Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (50 page)

And yet, as he watched the first volleys of fire issue from the attackers and from the walls of the settlement, he could see the future of the world mapped out among the cohorts and centuries before him.

Before Caesar came to the lands of the Belgae, the Remi tribe had weighed their options and made the decision to support the forces of the general. Had they not, they may now be like the Aduatuci: nothing more than a name on a map, gradually fading into obscurity. Rome was coming to the whole world and embracing its arrival was the only sensible option. Aquitania would fall soon enough.

Distant cries of dismay drew his attention and he used his hand to shade his eyes and passed his gaze across the forces below the walls. Something was happening by one of the two huge siege towers. The structure was leaning at a precarious angle and it was with a smile that Galronus realised that two of the huge wheels had sunk into the ground. As he watched the legionaries desperately trying to right the huge construction, he almost laughed aloud when the tower swayed dangerously and then finally, ponderously, toppled forward and disappeared from view.

He frowned as he tried to focus on the distant spot, trying to work out what had happened and let out another bark of laughter as he realised that the structure had sunk into a tunnel, then tipped forward and vanished into the subterranean passage in its entirety.

The advance faltered for a moment as decisions were made. Galronus grinned and reached down for his sack of watered wine, purloined from the baggage train last night, and yet another indication of the influence Fronto had had on him this past year.

On the plain below, the bright silver and crimson figures of the tribunes marched around between the other officers, relaying Crassus’ commands. Galronus tried for a moment to identify them: the ageing Tertullus who had become a friend and ally so easily, and Rusca, who had arrived at the baggage train two days ago covered in gore, smelling of unearthly filth, and had spoken to him for the first time, lightly and with a gentle humour. The distance was too great, though, and one shining officer looked very much like another from this position.

It was curious. From here, with no command of his own and no direct influence on events, watching the army of Crassus at their work felt like those lazy days in early spring when he’d risen blearily from his bed in Fronto’s house and gone to watch the morning races in the circus. Momentarily he considered whether it would be in bad taste to find one of the medics or support staff that remained back from the battle and lay a few wagers.

Almost certainly they would think him callous, or an idiot. But then the betting of coin on games was a habit to which Rome had introduced him and not a natural pastime for the Belgae.

Taking another swig from the wine, he lay back on the rock and dozed, half listening to the battle going on below and before him. Some decision had clearly been made about how to avoid a repeat of the tower incident and the legions were marching again, accompanied by the groan and clonk of the huge timber constructions and the constant distant whisper of arrows and other projectiles flying back and forth.

In a way, he was glad to be so far out of it that the battle appeared little more than a game, unable to hear the cries of the wounded and dying and smell the sick odours of war.

A series of shouts and a crash announced another setback and Galronus pushed himself upright once again and opened his eyes. Another tunnel had been discovered, this time by one of the heavy, trundling vineae that had sagged to one side, its wheels sinking into the ground. With a great deal of effort, the legionaries managed to heave it back up to the flat and push it off to one side, avoiding the likely line of the passage.

By now the screens were in place and the units of auxiliary archers close enough to strafe the parapet of the low walls, quickly clearing them of defenders.

The Remi officer was about to close his eyes and sink back down to the rock when there was a tremendous roar. Pushing himself fully upright, he shaded his eyes once more and watched as a postern gate opened off to the far left and a mass of screaming Sotiate warriors issued forth, pouring toward the archers and their screen. Galronus nodded to himself as he watched events unfold.

The archers were apparently undefended, simply auxiliaries hiding behind screens; easy pickings for the enemy and too far from the nearest legionary cohort for the regular troops to intervene in time. The Sotiates had seen their only opportunity to try and even the field a little, but Crassus had planned ahead, likely for this very event, else why would he not have concentrated on the postern gate.

As half a thousand warriors poured forth, the nearest cohort of the Seventh changed its tack instantly, picking up speed and moving at triple time across the front of the archers, beneath the walls.

The bellowing, desperate Sotiate warriors threw themselves at the undefended archers, only to discover that the screen had concealed more than just the auxiliary bowmen. The spearmen who had filtered among them suddenly raised and braced their spears, using the weapons to create a barrier of deadly points protecting the archers, who continued to rain death on the oppidum’s walls.

The enemy realised their error too late, pulling back from lunging at the deadly spear wall and turning to flee to their gate, only to find that the speedy cohort had cut them off from their own walls. Suddenly trapped between the Narbonese spear men and the soldiers of the Seventh, busy settling into a shield wall, the despondent warriors threw down their weapons.

The Sotiates in the oppidum cut their losses and shut the gate on their friends.

“You are a Gaul. What do you think they will do?”

Galronus spun round in surprise to find Crassus standing behind him, burnished cuirass dazzling in the sunlight, crimson cloak waving in the light breeze.

“I am Remi, from half a world away, not one of them.”

Crassus shrugged, dismissing the comment as irrelevant.

