The Helvetian Affair Read online

  We split the ala into three sections: one kept watch on the roads and gate; another provided security around our position; the third slept. Athauhnu volunteered to take the first command shift and let me take a nap after having ridden most of the night. I found myself a warm, shady spot on top of some springy pine needles just over the reverse slope. I kept my lorica secured, but loosened by boots. I rolled my sagum into a pillow and lay back. I felt like I had no more than closed my eyes when I felt someone shaking my shoulder. It was Athauhnu’s nephew, Emlun.

  “Come with me!” he whispered. “Athauhnu . . . I mean, the chief, wants you to see something.”

  I rubbed my eyes open, then tightened my boots. With my sagum rolled up and under my arm, I followed Emlun over the crest of the low ridge to where Athauhnu was crouched behind some trees. When he saw us approaching, he signaled us into a crouch. When we reached his position, he pointed down toward the north road.

  There, I could see a group of riders, ten warriors by their armor and weapons. They were followed by an entourage of servants and baggage. This was obviously not a war band. The leader was arrayed to impress: a tall, conical helmet; gold arm bands; a polished, chainmail lorica; a rich cloak swept back to reveal a long, Gallic spatha in a rich gold-wrapped leather scabbard. I caught a glint of gold around his neck, the golden torc of a noble.

  “They are not River People, not Helvetii,” Athauhnu was saying. “I do not recognize their tartan.”

  Athauhnu gestured one of his warriors over to him. It was the scout, Rhodri. “Do you recognize the colors?” Athauhnu asked him.

  I focused on the colors that the riders were wearing. Their bracae and cloaks were in a blue and white plaid that I had never seen before. A signifer riding immediately behind the noble was displaying a banner of long blue and white strips, which stretched back and flapped in the light breezes.

  Rhodri nodded, “Blue and white . . . they are Barisai from the north. I went on a cattle raid into their lands two . . . three winters ago . . . Nasty place . . . too cold . . . Cattle are thin. They built their dun on an island in the middle of a river . . . Nasty place . . . Floods every spring. Nothing worth taking in their lands . . . not worth the horse fodder to raid them.”

  Athauhnu nodded and whispered to me, “You Romans call them Parisi.”

  “Parisi,” I repeated. I had heard the name, but knew nothing about them. “What are they doing down here?” I asked.

  Athauhnu just shrugged. “By his gold, he’s one of their chiefs . . . a noble. It must have something to do with the king, with Duuhruhda.”

  As we watched, one of the noble’s fintai handed him something. He held it up to examine it. It was a white wand, the sign of a diplomatic mission. He had come to negotiate with the king.

  As the Parisi rode to the north gate, the noble raised the white wand so the guard detail could see it. I saw the officer of the guard point in a direction and bow. The rest of the guard detail stepped aside and let the Parisi enter Bibracte.

  I didn’t know what all this meant, but I was sure Caesar would be interested. By that time, I was wide awake, so I let Athauhnu get some sleep. I rotated our security detail and checked the horses. Everything was in order. I checked the position of the sun. It was still well before meridies. I settled down to watch the roads.

  I spent my time examining the fortifications. Back then, I had no experience or training in evaluating the strength of fortress walls. Since then, I have studied the treatises of Aeneas Tacticus and participated in a number of sieges, from both sides of the defensive walls. Back then, I had only been in the army long enough to note that there was no defensive ditch protecting the walls of Bibracte. Otherwise, the walls looked strong for the most part and in good repair. I noticed that the walls dipped down into a small valley between the north gate and the double-peaked hill in the south. From the look of the terrain within the double walls, there seemed to be a stream that flowed down from between the hill tops and must have come through both walls where they crossed that small valley.

  By the shortened shadows, it was about the fifth hour when I noticed movement on the north road. I hissed over to the trooper closest to me, Alaw, to go get Athauhnu. By the time Athauhnu joined me, the shapes of the riders on the road were resolving themselves. It was another group of warriors.

  When I pointed them out to Athauhnu, I heard him hiss the word, “Belgai!”

  These warriors were not as well arrayed as the Parisi. Their clothes were dark colored, varying shades of black, brown, and gray. Most of their armor was hardened, boiled leather; their faces were bearded; great gouts of hair escaped from underneath their helmets. Their horses, though, were magnificent, black and dark gray, larger even than the horses that the Roman army preferred, which came from Spain and the east, the land of the Arabiani. The mounts of the Belgae pranced and snorted as they moved down the road, as if constantly challenging the control of their riders.

