“My lord Divitiacus” Caesar greeted the Aedui chief with as deep and respectful a bow as he could manage on horseback. Divitiacus gave him a traditional Roman military salute. “General.”
“What news of the Bellovaci?”
The Aedui chieftain pulled his horse alongside the general and shrugged.
“We have fought and burned our way from Lutetia all the way here, Caesar. The main force was absent, fighting you, though even their women and children fought us as best they could. It was tragic really. I dislike having to take war against women.”
Caesar nodded.
“It is tragic, and all soldiers try not to, but sometimes civilians will just not listen to reason and must resist. I hope you have not incurred too many casualties?”
Divitiacus shrugged again.
“Hardly any until the Bellovaci returned to their lands. About a week ago we started to meet actual warriors in small tribes. We have fought and defeated each small army we came across, but were always surprised at their low numbers until yesterday. Then we discovered where they have all gone.”
Caesar raised an eyebrow.
“They are in the greatest oppidum they control; a town called Bratuspantium, about a mile down the valley from here. There they’ve held against us for four days and have caused us a lot of deaths. We outnumber them, but they’re in a strong position and won’t sally forth to deal with us.”
Caesar nodded.
“But now the Aedui will join Rome on the field and the Bellovaci will tremble before our might.”
Divitiacus shook his head.
“I’m afraid not, Caesar. The Bellovaci will not sue for peace as others have. They are too proud. Their warriors would rather die than submit to Rome. Even their women and children, as we’ve seen.”
Caesar frowned, thoughtfully.
“But it will take days to remove them from an oppidum, even with my best engineers. If they will not come out to meet us and they will not accept treaty, then we must make them bow before us!”
Priscus caught a glimpse of the general’s face as he addressed the Aedui chieftain and he knew that look. He hardened himself for whatever he was about to overhear.
After a moment, Caesar turned to Labienus and Sabinus, both of whom sat ahorse behind him.
“I assume Fronto took prisoners after that fracas by the Aisne? Are any of them Bellovaci?”
Sabinus nodded.
“Almost a hundred, some pretty badly wounded though. They’re chained up at the rear of the supply column, in the charge of the Thirteenth.”
Caesar nodded.
“In a minute we’re going to move out to Bratuspantium. While we do, have the prisoners brought forward under guard.”
Bratuspantium was, as had been intimated, an impressive fortress, with thick, high walls and a wide ditch, as defensive as Noviodunum and more besides. The Bellovaci lined the walls, with archers, slingers, stone and spear-throwers ready to repel any threat. They were clearly no more concerned about the arrival of seven legions of Romans than they were about the large numbers of Aedui that had been whittling down the defenders through great attrition for days now.
Priscus stood in his accustomed position at the head of the Tenth and the front of the Roman column, with only Caesar’s staff between him and the defences of the Bellovaci. From here he could see the prisoners being marched along the side of the column; mostly the walking wounded, with occasional old men and the braver women who had accompanied their tribe into battle.
A good job Fronto wasn’t here. The legate was conscious now, but would remain with the medical staff until tomorrow morning for observation. It was, Priscus thought, a damn good thing. There was a man accompanying the prisoner column who the primus pilus recognised; a man whose job it was to extract information from a reticent source. Every legion had such a man, though they were rarely called upon. This one, Manlius of the Ninth, had a reputation that surpassed the others, and which made him Caesar’s first choice for that least pleasant of activities.
The Gauls of the Thirteenth Legion marched the prisoners out ahead of the column, to where Caesar and Sabinus stood, alongside Divitiacus. Priscus was close enough to hear the low conversation between the army’s leaders, intended to be unheard by the legions.
“What do you intend to do?” Divitiacus sounded nervous.
“I shall persuade the Bellovaci to peace.”
“You will execute their fellows?”
“In a manner of speaking…” Caesar turned that frightening feral smile on him and then, as the prisoners were lined up, he cleared his throat and called out in a voice loud enough to reach the walls of Bratuspantium and be heard within.
“Leaders and warriors of the Bellovaci…”
He gestured with both arms widely.
“You have shut yourself in a trap. My army will slowly close that trap and squeeze you to death, if that is your will. I have been warned that you will not surrender to the will of Rome and that you will not fight us in open and honourable warfare. Therefore you leave me no choice but to use every weapon at my disposal to make you accept our will.”
He turned and gestured to Manlius, who began, with the aid of two legionaries from the Thirteenth, to hammer a huge stake into the ground and bind ropes to it.
Caesar nodded, stony-faced.
“I give you this first great chance to prevent further bloodshed and to make peace with Rome. What is your answer?”
There was a resounding silence in answer to his call.
“Very well. Continue, centurion Manlius…”
Priscus watched with growing unease as an old man with a leg wound was drawn, limping, from the column of prisoners and tied tightly to the stake. His worst fears were confirmed when Manlius collected from his kit a small flask of oil and drizzled it over the old man’s head. The torturer stopped in front of the prisoner and gave him an unpleasant grin. Priscus felt like applauding as the prisoner spat a mixture of oil and saliva in the centurion’s face. Centurions like Manlius gave the rank a bad name. The job might be a necessary one at times, but there was no call for anyone to enjoy it so much.
Priscus looked away as Manlius worked the firesteel with a flicking noise. Keeping his head erect and straight, the primus pilus focused instead on Divitiacus of the Aedui, whose own face had become a mask of horror. Yes…a damn good job Fronto wasn’t here right now. There was a sudden explosive noise just out of his field of vision to the right, accompanied by an agonised shrieking.
Caesar, he noticed, barely blinked.
For three minutes they stood in silence like a still painting on the wall of a villa, locked in the seemingly eternal torture of a relative innocent. Three minutes though, Priscus knew, for he counted each second past as Caesar stared at the oppidum while Divitiacus stared at him. And throughout each tick in his mind, the sound of burning slowed and quietened to become the crackle and hiss of crisping flesh and burning fat.
Priscus’ teeth ground as Caesar once more addressed the Bellovaci.
“That is one of your people. Possibly the father of one of you on the walls? He is dead. Painfully, horribly, and unnecessarily dead. Because you will not listen to reason. I offer peace and an end to this horror. What is your answer?”
There was a silence once more. Caesar placed his hands on his hips and drew a breath, but Divitiacus stepped in front of him.
“General, this is not war. This is torture and murder. Let us tear down their walls instead. It is slow, but it is war!”
Caesar’s eyes flicked briefly to him and then back to Bratuspantium.