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  “What about the Boii’s army?” Campius says. “Our scouts say they have twenty thousand men camped near Parma. They could come after us while we are working.” He grips his dagger. “Let’s go to Parma and destroy them. After that we can play farmer without danger. Jupiter’s balls, then you can use Boii prisoners to do your slave work!”

  Publius waves his hand. “Pish! The Boii are more interested in drinking and fornicating than fighting trained soldiers. They will be no trouble unless you attack them.”

  “If they’re so untrained, why don’t we go after them?” Campius persists. “It would only take a day or two.”

  Aelius shakes his head. “That would only alarm the nearby Ligurians. They might rise up against us.”

  The consul smiles fatuously at the brawny Umbrian. “Look, I am meeting with the Ligurians’ Inguani tribe. Let me make a treaty with them. That will keep them from attacking us. Then we can march on Parma. We’ll take control of the entire Po Valley.”

  “And you will be accorded a triumph for it, eh?”

  “You would benefit handsomely from such a conquest, too,” Aelius says, picking a honey cake from his tray. “A quarter of the plunder would go to you and your men.” Campius is silent.

  He’s as stubborn as a pig, Aelius thinks. “And you will get half the prisoners,” he adds.

  The Umbrian bites his lower lip. “I don’t know. I still think you underestimate the Boii. They rampaged through northern Umbria, and overran the Roman garrison.”

  The consul pushes himself up from the couch, wiping the crumbs from his ample midriff. “Let me simplify the issue for you. The Latin Party wants Romans to own those lush growing fields here, and I intend to get them. And my triumph. And you will help me do that, or I’ll get the Etruscans up here to replace you.”

  He grins deprecatingly. “I am not an unreasonable man. I’ll lend you four cohorts of my best troops.[v] I certainly won’t need them for a peace mission with the Inguani.”

  “I will command your Romans?” Campius says.

  “Yes, yes. I will order the tribunes to follow all your orders.” Aelius rises to his full five feet and two inches. He points toward the tent flaps.

  “You leave the day after tomorrow. I suggest you make preparations.”

  The allied commander nods silently. He spins on his heel and stalks out the tent’s exit flap. Aelius waves his slave over and plucks a roast canary from his tray. After one bite he flips the sesame-encrusted bird back onto the bronze platter. That’s the worst of being up here; camp cooks. Lousy mouse and worse canary. Should have brought my Nubian with me.

  The tent flap flies open. Campius steps inside. “Wait. Didn’t those Ligurians fight with Carthage, as part of Hannibal’s force?”

  Aelius waves his hand dismissively. “Well, yes, several of their tribes joined Hannibal back then. But they’ve seen the futility of fighting Romans.” He chuckles. “Gods above, Campius. Even these barbarians have heard about Scipio destroying Hannibal at Zama! My trip will be like a holiday in the mountains!”

  “I certainly hope so, Consul,” Campius replies uneasily. He raises his right hand, his fingers splayed out toward Aelius. “You will give me four Roman cohorts. Five thousand men, correct?”

  “Good night, Commander,” Aelius says, pointing to the exit.

  Four days later Campius leads his army toward the town of Bononia, a garrison in the heart of Boii territory. Riding on his black war horse, Campius guides his Roman and allied columns through the Via Terrana, a twenty-foot roadway through the Po River valley.

  As he jounces along the path, the Umbrian commander scans the horizon for enemy riders. This road will be a lot more negotiable when we get some gravel on it. Maybe we’ll capture enough Boii to do that, too.

  Fields of tall green wheat undulate into the distance on either side of the road, contrasting sharply with the smoldering wake of burned fields and rubbled towns that lie behind Campius’ plundering legions. The Umbrians at the rear of the mile-long army train hasten their pace, anxious to escape the faint wailings from the wrecked town just behind them.

  Campius chuckles. Well, that gasbag Aelius was right. We have met with little serious resistance. He looks back at the lines of stern legionnaires, their packs dangling from the tent poles slung over their shoulders. Who could blame the Boii for hiding from us? We are their equals in numbers, and their superiors in battle.

