And now that Varus had his eyes on that very location, he had to admit that it had been a brilliant move by the enemy – a manoeuvre worthy of Caesar himself. The hilltop the Bellovaci occupied was above a steep escarpment and nicely defensive, rising like a bald man’s pate above the forest of his hair. But it was also too steep from all angles for wagons or carts to attempt, not to mention tight on room given the size of the resident army. So Commius – or Correus, whoever was in overall command of the enemy – had located the supplies in a valley that was so perfectly hidden and away from the site of their camp that it should have gone unnoticed. Indeed the Roman scouts had only stumbled on it entirely by accident when they followed an enemy rider. From the valley, a narrow defile ran almost all the way to the enemy hill, which meant that supplies could be ferried to the army without drawing Roman attention.
It had been perfect.
But the Romans had found it now.
Varus counted two hundred and eleven vehicles and three pens of animals, each vast and well populated with fat, well-foddered animals.
‘What do we do sir?’
Varus glanced across at Annius, a strange knowing flash in his eye.
‘Under normal circumstances, we would return to the army and confirm the location of the enemy supplies. I would then gather our men and put up the defensive cavalry screen while Caesar chose the legionary vexillation that would come to gather the supplies. That would be the normal and sensible order of things.’
The decurion looked confused.
‘And we are not doing that?’
‘No, we are not, Annius.’ Varus shifted slightly in his saddle. ‘Are you a subtle man, Annius?’
‘Sir?’
‘When you play latrunculi on the steps of the basilicae in Rome, do you often win?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then count to fifty and turn and look at your standard bearer, then briefly, without noticeably doing so, glance up and right from him to the small rock pile in the woods and tell me what you see.’
The cavalry soldier did as he was bade and there was a long pause.
’Rider, sir.’
‘Details?’
The decurion looked rather crestfallen. ‘A Gaul sir?’
Varus smiled indulgently. ‘A single rider. He is likely Bellovaci. He is certainly Belgae from the colours. He watches us watching his own supply caravan. How many of us are there here, Annius?’
‘Less than thirty, sir.’
‘Indeed. We pose little threat to him. We know that there are more than a hundred Belgae riders down there with the wagons, and their men could swamp us if they wished. They know the terrain better than us and they outnumber us four to one. We are in grave danger. Certainly, that man should have ridden down to the warriors in the valley and by now we should be watching the enemy streaming up at us. Yet he just watches. Why, Annius? Imagine you’re playing latrunculi and transpose the positions.’
The decurion frowned.
‘He’s an observer but… he was expecting us?’
‘Very good. No surprise as he watches us. No panic on behalf of their supplies. He was expecting us. Why?’
The decurion peered into the woodland, remembering how the scouts had followed a fortuitous lone rider out here. He coughed. ‘Because we were led here sir?’
‘Top marks, Annius. Take an extra ration tonight. And why were we led here, then?’
.Because… because… it’s a trap?’
‘Exactly, decurion. Now, what I would like you to do is this: as soon as I gather the men, ride back to camp, but don’t report to Caesar until I arrive. I want you to depart with enough visibility that the rider follows you, leaving me free to move unobserved. I will come back to camp and rejoin you shortly.’
The decurion looked less than happy, but nodded nonetheless. ‘Be careful, sir.’
‘You can buy me a drink when I get back.’
Varus waved over the cavalry, moving to a thicker area of woods nearby. As the riders gathered, he nodded to Annius and, with a last look at the lone Belgic rider, slipped behind a large area of scrub, trees and undergrowth, hiding from sight. A moment later the Roman cavalry moved out, and Varus continued to peer between the greenery as the enemy observer followed the group at a discrete distance. The moment the Belgic rider was out of sight and there was no further sign of Varus’ men, the commander moved out into the open, carefully, half expecting another trap.
For that was what this whole thing was.
A trap. Engineered by Commius and Correus, this was just too tempting a target for the Romans, and had been handed to them on a platter.
Once he was satisfied he was alone, Varus walked his horse through the open spaces in the woodland, keeping in sight the rock where the enemy watcher had been. As he reached that spot and peered around, he was unsurprised to find the signs of more than one rider. A number of men had been stationed here. And while it had not rained for two days now, the ground was soft enough from the preceding downpours that the tracks might as well have been painted by a vase painter in red and black. Numerous hoof prints led off towards the north. Slowly, keeping an eye out for other watchers, he followed.
These hoof prints took him two and a half miles into the forest, where finally he rounded a menhir – one of the strange religious stones of the old Gauls – and was afforded an impressive view of what awaited them.
He gave up counting after a hundred and, using that block as a guide, estimated the number of the enemy warriors gathered in the woods ready to fall upon the Romans as they gleefully commandeered the Belgic supply wagons.
‘Not today, my friend,’ he whispered as he scanned the enemy force.
Six thousand, he reckoned. Based on that initial hundred-count, there were around six thousand men waiting to ambush a Roman forage party. Moreover, among the group he could see a small group of Gallic nobles and an honour guard of tough warriors. The ambush had been laid by either Correus or Commius himself and one of those two rebel leaders was part of the force.
The enemy army had been estimated at roughly forty five thousand warriors. That was drawing on every capable man from numerous tribes. This, then, was perhaps an eighth of the entire enemy force. Its destruction would certainly weaken the enemy, but the true opportunity here was the destruction of morale. Whichever of the two enemy leaders was here, his death or capture would wreak havoc on the spirit of the remaining enemy.
But it would have to be done carefully. If the enemy knew the Romans were aware of the trap they might pull back to their camp, or their leader might depart. The Roman force would have to give the appearance of falling into their trap until the last moment.
Tearing his gaze from the enemy’s temporary encampment, he wheeled his horse and picked his way carefully back through the woods, taking a slightly circuitous route to make sure he did not bump into that same rider following his cavalry. Time to report to Caesar and plan a little surprise for the Bellovaci.
* * * * *
Correus of the Bellovaci watched his sister-son Andecamulos riding towards him with a hungry look and smiled. It warmed him to think that his people were so confident and content with their lot. It went some way to allaying his fears over this entire situation.
Months ago, Commius of the Atrebates had come to him, seeking an allegiance in defiance of Rome. At first, Correus had turned him away, labelling him an idiot and a troublemaker. After all, he had received more than one overture during the winter from the Arvernian and Cadurci nobles who had led all the peoples to disaster last year, seeking to begin a new rising, and he had solidly rebuffed their proposals. The Belgae were now the only strong people left in the land, and what did they care for the plight of the southern tribes who had already crossed the last river once and were now trying to swim back to life?