The Helvetian Affair Read online

  There was another partition there and behind it, a man, the same man I had seen acting as the priest during my significatio. He sat reviewing stacks of tabulae arranged before him on an oversized field desk. A scriba stood in attendance at the man’s left shoulder. When the man saw me approach, he sighed.

  He closed the tabula he had been reading, passed it to the clerk, and said, “Ebrius, inform the quartermaster that it is my decision that we will not wait for the supply train from Massalia to reach us. We will pursue the enemy as the situation demands. We will draw supplies from our Gallic allies if necessary.”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Imperator,” the clerk snapped, taking the tabula. Then, he posted out of the tent.

  The way was now open. My turn, I thought.

  “Imperator! Gaius Marius Insubrecus, miles, reports as ordered!” I snapped. I felt Labienus hovering behind my right shoulder.

  While Caesar began to search through the tabulae on his desk, he said, “Laxa, Insubrecus!”

  I willed myself to unstiffen a bit, but I was hardly “at ease.”

  Finally, he drew two tabulae before him. He opened the first and said, “This is the daily operations log of the Tenth Legion that reports a slave attacked a soldier . . . you, as a matter of fact . . . during a training exercise . . . The slave was killed, and you suffered a minor cut to your right arm.”

  Caesar had not asked me a question, so I did not respond.

  He took the second tabula and opened it. “This is a confidential command report to me from my praefectus castrorum . . . very curious . . . It says the slave was not a slave, but a Roman grassator, a street gangster . . . one of Milo’s collegium . . . Milo’s a major player in the Roman underworld . . . What could a legionary grunt in Gallia Cisalpina have done to get such attention from a Roman gangster? . . . Do you have any idea, Insubrecus?”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Labienus warned me against talking too much. The question was straightforward, so I just said, “Non cognosco, Imperator!”

  Caesar nodded slightly and kept reading. “There’s some nonsense here about the involvement of the consul’s family . . . Hmmm . . . ah . . . Here it is . . . This has been sent to me because you claim to be a client of my family, the gens Iulia . . . Would you be so kind as to explain that, Insubrecus?”

  I did. I explained my grandfather’s involvement with Gaius Marius, the granting of citizenship, the awarding of the farm, and Caesar Senior explaining to my grandfather that Marius’ patrocinium had reverted to his family, the gens Iulia.

  Caesar listened and said, “Yes . . . I do recall some stories about Marius and your grandfather . . . He was a Gallic cavalryman . . . quite colorful, if the stories are accurate . . . practically a part of Marius’ familia . . . Marius swore Bona Fortuna always smiled on the man . . . So . . . you’re his grandson?”

  Caesar looked over at Labienus, “We have anything for this trooper on the staff?”

  Labienus asked me, “Can you ride, soldier?”

  “Possum!” I responded without turning my head away from Caesar.

  “We could mount him as part of the mounted praetorian detail, Caesar,” Labienus stated.

  “Yes . . . we could,” Caesar started. Then, he asked me, “Can you read and write Latin, Insubrecus?”

  “Possum, Imperator,” I responded.

  “Mπoρείτε Vα διαβάσετε EλληVιKά?” Caesar asked abruptly.

  It took my mind a heartbeat to adjust. He was asking if I could read Greek. “∆ιαβά, στρατηγε,” I stammered. “Yes, General!”

  “Interesting . . . Do you have any more hidden talents I should know about, Insubrecus?” Caesar asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I responded. “I speak Gah’el, I mean, lingua Gallorum.”

  Caesar spoke to his aide, “Labienus, I think we have more here than just another sword on a horse . . . Go ahead and assign him to my praetorian cavalry turma for administrative purposes, but I think I may have a further use for this young man here . . . When are those Gallic chiefs supposed to get here?”

  “They’re already here, Caesar,” Labienus responded. “I have them cooling their heels, waiting for an audience. I like to build up the anticipation a bit . . . Good theater . . . even better politics.”