  Their weapons were equally impressive. Each warrior carried a long lance with a flattened iron head, almost two pedes long and a palmus broad in the center, pointed and sharpened on each edge. This was a formable weapon, capable of stabbing and slashing. Each wore a long spatha, hung from a dark leather baldric and secured at the hip by a wide leather belt. Their shields were round with a dark iron boss; each displayed the totem of a red wolf’s head.

  These were the Belgae, a nightmarish race of fierce savages clinging to the frozen edges of the known world on the shores of Oceanus. Even the Germani from beyond the Rhenus feared these people, and now they were here, among the Aedui, less than twenty thousand passus from our army.

  “What are the Belgai doing in Gaul?” I heard myself say in Gah’el.

  “They’re not all Belgai,” I heard Athauhnu say as he pointed down toward the head of their column.

  I looked where Athauhnu had indicated and noticed a rider who had been partially obscured by the Belgic leader. He was a smaller man, bareheaded and clean shaven. His hair was cut short, like a Roman. I noticed that under his reddish-brown military cloak, he wore a short sword on his right hip, a Roman infantry gladius.

  “A Roman?” I questioned.

  “A Rhufeinig!” Athauhnu agreed.

  I watched as the party approached the gate. Since Belgae do not observe Gallic protocols, they carried no wand of negotiation. But, they were obviously expected. The Aeduan guard detail passed them through into the dun.

  I heard Athauhnu snort.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked him.

  “Belgai and Barisai despise each other,” he answered. “A blood feud since the Belgai came across the Rhenus and pushed the Barisai off their lands. I would love to be a bird in the rafters of Duuhruhda’s hall when those two meet.”

  “Enemies become friends only when they have a common enemy,” I quoted.

  Athauhnu grunted his agreement.

  It was close to the seventh hour, almost time to pack it up and head south, when another party arrived, this time down the road from the northwest. Alaw, who had been posted up that road as a scout, alerted us.

  “A Pen,” he reported to Athauhnu. “Chief! A merchant and his party are approaching the city.”

  “How many?” Athauhnu asked.

  Alaw shrugged and calculated, “The merchant . . . his woman . . . two bodyguards . . . a slave . . . four pack mules.”

  “How far out?” Athauhnu asked again.

  Again, Alaw shrugged, “Maybe five hundred passus. He’s in no hurry.”

  “Let’s intercept!” I suggested.

  Athauhnu grunted his agreement, then hissed, “Guithiru! Mount five!”

  Then, he turned to Alaw, “Is Rhodri keeping an eye on him?”

  “’Tis, Chief!” Alaw nodded.

  We walked our horses down off the reverse slope of the ridge and hit the road out of sight of the city gate. There we mounted and followed Alaw to the northwest. We spotted the merchant’s party less than four hundred passus up the road. He halted when he saw u
s. His two guards attempted to look as menacing as they could in the face of nine well-armed riders.

  We halted about ten passus away. Almost immediately, Rhodri joined us from behind the merchant’s party, and now they faced ten. I held up an empty right hand to show him I was not holding a weapon and asked in Latin, “Are you bound for the fortress of the Aedui?”

  The man hesitated for a few heartbeats, then answered in a halting Latin, “Romani vos?”

  I answered, “We are from Caesar’s army. Are you not a Roman?”

  “Non Romanus. Graecus,” he answered.

  “Nα μιλούν την ελληνική γλώσσα,“ I said. “I can speak Greek.”

  The man stared again, then smiled, “Like a Roman schoolboy trying to recite Homer for his tutor,” he said in Gah’el.

  “Then Gah’el it is,” I agreed. “Where are you bound?”

  “This is the road to Bibracte, is it not?” he shrugged.

  “’Tis,” I agreed. “Where are you coming from?”

  The man shrugged, “I am coming down from the lands of the Senones, but I have been as far north as the Ocean, among the Veneti.”

  I could tell Athauhnu and the men were uneasy about being out in the open while we talked, so I said, “We would like to hear your tales of the Senones and the Veneti. Perhaps we can talk out of the sun, over in those trees.”

