Chapter Four

 

Palmatus raised himself from the horse’s back to rub his sore rear end once again and Fronto rolled his eyes. Yes, the former legionary was a trained infantryman and had never ridden a horse for more than a few moments in his life before signing on with Fronto, but the man had now ridden over three hundred miles and even if he was never destined to make a horseman he should at least by now be numb enough to resist the pain.

Masgava gave a low chuckle. That man, on the other hand, seemed to have an almost preternatural affinity with horses despite not having ridden one since leaving his native land in a wheeled wooden cage. He put it down to his people’s native abilities with riding beasts, be they horse or camel.

Fronto himself was a little sore, given the lack of time he had spent in the saddle recently, but he was damned if he was going to show it in front of the others. Galronus, of course, was unaffected. It was like sitting on a comfortable couch for a man so born to the beast.

‘This place is so green.’ Palmatus frowned. ‘And damp.’

‘Like the lands of Cisalpine Gaul,’ Fronto nodded. ‘I spent plenty of time around Cremona and it’s much the same there.’

‘This is the first time I’ve ever been north of Rome,’ Palmatus said in a flat voice. ‘It’s different to Armenia and Pontus, I’ll give you that. Less barren rock. More squelching.’

Masgava gave a deep belly laugh and slapped Palmatus on the shoulder. ‘You should try the ergs and dunes of Numidia, my friend.’

‘Anyway…’ Fronto interrupted before he was treated to yet another diatribe on the glories of Masgava’s homeland. ‘That town is Bibracte. It covers the whole hill. Big place with a couple of nice taverns. There’s the place where the Gaulish chieftains’ assembly usually meets, and an old druidic site that’s gone out of use. Should be a Roman supply station in a compound outside the walls too, but I can’t make it out and, since Cita left and Priscus was in charge, who knows how the supply lines have been organised. You can just see a couple of hills over to the north from here, looks suspiciously like a pair of boobs from this angle. That’s where we finished off the Helvetii five years ago.’

‘So a lot happened here is what you’re saying?’ Palmatus mumbled irritably.

‘Moan if you like, but after all those small Roman way stations and local hovels since Massilia, it’ll be nice to be somewhere civilised for a change.’

‘Civilised?’ Palmatus cocked an eyebrow sarcastically and received a cold look from Galronus of the Remi for his efforts.

‘May not look it,’ Fronto replied blithely, ‘but this place is almost a home from home after five years of passing backwards and forward through it. Even the first year we were here the place was welcoming, and you can get proper wine here. Not just that frothy brown latrine water that Galronus’ people make.’ He flashed a cheeky grin at the Belgic prince, who simply shrugged. Galronus had moved to Roman wine as his chosen tipple more than a year since.

‘Bloody hell!’ Fronto said in astonishment and reined in his horse suddenly. The others hauled to sharply, looking about for whatever had caused their friend such consternation.

‘Trouble?’

‘Not now. A few years ago, yes. Come over here.’ Kicking his horse into life, Fronto trotted over to a low, curved ridge. The others joined him curiously.

‘It’s a ditch!’ Palmatus said with a snort. He saw the look on Fronto’s face - dreamy and distant - and smiled sympathetically. ‘Don’t get me wrong… it’s a very pretty ditch. Nice and wide. Almost like a bowl. Pretty. You shag someone here?’

It was a mark of how distant Fronto had suddenly become that he failed to reply with a sharp or witty line, instead just nodding as he scanned the depression.

‘Not a ditch. Too uniform.’ he replied eventually.

‘What?’

‘Man made.’ Fronto said with a sigh. ‘By the Tenth. Under the careful supervision of a man called Pomponius who still commands the legion’s major engineering works - or he did a year or two back anyway.’

‘So what is it?’ Palmatus frowned.

‘What does it look like?’ growled Masgava, his face dark. ‘It’s an arena. A gladiatorial ring. Seen enough of them in my time.’ He turned his spiteful look on Fronto. ‘Native sport? Entertainment for your men?’

