‘I hope not,’ Trebonius gave a tired smile. ‘I’m a little sick of marching.’
‘Let’s get back to the fort, and then we can discuss it all in comfort.’
‘Do you not want to speak to their leaders and set terms for their surrender?’ Plancus frowned.
‘I shall send a deputation to their capital, which is less than ten miles from here.’ He laughed. ‘Given the fact that I saw all three standards taken and all their leaders fall in the attack, I wouldn’t know who to threaten, anyway! We’ll give them a few days for the tribe to take out their anger on the rest of Indutiomarus’ relatives and decide who might lead them better and then we’ll talk to this new king. The Treveri are unlikely to support any further rebellion now.’
He smiled a tired smile at the other legates. ‘In the meantime, we need to get you gentlemen and your forces settled in.’
He turned his horse to see three riders approaching, escorted by a centurion and a contubernium of men.
‘Sir,’ the officer saluted and gestured to his charges. ‘Scouts from the northeast.’
‘What news of the Suevi?’ Labienus asked pensively. Were five cohorts enough to protect the camp?
The rider, clearly worn out from his ride, gave a weary salute. ‘Sir, the Germans have halted. We spotted other riders, and it seems they have their own scouts ranging out ahead of them. I can only assume they have learned of the battle, since as soon as the riders spoke to the Suevi chiefs, the whole lot of them turned and started to walk back towards the Rhenus.’
Labienus sagged and Trebonius chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘How does it feel to frighten off the whole Germanic nation?’
‘A bit of a relief, to be honest,’ Labienus smiled. ‘I was still half-convinced that the Suevi would ignore the death of their allies and come for us anyway. They’re not a people to be easily put off.’
‘Is there any chance of us catching them before they reach the Rhenus?’ Trebonius mused.
‘Little,’ Labienus said. ‘They travel light, living off forage and pillage, so they can move faster than us. Besides, they likely still outnumber us, even without the Treveri, so I’m not sure it would be a wise plan of action. Let us return to camp and thank Minerva for turning them back.’
Plancus nodded. ‘It’s been a long journey to travel straight into a battle. I for one could do with a bath, a meal, and a lie down.’
* * * * *
Publius Sextius Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, eyed the wagon suspiciously.
‘I shall ride a horse.’
‘No you shall not,’ announced the medicus, who, without warning, snatched away the vine staff of office upon which Baculus was resting most of his weight. Relieved of its support, the centurion staggered and fell into the waiting arms of the medical orderly. ‘You cannot stand unaided. You quite clearly should not be riding. You also seem unable to grasp the simple concept of rest and recovery. Had you stayed in bed and rested as you were ordered and not poured every vial of medicine the staff gave you onto the ground when they weren’t looking, you would be almost back to full health by now. Instead, you continually push yourself to the limit and consequently you are still months from well.’
‘You said the infection was cleared up?’
‘The infection has gone. What you have now is exhaustion, and atrophied muscles due to your protracted stay in my care. You, Baculus, are your own worst enemy. There is nothing that impedes your full healing but your own inability to rest. Now get in that cart and sit still until we reach tonight’s camp site.’
Again, Baculus eyed the cart. The hospital was being evacuated for the journey and the wounded and sick who were incapable of walking or riding had been assigned to the carts — eight men to a cart, except for this one, which held four officers.
‘Perhaps I could join one of the ordinary soldiers’ carts?’ he asked hopefully. Aboard this vehicle were Clemens, standard bearer for the Third Cohort, Second Century of the Twelfth, who Baculus knew well enough to know he was prone to travel sickness, an optio from the Seventh suffering from a gut wound after the Treveri fight and who smelled like he might pass away on the journey, and Dentio, a prefect that was suffering from foot-rot and was delirious much of the time. A worse set of travelling companions he could not imagine. ‘When we get there I’ll be covered in vomit and innards and have a headache.’
‘In the cart.’
‘Problem?’ asked Labienus, passing by on his horse on a brief inspection of the column.
‘Just the usual, sir,’ muttered the medicus, gesturing at Baculus with the purloined vine staff.
‘Get in the cart, centurion,’ ordered Labienus.
Grumbling, Baculus snatched back his staff and clambered with some difficulty aboard the cart.
Four days had passed since the defeat of the Treveri and scouts had brought overtures of peace from the new Treveri leader. It had pleased the officer corps to discover that the man who had risen to rule the Treveri once more was Cingetorix, a long-time supporter of Caesar who had been deposed and exiled by Indutiomarus. The tribe’s anger at their recent leaders’ foolish decisions had driven them back to the loyalty of Roman client kings.
As soon as Labienus had confirmed that the tribe were settled and there was little likelihood of further trouble, he had made the decision to march north with the entire army and follow the river to the Rhenus, since Caesar’s army would be moving south along that course. En route, the army would make a stop at the Oppidum of Vindunaco, where Cingetorix now held court, in order to receive the renewed vows of the Treveri.
It would be a long, slow journey, and Baculus was dreading every moment of it.
* * * * *
Ambiorix placed his prized helmet on the table and dusted the silver boar atop it with his fingers. A helmet made for a Roman general, it had once belonged to Sabinus, one of Caesar’s top men before Ambiorix had taken it, with the man’s head still inside. He had ripped off the red crest, replacing it with something more appropriate and now it was a masterpiece of propaganda. The helmet announced to every warrior who saw it ‘here is a man who beat the best Rome had to offer’.
If only he could repeat his success, but that damned Caesar was in the way at every turn. He had almost had Cicero’s head last winter, straight after the first legion’s demise, and he’d almost crushed that man’s army, but for Caesar’s untimely arrival on the scene.
Then he’d set about rebuilding his army, knowing that, if he’d done it once, he could do it again, but Caesar had pre-empted him and launched campaigns against everyone who would speak to him before the winter was out.
The Nervii had been eager to join him once more, and had agreed to marshal their forces and meet him at the site of his greatest victory in the spring, but Caesar had taken his men north while the winter’s chill was still in the air and had torn the Nervii apart and burned what was left. Then the Menapii, who had been hesitant at first. They had managed to stay free of Roman interference for years by hiding in their infernal swamps. But shown what Caesar was doing to Gaul, and with a great deal of persuasion and wheedling, they had finally agreed to commit to his cause at the appointed place and time.
And then Caesar had shown up there yet again, like a bad smell in a small hut, and had bridged the rivers and swamps of the Mosa and the Rhenus and reduced the Menapii to a gaggle of blubbering women, effectively tearing out another of Ambiorix’s greater allies.
The Treveri had been a true hope, too. Indutiomarus had taken control of the tribe and despite a number of their most powerful men professing continued loyalty to Rome, had committed them to the cause. That Rome-lover Cingetorix had been exiled and powerless. If Ambiorix had risen to lead them, he’d have killed the man rather than exiling him, but the Treveri were a divided and uncertain tribe and his execution might have turned much of the tribe against Indutiomarus.