"Midday meal! Cease work and collect your rations!"
"Praise Zeus. Finally, food."
Callias and Lachares dropped the heavy oak timber from their bruised shoulders and let out ragged breaths.
"I'd rather trade blows with the barbarians than break my back like a pack mule," Lachares grunted.
"On that, we are in absolute agreement."
Callias unhooked his leather waterskin and took a long, greedy gulp.
The two men belonged to the Athenian and Spartan delegations, respectively. Having traveled to Rome for the Nova Troia festival only weeks ago, they now found themselves stranded in this freezing, savage corner of northern Gaul.
They were a world away from Hellas.
"At the very least, we succeeded in currying favor with Caesar..."
Their goal was to win the goodwill of Rome's rising politician, Lucius Caesar, and secure favorable Roman public opinion for their homelands. For that prize, they had eagerly volunteered for this Gallic campaign.
Of course, reality had an ugly way of humbling ambition.
"How in Hades are we supposed to use these stirrup contraptions again?! H-Hold on a moment!"
Before they could even get used to the bizarre Roman saddlery, they were dragged into an agonizing forced march from Rome to Geneva. After riding day and night with barely a wink of sleep, they were thrown straight into combat against screaming savages the moment their horses' hooves touched Gallic soil.
Unlike the Roman cavalrymen Lucius had personally drilled into an iron wedge, the Greek riders found everything disorienting. While commanders like Lucius spoke fluent Greek, most rank-and-file legionaries couldn't understand a word the Greeks said.
In the end, they were relegated to sitting in reserve during the countercharge against the Helvetii.
"Any water left?"
"Take it."
Callias passed the skin to Lachares. When they first departed Rome, the Athenian and Spartan delegations had snarled at each other like rabid dogs. Yet after a few days of shared torment, that old rivalry had melted away, replaced by the exhausted camaraderie of Greeks suffering in a foreign land.
"Look at them over there. They're eating pasta again." Callias muttered, gesturing toward a nearby contubernium of legionaries.
As always, the Roman soldiers clustered in squads of four or five around small campfires. Once their cooking pots reached a rolling boil, they dumped in handfuls of dried pasta.
"Eating that starch every single day. Don't they ever tire of it?"
"Tell me about it. It tastes even stranger with their garum," Callias chuckled.
Yet the Romans treated the rations like gold, having carefully packed crates of dried pasta even during their hurried departure from Rome. Since the Helvetian siege began and supplies dwindled, the dried noodles had practically become currency within the camp.
"What in the world are they doing with all those logs and planks, anyway?"
"Throwing up another palisade, surely. Why else would they hoard logs like beavers?"
Callias and Lachares glanced toward a peculiar detachment of Romans gathered near the supply depot.
Unlike regular legionaries, these men wore oddly shaped, brimmed helmets and were huddled over several large sheets of paper, arguing intensely.
Callias let out a weary sigh. During his brief stay among the Romans, he had learned one undeniable truth.
"To be entirely honest, my friend... I don't think anything Lucius Caesar does could surprise me anymore."
***
Five days.
That was the deadline Lucius Caesar had given his combat engineers. Within that impossibly narrow window, they had to throw a bridge across the raging Rhodanus.
"This is madness! How can anyone build a bridge across this river in five days?!"
"Stop whining and survey the terrain first."
The engineers immediately began analyzing Geneva's terrain.
The town of Geneva was perched atop a defensible hill, and the Roman legions had constructed a formidable timber palisade encircling its base, effectively creating a double-layered defense.
The river curved along the northern flank of the outer wall. Because the gap between the palisade and the water was exceptionally narrow, the Helvetii had been unable to deploy siege forces there.
In short, bridging the river from that position was feasible.
That didn't make it safe, however.
"The moment we start driving piles into the riverbed, the Helvetii will see what we're doing and charge our flank. Forget cavalry riding across; we won't even finish the foundation."
"Even if we work until our hands bleed... framing a bridge takes at least three days."
As the engineers tore their hair out in frustration, a voice broke through the gloom.
"What if we don't drive supports into the riverbed at all? What if we use boats instead?"
"Boats? You mean... like Alexander at the Hydaspes?"
Lashing river craft together into a floating pontoon bridge was an ancient and well-proven technique. Centuries ago, Alexander the Great's army had crossed roaring rivers using such makeshift bridges. Even now, the Helvetii were ferrying their own vanguard across the Rhodanus on crude rafts.
