(Divoduron, in the land of the Mediomatrici)
The most powerful men in Gaul sat on low benches around three sides of the tent, the legs of the seats deliberately shortened, forcing them to look up at the general and his officers who occupied the fourth. Periodically one would stand as though he were a Roman patrician addressing the senate, and make some salient point or other to which Fronto paid no attention whatsoever.
The assembly of the chiefs of Gaul had been in progress for over an hour now and Fronto had retained precisely zero words that had been spoken in that time. To pay attention and contribute was not why the officers were here; they were here as a reminder of the pomp and sheer power that Rome and Caesar had at their disposal. They were here to help make the Gauls feel small, just like the shortened seat legs, the captured Gallic standards that hung on the leather wall behind the officers and the centurions and men who stood erect behind the Gauls as though guarding them.
It was an assembly of the Gallic rulers about as much as it was an orgy of the gods. It was, in fact, Caesar once more playing the Gauls for his own benefit. Indeed, he had even feigned ignorance over the very existence of Germanic tribes this side of the great river, just to allow the Gauls to plead, demand, and urge Caesar to come to their aid.
Showmanship.
Fronto felt uncomfortable with the whole pretence, all the more so since Labienus kept catching his eye and raising his eyebrows, nodding toward the general. He knew why it was all happening, of course. The senate continued to bemoan Caesar’s pushing beyond the limits of his granted powers, and the pleas of the allied Gallic chiefs would legitimise his campaign. But still it reeked to Fronto.
Another Gallic chieftain stood, his silvery braids whipping around his neck as he rose, his moustaches all but obscuring his mouth as he refused to grant Caesar any more levies for his cavalry. Fronto rolled his eyes and mouthed along with Caesar’s somewhat predictable reply.
‘Without adequate cavalry support, I cannot see any way in which we can reasonably challenge your Germanic aggressors.’
He had heard Caesar use the same line three times already. It was a stalemate situation at the moment. The Gauls were all in favour of Rome coming north in force and driving out the new invaders, but many of their husbands, fathers and sons had finally been released to return to their tribes after two or three years of serving with the Romans. Their tribes were beginning to recover, the returning manpower allowing them to raise their farming and manufacturing to the levels they had achieved before Caesar had first enlisted their cavalry. Only three tribes had so far relented and agreed to provide new men for Caesar’s horse army and those were tribes that had only recently become allies and had lost few men to the campaigns.
It was all about attrition. Caesar had them in the palm of his hand. The Gauls needed him to get rid of the invaders, lacking the strength to do so themselves, and everyone there knew it. They simply jostled to get the best deal from the situation for the fewest losses. By the time the meeting was over, Caesar would have his cavalry, of that there could be no doubt. But it was extremely wearing to be a part of.
Fronto glanced across and accidentally caught Labienus’ eye once more. The staff officer was watching him intently, damn him.
Fronto’s eyes strayed to the other figure in the room whose presence offered something of an interesting alternative to the stony-faced Roman officers and wheedling, supposedly-noble Gauls.
Centurion Furius was in position at the rear of the tent, next to the entrance, casting unmoved, superior looks at the gathered chiefs. Fronto had watched him for a lot of the last hour, drinking in every detail about the man. Here was a soldier he would trust as far as he could throw a ballista.
Furius was marginally shorter than Fronto, perhaps five feet four or five, but his body mass was clearly higher. The man had shoulders like Atlas, broad and strong, a dimension betrayed by the fact that his mail shirt showed signs of having been altered to give extra shoulder room, the shinier newer links standing out against the dulled old ones. The lower half of his face was covered with grey bristles that reached from the collar of his armour almost to his eyes, covering his neck and even his cheekbones. It gave him a deeply animalistic appearance that seemed in Fronto’s opinion to suit him. One thing had particularly interested him, though: a shiny white scar on his tanned skin followed the line of his collar bone, and just above it. There were a number of ways a man could receive such a wound, of course, but Fronto could not help remembering stories of the men who had worked for Clodius Pulcher and instigated mutiny in the eastern legions being executed by Lucullus’ officer with a single downward thrust into their hearts.
He shook his head to bat away such fanciful thoughts. No man would survive such a blow.