Fronto saw the rising ire in his friend and shook his head. ‘No, Masgava. Not that. In actual fact only one combat was ever fought there. One of the combatants was a Gaul, yes. A native cavalry officer named Domiticus of the Aedui - from Bibracte as it happens. The other, though, was a Roman. Me, in fact.’

The other three riders stared at him, all anger draining from Masgava’s face to be replaced by a strange and complex mixture of curiosity, shock and sympathy. Fronto paused for a moment and smiled.

‘Well don’t get all morbid on me. After all, I won. Otherwise I’d not be here to show you it.’

He waited for another moment, but the silence weighed, so he shrugged. ‘Needed a show to boost the men's spirits as they were heading for starvation. And that bastard Domiticus had assassinated a good friend of mine - a tribune by the name of Cominius. I wanted revenge. The whole Tenth did, so there was nothing unfair or wrong about it. Domiticus met his Gods that day, and Cominius smiled at us from across the last river. And then I got so drunk that night that I couldn’t stand.’

‘You,’ Palmatus shook his head, ‘are a constant surprise. You know that, Fronto?’

‘I like to keep people guessing,’ the legate smiled. ‘Come on.’

The small party rode on, the former legionary, the Belgic officer and the ex-gladiator gazing up at the main oppidum of the Aedui as they approached, taking in its strong defensive walls and surprisingly urban style as far as possible from the outside. The town marched away up the slope and must occupy an area much larger than a lot of supposedly settled Roman towns.

Fronto rode slightly ahead, his gaze scouring everything he passed, his mind floating on a cloud of memory and seeing the place through five years of history. He could almost hear the buzzing of the summer bees, smell the flowers and the warm sun and feel the place pulsing in his blood. He’d not realised it, but not only had he missed life in the army, but he’d apparently, and curiously, missed Gaul, despite the fact that he’d seen much of it from a position knee deep in body parts.

His gaze strayed as they climbed the lower slopes and approached the outer edge of the town and its walls, and he felt uneasy suddenly.

The low rectangular earthwork off to his right had been the Roman supply station the last time he was here. Clearly it had been gone for a year or more now, the timber palisade and wooden huts pulled down and the Roman presence removed. He made a mental note to ask Priscus about the new system. Were they now wholly reliant on local produce, tribute from the tribes and foraging? Seemed unlikely, given the number of men Caesar had, so the supply line must have moved.

Causing him more consternation, though, was the fact that the last time he had been here, the town had clearly outgrown its walls and new homes and other small structures had been built on the slopes below.

No longer.

The walls reared up impressively, and no external constructions obscured the line of sight for any man atop them. The spread of the city had been halted and those offending buildings had been torn down, the wounds they had left on the land remaining to mark their passing.

His gaze took in the figures of Aedui warriors on the wall, watching with spears in hand.

Fronto felt a shiver run up his spine. Bibracte looked for all the world like a city on a war footing.

‘Is something wrong?’ Galronus asked, sensing Fronto’s discomfort.

‘Maybe. Not sure. I don’t like the way the walls have been cleared for line of sight and lookouts stand guard. It’s not the relaxed and peaceful Bibracte I remember.’

‘Maybe your memory’s at fault?’ Galronus shrugged. ‘People often look back on their past with a biased view. The Remi are Caesar’s men to the hilt, and yet our towns are still defended and ready. Regardless of treaties with Rome, there will always be other hungry tribes in Gaul and Germania who eye our cities with greed.’

‘I hope you’re right and this is just something internecine and simple,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘All the same, I was planning to stay here a few nights before we leave but I think, in the event, we’ll move on first thing in the morning.’

Palmatus and Masgava nodded at the sense of the decision, and the four men rode towards the gate, which stood open under the protective gaze of half a dozen solid, well-armoured Aedui warriors.

‘Want me to do the honours?’ Galronus asked as they approached.

Fronto shook his head. Despite the fact that the cavalry officer spoke his Belgic tongue naturally, it would sound almost foreign to the Aedui, the accent so different that he might as well be a German. Besides, Fronto was interested to see the reaction of the guards to a Roman in their midst. The legate was relatively incognito, unarmoured and just in his riding gear with an officer’s tunic beneath his heavy wool cloak, even wearing his Gallic torc - a gift from Galronus - around his neck. Palmatus wore old leathers and tunic, Masgava hardly appeared to be Roman, and Galronus was clearly a native. But as soon as Fronto opened his mouth, his origins would be clear. What would the Aedui say?

