(Iunius: Inland Aquitania, territory of the Sotiates.)
Gaius Pinarius Rusca licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth in panic. What in the name of all the Gods was he doing here? The closest he’d ever come to fighting was a tussle with a peer who stole his seat at the games when he was a teenager.
Eight months ago he had been sitting in his cosy little triclinium contemplating his future with the delectable Laevinia and now, standing on this springy turf with his legs shaking uncontrollably and a dangerous slackening around his bladder, he couldn’t believe how excited he’d been to have had his posting to the legions approved.
His father had served under the elder Crassus years ago and had managed to secure him the most prestigious tribunate within the Seventh beneath the young legate, since when Rusca had spent the past months in Vindunum lording it over the others and turning his ability with numbers and attention to detail to the disposition of units and supply problems.
A distant bellow of rage brought his attention rudely back to the current situation.
“Hold the line!” he shouted, noting the way his voice cracked in fear and hoping that no one else had.
The legate had sent the cavalry on chasing the Sotiates and had marched the legions as fast as they could move in formation down the hill behind.
They had descended, eager to bring Roman vengeance to these skirmishing horsemen and Rusca had watched from his forward position as the pursuing auxiliary cavalry engaged the enemy once again, only to be completely cut off from the rest of the army as untold thousands of screaming, bloodthirsty barbarians, some wearing wild animal pelts around their shoulders, had poured seemingly out of the very ground to either side of them.
Rusca’s world had fallen apart. He was a natural mathematician; a studious and quiet young man hoping to achieve at least a minor public appointment back in the city on the strength of his military experience. What he was truly not, he thought, as the embarrassing warm trickle began, was a soldier.
Crassus himself had been close by and Rusca had been surprised at how the man dealt with the situation. The legate was no older than he and had only served the legions for a couple of years and yet he took control of the disaster like those Cretan bull leapers grabbed their acrobatic steeds and pulled the legion together; like a veteran commander.
On the legate’s orders, the legion had split into individual cohorts, each forming a defensive square in the face of the charging enemy. Suddenly, and without time to even attempt mental preparation, the inexperienced senior tribune had found himself in nominal command of the Second cohort as they braced for the clash, though in truth, the cohort’s senior centurion was already shouting the appropriate commands, most of the troops largely unaware of even the presence of the tribune.
The square consisted of shield walls thirty men across and four deep, with the tribune, the cornicens and the capsarii in the central space.
The Sotiates, wrapped in their pelts, furs, leathers and occasional mail shirts poured down the slope like a shabby sea, crashing against the rocks of the Second cohort with a spray of blood, spittle and sweat and Rusca felt a fresh wave of panic as the shield walls on two sides gave a little under the onslaught, bowing inwards toward the non-combatants in the centre. The scent of urine brought a burning shame to the tribune’s cheeks, though he was sure no one would notice in the general stink of sweat that threatened to make him gag.
How could there be so many barbarians in all the world? Already the shield walls were under attack by a vast force, and yet all he could see from his central vantage point were yet more and more enemy warriors charging, screaming into the fray.
“Hold the line!” he bellowed again, aware of how pointless it was as a command. As if the men were about to part and let the sea of Gauls into their midst.
A commotion drew his attention to the north face of the formation, where a particularly violent assault was taking place, the enemy literally throwing themselves in a blind rage on top of the shield wall, breaking the square. As he watched, a huge barbarian with a broad-bladed axe appeared, the weapon held high above his head, as he stood on the back of a fallen comrade, one foot held firm on a discarded Roman shield, and brought the vicious weapon down in a massive swing.
Something bounced off Rusca’s cheek guard and rattled around the helmet’s bronze rim, and his sight went black.
In an urgent and terrified panic, Rusca raised his free hand, his sword arm hanging pointlessly at his side, and wiped desperately at his suddenly blind eyes. What had happened?
His vision returned as he wiped the excess blood from his eyes and he gagged, realising that the axe blow had sent half the legionary’s head flying through the air in pieces. Stepping back, pale and shaking, Rusca leaned forward and vomited copiously, fresh waves of horror assailing him as shards of bone and fractured teeth fell out of his helmet where they had become lodged following the blow.
How he remained standing at that point, white, terrified and sick, he would never know, but the young tribune’s world changed in that moment.
He stared down at the fragments of the unknown legionary on the floor below him and spat the remains of the bile away. Reaching up with a shaking arm, he unlaced his helmet and let it fall, blood-soaked and dented, to the ground with the rest of the detritus.
Blinking away more of the sweat and blood, he reached down for the crimson linen scarf around his neck, studied it until he found a relatively dry and clean section, and wiped his face, noting with surprise the sheer quantity of blood that was still there.
