Narbonensis?”
Crassus swept a hand angrily through the air.
“I have conquered Armorica with
Again, Gallus had to bite his tongue. He’d seen first hand the results of Crassus’ conquest. Pacification by near-genocide. The mass burial pits were still visited by weeping relatives all up and down these lands. Still, the winter would soon be over and then his own legate would return, along with the general and the rest of the staff. Things would change then.
“What are your orders, sir?”
Crassus glared at him for some time and finally slid from his chair and stood, reaching out to the table and swiping his crimson cloak from the surface, fastening it around his shoulders.
“Come with me.”
Gallus nodded and, turning, followed the legate out of the headquarters. The air outside was cloying and unpleasant. A fog had settled earlier in the week and seemed to be set in for the duration, lifting only briefly during the height of the day before descending once again to wrap them in its damp embrace as the sun sank. The unpleasant weather was affecting the mood of the army, who had weathered the crisp cold winter reasonably well, but this damp fog was a whole different matter. It soaked into the clothes and made even the flesh feel soggy and cold, it cut down visibility and shut out the welcome gaze of the sun.
The headquarters had been converted from the house of the Andean chief at Vindunum during the Seventh’s campaign last year. Indeed, the Seventh and their allied legions occupied the entire Gallic oppidum and the surrounding territory on this side of the river, the surviving population having been evicted to the far bank where they had set up makeshift huts to survive the winter. The ‘Pax Romana' as demonstrated by the great Crassus.
Still grinding his teeth, Gallus strode out into the street behind the young commander as he glanced left and right. There were the standard legionary guards on duty outside the headquarters, as well as the granary and other stores, but here in the hub of Roman command, the higher proportion of the sparse figures visible bore the crests and plumes of officers.
“You!”
Gallus frowned as Crassus gestured to two tribunes standing huddled against the cold and studying a wax tablet. The tribunes looked up and Gallus vaguely recognised them from meetings and dice games. Men of the Eleventh, if he remembered correctly.
The two tribunes turned and saluted the legate, standing at attention.
“Identify yourselves.”
“Quintus Velanius, tribunus laticlavius of the Eleventh, sir.”
“Titus Silius, tribunus angusticlavius of the Eleventh, legate.”
Crassus nodded.
“Come with me.”
The two men exchanged anxious glances and, as they fell into step with Gallus at the legate’s heel, they looked around at him questioningly. Gallus shook his head and made a face suggesting they should stay quiet.
The three tribunes pulled their cloaks tighter around them against the numbing fog and traipsed on down the street toward the former centre of the oppidum. As they entered the main square, once more Crassus waved an arm at a man with a tribune’s plume.
“Terrasidius? Join us.”
The tribune, one of the junior, or ‘angusticlavius’ tribunes of the Seventh, turned and came to attention, saluting, before striding toward them. As the five men converged, Crassus gestured to one of the buildings around the square, converted for use as an office for the clerks of the various legions and the camp prefect, nominally Priscus, ex-primus pilus of the Tenth, but who was convalescing in Rome with his commander during the winter.
The small group approached and Terrasidius stepped out ahead to open the door and stand aside politely until the others had entered, closing it behind him as he joined them. This building had clearly been a shop or a tavern before being commandeered by the Seventh. Three clerks worked studiously at desks in the large open room.
“Find something to do outside” Crassus said flatly.
The clerks looked up in alarm and saluted hurriedly before gathering their tablets and styluses in their arms and leaving the room in haste, making their way out of the front door and into the damp, depressing square outside.
“Right.”
Crassus turned to the four tribunes as he leaned back against a desk and folded his arms.
“Tribune Gallus here informs me that we are being too harsh on the Andes here; that we cannot demand any more grain or supplies from them or we may push them into open revolt.”
Gallus’ teeth continued to grind in irritation but, as the other three officers glanced across at him, he noted the sympathy and understanding in their eyes.
“So” the legate continued circling his neck to the sound of bones clicking. “What are the options?”
He fell silent, but none of the tribunes fell into the trap. Crassus nodded to himself.
“One: we banish the Andes altogether and send them to leech off one of the other tribes in this benighted land, while we commandeer their remaining stocks. Certainly the easiest option, and their own stores should see the army through until spring, when we will move again.”
Gallus noted the almost despairing looks on his peers and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately not to comment.
“Two: We send to Narbonensis or Cisalpine Gaul in Caesar’s name for extra supplies. Of course, it would be more than a month before anything gets to us and we run the risk or putting forth the appearance that the better part of seven of Rome’s elite legions cannot even gather enough supplies to keep themselves fed.”
He peered at the tribunes and allowed his gaze to rest on Gallus.
“Or three: we extend our demands to other tribes. At the risk of testing tribune Gallus’ ‘bend-or-break’ theory, we procure every ounce of provision we need from the various tribes we have conquered.”
One of the tribunes cleared his throat, but said nothing.
“No opinions, gentlemen?”
Velanius of the Eleventh scratched his chin. Gallus noted that he winced in anticipation as he opened his mouth.
“It has been a harsh and freezing winter, legate. Most of the tribes will be in a similar state. I’m not at all sure how much they will be able to spare. Back down on the coast of the Mare Nostrum, however, where it’s been warmer…”
His voice tailed off and he fell uncomfortably silent.
“Since the lot of you seem to be so concerned about the tender feelings of these pointless barbarians, it strikes me that I could hardly find any better men to send.”
Straightening, he strode across to the wall, where a map was pinned to the timber, giving the locations of the local tribes and settlements, along with the disposition of the various scouts and spies. He examined the map for some time while the tribunes watched unhappily. Finally, he tapped his fingers on the vellum.
“There you go: Gallus, you’ll take a detachment of cavalry as a bodyguard and go to the Curiosolitae. Their capitol is some turd hole near the north coast. We checked it out briefly last year and it was hardly worth our attention, but there’s good farmland around them. You should be able to get fully half of what we need from them. I would suggest you threaten them with the heel of the Roman boot, but you can use your charm if you prefer.”
Ignoring the rising colour in Gallus’ face, he turned to the others, his finger sliding down the map and coming to rest on the jagged lines of the southern coast of the peninsula.
“The Venati are somewhat fractious and spread out and will be more difficult to deal with. We’re not even sure where their centre is, so you two” he gestured at Velanius and Silius, “will need to take two turmae of cavalry