As they approached, the riders slowed. Palmatus and Galronus staying back a little and Masgava at the rear, holding the rope to the pack horses that carried all their main gear, including their armour.

He took a deep breath.

‘In the name of Rome and the Proconsul Gaius Julius Caesar, greetings,’ the legate intoned in an official manner. ‘I am Marcus Falerius Fronto, of the Proconsul’s staff, and these three are my colleagues. In the absence of the Roman supply depot here, we seek shelter for the night in your oppidum.’

There was a long, strange pause and Fronto began to wonder whether he had been incomprehensible. When the army had been here regularly, the city’s leaders had made sure that the men who stood by the gates spoke enough Latin to communicate with the soldiers and officers, and Fronto had assumed that, with the presence of the supply depot, the same had held true ever since. Perhaps since the demise of the supply post, Latin was no longer a concern among the guards.

He was about to gesture Galronus forward when one of the Aedui stepped to the parapet and held up his arm in salute. ‘Greetings, Fronto of Rome, legate of the Tenth Legion. You and your companions are welcome within our walls.’

Fronto heaved a sigh of relief but even as the man clambered down the steps out of sight and then emerged through the open gate, his oppressive feeling of unease refused to lift.

‘I am Danotalos of the Aedui. You are welcome to Bibracte and are known here.’ The Gaul looked him up and down. ‘I remember you myself. You have grown strong.’

‘Thanks,’ Fronto said drily. ‘This place seems… quiet? Nervous?’

Danotalos shrugged. ‘Our neighbours to the north - the Carnutes - stir up trouble. Your Seventh legion has been placed among them to quell the trouble, and the Carnutes’ arrogance and stupidity brought Roman uncertainty even upon us. We had your Thirteenth legion quartered in the north of our lands until the snows lifted. In such times it is wise for a city to look to its security.’

Fronto nodded his agreement, and could see out of the corner of his eye Galronus’ satisfaction at hearing the reasonable explanation of the city’s readiness, but somehow his spine was still tingling and he reached up and touched the little figure of Fortuna hanging on the thong around his neck before forcing a smile to his face.

‘There was a small tavern not far from this gate run by a man called Lugos, I think? A nice place on a steep street, with a shady garden covered in trees and vines?’

‘Lugulcos’ the man smiled. ‘The tavern is still open and its owner as miserable and cheap as ever. He may even still have some of your wine. The supply of new Roman wine dried up when the garrison outside left, but few here have the taste for it.’

Fronto nodded, noting something that unnerved him about that last phrase, or rather about the way it was said.

‘Will he have rooms in his place for four men for the night? We’ll be moving on in the morning.’

‘I am sure Lugulcos will make room for such men.’ the Gaul grinned. ‘Though you might regret it when he offers up his bill!’

Fronto fell silent once more as the four men followed Danotalos up the street from the gate and made their way towards the small tavern that had played host to some of Fronto’s favourite moments of the entire campaign in Gaul.

Each and every person they passed, be they man, woman or child, nodded their respect to Fronto and quite a few of them smiled, even warmly. And yet there was an atmosphere over the whole place that refused to let up. Even as the shady, tree-covered garden of the tavern appeared around a corner, Fronto was already looking forward to being gone from this place.

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto pushed his plate across the table and slid his wine cup into position before him. With care he poured a small quantity of the strong rich red liquid - imported from Cisalpine Gaul across the mountains - into the cup and watered it thoroughly. It had not kept over-well and had a sharpness to it that tingled the tongue but beggars, as they said, could not be choosers, and it was still better than the frothy ditch water being consumed by the locals in the tavern.

The discarded plate still contained some of the thick, rich gravy and morsels of meat with some soggy uneaten bread. The portion had been more than adequate and he felt his waistline stretched to the limit - almost to the width at which it had normally sat a year ago, he thought wryly.

