in the direction of the optio who was stifling a small laugh.
“Who are you?” called a voice from an unseen figure above the gate.
“I’m Cantorix of the Veneti!”
There was another muffled exchange and finally a figure appeared above the gate, tall and powerful, wearing bronze helm and a chain mail shirt, a heavy blade in his hand.
“You bring us a message?”
Good; a chance. “A message? Shit, yes, I bring you a message. Let us in and get ready for the sky to fall.”
“Explain yourself, stranger.”
“The Roman, Caesar is about a day behind us with enough men to trample a forest.”
Cantorix was pleased to note a sudden, yet more urgent murmur behind the gate.
Off to his right, one of the men bellowed “Bloody Romans everywhere. How come you haven’t flattened that lot on the hill?”
The leader dipped down behind the parapet for a moment, and then reappeared from a discussion with his compatriots.
“The Veneti have fallen to Caesar?”
“I’m not bloody proud of it, but yes” Cantorix snapped. “Now will you let us in? There was a lot of activity in that fort when we came past, and I don’t want to be standing in the open playing with myself when they decide to come and stand on my throat.”
He had to force himself not to smile as the urgent voices muttered again, a little louder and with a note of panic. The leader tilted his head to one side; a sign of worry, perhaps?
“Activity? What activity?” he asked.
“A lot of men moving around late at night and clanking stuff. Sounds a lot like the army of bastards we’ve had nipping our heels all the way. You wouldn’t believe how fast those bastards can move when they want to!”
“And you said Caesar is a day away?”
“Yes, now let us in!”
“Where are the rest of the survivors?”
“How the hell should I know? Some left by ship and headed for the Osismii. Others fled into the woods to hide. It was chaos. The Romans enslaved most of the survivors. A few of us got out ahead of them to bring warning to the other tribes. We’ve been running for four days.”
The armoured leader stood silent for a moment.
“Think very carefully, stranger… when you saw the activity at the Roman camp, was it concentrated at the rear gate?”
Cantorix smiled to himself. The man was hooked now. Time to haul him in.
“I think so. What would you say, Idocus?”
“Yeah… off t’the other side, defnitly!”
There was another pregnant pause as Cantorix held his breath and finally, after an age of nerves had passed, the gates of Crociatonum crept slowly open.