S. Turney - The Belgae

There were no warriors on the walls. Perhaps a show of peace and surrender there, since men folk, along with the women and children, stood beside the doors to their houses, proud and erect as their Roman conquerors marched past, through the square and up the sloping street.

Six cohorts of men, even depleted as they were, numbered almost two thousand men and made an impressive sound and sight as they tramped through the streets, crunching and clanking. This was Rome, as always, imposing itself on the barbarians.

Some of the men stared angrily at the officers as they passed. Good, the general decided. To be unhappy about the situation and angry at Rome and its commanders was normal; to be expected. It eased Caesar’s tension a little. Fronto had been right; they had been a little too smug.

There was a clatter of hooves on the stone and Varus reined in next to him.

“I don’t wish to raise any further alarm, Caesar, but one of my men found Fronto.”

Caesar raised an eyebrow.

“Alarm, Commander?”

“Well, general, he was only a couple of hundred yard from the cliff and had been wounded in the head. Raises some questions about the motives of the Aduatuci, I’d say.”

“Wonderful. Just when I was starting to breathe a little easier.”

The general leaned back to speak to Cicero, riding close behind.

“Quintus? As soon as we get into the square, have the cohorts form into a square; battle formation, but defensive rather than ready to attack. I want to be prepared.”

Cicero nodded and turned to speak to the tribunes behind him as the army rode out of the street and into the main square. Aduatuci warriors and their families lined the edges, while at the far end, atop a low stair, stood Damiacus and his advisors and guards.

The general drew a deep breath.

This was it. The end of the Belgae.

Fronto staggered, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him once again. Two of the cavalrymen had dismounted and rushed over to support the wounded officer.

“Gerroff me!”

“Sir?” One of the troopers grasped him regardless. “We’ve got to get you to the medicus right away. You’re pale as a Vestal’s underwear; must have lost a lot of blood.”

Fronto growled.

“I’m a little wobbly; that’s all. Haven’t got time for doctors. Send for Florus from the Tenth; he can keep me going.”

“Sir?” the man said urgently.

“More important things to do, soldier. Caesar’s mobilised the army?”

The trooper nodded uncertainly.

“The general has taken six cohorts into the city to accept their full surrender and to occupy the oppidum, sir.”

“Shit.”

“Sir?”

Fronto tapped his head, trying to get his fuzz-filled brain to work faster. He seemed to decide something and then grasped the shoulders of the trooper for support as he looked at the second, so far silent, rider.

“This man and I are going to find Florus and my horse. You get your friends and go find every legionary legate and auxiliary prefect on the field and tell them to mobilise for action. Tell them to be ready to march on the oppidum as soon as they’re in position.”

The trooper blinked.

“Sir? They surrendered.”

“Bollocks!”

“Sir, I don’t have the authority…”

“ I do!” interrupted Fronto. “Get the army mobilised now !”

As the man remounted his horse and rode off toward the lines, Fronto smiled shakily at the other trooper.

“That gives us a few minutes to get my head seen to!”

* * * * *

Galronus peered through the crack in the door at the rear of the building and then stared down at the body at his feet.

“What’s all the commotion?” he whispered.

Priscus, at the other side of the house, peered out between the mostly-closed wooden shutters. The central square was lined with people, even in front of this building, only a few feet from where he crouched.

“I think they’re getting ready for a ceremony or something. That particular noise you’re talking about, though, is legionaries. I know that sound anywhere. That’s a hell of a lot of legionaries coming up the main street.”

Galronus growled quietly and wiped his bloody knife on the body. They had sneaked in through the rear door of this building right in the centre of town around thirty minutes ago, hoping they would be safe from prying eyes, but minutes later they had had to hide as the front door opened and a man had entered and gone straight across to a cache of hidden weapons. Others stood in the portal and had weapons passed to them until the cache was empty. Then they left and closed the door, but the one man had stayed. Priscus had been impressed with how quickly and quietly the Remi officer had dealt with him.

“I can only see the Aduatuci near me, but they’ve got swords, axes and slings hidden behind them or leaning against the bases of the houses. I’ll assume the same is true of everyone, wherever they are.”

Galronus shook his head.

“Then we have to raise the alarm; warn the army.”

Priscus held up a warning hand.

“Not yet. If an ambush was their only plan, they’d have carried it out in the narrow street. They’re allowing the legions to get into the square, which is stupid. There the men can form squares, shield walls, testudos and so on. So why? Why let them have the room to manoeuvre?”

Galronus shrugged.

“Maybe…”

“Wait!” Priscus cut him off with a raised hand. He frowned and squinted across the square.

”Oh shit!”

“What’s…” Galronus began, but he was too late. Priscus was already gone, flinging the door wide open, regardless of the Aduatuci waiting beyond, and running out into the square. Desperately, unsure of what was happening, the Remi officer rushed over to the window the centurion had just vacated and scanned the square outside.

Priscus had barged through the warriors outside, drawing his great Celtic blade. Confusion gripped the men lining the square as this apparent Belgae warrior had run out into the central square openly wielding one of the weapons they had gone to such great pains to hide. Those Roman Gods must be running at Priscus’ shoulder indeed, he thought, for the confusion gripped the locals so strongly that the primus pilus was already across the centre of the square and accelerating before a shout went up outside the door.

Still unsure of what had caused Priscus’ sudden panicked run, exposing them to the enemy, he followed the direction in which the man was running and squinted as he scanned the opposite edge of the open space.

Nothing unusual.

The warriors and their families lined the edge as they did on the other three sides, but there was nothing special about them. Behind them, the same single story buildings rose, stone based with wooden uppers and either wooden or thatched roofs…

Roofs.

The roof!

Galronus drew a nervous breath. Priscus must have sharp eyes; one building of the several opposite was undergoing extensive repair work, its roof only partially complete. The building stood open, with no door and no shutters on the windows. And the rafters were partially thatched, great sheaves standing tied and waiting to be attached.

But among the rafters stood two figures; two tall barbarians, barely visible, lurking among the debris. And one of them had a bow, already nocked and straining as the man gradually stepped back into the shadow, disappearing from sight.

Damn, that centurion really did have good eyes.

With absolutely no doubt for whom that arrow was destined, Galronus rushed out through the doorway, drawing his sword as he went. He had to buy Priscus time, which meant drawing as much attention as possible.

With a violent cry, he leapt out into the square, the sword raised above his head, and brought it down hard, almost cleaving the man before him in two. The viscera from the horrifying blow sprayed out, catching the men on either side and staining them crimson. With a grunt, Galronus heaved the heavy blade back out of the corpse as it crashed to the floor, spraying himself with gore in the process.