“Which, of course, you would.”
Fronto continued to growl quietly.
“So do we tell Paetus?”
“What good will that do?” replied Balbus. “There’s nothing he can do about it now. I suppose it’s possible you could persuade Caesar to send the riders that he never did, but I don’t think so.”
Fronto shook his head, a determined look on his face.
“I can do one better than that. I just hope there’s still time.”
He turned to Varus.
“I need half a dozen men with fast horses; Romans, too. Not Gauls. Think you can spare them?”
Varus nodded, uncertainly.
“The cavalry strength reports are always a mess anyway. What are you planning?”
“I’ve got family in Rome as well, and a bored sister with money. If Caesar won’t do anything to protect Paetus’ family, then it’s up to me.”
Varus sat back.
“Pour me another wine. I suspect I’m going to need it.”
* * * * *
As the sun made its first appearance over the tree-lined hills to the east and the dew settled into the damp grass, Varus vaulted into his saddle. The cavalry section was quartered in a stockaded area near one end of the defensive line, close to a wide causeway crossing, and the pre-dawn morning had seen the camp alive with troopers, both regular and auxiliary, preparing for action. Caesar had called Varus to him in the middle of the night and the cavalry commander had blearily attended to be informed that the cavalry would be going into action first thing in the morning.
Since then, Varus had had no time for sleep. Giving the call early, he had managed to marshal the entire mounted division in front of their stockade while it was still dark. Now, as he prepared to ride out and attempt a repeat of the cavalry’s previous successes, he slung his shield on its strap over his back and narrowed his eyes at the five men sitting astride their horses awaiting orders.
“Sorry to take you out of the action. I’m sure you were looking forward to giving the Belgae a battering, but I need people I can trust with this.”
Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew a scroll in a protective leather wrap, sealed with wax. Hesitating for a moment, he reached out and proffered it to the nearest rider. As the man took the scroll and tucked it away safely inside his cloak, Varus withdrew a second item; a small purse of coins. Handing it to the men, he fixed them with a serious gaze.
“This should be enough to see to you Rome and back comfortably, using mansios wherever you can. Remember: you’re couriers for a legate, so steer clear of any trouble spots and stay as safe and inconspicuous as possible. Repeat your orders for me?”
The man with the tightly-wrapped scroll nodded.
“We’re to deliver this to the House of the Falerii opposite the temple of Bona Dea on the Aventine. It’s to go only into the hands of one of the two ladies of the house; no servants. Get there as fast as we can and then return to Durocorteron to find out where the army has moved to. Talk to no one about where we’re going, what we’re doing or who we’re doing it for.”
Varus nodded.
“And if neither of the Falerii ladies are there?”
“Then we’re to ride on to their villa in Puteoli and deliver the message there.”
Again Varus nodded, satisfied.
“This is very important. Lives rest on your success. Now get going, and good luck.”
The men saluted and then rode from the stockade towards the bridge across the Aisne at the rear of the huge camp. Varus watched them go and sighed. How the hell did he get caught up in intrigue like this? It was Fronto, he thought, almost laughing. The man was like a hub around which trouble gathered. Gods would be frightened to get too deeply involved with Fronto.
Another smile, and he turned and rode back to join the cavalry prefects behind him.
“Alright, gentlemen. Let’s go and show the Belgae how we make war.”
Squaring his shoulders, he kicked his horse into motion and led the large cavalry contingent of Caesar’s army, fully equipped for battle, through the gate in the stockade and toward the crossing point of the ditch.
The mile or so to the marsh passed peacefully, the dawn chorus twittering its song to the thousands of riders as they trotted, grim-faced, past nature’s morning spectacle. As the sun gradually rose higher, it washed the landscape of gentle rolling hills with a pale, watery light.
Varus prepared himself. Though he’d seen the lay of the land several times and knew the Belgic position well, until he reached the scene, he really couldn’t decide how to proceed. Would it be best to attempt a repeat of Lucilius’ action to the east? Perhaps it would be best to take the army round to the west and try to skirt them until they could reach appropriate ground beyond the ridge? He was even tempted to send a few scouts into the marsh to see if it was shallower than it looked. If the cavalry could cross the marsh it would certainly make things easier, though that was extremely doubtful.
His face hardened as they reached the plain where two of the recent actions had taken place. In the hours since the last attack, the Belgae had retrieved their dead, presumably to bury them and raise a mound somewhere back near their encampment. The Roman dead, of course, remained where they fell, starting to putrefy. The sooner they could get the Belgae to fight, the sooner this would be over and they could retrieve their own dead and give them a proper funeral.
He mused again. His orders were to try and get the Belgae to march on the Roman lines but, if they continued to refuse, to harry them and reduce their numbers. Easier said than done, given this terrain.
As they reached the foot of the low hill, he looked up at the familiar line of poplars and then turned back to his men. Signalling a halt, he gestured to the senior prefects and together the officers rode to the top of the hill to confer and make plans.
The line of poplars offered some protection and a clear view across the marsh at the lines of the Belgae. As Varus reached the crest, he drew up sharply.
“What the?”
The prefect by his side stared.
“Where the hell are they?”
Ahead, the marsh stretched out as a barrier of dangerous ground. Beyond lay the camp of the Belgae, stretching across the plain, almost empty and seemingly abandoned. Peering at the mess and squinting, Varus could make out a number of warriors gathered in small groups.
“There can’t be more than a few thousand men there in the whole bloody camp!”
The man by his side said, in much the same shocked voice “but where have the rest gone?”
‘Good question’, the commander thought to himself.
“They can’t have got far” he murmured as he squinted at the camp. “There are far too many fires burning there for them to have been travelling for long. They can’t have been gone more than two or three hours, I’d say.”
This was the highest point within reasonable reach, but the view was fairly restricted by the charred and blackened areas of woodland and thick undergrowth to either side. Frowning, he glanced round at his officers.
“Any of you men good at climbing trees?”
There was a lot of metaphorical shuffling of feet and finally Septimius, the prefect of the Eighth’s cavalry sighed.
“Alright, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”
Walking his horse a few steps, he hoisted himself up until he was standing on the saddle and reached for the nearest solid branch of the tree. With a grunt, he hauled himself up into it. Varus watched him climb, deftly, higher, quickly reaching the narrower, more flexible branches. Above the commander the tree swayed, twigs and leaves dropping and fluttering down among the officers. After a moment, Varus stepped his horse back, so that he could see the armoured figure hauling himself ever higher. With a crack, Septimius stopped, having reached the highest safe point.
“What can you see?” shouted the commander.