“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
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.”
Chapter 17
(Quintilis: The foothills of the Pyrenees.)
Crassus strode through the tent’s doorway, brushing the leather flap aside without taking his eyes from the fortification ahead.
“Well, commander? What have the scouts found?”
The army had arrived at the foothills of the mighty mountain range that separated the tribes of Spain and Gaul two days ago, following rumours and reports of the massing of tribes gathered from scattered farmers by the scouts. Then, yesterday afternoon, as the Seventh and their support entered the lowest channels of the passes into the peaks, they had made a disquieting discovery.
The confederation of tribes, or at least a part of it, had constructed a camp on a high ridge that stood above a fork in the valleys and commanded a powerful position. This in itself was hardly a surprise, but the form of the camp and its defenders was startlingly familiar.
Now, as Galronus stood before the legate, his eyes turned to follow the man’s gaze, falling on the fortifications opposite. The tribes had constructed a camp of a perfectly Roman form, with ramparts, ditches, gatehouses and towers and even from this distance the two men could see the rows of ordered tents within, gathered around a central headquarters area. They might as well have been looking at their own camp.
Galronus drew a deep breath.
“It’s very much as you feared, legate. Their fort is well constructed on a perfect Roman model and sizeable enough to hold at least twice our number. As yet it seems to be half empty, so presumably they’re still expecting many more reinforcements from across the mountains, but my scouts have spotted nothing so far. I’ve set them keeping watch on every pass and valley for eight miles, so we’ll have plenty of warning before they arrive.”
“And what of the fort’s defences? Anything I can use?”
The Remi commander shrugged.
“The rampart and palisade are perfectly Roman, so you know exactly what to expect. I would guess that any leader who has adopted your ways that far probably doesn’t stop at the walls. The camp seems to be laid out in Roman fashion and I heard calls being issued by a great horn. The only slight advantage we can identify is the southern side. The camp is surrounded by a triple ditch on all the other approaches, but only by one half-cut ditch on the south, due to the nature of the rocky ground there. Problem is that the approach to the south is a narrow spur with a frightening drop at either side; what Fronto calls a ‘killing ground’.”
Crassus nodded.
“They have very much adopted our ways. I have heard of this before in the northern reaches of Spain. The tribes there fought in the great war under Sertorius almost twenty years ago. They hailed him the ‘new Hannibal’ if you can believe it. Sertorius spent years in Spain teaching their tribes and leaders how to be more Roman. Now look how it turned out.”
Galronus took another deep breath. Being the bearer of bad tidings was never a good thing, and Crassus hardly held him in high regard as it was.
“There’s worse news.”
The legate squared his shoulders and spoke without taking his eyes from the fortified position on the opposite spur.
“Go on.”
“They are sending forays out down into the valley. The supplies we brought with us up here are all we’re likely to get. Groups of enemies are scattered all over the countryside below, effectively sealing off the passes. No new supplies will reach us unless we send a sizeable escort for them.”
Crassus nodded.
“Which, of course, we cannot do without weakening ourselves too much here. We should have brought months’ worth of supplies, but haste was of the essence, sadly.”
He turned to the tribunes, standing silent nearby.
“What is the situation with our supplies?”
“We have food supplies for a week. More if we stretch and ration it, but we risk weakening the men. Water is not an issue as there are streams and springs in the area.”
Crassus shook his head.
“Unless those springs are in sight of our current position, disregard them. If the enemy are setting small ambush groups up in the valleys below, be sure they are also sealing off any free supplies. If they haven’t found a way to poison the water against us, they will be watching it, ready to take us on. No. We rely on what we brought or what we can see from here.”
Galronus nodded thoughtfully. Tertullus had told him that Crassus, for all his faults, was no fool tactically, and the ageing tribune appeared to be absolutely right. Galronus would be willing to bet that any source of food or drink within reach had already been dealt with.