  “Splendid!” Caesar said. “Erect an audience tent just outside the Porta Praetoria. I will receive these petitioners tomorrow at the first hour, the time when clients traditionally pay their obligatory call on their patron. I hope they understand the significance.”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Caesar,” Labienus nodded. “Refreshments?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so,” Caesar stated. “I don’t want them feeling too comfortable . . . Not yet, anyway . . . And you, Insubrecus . . . you will be part of my security detail at that meeting . . . No one knows you understand . . . what did you call it . . . ‘Gah El’? See what you can pick up.”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Imperator!” I snapped.

  “As far as this other issue is concerned,” Caesar continued, “I doubt this attack was aimed at me. Our connection is too remote. But, one can never be too careful. You are now sub patrocinio Caesaris. Outside this tent, you will address me with full military courtesy, but here you may address me as patrone. Understood?”

  “Compre’endo, Imper . . . Patrone!” I corrected myself.

  “Bene!” Caesar concluded. “Let’s see how this encounter works out tomorrow. I may have a special task for you, Insubrecus. But, for now, let me get back to this pile of administrative merda that’s piled up on my desk. Labienus! Get young Insubrecus squared away.”

  The interview was concluded. I had no idea at the time, but that was one of the most significant moments in my life. From that moment on, I have been sub patrocinio gentium Iuliarum Caesarum—pro bono et pro malo, for the good and for the bad.

  VI.

  De Consequente Helvetiorum

  PURSUIT OF THE HELVETIANS

  Helvetii iam per angustias et fines Sequanorum suas copias traduxerant et in Haeduorum fines pervenerant eorumque agros populabantur Haedui cum se suaque ab iis defendere non possent legatos ad Caesarem mittunt rogatum auxilium.

  “The Helvetians had already led their forces through the defile and into the territory of the Sequani. They then invaded the territory of the Aedui and were ravaging their lands. Since the Aedui could not defend themselves and their possessions from the Helvetians, they sent envoys to Caesar and requested assistance.”

  —(from Gaius Marius Insubrecus’ notebook of Caesar’s journal)

  Then I got back to my contubernium in the Tenth Legion, I quickly found out I had no unit to leave. Bantus informed me that our tent squad was to be broken up and assigned around the legion as individual replacements. When I informed Bantus of what had happened to me, he shook my hand and wished me well. He promised that our signifer would forward my pay records and allotments to my new unit.

  Bantus then shared with me that Strabo was recovering. Bantus had been over to the medics, and Spina had assured him that, under his professional and expert care, our centurion was going to make a full recovery and would be back on duty in less than a week.

  Bantus had told Strabo what I had done. After making sure that Bantus had disciplined me for breaking ranks, Strabo said, “Tell the kid thanks. I owe him.”

  I packed my personal gear up, shook hands all around, strapped my shield to my back, threw my furca over my shoulder, and trudged back to the camp of the Seventh Legion to report to Labienus.

  When I got back to Caesar’s headquarters, one of Labienus’ assistants walked me over to where the praetorian turma, the cavalry troop, was housed. I was shown a bunk to dump off my kit. Then, I was taken over to report to my new officer, a decurio named Decimus Lampronius, who had been in the cavalry so long that everyone called him Valgus, “Bow Legs.”

  Valgus looked me up and down, then asked, “Can you ride?”

  When I answered yes, Valgus just grunted and said, “We’ll see. Get
that infantry gear off, and I’ll take you down to the horse line.”

  I dropped my gladius and galea, and Valgus helped me out of my lorica. We walked down to the horse line, and Valgus picked out a horse for me, a black mare with a white snip. The stable slave bridled and saddled the horse for me.

  “The old man likes his praetorian escort all mounted on black horses . . . looks smart,” Valgus explained. “Mount up, and walk him around the corral a couple of times . . . Get him warmed up.”

  I hopped up and walked the horse around the corral. Valgus had me execute some turns. Then, he called out, “Trot!”

  I dug my heels into the horse’s sides, and it responded immediately. Valgus watched us for a while, then commanded, “Canter!”

  We picked up speed, making a few circuits around the corral until Valgus called, “Come on over here, Insubrecus!”

  I complied and dismounted in front of him.