He looked around him, his terror having metamorphosised into something different; something beyond mere fear. Rusca was going to die today and now that he knew it, he felt curiously prepared. The legionary who had succumbed to the axe blow had died so instantaneously he couldn’t possibly have felt the pain for longer than a heartbeat.
The cohort was collapsing around him.
What had begun as five hundred men had perhaps halved already, and two areas of the shield wall were precariously thin.
As he watched, contemplating what he could do to help, there was a second violent clash in that same spot, huge powerful warriors leaping onto and across the shield wall with apparent unconcern for their own life. Suddenly, like the bursting of a dam, the shield wall gave, and three wild, growling men burst through.
The centurion, somewhere off to Rusca’s left, called his orders and the breech was quickly sealed, men pushing from either side until they connected and formed a solid front once again. At a second order, the few free capsarii in the centre, ready to tend to any wounded men who were passed back inside from the line, grasped their swords and stepped forward to intercept the three Gauls who were making straight for the man in the burnished cuirass, clearly the senior officer.
It took Rusca a moment to realise that they were rushing to protect him and he felt a fresh wave of shame rise on his cheeks. There were men he had met this past half year, men who occupied the same position as he in other legions, who would think nothing of charging, bare-handed, into the enemy at this point. Yet here he was being nothing but a burden to the men under his command.
For a moment, the fatalism that had clouded his thoughts these last moments threatened to drive him into action. It would be nice to go to the Elysian fields knowing that he had made one heroic stand with his men and fought like a soldier.
Unfortunately his knees didn’t see things the same way and refused to carry him forward, instead trembling uncontrollably and threatening to make him collapse to the ground.
Four capsarii leapt in front of him, one slipping on the mess of blood, bone and vomit and crashing to the ground, causing a fresh wave of guilt and shame to batter the tribune. The other three ran at the intruders, gladius in one hand and dagger in the other, their shields already discarded to allow for medical duties.
Rusca watched, shuddering, as the men fought, stabbing, slashing and hacking at the barbarians, who returned the favour, their own swords and axes swinging and slicing. The tribune couldn’t pick out the detail in the flurry of action, his knees barely holding him upright, and the moment he realised that the capsarii had failed, his trembling legs finally gave way, bringing him to a kneeling position, as though penitent. Shuddering, he collapsed to all fours in the filth.
The capsarii had dispatched two of the Sotiate warriors, but the third seemed to be entirely unharmed as he stabbed down almost casually, ending the life of the man who had been attacking him, and then strode purposefully across toward the tribune.
The soldier who had slipped in the mess before the tribune was already picking himself up, sword in hand, ready to stand and defend his commander to the last.
“Get back!”
The capsarius jumped in shock as Rusca put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him backwards, sliding him to the rear and away from the approaching warrior.
His father had been a soldier; ten times the soldier he could ever hope to be, and had imparted a great deal of military expertise around the dinner table over the years, particularly when his uncles had been visiting. In this moment, at the end of his life, Rusca could clearly remember one such pearl of wisdom: ‘in battle, anything goes’. There is no right or wrong way. The noble warrior faced his enemy and stared him in the eye as they fought; the noble warrior would allow an opponent mercy if he sought it; the noble warrior looked after his equipment and followed his training to the letter. All good and noble, but the victorious warrior did the unexpected, kicked, bit, head-butted and dodged away. He did whatever he could to be the victorious warrior.
The great hulking barbarian stepped toward him, grinning and raising his long blade in two hands, ready to bring it down in an overhand blow that would drive it clean through the tribune and at least a foot of the earth beneath him.
Already sickened at the fact that he was on his hands and knees in his own vomit and the blood of several men, Rusca took a deep breath and threw himself flat on his front in the mess, swinging his sword arm out with all his strength as he did so.
The gladius was traditionally used for stabbing, its point vicious and its blade well made for repeated thrusts and withdrawals. The legions were trained to use them this way for efficiency and the high probability of mortal wounding with each blow, but it was not unknown, according to his father, for the blade to be used to slice, as in the horrible Macedonian conflicts a hundred years ago where tales of severed limbs had abounded.
The blow was powerful, driven by fear, desperation and a curious cold determination that had formed like ice from the tears of his panic. As the Gaul’s sword reached its apex, prepared for its deadly descent into the tribune’s back, Rusca’s gladius swept out and bit into his leg just above the ankle, the force carrying the blow deep enough to snap the bone.
The warrior gave a blood-curdling cry as his leg slipped sideways, separating from the foot above the ankle, the severed shin dropping to the turf.
The man collapsed, screaming in agony, his attack entirely forgotten.
Rusca blinked in frightened amazement as the man’s sword, relinquished in mid air, plunged point first into the earth less than a foot from the tribune’s grimy hand. Shuddering, he pushed himself back into a kneeling position and stared at his slick, crimson sword.
