Chapter Five

 

Priscus drummed his fingers irritably on his chair arm as he listened. The more he argued, the less the general listened to him, it seemed.

‘There are reports coming in from a number of my scouts concerning minor unrest and isolated incidents across a number of Gaulish tribes. I have considered calling the assembly of Gaul earlier this year, but I fear that once we make our fears and intentions known we will lose any edge upon which we can currently rely. It is still winter and all Gaul knows that Romans do not campaign in winter.’

‘Respectfully, General,’ Plancus gestured, ‘there are good reasons for that. Rotten feet in icy swamp water. Mildewed and stinking tents. Snowdrifts. Floods. The list goes on…’

Priscus’ fingers stopped drumming. What could possibly be happening to the world when Plancus of all people became a font of common sense?

‘Sometimes hardships must be endured and risks taken to achieve grander goals.’

‘And,’ Priscus added ‘we’re still waiting on your new officers and replacement troops.’

‘Regardless,’ Caesar replied, casting a cold glance at Priscus, ‘I am planning on campaigning before the spring thaw, while the Gauls think themselves secure. Tell the officers what you know,’ he said, gesturing to three native scouts standing by the map at the room’s rear.’

‘Ambiorix has all but vanished,’ the taller of the three said in good Latin but with an accent everyone was beginning to recognise as Remi. ‘After the battle in the winter, he went to ground with his personal band of warriors. There have been reports of his being seen at the court of his brother king, Cativolcus, though it is common knowledge that there is no love between the two rulers, and none of the reports can be substantiated. Equally uncertain reports have placed him in Nervii lands and in Menapii territory.’

‘Cativolcus,’ the second scout cut in, ‘has made it known that he is not willing to join any rising against Rome in the wake of what happened in the winter. He sits on his throne in the near-empty Eburones lands and trembles.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Then he is no current threat.’

‘There have been rumblings among the Nervii and the Menapii recently,’ the tall scout said, pointing to those lands on the map. ‘There is no overt sign of a rising, but there is the very real possibility that Ambiorix’s anti-Roman venom has spread wide through their lands, and that might give us a hint as to his current location.’

‘And what of the Treveri?’ Caesar asked.

‘The Treveri are involved in their own private war against your legate Labienus, General,’ the third scout, a short and wiry man in a Roman-style tunic and native trousers replied in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘There is a rumour that they have suffered a sound defeat at the hands of the legion in their territory, but I am waiting for confirmation from my own people of that. As yet there is no record of Ambiorix treating with the Treveri, but given the latter’s current activity, if he has not yet been in contact with them, rest assured that he will be.’

Caesar nodded.

‘You see, gentlemen? Unrest in the Belgic tribes and open warfare from the Treveri. And all linked by rumour to Ambiorix, despite there being no solid evidence as to his location or current activity. This supports my ongoing suspicion that Ambiorix is the man behind all the trouble we have faced these past few years. His tendrils snake among the Belgic peoples, inciting them against us while he flits around in the shadows like a ghost, hidden and untouchable.’

Priscus’ fingers began to tap again.

‘Ambiorix is an agent of chaos,’ the general went on, ‘stirring up rebellion wherever his oily hide slithers. He has destroyed one of my legions and killed two of my most trusted and most senior officers, and he almost did the same for another legion and for Cicero, leaving me short many men and officers. He has clearly spent the last month rebuilding his web of power and influence since we stopped his advance. I will not, under any circumstances, allow him to repeat his treacherous successes into the spring.’

‘And what of these rumours of which you speak, of minor unrest coming in from other parts of Gaul?’ Priscus asked pointedly.

‘The rest of Gaul can wait. Minor unrest is trouble, of course, but when weighed against the danger posed by that madman Ambiorix? I think it is clear where our primary concern should lie. If small fires break out here and there, we will contain them as required. Our two new legions that should be here soon will give us ample manpower to deal with small unrest here and there while still concentrating a major force on Ambiorix.’

‘But what of this Esus?’

‘Your mythical rebel, Priscus?’ Caesar asked quietly. ‘If he exists, what makes you think that he is not Ambiorix himself?’

‘Gut feeling, General.’

‘I will not risk our entire presence in Gaul on your gut, Priscus. Ambiorix is my concern now. I have vowed his death to Rome - the senate and the people - and to Venus herself, and that vow I will not break. Ambiorix must…’

The general’s voice trailed off as his eyes rose from Priscus to the rear of the room. The gathered officers turned and followed his gaze to see Fronto standing in the doorway. Priscus could swear Caesar was actually growling as he stepped back to his campaign table and folded his arms.

‘Marcus Falerius Fronto reporting, Caesar.’

