The centurion’s eyes widened. ‘That’s mad, sir.’
‘Remember to whom you speak, centurion.’
‘Apologies, sir, but these people don’t give two wet shits about us already — even the ones who are supposedly our allies. I really can’t see anyone volunteering to save us from the Treveri.’
‘That’s because you have haven’t thought of it from their point of view, centurion. You need to brief the men you send on the necessary angle of attack and bring up all the following salient points: the local tribes are peaceful now and have good trade relations with us. We are demanding nothing of them other than a small tithe agreed years ago with Caesar to help us against the rebels. The Treveri may be distant cousins to our locals, but you need to emphasise the fact that their leader has tried to petition the Germanics across the river to join him. None of the local tribes will like that. The Germanic peoples have only ever been aggressors and invaders. I think you’ll find that many of the Gauls hate the tribes across the river more even than they hate us. Moreover no settled, law-abiding and honourable Gaul will like the idea of an army of bandits, murderers and other scum moving into their lands. Appeal to their honour and their sense of self-preservation. Remind them that we are here trying to build links between our people, and remind them of the last few times the tribes across the river came into their territory. I think you’ll be surprised just how many volunteers you get.’
The centurion grinned. ‘No one likes a thief in their garden, that’s for sure, sir.’
‘Precisely. Succinctly put. Now get your best rhetoricians saddled and ready to go. We don’t know how long we have before the Treveri decide to come and stand on us, and I want a cavalry force to be reckoned with assembled by then.’
‘I still don’t see what good that will do us, sir,’ the centurion replied.
‘That, my good man, is because you have never ridden a horse into battle.’
As the centurion saluted and disappeared off to find the men he would need, Labienus watched the Gallic spy riding out through the gate towards the Treveri once again.
It was a gamble. But it was always worth gambling a little if the stakes were the prevention of a full scale war. Now to make the camp impregnable, or as near as damn it. It was always worth preparing for the worst.
* * * * *
Sextius Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, veteran of dozens of engagements and eighth highest-ranking man in the camp — including several pointless boyish junior tribunes — struggled upright at the end of his cot.
‘Lie down, centurion,’ said the orderly from across the room, where he was engrossed in some arcane medicinal duty involving bottles and dangerous looking liquids.
‘I will forget that you just tried to impose an order on your senior centurion, soldier.’
‘With respect, Primus Pilus, the medicus’ authority exceeds your own in this place, and I speak with his authority, given by the man himself.’
‘Unless you want that authority bottled and stuffed up your arse, go about your business and forget that you saw me,’ Baculus growled. He was being unusually bad tempered, he knew, but his temper had seemed to decline with his general state of health. He looked to one side, to where a legionary he didn’t know was grinning. The man’s smile disappeared as Baculus’ glare passed across him. ‘Laugh it up, lad. It’s your diseased bowels polluting the air in here that’s half the reason I’m vacating for a bit. If you keep farting like that you’re going to turn inside out. Every morning I expect to see your liver hanging out of your arse.’
The soldier, embarrassed, turned his gaze down to the bed.
‘That’s better.’
He struggled to his feet, tottered a little, and then reached out for the stick at the foot of the bed. Grasping it, he staggered towards the door. While most of the men were still in their military tunics, soaked with sick-sweat, Baculus had also retained his belt and baldric’d sword. He wouldn’t be parted from them until he was dead, and probably not even then. With a deep breath — one that he wished he hadn’t taken in this nauseating miasma — he took a few unsteady steps across the room until he managed to strengthen his stride, and pulled open the door.
The valetudinarium of this more or less permanent temporary camp consisted of the sick-hut in which he was currently confined, a tent that performed a similar role for the less fortunate, a surgical tent and the medicus’ own quarters. As was often the case, the hospital complex was kept as far apart from the headquarters and the barrack lines as possible. In the case of this particular camp, that put it out near the east gate, close to the stables and the workshop tent, away from the bulk of the population, in case of infection.
The upshot was that when Baculus pulled open the door, he was confronted with the area given over to the small cavalry detachment that had accompanied the Twelfth to its winter quarters.
Small no longer. Two days ago, new allied auxiliaries had started riding in, in groups of a dozen or more — sometimes nearing a hundred — and now the entire cavalry section had been expanded to cater for them. The workshops had been taken down and stored, their space donated for more stabling. He’d heard men grumbling that their amenities had been removed — three large communal social/mess tents that were only ever erected in winter quarters — in order to provide space for the new horsemen to make camp.
He’d peeked out of the door a few times over the past two days, keeping an eye on things and watching the cavalry contingent grow. He’d wished Labienus would drop by so he could get some answers over this whole thing, but the legate had not appeared and, despite his resilience and refusal to obey the outspoken physician, Baculus would have to admit if pressed that he was weak as a kitten and really could not bring himself to go find his commander.
But this morning things were different. He’d heard the warning blasts from the legion’s musicians, summoning the men to stand to, indicating an enemy force in view. This had been followed only a short while ago by sudden frenzied activity among the cavalry outside. Baculus could hardly contain himself any more.
‘You!’ he snapped at one of the few regular cavalrymen he could see.
‘Sir?’ replied the soldier, startled, turning with the reins of his horse in his hand.
Taking a deep breath, Baculus hobbled out of the building and onto the lightly-gravelled road. ‘I’m feeling a little weak. I need your horse.’
The trooper opened his mouth to argue, noted the look on the centurion’s face, and saluted, holding forth the reins. Baculus hobbled over and without the need for a request, the soldier helped him into the saddle, grunting with the effort.
‘You’ll have it back before you need it,’ said Baculus, noting the slightly panicked look on the soldier’s face as he shuffled into the saddle. Grasping the horns, he turned the beast and trotted it back to the headquarters section at the camp’s centre and then north towards the gate where there was a great deal of commotion. He could see from here a seething mass of Gauls assembled on the low rise opposite, with more still arriving from the northeast.
Wincing with effort, he held tight to the reins until he bore down on the party at the gate, and then slowed. Never a natural horseman, his current condition made his control of the skittish beast less than impressive. The tribunes had gathered at the gate with Labienus and a number of standard bearers and musicians, and their horses were being led out by the camp equisio from the intervallum road that wound around inside the wall. Labienus and his lesser officers looked up at the sound of the approaching horse and the commander’s eyes rolled.
‘I thought you were confined to your cot, centurion.’
Baculus made to slide from the horse, but Labienus waved him to stop. ‘Stay in the saddle man. At least you won’t fall over up there. Besides, we’re mounting up, ourselves. I presume you’re aware of what’s happening?’