As he watched, he realised Furius had straightened and come to attention.
His mind focusing once more, Fronto glanced around. Caesar was gesturing at the centurion.
‘Bring me the records of our cavalry numbers.’
Furius saluted again and turned. Fronto frowned for a moment as an opportunity struck him to escape this gloomy proceeding. Turning to the general, he cleared his throat.
‘If I might be excused, general, I will bring Galronus. He has just completed a full inspection of one of the three cavalry wings and could probably provide useful information for you.’
Caesar frowned for a moment at the breach of protocol, though hardly unexpected, given the perpetrator, and then nodded.
‘Be quick.’
Fronto bowed slightly and shuffled out behind the line of officers, making his way around the tent and out of the entrance. The arguing began once more before he had even made it out of earshot.
He knew exactly where Galronus would be: in Fronto’s tent, helping himself to whatever tasty vittles he could find. Fronto had arranged to meet him after the meeting. Almost certainly Priscus would be there, too, and Priscus would be the man with the cavalry records.
Centurion Furius was busy striding across the command compound toward the camp prefect’s tent. With a tight smile, Fronto jogged off after him. As they approached the large tent, Furius came to a halt outside and barked out a request for entry, his voice deep and gravelly.
Fronto slowed and sauntered up alongside him.
‘He won’t be in there, centurion.’
Furius turned and glowered at the legate.
‘Sir?’
‘Priscus. He won’t be there. He’ll be at my tent.’
The centurion nodded his thanks, showing no sign of real gratitude in the movement. As he turned and strode off toward the Tenth’s ranks, Fronto fell in alongside and walked with him.
‘You served with Pompey? Or Lucullus?’
Furius cast him a suspicious look.
‘Both, legate.’
‘Lucullus was an extraordinary general. Never met him, but I wish I had. My father spoke highly of him.’
The centurion nodded. Fronto waited. Clearly conversation was not one of Furius’ strong points.
‘And Pompey, eh?’
Another nod.
‘And now you serve with Caesar. You’re making a career of soldiering for some great generals. Did you not think of signing up to go east with Crassus?’
Furius’ step faltered and he slowed, turning to Fronto and casting a withering glance that took the legate by surprise.
‘Well, I mean’ Fronto said almost defensively, ‘you’ve served in the east before with Lucullus and Pompey. You know the lands and peoples. You’ll be used to the heat and the dryness, and it’s no secret even in Rome that Crassus is mounting a campaign against Parthia. I imagine at least half of the veterans of Pompey and Lucullus’ legions will be signing on to march with him.’
The withering stare was making him extremely uncomfortable. With the almost bestial features of the man, he could not escape the impression that Furius was eyeing him in much the same way as a bear might eye its next prospective meal.
‘I’m just interested in what brings a veteran of the eastern campaigns out to soggy, cold Gaul when he has the option of returning to the east.’
They were approaching the Tenth’s command tents now as Furius turned to face front again. The centurion made a strange nasal noise and cleared his throat.
‘Caesar is a great general. Even Pompey thinks so. Crassus is a rich moron with the military expertise of a gutter whore. Those who go east with Crassus are signing on for a parched journey into the jaws of Cerberus. I choose life and glory.’
As they came to a halt at the tent, Furius turned to him again.
‘It has been obvious since Ostia that you neither like nor trust me, legate Fronto. And from what I’ve heard of you, I believe you’re a dangerously unpredictable drunkard to have in a position of command; insolent and disobedient. You wouldn’t last an hour in the centurionate before you were beaten to death for the things you say and do. I think we can both agree that we dislike each other intensely and that we’re both grateful we serve in different legions, and whatever you’re hoping to get out of this conversation, I hope you’ve got it now, because the conversation is over. I will not breach protocol by entering the tent of a senior officer unbidden and I have no desire to lay eyes on the debauchery that I hear goes on. Would you be so kind as to send the camp prefect out to speak to me?’
Fronto stood still for a long moment, staring at the centurion. The man had just insulted him at a very personal level as well as a professional one and, in theory, Fronto could have the man broken for speaking to him like that. And yet he found that no words would spring to his lips for his throat had run as dry as the Parthian sands.