Priscus squinted. Fronto was silhouetted by the pale watery light from outside the door, and the gentle drizzle pattered down around and behind him. Something about the man was odd. As his eyes adjusted, Priscus sucked his teeth in surprise. Fronto had apparently been on a fitness regime. The trim, muscular figure standing in the doorway looked like the Fronto who had served under the searing sun of Hispania all those years ago, not the older, overweight officer he had been recently. The difference was quite startling.

Caesar narrowed his eyes dangerously and Priscus realised that the general was fighting for control of his anger. When he did say something it would likely be highly acidic and might drive an ever-greater wedge between them. In a moment of fuddlement, he tried to think of something to say that would defuse the situation and calm the atmosphere without rubbing either man up the wrong way. The words would not come.

‘Fronto!’ announced a pleasant, warbling voice. ‘You took your time. Did you manage to get lost even with a Gaulish guide by your side?’

Marcus Antonius stood and beckoned to Fronto, gesturing to a chair beside him. Caesar looked for a moment as though he might explode when the newly arrived officer, still in his travelling clothes, strode across to the proffered chair and bowed momentarily before sinking into it.

‘You smell like a dead bear,’ Antonius laughed. Noticing the silent form of Caesar, Antonius fixed his commander and old friend with a look that conveyed far more steel than Priscus had realised he was capable of, and then smiled easily. ‘Do go on, General.’

Caesar stood silent for a long moment - trying to recall what he was saying, Priscus suspected.

‘If I might venture some new information for your consideration, General?’ Fronto said quietly and with a surprisingly calm and controlled voice. ‘I overheard the tail-end of your conversation. Seven days ago, my companions and I stopped off at Bibracte - I’m assuming everyone here is familiar with the place - and there are signs there of unrest or uncertainty. I wouldn’t necessarily put it down to the Aedui themselves, but it seems they were playing host to a bunch of warriors from the Arverni, with a nobleman of that tribe in command.’

Curiosity seemed to slowly wash the initial anger from the general’s face, and he tapped his chin in thought. ‘The Arverni are virtually part of Narbonensis. They have no nobles and no power without Rome’s authority. Are you sure they were Arverni, Fronto?’

‘Galronus was, and he knows the tribes better than any Roman. I think we can safely say that’s who they were. I suspect they were a mercenary band serving under an exile of the tribe, but they elicited fear and respect in equal measures from the Aedui, and their leader engaged us in conversation. It seems he is in cahoots with the druid class and knows a lot about the troubles we’ve had.’

‘Esus?’ Interjected Priscus.

‘No idea what his name was. He’s far too shrewd for that. But he did tell me straight out that Ambiorix was essentially an upstart who had played his move ahead of the great game and threw out the plans of his allies. He intimated that most of Gaul would be happy if Ambiorix were dead.’

Priscus nodded. ‘I think that Fronto’s encounter supports the theory that Ambiorix is not the central power in all this, Caesar.’

‘Perhaps,’ the general conceded. ‘But with no further information, all this does is give us a fresh set of rumours to worry over. I will not turn from the hunt for Ambiorix without something more solid to persuade me, especially given the vow I have undertaken.’

Fronto nodded. ‘Respectfully, Caesar, I don’t think this man who spoke to us was so simple to have told us the plain truth over Ambiorix anyway. I’ve been thinking about some of the things he said all week, and I still cannot decide whether he was trying to persuade us to leave the man alone, or whether he was trying to get us to hunt him. Either way, I think I would like to hear what Ambiorix has to say under the threat of Roman interrogation.’

Caesar raised an eyebrow at this, unused to support from Fronto even before the division had been drawn between them more than a year ago.

‘Still,’ the general went on to the room as a whole, ‘this information does not alter the fact that all the rumours suggest that Ambiorix is somewhere among the north-eastern Belgae, hemmed in and trapped. If he can only rely on the Treveri, the Nervii and the Menapii, then he has the great Rhenus river at his back, Labienus to the south, the Britannic sea to the north and our main force to the west. It seems to me that we have him surrounded and we could utilise what is left of the winter to squeeze those lands until he shows himself. We can chip away at the edges and shrink his region of influence.’

A figure gestured with a raised arm and Priscus noted the younger Crassus brother - current legate of the Tenth - rising from his chair.

‘My father had great success hunting one of his clients who had betrayed him.’

Caesar gestured for him to go on.

‘The criminal hid from father’s men in a maze of insulae on the Celian hill. Problem was that father owned those insulae. He had the outer ones pulled down to create a fire-break, set his men to guard that perimeter, and then began firing the wooden insulae one at a time until the man surrendered, choking on fumes and half burned.’

Priscus shook his head. The somewhat brutal and inhuman tactics of Crassus’ family were well known and he’d had a lot of hope that this young officer might turn out to be the white sheep among the black, but occasionally the fellow dropped something into conversation that chilled the blood.

