Gallia Invicta

He’d been unaware of the general’s presence until Caesar’s smooth voice spoke nearby.

“Not quite yet, I’m afraid, Fronto.”

He looked up sharply to see the general standing in the tent’s doorway. The man moved with such silence and grace when he wanted to and had made no noise as he lifted the tent flap aside.

“Come in” he addressed the officers.

Fronto was first through the flap and, while the other three walked across and hovered by chairs until the general returned to his desk, the legate of the Tenth simply sank straight into a chair. The general gave him a sharp look, but then seated himself and gestured to the rest to do the same. A cavalry trooper, still dirty and fully equipped from his ride, stood to attention to the side of the table.

“I expect you’re all eager to know the situation?”

“We’re not going home. That means someone else needs a kicking” Fronto said flatly.

Again, Caesar’s sharp gaze passed across the legate. Brutus frowned. Could it be that even the general was treading carefully around him?

“There will be a little delay in our campaign’s conclusion, yes. Labienus has done some sterling work among the Belgae. It appears that Nemetocenna is becoming something of a cultural centre, where the locals are beginning to learn a more civilised tongue and to appreciate the benefits of heated floors, fresh water supplies, and the security afforded by Rome. He believes he has the trust of the local tribes now to the extent that he feels a caretaker garrison will soon be entirely unnecessary.”

The general leaned back.

“He has a number of men due their retirement and has requested that they and any others among our own legions who are amenable be granted funds and lands around the Belgae. He believes that mixing our veterans in the local environment will help lead them toward becoming more Roman.”

Fronto let out a low rumble.

“What was that?”

The legate looked up, his head still lowered so that his eyes shone white, and slightly pink, in the dim tent interior.

“I said: why the hell are we not going home then?”

Caesar’s eyes flashed again momentarily and then he forced a smile, clearly covering his irritation.

“Not all of the north-eastern tribes are settling with Labienus’ view of the future. Two tribes…” Caesar unrolled the scroll on the table and scanned down it once more “the Morini and the Menapii, are causing trouble.”

Brutus frowned.

“They’re coastal tribes if I remember my geography correctly? On the north coast, opposite Britannia, yes? Is the fleet to be mobilised?”

Fronto shook his head.

“Screw the fleet. Labienus has a cohort of legionaries, loads of auxiliary units and enough cavalry to flatten a small country. Why can’t he deal with them? Is he too busy teaching Belgic children to read and massaging the feet of their women?”

The general glared at him again.

“Try to act like a commander in the army of Rome, Fronto, and not a petulant child. The bulk of Labienus’ forces are spread out all along the Rhine, making sure that the German tribes don’t decide to cross and get involved. To withdraw them to deal with two rebellious tribes would be to put the entire Belgic region in danger of German raids or even invasion. The tribes across the Rhine have not forgotten the chastisement at Vesontio two years ago.”

He sighed and stood.

“I am allowing the remainder of the day to put the army in order. They have languished here a full month now, but it is time to gather their equipment, to take down the tents and prepare to move. In the morning we march for the coast, collect Sabinus and his forces, and then turn east. I will not return to Rome while any of Gaul is still refusing us. Gaul must be settled before we leave.”

The vanguard reined in on a low hillock, the army stretching out along the plain behind them. Caesar narrowed his eyes at the forests ahead as the senior officers walked their horses forward to join him.

The journey had been long and tedious since Darioritum, despite the camaraderie of the reunion with Sabinus and the tales he had to tell of his Gaulish warriors and their infiltration of the enemy. Sextilis with its welcome glorious sunshine and armour-heating temperatures had given way to September with its earlier nights that drew in with a chill, particularly this close to the roiling northern sea. Often the officers would awake in the morning to find that the night had brought with it a sprinkling of rain that left the morning grass damp.

The change in the season, following such a brief summer, affected the mood of every last man and there was little joy to be found among the seven legions of Caesar’s army.

The knowledge that they were travelling to put down yet another insurrection by the ever rebellious Gallic tribes also frayed at the edges of Roman nerves across the whole range of rank and file. The officers had initially fallen in line with Caesar’s hope for a brief punitive push before turning south, but the past four days in the territory of the Morini had forced a change of plan.

Like the Veneti before, who had abandoned all their settlements and retreated to their coastal fortresses, the Morini and the Menapii had taken all the goods they could transport, left their oppida and villages, and disappeared into the deep woodland that stretched from the lands of the Belgae to the marshy delta of the Rhine.

The tribes had been short-sighted in only one regard. Had they not left tracks, they could have disappeared without trace and the army of Rome might have searched the northern lands for a year without pinning down any number of the enemy to fight. But the Menapii particularly had been unwilling to leave anything behind for the Romans that they might save, and the wreckage done to the landscape by the traversing of thousands of feet and heavily laden carts spoke clearly not only of the directions that the tribes had taken, but also of how recently they had done so.

And now, here at what felt like the end of the world on an afternoon when the weather was threatening to turn inclement, the officers came to a halt with their general on the low rise, watching the tracks in the dirt before them that disappeared into the eaves of the forest in four different places.

“Do we split the legions and send them in, Caesar?”

The general turned to look at Sabinus and shook his head.

“No; it would be suicidally reckless to string out the army in the depths of the forest with the enemy already ensconced. It would be all too easy for them to decimate the legions that way. We need to meet them on open ground, which means forcing them out of there.”

Fronto frowned and gestured expansively at the forest’s edge.

“Easy enough to say, but there’s a hundred miles of woodland there. They could survive there almost indefinitely, especially with all their goods they’ve taken in. We could send in scouts?”

Again the general shook his head.

“These are their woods; they know them well. Our scouts would likely never return.”

“So what do we do?”

“Firstly we make camp, and we make well-defended camp at that.”

He turned and cast his gaze left and right along the tree line.

“Sabinus and Crispus? Take the Eleventh to the northwest and make camp within sight of the sea, close to the woodland; that’s about fifteen miles. As you travel, have signal stations set along the route. Rufus? You head east for twenty miles and do the same. Galba? You follow them and go a further twenty. We will create a cordon around these woods and keep them trapped and penned in while we work. Sooner or later they will have to show themselves.”

Fronto grumbled.

“We could be here for a year doing that. And what happens when they just move further and further east and then leave the woodlands and pass round the end of your cordon?”

The general smiled.