Suddenly an arm was beneath his shoulder, helping him to stand. His legs seemed to have regained some of their strength and he pushed himself upright without too much difficulty, turning to stare in confusion at the capsarius who had helped him. The man was saying something.
“What?”
“I said thanks for that, sir.”
The man laughed.
“Actually, what I really said, sir, was ‘bloody hell!’”
Rusca continued to stare at him blankly. The man shrugged.
“Never seen an officer fight like that, sir. Hell, I’ve rarely seen anyone fight like that!”
Rusca gave a croaky laugh.
“Better to be a living thug than a dead hero, eh?”
The capsarius nodded, grinning, as he stepped past the tribune and sank his blade into the writhing form of the one-footed Gaul, dispatching him with ease.
The tribune wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes and frowned into the fray.
“Can’t see what’s happening. Can you? I appear to have all manner of shit in my eyes.”
The capsarius laughed and squinted as he turned and took in the scene around him.
“I think we’re down to about half numbers, but a lot of those will be walking wounded; salvageable, if we can get out of here.”
Rusca raised an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t really seeking a medical opinion, man, more a tactical one.”
“’Course, sir. Think they’re thinning out. Looks like we’ve got the edge.”
The pair turned and stared as the scene up and down the valley became apparent. Ahead, the Sotiates were retreating, running as fast as they could down the valley, while Crassus and the First cohort reorganised to follow them. The enemy horse had fled already, and Galronus’ cavalry had turned and were harrying the fleeing Gauls. Further back along the line, among the other cohorts, the Gauls were already beginning to disengage.
“Why are they running?” Rusca wondered aloud.
“’Cause of the auxilia, sir. Look!”
The tribune raised his eyes and scanned the top of the valley side, where his companion was pointing. Units of auxiliary archers were pouring arrows down into the rear ranks of the enemy, while others, probably the spear men, were heaving at the loose rocks, setting them rolling down the steep incline and into the mass of Sotiates.
“Ha. Their ambush has been ambushed.”
The capsarius wore a look of concern as he turned back.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re very pale, sir. It’s hard to see beneath all the blood, but you’re white as a Vestal’s dress. Are you wounded?”
Rusca grinned.
“Far from it.”
He turned and scanned the men until he spotted the senior centurion.
“Looks like they’re breaking, centurion. Soon as they do, get formed up and follow, joining up with the First cohort.”
The centurion saluted and Rusca turned back to the capsarius.
“You and I, however, are going to wait until the enemy are cleared back and then head to the supply carts where I can get water for a wash, and some clean clothes.”
The capsarius grinned.
“Up to you sir, but if I were you I’d stay just like that. The very sight of you would loosen their bowels!”
The chief oppidum of the Sotiates had been a surprise to all. After an initial chase, it had become clear that, with its accompanying auxilia and baggage train, there was little hope of catching the fleeing Gauls before they reached their settlement and so Crassus had called an immediate halt to the fruitless chase and had changed tactics entirely.
Scouts sent ahead confirmed that over the next ten miles the land gradually lowered and flattened until it became a huge plain that extended all the way to the distant shore. The oppidum was constructed on only a very low hill, that being all that was available, and surrounded by low walls that, in quality and size, fell short of the impressive defences they had seen in other parts of Gaul.
Clearly the Sotiates had placed all their faith in the ambush in the valley, knowing that once the Roman forces reached the plain their defensive capabilities were drastically reduced.
Crassus had greeted the news from the scouts with a smile, reforming the Seventh legion and its auxilia and taking two days in the last of the forested hills before descending to the plain. While this delay would have given the Sotiates the time to recover from their heavy losses and panicked retreat, it would not be long enough for them to effect heavier defences or gather great reinforcements, yet would allow the Roman force the time to perform the onerous post-battle tasks: the tending of the wounded and the funerals of the dead and raising of a mound.
More importantly it had given the engineers of the legion plenty of time to strip areas of woodland and use the timber to construct a number of siege machines in preparation for the coming assault. From his position outside the army’s current command chain, Galronus had watched the engineers with interest. His duties with the cavalry had rarely allowed him time to observe the feats of the engineers in progress and the work was fascinating to watch. Clearly these men had worked together so many times that there was hardly any need for commands or directions, the soldiers going about their tasks with ordered precision, as though performing some sort of complicated dance.
By the time they had set off on the march again yesterday morning, the huge train of carts that followed the army had acquired mobile shelters that the engineers called vineae, two tall towers and a number of great screens that could protect troops.
The additional heavy engines had slowed the pace of the army a little and consequently the unnamed oppidum had only finally come into view this morning as the army continued along the line of the river down across the plains.
Tribune Tertullus had been lauded for their actions in the valley, with no mention being made of Galronus’ part. The lack of recognition had hardly bothered the Remi horseman, but the absence of the friendly tribune, as the man had been called to ride with the van once more, left a hole that had filled with tedium.