Masgava was giving him a meaningful look and he simply nodded. At the signal, the big Numidian reached over and swiped his plate, stuffing the leftovers into his face like a man possessed. How he could eat like he did and not gain even the slightest fat was beyond Fronto. If he wanted to maintain his new lithe figure he had to be extremely careful. He only had to look at honey cakes and he felt his weight increase. But then he was older than Masgava by quite a margin.

Palmatus had finished his plate completely and was now supping down the wine with aplomb. Galronus had left half his meal and was toying with a piece of bread, dipping it in his wine cup and letting it soak up the red, then nibbling at it. The rest of his dinner had already made its way across the table to Masgava and had vanished into the empty pit that was his stomach.

‘I notice they still refer to you here as legate of the Tenth,’ Palmatus said quietly. ‘You must have made an impression.’

Fronto smiled wearily and took a sip of his wine. ‘I know Pompey shifts his legates round as the situation demands - in the old way - but Caesar’s tried to keep the same legate with the same legion for as long as possible, unless the need for change arises. Thinks it increases their efficiency. I think he’s right, too. I was legate of the Tenth for a number of years. Thought I always would be.’

He fell silent with a slightly morose expression.

‘You think you’ll be made legate of the Tenth again then?’

Fronto looked across at Palmatus. ‘The way the general is likely to receive me I’ll be lucky to command anything other than a latrine pit. I understand he took my departure sort of personally.’

Galronus shook his head with a smile. ‘You basically called him an amoral power-monger and told him you’d have nothing to do with him. It was personal.’ He leaned back with his soggy bread. ‘But the general is ever the player of the game. He will forgive if you are of value, and Antonius seems to think that is the case.’

Fronto nodded slowly. He would have to play his arrival somewhat carefully. Too familiar or arrogant and Caesar would simply take offence. Too humble and quiet and he might not make enough of an impression to gain the general’s trust again. The answer, of course, was to be himself, as he always had. The general would come around eventually, and he would be given some sort of command.

‘I’m hoping to get a legion, I have to admit. It would be nice if it were the Tenth, but there are good men in the others, too. So long as I don’t get to take over from Plancus. He’ll have ruined his men at best. Or one of the new bunch… can’t see a former Pompeian legion taking to me all that well, and the others will be so green you’d mistake them for a cabbage.’

‘I’m a former Pompeian legionary, and I only find you mildly irritating,’ grinned Palmatus.

‘Funny.’

‘But seriously, Fronto. Any legion is better than nothing. You’re a man of the army and you know it. You’ll not be happy anywhere else.’

Fronto nodded slowly. ‘It will happen. And when it does we’re going to have to sort you two out. Galronus will go back to his Remi cavalry, but you two would make good centurions. Masgava: you should be a chief training officer. Any legion you train will be a nightmare to face.’

‘Piss on that idea,’ smirked Palmatus.

‘What?’

‘I’m no centurion, Fronto. I have no interest in bending over and letting the young tribunes have their way with me. Never yet met a centurion I like, so I’m damn well not going to be one.’

Masgava was nodding. ‘Too restrictive. Too rigid. Not for me either.’

‘Then can I ask,’ Fronto sighed, ‘what you were hoping for when you came north with me?’

‘We signed on to serve you, Fronto. Not the general.’

‘Well don’t look for anything higher than a centurion,’ Fronto said, sipping his wine again. ‘I can’t make tribunes or prefects of you. When I’m given a command again, I’ll be able to push transfers through for centurions, but Caesar will veto any attempt to put you two in higher office.’

‘Don’t worry about us. Arrange a tent for us and meals and leave us to it.’

Fronto shook his head. There was no arguing with them. Theoretically they both worked for him and, although he’d not paid them a wage since Puteoli, he’d sprung for all the food and drink, transport and accommodation on the journey. They were living free.

‘Well just don’t get yourselves into trouble. Or me.’

‘No,’ Palmatus grinned. ‘We’ll leave that up to you.’

The former legionary picked up the eating knife from the table and placed the point down onto the much-scarred wooden surface, twiddling it this way and that with the fingers of his left hand while he drank wine from his right. As he drained the final dregs, he lowered the cup and grinned.