"If we requisition every barge and skiff moored along Geneva's docks, it's feasible. If we pre-cut all the timbers, we could assemble the whole thing in under a day."
"If we spend four days gathering lumber and pre-assembling the decking in camp, it might just work."
"Still, the barbarians aren't blind. If they catch wind of the crossing, the Helvetii will be waiting on the far bank before our cavalry even sets foot on the planks."
"Then our course is clear."
After hours of intense debate, the engineers reached a unanimous conclusion.
"We assemble the bridge under cover of darkness."
***
"Why in Pluto's name are you keeping me out of this?!"
Antony stalked after me, his voice booming.
"You won't find a cavalry commander in all of Rome better suited for a lightning raid on the enemy's rear! Metellus is capable enough, but he lacks teeth—"
"You are entirely right," I said, stopping abruptly and turning around.
Ever since the morning briefing, Antony had been sulking like an overgrown hound. I had officially handed command of the cavalry detachment crossing the river to Metellus.
"You are an extraordinary commander, Antony."
"Then why—"
"Because you are too valuable. I need you right here, by my side." I lowered my voice. "Just... don't repeat that to Metellus."
My serious delivery took the wind right out of Antony's sails. He blinked, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Well... if you rely on me that much, I suppose I have no choice. But damn it, it's frustrating. A raid on the enemy's rear is exactly where I belong."
"You'll have your chance at a greater battle soon enough." I offered with an encouraging smile.
Naturally, that was only half the truth.
To put it delicately, Antony lacked tactical restraint. Once blood touched his blade, the man had a nasty habit of charging and overextending.
He was destined to become a great commander, but for now he lacked experience, just as I did.
Most of all, my objective across the river wasn't butchering Helvetian women and children.
The targets were their supply wagons, draft oxen and grain carts.
Any civilian who did not resist was to be left unharmed.
Any extended pursuit was strictly forbidden.
By every logical metric, the cool-headed, disciplined Metellus was far better suited than Antony to lead this surgical strike.
"And I have a task for you. It's more important than the one I gave Metellus."
"More important than the one you entrusted to Metellus?"
"Yes. I need you to remain in Geneva in my stead."
Antonius furrowed his brow.
"Remain in Geneva? Weren't you the one who told me not to deal with the barbarians?"
"Leave the diplomatic disputes to me. All you need to do is guard the gates."
"The gates of Geneva? You want me guarding the city gates instead of the ramparts, where the actual fighting is? What are you talking about?"
"There's something I'm concerned about. I only hope it turns out to be nothing more than needless worry."
"Very well." Antonius hesitated.
"Still, throwing a pontoon bridge across an Alpine river guided only by moonlight? Isn't that courting disaster?"
"It will be exceptionally dangerous. There is always a chance the Helvetii will realize what we're doing."
Darkness could cloak movement, but muffling the frantic hammering and splashing of bridge-builders was nearly impossible.
If the Helvetii detected the operation, the defenseless engineers would be slaughtered like sheep.
To guarantee their safety...
"We will deploy a full legion along the riverbank to shield the engineers and draw barbarian eyes away from the crossing point."
"Marching an entire legion down there might as well be shouting our plans to the Helvetii."
"There are no risk-free gambits in war. Brutus told me as much during the campaign against the bandits," I replied.
Sneaking a strike force across the river was already a high-stakes gamble. If you demanded absolute safety before making every move, you had no business commanding an army.
Hah. That sounds remarkably like something Father would say. I suppose Caesar's blood truly does run in my veins.
"Get your men assembled. Everything must be ready down to the last detail once the bridge is in place."
"Understood."
Just as Antony turned to leave, a young officer came sprinting toward us, panting heavily.
"Tribune Caesar! A report!"
"What has happened?"
"You must come to the ramparts immediately, sir!"
"Have the Helvetii begun their full-on assault?"
Antony and I exchanged glances.
Damn it. If the barbarian horde attacked now, our bridge operation was dead in the water.
"I'd calculated they would need at least six more days to organize..."
"N-No, sir! That's not it!" the officer stammered, his eyes wide. "Reinforcements have arrived from Rome!"
"Reinforcements? Already?!"
No, that's physically impossible.
No matter how rapidly Pompey pushed the levy, the legionary main body couldn't possibly have reached Gaul yet. Even on an unrelenting forced march, heavy infantry couldn't move at such supernatural speed.