  “You got a good seat,” Valgus told me. “I’m going to have you work with our training officer until he’s satisfied that you’re ready for tactical training with the turma. My understanding is that you’re on immunis status to the old man’s headquarters, so that will have to take priority. Meanwhile, I’ll walk you over to the armory to draw a spatha, a cavalry sword. It’s longer than that infantry pigsticker you have now. Keep both. The gladius comes in handy if we have to fight dismounted. Most guys hang the spatha from the horn on their saddle and keep the gladius on their bodies. If you take a tumble, it’s nice to know one of your swords stays attached to you. We also have to get you a parma, a cavalry shield. We’ll send that table top you’re carrying back to your former legion. I see you already have one of the new galea with the long neck guard . . . That’ll work just fine in the cavalry . . . so keep that.”

  Valgus and I walked back to the headquarters tent of the praetorian detail. Before he dismissed me, Valgus handed me a cingulum purpureum, a thin, purple sash.

  “Tie that around your waist,” he said. “Wear it outside your lorica when you’re on duty . . . It indicates who you work for . . . Even centurions won’t screw around with you when they see that sash.”

  When I got back to my tent, I discovered one of the benefits of being an immunis praetorian. No guard duty. For the first time since I joined the army, I slept through the entire night.

  I was awakened in the dark by someone kicking my cot. I grunted, “Qu’accidit?” I then heard a voice out of the darkness, “You, Insubrecus?”

  “Yeah . . . that’s me,” I answered, sitting up.

  “You’re on the general’s security detail this morning,” the voice explained. “You need to report to il’capu, stat’.”

  “Il’capu?” I questioned.

  “Il’capu . . . the boss . . . Labienus Legatus,” came the answer out of the gloom. “Stat’!”

  I got to the praetorium just as the trumpet signaling the end of the fourth watch sounded. Labienus was standing in the outer area in full kit—officer’s lorica, plumed helmet under his arm.

  When Labienus saw me, he said, “Ah, Insubrecus . . . bene!”

  He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me to a quiet corner. “Your job this morning isn’t security . . . We have enough goons in purple sashes to take care of that . . . When these Gauls show up, just watch and listen . . . See what you can pick up . . . anything to help the general understand what these people are really up to . . . Got it?”

  “Compre’endo, Legate,” I told him.

  “Good lad,” he said, patting my back. “Bene! Let’s get this circus started, boys!”

  Labienus ducked into his cubicle. I could hear some muffled conversation back there. Then, Caesar Imperator appeared in full regalia, with a bright red sagum over his shoulders. Someone called the room to attention, but Caesar immediately put us at ease.

  “Bene! We’re ready,” he stated. “Let’s move out, Labienus, and see what these Gauls want.”

  When Caesar spotted me, he gestured me over to him. “Ah . . . Insubrecus . . . Walk with me.”

  We proceeded up the Via Principalis toward the Porta Principalis Sinistra. I was surprised how some of the legionary squaddies treated the general with calls like, “Give ’im hell, Calve, Baldy!” and “Remember, you get the gold, and we get the women, Boss!” Caesar just smiled, nodded at some of the callers, and even waved at a few.

  “This may sound strange to you, Insubrecus,” he shared with me, “but this is how the boys show they like me. If they said nothing as I passed . . . just stayed silent and sullen . . . I’d be in big trouble.”

  When we finally wound our way through the gate, I saw a large pavilion erected in the field. Underneath the tent, Caesar’s sella curulis, his curule seat, indicating his possession of the imperium of the Senate and the Roman people as the proconsul of the provincia, stood alone. In the field beyond the pavilion, I could see a group of men and horses being guarded by a detail of praetorians.

  Our guests had already arrived.

  I heard Caesar say to Labienus, “They’re on time . . . They must consider their business with me urgent . . . Bene . . . Let’s take our time with this . . . Delay is to our advantage . . . whoever seems to have the least to lose, wins.”

  Caesar walked slowly to his chair and carefully arranged his red cloak as he took the seat. He inclined his head in my direction and whispered, “Observa et ausculta! Anything you can pick up will be helpful.”

  Caesar then inclined his head toward the commander of the security detail and gestured that he should let the Gallic delegation approach.