Trying to communicate his anger with only his expression, Fronto turned away and entered his tent.
Priscus sat on his bunk, shaking two dice in a leather cup, while Galronus, Brutus and Varus sat on cushions on the floor with cups of well watered wine.
‘Gnaeus? There’s a self-righteous arsehole of a centurion outside who needs accurate cavalry figures for Caesar.’
Priscus nodded, making to rise.
‘Slow down, my friend. I would take it as a very great personal favour if you took your time getting him them. Perhaps you could struggle to find the tablets with the figures on?’
Priscus gave him a half-smile. ‘I won’t need to fake that. Finding anything in that mess is like trying to find a virgin at the Bacchanalia. Bit childish, though? Making him look bad like that?’
Fronto glared at him. ‘I’ve already been called insolent, disobedient, drunken and debauched in the last few moments. I could do without you adding childish to the list.’
Priscus grinned. ‘But they’re almost all your most endearing traits!’
A ripple of laughter ran through the men on the floor and Fronto shared his glare with them all.
‘Just do it, Gnaeus.’
Priscus nodded and made for the tent’s exit. Fronto turned his attention to the rest of them.
‘Varus? Galronus? Just how detailed is your knowledge of your commands?’
Varus smiled, immediately latching on to Fronto’s point. ‘Good enough, I’d say. Let’s just stop off and pick up Piso on the way. He’s with the quartermaster.’
Fronto smiled. It was petty. It was childish in the most pathetic way, to sidetrack Furius and delay him, while he himself supplied Caesar with the information directly from the commanders of the three cavalry units. And yet it gave him a little thrill of happiness to drop the obstinate centurion in the dung heap.
* * * * *
Two weeks passed in drudgery at the Divoduron camps. Spring began to blossom into early summer with a brief play of storms that cleared the air and brought a fresh blue-skied world to northern Gaul. The cavalry had mounted patrols that ranged over the few miles around the encampment and across the ridge onto the far plain, though the Germanic aggressors remained steadfastly out of reach toward the Rhenus.
The legions champed at the bit each and every day, feeling the need to move and exercise their sword arms as opposed to sitting in camp digging latrines and carrying out routine guard duties. The men asked of their centurions and optios when the army would move, and those officers in turn asked their legates and tribunes when the march would begin. And inevitably, since few dared question the permanently-busy general, most senior officers asked the same question of the camp prefect.
Priscus pushed aside the flap of the tent without asking for admittance or preamble of any sort, ignoring the surprised look from Fronto who stood shaving with a specially sharpened knife in front of a bronze disc. As the legate turned at the unexpected and unorthodox interruption, Priscus unfastened his helmet as he crossed the large tent and flung it angrily at the wall, where it hit, bounced, and rolled under the bed.
‘Come in.’
The prefect turned a glare on Fronto that carried so much raw irritation that the legate accidentally jumped a little and nicked a neat red line above his throat apple.
‘Don’t start with me, Marcus. Your tent was the nearest place I knew I could drown my sorrows.’
‘Bad day again?’
‘I’d never have accepted this commission if I’d known what it involved. Morons, donkey-brains, thieves, wastrels, layabouts and flatheads all badgering me day and night for details I don’t have, supplies I can’t get, tasks that no one will do and shite-knows what else. I swear the next person who asks me when the army marches is going to be visiting the medicus with a gladius hanging out of his arse, only probably hilt-upwards.’
Fronto grinned. ‘So when…’
‘Knob off. Get the wine out and don’t bother with the water. I’ll go down your route today.’
Fronto looked at the patchy bristles on his face in the bronze disc, shrugged and, turning, collected two cups and a wine jug from the table by the bed – a location for keeping wine that had practical benefits of which his sister wholeheartedly disapproved. He had even joked about digging a personal latrine on the other side, too, so he would not need to get out of bed until he was called for.
‘So what’s especially troubling you today?’
Priscus sighed as he gratefully accepted a proffered cup. ‘The simple answer is that the army will be moving in the next few days, and every hour it gets closer brings more work and more idiots.’
He gestured expansively with his free arm, sloshing the wine over the edge of his cup onto Fronto’s bed, the legate noted with dismay.