Caesar, on the other hand, seemed to be nodding his appreciation.

‘It is a costly method both in terms of resources and of reputation, but effective, no less. I must - I will - have Ambiorix, and if I have to burn every house, every tree and every human being I come across until he turns up, I will do it. I still need to hear the reports of a number of scouts who have yet to return, and for now I have much to ponder before I settle on our precise course of action, but be aware that the army will be moving within the week, so I want every legion and auxiliary force ready for the off at short notice. Look to your units, gentlemen, and be prepared for another meeting in the next two days.’

The various officers stood, bowing or saluting the general and filing out of the headquarters. Priscus paused at the door, peering with distaste at the saturating drizzle outside and waiting for Fronto, who was clasping forearms in camaraderie with a number of officers he knew of old. As the travel worn former legate approached, Priscus folded his arms, his lip curling into a smile.

‘I can only imagine that you scraped too hard with a strigil and that in some bath house somewhere there is a pile of blubber you scoured off yourself?’

‘Good to see you too, Gnaeus.’

‘Seriously, what did you do? Wherever that pile is it must be almost half of you.’

‘A friend helped me get into shape.’

‘You were already in shape. Admittedly that shape was ‘circular’!’

Priscus snorted with laughter at the look that passed across Fronto’s face, and behind them Marcus Antonius let out a bark of laughter. ‘Come on you two young lovers, get out of the door and stop blocking everyone’s way.’

As Antonius herded the pair out into the drizzle with his broad hands, Priscus slapped Fronto on the shoulder. ‘In truth, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Isn’t there always? But at least Cita’s back now, and he’s taken over the quartermaster chief’s job, so I can concentrate on my own duties. Caesar’s got me back doing the camp prefect role again.’

‘A job you are well suited for Gnaeus, or will be when you put on a little more weight and stop exercising.’

Another snort.

‘I was meaning to ask, by the way:’ Fronto said quietly as they stepped outside, ‘when we passed through Bibracte, the supply depot had gone. Is this a new system?’

Priscus shrugged. ‘We’ve been somewhat short on manpower and our forces have been concentrated in the north-east. We’ve a second supply line now coming over the mountains through Helvetii lands and on to Vesontio, but this one’s still operational occasionally. We’ve left several legs of it in the hands of Aedui merchants. It gives them an opportunity to make a little on the deal, and saves us manpower and endless organisation. I suspect that now Cita’s in charge again, things will change, but it’s worked quite well in the meantime.’

Antonius put an arm around each of their shoulders. ‘This is heart-warming and fascinating, but I am slowly becoming wetter than a fish’s private parts, and I’d rather like to be inside, near a brazier and with a jug of wine in my hands. Any offers?’

Priscus sighed. Antonius had only been in camp for four days, but already his prodigious drinking habits had become a talking point among the officers - only quietly and well out of his earshot, but there nonetheless. Priscus had already had to requisition more wine at an inordinate expense due to the new officer’s evening visits.

‘My quarters, then. It so happens I have a new jar of Rhaetican untried.’

Two figures emerged from a knot of soldiers to one side of the path and stepped in front of the three officers.

‘And who, might I ask,’ Priscus said with quiet force, ‘are you?’

‘These are friends of mine,’ Fronto grinned. ‘Priscus? Meet Palmatus and Masgava. Don’t get into a fistfight with the latter or a war of puns with the former. In fact, you and Palmatus should get on like an insula on fire. Just don’t tell him you used to be a centurion.’

‘This place stinks of sweat and piss and no one can tell me where to get a cold drink, a hot meal, and a warm woman,’ Palmatus grumbled sourly.

‘See?’ said Fronto with a grin. ‘You two are going to get on just fine.’

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto lounged in his chair, slumped like a sack of grain. His head felt as though someone had pushed a ferret in through his ear and left it there to nest. He’d intended to be slumbering in his cot not long after dark, but Antonius had had other ideas.

He looked around the tent.

Priscus leaned heavily against the trunk that contained most of Fronto’s gear, still packed from the journey. His eyelids were dark and heavy and hung like saddlebags. Even as Fronto’s gaze played across him, he heard the prefect snore and realised with a start that Priscus was actually asleep but with his eyes open. How long had he been gone?

He would have chuckled if he’d had the energy.

Brutus was still awake and arguing with Antonius, though his speech had sunk into a weary drawl and his wine cup had gone untouched for more than an hour.

Varus was toying with his bootlace, trying to tie it in an effort to escape the sucking whirlpool of the tent’s atmosphere.