"Did a unit of auxiliary cavalry manage to slip through? I explicitly sent orders to halt all cavalry dispatches once the siege tightened!"
Feeding small squadrons piecemeal into a barbarian encirclement was just asking to have them butchered in detail.
"You must see it for yourself, Tribune!"
I scrambled up the wooden ladder two rungs at a time, taking the steps two at a time to reach the ramparts.
Across the open plain, past the sprawling Helvetian encampment, a tiny band of horsemen was trotting steadily toward the barbarian lines.
I snatched the telescope from the officer's hand.
Through the polished lens, the dust-covered riders came into clear focus. And riding at the very head of the troop was a face so familiar that I couldn't possibly mistake it.
"Jesus Christ..." I whispered without thinking.
"Jesus? Who's that?"
Antony asked, but I could barely focus enough to answer.
Why the hell is he here?
***
"Grain! Grain! All I hear from morning to night is grain!"
Orgetorix slammed his heavy fists down on the council table, rattling the wooden cups.
"They squeal like starved swine! Even after I shattered the mighty legions of Rome with such effortless ease!"
He glared down at the sheepskin map spread before him.
The Helvetii were not a centralized monarchy; they were a fractious confederation of squabbling clans. Orgetorix had risen to supreme power by wielding the ash of fire, and his crushing victory over the Roman legions had temporarily silenced his rivals.
Yet as the siege dragged on, the murmurs of dissent were swelling once more.
The dissenters argued that starving outside Geneva was pointless; they should abandon the siege and march west into the fertile plains of central Gaul to forage.
Orgetorix was far from an idiot, however. He jabbed a thick finger at the mark representing Geneva.
"Nearly half our people are still stranded on the northern bank of the Rhodanus! If our warriors pack up and march west now, do you think the Romans will simply watch us march away?!"
"Divico is merely using the food shortage to elevate his own clan's standing," one of the nobles scoffed. "He cries about empty bellies solely to force you into lifting the siege."
"It would be vastly simpler if the Romans would just crawl out from behind their defenses and die." Orgetorix muttered, running his dry tongue over his lips.
It was still unconfirmed which Roman general held command behind those palisades. Yet reports consistently indicated that Lucius Caesar—the young noble who unsettled him most—was the mind orchestrating the defense.
"What is the status of our ash of fire?"
"The fresh supply that arrived from the rear will be more than sufficient for our next grand assault, my lord."
"Good. Once Geneva falls, our allies have promised us double that amount. That was the deal."
No matter how loudly the elders bickered, sacking Geneva would cement his supreme authority for a generation.
Capturing the city's granaries and plundering Roman supplies would secure enough provisions for them to reach central Gaul. Once settled, no tribe would dare challenge the Helvetii—or him.
A new order in Gaul, ruled by Gauls, entirely free from the chains of Rome.
"Ensure every clan is armed and ready. We cannot permit them to pull any cowardly tricks—"
The leather flap of the tent was thrown open as a warrior tumbled inside.
"Roman cavalry! They're riding straight toward our camp!"
"Cavalry?" Orgetorix's hand dropped to the pommel of his longsword. "What madness are you babbling about?!"
***
"Look over there. Someone is approaching."
"Are those... Romans?"
Pickets stationed along the perimeter of the Helvetian camp blinked in bewilderment.
A troop of horsemen was advancing at a steady, rhythmic trot directly toward their lines.
Calling it a troop was an exaggeration. There were barely twenty riders in total.
"Are they insane? Trying to attack our camp with so few men is madness."
"Sound the alarm! Blow the horns!"
As frantic horn blasts echoed through the camp, thousands of Helvetian warriors grabbed spears and swords, pouring out of their tents in a chaotic frenzy.
Before that bristling wall of barbarian iron, the lead rider calmly spurred his horse forward, leaving his escort behind.
He wore a pure white toga bordered with brilliant Tyrian purple—the toga praetexta. The heavy woolen fabric was drawn over his head, casting his face in shadow.
In his right hand, he held a single iron-tipped spear.
He rode alone, stopping in front of the bristling vanguard of the Helvetian horde.
Gaius Julius Caesar.
Consul of the Roman Republic and Pontifex Maximus.
Raising the sacred spear high into the Alpine air, his voice thundered across the silent riverbank.
"I, Gaius Julius Caesar, demand to see the leader of the Helvetii!"