Shield raised, he passed the centuries marching into the fight, and spotted a medicus in a white robe, surrounded by half a dozen orderlies and capsarii, close to the legates and their tribunes, setting up in a clearing. Turning, he made his way towards them.
‘Ah, tribune,’ Crassus greeted him with an enthusiastic voice, ‘all goes well?’
‘Apart from this, sir,’ he raised his wool-scarf-wrapped wounded hand. ‘I think we’ll have the place secured in about a quarter hour.’
‘Good.’
‘Let me look at that, Fabius,’ called the medicus, spotting the wound, and the tribune and the legate of the Eighth both turned at the name, then shared another glance and shook their heads. Tribune Fabius stepped across towards the medicus and something caught his attention. It was a slight creaking noise, almost lost in the din of the battle, but he knew it for what it was. His gaze was moving around the branches and boles of the trees for the source even as he heard the release and the whisper of the arrow in flight.
His sharp eye caught the airborne missile as it shot towards its target and he leapt forward, knowing he would not make it. Legate Fabius was unaware, concentrating on the minutia of command. The arrow would take him in the neck — an instant and definite kill.
Fabius threw himself forward, shield extended as far as possible.
The arrow passed him, not stopped by the shield. He’d not been quick enough to prevent the strike. But the feathers of the missile brushed the shield’s bronze edge as they passed, and the course of its flight changed at the last moment, the shaft plunging off-course into Fabius’ shoulder, some of the force of the blow dampened by the leather strops hanging from his cuirass. Legate Fabius gasped in pain as his tribune namesake fell to the ground at the end of his dive, shield falling away.
‘Get that archer!’ bellowed Crassus to the nearest optio, who drove his men into the woods at the arrow’s source.
‘It would appear I owe you a life,’ the legate of the Eighth said, his eyes wild as the wounded tribune slowly and painfully climbed back to his feet.
‘My pleasure, sir,’ he answered with a weary smile.
‘No,’ the legate replied, chuckling. ‘That is a pleasure.’ He stopped and cupped his hand to his ear. Fabius listened. The sounds of fighting had subsided, and the cacophony of the Gallic carnyx lowed its injured bovine call across the island, indicating the end of the fight and a desire to parlay.
‘We appear to have won, sir.’
‘It appears so.’
Fabius sighed as the medicus began to slowly and carefully unwrap his tightly-wound bandage. Maybe he would be able to go find his sword if it was over. He would need it if Caesar was planning to turn on the Treveri.
* * * * *
Priscus watched the dejected Menapii leaders as they were escorted from Caesar’s headquarters by the implacable horsemen of Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalry. They had attempted to bargain with the general, even knowing that they had lost everything. They had tried to seek favourable terms, and Caesar had simply ignored them and laid out his own conditions which, after an hour of bluster and wheedling, they had found no alternative but to accept.
Commius — chieftain of the Atrebates and long-time loyal supporter of Caesar — would be given overall control of the Menapii, who would submit to his every command. The Atrebates would station their own men in Menapii territory to be certain of their ongoing submission. The usual hostages given, slaves taken, reparations, donations, and the like had followed. Already, before negotiations had even begun, all the druids had been forced to announce themselves and step forward, and without delay or pause for thought, Caesar had ordered the strange Gallic priests crucified along the causeway. Priscus had, of course, argued against it, but the general was not to be halted in the matter. Shame, since they undoubtedly had information that Priscus felt they could very much do with.
‘Come inside, Priscus. You’re letting in the damp and cold.’
The prefect turned to the interior once more, where a few of the more senior officers had remained after the negotiations at the general’s request. Dropping the tent flap back into place, Priscus returned to his seat.
‘I am of a mind to travel with my hammer of five legions and crush the Treveri against the anvil of Labienus,’ the general said thoughtfully, peering at the map on the tent’s dividing wall. ‘I sent him three legions and the baggage on the basis that we would be moving south after the Menapii fell. Then the army will combine once more in order to deal with the Eburones and their craven leader.’ He took a deep, cleansing breath. ‘Now, we could travel upriver from here along the Rhenus to the Mosella and then back into Treveri lands. It’s a deal further, but faster terrain. Or we could cut directly across the forest of Arduenna. Much shorter, but troublesome going for a full army.
‘Faster is better,’ Antonius said from the shadowed edge of the room. ‘The men are weary after two months of endless raids and sieges against these two northern tribes. If you give them too long to ponder before they are committed once again, you may find them indolent or flagging. Added to that is the possibility that the Treveri and their allies might fall on Labienus before we arrive. Better to move fast and combine the army all round.’
‘I, on the other hand, would avoid the forest,’ Priscus noted, snapping a glare at Antonius. ‘A hundred and fifty-odd miles of stomping through unfamiliar, tough, enemy territory? Not favourable by any stretch of the imagination, and that’s if your scouts can find a clear way through that nightmare that allows for legions, cavalry and wagons — Fabius and Furius reported that there’s hardly a track big enough in the whole place to take even a horseman unless he ducks a lot. If you travel along the river bank, skirting the great forest and Eburone territory we might learn something of use about Ambiorix in our journey. Are the Treveri enough of a threat? Labienus already crushed them months ago, and now he’ll have three legions instead of one.’
Caesar pursed his lips. ‘My sources inform me that following his prior victory, Labienus was his usual peaceable self, allowing the tribe to return to their lands with just a hard word and a smack on the behind. Such magnanimity the Belgae simply consider weakness. Mark me: he has not seen the last of the Treveri. And do not forget that, while Labienus may have three legions, and may be able to deal with one tribe, we now know that Ambiorix is not in the north. If he is not among Nervii and Menapii lands, then he is south — close to the Treveri. That being the case, Labienus could be facing not only what is left of the Treveri, but also any other combined force the Eburone traitor has managed to raise. With three legions, if the worst happens, he should be able to hold even against the largest force until we arrive to lend a hand, but the Treveri are the remaining powerful ally of Ambiorix, and my focus should naturally fall there next. You would prefer I turn on the Eburones directly and risk Fronto? I have given him ample time, after all.’
Priscus simply sat back wearily. The general spoke sense. Campaigning against the Nervii and Menapii had been hard work, but the two tribes were now certainly unable to support Ambiorix. Where was Fronto? The whole reason for his hunt was to provide Caesar with an alternative route to burning the Belgae to ash in his vengeance, but already the general had brought death and destruction to another great tribe, and now he turned to a third. Priscus was unpleasantly aware of the mood among the auxiliary cavalry — many of them Belgae. Desertions among the allies had risen threefold since the start of the Menapii campaign, and things would only deteriorate as the Treveri were crushed.