‘What’s the plan?’ Priscus asked Antonius wearily.
‘I thought Caesar sent you along as the ‘plan man’?’
‘Caesar sent me along to help guide things, and I did just that by directing you to Melodunon first. You’re supposed to be the tactical genius here. I’m still just a glorified centurion with a superiority complex.’
Antonius laughed. ‘Actually, I have no intention of launching an assault.’
‘Oh really?’
‘No. You saw at Melodunon how easily these people capitulate with the appropriate encouragement. I have no desire to lose a legion’s worth of men in these festering marshes in order to storm a well-defended town of little or no long-term strategic value.’
‘So what do you plan to do?’
‘Your knowledge of the area sounded pretty thorough when you were planning this little pleasure jaunt. Just how well do you know it?’
‘Better than most Romans, I guess.’
‘Then when I give you the cue, I want you to supply a few nice rural or peaceful places. Fishing villages, small unwalled towns or religious sanctuaries. That sort of thing.’
‘Alright,’ consented Priscus with a suspicious frown.
‘Come on. Just you and me.’
Priscus blinked in surprise as Antonius started walking his horse forwards. The marsh was traversed by means of a number of tracks created using timbers sunk into submerged causeways that provided a relatively solid surface, though even these were often hard to spot and occasionally vanished from sight.
‘This is clearly insane, Antonius,’ he grunted as he caught up and followed the senior commander, watching the swampy ground nervously and keeping the slimy timbers in sight as much as possible.
‘I thought you were all in favour of solutions that did not involve endless bloodshed and burning?’
‘Not if it means riding on my own up to the enemy walls and baring my arse at them while they try to loose arrows up it!’
Antonius laughed and drew out his mysterious wineskin, taking a swig.
‘We’ve got the upper hand. Don’t worry about it. Have some wine and try to resist the urge to bare your buttocks to anyone.’ He held out the skin and Priscus took it gratefully, sucking down several mouthfuls of apparently unwatered wine before he handed it back.
‘Smooth,’ he rasped though his battered throat. ‘What’s it made from: sheep or thistles?’
‘Probably both. It’s made by the Gauls. Bet you didn’t even know they made wine.’
‘They don’t. Whatever that is, it doesn’t deserve that name. It’s probably good for searing the rust off armour, mind.’
Again Antonius let out a mirthful burst of laughter.
‘Truthfully…’ Priscus urged, ‘what are we going to do? We’ll have to stay outside arrow range. The opportunity to stick feathered shafts in two well-dressed Romans is not something any rebellious Gaul is going to pass up.’
‘They won’t loose arrows at us, Gnaeus. They’ll be too intrigued to see what we’ve got to say. That’s why it’s only two of us and not a hundred. More, and they’d have to kill us, just in case.’
‘And when they’ve heard you out and laugh from their walls and call their archers forward? What then?’
‘Not going to happen. Watch and learn, my cantankerous friend. Watch and learn.’
Priscus rode on behind, grunting and grumbling about officers with more balls than brains, occasionally throwing Fronto’s name into the cauldron of spite just for cussedness. Slowly, carefully, with Antonius paying close attention to the wooden walkways, the pair closed on the walls of Agedincum. The large towers to either side of the heavy oaken gate — which remained firmly shut — were packed with native warriors armed with swords, spears and bows, as well as a few bearing the traditional stylised animal standards of the Gauls and the odd unshapely carnyx among them.
‘This looks shittier with every step,’ Priscus grumbled.
‘Just play your part and watch with wonder,’ smiled Antonius as he drew his steed to a halt in a nice clear area close to the gates and well within range of the archers. Priscus pulled alongside as close as he dare, given the terrain.
‘Nobles and leaders of Agedincum… I am here to offer you a last opportunity to send ambassadors to the Gaulish assembly and pledge your loyalty to Rome with a further donation of auxiliary cavalry and, shall we say a hundred, noble hostages?’
There was a prolonged silence which suddenly erupted in laughter. A second wave of mirth issued forth — much louder — a few heartbeats later as the words were translated for the benefit of the non-Latin speakers. Finally a man wearing a bronze helmet that appeared to be topped by a bronzed dead rabbit stepped to the parapet.
‘You make us laugh, Roman. We safe behind strong walls of oppidum. Swamp keep legions out. No tunnels. No towers. No ballista. No way you come in. We safe.’
Antonius laughed loudly and turned to Priscus.
‘What was the name of that picturesque little village back along the river towards Melodunon?’ he asked loudly enough to be heard in the towers.
Priscus’ mind raced as he tried to remember the detail of the maps he’d scoured for hours on end.
‘Brixi, I think, sir.’
‘Brixi. Lovely place. Buxom women. Happy children. Not much industry, since all the menfolk are here inside these walls. No one to defend them, either. Shame for them.’
Priscus felt a cold thrill run through him as he realised what they were doing.
‘Don’t forget that shrine on the hill west of Melodunon,’ he chipped in. ‘I presume the druids are busily raging around holed up behind these walls too. Bet their precious nemeton is in the hands of a young, inexperienced apprentice?’
‘Indeed,’ Antonius sighed as he turned back to the walls. ‘Such a shame. You see, if you were allies of Rome as you’d always claimed to be, Rome would be duty bound to protect these places and their delicate occupants as though they were our own. But if you refuse Caesar’s summons and stand defiant against us, shattering your oaths… well, that means we’re effectively at war. And I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you people just how good we are at war. It’s practically our national pastime.’
Priscus laughed at his fellow officer’s audacity.
‘So you can sit here in Agedincum, all defiant and mighty behind your walls and marshes. But remember that we’ll leave a legion to keep you sealed in. We can spare one, you see. We’ve just raised another especially for the task. And soon your food will run out and you’ll have to eat the pets. And then the rats. And then, in the end, each other. It’s happened before when Rome sets herself to a purpose.’
Antonius straightened in the saddle.
‘But there is one bright side to your fate: those of you who starve to death or become too weak to defend yourself and are eaten by your neighbours will not have to live with that moment when you finally break and surrender and have to see what we’ve done to your tribe while the warriors starve in there. The burned cities and homes. No living soul for a hundred miles, as they’re all in the slave pens at Massilia. You won’t join them, of course. Near death, weakened and half-starved, you won’t be worth enslaving. You wouldn’t make it to the coast.’
He straightened. ‘I think that pretty much concludes my announcement. Anything you’d like to add, Priscus?’
‘I don’t think so,’ the prefect shrugged. ‘Think you’ve covered it.’
‘Farewell then, warriors of the Senones. Enjoy your voluntary captivity. We’ll enjoy your women.’
He turned his horse and started to walk her back towards the army. Priscus quickly joined him.
‘Dangerous way to end, that. They might have stuck us full of arrows just out of spite.’
‘But they didn’t,’ smiled Antonius. ‘Any moment now…’