‘We currently have in supply enough grain to keep the entire force in the field for four weeks. Caesar seems to think that the amount is ample and that, if the campaign stretches more than a month, we can start foraging and rely on the supply train reaching us from Vesontio and beyond.’
‘And we can’t?’
‘One thing I’ve learned in this job is that quartermasters are disorganised and lazy and that Cita is the biggest, fattest, laziest blob of grease that ever wore a helmet. We’d probably be better relying on buying it from local tribes if it weren’t for the fact that the local tribes won’t have any because of the bloody stinking Germanics!’
Fronto opened his mouth, but Priscus was in full flow. ‘And we’ve got several thousand new cavalry coming in later today, which will stretch those supplies slightly thinner too. Plus for some unknown reason it’s become my job to organise the redistribution of the cavalry between Varus, Piso and Galronus. As if they couldn’t do it themselves.’
Fronto grunted and let his friend barrage on.
‘I’ve decided on the quick answer to that anyway. Galronus’ lot will be split to bolster the other existing units and our Remi friend can have all the new raw cavalry for his own.’
‘That’s hardly fair on Galronus.’
‘Varus will argue against having them and take it to Caesar, and Piso has a good rep, but I don’t know him well enough yet. At least Galronus can mould them into a unit and I don’t have to do any splitting up and moving about.’
Fronto smiled and took a quick pull of the wine, the last jar of good stuff that he had brought in his personal baggage. After this it was a matter of relying on whatever Cita had in stock.
‘Well at least you’ll be able to relax once we’re on the move.’
‘It doesn’t bloody work like that, Marcus. When we move, I just have to start working on the next night’s camp.’
‘You’ll just have to train up some of the men Caesar gave you and then…’
His helpful suggestion tailed off as the door flap swept open once again and Carbo ducked in through the door.
‘Sir?’
‘Does nobody in this camp knock anymore?’
Carbo, the primus pilus of the Tenth, held his helmet beneath his arm, the feathery transverse crest tickling his armpit as he gestured breathlessly with his vine staff.
‘Sorry, legate… no time.’ He gulped in a deep breath. ‘Need help, sort of urgent-ish!’
Fronto framed his question, but Carbo had already ducked back outside the tent. The legate and the camp prefect shared a confused and concerned frown. Carbo was not a man to rush or be jumpy for paltry things. Grateful he had already strapped on his boots, Fronto stood, dropping the cup to the table and grasping the hilt of his gladius. If something had made Carbo jumpy, he wanted to be prepared.
Priscus was at his shoulder as he stepped outside to find Carbo waiting impatiently on the main roadway, his usual pink features flushed to an almost beetroot colour.
‘What the hell is it?’
Carbo gestured down the road and started to jog with the gait of a man who has just sprinted to his own speed record and needs a breather. As he ran, the two senior officers keeping pace with him, he spoke in brief staccato bursts between heaving breaths.
‘Centurion in… the Seventh. He’s… he’s sentenced a man… to death.’
Fronto and Priscus shared a surprised glance again. It was an unpleasant thing, but hardly unknown, and nothing to do with anyone outside the Seventh.
‘Carbo, what is the actual problem?’
The centurion realised they had stopped and pulled up short, heaving in a huge breath.
‘Man fell out of step during drill. Now he’s to be beaten to death!’
Fronto’s eyes widened. ‘That’s insane!’
Carbo, his breath spent, simply nodded and pointed onwards, in the direction of the distant camp of the Seventh.
Priscus narrowed his eyes. ‘But this is the province of their legate. Where’s Cicero. You should have gone to him first.’
Carbo shook his head wildly. ‘Legate Cicero is in with Caesar and not to be disturbed, like most of the seniors. One of their lesser centurions found me and asked me to help. He was one of ours 'til he got reassigned over winter.’
Fronto and Priscus began to run.
‘I have a sinking feeling. The centurion who’s in charge of the punishment. Would it be a certain Furius by any chance?’
Carbo shook his head. ‘Name’s Fabius.’
‘That would have been my second guess, yes.’
Fronto blinked as if realising something for the first time. ‘You do realise that I have no authority over the Seventh, Carbo? I can strongly advise, but I can’t stop it.’
