The duty centurion and a contubernium of his men stood nearby, watching the scene carefully.
“If you really want to take it out on these ambassadors” Fronto muttered to Caesar, “all you have to do is open the doors and let those cavalrymen in. They’ll tear them to shreds by hand.”
Caesar nodded.
“I cannot deny it is tempting. But I want to speak to them first.”
As they arrived, the duty centurion bellowed a command that opened up a path through the crowd. Caesar and his party of officers strode through. Labienus’ face, Fronto noted, showed a personal battle raging within, conflicting emotions fighting for control of him. The man was the army’s greatest advocate for peaceful solutions these days.
Fronto had asked him about it one night in camp and Labienus’ eyes had taken on a haunted look. “Back when we fought the Belgae, Marcus” he had replied. “Women and children. Old men. So many. So needless. Just so that they couldn’t be enslaved. You never saw the piles of babies. It… it changes a man.”
Fronto had tactfully pressed no further, but something that had happened to Labienus two years ago seemed to have knocked from him the will to conquer. In its place it had left a man who Fronto — truth be told — much preferred. The Labienus who served Caesar now was a thoughtful, peaceful and calm man. He would be a man Fronto would value as a friend in Puteoli. But to an army on campaign, all it did was make him less effective and possibly even dangerous to have along. Even now he fought his own demons at every turn.
Labienus seemed to come to some decision and his face took on a stony impassiveness.
At a word from Caesar, the man on each side of the gate set his pilum point-down in the turf and heaved the bar to one side, freeing the gate. Two other men immediately moved in with their javelins, keeping them levelled as the gate ground slowly open. The caution turned out to be somewhat unnecessary, given that the dozen prisoners sat at the far side of the enclosure, their arms encircling their knees.
After the group of low-status warriors and peasants that had masqueraded as ambassadors yesterday to keep the officers busy, these men were clearly the real thing. Their weapons and armour had been stripped by the duty officer and his men upon their arrival, but their clothes were reminiscent of the high quality woollen garments worn by the Belgic nobles, and they were adorned with gold and bronze arm rings, torcs and finger rings.
As Caesar strode first into the enclosure, waving aside the worried protests of the guards, the enemy ambassadors stood and bowed surprisingly deeply and deferentially.
“Great Caesar.”
The general said nothing, merely coming to a halt in the centre of the stockade, with his officers fanning out to either side.
“Caesar, we have come to denounce a traitor in our own tribe and publically distance ourselves from the man who led an unauthorised attack on your army yesterday. If you will agree to hear us out and open talks with us, we are authorised to deliver this man to you for punishment.”
An unpleasant, feral smile curved Caesar’s lip.
“Fronto is right. You are relaxed and vital. You have not been in the saddle more than a few hours. I think your camp is less than twenty miles away; perhaps even ten.”
The ambassadors frowned at the strange turn of conversation.
Caesar turned to the duty centurion who had moved in with his men to join them. “Your sword please, centurion.”
The officer obliged, withdrawing a well-tended and wickedly-sharp gladius with a personalised hilt bearing images of the Dioscuri carved in bone. Caesar reached across and took the handle with an appreciative gaze. “A nice weapon, centurion. I shall be careful not to damage it.”
Everyone in the party accompanying the general had a fair idea of what was about to happen next. Labienus, Fronto noted, turned his face away.
Caesar stepped forward, the sword hanging by his side, coming to a halt an arm’s-length away from the vocal diplomat. Without preamble or explanation, he lanced out with the blade, driving the point into the man’s stomach. The barbarian’s eyes widened in shock, but Caesar calmly turned the sword slightly and ripped it across to the other side of the man’s stomach, tearing the steel free at the furthest extent and raising it to look at the crimson blade.
“It may, however, need a good clean, centurion.”
The officer shrugged. “I have a man for that, general.”
The barbarian stared down at the wide slash in his belly, his eyes wide with shock, fresh waves of horror and nausea assaulting him as he watched the first purple and pale coils of his intestines slipping out of the hole. Desperately, he grasped the loops and tried to prevent their escape, stuffing is own insides back through the jagged rent. Caesar watched with an interested frown as the man gradually went pale with the pain and effort and sank to his knees in tears, trying to contain his innards.
The other eleven ambassadors had moved sharply forward at the attack, but the centurion’s men had stepped to meet them, javelins and swords levelled threateningly.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded one of the nobles in very strong Latin, though thick with some barbaric accent.
Caesar glanced down at the man and then the blade in his hand, flexing his arm muscles as though preparing for another strike.
“Sometimes” he said quietly, “people can assume that threats are merely empty, hollow things that are used to bargain with. I wanted you to be very well aware of the realism and accuracy of any threat I might level. I hope that this has made very clear just how little your very existence means to me and to what levels I am prepared to sink to achieve my aims.”
There was a silence that spoke of frightened understanding.
“Good. We have fallen foul of your trickery once and our cavalry paid a heavy price.”
He stepped toward the man who had challenged his strike. The man backed a step away, but Caesar followed a pace and the man suddenly became aware that other soldiers had entered the stockade and lined the walls, surrounding them all.
“Now” Caesar said calmly, “tell me the precise location of your camp.”
The man frowned. “We are camped by the river near here.”
“Not precise enough.” Caesar’s blade lanced out, cutting a slice from the man’s arm. The ambassador cried out in pain.
“Oh shut up, man. I’ve suffered worse myself. Now tell me the precise location of your camp.”
One of the other barbarians stepped forward. “Three hours ride at an easy pace, general Caesar. Follow the river and you will find the going easiest.”
“And the traps most numerous, no doubt.” Caesar replied.
“Traps, Caesar?”
With a lightning-quick move, Caesar’s sword arm jerked up. The sharp tip of the blade sliced through the lightly-wounded ambassador’s neck just below his jawline, up through his mouth, shattering teeth, the point appearing through the man’s tongue as he opened his mouth to scream.
“I want to know about the ambushes and traps you have set between here and there. You!” he barked at the man who had volunteered the information, ripping the blade out from his latest victim’s throat. “And you” he pointed the gore-slicked sword at a man who had cowered from the outset, shrinking back away from the violence. “You two will go with this man” he gestured at Priscus ”and you will tell him everything he wishes to know. The prefect is an astute man and will know instinctively if you lie to him. If he is satisfied that you have answered everything truthfully, he will return your mounts to you and you will be free to return to your people. That is the limit of my mercy.”