But there were simply too few defenders, and the Romans were well-prepared and determined. More and more ladders clunked against stone, while the men on the walls had to run ever more desperately to keep them back. Finally the first legionary reached the parapet with glee, vaulting over the top and laying into the men running at him with their forked sticks. The unfortunate victorious legionary went down under a pile of four natives, stabbing and jabbing with their sharpened staves, but by that time another three legionaries were over the top, many more following close on their heels. The fight was over before it began, and within half a dozen heartbeats the only figures visible on the walls were Roman, forcing the few remaining defenders back down into the town. Barely one cohort of the legion had seen any action when the call went up and the oppidum’s gate opened, admitting the Eleventh en-masse.
The gap between the rear ranks of the Eleventh and the following alae of horse opened up as the legion surged forward, pushing through the gate and into the heart of Argatomagon. Tapping his heels on his horse’s flanks, Varus moved forth at an increased rate, the rest of the cavalry with him, as well as Hirtius on his pale grey, ghostlike steed.
In moments the horsemen had reached the top of the slope and slowed as legionaries funnelled through the gate in the ramparts while their compatriots continued to swarm up the ladders and over the top. Varus watched Hirtius with interest as the general’s secretary sat impatient, clearly itching to get through the gate and into the oppidum. What was going on? Quietly, Varus called over one of his decurions.
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t expect much trouble from the Eleventh. They’ve had the speech enough times, but take the other two units and split up, keep things under control, anyway. I’m going to stay with commander Hirtius.’
The decurion slipped away, disseminating the orders, and Varus manoeuvred his steed closer to the staff officer who was almost riding into the rear ranks of the infantry in his impatience to be in. Half a hundred heartbeats later the cavalry were pouring through the gate in the wake of the soldiers who disappeared among the houses, securing every part of the oppidum. Hirtius rode into the centre of the open space, clearly taken by surprise by the lack of surrendering Gauls. The gathering area behind the gate was empty barring a few corpses and a legionary groaning as he clutched a broken leg.
Varus cleared his throat. ‘What now?’
Hirtius either heard nothing or feigned such, ignoring him, since he wheeled his horse and set his sights on an old native, who stood by the door of a hovel, his hands raised in surrender.
‘You!’ the staff officer shouted, causing the old man to jump nervously and rush out a response in his own tongue. ‘Do you have no Latin?’ Hirtius demanded, which simply raised a look of utter bafflement from the man. Varus was about to chime in when a younger Gaul appeared from the doorway, hobbling and using a crutch.
‘I talk bit Roman,’ the new arrival said.
‘Where are the rebel leaders?’ Hirtius demanded of the younger man.
‘Not know, sir. Some rebel in town. Some dead. Other gone.’
The staff officer bridled. ‘This town is the centre of the Biturige rebels. I want to know where those rebels’ leaders are.’
‘Hirtius,’ Varus said quietly, ‘I don’t think they’re here. Maybe they were, but they’re certainly not now. Look how easy it was to overrun the place.’
Hirtius flashed him a look that only deepened his concern, for in that gaze was a determination, but also a faintly sickened look, as though the officer was fighting his own spirit.
‘By direct order of Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul, I demand that the rebel leaders be delivered to us, and if they are not located and brought forth, every man of property and of fighting age in this settlement will be roped and chained and taken forth in recompense for the rebellious nature of this tribe.’
Varus narrowed his eyes. That was clearly Caesar speaking through Hirtius, and the general never did anything offhand. What could be gained by such an action? There were no rebel leaders here, just a few last desperate warriors and a city full of ordinary folk. The younger Gaul was explaining this in a desperate tone to the old man, who looked stunned. He then turned back to the two Roman officers.
‘Sir, my father and I are simply merchants, plying our trade in good Biturige metalwork. We are not rebels. We are loyal to the proconsul.’
Again, Varus caught the slightly sickened look in Hirtius’ eyes, and his own widened.
‘Is that what this is about, Hirtius?’
The staff officer turned to him.
‘Keep your nose out of this, Varus. The horse are your concern, not the general’s strategy.’
Varus slapped his head. ‘I thought the name of this place was familiar. Never misses a trick, our general, does he? I wonder if there were ever any rebel leaders here.’
Hirtius gave him that mixed, unpleasant glare again, and Varus issued a snarl and wheeled his horse, trotting out of the gate and back down the slope. It took him only a short while to locate Brutus, who was sitting under a shade that was already starting to sag from the weight of the tiny hailstones gathered atop it. The young officer was poring over a map of the territory while swigging water from a canteen. Varus reined in and dismounted, tying his horse to one of the posts.
‘You spend more time in staff briefings than me, Brutus. Did you know about this?’
Brutus frowned in incomprehension, and Varus indicated the oppidum of Argatomagon with a sweep of his arm. ‘This whole charade. Heart of the rebellion my arse. I’d say there were fewer rebels here than in any other place we’ve put down this month.’
Brutus shrugged. ‘Perhaps they fled the oppidum? They have to have had plenty of warning of our approach, and the rest of their territory fell so easily. Maybe they were just sensible and ran into the wilds to preserve themselves. Doesn’t matter now anyway. The Biturige lands are back in loyalist hands, and there’ll be no further rebellion here.’
‘Brutus, there were never any rebel leaders here, I’d wager my family name on that. This is all about Caesar feathering his nest.’
Brutus frowned and gestured for him to go on, so Varus took the other campaign chair and unclasped his wet cloak, shaking it out and folding it.
‘Caesar’s enslaving the bulk of the populace, claiming that they’ve withheld the details of the rebel leaders. Another thousand slaves or two will be heading for Massilia and Rome in the morning.’
Again Brutus shrugged. ‘That’s the way of war. The beaten are enslaved. And those slaves till the fields and mine the stone for Rome. Don’t get too sentimental, Varus. This is still a war until the last rebel surrenders.’