S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

Crassus and his wing had chased down many of the fleeing survivors from the battle and had come across a large collection of German warriors that had turned and prepared to give their pursuers a fight. With the odds as they were, Varus couldn’t in good conscience call it a battle. It was a slaughter and, to give him his due, Crassus had given them the opportunity to surrender. It had been in the depths of combat when he had realised why the warriors had given them such fierce resistance. Alone on the edge of the fray with only a couple of the auxiliary troopers, he had spotted a small knot of well-dressed and equipped men and women moving as unobtrusively as possible toward the river, covered by the fighting behind them. He had pointed them out to the auxiliaries and one of them, a Sequani warrior fighting alongside the Romans had identified them as the Royal party.

They had been so close to the river by then that Varus had no time to draw this to the attention of Crassus and had instead gathered all of the regulars and auxiliaries he could find at the edge, racing off in pursuit of Ariovistus and his family.

Concentrating, he slowed his horse as they reached the edge of the river. He didn’t dare ride into the current. Looking up and down the bank for other boats, he was disappointed. Presumably the Germans had not expected to have to flee across the Rhine and had been woefully unprepared. With an irritated growl, he realised that the King had escaped.

Suddenly a number of spears whistled over his head, crashing into and around the boats. Turning angrily, he saw a number of the auxiliary troopers hurling their weapons into the boats.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t kill them all, and many of them are women!”

One of the auxiliaries looked down at him in surprise.

“They kill our women!”

Varus turned back to look at the boats and noticed that a few of the spears had, in fact hit home. The man Varus presumed to be Ariovistus himself stood nobly in the prow, shouting defiance in his guttural tongue. Slumped nearby were three women and two men.

Angrily, the prefect picked up a stone from the river bank and cast it after the boats, only to watch it fall very short and sink into the water. Turning, he gestured to the men around him.

“He’s gone. Back to your units.”

Varus mounted his horse once more and, with a last, longing look out at the small boats diminishing into the distance, sighed and wheeled his horse.

On the ride back across the hill and into the fray he kept berating himself for not having realised that the fight was a delaying tactic earlier. Had he been a little sharper, they could have caught Ariovistus on the way to the river and he would now be in chains on his way back to Caesar and, eventually, to Rome to be paraded before the public. Damn.

He looked up as they crested the hill and the bile rose in his throat. He was confronted with a scene of devastation. Without doubt the German warriors had surrendered, presumably when they’d realised that the King was either safe or they had failed. There was not a single warrior offering any resistance and, too proud to run from Crassus’ ‘no survivors’ policy were being cut down where they stood or knelt. With further horror, Varus realised that the Auxilia were sat ahorse in formation watching the grisly scene. The perpetrators were the regular cavalry. His ala was murdering surrendering men.

His fury rising, he kicked his horse into a gallop and made for the commanders, Crassus and several prefects and decurions sitting in a group in the centre of the field. He tried not to look around as he rode, but couldn’t fail to see the line of prisoners, a score or more, on their knees being beheaded systematically by his men. He fought the urge to draw his sword as he made for Crassus.

“What in the name of Mars, Jupiter and Fortuna is going on? These people are surrendering , Crassus. We need slaves, not corpses!”

Crassus merely turned his cold stare on the prefect and gestured to the officers around him. Obediently they rode away to attend to the butchery. Once they were alone, the commander trotted across to Varus.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that in front of the men, prefect. It doesn’t do for junior officers to question the judgement of their seniors, particularly in public.”

Varus stuttered, unable to believe the arrogance of the man.

“I’m not questioning your judgement, Crassus, I’m questioning your sanity! They’re valuable property now, and they’re people. Murdering them solves nothing.”

Crassus rounded on him.

“ I am in command of this cavalry, Varus, not you, no matter how much you wished for it and angled for it. You may have been Longinus’ pet, but you’re an officer of the equestrian class, whereas I am a patrician and a senior commander. I will not be questioned by an equestrian.”

Varus growled.

“Being a Patrician entitles you to wealth and power; to sit in the Senate and to make policy decisions for the good of Rome. It does not give you the right to treat the lesser classes as cattle. Without the Equestrians, the Plebeians and even the slaves there would be no Rome. No army; no merchants; no builders. What good would your rank be without them?”

Crassus smiled a dead smile.

“Exactly what I would expect one of your class to come out with. Drivel. You don’t understand how it works.”

Varus reached out between the horses and grasped the military scarf around Crassus’ neck, hauling him closer and almost from his horse. Crassus’ sudden look of surprise and, Varus thought, of fright was soon replaced by his usual arrogant and complacent smile. The prefect resisted the urge to punch him.

“Crassus, I am one of the Patrician class, not an Equestrian. My father sat in the Senate and so shall I one day, so don’t you dare tell me I don’t know how it works. To hell with you and your nightmare command.”

He let go of his commander and turned the horse.

“Men of the Ninth!”

Amid the slaughter, cavalrymen looked up at the prefect, blood still running from the tips of their swords and daggers.

“Form on the hill!”

He turned once more to face Crassus.

“My men will have nothing to do with this and neither shall I. I’ll see you in the camp. This isn’t over.”

Leaving a stunned commander sitting amid a field of bodies, Varus joined his men on the hill and began the ride back to camp.

(Epilogue)

“ Corona: wreath or crown awarded as military decoration.”

“ Phalerae: (sing. Phalera) set of discs attached to a torso harness used as military decorations.”

Fronto glanced around the room happily before his attention returned to the table. Last time the legions had been in Vesontio, he’d had been in the middle of nowhere with one mounted cohort and had missed the place entirely. Priscus had told him it wasn’t up to much, but had pointed out a bar that he said was quite reasonable halfway up the main street. And so he was now here. He’d left messages with several people in the huge camp at the bottom of the hill to say where he would be if anyone wished to join him and had been most surprised when he actually found the place and strode in through the door to find Balbus and Crispus already seated close to a window. Fronto sighed contentedly as he dropped into the seat. He was able to hobble for short distances, but soon began to sway and topple if there was no one there to give him support.

Crispus stirred and put down his drink.

“The proprietor doesn’t serve at tables, so I should be delighted to procure a drink for you, Marcus.”

Fronto smiled and reached out a restraining hand to stop the young legate from standing.