Gallia Invicta

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?”