Atmosphere! That in itself was a laugh. Having spent over a year in townhouses and villas and then in a variety of Gallic inns and taverns, he’d forgotten the discomfort of living in a military tent. The smell of slightly wet leather combined with the cloying smoke of the brazier that provided warmth and light, sweat from the occupants and… feet. Most overriding of all odours, that of feet.

He shuffled in his chair.

‘I know I’m sounding repetitive,’ he said, trying to cut through the debate raging in his tent, ‘but before very long the birds will be singing and the camp will be up and about, and I really think it’s time we got our heads down.’

Antonius held up a hand as if to say ‘just bear with me for a moment’ and gestured at Brutus with his cup - a cup that had just been refilled once more, Fronto noted, and with unwatered wine, no less.

‘Decimus, you have to accept that it takes a strong hand to guide any group,’ the new officer said brightly. Alert and shrewd and with a clear voice, which was absolutely unfathomable to Fronto, given the quantity of wine the man had consumed. Even on his best days, had Fronto drunk that much unwatered wine, he would now be lying face down in a puddle somewhere muttering about boobs. And yet the only effect it seemed to have had on Antonius was to bring forth a hard loquaciousness. The man had launched into arguments and debates with relish, like a horse with the bit between its teeth.

‘In the military, I agree, though with reservations,’ Brutus replied wearily and with a slight slur. ‘Discipline is important and without it we’re just a well-armoured rabble. And you and I both know that the grand strategy requires a single mind, though we also both know how misguided that single mind could be without a staff of solid officers to advise. And although the legatus can direct a legion into a battle, his tribunes might as well be garlands hanging round his neck for all the use they are. And moreover,’ he slurred, pointing at Antonius and only missing by a few feet, ‘we all know that when sword hits shield, it’s the centurions that run the show.’

‘Pah!’ Antonius swept the argument aside with his hand. ‘Look back to armies commanded by more than one man. Back to the days of the wars with Carthage or of the last slave revolt. Flaminius and Servilius with half the army each and look what happened to them! Or Gellius and Lentulus against that Thracian gladiator and his thugs! Divisions in command, you see? And in both cases it took a single strong hand at the reins to put things right. Crassus for the latter and Scipio for the former. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

Varus, having given up attempting to lace his boot and leaving the leather thong flapping, waved his arm. ‘In fairness, that was down to Pompey as much as Crassus, and two Scipios - younger and elder.’

Antonius waved the words aside irritably and Varus sensibly fell quiet. Fronto and the others had seen Antonius’ ire beginning to rise several times throughout the evening, and had moved to defuse it as quickly as they could. Though he’d not seen Antonius angry, there was something about him which suggested to Fronto that he might not want to do so.

‘Anyway,’ Brutus cut in, ‘the same cannot be said for the republic. The last time we had a ‘strong hand on the reins’ as you put it was in the age of kings, and look at what that was like. We are a republic and proud to be so. All the freedoms and advantages of a government by a concerned group of citizens without the randomness and failings of the Greek model.’

‘Sulla!’ snorted Antonius in reply, as he threw the entire cup of wine down his throat apparently without the need to swallow. Fronto sighed and gave up on the idea of disbanding the gathering for much needed sleep.

‘Sulla was a bump in the road - a tyrant trying to wrestle power from the legitimate government. He was a butcher and a villain. The lesson there has been learned, though, and Rome will not allow something like that to happen again.’

‘You are short-sighted, Decimus, if you think Sulla was the last tyrant Rome will see. And whatever you think of the man, he halted and reversed the chaos gripping the republic. A strong hand. The damned place could do with another Sulla, if you ask me.’

‘I dearly hope you’re wrong, Antonius.’

‘Will somebody please fasten my bootlace?’ drawled Varus wearily.

‘Pila!’ yelled Priscus, causing everyone’s head to snap round in shock, only to realise that the prefect was still fast asleep, his eyes open and his dreaming fingers twitching around the haft of an imaginary javelin.

Fronto snorted with laughter and, as the debate on the nature of command burst into renewed vigour, interrupted periodically by Varus’ complaints concerning his boot, he hauled himself wearily out of his seat and staggered across to the bed. Taking his lesson from Varus, he didn’t even bother trying to fiddle with the laces and leaving them on, simply collapsed, face down on the cold blankets and buried his head in the pillow allowing the argument to drone on around him.

For perhaps half an hour he lay there, breathing in the linen cover of the pillow and attempting to shut out the conversation that raged over the rebellion of Sertorius and the dangers of breakaway states, trying to picture nothing but blackness in an attempt to let sleep overcome him.

Unfortunately, every time his mind emptied enough to permit sleepiness, his aching gut acted up and his head thumped in a sickening way, between them pushing the welcoming arms of Somnus far beyond reach.

