Caesar nodded his agreement and the two men turned back to the scene as the third victim, this time a woman, was dropped to the bloody, wet earth on her knees.
‘Where is Ambiorix, king of the Eburones?’
A repeat in translation.
The woman spat a string of words at Caesar and received a slap to the cheek from the knife-wielding legionary. The slap was hard enough to break cheek or jaw, as the loud crack announced, and the woman slumped slightly. Caesar threw a questioning look at the Remi translator, but he shook his head and replied that the woman had simply cursed Caesar for a devil.
‘And now she is useless anyway since she cannot answer through her ruined jaw,’ the general added irritably. At a gesture, the centurion gave the order and her throat was opened.
Fronto watched impassively along with the other officers, including the slightly pale Crassus, while the next few farmers and their wives were brought out, questioned, and executed quickly and efficiently. Crassus muttered his gratitude that the Ninth had been vanguard and therefore given this grisly task, and not his Tenth. Fronto fought the irritation at that last part, but could only echo the young legate’s gratitude that the Tenth had not been set to executing farmers.
Seven dead now, their bodies blazing in the inferno of one of their homes.
Crassus gave a sharp intake of breath as he watched a boy of perhaps seven summers being dragged from the pen. The lad’s parents were shouting desperately and clawing at the hard legionaries holding them back.
‘Where is Ambiorix of the Eburones?’
‘Surely he cannot know?’ Crassus whispered in a hollow voice.
‘Unlikely,’ Antonius nodded, ‘but his parents might, and it could shock some sense into them all.’
Crassus watched in horror as the boy shook, making his throat-cutting a difficult chore, but the legionary was a professional, and held the boy’s head while he was dispatched. The rising wails and shrieks from the corral confirmed the effect this brutal display had had upon the locals.
Caesar gestured, and the centurion gave the commands, but the Remi translator waved his hand and shouted something to Galronus. The cavalry officer turned to Caesar and raised his own arm to pause the string of deaths.
‘Three of the Nervii are shouting Avenna,’ he said quietly.
‘And what is Avenna?’ Caesar asked.
‘The Nervii are quite advanced for a Belgic tribe,’ Galronus said, with what appeared to be grudging respect. ‘Almost as advanced as the Remi,’ he added pointedly. ‘They have a council, like the Roman senate and a capital city like Rome, which is the heart of their tribe. Avenna is less than a day’s march north of here.’
‘Avenna sounds as likely a place to find Ambiorix as anywhere else, then,’ Antonius noted.
‘More likely than most,’ agreed Caesar. ‘Very well.’ He returned his attention to the centurion and raised his voice. ‘End it. We are done here and ready to move on.’
The centurion nodded and began shouting his orders to the men. As the last of the livestock and grain was being loaded, the huts burning down now to orange embers billowing with black smoke, the rest of the villagers were roped together at neck and wrist and sent off with three centuries of men to lead them back to Samarobriva and a future of slavery, the profits of which would supplement the income of the army by a minute sum.
‘It seems almost too good to be true,’ Fronto noted to Antonius. ‘To pin the bugger down so quickly, I mean.’
‘Agreed,’ the other officer replied. ‘With any luck we’ll deal with him in short order and the army can be moved out into garrisons to deal with these various other threats we keep hearing about.
Fronto nodded, though he couldn’t help but fear that this was far from over yet. Something was still nagging him about that Arverni noble back in Bibracte and the way the man had spoken of Ambiorix. There was mystery wrapped up in all of this and he couldn’t believe it would all be this easy.
* * * * *
Avenna was, Fronto had to admit, impressive. As far as Gallic or Belgic defended settlements went, it ranked up there with the best. It was not large, being perhaps a third of a mile across at the widest point, and claimed no benefit from the topography, lying fairly low in an area of even lower, featureless ground.
But its defences were solid.
A low earth rampart had been topped with a wall of the type they now knew was typical of the Gallic peoples: constructed from a framework of wooden beams, the outer of which was faced with heavy stones between the supporting timber, the inner backed by a solid, earthen bank, and the framework itself packed throughout with a core of rubble and dirt.
It was a solid system and a good one, very hard to bring down with siege engines.
The oppidum seemed to have been constructed in three sections, with a separate enclosure to the west, consisting of perhaps a quarter of the whole, with its own west-facing gate, while the main enclosure with its southern entrance contained a further individual and double-walled hill at its easternmost edge.
‘Why the three sections?’ Antonius mused.
Fronto, however, had spent years traipsing around similar fortifications all over Gaul. He shrugged. ‘There’s very little uniformity in the Gauls’ settlements, even within the same tribe, so unless you get in and have a look, there’s no knowing for sure, but I’d wager that the separate western enclosure is a sacred druid grove. You can see even from here that there’s no smoke from household fires rising over the top, and there seem to be a lot of treetops there. If not religious, then it’s perhaps some sort of animal and farming compound? The main section is the city itself — you can see the chimney smoke rising. The heavily fortified hill is interesting. I’d expect that’s where their council meets, and their leaders live.’
Antonius nodded. ‘Seems a fair assessment. And here’s mine: this place is too bloody strong by far. It’ll take a week to demolish enough of those defences to get inside in sufficient numbers. The cavalry are no use, and any infantry assault is going to be extremely costly. Have you seen that gate?’
Fronto grunted an affirmative as he squinted into the slightly misty cold air. The huge, heavy walls — easily the height of two men — turned sharply inwards, forming a wide approach to the gatehouse, which was set back some way, providing a killing zone perhaps twenty paces wide and as deep before any attacker could reach the huge double gated entrance with its tower above. An attack there would invite death from a hundred arrows, bullets and rocks. Not that the rest of the defences would be any easier, of course. Antonius was right about the cost in manpower.
‘Then let’s hope we don’t need to breach it then, eh?’
Ahead, Caesar gave the signal and the knot of mounted officers, along with Caesar’s bodyguard under the command of young Ingenuus, trotted out ahead of the slowly assembling army, making for the gate. Fronto glanced to the side to see his own bodyguard drawn up behind Masgava and Palmatus. They looked somewhat unhappy at remaining with the legions, but Fronto had put his foot down and refused to let them join the staff officers. The general kept giving him funny looks and he was sure it was something to do with his new singulares unit. What he really didn’t need at the moment was something else to irritate Caesar. The man still barely acknowledged Fronto’s existence, despite Antonius’ frequent attempts to bring him around. If this went on for much longer, it would hardly be worth remaining in Gaul.
Grumbling under his breath, Fronto rode on with the other officers, sticking close to Priscus and Antonius as they approached the solid, defiant ramparts of the Avenna oppidum. Already the walls were thronged with Nervii, standing with spears or bows and watching the assembling might of the Republic on the plain before them. It had to be a daunting sight, and yet there appeared to be no trace of fear or panic emanating from the city.