Gallia Invicta

“Ah, tribune. My congratulations and thanks for a very successful action. Is the cavalry commander not present?”

Rusca smiled back at him.

“Galronus has gone for a while. I doubt he’ll return before nightfall. He and his men went off to hunt down the fleeing enemy. Whether he intends to return with them in chains, or just ‘chastise’ them, I’m not sure.”

Crassus nodded in satisfaction.

“He is to be commended.”

The legate turned his attention back to the cowering men before him.

“Who is your leader?”

There was a pregnant pause and finally one of the kneeling figures spoke in a deep, cracked voice.

“I am Beltas of the Cantabri. I lead this camp.”

Crassus shook his head.

“You led this camp. I am impressed with the scale of your adoption of our ways, though I am somewhat dismayed to find you using them against us, particularly in the defence of another people.”

The man remained silent.

“Good. At least you know when not to talk. Not all the Cantabri crossed the mountains to fight us?”

“No, general.”

Crassus nodded.

“Good. I do not want to be remembered as the man who destroyed an entire people. You realise that I am not afforded a great deal of room for mercy?”

Silence again.

“You must die, Beltas; you and your followers. I cannot have the peoples of Aquitania and Spain believing they can rebel as much as they like without punishment. You have forced my hand to this, but you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that I will carry no campaign against your people across the mountains. You will suffer for what you have done, but your wives and children will live on safe in their homes, so long as they stay there.”

The legate turned to the tribunes behind him.

“Round up every survivor you can find from the area, marshal them here in the fort and then split them into tribal groupings. There are at least a dozen different peoples involved here, some Aquitanian and others Spanish. Take them in those groups and crucify them in all the high places so that they can be seen from afar.”

A moan of dismay rose from several of the kneeling men.

“Make sure that any Spanish tribesmen are raised on their posts in the passes that lead down from the mountains to greet any reinforcements that may be tempted to continue on against us.”

He turned to walk away, but stopped, tapping his lip as though with an afterthought.

“But I shall still show the little mercy that I can. Should any man request mercy, you may cut and break them to speed their death. Moreover, any survivor you find that you feel should be too young or too old to take up arms, send them home and tell them to stay there and grow crops.”

As the legate strode away, Rusca wandered across to him.

“Mercy? Is it wise?”

Crassus shrugged.

“With the will of the Gods, this will be our last battle in Gaul and I have no wish to provoke any further rebellion. Hopefully this will have broken resistance but not prompted the surviving tribes to continue the troubles. We will wait three days to see if any other force turns up and then I shall send to Caesar my compliments and the message that Aquitania is ours. I don’t think we will see any trouble in those three days.”

Rusca nodded.

“But we stay here as garrison for now, sir? To be sure?”

The legate nodded.

“For now. At least until Caesar clears my return to Rome. Summer passes rapidly, tribune, and I have no desire to winter with the troops another year.”

Rusca nodded his heartfelt agreement. The more he thought about Rome and its pleasant diversions, the more he yearned for it. Perhaps they would all return soon, if the general had managed to suppress the Veneti.

Chapter 18

(Sextilis: Darioritum, Caesar’s camp on the Armorican coast.)

Fronto drummed his fingers irritably on the tent frame, half hoping that the noise would distract the general inside enough to open up. The courier had been inside for five full minutes now, while Fronto paced back and forth, grumbling, under the watchful eyes of Brutus, Roscius and Crispus. Sighing, he rapped angrily on the wood and then began to pace once more.

“You’ll wear a rut in the turf, then we’ll all trip over it on our way out.”

Fronto threw a dark look at Brutus and continued to stomp in the springy grass.

“Well we’re clearly not going home, anyway.”

“What makes you think that?”

Fronto pointed at the tent door in an exaggerated gesture.

“Don’t you think that if everything was tidy and neat and dealt with, the general would have bounded out of there like a spring lamb, all smiles and so on? No. Something’s happened.”

Brutus frowned. The messages of Sabinus’ success on the north coast of Armorica and then the remarkable news that Crassus had tamed Aquitania had come in swift succession, a cause for celebration throughout the army, both officers and men alike. It did appear that finally the general’s claim to have conquered Gaul could actually be said to be accurate. The northwest was settled, the south west cowed, the centre and southeast largely allied with the general…

Which left the northeast; the territory of the Belgae and the Germanic tribes, under the watch of Titus Labienus and his small force. The past two weeks had seen the celebratory atmosphere fade once more as the army settled into an uneasy wait for news from the northeast. And this morning, just as Fronto had finished bathing away his bad head and dressed in clean gear, Labienus’ riders had finally arrived and made straight for the general’s tent.

Crispus shook his head dismissively.

“Don’t read anything into it yet, Marcus. Only the Gods and the entrails of goats know the future. You’ve just been on edge ever since Priscus’ last letter.”

Again, Fronto stopped pacing to throw an irritated look at one of his friends, and there was a muted warning in that gaze.

“Oh come on, Fronto. You’ve been so edgy since then, your friends have been walking on egg shells. Your patience seems to have all but vanished. Why won’t you tell anyone what was in the letter.”

“Aulus, you of all people should know when you need to keep that nose out of things. It’s personal, alright?”

Brutus shook his head.

“ It’s not just the letter… I think he’s been like this ever since Balbus left.”

Fronto drew a deep breath. His face was beginning to colour.

“Why don’t you lot piss off and stop trying to analyse my mood? I just want to get home and…” he threw his arms up in the air “I just want to go home, right?”

The others fell silent, unwilling to provoke the older legate again. Fronto had been quick to anger for the last fortnight. He had been involved in three brawls and had blackened the eye of one of the staff officers who had had the unfortunate luck to remark on men of Balbus’ age being allowed to remain in command while in Fronto’s earshot.

“I just want to go home” Fronto repeated as though to himself, his gaze falling to the floor.