‘Thing is, Fronto, I’ve been thinking.’

‘You should watch that,’ the legate replied acidly. ‘You could strain yourself.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Palmatus repeated ‘about what we’ll do when we get there. I’m assuming Caesar has a Praetorian guard?’

Fronto nodded. ‘A horse regiment led by a professional young soldier called Ingenuus. Why? Surely with your saddle trouble you’re not planning to turn horse-humper?’

Palmatus shook his head, smiling. ‘Back in Pontus I served for a while under Quintus Metellus Celer. He was a legate of Pompey’s and he formed his own guard - his singulares - like a Praetorian guard. Apparently it’s not unknown for a legate to do so?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of it being done, but usually only by those legates who have reason to fear, or those who like their pomp and show. I remember a few years ago young Crassus did it for a few months, and Plancus was going to until Caesar gave him the hard word.’

‘Well I see no reason why you shouldn’t have your own ‘singulares’? As a legate you’d have the right, and certainly you seem to have a habit of getting yourself into trouble. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a few broad-shouldered lads close by when you decide to go off into the fight?’

Fronto shook his head flatly. ‘Not a hope. I have no intention of swanning around with a bodyguard unit in shiny steel and crimson plumes, looking like some ponce from a triumph. Forget it.’

But Palmatus simply turned and looked across at Masgava, whose brow furrowed in thought before he nodded his agreement and then started into the last morsels on his plate.

‘You can plan all you like,’ Fronto shrugged, ‘but I will not sanction a ‘singulares’ unit for myself, and neither will the rest of the officers. Caesar doesn’t like his legates to build themselves up like that. He allowed Crassus, but only because of his father. Start thinking differently. Make other plans. Maybe you could set up an independent training school for legionaries with too much pay who want an extra edge?’

But the two men were sharing a look that Fronto knew well. It was the look his sister and his wife shared when they had plans for him and no intention of letting him interfere with them.

Refilling his wine cup, he tried not to allow his thoughts to wander down the avenue of home, though his mind furnished him with a speculative image of his wife stumbling around the villa in Massilia with a large, pregnant bump.

He drew a deep breath and took a swig of the wine. Time to think more on the present rather than the future or the past. He glanced around the bar surreptitiously. He’d have liked to have sat outside in the tree-shaded yard he remembered so well, but the season was against it. They’d sat at the outside bench for half an hour but as the sun began to disappear behind the hill of Bibracte the temperature plummeted and they soon moved inside.

There were eight other inhabitants of the bar and most of them had been there since the start of the evening, eating or drinking and talking in small groups, playing some sort of dice game that was unknown to him. With only a couple of people leaving or arriving during that time there had been polite acknowledgements of his presence, but mostly locals minding their own business.

Now, as he scanned the place, the other occupants were all busy with their own social lives. He was struck once more how, despite the war and the cultural differences between Gaul and Roman, there was so much they had in common when you got down to the bottom line.

Leaning forward, he kept his voice low enough to not carry to other tables yet clear enough to be heard by the other three. ‘I want to be gone as soon as it’s light in the morning - possibly before that. And I know you’ll probably think it ridiculous, but I want one of us awake and on watch in the room tonight at all times. We can take shifts of two hours once the bar closes. I’ll take the last shift, though, ‘cause I want to be ready to get everyone up and gone sharpish. Alright?’

The other three nodded their agreement.

‘Good.’

Palmatus leaned forward to speak in a similar low voice, but paused, his eyes flicking off to his left. ‘Hello, what’s this?’

Fronto turned to look in the same direction, along with the others at the table.

The door to the tavern had stood open all evening, despite the breeze it caused, allowing some of the dinginess of the interior to clear, and now figures were coming in from the cold and dark outside. That locals might enter the tavern in the evening was no surprise, but Fronto couldn’t help but note the fact that, despite the lack of armour and swords, these dozen men were all warriors, well-built and with quality clothes and torcs and arm rings, speaking of their valour and success at military endeavours. All of them had a large hunting knife at their waist.