  Now it was the merchant’s turn to be nervous about being waylaid by a band of brigands pretending to be Roman soldiers—or about being waylaid by actual Roman cavalry who might be looking to augment their wages. So I spoke again, “I am Gaius Marius Insubrecus, decurio in Gaius Iulius Caesar’s praetoria. And, this is Athauhnu mab Hergest, pencefhul of the Soucanai, in the service of Caesar and the Roman people.”

  The man’s eyes widened a bit at that. “Romans this far north and Soucanai this far west! These are indeed interesting times.” Then, he looked up at the sun. “You are correct, young man, this sun is hot. A short rest under the shade of some trees would be welcomed.”

  We moved over to a grove of trees to the north of the road. Alaw and Rhodri moved farther north to screen the road. Athauhnu dispatched Guithiru and two men to the south. The rest of our troop spread out, securing the area.

  As we dismounted, the merchant announced, “I am called Gennadios Haw Emporos, Gennadios the Trader. The woman is called Evra. She claims to be from an island beyond Britannia, where the dead live. Years ago, when she was a girl, she was taken in a raid by the Veneti. Now she’s my woman.”

  “Not that long ago, Merchant!” she spat.

  Athauhnu’s eyes widened at that. “A woman from the island of the dead! Then, that place exists!”

  Gennadios shrugged, “She claims she never saw the dead feasting in golden halls. According to her, it’s a place of pigs, cattle, and salmon the size of tiuunai, tunnyfish, in the rivers. No! No walking dead. Just drunks, pigs, and fat farmers. Eh, Meli Mou?”

  The woman gave a dismissive grunt as she adjusted the pack straps on one of the mules.

  “Ah! Where are my manners?” Gennadios said. “Wine! Evra! The skin of retsina! Three cups!”

  Then he turned to us, “I doubt you’ve ever tried retsina. We use pine resin to preserve the wine. It travels well!”

  Gennadios’ woman from the Isle of the Dead handed us cups, then poured the wine. It was golden yellow as it flowed from the wine skin. I could smell the pine resin. When all the cups were poured, we acknowledged our host and drank. I was surprised. It was light, delicious.

  Gennadios smacked his lips, then said, “I had heard that Caesar had moved north of the Rhonus, but I hadn’t expected to see his men this side of Bibracte.”

  “Really?” I said. “Where did you hear that news of Caesar?”

  “From the Roman delegation to the Senones—” he began.

  “Romans! Among the Senones! Who—” I began.

  Gennadios held up his hand. “Yes! A Roman delegation arrived in the Senones’ dun, Agedincum . . . When was it? About two . . . three weeks ago. They had a broad-striper leading them . . . a noble or a senator . . . A real nob, he was. The rest looked military . . . Bodyguards, I would think, led by a narrow-striper. They had an audience with the uucharix, the tribal king, Caswalu, but they spent most of their time with his dunorix, Dramaelo. No love lost between those two, I can tell you. Dramaelo is older, but Caswalu seems to have favor with you Romans.”

  “Do you know what these Romans wanted?” I interrupted.

  “Wanted? Oh, yes . . . They told the king that Caesar did not have the Roman Senate’s authorization to cross the Rhonus . . . that the Aedui were still friends of the Roman state.”

  “They specifically mentioned the Aedui?” I interrupted again.

  “They didn’t have to,” Gennadios tutted. “They had an escort of Aedui riders from the fintai of the Aeduan dunorix.”

  “Deluuhnu?” I asked.

  “The same,” Gennadios confirmed. “Why are you surprised? Didn’t you know that Dramaelo is married to Deluuhnu’s sister?”

  “His sister?” I said.

  “Oh, yes!” Gennadios continued. “In fact, many of Dramaelo’s troops are Aedui. Makes his king right nervous.”

  “Did the Romans encourage the Senones to attack Caesar’s army?” I asked.

  “Attack them?” Gennadios answered. “No . . . not in so many words. But, the impression they gave was, if the Senones joined with the Aedui in defending Aedui territory against Caesar’s unauthorized incursion, the Senate would understand.”

  Evra, who was sitting with the two bodyguards over by the mules, called over to Gennadios, “Labhair tú i bhfad ró, fear d’aois. Roinnt lá beidh go bhfaigheann mharaigh tú.”

