“Come on in, man, and stand at ease.”
“Yes general. How can I be of service?”
Sabinus smiled at the man.
“I would like you to perform a rather special duty; a sort of recruitment officer.”
The centurion frowned, but remained silent. Sabinus laughed.
“What’s your name, centurion?”
“Cantorix, general.”
“Well, Cantorix, I would like you to go back to the Fourteenth and pick out as many soldiers of a certain nature as you can find.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to put together a vexillation of men for a special mission and I have three criteria for selection. Firstly, they need to look as Gallic as possible; no Roman-style haircuts or clean shaven faces. Secondly, they need to be the most bloodthirsty, powerful bastards the Fourteenth has to offer. And thirdly, I don’t want anyone too virtuous and fair. Select the sort of men you wouldn’t play dice against; the sort of men you wouldn’t leave alone in your tent or let follow you down a dark alley. You get my drift?”
Cantorix nodded, uncertainly.
“May I ask what will be required of them, general?”
Sabinus smiled.
“Indeed you may, though I would prefer this information were not disseminated among the men yet, so keep your peace until you’ve organised the men and spoken with us again.”
He leaned forward.
“We’re going to infiltrate Viridovix’s army with our own. You heard the other day that their army is accepting all the waifs and strays from all over Armorica, including rebels, bandits and any Roman haters? Well it’s time for you and your men to become rebels and bandits. You need to join them in the guise of Veneti refugees. You’ll tell them that Caesar has defeated the Veneti and is on his way north. In fact, you’ll tell him that we appear to be preparing to leave. It needs to sound desperate enough that they’ll want to deal with us as a matter of urgency.”
Galba smiled.
“They’ll assume the two armies are about to join up. Yes… that would frighten them as a possibility: the three legions they face now suddenly becoming seven.”
“Indeed,” Sabinus nodded, “and it should be enough impetus to make them launch an attack. They’ll believe that they have to obliterate us before we get a chance to move out and join up with Caesar.”
Cantorix wore a faintly uncertain look.
“Problem, centurion?”
“Not as such, general, but this is a lot to ask of men who have been treated like an inferior unit from the outset and continually assigned to menial tasks. Morale has never been high in the Fourteenth, because they know the other legions look down on them. I’m not saying they wouldn’t do it, sir. Of course not, but I feel duty bound to my men to report the situation as it stands.”
Sabinus’ eye flickered irritably.
“I wasn’t aware that the situation was that bad.”
“With respect sir, nobody is aware, because nobody ever asks.”
The general let out a low grumble, the twitch still evident. He was barely controlling his temper and the centurion bit his tongue as he waited. “Then we have a problem. The Fourteenth are the only legion that can do it. Perhaps we can apply a little incentive?”
“Sir?”
“For the morale of your men, I offer phalerae to every survivor who takes a part, along with a crown to pin to the legion’s standards. If such is not enough of an incentive, there are other, more ‘disciplinary’ methods, if you follow me. I understand the plight of the Fourteenth and the stigma that has become attached to them, but I cannot allow the attitude of the men to dictate our strategy. The legions serve Rome, not the other way around.”
Cantorix pursed his lips.
“Yes sir. I meant in no way to imply that the men were rebellious or anything, sir, and a little recognition does buy a great deal of morale, sir.”
Sabinus leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“Go select your men Cantorix; as many as you can find. It’s time to teach the ‘free Gauls’ the cost of liberty.”
Cantorix, centurion in command of the Third century in the Third cohort of the Fourteenth Legion, wrinkled his nose in disgust. The grand Roman officers in this army still thought of the Gauls as a single people with a common culture and identity, a laughable idea to Cantorix, who had been raised as one of the Segusiavi, far from here, near the borders of Roman territory. The Segusiavi had traded with Rome for as long as the tribe could remember; many spoke Latin and some even Greek and wine, not beer, was the beverage of choice among the more wealthy.
How far removed could he be from these coastal ‘barbaroi’ who lived in relative squalor, many still running into battle naked to prove their vitality and resisting the inevitable march of progress. Yet the Roman-born officers saw them all the same, assuming that these men, enlisted into the Roman army a little over a year ago, but from a very civilised culture and already largely ‘Roman’ in their outlook, would find it a simple job to assume the guise of the northern Veneti warriors.
He ground his teeth, wondering whether to try and affect a local accent. The idea would likely be a disaster. He would stand more chance of sounding like a native Greek than a native of Armorica.
Beside him, Idocus, a flaxen-braided optio from the Fifth cohort, held out a pair of trousers and stared at them as though they might bite him.
“Do these Unelli not understand the principle of washing clothes?”
He sniffed the material and recoiled. Cantorix gave him a lopsided smile.
“Be fair; a man died in them a few hours ago. He probably soiled himself.”
“Thanks” the optio replied drily. “I wish we had time to take them to a river and give them a good scrub. I’m worried I might catch something. These trousers smell like a sick dog with an arse infection.”
“Just stop complaining and put the damn things on.”
The other thirteen men were busy climbing into their new clothes, mostly with looks of disgust and one even holding his nose. Cantorix shook his head. Thousands of men to choose from, and the general had clearly expected him to produce a large force. The fact was, though, that over the last year, most of the men of the Fourteenth had adopted the Roman style so thoroughly that very few legionaries retained enough of a Gallic look to even attempt this. These fifteen were the only ones with the appropriate physical and mental qualities that the centurion believed could even faintly pass as natives.
They had waited until the last attack by the Unelli and their allies, not long before sundown, and, once the enemy had returned to their town, the squad of soldiers had had their pick of disguises and armament from among the hundred or so enemies killed in the latest engagement close to the wall.
Cantorix straightened and held the torc up to his neck for a moment, but then decided against it. They had to look nondescript; no good wearing or carrying anything that could easily be identified as belonging to a fallen warrior of the Unelli.
Rolling his shoulders, he allowed the clothing to settle and watched Idocus trying to tie the trousers around his waist while touching as little material as possible with his hands.
“Will you stop buggering around?”
The optio looked at him with distaste.
“I have to eat with these hands. I may never feel clean again.”
Cantorix stepped across to the doorway of the tent and turned to his men.
“Alright. Let’s get moving. Come on.”
The other fourteen soldiers finished their dressing and gathered the swords, axes and spears before filing out into the early evening gloom.
“Right. Simple route. Out of the back gate of the camp, down the hill and a quarter of a mile out into the woods, then we swing out wide and come at Crociatonum from the west. Once we leave the gate, I don’t want to hear a word spoken in Latin and remember to concentrate on your conversation. Don’t even think Roman, or it’ll still show through. And no discipline or attention. Try not to look like legionaries. Got it?”