Gallia Invicta

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.”