Carbo looked a little abashed. ‘Respectfully, sir, it was the camp prefect here that I came to get. He can override any centurion’s decision.’
Fronto blinked again as he glanced across at Priscus, who was nodding with a serious and thoughtful look. A position that theoretically had seniority over every centurion in the army. In some very important ways, Priscus now outranked him. For some irritating reason, deep in the darkest part of his heart, that annoyed him, though he was disgusted to realise it. He was only just beginning to understand the responsibility and power that Priscus now commanded.
The three men held their talk, concentrating all their energy into running through the camp, much to the surprise of the men they passed, who struggled to salute before they were past and gone. The guards at the gate, through which Carbo had entered a few moments earlier, had held it open for him and glanced with interest at the sweating, ruddy-faced trio of senior officers as they passed beneath.
A short run later they reached the gate of the Seventh’s camp, jogging across the causeway that traversed the twin ditches and up to the closed wooden portal.
‘Open up.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘I don’t have your legion’s password’ Fronto snapped angrily, pointing at the pteruge-fringed tunic that denoted his status as an officer. To his surprise, Priscus, next to him, cleared his throat.
‘Persepolis. Now open the damn gate.’
The huge timber construction swung ponderously open before them and the three men were through it while the gap was still widening. Without pause they ran along the decumanus toward the small parade ground in front of the headquarters and officers’ tents that Priscus had set as a standard camp requirement.
The deathly silence that hung over the camp was almost deafening in itself and Fronto frowned as he ran. Had he been one of the men, he would be vocal right now over the harsh punishment decision.
Within moments, they drew close to the open, gravelled ground, surrounded by the men of the Seventh legion. The crowd, some six deep, blocked all access to the parade ground, from which the sound of hollow hammering issued.
‘Move!’ bellowed Fronto, startling the men around him so that they quickly melted out of the way of the three breathless officers.
Pushing their way into the open ground at the centre, Fronto took in the scene in a disgusted instant.
Centurion Fabius stood in full uniform, his face bristly and reminding Fronto of the other former Pompeian who had insulted him. His iron grey hair glistened in the sun, as his helm was cradled in his left arm, his right gesturing with his vine staff. Taller than Furius, he was narrower as well, with a wiry look that suggested to Fronto that he was probably fast and dangerous in a fight.
In front of the centurion, two men hammered a stake into the ground, matching one that already stood proud, at just the right distance to string a man between them with his arms outstretched. The accused was easy to identify. A young clearly recent recruit knelt on the floor, his wrists bound behind him, while two legionaries stood over him, pila pointed at his neck. The man’s entire century were lined up in rows of four, each wielding a wooden practice sword, weighing considerably more than a real gladius and more than capable of breaking bones.
Carbo had stopped. Here, he had no authority at all, and had deferred, falling behind the two senior officers.
Fronto opened his mouth, bursting into a racking cough from the run. Priscus glanced at him. ‘Jove you’re unfit for a career soldier.’ Ignoring the look on Fronto’s face, Priscus turned back to the scene where the hammering had paused at the interruption.
‘Prefect.’ Fabius came to attention, making no mention of Fronto at all.
‘What is the meaning of this, centurion?’ Priscus demanded in a low, dangerous voice.
‘Punishment detail, sir. Fustuarium. This man endangered his century and therefore his cohort, his legion and the entire army.’
Priscus shook his head. ‘I understand he fell out of step in a drill?’
Fabius narrowed his eyes and flicked a quick cold glance at Fronto and Carbo.
‘I can’t help what you’re led to understand, sir, but the punishment is in line with current guidelines. The drill was a three sided defensive wall in battle formation and held under battle conditions with real weapons. Standing orders are that under battle conditions, everything is to be treated as if it were live and not a drill. Moreover, the man did not just fall out of step. He slipped and lost control of his pilum.’
He turned to the column of waiting men.
‘Passus?’
A legionary limped out of the column and saluted with difficulty, using his pilum to lean on and support a leg that had suffered a vicious calf wound. Blood blossomed on both sides of the dressing, indicating that the weapon had fully impaled him. Fabius turned back and raised his eyebrow challengingly.
‘Passus? Do you think the punishment harsh?’
A dark, angry look passed across the man as he shook his head.