  He grins to himself. Perhaps I should just march on to Parma and take it myself. It’s only two days out. Old Fatty can kiss my ass.

  Eighty miles to the northwest of Campius’ army, Consul Aelius guides his two legions over a high mountain pass heading for the Inguani’s encampment on the Alps’ high plains.

  Trotting along in the midst of his troops, the patrician general studies the cloud-clawing peaks that surround him, watching the wispy white clouds waft across their snow-cloaked pinnacles. He pulls his blood-red cape over his shoulders. This would be beautiful if it weren’t so miserably cold. No wonder Rome was in no hurry to settle this area. And I’m not staying up here to do it!

  A tribune rides up to Aelius. “General, look above you. Over to the right.”

  Aelius stares into the sun-dazzled crags. “What is it, Tiberius? Is another Ibex up there? They are magnificent beasts, don’t you think?”

  The tribune’s mouth tightens into a line. Patricians! Are you as blind as you are fat? He pulls out his sword and points above his commander’s head. “Up by that scraggly juniper.”

  Aelius cranes his neck. There, on a flat expanse of rock, a dozen Inguani warriors gaze down at him, their matted chests bared to the sharp, cutting winds.

  A huge warrior steps out from the group. His gold neck rings glimmer brightly beneath his wild white beard. The bearlike man plants his feet at the edge of the precipice and stares down into Aelius’ face.

  Hope he doesn’t spit on me, is all Aelius can think. He pulls his horse sideways, away from the looming barbarian.

  The man raises a wrist-thick spear above his head and pumps it three times. His men follow his gesture. The barbarians resume their silent stance, watching the Roman train tramp past them.

  Aelius scratches his oiled head. What is that about? Do they want an answer? He pulls out his sword and waves it thrice above his head. The Ligurians continue to stand still as statues.

  Aelius shrugs. He rides on, looking over his shoulder at the motionless warriors. Was that some type of Ligurian welcome? Hope so—this would be a nasty place for a fight!

  The little army tops the pass and wends its way down a narrow switch back trail to the valley floor. The clouds disappear and the late afternoon blazes down, glinting off the army’s domed helmets. The army turns into a shimmering bronze snake, undulating its way down the snow-dappled slopes, its body rippling with every unisoned step.

  Dusk arrives as the Roman van enters the mountain-ringed plain that sweeps out below them. In the distance, the town-sized Inguani camp sprawls in front of them. Hundreds of cooking fires stream upward from the camp’s tents and wagons.

  Charon take me, Aelius thinks. This place is immense! How many men did their chief bring here?

  Following Roman custom, the army pitches camp close to water but far from any concealing trees, leaving an open line of sight in every direction.

  The antlike marching army turns into a hive of bees. The legionnaires immediately start raising tents and harvesting trees for their palisade. Scores of soldiers dig a trench around the camp perimeter, while dozens under punishment plow out a latrine trench. The men swarm to finish their tasks, eager to pull out their porridge pots and cook dinner.

  Aelius supervises the camp construction from atop his short gray mare. He rides about the center of camp. “Get my tent up first!” he yells to a tribune.

  While his house sized tent is raised, Aelius dismounts and strolls out to the front of camp, his aide Tiberius following him. He passes a score of sweaty legionnaires who are erecting the palisade walls, unaw
are of their derisive glances.

  The consul halts in alarm. In the distance, he sees a long line of tall warriors standing between him and the barbarian camp, thick-bodied men with bared axes and longswords. The white-bearded warrior is there, mounted on a white mare the size of a small elephant.

  That must be Ambrix, their chief, Aelius thinks. Why doesn’t he come in and welcome me?

  Aelius looks nervously about him. “Tiberius, get me a turma of our equites. Quickly”

  “Now?” Tiberius says. “Apologies, General, but what will you do with thirty-two cavalry?”

  “I want them about me,” Aelius replies peevishly. “They don’t have to do anything but be here to protect me!”

  The tribune is silent for several moments. He looks at the thousands of soldiers working around Aelius. You need more security? He stifles a sigh. “As you say, General.”

  Ambrix observes the Romans bustling about the plain, each one moving to complete his assigned task. If we were going to attack them, this would be the time. Get them before they finish their camp. Forget about the treaty.