“Well” Galronus mused, frowning at this unwarranted and unusual attention from the legate. “There is nothing they can do. They must surrender.”

Crassus nodded.

“I believe so. The question is whether we accept the surrender. We must continue on after this, deeper into Aquitania, to the very foothills of the Pyrenees, and it is never wise to leave a live enemy behind one. Even if I were inclined to mercy, the option of extermination is not a ridiculous one.”

Galronus narrowed his eyes and looked the man up and down. There was something in Crassus’ voice that he’d not noticed before. The legate appeared to be trying to talk himself into something.

“And
are
you?”

“I am considering it, certainly. I brought down the Roman heel on the throat of Armorica last year and it seems to have had the opposite effect to that for which I had hoped. Instead of squeezing the resistance from them, I seem to have squeezed a mass of Gauls into a hardened resistance. We can scarce afford a similar situation developing in Aquitania. Whatever we do here must be a permanent end if we are to label Gaul conquered.”

Galronus nodded.

“One way or the other, you mean. Pax Romana with the peoples of Aquitania, or a region totally empty save the graves of uncounted tribes.”

“Do not deny it, and rest assured that I dislike you also, though I find, curiously, that I do not
distrust
you. So tell me truthfully what you believe I should do with the Sotiates?”

Galronus pondered again, scratching his neck. He reached for his wine sack and offered it up to Crassus, who made a face.

“
Hardly
.”

Shrugging, the Remi officer took a deep swig and leaned back.

“You should accept their surrender in good faith. Offer acceptable terms; even terms favourable to them if you wish to have them watch your back as you move on. But remember too that the sort of leader who will lure you into an ambush is the sort of man to watch even when there is peace.”

“Forgive me, legate, but you didn’t come and find me just to ask my opinion on something you had already thought through yourself.”

“They are Gauls. They are used to serving under a Gaulish commander. I fear you have a grip on your men that no Roman could break.”

“Very well” Galronus said, standing and stretching slowly. “I will have to insist that the disposition of the cavalry becomes my responsibility alone, though. You have seen now how shared authority works out.”

Crassus nodded again.

“Agreed. Return to your men, then, commander, and prepare them. We may need to contain attempts to flee, and we will certainly require numerous scout patrols in the coming hours and days.”

As the Remi officer rolled his shoulders, he grinned and pointed out toward the oppidum.

“And you, I suspect, will be busy too, legate. If I’m not mistaken, that looks like their leaders riding out to parlay with you.”

* * * * *

Galronus patted the neck of his steed and stroked her mane as he watched the procedure. The surrender had been civilised and swift, the half dozen top men of the Sotiates riding out to meet the Roman officers and requesting terms. Crassus had, as he had intimated he would to Galronus, offered almost unprecedented good terms, ordering the Gauls to deliver up their arms for disposal, take the oath of allegiance to Rome and forbidding them to take up arms except in the defence of Rome or against mutual enemies. In return, no repercussions would be felt by the Sotiates for their resistance, no hostages taken and no slavery or looting. That last had been particularly surprising, given Crassus’ reputation and the disfavour such an edict would bring on him from his men.

Rusca, the senior tribune, had been placed in charge of processing the surrendering Gauls, collecting their arms and administering the oath. The man seemed to have a knack for organisation and the whole affair was ordered and efficient, the population leaving the oppidum by the main gate, passing before Rusca and his guard, giving their names and professions and surrendering their weapons before moving off to assemble in ordered rows on the plain below the walls, where they would later take the oath before being free to return to their homes.

Galronus sighed. Perhaps the young legate’s thirst for bloodshed had finally been slaked and he was settling into the role of the praetor in a traditional Roman fashion. Still, it would be a long time before the Remi chieftain would be comfortable giving Crassus the benefit of the doubt.

The auxiliary cavalry sat ahorse in large units, keeping a watchful eye on events and upon the assembling unarmed Gauls. He felt some sympathy for them as he glanced up and down the rows, the pride still evident in their eyes, unbroken. Pride was hard to come by in Gaul these days.

A call drew his attention and he turned to see two of his men escorting one of the more important Sotiate warriors toward him. The man was still dressed for battle, his chain shirt a deep grey, the golden torc slung around his neck above it drawing the attention. Though disarmed, the man had retained his armour and the trappings of his rank, sitting astride a horse several hands taller than Galronus’ own.

The man nodded in familiar salute, his long, white-blond hair dropping across his face and hiding the bushy moustache and the steel grey eyes.

“How incredibly closed-minded of you. I am
still
a Gaul.”

“You look like a Roman now. Where is your beard? Where is your torc? You wear the uniform of Rome and you talk like them. Even speaking
our
language, you have
their
accent.”

Galronus shrugged.

“All things change, my friend. I shave and wear their armour, but my friend who leads their Tenth legion rarely shaves and wears a Belgic torc over his Roman trappings. The tribes could never unite to become one Gaul, and so instead we shall become one
Roman
Gaul.”