After a time, he gave up, sitting upright in an attempt to fight off the fiery indigestion that coursed through his system. His body was simply not used to this sort of activity these days. A couple of years ago it had been the norm, and he could easily imagine slipping into his old ways, but he was not willing to relinquish his newfound strength and health to the vine.

‘Are you lot settled in for the night?’

Antonius waved at him in answer and Fronto sighed, aware that he’d basically lost his tent and along with it any hope of sleep.

‘Try not to throw up on my cot and don’t let the tent burn down. I’m going out for a walk.’

Leaving them to it, Fronto stepped across the tent, his foot brushing Priscus’ leg and eliciting a muttered ‘testudo’ order given to the dream army that he commanded.

‘If you’ll fasten this pigging bootlace, I’ll join you,’ Varus grumbled.

Pausing near the entrance, Fronto leaned down to Varus. Being charitable, he assumed that Varus’ trouble stemmed from the wounded arm that still gave him trouble in wet weather, and went to help him fasten his lace, only to discover that one end of the lace turned out in fact to be threaded wrong through the eyelets in the boot. With an almost paternal sigh, he spent a few moments re-lacing the boot and then tied it off.

‘Come on, you daft sod.’

With a grunt, he helped lift the cavalry commander from the floor and the two men ambled unsteadily out of the tent door, leaving the sleeping Priscus as silent witness to the heated debate going on within.

The damp pre-dawn air settled onto them, almost immediately chilling them to the bone and leaving a fine layer of dew on their tunics.

‘Why are we not wearing cloaks?’ Varus asked, shivering in the cold.

‘Because you didn’t bring one with you, while mine is underneath Priscus, and if I try to retrieve it, he’ll probably punch me in his sleep.’

‘Fair enough. Bracing, isn’t it?’

‘That’s one word for it.’

The huge encampment spread northwards before them, rolling down the gentle slope to the wide river, with the Gallic oppidum over to the west side. Camp fires and braziers burned here and there providing light and heat for the few men still on duty. A faint glow off to their right, over the crest of the hill, suggested that dawn was not a long way off, and Fronto blinked wearily. There were no stars and the moon was obscured by a thick grey layer, warning of a high likelihood of rain.

‘Going to be a shitty day’ Fronto noted.

‘Not unusual up here at this time of the year. Seems odd that we’ve been in Gaul for so long that we’re used to its climate and changes.’

‘Come on. Let’s stroll.’

The two men pottered past the tent that had been requisitioned for Palmatus and Masgava, where snoring and farting confirmed that the two men were in residence and asleep. On past the gathered tents of the tribunes and prefects the pair strolled, their feet squelching in the grass until they made it onto the sunken-timber walkways that criss-crossed the semi-permanent camp and prevented the main roads turning to a quagmire in the wet.

The decumanus led down to the east gate from here and, for want of anything better to do, the two men strolled on towards the defences, thinking to climb the ramparts and gain a good view of the low hills and wide plains of the Ambiani tribe stretching off towards the rising sun.

‘You heard the news as well, then?’

Fronto jumped at the sudden voice at his shoulder and turned to see Rufio and young Crassus falling into step behind them, the former rubbing his eyes sleepily and the latter still fastening the expensive belt around his middle and hoisting his knee-length tunic up, cinching it in place.

‘News?’

‘Just a night owl then,’ smiled Rufio. ‘Messenger at the gate.’

‘At this time of night?’ Fronto shook his head. ‘What is he: half-man, half-owl?’

‘Curious, eh? But then the Gauls all seem to work on a different schedule to the rest of the world.’

The four men strode down the road at a faster pace, converging on the gate, where a knot of officers stood, surrounded by legionaries and lit by the braziers of the watch. As they closed, Fronto noted a small group of natives at the centre, dismounted, their horses snorting and huffing in the cold air. There was something about the colours of their clothes - more russets and browns than the colourful blues and greens of the Gauls that suggested they were Belgae, from the east. It struck Fronto as interesting that he had spent long enough out here that could actually pick up on such details, even after a year away.

‘Sir!’ barked the duty centurion, snapping to attention and saluting the four approaching officers, though clearly uncertain as to whom to defer as the most senior. Fronto allowed the others to step ahead of him. Whatever position he might hold in the army right now, he was fairly sure that he could claim less seniority than any of these men, even the young relatively-untried Crassus.

Rufio, seeming to sense the need for a spokesman, stepped ahead and saluted the centurion in return. ‘Your runner said we had a messenger?’

‘Yessir. A scout party that’s been out in the forest of Arduenna. One of them’s wounded, so I sent for the capsarius from the Tenth. Should be here any moment.’

‘Wounded?’ Fronto queried, stepping in.

‘Yessir. Arrow in the back.’

Gazing past the cordon of guards, he could see that there were four riders, but one of them was being held upright by two legionaries, clearly in agony and pale as a moonlight ghost.