  The old chief’s mouth pinches with distaste—and anxiety. Those Romans work like demons, even after marching all day through the mountains! I bet those little bastards could fight from morning to night.

  He studies his own men. Most have plopped down to drink wine and watch the Romans. “Look at them, they run about like ants!” comments a burly warrior, scratching underneath his deerskin eye patch.

  “Ha! Ants would at least stop to feed,” chortles another. “Those runts are going to work until they drop in their tracks!”

  Ambrix shakes his head. The Roman leader is a sow, but his men are fit and organized. If we did not take his men in the first hours of battle, who knows what could happen? He looks back at his camp. If we lose too many men, the Cenomani could finally take us. Take our lands.

  He hears shouting behind him and turns. Two of his men grapple and roll about, engaging in a drunken wrestling match. The others blearily cheer them on, oblivious to the bustling Romans.

  Ambrix sighs. Oh, ox shit!

  “Osgar, get over here!” he bellows over his shoulder. A wiry young man trots up to Ambrix, shoving a stopper into his wineskin.

  “What is it, Father?”

  “You and I are going to the Roman camp tomorrow. But you are not coming back with me.”

  “What?”

  “You will remain with them for now, as a hostage. It will demonstrate our sincerity in making peace with them.”

  “Peace? But last night you said we could…”

  “I know what I said,” Ambrix mutters angrily. “And I know what I must do. These crazy Romans, they will not be driven off. Ever. Go back to camp and tell your wife you will be gone.”

  The chief watches Osgar stalk away. At least I will give them the worst of my lot. He talks too much.

  Two days later, Aelius leads his men back over the pass, heading east toward Parma. He carries a newly signed treaty in his saddle bag. A morose Osgar rides next to him, embarrassed at being devoid of any weaponry. Aelius glances at his captive and smiles. Osgar looks away.

  Well, Ambrix proved to be a gracious host, after all. He raises his chin and smiles. I’d wager he didn’t want to get in a battle with me!

  “This is a disgrace,” Osgar growls. “Kill me now.”

  “Oh cheer up, boy. You will be treated with the finest food and wine from my provisions.”

  Osgar spits onto the space between their two horses. “You had best pray to your gods you do not face me when I am chief,” the young man growls. “I will be sacking Rome while my men sodomize you in front of me.”

  Aelius laughs. “You rabble did that once to our city, when we were but a group of farmers. But now we are much more organized. Soon we will rule the world!”

  “And then your men will grow soft and fat.” The Ligurian’s eyes roll over Aelius’ body. “Apparently it has already started.”

  “Do not be disrespectful, savage. I can have you on a cross by nightfall!” Aelius snaps, his face reddening.

  He trots away from the glowering youth, struggling to regain his composure. Irreverent dog! But who cares? I struck a treaty with the Ligurians, wait until the Senate hears about that!

  The stout little consul looks at the lush grain fields below him. I hope Campius has done well on his little trip—we’ll need the bread. Hmm. I’d like some fresh bread for dinner, maybe some Pecorino to go with it, and a nice red Rioja from Iberia, and...

  Ten miles south of the Boii fortress at Mutilum, Campius is organizing his men for their final foraging expedition. The allies and Romans are camped near a tree-lined branch of the winding Sapis River, preparing the wheat they have ravaged from the nearby fields and farms. Campius is intent on harvesting enough grain to fulfill Aelius’ order, so he can return to waging war on the Boii.

  The Umbrian soldiers pitch their wicker winnowing baskets into the air, tossing wheat to let the wind blow away the chaff. The Roman cohorts stand guard on the perimeter, having finished installing the camp gates and palisades. Acres of chest-high wheat stalks stretch as far as the eye can see.

  Campius stands outside the camp gates, watching his scouting party return from their explorations. The six horsemen pull to a stop upwind from Campius, careful to prevent their dust from blowing upon him. Campius can be unforgiving about little mistakes.

  A slim young equite dismounts and approaches the commander, pulling off his red-plumed helmet. He pauses before him and raises his right arm, palm out.

  Campius grudgingly returns the salute. “What news do you bring, Sextus?”