Even now, while the legions stood in shining ranks on the plain below the walls of the oppidum, awaiting the order to advance, the siege engines in place and ready to be launched forth, Galronus sat apart from the action, lounging on a flat, warm rock in the sunshine as he watched the glorious Roman parade before him.
Somewhere among the mass musicians issued calls and the army split and began to carry out carefully prepared manoeuvres, some trundling the siege towers forward, others sheltering in the vineae as they rolled toward the walls, the artillery details manning the onager and ballistae, firing off their initial aiming shots to find the range. The huge screens moved forward, protection for the auxiliary archers. It was so ordered it could have been a latrunculi board with two players shifting their markers.
Galronus shook his head and smiled. Fronto’s fault, that. A year ago he’d been Remi to the core, unaware of the very existence of the game. Now here he was after a winter in the great city under the dour legate’s influence and the first metaphor that came to mind was a Roman game. Briefly he wondered how his friend was doing, far away to the north, dealing with the rebellious Veneti, and found with surprise that he was suffering feelings that he would be hard put to call anything other than homesickness for Rome. That was a surprise.
And yet, as he watched the first volleys of fire issue from the attackers and from the walls of the settlement, he could see the future of the world mapped out among the cohorts and centuries before him.
Before Caesar came to the lands of the Belgae, the Remi tribe had weighed their options and made the decision to support the forces of the general. Had they not, they may now be like the Aduatuci: nothing more than a name on a map, gradually fading into obscurity. Rome was coming to the whole world and embracing its arrival was the only sensible option. Aquitania would fall soon enough.
Distant cries of dismay drew his attention and he used his hand to shade his eyes and passed his gaze across the forces below the walls. Something was happening by one of the two huge siege towers. The structure was leaning at a precarious angle and it was with a smile that Galronus realised that two of the huge wheels had sunk into the ground. As he watched the legionaries desperately trying to right the huge construction, he almost laughed aloud when the tower swayed dangerously and then finally, ponderously, toppled forward and disappeared from view.
He frowned as he tried to focus on the distant spot, trying to work out what had happened and let out another bark of laughter as he realised that the structure had sunk into a tunnel, then tipped forward and vanished into the subterranean passage in its entirety.
The advance faltered for a moment as decisions were made. Galronus grinned and reached down for his sack of watered wine, purloined from the baggage train last night, and yet another indication of the influence Fronto had had on him this past year.
On the plain below, the bright silver and crimson figures of the tribunes marched around between the other officers, relaying Crassus’ commands. Galronus tried for a moment to identify them: the ageing Tertullus who had become a friend and ally so easily, and Rusca, who had arrived at the baggage train two days ago covered in gore, smelling of unearthly filth, and had spoken to him for the first time, lightly and with a gentle humour. The distance was too great, though, and one shining officer looked very much like another from this position.
It was curious. From here, with no command of his own and no direct influence on events, watching the army of Crassus at their work felt like those lazy days in early spring when he’d risen blearily from his bed in Fronto’s house and gone to watch the morning races in the circus. Momentarily he considered whether it would be in bad taste to find one of the medics or support staff that remained back from the battle and lay a few wagers.
Almost certainly they would think him callous, or an idiot. But then the betting of coin on games was a habit to which Rome had introduced him and not a natural pastime for the Belgae.
Taking another swig from the wine, he lay back on the rock and dozed, half listening to the battle going on below and before him. Some decision had clearly been made about how to avoid a repeat of the tower incident and the legions were marching again, accompanied by the groan and clonk of the huge timber constructions and the constant distant whisper of arrows and other projectiles flying back and forth.
In a way, he was glad to be so far out of it that the battle appeared little more than a game, unable to hear the cries of the wounded and dying and smell the sick odours of war.
A series of shouts and a crash announced another setback and Galronus pushed himself upright once again and opened his eyes. Another tunnel had been discovered, this time by one of the heavy, trundling vineae that had sagged to one side, its wheels sinking into the ground. With a great deal of effort, the legionaries managed to heave it back up to the flat and push it off to one side, avoiding the likely line of the passage.
By now the screens were in place and the units of auxiliary archers close enough to strafe the parapet of the low walls, quickly clearing them of defenders.
The Remi officer was about to close his eyes and sink back down to the rock when there was a tremendous roar. Pushing himself fully upright, he shaded his eyes once more and watched as a postern gate opened off to the far left and a mass of screaming Sotiate warriors issued forth, pouring toward the archers and their screen. Galronus nodded to himself as he watched events unfold.
The archers were apparently undefended, simply auxiliaries hiding behind screens; easy pickings for the enemy and too far from the nearest legionary cohort for the regular troops to intervene in time. The Sotiates had seen their only opportunity to try and even the field a little, but Crassus had planned ahead, likely for this very event, else why would he not have concentrated on the postern gate.