‘Step back into position.’ Turning back to the three officers, Fabius tapped his greave absently with his stick.
‘Sir?’
Fronto turned to look at Priscus and was astounded to see a look of uncertainty on his face.
‘What are you doing? Stop this!’
Priscus pursed his lips. ‘He’s right though legate. I set the orders myself. The man’s incompetence caused the grave wounding of a fellow soldier and I would guess upset the entire defensive formation. In a battle, they might have lost the whole cohort because of him. I’m loathe to interfere.’
Fronto glanced angrily between him and Fabius, who wore a look that struck Fronto as far too smug to countenance.
The quiet voice of Carbo piped up behind them, little more than a whisper. ‘Commute the sentence?’
Priscus glanced once at Fronto’s angry face and nodded, turning back to Fabius.
‘In principle I agree with you, centurion. However, the army is about to march, and I think both troop numbers and morale could be better served with a lesser punishment in this case. A non-fatal beating should be enough to make the lad more careful next time.’
Fabius’ face betrayed no sign of irritation. He simply nodded and turned to the century of men.
‘Lines two and four, you may retire. Lines one and three, you will continue to administer your punishment, with a single pass.’
Fronto leaned close to Priscus. ‘That’s still forty blows from practice swords. The lad might just die anyway.’
Priscus nodded. ‘Then we’d best go pour some more of your wine on that little altar to Fortuna – that I know you carry with you – in the lad’s name eh?’
Fronto glared at him for a moment, and finally nodded unhappily. The three men turned away as the victim was lifted and tied to the posts. Even halfway back down the decumanus on their way to the gate they heard the screams of the first few blows. Fronto ground his teeth as they left.
‘That centurion’s more of a bastard than any Germanic warrior we’re going to meet.’
Carbo looked uncertain, but Priscus shook his head. ‘I think you’re letting your personal feelings about those two centurions get the better of you. His decision was harsh, but entirely appropriate. I might have done the same thing.’
Fronto glared at him.
‘You’ve turning into a hard hearted man, Gnaeus.’
* * * * *
Fronto eyed the column ahead with mixed feelings. He had always liked Cicero, for all his minor faults and leanings, and it went against the grain of every soldierly fibre in his being to see a legion singled out as dispensable. And yet, with the Seventh legion in the van, at least Fabius and Furius were as far away from Fronto as they could be, and that suited him just fine.
The column stretched out both ahead and behind and he had a fairly clear view of the whole affair from the back of the glorious ebony-coated Bucephalus – following the customary quarter hour argument with Carbo about the benefits of an officer who marched with his men.
Of course, with advance scouts, the Seventh would theoretically have time to deploy should any aggressors be discovered up ahead, but Caesar had sent Piso with one wing of the Gallic cavalry ahead to scout the lie of the land and, to both Caesar and Fronto, Piso was still something of an unknown. He seemed in every way the perfect man for the job; thoroughly Romanised – as far as an Aquitanian could hope to be, clever, brave, strong, and quick-witted. It seemed that his men had taken an almost instant shine to him too, calling him ‘Camulos’ – apparently the name of a war god from these parts. And yet, while Caesar sent this trusted man forward, Fronto remembered Piso only from his association with Labienus during that conversation upon his arrival at camp. Just how far could any man be trusted these days?
Just like the republic, the army seemed to be decaying, riddled with tumours and cancers, falling apart and in need of surgery. His attention was suddenly caught by a single rider making to intercept the army.
Varus’ cavalry had the task of patrolling alongside the column as outriders, while Galronus and his men kept a rearguard with the wagons and the Fourteenth. The lone rider was one of Varus’ men; one of the few Roman cavalrymen among the hordes of auxiliary Gauls.
Fronto calculated the man’s rough trajectory and, nodding to Carbo to keep the men moving, dropped out of the line and turned Bucephalus to walk back along the line of the Tenth to where the senior commanders rode between Fronto’s legion and the Eighth. The crimson cloak of the general and the glinting cuirasses of the senior commanders rose from the cloud of grey dust that marked the passage of so many thousand feet, and Fronto converged with them just as the general, having spotted the rider, rode out to the side from the line of march with his top men.