‘What happened to you?’ Rufio asked of the native scouts. One of the three unwounded men stepped forward and nodded his head in deference.

‘Nervii patrol in Viromandui land. Chase us for many mile. Ategnio lose much blood. Need get to healer.’

‘The healer is on his way,’ Rufio said as comfortingly as he could and then turned to Fronto. ‘Nervii and Viromandui?’

‘The Nervii are one of the biggest Belgic tribes in the north. Caused us a lot of bother in their time. And the Viromandui are smaller, on their border. Sort of under the Nervii. Their land’s maybe forty or fifty miles from here, as the bird flies.’

‘Looks like they might be causing us more trouble, then, unless this was an unrelated and accidental incident.’

‘No attack by the Belgae is accidental,’ Fronto sighed. He turned to the scout. ‘What news do you carry?’

‘Caesar’s enemy,’ the man said slowly. ‘Nobles meet at Aduatuca one week go. Ambiorix with them.’

‘And who else?’ Varus asked quietly. ‘I’m guessing the Nervii?’

The scout nodded. ‘Nervii. And Menapii. And Treveri.’

Fronto whistled, mentally picturing the map of the Belgae lands in the general’s tent. Between those three tribes - and the Eburones of whom Ambiorix was still a king, at least in theory - they constituted most of the northeast, from the great cold sea in the north to the foothills of the Alpes in the south and along the entire western bank of the Rhenus.

‘That’s a big coalition. Caesar might have been right in planning to move before spring. Clearly Ambiorix has.’ He turned to the others. ‘Best get the word to the legion commanders, as the general’s going to want to move as soon as he’s held his briefing.’

‘Is it not a little previous to pass word to the men before it is given to us?’ Rufio asked, his brow furrowing.

‘When you’ve known Caesar for a while, you’ll realise it’s worth getting a couple of steps ahead, ‘cause he hates being made to wait when he’s itching to move. Warn the officers. Trust me.’

Crassus nodded his understanding and cleared his throat. ‘Where will we move, do you think?’

All three men seemed to be looking to Fronto for answers, despite his current uncertainty of rank or position. He shrugged. ‘The Treveri are bogged down with Labienus and won’t move anywhere with him on their flank. The Menapii are way up north in the swamps of the delta. And Caesar already avowed his intention to chisel away at the edge of Ambiorix’s power. So I would wager my money on a march into Nervii lands.’

Varus nodded. ‘And they’re closest. We can be in their lands inside two days at a forced march. Caesar can take the poor bastards by surprise.’

‘Then let’s get back up the hill. Antonius will want to know about this before he gets dragged in front of Caesar with the rest of us.’

 

* * * * *

 

The sudden order to march came as no surprise to Fronto, or to any of those used to Caesar’s decisiveness when it came to campaigning. Barely had the capsarius reached the wounded Gaul before the rest of the scouts were escorted to Caesar’s headquarters and debriefed. An hour later, when the first chirps of the dawn chorus issued from the trees and faint tendrils of orange crept through the clouds to the east, Caesar had called his staff meeting and given the entirely predictable order to break camp and march for the lands of the Nervii. Four legions had departed - the Tenth under Crassus, the Ninth under Trebonius, the Eighth under Fabius and the Eleventh under Cicero, and many of the staff had come along too, leaving only a small garrison at Samarobriva. By the time any man in his right mind would be having his ‘morning movement’ and contemplating breaking his fast, the legions were already a mile from the camp and marching east-by-northeast along the shallow river valley.

Fronto had felt appropriately ill all day, half-dead on his feet with fatigue, regretting his timing of the previous night’s activity - or rather that of the ever-vigorous Antonius. He had ridden Bucephalus as though every hoof-step that touched the ground might make him hurl, and had not been able to look at food whenever it was offered throughout the journey. The only consolation was that Varus and Brutus appeared to be feeling similarly unwell. Priscus seemed his usual dour and irascible self, though he was reasonably rested but for a kink in his neck from the way he had slept.

The irritating thing, of course, was the fact that with no sleep at all - and having consumed more wine than even an elephant should be able to comfortably stand - Marcus Antonius rode gaily along beside the general discussing this and that as though he had gone for an early night with a glass of warm mulsum. Damn the man.

If he wasn’t so bloody likeable!

Fronto had ridden in silence all day, alone with his discomfort and at the rear of the staff, away from anyone he really knew who might try to engage him in conversation, and it had been with an immense sense of relief that Fronto had watched Caesar hold up his hand to halt the column at the position the advanced scouts and engineers had selected as the site for the night’s encampment.