As half a thousand warriors poured forth, the nearest cohort of the Seventh changed its tack instantly, picking up speed and moving at triple time across the front of the archers, beneath the walls.
The bellowing, desperate Sotiate warriors threw themselves at the undefended archers, only to discover that the screen had concealed more than just the auxiliary bowmen. The spearmen who had filtered among them suddenly raised and braced their spears, using the weapons to create a barrier of deadly points protecting the archers, who continued to rain death on the oppidum’s walls.
The enemy realised their error too late, pulling back from lunging at the deadly spear wall and turning to flee to their gate, only to find that the speedy cohort had cut them off from their own walls. Suddenly trapped between the Narbonese spear men and the soldiers of the Seventh, busy settling into a shield wall, the despondent warriors threw down their weapons.
The Sotiates in the oppidum cut their losses and shut the gate on their friends.
“You are a Gaul. What do you think they will do?”
Galronus spun round in surprise to find Crassus standing behind him, burnished cuirass dazzling in the sunlight, crimson cloak waving in the light breeze.
“I am Remi, from half a world away, not one of them.”
Crassus shrugged, dismissing the comment as irrelevant.
“Well” Galronus mused, frowning at this unwarranted and unusual attention from the legate. “There is nothing they can do. They must surrender.”
Crassus nodded.
“I believe so. The question is whether we accept the surrender. We must continue on after this, deeper into Aquitania, to the very foothills of the Pyrenees, and it is never wise to leave a live enemy behind one. Even if I were inclined to mercy, the option of extermination is not a ridiculous one.”
Galronus narrowed his eyes and looked the man up and down. There was something in Crassus’ voice that he’d not noticed before. The legate appeared to be trying to talk himself into something.
“And are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you inclined to mercy?”
Crassus gestured to the landscape around them with a sweep of his hand.
“I am considering it, certainly. I brought down the Roman heel on the throat of Armorica last year and it seems to have had the opposite effect to that for which I had hoped. Instead of squeezing the resistance from them, I seem to have squeezed a mass of Gauls into a hardened resistance. We can scarce afford a similar situation developing in Aquitania. Whatever we do here must be a permanent end if we are to label Gaul conquered.”
Galronus nodded.
“One way or the other, you mean. Pax Romana with the peoples of Aquitania, or a region totally empty save the graves of uncounted tribes.”
The legate gave a curious smile.
“You dislike and distrust me, Gaul. I can see it in your eyes.”
Galronus opened his mouth, but Crassus waved his unspoken words aside.
“Do not deny it, and rest assured that I dislike you also, though I find, curiously, that I do not distrust you. So tell me truthfully what you believe I should do with the Sotiates?”
Galronus pondered again, scratching his neck. He reached for his wine sack and offered it up to Crassus, who made a face.
“Hardly.”
Shrugging, the Remi officer took a deep swig and leaned back.
“You should accept their surrender in good faith. Offer acceptable terms; even terms favourable to them if you wish to have them watch your back as you move on. But remember too that the sort of leader who will lure you into an ambush is the sort of man to watch even when there is peace.”
Crassus nodded.
“Your thoughts are sensible, Gaul, and I tend to agree.”
Galronus took a deep breath.
“Forgive me, legate, but you didn’t come and find me just to ask my opinion on something you had already thought through yourself.”
Crassus nodded.
“I find myself in the uncomfortable position of requesting that you retake command of the cavalry.”
Galronus smiled knowingly.
“They react somewhat ‘inefficiently’ to your tribunes’ orders?”
The legate glared at him.
“They are Gauls. They are used to serving under a Gaulish commander. I fear you have a grip on your men that no Roman could break.”
Galronus laughed.
“It’s called trust and respect, legate.”
Crassus nodded, his face expressionless.
“Very well” Galronus said, standing and stretching slowly. “I will have to insist that the disposition of the cavalry becomes my responsibility alone, though. You have seen now how shared authority works out.”
Crassus nodded again.
“Agreed. Return to your men, then, commander, and prepare them. We may need to contain attempts to flee, and we will certainly require numerous scout patrols in the coming hours and days.”
As the Remi officer rolled his shoulders, he grinned and pointed out toward the oppidum.
“And you, I suspect, will be busy too, legate. If I’m not mistaken, that looks like their leaders riding out to parlay with you.”
Galronus patted the neck of his steed and stroked her mane as he watched the procedure. The surrender had been civilised and swift, the half dozen top men of the Sotiates riding out to meet the Roman officers and requesting terms. Crassus had, as he had intimated he would to Galronus, offered almost unprecedented good terms, ordering the Gauls to deliver up their arms for disposal, take the oath of allegiance to Rome and forbidding them to take up arms except in the defence of Rome or against mutual enemies. In return, no repercussions would be felt by the Sotiates for their resistance, no hostages taken and no slavery or looting. That last had been particularly surprising, given Crassus’ reputation and the disfavour such an edict would bring on him from his men.
