‘He will tell you nothing,’ spat the disarmed one at the hill crest, ‘and neither will I.’
‘Well you just told me that you speak excellent Latin,’ smiled Varus. ‘I wonder if you understand the word scourged?’
The enemy scout paled, and Varus gave an unpleasant chuckle. ‘Take him to the cavalry. We’ll pry a little on the journey back.’
* * * * *
Caesar stood on the wet, cold grass, the latest fine mizzle falling about him like a downward-drifting fog. Behind him, the men of the Eleventh legion worked to get his command tent erected so that he could shelter from the weather. Two of his praetorians had hurried over to raise a cloak above him and keep off the fine rain, but the general had waved them away. What harm could the weather do other than make his helmet plume hang limp?
It had been decided to make camp on the hill of Bellomagos and, though the term hill might be over-exaggerating the rather feeble rise in the centre of this unbelievably flat region, Caesar had campaigned through the territory a few times before and recognised the rarity here of any kind of rise. A mole’s spoil heap in this land could be labelled a hill.
The four legions were still pulling into position, and the last would still be arriving just before nightfall. The Bellovaci oppidum, a squat site with heavy, low walls surrounding a collection of stone and timber buildings, was deserted and had been emptied of all life and goods, and brooded from its position by the river. The Roman camp was already taking shape, the basic markers in place, and soon the initial base for the new campaign would be complete and inhabited – seemingly the only inhabited place in these lands. The army had passed through Veliocassi territory, witnessing no sign of the tribe whose land it was, and into Bellovaci territory with still no human being to greet them. It was, even to a practical old soldier like Caesar, strange and eerie.
He was, however, under no illusion as to what it meant. Commius’ rebel sentiments had clearly had a lot more effect here than those poor disillusioned revolutionaries and bandits to the south-west. The Belgae had not suffered as deeply as many others in the last brutal year of the war, and they were the only people in the whole region who might still be able to raise a force large enough to make a spirited attempt to resist Rome. And these consistently empty oppida pointed as clear as any signpost to a single force of the enemy marshalled in one location. If only they also held directions…
A legionary scurried up through the drizzle and saluted as he came to a stop, his breathing laboured.
‘Sir. Large force of allied cavalry spotted to the north. They’ll be here shortly, general.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Once they arrive, have the commander report to me here.’
The soldier saluted again and ran off, and the general used the flat of his hand to wipe the excess moisture from his face. The men of the Tenth were being as efficient as ever, but he still wished they would hurry in their task. He’d had another ‘episode’ this morning – luckily just after his morning address and before he had emerged from his tent for the journey – and what he had initially thought to be weakness and trembling following his fall had taken quite some time to dissipate. In fact, he’d still had to hide the shakiness of his hands as he mounted his horse and led the column out. And he knew from bitter experience that the prolonged after-effects of his attack presaged another one all too soon. He would fall and shake again before he slept tonight. If he slept tonight. Sleep had always been a rare and sporadic thing for Caesar, but it seemed to be becoming more and more elusive with each passing year.
Once again he mused on what it was that had contributed heavily to last night’s loss of sleep. A missive had arrived in camp from Gaius Servilius Casca back in Rome, and it had brought troubling news. The new consuls seemed Hades-bent on defying him. Sulpicius Rufus and Claudius Marcellus were supposed to be supporting him. Rufus had been a friend at times, and Marcellus had aided him in his struggles against the excesses of Crassus. And yet now that they had achieved the consulship, neither man seemed to have remembered the effort Caesar had put into supporting their bid for the position. Rufus had withdrawn, apparently having nothing to say either for or against Caesar, but his reticence had allowed Marcellus free rein to object to everything Caesar did.
The last time he had been back in Cisalpine Gaul, he had enfranchised the largely-native town of Comum, adding settled veterans to its population and moving the whole city to a new location, draining swamps and reordering the place along traditional Roman lines, and all largely at his own expense. After all, the people of Comum had been among his most loyal and avid supporters in his time as their governor, and had supplied good men for his legions. And in return, last year he had granted citizenship to the place, renaming it Novum Comum and making it a Roman city.
Theoretically, of course, only the senate had the right to make such a grant, but it was common practice for proconsuls, powerful governors and victorious generals to make such grants and then have them ratified by the old fools in Rome. And so he had sent his grant in to the senate and they had approved it as per usual, only for the arrogant Marcellus to overturn it, arguing that his grants had been invalid and illegal.
Such opposition was bad enough, but Casca, who sat in the senate and regularly fed back useful gossip, had also intimated that Marcellus was pushing to have Caesar recalled, and that smacked of a plot. As proconsul he was immune from prosecutions, and he would be again, once he became consul. But if the yapping dog Marcellus could manage to drag him back early, before he could achieve consulship, the many enemies awaiting him in Rome would make merry sport of dragging him through the courts for anything their little corroded hearts desired.
He had been sending back increased funds of late, securing the support of the more important politicians and jurors, but the net that would prevent his fall was only half woven so far. He had to have time to complete it – which meant also more money, of course – and he needed the process of his return and elevation to consul to run smoothly, so that he would have the year of his consulship to put down his enemies and clear himself of any potential prosecutions. Years in the planning, and a treacherous former friend with a power complex was trying to undo everything.
His bitter, angry musings were swept aside by a cough. The chief centurion of the Eleventh and veteran of many campaigns, Titus Pullo, stepped before him, and over the man’s shoulder Caesar could see the vanguard of the cavalry riding up to meet him – half a dozen men on horseback.
‘Piss on Marcellus,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Sir?’ Pullo frowned.
‘Nothing, centurion. What did you want?’
‘Your tent is up, general. The furniture is being installed now, but you may want to shelter from the weather.’
‘Thank you, centurion.’
‘Pleasure sir.’ The big officer flashed him a rather impertinent grin. ‘Just give the word, general, and I’ll piss on this Marcellus myself.’
Despite the forwardness and insolence of the comment, Caesar couldn’t help himself and threw back his head with his first genuine laugh in days. ‘Why, I do believe you would, centurion. I’ll keep your offer in mind, though I’d rather prefer to do it myself.’
Again the centurion grinned, saluted, and then hurried off to shout at some legionary for dropping a brazier and spilling its contents in the tent doorway. Caesar repeated his gesture, wiping the water from his face and focusing on Varus as he rode in and then dismounted almost before his horse stopped, saluting and blinking away the rain. Behind the cavalry commander rode four regular troopers, and between them two natives huddled, bound tight and roped to the saddle. One of them was sitting at an odd angle, the slope of his shoulders suggesting a broken scapula or at least collar bone, and ribs.