  To me, these approaching Gauls were like Gallic warrior-heroes, emerging from one of Gran’pa’s tales of our heroic past. They were huge men, giants, each well over six pedes in height, barrel chested, and broad shouldered with heavily muscled arms. They seemed to overshadow the members of Caesar’s security detail, who themselves were selected for their intimidating physical presence. Most of the praetorians barely measured up to shoulder height on these men. How could we Romans fight such men? They had the stature of gods.

  They approached the seat of Caesar with long, confident strides. They all wore luxuriant, thick moustaches reaching down to their chins: some red, some blond, others black. They approached Caesar’s seat bareheaded. Some kept their long hair wild and unbound; others had braids interwoven with brightly colored ribbons reaching down their backs. Under his left arm, each warrior carried a bronze helmet, brightly plumed with horsehair and feathers.

  They walked in a flurry of colors, with capes, sashes, and trousers of garish red, verdant green, and deep blue. On their left shoulders, the men wore large, ornate, golden fibula pins that secured the brightly colored cloaks, which seemed to flutter behind them as they strode forward. Around their necks, the warriors wore thick, golden torcs. I remembered Gran’pa telling me that the kings and chiefs of the Gah’el wore their wealth into battle to attract worthy opponents to combat.

  Their bright chainmail cuirasses reached down to their knees and were secured by wide leather belts adorned with gold and silver decorations. On their left sides, they wore long, Gallic swords suspended from ornately embellished baldrics.

  Their groupings and tartan designs indicated three distinct factions approaching Caesar’s chair. When they were about three paces from the pavilion, they stopped. The leading warrior from a group of four men in blue and green plaid livery stepped forward to address the general. He held up an ornately carved wand of white wood for Caesar to see. From Gran’pa’s stories, I knew it to be a wand of negotiation. It indicated that the warrior came to speak, not to fight. It held the holder inviolate at the cost of five times his head price.

  “Ave, Caesar,” the speaker began in accented Latin, “I am Duuhruhda mab Clethguuhno, tribal king of the People of the Goddess of the Dark Moon, Aine Du, the Aedui to you Romans.”

  As the king spoke, I examined his entourage. Each man carried the white wand to indicate his diplomatic status. One, by his bearing and the richness of his equip
ment, was obviously a noble of some standing within the tribe. He had a natural sneer to his smile, and his eyes were what Mama would call “shifty.” There was something about him that screamed deceit. I took an instant dislike to the man. The other men carried wooden staffs. These were the king’s drui, I realized, one for the laws of the gods and the other for the laws of the people.

  The king was addressing Caesar, reminding him of the bonds of friendship that existed between the Aedui and the Roman people and of how Caesar’s refusal to let the Helvetii cross the Rhodanus at Gennava had sent the Helvetii into the lands of the Aedui and of how hordes of Helvetii were now stripping the fields and storehouses of the Aedui.

  I decided there was nothing to be gleaned by my listening to a set diplomatic speech in halting Latin, so I eased over to where the Gauls had left their horses. There, the entourage of the Gallic chiefs was gathered. They were the bodyguards of the kings, the gwarchodourai. They weren’t listening to the king’s speech. I doubt any of them understood Latin. I got as close as I could without arousing their suspicion. Surprisingly, I could follow most of what they were saying to each other.

  Most were joking about the Romans in Caesar’s security detail: Romans wore skirts like women; they looked like beardless boys; such small men could never satisfy a woman.

  Then, I heard one comment on how the king of the Aedui went on and on with his speech like a woman complaining to her neighbors about her monthly cramps.

  His companion, one of the Aedui by his tartan, added that the king was trying to lure the Romans across the river.

  His companion asked why, what purpose did having Romans in lands of the Aedui serve?

  The Aeduan snorted, “The enemy of our enemy is our friend! If the Romans fight the Helvetii, regardless of who wins, there will be fewer Romans and fewer Helvetii for the Aedui to kill.”

  Then, another of the Aedui said, “This ‘Caisar’ of the Romans . . . his own people hate him . . . They have paid our king handsomely . . . in Roman gold and silver . . . to lure him to his destruction beyond the lands of the Romans.”