Rusca, the senior tribune, had been placed in charge of processing the surrendering Gauls, collecting their arms and administering the oath. The man seemed to have a knack for organisation and the whole affair was ordered and efficient, the population leaving the oppidum by the main gate, passing before Rusca and his guard, giving their names and professions and surrendering their weapons before moving off to assemble in ordered rows on the plain below the walls, where they would later take the oath before being free to return to their homes.
Galronus sighed. Perhaps the young legate’s thirst for bloodshed had finally been slaked and he was settling into the role of the praetor in a traditional Roman fashion. Still, it would be a long time before the Remi chieftain would be comfortable giving Crassus the benefit of the doubt.
The auxiliary cavalry sat ahorse in large units, keeping a watchful eye on events and upon the assembling unarmed Gauls. He felt some sympathy for them as he glanced up and down the rows, the pride still evident in their eyes, unbroken. Pride was hard to come by in Gaul these days.
A call drew his attention and he turned to see two of his men escorting one of the more important Sotiate warriors toward him. The man was still dressed for battle, his chain shirt a deep grey, the golden torc slung around his neck above it drawing the attention. Though disarmed, the man had retained his armour and the trappings of his rank, sitting astride a horse several hands taller than Galronus’ own.
The man nodded in familiar salute, his long, white-blond hair dropping across his face and hiding the bushy moustache and the steel grey eyes.
“Sir, this man asked to speak to you.”
Galronus smiled at the trooper and then nodded to the Gaulish leader.
“Thank you soldier. You can leave us.”
The troopers trotted off, leaving the two horsemen alone in the summer haze.
“You were once a Gaul.”
Galronus laughed and slipped with ease into his own language, a much different dialect, but close enough to converse easily.
“How incredibly closed-minded of you. I am still a Gaul.”
“You look like a Roman now. Where is your beard? Where is your torc? You wear the uniform of Rome and you talk like them. Even speaking our language, you have their accent.”
Galronus shrugged.
“All things change, my friend. I shave and wear their armour, but my friend who leads their Tenth legion rarely shaves and wears a Belgic torc over his Roman trappings. The tribes could never unite to become one Gaul, and so instead we shall become one Roman Gaul.”
The leader shook his head sadly.
“It may well be as you say, but I will continue to mourn the passing of our freedom.”
“Come,” Galronus prompted, “you did not request to see me to discuss our cultural differences.”
The man straightened in his saddle.
“You are right, of course… I come to bring you a warning. If I am to take an oath of allegiance I would have a clear conscience and not have broken the oath while still uttering it.”
The Remi officer narrowed his eyes.
“You know of some treachery?”
“Six men lead the Sotiates into war. If you look at the horsemen from where I just came, you will see that only five of us have left the city.”
Galronus’ frown deepened.
“One of you intends to bar the town to us again? He would have to be mad.”
“The Sotiates have offered you their surrender, but Adcantuannus and his ‘soldurii’ have refused to accept the terms and lurk inside the town. I offer you this information in the name of your commander’s generous terms.”
The cavalry officer stared past him at the town.
“What are these ‘soldurii’?”
“They are Adcantuannus’ personal war band: thirty score of warriors loyal to him rather than to the tribe. Since Adcantuannus has refused the terms, then so have the soldurii.”
Galronus sighed.
“These men are aware that they endanger the terms granted everyone else by continuing to resist?”
The man nodded wearily.
“They will likely run to join the coalition.”
The Remi officer’s head snapped round sharply.
“The what?”
“The Vocates and the Tarusates’ army. You have not heard of this?”
Galronus straightened again, his blood pumping fast.
“Army?”
The man smiled now, a smug smile that worried Galronus.
“The Vocates and their neighbours have been sending for allies since your legion first crossed the Charanta river. They have sent their warriors and leaders to mass an army in the mountains, where the Spanish tribes will join them.”
Galronus blinked.
“The Spanish tribes?”
The man laughed.
“It would appear we will not have to hold to our oath for too long.”
Galronus’ gaze passed swiftly across the field until he spied Crassus, standing with the other tribunes and a couple of centurions by his hastily-erected command tent, deep in conversation.
“Go over there and relay this to the legate. He may be very generous.”
The man shrugged.
“I tell you this not for my own gain, but because it is right to do so and because your knowing your own doom will not change it.”
Galronus glared at him.
“Just go and tell everything to the commander.”
For a moment, he watched the man ride off, and then wheeled his horse and trotted across to two large gatherings of cavalry, sitting ahorse as they monitored the passage of the tribesfolk. As he reined in, he gestured to two of the officers.
“You, gather fully half the cavalry and have them split and posted around all the other entrances to the oppidum. Be prepared for anyone trying to leave and stop them any way you have to.”