While the legions, under the watchful eyes of their centurions and optios, had broken up into work parties, digging ditches and raising ramparts, excavating numerous deep latrine trenches at the edge that was currently downwind, gathering water from the river nearby, raising tents and lighting cooking fires, setting the watch, assigning pickets, and the myriad other tasks required and allocated by Priscus as camp prefect, the staff and the four legates had gathered on a low hill nearby to discuss the next stage of the march and to await their accommodation’s raising and furnishing - one of the first tasks of the workers.

The scouts had confirmed that the next day would bring them through Viromandui lands and into the territory of the Nervii. The former, smaller, tribe had no links to the latter’s treachery as far as the native levy were aware and had been nothing but obsequious and accommodating as the army had passed through. Things might change in Nervii lands, though.

‘From the morning, we slow the march a little, with cavalry scouting in a wide arc ahead and beside us,’ Caesar announced. ‘I want no chance of us blundering into a trap and we have no idea how long the Nervii have been plotting with our enemies. With the blessing of Fortuna we will have taken them by surprise and they will be totally unaware of our approach and thoroughly unprepared, but I will not rely upon the fact. When we move, the Eighth will play rear-guard, behind the baggage train. The Ninth will take the lead, and the Tenth and Eleventh will march side by side in two wide columns, with the officers, artillery, baggage and auxiliary infantry in the centre. If we are taken by surprise I want my veteran heavy infantry on all the edges to form shield walls.’

This was greeted by nods all around and Fronto looked out across the landscape. Much like the lands they had just left, the Viromandui’s territory was mostly flat and covered with a patchwork of fields, with occasional ripples of low hill to break up the monotony. A wide marching formation was no trouble in this land, and it would be exceedingly difficult to launch a sneak attack upon the legions until they reached a hillier, more forested area.

As Fronto pondered, wishing he could collapse into his bed and sleep instead of sitting on his horse in the chilling cold and the fading light, Caesar continued to give out commands and answer the questions of his officers, and Fronto was almost asleep in the saddle when the general clapped his hands in a business-like manner and dismissed them all.

‘You look like a drunk on a four-day session,’ Antonius grinned as he pulled his dappled grey alongside Fronto. ‘And you smell like my aunt Hybrida, which cannot be good as she suffered from a permanent and debilitating bowel complaint and had to have her own separate latrine.’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much. Particularly given that this is largely your fault.’

‘My mistake, Fronto. You see I had you pegged as a soldier, not as a flagging woman.’ He grinned, waiting for an outburst, but Fronto was too tired to play the offended victim.

‘Let’s just go find our tents so that I can fall over and not move again until the sun has gone and come back again.’

Antonius laughed and the pair rode on down the slope in the wake of the other officers, towards the already-half-constructed camp. The officers’ quarters were already in position, the tents raised and legionaries unloading the furnishings from the wagons at the camp’s edge, carrying cots, tables, chairs and more into the confines.

Fronto looked for his tent. It used to be easy, as it would be located with the Tenth, but these days his was one of the miscellaneous ones in the staff area near the general’s own accommodation. After scanning the area, he picked out an officer’s tent no different from the rest, but with a smaller legionary tent pitched close by. Masgava and Palmatus. That was the best way to identify his.

‘Care for a drink?’

Fronto turned a withering gaze on Antonius. ‘Do you never stop?’

‘One of the advantages of a strong constitution and a position in command is that I never really have to. Similar tales are told of you, you know?’

‘I can hold my own, but I do like to have a day off occasionally to rest. Anyway, the answer’s no. I want nothing more than to fall face down on my bunk and drool into my pillow. Find Priscus. He’ll want a drink after watching the men ruin his carefully laid camp plans, mark my words.’

Antonius gave a low chuckle as they passed the first groups of workmen, crossing the causeway that overlaid the already-excavated ditch.

‘Why do you hate Crassus?’ the man said suddenly. Fronto blinked.

‘What?’

‘Crassus. I’ve seen the way you look at him, as though you’d trodden in something distasteful.’

Fronto shrugged, too tired to maintain a civil fiction. ‘I don’t, really. I sort of resent him, is all. He’s young and pleasant and not half as vicious or grasping as the rest of his family, and there’s nothing about him to dislike. But he commands my legion.’

‘Your legion?’

‘The Tenth. I know, I know,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s the Proconsul’s prerogative to select his legates, but I commanded the Tenth long enough that they’re like my family. It’s like watching your children with another father.’ He frowned, wondering where that analogy had sprung from, given that he had no children. Well, not yet, at least. He fought down the rising image of a pregnant Lucilia with difficulty. ‘I keep waiting for Caesar to call me in so that we can talk but he seems to have no interest in speaking to me at all. And as long as I’m on the periphery, I’m just along for the ride. I’m no use to him without a legion. You know that.’

