Caesars general, p.1
Caesar's General, page 1
Caesar's General
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Author notes
Chapter notes
Glossary
Bibliography and references
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Alex Gough
Copyright
Title Page
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To my family
Prologue
October DCCIII AUC (October 51 BC), Northern Gaul
Antony felt the breeze of the arrow as it passed his cheek, and he laughed out loud. He never felt so alive as when he was in the heat of battle. The archer who had nearly skewered his eye was out of his reach for now, but a line of warriors were grimly braced to receive the cavalry charge, their shaggy blond hair, soaked by the drizzle, plastered across their faces.
As usual, Antony was first to crash into the defenders, his muscular mount bashing aside the burly warrior before him, Antony using his spatha to bat the Gaul’s spear aside. He slashed downwards and roared in triumph as the blade bit into the angle between the warrior’s shoulder and neck, a spurt of bright red blood rewarding the stroke.
To Antony’s left and right, his mounted comrades impacted the enemy line a heartbeat behind him, and the cavalry wedge split the Gauls like an axe cleaving through a log. Then he was into the pack, slashing around him, his sword smashing into hastily raised shields and iron helmets, parrying spear thrusts, biting deep into flesh and bone. Blood and gore sprayed out, as if he was a butcher in a hurry to finish his day’s work and get to the Circus in time for the race.
The battle didn’t last long, if you could call it a battle. Antony knew that this little punitive expedition was too small, too one-sided, to make it into the commentaries that Caesar regularly sent back to Rome to publicise his victories. But that made it no less real, or less dangerous, to Antony and his men.
Antony reined in his horse and looked around him. The enemy had numbered no more than two hundred, and had proven little challenge for the veteran cavalrymen. At least half of them were dead or incapacitated. Any who had attempted to flee had been run down and massacred. Only those who had thrown down their weapons and surrendered were spared, and soon they were being bound and corralled, to be added to the massive stockpile of slaves that the Gallic war had created.
Antony glanced down. His breastplate had an ugly gouge across it that would take his armourer some time to work out. He did not remember the stroke that had inflicted it, nor the one that had slashed his outer thigh. He wiped the blood away with his palm to inspect the wound, nodded when he saw it was only superficial, and then summoned his Praefectus Equitum, Gaius Volusenus Quadratus.
‘Casualties?’
‘One dead, half a dozen seriously injured, Legate.’
Antony nodded. Pleasingly light. He gave the order for the men to form up to begin their journey back to their base. As they left the field of battle, Antony took a look behind him, and let out a sigh.
‘Something wrong, Legate?’ asked Volusenus.
‘The war in Gaul is nearly over, Prefect. The campaigning season’s finished for the winter. Caesar’s command will soon be at an end.’
‘Time for a well-deserved rest for everyone, then, sir?’
‘I suppose so. It will be time for me to begin my political career. It’s going to be years before I get a chance to lead an army into battle again, if ever.’
He shook his head.
‘Life,’ he said, ‘is about to become much less exciting.’
November DCCIII AUC (November 51 BC), Northern Gaul
Caesar had left Antony in charge of fifteen cohorts – two and a half legions – and ordered him to hold down the territory of the Bellovaci, a tribe of the Belgae who had always acquitted themselves admirably in combat. Despite the crushing defeat that Caesar had inflicted on the Gauls at Alesia the previous year, the country was still not entirely pacified. The Bellovaci had, sensibly in hindsight, not fully committed themselves to Vercingetorix, and so had retained enough manpower to muster a large army. Their leaders were Correus and an Atrebatian called Commius, who had been a thorn in Caesar’s side for many years.
Formerly an ally of Caesar during his expedition to Britannia, Commius had helped with the negotiations for the British chieftain Cassivellaunus’ surrender, but then had changed his loyalties and switched sides to support the Gallic leader Vercingetorix at Alesia. He had developed an even deeper hatred of the Romans after Caesar’s second-in-command, Labienus, had lured him into a trap, assuring him of safe conduct to negotiate a peace, and then attempting to have him killed. But Gaius Volusenus Quadratus, the cavalry officer Labienus had tasked with the assassination, who was now Antony’s Praefectus Equitum, only succeeded in wounding him.
A few months previously, Correus and Commius had planned an ambush that might have annihilated a large proportion of the Roman forces in Gaul. But Caesar’s spies warned him, and he turned the ambush against the Bellovaci, inflicting a heavy defeat in which Correus was killed and Commius fled to the Germans. The Bellovaci had sued for peace and given hostages, freeing Caesar’s forces for an orgy of near genocidal slaughter in the territory of the Eburones – revenge for a defeat the tribe had inflicted on Caesar years earlier. Antony had no regrets at being left behind at that time – there was no honour and no thrill in hacking down unarmed farmers and their families. But he was more frustrated when Caesar had marched south to deal with a revolt of the Carduci and Senones tribes, and left him behind to keep watch over the thoroughly cowed Bellovaci.
Antony had decided to overwinter in the territory of the Atrebates, near the coast across from which, on a clear day, could be seen the cliffs of Britannia. He settled himself in for a prolonged period of boredom, interspersed with bouts of heavy gambling, heavy drinking and heavy petting with some of the most alluring of the local courtesans.
