* * * * *
Paetus awoke slowly, his vision returning as the scene around him swam into focus. There was a throbbing in his head like he’d never felt. He went to reach for the back of his head, where he suspected there was a wound, but discovered his arms were bound behind his back at both wrist and elbow. He focused.
He was lying on a stone-flagged floor covered with straw. It was dirty and itchy, but dry, which meant he was inside somewhere. Yes… he could make out the rectangles of light that were windows. And the breeze… of course the barbarians didn’t glaze their windows like the ‘civilized’ Romans. There was heat from somewhere though. He stretched, trying to look all around and examine his situation. He was in a low building of some sort of wood and mud mixture, with a thatched roof. No sign of stonework here; the structure was apparently one room, roughly twenty feet by fifteen, and decorated only with rough timber table and chairs and a fire pit blazing away in the centre.
Though he was alone in the room, he could see the door, which rested over an inch from ground level, leaving a thin line of light that displayed the shadow of the legs of a man, presumably on guard. Paetus wriggled, trying to find a reasonable position to stand, but the scouts had bound his ankles and knees as tightly as his arms. At least they hadn’t gagged him.
“Hey?”
There was no answer. Paetus realised he’d actually hardly made a noise at all. He drew a deep breath and forced his parched and unused throat to rasp out loudly.
“Hey you? Anyone there?”
There was a shuffle outside and conversation in the low, guttural tone of the Belgae. Paetus wished he’d spent some time on this campaign learning their damned language, but then who knew he’d need it? The shadow legs moved, leaving a straight line of light.
He lay there in the silence for several minutes wondering what was happening and was just considering calling out again when he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel approaching the building. He tried to look as confident and defiant as he could, though truly he was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of his chosen course of action.
The door swung open, Paetus’ pupils shrinking to pinpoints in the bright morning light that flooded in through the door momentarily before three figures blocked the aperture. Two men entered while the third remained outside, closing the door.
“I am not here as your enemy” Paetus announced. “You can loosen my bonds. I sought you out and have no intention of running.”
There was another exchange in their tongue, and then the two figures settled, cross-legged on the floor before him.
One was a man decorated with bronze and gold and wearing the highest quality furs and wools, clearly a chieftain. The other… well even cross-legged it was clear the man was extremely tall and well built. But there was more… he was familiar. His long, grey hair and beard, the white robe, the flax circlet and the broadsword and staff. In a flash of déjà vu, Paetus recognised the druid that had addressed the meeting of chiefs at Bibracte last year. A Roman hater, for sure. That could go well for him… or it could go hard.
“What are you doing here, Roman?”
Paetus sighed and relaxed slightly.
“It is,” replied Paetus sadly, “a very long story. But fortunately, the story and my motives are irrelevant. I am here to help you.”
The chieftain asked the druid something in their language once again and the druid replied. A translation, presumably.
“You are one of the Roman commanders. We are not stupid. The beard does not hide your stink. You are still alive because I am intrigued. Boduognatus here wants to skin you and fly your flesh from a standard when we find your legions. He is a simple man. So, unless you are done with your skin, talk to me, but talk fast and keep everything to the point. I must translate your words and speaking your tongue makes me retch.”
Paetus nodded, uncomfortably in his current position, but he was fairly sure that nothing he could say right now would make them treat him like a man. That could change, though…
“I am no longer Caesar’s man. I am Roman, yes, and I will not aid the Belgae in bringing war against Rome, but Caesar is not Rome. I believe it is not unknown for Celtic tribes to develop a ‘blood feud’ that causes constant war. Suffice it to say that Caesar and I now have a blood feud.”
“You chatter like a mindless bird. I said keep it to the point. You say you hate Caesar. I believe the phrase you seek is ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? I have heard this said by Romans and it shows, I might add, a very narrow view of motive.”
Paetus shrugged.
“Whether you agree with it or not is not the issue. I am willing to help you destroy Caesar’s army and drive him from your lands. It is in my interest that Caesar is unsuccessful in his conquest and is forced to return to Rome a failure.”
The druid frowned.
“While I may say that I seriously doubt your honesty and I have absolutely no reason to believe what you tell me, I will warn you that if you can interest us enough to make me prevent your death, Boduognatus here will certainly make sure of the truth of this. It will be extremely painful and possibly disfiguring, so I advise you if you are lying to tell me so now.”
Paetus gritted his teeth. He had not considered the possibility that they would torture him. Possibly death if they didn’t believe him, but torture? He hardened himself. He was set on a course of action and, to bring down Caesar, he would give an eye and an arm if he needed. Nemesis would be with him.
“I am telling the truth. I have a plan of attack that will give you enough of an edge to take Caesar’s army and crush them into the dirt. Are you willing to listen?”
The druid held another brief conversation with the Nervian chieftain, and then turned back and nodded.
“Speak.”
“Caesar has seven legions, as well as auxiliaries and cavalry.”
“We know this. We know all about the legions and their commanders and the traitorous Belgae and Gauls who serve with them to the detriment of their own peoples.”
Paetus nodded.
“Do you know the marching order?”
The druid frowned.
“You are so strictly controlled that you even march in a set order?”
“Yes.” Paetus smiled. At last he was getting somewhere. “That is how you can beat Caesar. It will all depend on the land. You will have to find a barrier that they must cross; probably a river. When they reach it, Caesar will have five legions to the front. Each legion will be marching eight abreast, with the Tenth Legion being the vanguard. Behind them will come the Eighth, then the Ninth, the Eleventh and the Twelfth. After these legions will be the commanders, with the bulk of the cavalry contingent. After them is the baggage train, which is long, slow and cumbersome. And behind that, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions, the rest of the cavalry, and the few auxiliary units attached to them.”
“I fail to see how this helps us.”
“Wait,” Paetus said with a predatory smile. “It is simple. When the column reaches an obstacle that requires the army to stop for a while, the front legions will begin to construct a camp. Gradually, as the other legions catch up, they will join in and then enter the camp. If you place warriors in cover somewhere to the sides and wait as you count off the first five legions and the baggage train comes into sight, you have three advantages.”
He looked intently at the druid, who was now listening, rapt. Good.
“Firstly, the front legions, who are the five veteran ones and are your most dangerous opponents will be trapped against the river and surrounded by the Belgae. Secondly, the only reserves are a way back beyond the baggage train and will take time to catch up and engage and, even when they do, they are newly raised legions who are not experienced in true warfare. Moreover, they are Gauls by birth and perhaps could be persuaded to revolt if the circumstances are right.”