If he had required any more evidence that something was amiss, it was supplied by the sudden apparent shift-change in the tavern. As the twelve men moved into the bar, spreading out, all but two of the current occupants drained their drinks, pushed their plates aside, gathered up their dice and left the room hurriedly, not casting a glance in the Romans’ direction, and throwing a nervous one at the new arrivals.

‘Told you something was wrong,’ Fronto muttered.

‘Trouble,’ agreed Galronus, his hand going to the large knife at his belt, similar to those the Gauls wore. Fronto was already regretting the fact that his swords were in the kit stored in the room upstairs. From their faces, so were Palmatus and Masgava.

Two of the new arrivals sauntered across to the bar and purchased a tray full of mugs filled with frothy beer. Another pair moved to the stairs leading to the rooms above, and a third stayed by the door - almost in position as guards. The rest moved across and sat at tables near Fronto and his party.

‘I’m not well-equipped for a fight,’ Palmatus sighed, looking down at the small eating knife on the table before him.

‘They’re not here for a fight’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘Whatever they are here for, it’s not that. This is their town, so they could have brought swords. They could just have done for us outside, or even during the night.’

Despite his certainty that the new arrivals were not intending violence - or at least not immediately - Fronto found himself pushing his chair back slightly to allow for freedom of movement, and noticed the other three doing the same. Palmatus’ hand came down over his eating knife and when he leaned back and folded his arms casually, the knife had vanished.

‘I do not think that these men are Aedui,’ Galronus hissed quietly.

‘Why?’

‘Look at their arms.’

‘What?’

‘The arm rings.’

Fronto peered. ‘Some sort of snake?’

Galronus nodded. ‘A winged snake. It’s a symbol of Arvernus. You’d call him Mercury, I think. While he’ll be as revered here as most places, he’s the chosen father of the Arverni. And every warrior here has that arm ring.’

Fronto scanned the room. Galronus was right. Each of them wore individual clothes and torcs and jewellery, but all of them bore the same arm ring on their left bicep.

‘Arverni?’ he asked, turning to Galronus. ‘They’re from the south, yes? Almost in Narbonensis. We’ve never had any trouble with them. Not for the best part of a hundred years.’

Galronus simply shrugged.

Fronto watched the new arrivals with suspicious interest. The presence of a group of warriors from another tribe could feasibly explain the taut, tense quiet that overlaid the town of Bibracte, but it raised as many questions as it answered.

‘Aye, aye,’ Palmatus said, gesturing at the entrance. Fronto turned once more. A man stood in the doorway, almost blocking it. From his high quality leather boots up through his leg-bindings, his checked blue trousers, his pale grey linen tunic and the gold torc around his neck, he was every bit the Gallic noble. Bearing no weapons, his muscular arms hung easily by his side and his long brown hair hung low, swept back from his face and tied in a braid at either side. His heavy brow was expressive and powerful and thick, drooping moustaches hid his mouth.

There was about this man the sort of power that instantly filled the room. Druids probably wished they had it. Senators would kill for it. Caesar already did have it, for all his faults. A natural power, born of leadership and charisma. A man to whom other men would look for sanction.

‘If I remember rightly, the Arverni stopped being ruled by a king when Ahenobarbus and his legions flattened them.’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Part of the peace settlement with Rome required they no longer rally under royalty.’

The others shrugged, but Fronto nodded to himself. He remembered the tale from his studies of the Gallic tribes when they’d first come north of the Alpes. The Arverni had no royals now, but this man could easily have been a king.

The big Gaul strode into the room in a relaxed manner, nodding to his men and to the tavern keeper, before turning and making directly for their table. Without being bidden, one of the warriors nearby pushed a chair across the floor with a jarring scrape until it sat at the end of Fronto’s table.

The big man wandered over to the chair and indicated it with a large, powerful hand, an unspoken question in his expression. Fronto nodded and gestured back to the chair in answer. Whatever was happening, he found himself curious as to the powerful Arverni warrior’s intentions.

‘Do you speak Latin?’ he asked conversationally, taking a sip of his wine.

There was a pause and the big man toyed with his moustaches for a moment, and then nodded.

‘I learned your tongue young. My people trade with your merchants across the border, and Latin is widely spoken in my tribe.’

