AUGUSTA PRAETORIA

Gaul, 25 B.C.

Victor Julius Felix entered Augusta Praetoria at a slow trot. Behind him at the head of the convoy, his servant attempted to keep the same pace. As he rode through the largest of the four gates that gave access to the city, the prefect felt a sensation of incredulous wonder at what, in a few months, his comrades had managed to do under the orders of Varro Murena. Built on the ashes of the lost city of Cordelia at the end of a long and bloody war, the fortress had been conceived as a military camp. An imposing boundary wall protected a vast area designed on the cardo-decumanic orthogonal model which preceded the fork in the road that cut through the Alps to reach Gaul.

The convoy of wagons, men and animals silently traversed the decumanus maximus under the watchful eye of the many legionaries who guarded the main roads of the city. Some merchants who stood on street corners with open carts and wooden benches tried to attract the attention of the new arrivals, holding out furs or carafes of hot drinks that steamed in the cold air.

Felix exchanged a nod with his servant. Since he had entered the new Roman fort he had counted at least a hundred oval shields upon which the menacing scorpions of the praetorians, the special guard created by Octavian Augustus himself, were displayed.

It was rumoured that Varro Murena had requested three thousand of these soldiers to guard the new Alpine fortress.

The scouts who accompanied Victor Felix stopped in front of a building protected by a line of legionaries in battle positions. The prefect and his servant dismounted and followed their escort up a flight of stairs that gave access to a vestibule adorned with drapes of fine milky-white silk. From behind those on the opposite wall came a soft light which indicated access to another room. The soldiers stopped, pulled back the curtains and gestured to the prefect to continue alone.

Victor Felix found himself in a large square-shaped tablinum which was brightly lit by the numerous torches attached to the walls. In the middle of the room there was an oval table covered in piles of rolls of parchment and instruments for cartographic calculation. Bent over a map which was held flat by a sword and its scabbard, a man of medium height with short black hair stood with his back to them. He was wearing a red tunic tied at the waist by a leather cingulum and wore high boots and narrow brown wool breeches.

“Come in, prefect. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Felix had never seen General Aulus Terentius Varro Murena but that deep and steady voice could only belong to him. He walked around to the opposite side of the table.

The proconsul Gaius Octavius Augustus sends you his greetings,” he announced through his servant.

“I have no doubt that Augustus is very fond of his lieutenants, prefect,” replied Varro Murena, raising his head, “but you surely do not imagine he sent you out here simply to prove his friendship to me?” His eyes sparkled and the smooth features of his face relaxed in a smile. “I am joking, prefect.”

The general left the map and went over to a small table in the corner of the room. He picked up a sheet of parchment and waved it several times.

“Octavius has already explained to me everything I needed to know about you and your men. He didn’t say a great deal and he didn’t go into detail, but I imagine he had his reasons and I have no wish to call them into question. However, in this brief letter,” he added, throwing the parchment on the table, “he says that you are able to solve our problems. And if my commander says it, I believe it.” Varro Murena returned to the larger table and his map. “Come closer”.

Felix obeyed and the general pointed to an area he had marked out with a copper disk. “After years of battles which have cost men and money,” he began, “we managed to defeat the Salassi and conquer the principal city of their lands. Until a few months ago, the temple of Cordelia stood where we are now standing. It took me two thousand slaves and three months to build a military city in its place. The Salassi were defeated conclusively and in Rome they celebrated yet another victory over a rebel tribe.”

Varro Murena stopped to catch his breath, then picked up a jug and poured wine into a cup. “That is the official version,” he said after taking a couple of sips. “The version necessary to avoid disturbing the peaceful sleep of the senators and so as not to spoil the pleasures of the Roman patricians. But, above all so as not to encourage any strange ideas in the heads of those who await nothing more than an excuse to raise their swords against us. But it is not the truth.”

Felix gave him a questioning look.

“The Salassi are far from being defeated, my friend,” the general continued, “and they have not abandoned their intention of taking back this city, nor all the others that we have managed to take from them in recent times.” He tapped on the map with his index finger. “When we conquered Cordelia, they retreated en masse to this plain beyond the Bauticum river and started building a complex series of entrenchments. Over the following weeks, our scouts gave us a detailed account of their defensive potential. Even though the report said that our forces on the ground hugely outnumbered theirs, I didn’t want to take any risks and I myself led an entire legion to the banks of the river. But as it stands today, “concluded Varro Murena,” the Salassi are still in that valley and so many of our men have died that we can scarcely count them.”

Felix followed the path that the general had traced with his finger on the map.

“What tactic did you use?”

“Certainly not a frontal attack. I’m not a fool. But it is not a question of tactics, and I assure you that I have tried them all. We outnumber them. We have better weapons and defences. We have the advantage of position.”

“So what is the problem?”

“I have spent many sleepless nights trying to answer that question,” the general said, returning to the table where he had left Augustus’s letter, “but it says here that you are the only ones who will be able to do it.”

The prefect stroked his chin. “It is difficult to guarantee that. I will need more information,” his hands said.

“You will have it.” Varro Murena picked up the dagger and his sheath and the map rolled up with a rustling sound. “Get your men ready. Tomorrow at dawn I will take you to the front and then you will see for yourselves what I am talking about.”