The Roman cavalryman came to a halt a few paces away, reining in expertly and throwing a salute.
‘Soldier?’
‘General, commander Varus begs to report that a small group of what appear to be Germanic riders approached from the northeast. There are only a score or so of them and they’re demanding to speak with you. What are your orders, Caesar?’
The general gave a half-smile and raised his eyebrow.
‘Shall we see what they have to say, gentlemen?’
As the small party of officers turned their horses and rode off at a tangent from the column, toward the bank of the fast flowing Mosella River that ran some quarter of a mile to the southeast, Fronto fell in alongside them and Varus’ man, a frown etched into his forehead. He had no doubts at all about Varus or his veteran riders, but having a vanguard out there made up of Piso’s horse and Cicero’s legion made him very nervous.
Regardless of the lack of obvious danger, Fronto’s spine was tingling in the same way as it had a couple of years ago when he had first had bad feelings about the brutal Belgic campaign. Something about what awaited them to the northeast felt wrong and dangerous.
He suddenly realised he was rubbing between the fingers of his free hand the amulet of Fortuna he had taken to wearing on a thong around his neck. Irritated, he pulled it away, though apparently not before Caesar saw.
‘Something wrong, Marcus? You look nervous.’
Fronto muttered something under his breath.
‘Marcus?’
‘Nothing. Got a bad feeling about what’s coming.’
Caesar smiled benignly. ‘It’s rather unusual for you to be jumpy and superstitious.’
‘Just a feeling, Caesar. It feels like I’m riding a wolf into combat against a bear. I don’t know which one’s going to snap at me first.’
Something in Fronto’s voice pulled a serious expression across Caesar’s face. ‘Anything you want to tell me, Marcus?’
Fronto forced himself to look the general in the eye, trying not to note the hard, accusatory glance Labienus was levelling at him from the general’s other side.
‘Nothing concrete, general. Just a feeling of danger and unease. Let’s make sure we keep Varus’ men close by.’
‘Of course.’
A quarter of an hour passed for Fronto in a sense of nervous agitation that deepened and sharpened with every passing step. Caesar and the others continued to pass the time in small talk, but Fronto declined to take part in the light-hearted banter.
Finally, on a small hillock rising from the north bank of the Mosella, the group spotted a small knot of horsemen and, as they closed on them, Fronto was surprised to see that very few of them appeared to have any kind of rich adornment. Indeed, most of them bared their torsos, their only covering the baldrics that hung across them, supporting the heavy Germanic swords, and the long beards that in many cases hung down to below their collar bones, oft braided or tied in a knot. Their hair, almost uniformly wheat-coloured, was wild and tied in a knot atop their heads. Their weapons were, however, sheathed. The men who sat ahorse behind these visible front men appeared to be almost entirely naked apart from their wild hair and a loincloth, their spears pointing at the heavens.
Caesar smiled happily, and the men with whom he had been chatting seemed to find the appearance of their visitors amusing.
Not so Fronto. The first thought that entered his head was how suicidally brave a score of mostly naked men would have to be to ride up to the Roman cavalry and demand to speak to their commander. After all, word must have spread to them by now of the Gaulish council’s decision and Caesar’ approach.
These were the sort of men who would try and outstare a crocodile.
‘Let’s be patient and courteous, gentlemen’ Caesar said quietly as they slowed on the approach.
‘Good greet Caesar’ intoned one of the lead tribesmen as the general reined in and turned his horse to face the visitors with the expert knee control of a cavalryman. Fronto, less sure and practiced, simply hauled on the reins until Bucephalus complied.
‘Good day’ replied Caesar. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’
There was a brief silence, and then a huddle of confused murmuring.
‘Who are you’ simplified the general.
‘We not here to fight Roman.’
‘Clearly not, with only twenty men’ the general smiled. The visitors frowned in incomprehension. Finally someone seemed to grasp the point.
‘We – all tribe – we not cross Renos to fight Roman.’
‘I can imagine.’
The man narrowed his eyes, a strange move that, given his wild hair and huge beard, almost entirely removed his face from the picture.
‘But if Roman want fight, we not run.’
‘How kind. It would certainly save us some energy and legwork.’
A chortle broke out among the officers and again the tribesmen conferred until they reached a consensus about what had actually been said.