‘Good, ‘cause frankly I’ll never be able to get my tongue round your language.’

The big man gave a humourless smile and sank into the chair. A low murmur of ordinary conversation arose across the room. Fronto was not fooled by this apparent ordinariness. As far as he could see the general drone would nicely mask any of their own words and prevent the two remaining local patrons and the tavern keeper from hearing whatever they all had to say.

‘You are a Roman officer, I understand,’ the Gaul smiled, ‘despite the good Belgic torc around your neck.’

‘A complex question right now, given my lack of command, but I’ll settle for a simple yes. I ride for Samarobriva to rejoin the army.’

‘And your companions?’

‘Friends of mine. Two from Roman lands - an ex-soldier and a warrior from the southern deserts, and Galronus here is a nobleman of the Remi.’

‘The Belgae are here too?’ the big man mused. ‘Fascinating, though it perhaps explains your decorations. I must apologise for interrupting your evening, and I will not keep you long, but I find myself in Bibracte at the most fortuitous moment when Roman officers pass through, and I would be wasting a great opportunity were I not to come and speak to you.’

Fronto gave the warmest smile he was capable of right now and took another sip of wine. ‘I have to admit to wondering what the Arverni are doing so far north and in the guise of warriors?’ he asked pleasantly.

The Gaul gave a low, throaty chuckle. ‘We are simply passing through, much like you, on our own business. But enough of this duel in which we slowly circle our opponents, Roman. I see from your tunic that you are a nobleman yourself?’

‘My wife might argue, but I suppose that’s a fair assessment.’

‘You are acquainted with Caesar?’

Fronto scratched his chin. It was a humorous tendency among non-Romans to assume that any nobleman would know any other nobleman. Ridiculous assumption, really, given the population of the city and the size of Rome’s noble houses. And yet, it so happened that the man had selected someone who was closely acquainted with the general. What was he up to? What was the man trying to learn?

‘I have been, yes. I’ve not seen him for over a year, but I have served with him.’

‘Tell me of him. I wish to know of this Roman ‘Brennus’ who would conquer all the lands of my peoples. What is he like?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘His reputation is well known and well-founded. If you are as bright and as well-informed as you appear to be, then I doubt I can tell you anything that you do not already know.’

‘Humour me.’

Fronto shrugged. ‘He is brilliant. A tactical mind like no other, charismatic and loved by his men, capable of the most astoundingly rash decisions - and brutal ones, too - but tempered by the knowledge of his abilities and the certainty that he is capable of succeeding in everything that he attempts. He is not a man to cross, for he has a short temper and a long memory, but those who deal fairly with him he holds in high esteem.’

He laughed. ‘Gods, that sounds like a eulogy! But it’s true, nonetheless.’

The Gaul nodded. ‘I hear he is also a shrewd negotiator and a clever speaker.’

‘I’d say so.’

The Gaul leaned forward and steepled his fingers. ‘Many fleas are biting the back of his army in these troubled times. Might the great Proconsul be persuaded to an advantageous peace which will bring him glory and gold to take back to Rome, if the price is just that: that he takes you all back to Rome?’

Fronto felt a sudden easing of his pulse. This was the nub of the matter. A potential negotiation? No, surely not for such a man. And if he had no interest in a negotiation, why ask?

‘You would offer Caesar money and glory to get him out of Gaul?’

‘It has been suggested before,’ the big Arverni shrugged.

‘I am not sure whether the general would ever accept such an offer, though this war does drag on, while Rome seethes in his absence. Two years ago I would have laughed in your face. Now, I am not so sure. But two things occur to me.’ Fronto took another drink and placed his empty cup on the table. ‘Firstly, you are Arverni, who are allied with us and under no threat, and yet who have no royalty who could legitimately make such an offer. That is why we don’t see you at the annual assembly of the Gaulish chiefs. And I have to point out that no tribe - no matter how big - could manage to gather enough gold and slaves to buy the general off. Even the Arverni and the Aedui together. It would take a meeting of the chiefs at the assembly to do something that big.’

‘But you think it would be possible?’

