Gallia Invicta

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