‘Tribes never turn from war. Ancestors fight; we fight. On to tomorrow. Never we talk ‘stead of fight. Is Roman way, yes?’
‘I would invite you to put that to the test’ smiled Caesar coldly, causing another confab.
‘But this time different. Tribes here because we pushed across Renos.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So we talk. You leave us land we take, we support Roman. We make many strong horse warrior for you. Is good trade.’
Labienus nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s not a bad option, Caesar. I’m sure we could talk the council around.’
Caesar glanced at him once and Fronto could not see the general’s expression, but the staff officer lowered his gaze deferentially. When he turned back to the visitors, Caesar’s face had taken on the hard military look that Fronto knew only too well. Impervious, imperious and immovable.
‘I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I have already given my word to the chieftains of Gaul, who we now call ally. There can be no alliance with an aggressor into their territory. There is no land available for you here. I believe that one of the tribes you represent is the Ubii who straddle both banks of the Rhenus? If that is the case, I urge you to settle in their lands on this side of the river. To this I will turn a blind eye, but to nowhere else.’
There was a long pause as the barbarians conferred again and Fronto watched them, curiously. Something was very odd about all of this. The man’s Latin was not wonderful, for sure, but he knew words like ‘ancestor’ and could form, admittedly broken, sentences. They should not be having so much trouble understanding the general’s words.
Frowning, he wondered why they appeared to be labouring over this more than need be.
‘Caesar – you give three day. We deliver term and come with reply. Good, yes?’
Fronto frowned. Three days now too? He wished there were some way to speak to the general alone. Suspicions were forming like dark clouds around his brain and he felt a storm coming. A flash of inspiration struck him and he dug deep into his mind for the words.
‘I expect they will have great trouble understanding this’ he said loudly to the general, in rusty Greek.
Caesar turned to frown at him and then, seeing the urgent look on his face, turned back to the small group. A new sense of worry and confusion had fallen on them, as though everything that had happened had been their own plan, but this new and incomprehensible development was a serious problem.
‘I didn’t even realise you knew the tongue, Marcus,’ Caesar replied in fluent Greek with a marked Illyrian accent. ‘Go on. I think we’re mentally alone.’
‘Caesar’ Fronto said, again in Greek, ‘they’re just trying to delay us all. I don’t know what their game is but they’ve been deliberately faffing and now they’re asking for more time.’
Caesar nodded, wrinkling his lip.
‘I fear they are trying to buy time to bring home the huge amount of horse I understand they sent raiding to the south a few days ago. Without them, they will be at a disadvantage against us.’
‘Would that it were that, Caesar, but I think it’s more important than that. The Ubii at least are supposed to be reasonably civilised, or so Galronus said. They trade with Rome. If they were going to send ambassadors, they would be noblemen with fluent Latin, dressed like rich men and would act like them.’
Caesar frowned.
‘Not ambassadors?’
Fronto shook his head. ‘I think what they are is decoys, sent to keep the bulk of the army busy. Something’s about to happen, or it’s happening already.’
Caesar nodded slowly, a worried shadow in his eyes. Turning to Varus’ cavalry, he scanned the ranks until he spotted the commander himself.
‘Varus. Take some good men and ride for Piso’s vanguard. Make sure all is as it should be and order them to pull back to the main column.’
Varus saluted and started shouting out orders, but Fronto saw a few snarling lips and wrinkling brows among the enemy. Caesar had switched back to Latin to give the order. In moments, as Fronto drew breath to get Caesar’s attention, the Germanic riders were already turning and racing off down the far side of the hill.
‘Caesar!’
The general glanced at the sudden explosion of movement and nodded.
‘Let them go. I won’t push any more men out from the column to catch them. They’re too light and fast; they’ll easily outrun our heavy-equipped cavalry.’
As Varus trotted past the group of officers, a turma of regular cavalry forming up behind him, Fronto reached past and tapped him on the arm.
‘If you value the cavalry, ride like Pegasus himself and get Piso and his men back here.’
Somewhere away to the northeast a single flash of lightning rent the sky.
‘Great’ Fronto muttered as his left hand rose involuntarily to the Fortuna pendant.