That evening had, in fact, included all three of his favourite activities that didn’t involve holding a sword. He had lost a small fortune gambling on a sure thing in the boxing ring, then won half of it back by challenging the winner of the bet to a drinking match. Given the amount he had drunk, that he was able to not only walk back to his quarters unaided, but also satisfy the voluptuous wife of a local merchant who had been flirting with him outrageously all evening, was a matter of personal pride.
That said, the booze had well and truly kicked in when, in the early hours of the morning, there was an urgent knocking at his door. It was the startled yelp from his companion that actually woke him, and the unfamiliar surroundings and the unexpected commotion disorientated him for a few moments. His dream about wrestling Neptune on the rocking deck of a trireme – the sea god having caught him with his wife Salacia – merged with reality to the extent that he gripped the bed to prevent himself being washed overboard.
The knocking came again, and he groggily called for whoever it was to enter. The merchant’s wife screamed again and disappeared under the blankets just as the door swung open. Gaius Volusenus Quadratus stood stiffly in the doorway, eyes straight ahead, carefully avoiding paying any attention to the trembling mound beneath the bedcovers.
Antony attempted to speak and found his mouth had gummed up, as if it was full of a sour liquid with the consistency – but not the taste – of honey. He reached for a cup of wine that sat on his bedside table and swilled down the mouthful that had somehow gone undrunk. He worked his tongue over his lips and tried again.
‘Volusenus. What can I do for you?’
‘Legate, it’s Commius. He has attacked again.’
Antony sat up abruptly, in the process pulling the covers aside and revealing the naked woman beneath. She desperately wriggled herself deeper to preserve her modesty, if not her identity. Volusenus affected not to notice. Antony’s head spun, but he worked to keep his voice even and clear.
‘Give me a full report.’
‘Do you need a moment, sir? Shall I fetch your personal slave?’
‘Get on with it, Volusenus.’
‘Yes, sir. A messenger just arrived, sent by the centurion who was leading a foraging party. When the man was dispatched, the century was under heavy attack from Commius’ cavalry, and greatly outnumbered. The messenger thought it likely they would be wiped out.’
‘When was this? Where?’
‘The attack began only around three hours ago. Some twenty miles north.’
‘Twenty miles? Commius is growing bolder.’
Commius had recently re-emerged from the forests of Germania with a small but tough collection of Germanic and Gallic cavalry riders. Since Labienus’ treachery and Quadratus’ failed assassination attempt, he had made it his mission to make life miserable for any Roman soldiers he came across. Given that Caesar was way down south in Gallia Narbonensis, settling local legal and civil disputes and dispensing rewards to the province, which had remained loyal throughout Vercingetorix’s revolt, it was the men under Antony’s command who were taking the brunt of Commius’ harassment. As yet, Antony had not been able to p in down these highly mobile marauders, who were no doubt secretly assisted by the local Atrebates tribe.
But now Commius had grown too bold, and had struck too near Antony’s camp. Maybe it was a deliberate provocation; maybe Commius was boosting his own men’s morale by showing he could attack the Roman lines wherever and whenever he chose. Whatever the reason, it was a chance for Antony to strike back, if he was swift.
‘Summon a cavalry wing. Every man who isn’t mounted before I am is to be given half a dozen strokes of the vine stick.’ Antony threw his legs over the side of the bed, got to his feet, put his hand out to steady himself, and staggered across the room, his flailing arms ripping the bedcovers clean off his nocturnal companion, before he pitched head first into the bedside table, which split apart under his weight. He found himself face down on the cold tiled floor, surrounded by wood splinters and shards of pottery, with the world revolving madly.
Volusenus hurried over and helped him back to the bed, where he sat down heavily, leaned forward, and retched. The vomit splashed Volusenus’ caligae, but he made no sign that he had noticed, calling instead for a slave to fetch water. Antony groaned and put his head in his hands.
‘Sir,’ said Volusenus urgently, ‘we must move quickly.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Antony. ‘I just need a few—’
He vomited again.
‘Sir, let me lead the cavalry. Your evening’s meal has clearly not agreed with you. I was always told never to trust the oysters in these parts.’
‘It should be me,’ protested Antony.
‘No one will think worse of you, if you are too ill to ride out. Besides, I have a score to settle with Commius. I don’t like leaving a job unfinished. Please, sir, let me take this command.’
Antony considered arguing further, but he knew it would be futile. He had prodigious powers of recovery from the effects of wine, and within a couple of hours he would be fit enough to compete in a chariot race. But every moment of delay was a chance for Commius to escape and, in all probability, to take more Roman lives another day. Antony grudgingly acquiesced.
‘Mars be with you,’ he said. ‘Go.’
Volusenus saluted and hurried out. Antony groaned and lay on his back, his forearm across his eyes. His stomach roiled and his head spun. He heard the merchant’s wife – What was her name again? – tiptoeing around the bedroom.
‘I don’t suppose you’re up for another round?’ he said, more in hope than expectation.
