The forest had at least protected them from the wind while it lasted. They knew now that they should have kept the closest trees to be cut last, but nothing the Romans had ever seen could have prepared them for the ferocity of that first winter. It was a killing cold.

Brutus knew many of the men were not well supplied with warm clothing. Those who had been given oxhides greased them daily, but they still became like iron. The going rate for a pair of fur gloves was more than a month’s pay, and that was rising as every hare and fox for a hundred miles was killed and brought in by the trappers.

At least the legions had been paid at last. Julius had captured enough silver and gold from Ariovistus to issue three months of back salary to each man. In Rome, it would have run through their fingers on whores and wine, but here there was little to do with it but gamble, and many of the men had been returned to poverty only a few days after their share had been handed out. The more responsible ones sent part of their pay back to relatives and dependents in Rome.

Brutus envied those who had been sent back across the Alps to Ariminum before the passes had closed. It was a gesture that had pleased the men, though Brutus had known it was made out of necessity.

In such a harsh winter, just staying alive was difficult enough. The warriors of the Suebi who had survived the battle could not be guarded for so many dark months. Better to sell them as gladiators and house guards, splitting them apart and retraining them. With the tradition that the proceeds of fighting slaves went to the legionaries, the Suebi would bring at least a gold coin to each man who had fought them.

The wind gusted harder along the wall and Brutus began to count to five hundred in his head, forcing himself to stay at least that long. Those who had to stand a watch up there were in a world of gray misery, and they needed to see him bear it with them.

He pulled his cloak closer around his chest, wincing with each breath that bit at his throat until he wished it were as numb as the rest of him. Cabera had warned him about the danger and he wore two pairs of woolen socks under his sandals, though they seemed to make no difference at all. Eighteen men had lost toes or fingers since the first snow, and without Cabera it would have been more. All those had been in the first few weeks, before the men learned to respect the cold. Brutus had seen one of the shriveled black lumps clipped off with a hoof tool, and the strangest thing had been the passive look on the legionary’s face. Even with jaws of iron snipping through his bone, he had felt no pain.

The closest legionary was like a statue and as Brutus shuffled closer to him, he saw that the man’s eyes were closed, his face pale and bruised looking under a straggling beard. The penalty for falling asleep on watch was death, but Brutus clapped the man on his back in a greeting, pretending not to notice the spasm of fear as the eyes snapped open, immediately narrowing against the wind.

“Where are your gloves, lad?” Brutus asked, seeing the cramped blue fingers as the soldier pulled them out from his tunic and stood to attention.

“I lost them, sir,” he replied.

Brutus nodded. No doubt the man was as good a gambler as he was a sentry.

“You’ll lose your hands too if you don’t keep warm. Take mine. I have another pair.” Brutus watched as the young legionary tried to pull them on. He couldn’t do it and after a brief struggle, one of them fell.

Brutus picked it up and worked them over the man’s frozen fingers. He hoped it was not too late. On impulse, he undid the clasp of his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it around the young soldier, trying not to wince as the wind seemed to bite every part of his exposed body, despite the underlayers. His teeth began to chatter and Brutus bit down hard to quiet them.

“Please, sir, I can’t take your cloak,” the sentry said.

“It’ll keep you warm enough to finish your watch, lad. Then you might choose to give it to the next one up in your place. I’ll leave that to you.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

Brutus watched as the first tinges of color began to return to the soldier’s cheeks before he was satisfied. For some reason, he felt surprisingly cheerful as he made his way down. The fact that he had completed his tour of the camp was part of it, of course. A hot beef stew and a bed warmed with heated bricks would help him bear the loss of his only cloak and gloves. He hoped he would be as cheerful the next night, when he had to walk the camp without them.

Julius pulled an iron poker from the fire and plunged it into two cups of wine. Shredded cloves sizzled on the surface and steam curled upward as he placed the iron back into the flames and offered a cup to Mhorbaine.

Looking around him, Julius could almost believe in the permanence of the new buildings. Even in the short time before the first snows of winter, his legions had extended the road from the Roman province in the south to within almost five miles of the new camps. The trees they had felled became the structures of new barracks, and Julius had been pleased with their progress until the winter struck in a single night and the following morning a sentry had been found frozen to death on the wall. Their quarry work had been abandoned and the pace of their lives had changed as all attempts to make a permanent link to the south were turned into a more basic struggle for survival.

Even in the midst of it, Julius had used the time. The Aedui were old hands at dealing with the bitter winters, and he employed them as messengers to as many tribes as they knew. At the last count, Julius had made alliances with nine of them and claimed the lands of three more in easy reach of the country vacated by Ariovistus. How much of it would hold when the winter finally ended, he did not know. If they fulfilled their promises, he would have enough volunteers to form two new legions in the spring. No doubt many of the smaller tribes had agreed only to learn the skills that had destroyed the Helvetii and the Suebi, but Julius had planned with Mark Antony how to seed the legions with his most trusted men. He had done it with those Cato sent to protect his son. He had even made legionaries out of the mercenaries under Catiline. Whether they knew it or not, the Gauls who came to him would become as solidly of Rome as Ciro or Julius himself.

He worried more about those tribes who would not respond to his summons. The Belgae had blinded the Aedui messenger and then led his horse within a short distance of the Roman camps, letting the animal find its own way back to food and warmth. The Nervii had refused to meet his man and three other tribes had followed their lead.

Julius could hardly wait for the spring. The moment of exultation he had experienced as Ariovistus was struck down did not repeat itself, but still he felt a confidence that could hardly be explained. Gaul would be his.

“The tribes you mention have never fought together, Julius. It is easier to imagine the Aedui standing back to back with the Arverni than any of those becoming brothers.” Mhorbaine sipped at his hot wine and leaned closer to the fire, relaxing.

“Perhaps,” Julius admitted, “but my men have barely made a mark on most of Gaul. There are still tribes who haven’t even heard of us, and how can they accept the rule of those they have never seen?”

“You cannot fight them all, Julius. Even your legions could not do that,” Mhorbaine replied.

Julius snorted. “Do not be so sure, my friend. My legions could murder Alexander himself if he stood against them, but with this winter I cannot see where I should take them next. Farther to the north? The west? Should I seek out the more powerful tribes and beat them one by one? I almost hope they will fight together, Mhorbaine. If I can break the strongest of them, the others will accept our right to the land.”