  I didn’t understand what she said, but some words sounded familiar, almost recognizable.

  Gennadios chuckled. “She’s telling me to keep my mouth shut,” he told us. “The women of the Gaelige . . . that’s what they call themselves on the Isle of the Dead . . . Gaelige . . . sometimes the people of Eriu . . . that’s their goddess of love . . . Aphrodite. You’d never know it from Evra. Their women are like the women of the Gah’el, but ten times worse. They just do what they want . . . say what they want. When I get back to Massalia, I’d keep Evra locked up, but she wouldn’t stand for it. She’d tear my place apart, and me along with it.” He chuckled again.

  “Gaelige,” I said absently. “Almost sounds like Gah’el . . . but back to the Romans.”

  “Yes, the Romans,” Gennadios said, filling his cup and offering more wine to Athauhnu and me, which we gratefully accepted. “Quite generous they were too, especially to the dunorix. All nice, new silver, too.”

  Gennadios reached into his marsupium. He pulled out a silver coin and handed it to me. It was unworn and shiny, a newly minted quadriga, a denarius coin. I flipped it over and saw the image of one of this year’s consuls, my erstwhile patron, Aulus Gabinius.

  Gennadios was talking, “It worked out well for me. Usually there’s not much hard currency among the tribes. I sometimes have to resort to bartering . . . swatches of eastern cloth and pottery for chickens . . . that sort of thing . . . Useless when I get home. A man needs silver to live in Massalia.”

  I handed the coin back. “You didn’t happen to hear the name of the purplestriper did you?” I asked.

  “Hear it!” Gennadios exclaimed. “I did better than that! I sold a skin of wine to his tribune. The man had a ghastly scar across his face . . . still red and puckered in places . . . Said he got it in a skirmish with the Belgae last season. I hadn’t heard anything about Romans fighting the Belgae. He told me the man’s name was something like Pompius . . . That’s it . . . Gaius or Gnaeus Pompius. When Simathemeni . . . that’s my name for the scarred Roman . . . “Scar Face” . . . when this Simathemeni got a bit drunk, he referred to his companion as Minus. That means ‘The Lesser,’ doesn’t it? I never understood you Romans’ sense of humor.”

  I certainly thought I recognized the name. Pompius
or Pompeius. That was the name of Caesar’s colleague, one of the triumviri. But Pompeius Minus? Pompeius was called Magnus, “The Great.” Was he one of Pompeius’ freedmen? No, a freedman wouldn’t dare wear a broad, purple stripe, regardless of who his patronus was. Did Pompeius Magnus have a son? If so, wouldn’t he be called Pompeius Iunior—or was “Scarface” making a sarcastic joke, like Gennadios thought?

  Before I could ask, Guithiru came into the grove. He addressed Athauhnu, “Chief! A messenger came up from the Roman tribune. We’re to withdraw and meet him south of Bibracte.”

  I sensed something important was up. Was it the battle in the south? Had Caesar been defeated? Were we cut off?

  I stood up. “We thank you for your hospitality, Gennadios. We must depart.”

  I thought to tell him not to inform the Aedui of our presence, but telling a merchant not to share gossip and information made as much sense as asking a stream not to flow.

  I reached into my marsupium and found a small, silver mercurius and handed it over to the merchant. “For the wine and the conversation, phile mou,” I told him.

  Gennadios made the coin disappear into his own purse. “Vobiscum fortuna sit, mi amice!” he said in Latin.

  “Et tecum,” I responded, unconsciously rubbing my lorica where my medallion rested.

  I looked over to where Evra was sitting. The woman from the Isle of the Dead was glaring at me with the soulless, black eyes of Hecate.

  Unconsciously, I made the cornucellus, the little horn, with the fingers of my right hand to ward off the evil eye.

  We rejoined Agrippa, Madog, and the rest of the Sequani troopers at the rendezvous point south of Bibracte. Agrippa told me briefly that a full ala of the dunorix’s fintai, almost forty riders, had sallied out of the south gate a little less than an hour earlier. At first, Agrippa feared that his troop had been detected and the Aedui were going to attack him. But, the Aedui rushed past his position without as much as a wink. They pounded down the road to the south, toward where our army was engaged with the Helvetii. Agrippa sent five exploratores to follow the Aedui while he waited for my ala to return from north of Bibracte.