“With all eight legions in Portus Itius, we’ll run out of grain before the year is over,” said Titus Labienus. “The commissioners haven’t had much success finding it. There’s plenty of salt pork, bacon, oil, sweet beet syrup and dried fruit, but the ground crops from wheat to chickpea are very scarce.”
“Nor can we expect the troops to fight without bread.” Caesar sighed. “The trouble with drought is that it tends to strike everywhere at once. I can’t buy in grain or pulses from the Spains or Italian Gaul; they’re suffering too.” He shrugged. “Well, that leaves only one solution. Spread the legions out for the winter and offer to the Gods for a good harvest next year.”
“Such a pity the fleet didn’t stay in one piece,” said Quintus Titurius Sabinus tactlessly. “I know we sweltered there, but Britannia had a bountiful harvest. We could have brought a lot of wheat back with us if only we’d had all the ships.”
The rest of the legates shrank; keeping the fleet safe from harm was Caesar’s responsibility, and though it had been wind, sea and tide which foiled him, it was not politic to make statements in council which Caesar might interpret as reproach or criticism. But Sabinus was lucky, probably because Caesar had deemed him a prating fool from the moment he had reported for duty. He received a glance of contempt, nothing more.
“One legion to garrison one area,” the General went on.
“Except in the lands of the Atrebates,” Commius volunteered eagerly. “We haven’t been hit as hard as most places; we can feed two legions if you’ll lend us some of your noncombatants to help us plough and sow in the spring.”
“If,” Sabinus butted in, voice loaded with irony, “you Gauls above the status of a serf didn’t deem it beneath your dignity to man a plough, you wouldn’t find large-scale farming so difficult. Why not put some of those hordes of useless Druids to it?”
“I haven’t noticed the Roman First Class behind a plough in quite some time, Sabinus,” the General said placidly, then smiled at Commius. “Good! That means Samarobriva can serve as our winter headquarters this year. But I won’t give you Sabinus for company. I think… that… Sabinus can go to the lands of the Eburones—and take Cotta with him as exactly equal co-commander. He can have the Thirteenth, and set up house inside Atuatuca. It’s a little the worse for wear, but Sabinus can fix it up, I’m sure.”
Every head bent suddenly, every hand leaped to hide a smile; Caesar had just banished Sabinus to the worst billet in Gaul, in the company of a man he detested, and in “exactly equal” co-command of a legion of raw recruits which just happened to bear a calamitously unlucky number. A bit hard on poor Cotta (an Aurunculeius, not an Aurelius), but someone had to inherit Sabinus, and everyone save poor Cotta was relieved that Caesar hadn’t chosen him.
The presence of King Commius offended men like Sabinus, of course; he couldn’t understand why Caesar invited any Gaul, no matter how obsequious or trustworthy, to a council. Even if it was only about food and billets. Perhaps had Commius been a more likable or attractive person he might have been better tolerated; alas, he was neither likable nor attractive. In height he was short for a Belgic Gaul, sharp-featured of face, and oddly furtive in his manner. His sandy hair, stiff as a broom because (like all Gallic warriors) he washed it with lime dissolved in water, was drawn into a kind of horse’s tail which stuck straight up in the air, and clashed with the vivid scarlet of his gaudily checkered shawl. Caesar’s legates dismissed him as the kind of sycophant who always popped up where the important men were, without stopping to relate what they saw to the fact that he was the King of a very powerful and warlike Belgic people. The Belgae of the northwest had not abandoned their kings to elect annual vergobrets, yet Belgic kings could be challenged by any aristocrat among their people; it was a status decided by strength, not heredity. And Commius had been King of the Atrebates for a long time.
“Trebonius,” said Caesar, “you’ll winter with the Tenth and Twelfth in Samarobriva, and have custody of the baggage. Marcus Crassus, you’ll camp fairly close to Samarobriva—about twenty-five miles away, on the border between the Bellovaci and the Ambiani. Take the Eighth. Fabius, you’ll stay here in Portus Itius with the Seventh. Quintus Cicero, you and the Ninth will go to the Nervii. Roscius, you can enjoy some peace and quiet—I’m sending you and the Fifth Alauda down among the Esubii, just to let the Celtae know that I haven’t forgotten they exist.”
“You’re expecting trouble among the Belgae,” said Labienus, frowning. “I agree they’ve been too quiet. Do you want me to go to the Treveri as usual?”
“Not quite so far away as Treves. Among the Treveri but adjacent to the Remi. Take the cavalry as well as the Eleventh.”
“Then I’ll sit myself down on the Mosa near Virodunum. If the snow isn’t ten feet deep, there’ll be plenty of grazing.”
Caesar rose to his feet, the signal for dismissal. He had called his legates together the moment he came ashore, which meant he wanted the eight legions at present encamped at Portus Itius shifted to their permanent winter quarters immediately. Even so, all the legates were now aware that it had been Julia who died. The news had been contained in many letters to those like Labienus who had not gone to Britannia. But no one said a word.
“You’ll be nice and cozy,” said Labienus to Trebonius as they walked away. The big horse’s teeth showed. “Sabinus’s stupidity staggers me! If he’d kept his mouth shut, he’d be cozy. Fancy spending the winter up there not so far from the mouth of the Mosa, with the wind shrieking, the sea flooding in, the hills rocks, the flat ground salt fen or peat marsh, and the Germans sniffing up your arse when the Eburones and Nervii aren’t.”
“They can get to the sea for fish, eels and sea-bird eggs,” said Trebonius.
“Thank you, I’m happy with freshwater fish, and my servants can keep chickens.”
“Caesar definitely thinks there’s going to be trouble.”
“Either that, or he’s cultivating an excuse not to have to return to Italian Gaul for the winter.”
“Eh?”
“Oh, Trebonius, he doesn’t want to have to face all those Romans! He’d be accepting condolences from Salona to Ocelum, and spend the whole winter terrified that he might break down.”
Trebonius stopped, his rather mournful grey eyes startled. “I didn’t know you understood him so well, Labienus.”
“I’ve been with him since he came among the Long-hairs.”
“But Romans don’t consider it unmanly to weep!”
“Nor did he when he was young. But he wasn’t Caesar then in anything but name.”
“Eh?”
“It’s not a name anymore,” said Labienus with rare patience. “It’s a symbol.”
“Oh!” Trebonius resumed walking. “I miss Decimus Brutus!” he said suddenly. “Sabinus is no substitute.”
“He’ll be back. You all itch for Rome occasionally.”
“Except you.”
Caesar’s senior legate grunted. “I know when I’m well off.”
“So do I. Samarobriva! Imagine, Labienus! I’ll be living in a real house with heated floors and a bathtub.”
“Sybarite,” said Labienus.