Without a word, she gathered her clothes and slipped away.
* * *
Antony waited anxiously for Volusenus’ return, alternately beseeching his ancestor Hercules for his blessing, and cursing Liber Pater for the evil effects of wine. Nor did he spare himself from censure – not for having been drunk, but for having been too weak to lead the cavalry despite his inebriation. He paced the camp, berated the legionaries for any examples of bad discipline or poor equipment maintenance he came across, and shouted at the slaves. Everyone hurried to do Antony’s bidding, fully aware that he was both concerned for his men’s safety and badly hungover.
It was early afternoon when a messenger from Volusenus arrived back in camp. He was directed straight to Antony’s headquarters, where he was received immediately.
‘Report,’ snapped Antony.
The messenger took a breath, and Antony reined in his temper. The man had clearly been in battle. He had a purple swelling over one eye and carried his left arm gingerly across his body. His face and armour were grimed with congealed blood, and he looked exhausted, barely able to stand. Antony pursed his lips and gestured to a stool.
‘Do you need to sit?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the messenger. ‘I can stand.’
Antony nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘We caught Commius not long after dawn. He was riding east. He did not seem in a particular hurry. Volusenus suspected that Commius did not realise there had been a survivor from his attack, and so had not expected such a swift response.’
‘You engaged him?’
‘We tried. But he fled. Their mounts are fast, and they know the countryside better than us. Volusenus urged us to ever greater speeds, but not everyone could keep up with him. Some of our horses went lame, or just lacked pace. But the prefect would not give up, sir, not when Commius was in his sights. He carried on, and when we caught Commius, Volusenus had less than half the men who had set out with him.
‘It was what Commius had wanted all along. He had reinforcements waiting for him. He must have known there was a survivor of the previous attack, and that an expedition would be sent out. He stretched our forces out, and then with a cry that he would avenge the injury done to him, he wheeled and charged us, his cavalry close behind.
‘When the prefect saw how badly outnumbered he was, he ordered a retreat, but it was too late. Commius himself caught Volusenus and stabbed him with his spear, so it went straight through the prefect’s thigh.’
Antony’s heart stuttered, and he swallowed before trusting himself to speak.
‘Volusenus lives?’
‘When I left him, sir, yes, he was still alive, though for how long I couldn’t say. It was a grievous wound.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘We saw Volusenus was injured, sir, and we rallied. We spun our horses and charged, and by now some of our stragglers had caught up with us. The Gauls hadn’t expected us to be so bold, and we fought like demons, though I say it myself, sir, to protect the prefect. We routed those bastards, begging your pardon, sir, and drove them off like a herd of pigs. The victory was ours.’
Antony smiled thinly. ‘You did well, soldier. And Commius?’
‘Escaped, I’m sorry to say, sir. His horse was as fast as any I’ve seen, and none of us could match its speed. And our second-in-command ordered us not to pursue too far, lest we be ambushed again.’
‘He did the right thing,’ said Antony, though his guts clenched at the thought of the infuriating barbarian getting away again. Commius would be back, more supplies would be lost, more Romans would die. Almost as bad, Labienus would mock his rival’s failure. And Caesar would be unhappy. He might even question his decision to have given Antony this command.
The messenger seemed to notice Antony’s dissatisfaction and said encouragingly, ‘Don’t worry, sir. We beat those long-haired bastards up pretty well. Commius won’t be causing any more trouble with that lot.’
Maybe, thought Antony. But this was his land. How hard would it be for him to raise another force? To cause trouble all over again.
Antony continued to fret for the rest of the day, until the sentries reported that the cavalry detachment was in sight of the base. Antony hurried to the gates and waited for their arrival.
Volusenus lay in the back of one of the ox carts his men had commandeered to transport the wounded. His lips were a thin, pale line, his cheeks like chalk. His breathing was shallow and ragged. A bloodstained strip of rag acted as a makeshift bandage around his thigh.
Antony laid a hand tenderly on his cavalry prefect’s head.
‘You did well, Volusenus. You’re a brave man.’
Volusenus grasped Antony’s hand. ‘I’m sorry that I let you down.’
‘You did no such thing,’ said Antony. ‘It’s I who should apologise. It should be me lying there.’
‘No, sir,’ said Volusenus. ‘You entrusted me with leading the men. You honoured me. I’m grateful.’
‘Sir,’ said a medicus who had come running over. ‘Let us take him to the valetudinarium. He needs treatment.’
‘Of course,’ said Antony, stepping back. In a low voice he said to the medicus, ‘Will he live?’
The medicus shrugged. ‘That’s in the hands of Apollo. You should sacrifice on his behalf.’
Antony let the medicus and his orderlies transfer Volusenus to a stretcher and carry him away. Then he went in search of a seller of sacrificial animals, to make the finest offering to the gods of healing that he could.
* * *
Volusenus did survive. Antony didn’t know whether it was the half a dozen pure white doves he had sacrificed, or the skills of the medicus, or just blind luck. He was just grateful he didn’t have his prefect’s death on his conscience. Men died in battle, but it would have greatly grieved Antony if his own weakness was the cause.
