The big Arvernian noble shrugged as he nudged a fallen carving with his foot, watching beetles and woodlice escape from beneath. ‘The Treveri are no loss. We let them tangle with the Roman commander and watch with interest.’
‘We need every tribe in the land to support you. Those across the fast cold sea, as well. And even those across the mountains and across the great river if we can. You know that Rome’s army is coldly efficient. No matter how brave your warriors, unless you can convincingly outnumber them you will never have a chance. Even with our help!’ he added bitterly.
‘You fail to see the tactical advantage. Ambiorix kicked the Roman wasp nest and now the bulk of Rome’s soldiery in our land is concentrated in the territory of the Belgae trying to put out the repeated fires of rebellion. But Ambiorix’s power is waning and his time is almost past. He has been useful in keeping Caesar occupied, but while he wanes and loses his value to us, the Treveri are on the rise to take his place. We need many months yet to tie our plans and people together; to arm them and train them and organise. And we cannot do that in total secrecy with Roman officers breathing down our necks. It is useful to have places like Bibracte, from which even their supply garrison has been recalled, leaving the route in Aedui hands, because Rome thinks these places settled and safe. A man does not look beneath his own roof for his enemy. And while we make use of these advantages, and put our plans into place, it is vital that Rome keep its hooked nose out of our business. The Treveri are doing us a great favour by sacrificing themselves on the altar of resistance.’
‘The shepherds among the Treveri speak out against action.’
‘Then your shepherds speak against their own purpose. Stop them.’
The druid narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth for a moment before speaking again. ‘I will ask them to support the revolt, though we are brothers in faith rather than ordered ranks, and they may not agree and decide against it. You had better be right about this, as we wager the future of our people on you.’
‘I am rarely wrong, druid.’
‘And what of Ambiorix? Now, with the Eburones shattered and worn, he scrabbles around, trying to pull together tribes to support him and resist Rome. Is he still a useful distraction for you, or is he becoming a danger to us. Unlike the Treveri lunatics, Ambiorix knows all about us — about you! If he falls into Roman hands all our plans could be for naught.’
The big Gaul gave a nonchalant shrug once more — an irritating habit in the eyes of the druid — and scratched his neck idly.
‘For now, he is of more use than danger. And the man is resourceful. Let him keep the Romans hopping from foot to foot in Belgae lands while we grow and strengthen, and when the time comes that he is too dangerous to us, I will have him dealt with. Even now I have men in their lands ready to act, should such action become necessary, as well as a contingency in place with his brother King, Cativolcus of the Eburones.’
‘Cativolcus is a doddering old fool.’
‘But he is loyal, and he has no love of Ambiorix. We are safe yet. Stop your shepherds making waves among our Belgae cousins and you will see the great Julius Caesar devoting all his attention to a nagging rat at his heel, while the great bear that truly endangers him wakes far off among the Arverni.’
The druid could not help but smile. Whatever he thought of Vercingetorix and the big man’s ways, he was a natural leader and a silver-tongued speaker, and when the time came, all the peoples would follow him against Rome.
They had made a good choice, after all.
The sacrifice of Ambiorix and the Treveri, then, buying them, with their lives, the time they needed.
Chapter Two
Titus Atius Labienus, commander of the Twelfth Legion, lieutenant of Caesar and pro-tem representative of Rome in the eastern Gallic and Belgic lands, struggled into his cuirass while the body slave laced up his boots, and then held it in position while the young Samnite laced up the armour.
‘It is beyond me why I need be armoured in order to receive one of my own spies.’
The legion’s senior centurion, Baculus, officially confined to the sick hut but proving somewhat difficult to contain, leaned heavily on his stick, his grey features shining unhealthily.
‘Firstly because as senior officer in the region, legate, it is a matter of principle. Secondly, because your scouts and spies are natives and, given what’s happened this past winter, I would not advise any Roman to get too close to one of them without armour on, especially someone of value.’
‘My spies and scouts are Mediomatrici, centurion. They are our allies, not the enemy.’
‘They have spent months wintering among the Treveri, legate, and the Treveri would like nothing more than to tear out your heart through your arse. Better safe than regretful, sir. Buckle up and look good.’
Labienus sighed as the slave handed him his baldric with the fine sheathed blade attached. Settling it over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes.
‘You need to be back in the sick hut, centurion. The medicus has told me that he’s considering putting a guard on the door to stop you straying.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me a bit of fresh air and exercise won’t cure.’
‘On the contrary, the medicus tells me that even a minor wound can kill if the infection takes hold too strongly, and that the infection which eats away at your wound is brutal and life-threatening. He puts the fact that you are still alive thus far down to the fact that you are — and I quote — ‘a pig-headed angry bastard’. I do not like to countenance a future for the Twelfth Legion in which you are not there to bully them around, so kindly go back to the sick hut, lie down and stop interfering with the running of things until the physician pronounces you ‘healthy’.’
Baculus managed to sneak in an unhappy grumble before saluting quickly, so that he could grab back hold of his stick for support, and turning to leave.
‘Get better, and do it quickly. Things are too unsettled around here for me to be missing such an important officer.’
Labienus watched the centurion leave and shook his head with a slight smile. The medicus had actually told him that Baculus was generally out of danger and would stay that way as long as he didn’t overdo things and set himself back. The chances of the veteran sitting back and not overdoing things were, he had decided, miniscule.
‘Am I ready?’
The slave nodded. ‘Yes, Dominus.’
Labienus shrugged his shoulders so that the red cloak hung slightly better and then strode from his quarters — one of only five wooden buildings in the camp, the rest of the men making do with their tents. The mud, despite the periodic fall of near-freezing rain, was being kept well under control in the camp by the judicious use of timbers sunk into the main thoroughfares for stability, and scattered gravel and chippings brought by the men from a local rock outcropping.
Nodding a greeting to some of his tribunes and centurions who were going about their business around the headquarters and the larger officers’ tents, he strode off down the gentle incline towards the north gate.
Two of the veteran legionaries assigned to guard their commander fell into step behind him and escorted him towards the small knot of men gathered inside the gate. A Belgic warrior in his colourful tunic and wool trousers stood rubbing his hands as legionaries held his steed by the bridle, kept his spear and sword out of reach and blocked off any possible route for the native to escape into the camp. Labienus sighed. What the Twelfth had experienced earlier in the winter had put the men on guard enough, but the news of what had happened to Sabinus, Cotta and Cicero had brought about an atmosphere where no Gaul would be given a sliver of respect, let alone outright trust. Sad, really. Labienus was still sure that Gaul could be tamed peaceably if only the army and its more rabid officers could be persuaded to a more tactful approach. Of course Caesar’s own actions did little to promote such a diplomatic solution.