The officer saluted and rode off, and Galronus turned to the other man.
“I want you to take a detachment of five hundred men. Have half of them dismount. We’re going into the city. Meet me at the main gate when you have the men.”
The officer saluted and rode across to his juniors and Galronus sighed. Nothing was ever easy. Sparing a brief glance for the command tent and the Sotiate noble riding toward it, he wheeled once again and rode swiftly across the open space before the gathering tribe. The tribune was deeply involved in his bureaucracy, lines of gleaming legionaries overseeing the disarming process.
“Tribune?” he called as he reined in again and dismounted.
“Commander?”
Rusca gestured to the line to halt and lowered his wax tablet and stylus.
“I have a favour to ask.”
“Go on?”
“I need some heavy troops used to fighting on foot. Could I requisition two of your centuries and their officers? We may be looking at trouble in the town.”
The man frowned and tapped his lip with the stylus.
“It’s most irregular. Requests like that should go through the chain of command and come down to me from the legate.”
Galronus nodded.
“I appreciate that, but the matter is of some urgency.”
Rusca glanced past him at the dismounted cavalry, their mounted comrades riding alongside them as they descended on the gate.
“If it’s serious, take the Second and Fourth centuries. Their centurions are over by the gate.”
Galronus nodded and gave a half-hearted salute, handing his horse’s reins to a legionary and striding across to the centurions.
“You two have been assigned to me for a short time.”
The centurions shared a surprised glance and saluted as the cavalry began to arrive.
“Alright” the officer addressed his mixed force. “We have a rogue leader somewhere in the oppidum, likely trying to break out and make for the mountains. He has a fanatically loyal guard of some six hundred men. If we can get them to surrender without a fight, all to the good, but whatever happens, they don’t leave the settlement except under our guard. We’re going inside and each time we pass a side street, I want mixed parties of legionaries, horsemen and dismounted cavalry to clear the area. You know your ground tactics better than I, but six hundred men should not be hard to find. They can hardly hide in a house.”
The centurions saluted and turned to the cornicen and signifers nearby, calling out their orders.
Galronus gazed through the gate at the broad street beyond. At least this place was small.
The oppidum was even smaller inside than Galronus had expected, the streets forming roughly concentric circles around a central square, with major thoroughfares crossing them and leading from the centre toward the gates, curving and bending as necessary to make their way around structures that had been present before the road system was formed.
It was unusual in Gaulish settlements, but Galronus had seen similar forms before. At some time in the recent decades, fire must have ravaged the oppidum and the town had been rebuilt with more spacious streets in an almost Roman style, allowing for the buildings that had survived the catastrophe to remain.
Whether that was the cause of the layout or not, Galronus was thankful of it. Sweeping the streets of the town with his troops had been made considerably easier by the simple shape they took. Here and there they had come across groups of tribesmen who were making for the main gate to comply with the legate’s terms, though already most of the population had left.
It had taken less than half an hour to sweep most of the settlement clear and now, as the entire scattered force began to join up once again, closing in on the remaining section of town, Galronus was beginning to wonder whether he had been the victim of a strange trick.
His doubts were assuaged, however, as the cavalryman at the front of his small force was suddenly plucked from his saddle and thrown with a shriek against the squat, timber wall of the house behind him.
Before the cry of alarm went up, more arrows struck, peppering the mixed force. Half a dozen men had fallen before the legionaries filtered through the mass to the front, raising their heavy shields and forming a barrier to the deadly hail.
Galronus ran forward, waving a signal to the cavalry officer ahead. While the mounted troops were good for searching the streets and chasing down survivors, they would be of precious little use in harsh fighting at street level. Responding instantly to his orders, the officer called to his men and they raced on past the side street from which the arrows had issued before dismounting and hurriedly finding something to which to tie their reins so they could fall in on foot and join the fight.
Arrows continued to pound the shields of the legionaries as Galronus appeared between the dismounted cavalry and peered round the corner.
The street was seething with men. The Remi commander’s sharp eyes picked out the four important facets of the enemy force in moments. The near side was formed of perhaps a hundred men with spears and bows, defending the rear of Adcantuannus’ soldurii. Far ahead, he could see another smaller group of perhaps fifty or so men making for the postern gate at the end of the road, a plausible route to escape the city. The leader himself was clearly distinguishable, gleaming in bronze and gold, toward the far end of the street with half a dozen burly men around him. The last group that made up the force were the bulk of the ‘soldurii’ gathered at the centre, close by their leader and ready to fight or flee depending upon the circumstances.
Galronus frowned.
This street was a side street that shouldn’t lead to a gate. He’d been round the periphery of the oppidum earlier and marked the location of all the gates with his forces. This gate shouldn’t exist, damn it.
Gritting his teeth, he turned to one of the legionaries, crouching behind his large shield in the third row.
“Give me that!”
