He took a deep breath. Here was the other point where he could lose them.
“Six miles north of where we fought a hard battle against worthy opponents, including your own warriors, we found the elderly, the women and the children of your people who live south of that field. Every single person there had taken their own life rather than co-exist with Rome, which is, frankly, idiotic.”
The room had gone quiet once again.
“Traditionally, Rome has taken slaves after a campaign, yes. And yes, it still happens, but we do not rape and murder, nor do we enslave entire peoples. So, as I say, the war is over. As far as Rome is concerned, we have peace with you all. What you do with that peace is up to you, but I urge you to think on this: You have all lost greatly. What you need now is time to grow and heal once again, and Rome is willing to help you and support you in this.”
There were gentle murmurings around the room.
“Rome is not a city; it is an idea. An idea that encompasses all who let it. The tribes of the Alps or the southern coast have considered themselves part of that idea for generations now and they have wine, and aqueducts and theatres and arenas and…” he gestured at the walls of the hut. “And windows… and most of all, they have peace.”
He leaned back in his seat.
“I have the authority to represent Caesar and Rome, and I am here to open negotiations with you. My proposal is this:”
He stood.
“Each tribe signs a treaty with Rome. Each tribe will donate money and goods to Caesar’s army, in quantities to be determined later, but that will not exceed what each tribe can easily spare. Each tribe will supply troops for the army, proportionate to both the size of the tribe and the current manpower available. Each tribe will open their gates to Rome and its couriers, soldiers and merchants.”
He noted the sourness to the silence now.
“In return, Rome will, as we are currently doing with a few of your tribes, train your warriors in the art of Roman warfare. We will give you engineers that will help you improve your lot. We will grant trade concessions such that you will pay no tax on imports from Roman merchants. You will receive the protection of our army and limited rights under Roman law. Once your levies and tithes are made there will be a consolidation period of three years during which you can heal your land and your people and return to strength before a standard provincial tax is levied, by which time you will be able to afford it.”
He smiled.
“Nemetocenna will become the focus of Roman influence here; a garrison town and a capital, but each of your civitas… your most important oppida will receive attention, to help them grow and become strong and important. In short, we need to take, but we also wish to give. Not a conquest, but a partnership.”
One of the older chieftains waved a hand at him and rattled something off in their own tongue. Septimius translated quickly.
“He says that what you offer is for them to stop being Belgae and become Romans, and that is no choice.”
Labienus shook his head.
“Rome is an embracing mother. Some of our peoples speak Greek rather than Latin. Some speak their own African languages. We do not stop them worshipping their own Gods… indeed, we take their Gods into our own pantheon. You have a sacred grove here in Nemetocenna. It may have escaped your notice, but if you watch, you will see our men going to pour libations and make offerings there. We do not seek to stamp out your culture, but to learn from it and embrace it.”
He laughed.
“One of my good friends, a senior officer in our army, has lost his taste for good Campanian wine, favouring Gallic beer. This partnership I speak of can only succeed if we try to make it so, but it will also only fail if you make it. Now, the whole point of negotiation is that all points are flexible. I have made the opening offer. Tell me what it is that you seek and we will find an arrangement that suits us all.”
There was a long silence, during which two legionaries came round with drinks. Several chiefs waved them on and, as Labienus watched, a young chief of perhaps seventeen years, hovered for a moment over a mug of beer and then, with a smile, selected a glass of Pompeian. The young nobleman looked up at Labienus and spoke in his guttural language, the translation by Septimius almost instantaneous.
“There are eighteen tribes of the Belgae. Only seventeen are here. What news of the Aduatuci?”
Labienus stopped for a moment and selected a mug of beer. Time to build bridges, but… what news of the Aduatuci, indeed?
* * * * *
Fronto growled as he held the end of the rope to stop it flapping around. The others were absolutely right, of course. There was no way he could have climbed the cliffs with them, but he’d been expecting to tie the rope around his waist and for them to haul him up afterwards. Priscus had told him in fairly blunt terms that they couldn’t risk taking a one-armed man with them, and he’d been left with the job of guarding the rope. Above him, the long cord wobbled as the four men climbed.
His plan for a few men dressed as Gauls to sneak into the oppidum and try to ascertain what it was the Aduatuci were up to appeared to proceeding adequately without him. Priscus and Galronus had each selected a man to take with them; Galronus had chosen a Remi warrior who had visited this place before, while Priscus selected a man called Mutiatus, renowned for his climbing ability.
Mutiatus had climbed the cliff in three stages, one stretch at a time, anchoring a rope and then returning for another coil to manage the next stretch. The whole process had taken well over an hour, but now there were three ropes that reached up the side of the oppidum, and Fronto’s scouts were climbing them to the unknown dangers above. The legate grumbled again as the movement on the rope ceased. That meant that Galronus was over a third of the way up. Priscus must be at the top by now.
The edge of the oppidum was unwalled at this point. There was no real need for man-made defences here; no army could climb the cliff in sufficient numbers to pose a threat. Instead, the ground had been cleared of scrub and bushes so that, if the need arose, the defenders could gather at the edge and cast rocks and missiles at any attackers.
Priscus dropped into a crouch next to Mutiatus as the other two reached the cliff edge behind him. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. With no shield of armour, he was dressed like the other three: a bare minimum. Gallic clothes and boots, a sheathed Celtic sword and a helmet to hide his Roman features. Mutiatus wore the same, and the two Remi could manage without helmets.
He scanned the scene from where he crouched. There were a number of oak and ash trees scattered around that provided the only cover until they reached the first buildings. The construction here was much like the rest of the Gallic and Belgic settlements he’d seen: stone courses at the bottom with timber construction above and thatched roofs. There seemed to be no plan to this part of the town, with houses scattered like the trees, each with its own little garden.
Off to the left, at the highest part, he could hear the lowing of cattle. So, the left would be rural woods and farmland, with the main centre of occupation down the slope toward the gates.
He suddenly became aware of the presence of others around him. The four men were all here and ready.
“Alright, Elitovius,” he addressed his Remi guide. “Lead on. Let’s see if we can find out what they’re up to.”
With the two Remi auxiliaries at the front, they moved out from the cliff edge at a crouch, slipping like ghosts between the tree trunks toward the edge of the settlement. Lamplight danced in the windows of some of the buildings, but what light there was out here came mainly from the silvery moon above.
Slowly, they picked their way through, moving lightly and making as little noise as possible, though there was no sign of movement nearby. As they reached the rear corner of the first building, Galronus drew them up in the lee of the walls.