  “We have searched the lower mountains, and we detect no enemy presence. The Boii must be sequestered in Mutinum[vi]. Or Parma.”

  Campius summons the Umbrian senior tribune and relays the scout’s news. “Postus, we now have enough food for Aelius and me to lay siege to Mutinum for a year, if it comes to that. Let’s gather the rest of the wheat from these rich fields before we go back. It’ll be easier to starve the Boii out.”

  Or I can just destroy them myself, right now. The Romans have to follow me into battle. But my men are angry about doing all the slave work. I have to placate them somehow. He grins slyly. I know just the thing!

  Campius points toward the fields. “Sextus, I want you to take two turma of cavalry and ride through those fields tomorrow. Make sure there are no barbarians in them.”

  “It will be done.” Sextus remounts and trots his horse toward the rear of camp, heading for the horse pens.

  Campius hurries back to his command tent. “Summon my officers,” he tells his attendant. “Tell them to be here after the second watch ends. We have new duty assignments for tomorrow. And get Claudus over here.”

  Minutes later, a sturdy old tribune hobbles into the tent, his wooden foot clomping on the fresh-packed earth. Campius waves him toward one of his camp stools. “Sit down, old friend. I have good news to give you.”

  “Which is what?” Claudus asks skeptically, as he eases himself onto the stool. Claudus is a veteran of twenty years of wars, and he knows a commander’s version of ‘good news’ is oft otherwise for soldiers.

  Campius smiles. “Ah, you were ever a man to get to the point. I know our men have been complaining that they do all the field work while the Romans stand around like a bunch of armored statues. Well, no more of that. Tomorrow we put them to work, and our Umbrians will stand guard over them!”

  Claudus wrinkles his potato-shaped nose. “That will silence our men’s complaining, but the Romans will not like it.”

  “Who cares what they like? Aelius told them that they must follow my orders.” He grins. “Now they’ll know what it’s like to be treated like socii, as if we allies were a class beneath them.”

  Claudus nods, warming to the idea. “I can’t wait to see the Romans’ faces when you tell them!”

  The next morning finds the allies and Romans again working the fields, but in entirely different circum
stances. Four thousand Umbrians stand in cohort formation by the fields’ front borders, guarding the five thousand Romans who will go out and gather grain. Wearing only a tunic and sword, the legionnaires stomp out into the waiting fields, glaring at the gleeful Umbrian guards.

  Campius summons Sextus and three more of his scouts. “I know you have seen no Boii, but those Gauls can be stealthy, for all their size. I want you to make sure it’s safe before our men go out there.

  The allied commander grabs a straight-stemmed horn from a scout’s side pack. “You four will ride around the upper perimeter of the fields, two on each side. Take your tubas with you. Blow one long note if all is clear. Like this.” He blows a solitary, extended note.

  “If you do see any enemies, you are to blow three short notes. Keep patrolling above the fields until you see the men returning to camp.”

  “I hear and obey,” Sextus replies. He hurries away, his three compatriots following. When they come to the front of the field, the scouts separate to the left and right, each pair taking one of the foothill trails that borders the acres of wheatfields.

  Sextus trots along a tree-covered trace trail, scrutinizing the heady waves of grain. He carefully scrutinizes the dense carpets of green and yellow, but he does not notice any movement, or glint of metal.

  “Do you see anything out there, Glaucus?” he says to his fellow. Glaucus only shakes his head. “Nothing but a few deer.”

  Sextus slides his four-foot tuba from its saddle sleeve. He blows one long, plaintive note. Seconds later, he hears a similar note coming from the other side of the valley. All is well, he decides.

  Sextus snaps the rope reins on his horse. “Let’s get over to the end of the fields.” Minutes later, the two see the walls of Mutina in the distance.

  “Look there,” Glaucus says, pointing below him. The fields near Mutina have already been harvested.

  “The Boii must have cut the stalks down last night, under cover of darkness.” Sextus says.

  “They’re probably storing food for a siege,” Glaucus replies. Sextus nods. “Well, we’re at the end of the route. Nothing out there in but burned land. Let’s go back and check the fields near camp.”