The soldier relinquished his shield unhappily and shuffled closer to the man beside him and Galronus mimicked the stance of a defending legionary, hunkering down behind his shield as he squeezed his way through the crowd and out to the front.
As he reached open space, he risked glancing over the rim and immediately ducked back as two arrows thudded into the wood and leather.
“Adcantuannus!”
There was a pause during which the only sound was the occasional thud of arrows against shields and then slowly the firing stopped. Galronus risked another look. The archers stood ready with their arrows nocked, tensing.
“What is it, Roman?”
With a smile, Galronus switched to his native tongue.
“There is nowhere to go, Adcantuannus. The cavalry have you penned in outside. I have more than twice your number here…” a lie, though the man couldn’t know, “and your countrymen are being treated with honour and care. Stop this madness while you can.”
The warrior with the gleaming bronze helm appeared above the crowd, standing high on something unseen. He stood silent for a long moment as, not far behind him, the advance group of warriors had unbarred the gate and were heaving it open.
Adcantuannus turned, gesturing expansively with his outstretched arm. Galronus couldn’t see too much detail but would be willing to bet that the man was grinning.
“See, Roman, how we have a secret exit, unseen from without. Your troops will not be on us before we melt into the landscape and disappear. You will see us again, though, soon enough.”
Galronus smiled.
“I fear you are mistaken, my chief.”
As the gate swung open, a roar erupted outside. The Remi officer couldn’t see past the occupants of the street, but that battle cry from the unseen force beyond the gate was all too familiar to the man who had taught it to the auxilia. Somehow, though he’d not seen the gate on their earlier foray, someone had.
The roar died away, but not the noise, as the cavalry’s voices were replaced by the ground-shaking thunder of their hooves. Galronus almost chuckled as he could see, at the far end of the street, the warriors desperately forcing the gate shut once again, panicked urgency gripping them.
Adcantuannus turned back to him.
“We will still take the head of every man here before we fall.”
Galronus ground his teeth. What was it with these lunatics? There was everything to be said for pride, bravery and honour, but to throw oneself away in the face in hopeless odds was far more suicidal than brave.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped the shield.
He could almost hear the strain of the bows as the archers fought their own instincts to fire.
“Adcantuannus? Don’t be wasteful and short sighted. If Rome is destined to take Aquitania, then the sacrifice of your soldurii will do little to prevent it, other than leaving your wives alone and your children fatherless. If this gathering of warriors in the mountains is destined to stop us, then they can do it without you and the soldurii will still be here when we are gone.”
He sighed.
“Use your head, man!”
There was a thickness to the atmosphere that one could almost cut with a sword.
“There can be no going back for us now. We have denied your terms and your commander will not be lenient. The name of Crassus, the hammer of Armorica, is known to us.”
Galronus took a relieved breath. The tone of the man had shifted barely perceptibly from defiance to defeat. A Roman would not have been able to pick up on it, but a native speaker could spot it in the language, and if they felt defeated, he had them.
With a smile, he looked back down at the shield he had discarded and threw his sword down to join it.
“I give you my word as both a commander in the army of Rome under the praetor Julius Caesar, and as Galronus, a chieftain of the Remi tribe in the lands of the Belgae. I will speak to the legate on your behalf and I promise to secure you the same terms as your brethren who you have spurned, if you will halt this violence and join the other townsfolk in their disarming.”
Adcantuannus paused again and Galronus could still hear the strain of the bow strings.
“You are of the Belgae? It is said the Belgae surpass all the northern peoples in battle?”
“We do” Galronus said in a matter of fact voice. “Now give me your word and I won’t have to tear your men limb from limb with my bare hands!”
The enemy chief barked out a genuine laugh.
“Very well. You secure those terms for us and we will march out and take your oath. If the Belgae can live with the shame, then I suppose we can.”
The creaking stopped as the arrows were removed and the bows lowered. Galronus sighed again.
“Thank you Adcantuannus.”
Turning his back and sauntering away in a deliberate show of trust, the Remi officer collected the fallen sword and shield and returned to his men, passing the shield to its owner.
“Thank you sir. Thought you was a goner for a minute.”
Galronus smiled.
“Me too, soldier. Me too. I must find the man who located that gate outside and buy him a shipload of wine!”
The centurion close by smiled at him.
“I suppose that’s it for now then, sir. We’ll be making camp and securing the land for a few days before we move on?”
Galronus shook his head and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, causing the harness full of phalerae to jingle and clink against the mail beneath.
“Hardly, centurion. We are now in a race against possibly the entire population of Hispania. I suspect the preparations to march are already underway.”
He glanced past the disarming rebels in the street, on past the low town wall and to the distant, hazy, blue-grey peaks of the mountains that separated the Celts of Gaul from their brothers in Spain.
“Mountains full of howling defiance await us yet.”