Fronto tapped his lip in thought. ‘Perhaps. But the more your ‘fleas’ bite the Roman back, the less the general will be inclined to negotiate. I understand from reports that the Eburones under a man called Ambiorix destroyed a whole legion this winter. Not a good first step in negotiation.’

The Gaul laughed again.

‘It seems to me very reminiscent of Roman negotiations. The Arverni have languished half a century in the shadow of tribes that were once our lessers because of what your General Ahenobarbus did to us.’ As Fronto narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, the Gaul held out a placating hand. ‘But I concede your point. Ambiorix is a troublesome pest for your general, but he is something of a difficulty for those who would see our lands free of your iron-nailed boots also. He has too much avarice and need for acclaim and recognition. His failings pushed him into launching his own petty war and he damages both Rome and his own allies, but most of all he damages himself.’

‘How so?’ Fronto asked, genuinely intrigued.

‘His tribe are now fragmented and scattered and he is sought by the Romans and all their allies for what he has done. His time is past. Worry not over Ambiorix for he is naught but a fly and will soon be swatted. Indeed, if you took his head, you would do all the peoples of the land a great favour.’

He laughed again.

‘Look, Roman, how my simple questions have led to my being interrogated by you instead. Such is often the way when my people talk to yours, I find.’

Fronto nodded slowly. ‘I presume you will not tell me who you are?’

‘It is of little matter. I am a warrior of the Arverni, friend of druids, and a wanderer of the ways with my small band. You would not know my name, nor that of my father.’

‘I suspected as much,’ Fronto replied, noting the reference to the druids and connecting it with the potential for peace negotiations. It sounded unlike them, too. ‘Then is there anything else I can help you with, or are we done here?’

Slowly, the warrior stood, stretching.

‘Thank you for your time and your honesty, Roman,’ the big Gaul smiled. ‘I trust we will meet again under happier circumstances.’

‘Somehow I cannot see that being likely,’ Fronto replied quietly, ‘but only the Gods know the future.’

‘Perhaps with your people,’ the man laughed. And, turning to the nearest warrior: ‘Come Vercassivos. We have much to do.’

With a final nod at the four men, the big Gaul strode from the room and the man he had last addressed - a wiry warrior with flame-red hair and moustaches - nodded in turn and followed him out. Slowly the bar emptied until only the four of them remained, along with the tavern’s owner.

‘Now what do you make of that?’ Palmatus asked quietly in the suddenly empty bar.

‘There was so much being conveyed there without words that it’d practically fill a book,’ Fronto sighed. ‘I would say that man is a man to watch carefully if we had the opportunity. I’d give good money to know who he was, but you saw the reaction of everyone when his men entered. No one in Bibracte’s going to tell us. An Arverni nobleman seeking information on the army and its general.’

‘But you said the Arverni were allies of Rome.’

‘Yes, but you’ll note how he said he was a friend of druids, and a ‘wanderer of ways’. I’ve heard that last expression before, more than once, and usually in relation to an exile. Whoever that man is he’s noble-blooded and in with the druids. And he’s here among the Aedui who have stepped up their defences.’

Masgava leaned forward. ‘He spoke of peace? Of negotiation?’

‘Those were his words, yes. But not his intent. He and his men are warriors and ‘free’ Gauls to the hilt. And the way he talked of his people and Ahenobarbus, it sounds as though a grudge is still held. I think he needed to ask the question on behalf of his druid friends or someone else. But that man had no intention of settling peacefully.’

He shivered. ‘Suddenly I am extremely uneasy among the Aedui. I can hardly wait to get going in the morning. Caesar is going to be interested to hear all of this.’

‘Would it not be worth the detour to follow these Arverni and see where they go?’ Masgava asked.

‘No. We’d not find anything out, and we need to head north as quickly as possible and make up time. I have been slow and dawdling, but it seems there is more urgency required in our arrival than I had previously anticipated. We’re only half way to Samarobriva yet, with a long journey still ahead. Let’s have one more drink and then head up for some shut-eye.’

As Galronus strode across to the bar for another jar of wine, Fronto’s eyes slipped once more to the door. Trouble was brewing, and it was far larger even than a revolt that had wiped out a legion.

He shivered again.