S. Turney - The Belgae

The general clenched his teeth.

“No quarter. Every last inhabitant of Aduatuca dies. Every last one.”

(Oppidum of Aduatuca)

“ Subura: a lower-class area of ancient Rome, close to the forum, that was home to the red-light district ’.”

“ Vindunum: later the Roman Civitas Cenomanorum, and now Le Mans in France.”

“ Octodurus: now Martigny in Switzerland, at the Northern end of the Great Saint Bernard Pass.”

Fronto sighed.

“But he’s alive?”

The young capsarius, hunched over the figure of Priscus on the stone flags, nodded, though his face was bleak as he turned to look up at his legate.

“He’s alive sir, but barely. He’s broken so many bones I can’t even think how we’ll go about moving him. He’s like a mosaic.”

Fronto frowned.

“But will he be alright?”

Florus stood and met the gaze of his commander. Despite everything, it almost made Fronto smile. Over a year ago, this young man had sat on a hilltop near Bibracte as a green recruit panicking about the next day’s battle. Now here he was, a professional soldier and medic, dealing with some of the nastiest aspects of war in a calm and collected manner.

“I really can’t say at this point, sir. I’m not convinced he’ll survive being moved, but we have to get him inside. The medicus wants us to clear out some of the buildings here for use as a hospital.”

Fronto shook his head.

“Can’t do that. Have to be back at the camp.”

The capsarius’ frown deepened.

“Then we’ll have to carry him more than a mile and I’m really not convinced he’ll make it. Even if he does, he’s going to need several operations and splints. And, to be honest, many men wouldn’t make it though that either. And then if he does, he’s still nowhere near out of the woods. If he’s still alive tomorrow morning there’s a chance. And every night he survives after that his chances improve.”

Fronto’s face was a picture of misery.

“Do what you have to. I’ve lost one of my best centurions and closest friends already this summer. I’m not going to lose another.”

Florus shook his head.

“I’m afraid you are sir.”

“What?”

The young medic sighed.

“Sir, the primus pilus shattered his left leg, including his knee, in the fall. Bones heal, but joints are a different matter. Whatever happens, even if he returns to robust health, he’ll be lame the rest of his life, sir.”

“Lame?” Fronto’s face fell. “You’re sure?”

Florus nodded.

“He may not even be able to walk. And I’m not sure about the damage to his arms yet either.” He took a deep breath. “He may wish he’d not lived, sir.”

The legate growled and took a step backwards, grinding his heel into the body of the man that had tumbled from the roof with Priscus, locked in a terminal embrace. He felt the man’s bones crunch under his boot and clenched his teeth.

“Get him back and take care of him. Do whatever you have to.”

Florus nodded and waved over a couple of legionaries who were leaning on their shields nearby and taking in the scene.

The oppidum of Aduatuca had fallen less than ten minutes after the attack began. Caesar had called for no quarter to be given, and the troops had butchered every member of the Aduatuci they had come across for some time before Fronto had persuaded the general to call a halt to the murder. Even then, given the situation, he’d had to persuade himself that the halt should be called first. Caesar was, at times, harsh and even perhaps wicked in his dealings with his enemies and, while Fronto often stood in opposition to such measures, after betrayal, sneak attacks and the disappearance of Priscus and Galronus, he could see how people were tempted to such measures.

A centurion he didn’t recognise, and there seemed to be so many of them these days, approached him across the square. Fronto had been left in command of the oppidum by Caesar, with very specific instructions.

“Sir?”

“Centurion. Have you finished the count?”

The man nodded.

“Barring the farms and the woodland to the rear, all houses have been checked and cleared of booty and the Aduatuci dead stacked inside. We’ve counted just over four thousand enemy bodies. The optio who counted the prisoners out of the gate said there were over fifty thousand.”

Fronto nodded.

“That’s a good number for the slave markets in Rome.”

“ All of them, sir?”

Another nod.

“Caesar’s orders. The Aduatuci are no more. Not a single one to be left free. Dead or enslaved.”

“Now that the legionaries have been separated out and taken away, do we start the burials?”

Fronto shook his head.

“No burials. There’s to be nothing left. Get everyone back to the camp barring one century and have them fire the oppidum, starting from the woods and working their way to the gates. Every building; every tree; everything. Use oil to make sure the place goes up like a torch. In a year’s time no one will remember the tribe.”

The centurion, startled by the decision, saluted.

“We’ll get on it now, sir.”

Fronto nodded and turned back to the three legionaries who had carefully shuffled the unconscious and broken form of Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus onto a blanket and were bearing him aloft toward the lower end of the square. Striding across and catching up with them, he fell in alongside the makeshift stretcher.

Trying not to look at the mess that was his old friend, he paid attention instead to the oppidum as he descended the street. The quality of the road itself and the houses that faced onto it was outstanding for Celtic tribes; almost Roman in its neatness and efficiency. Apparently the Aduatuci had been ahead of their peers. Was that what had made them so devious and calculating? Was this what Rome had become when viewed by an outsider?

He found himself once again thinking on the future of Gaul. The patricians of Rome saw themselves as a civilising force, offering culture and advancement to the barbarian world, though conquest if necessary. What the patrician class generally failed to realise was how much Rome itself could learn in return from those cultures. If only things would settle and stay settled, Gauls, Belgae and Romans could build something here.

He sighed. Such thoughts seemed so sensible and practical in his head, until his eyes strayed to the doorways of buildings as he passed and he saw the piled bodies within.

“Through conquest if necessary.”

“Sorry sir?” the legionary beside him queried.

“Oh, nothing.”

The small party continued down the main street where less than an hour ago Fronto had led the reserves into battle. Now, soldiers were carrying chests full of the booty they had stripped from the tribe, back down the paved avenue, across the square and through the gate to the camp.

At least they’d made something out of this. The campaign had been costly, with a chillingly high number of dead among the legions. Many of the centurionate, including some old friends, had gone to Elysium this year. But the Belgae were beaten. There would be peace, at least for a time and, after this, the Germans would be disinclined to cross the Rhine for a while. There would probably be trouble in the west of Gaul to deal with either in a month or so or, more likely, next year. But in all, things would be peaceful.

He looked up at the great wall, towers, and gate of the oppidum as he passed. He would have to speak to the artillery officers. No good burning all traces of the Aduatuci from the world but leaving their great fortification to be used again, particularly this close to Germanic territory. No, the walls would have to be completely destroyed. By the end of the week, the great oppidum of the Aduatuci would be nothing but a charred, denuded hill, and the process of wiping the tribe from history would begin. It was like Carthage again, though on a smaller scale.