‘I know. Give it time. I keep speaking to him, but Gaius is stubborn; you know that. I will get you your command in time. Maybe even the Tenth, but be patient. Let me work on him.’

‘Thanks.’

He reined in Bucephalus as he rounded the tent of another officer and beheld his own small empire. The big black steed huffed in irritation and stepped high in place, itching to exercise more, having been restricted to a plod on the march. As well as Fronto’s tent and the smaller one that belonged to Masgava and Palmatus, another tent was busy rising in the lee of his own - a traditional legionary soldiers’ tent.

‘It appears your entourage grows,’ mused Antonius. Fronto frowned at the men hauling the leather sections into position and tying them into place. Though they all wore military-style tunics, they were plain off-white wool rather than the russet colour favoured by Caesar’s command. Some of the men were of Roman origins, as was obvious from their swarthy appearance and neatly-trimmed military haircuts, but three of them appeared to be Gauls stuffed into Roman uniform. Not drawn from the Gallic-blooded legions, though, since they had now all adopted the Roman model at their officers’ urging. So these three must be from the native auxiliary cavalry units.

‘Eight men. A contubernium of the most mixed variety,’ Antonius said with more than a hint of curiosity in his tone.

As they watched, Palmatus appeared from his tent, dressed in a similar colourless tunic, with a well-used but well-maintained mail shirt over the top. Fronto couldn’t help but wonder how the ex-legionary had managed to come by a good mail shirt here. He didn’t have that much money and now that Cita was back in charge of the quartermasters there was more hope of the outspoken Roman growing a second bumhole than persuading the supply officers to give out a freebie.

‘Erm, Palmatus?’ Fronto said quietly. The unshaven former soldier turned and, noticing Antonius, gave a half-hearted salute. The smiling senior officer waved the formality aside, given the fact that the man in the mail shirt was officially a civilian and a Roman citizen.

‘Sir?’ the man replied with more deference than Fronto had heard him use all year.

‘What is this?’ Fronto took in the rising tent and its workmen with a sweep of his hand.

‘Singulares unit,’ Palmatus replied airily. ‘Told you we were working on it.

‘And I told you to stick it up your arse, didn’t I?’

‘Legate with your record of danger and combat should have a bodyguard,’ Palmatus said dismissively, nodding to Masgava as the latter emerged from the tent, similarly dressed in pale tunic and mail shirt - though his enormous bulk strained the shirt and made it look like a winesack stretched over a ballista.

‘Palmatus, I am not a legate. In fact I’m little more than an observer at the moment. The chance of me actually getting close enough to any action to experience any danger is tiny, so I hardly need a bodyguard. What I’m more in need of is an entertainer to keep me busy. Or a mallet to knock me out and send me to sleep.’

‘Don’t tempt them,’ grinned Antonius. ‘I can see these two complying with your request.’

‘And who are they, anyway?’ Fronto grumbled. ‘Weirdest looking bunch.’

‘Chosen men. Pick of Galronus’ best, along with four veterans of the Tenth who opted for this rather than their honesta missio and a friend of Carbo’s who has been deemed a little over-excitable by his optio. Good men, every one. I’m working on getting the Gauls to cut their hair and shave off their ‘taches, but it’s an uphill job.’

‘Send them back to their units. Even if I wanted a babysitter - which I don’t - Caesar will have nothing of it, even if I’m made legate again. Certainly not before that.’

‘No, wait,’ Antonius grinned. ‘It’s a splendid idea. It’ll give you something to do until your command comes through, putting your little house in order. And until you’re made legate, at least you’ll have your own command.’

Fronto threw an appropriately venomous look at the other officer and cleared his throat. ‘Caesar will not authorise it.’

‘Caesar will do as I advise, and I authorise it. Go ahead, you two, and get your singulares set up. In fact, get another contubernium together too. Eight men is too small for comfort. Just run any transfers by me. And tell Cita to give you what you need. Those Gauls will need kitting out properly.’

Fronto sighed deeply and looked back and forth between the implacable faces of his new bodyguard officers and the second most important man in the army. Shaking his head, he glowered at Palmatus. ‘Get at least a couple of archers from Decius’ auxiliaries attached to the Eighth. And a good engineer, too. Ask around and see if a Gallic legionary called Biorix is here. He was serving with the Thirteenth three years ago, and he could be dead or transferred, but if he’s in one of these legions, get him.’

Antonius grinned. ‘That’s the spirit,’ he laughed. ‘To it, Fronto! Your men need you.’

‘My bed needs me,’ Fronto grumbled.

Palmatus gestured towards the larger of the three tents. ‘It’s in there waiting for you. Leave the rest to us.’

Fronto gave his new command a last disparaging look and with his deepest sigh yet entered his tent, seeking the oblivion of sleep.