(Border of Treveri & Ubii lands close to the Rhine & Moselle Rivers)
Caesar’s fist slammed down on the table surface, causing the cup of water and the wooden writing tablets to jump and clatter back to the oak top.
‘How many?’
‘We don’t have full figures yet’ Fronto said quietly. ‘But Varus estimated over a thousand horses and at least five hundred riders.’
Labienus leaned forward from the line of officers. ‘How is the commander?’
‘Lucky to be alive. The medicus says he’ll be out of commission for weeks and he may lose the use of his left arm and some movement in his hip. Varus is of a different opinion. He reckons that if his arm’s splinted up properly he’ll be back in his saddle tomorrow. The truth’s probably somewhere in between.’
The two officers were suddenly aware that Caesar was glaring at them for this change of subject. Fronto cleared his throat.
‘Caesar, we’ve been marching boldly toward these invaders on the assumption we were going to meet them in pitched battle in the field, as usual. The fact is that they’ve taken us by surprise and completely battered the cavalry in the first engagement. We can’t afford to go strutting forward now. We need to be cautious or we could lose half the army to tricky ambushes before we can even bring them to a fight.’
Caesar narrowed his eyes at Fronto.
‘I have no intention of treading lightly because of a simple setback, Fronto.’
Another throat was cleared and Labienus stepped from the ranks.
‘Caesar? Might I suggest that now would be a good time to reconsider a diplomatic solution?’
The general’s head whipped around to turn his withering glare on his most senior officer. ‘Diplomacy, Labienus?’
‘With respect, Caesar, we are endangering the army and costing both the republic and your esteemed person a great deal of money by keeping this large army marching against a foe who seems to have the measure of us and a good idea of how to whittle down our numbers. Those same foes have offered us the hand of peace and even service in your army for a small allotment of land this side of the Rhenus. It could be considered vainglorious and even prideful to continue this push, considering the alternatives available.’
A small chorus of agreement rose from one corner of the tent, where Cicero was nodding emphatically, his face a picture of suspicion. Fronto’s eyes slipped from Cicero to the applauding figures of the two foppish tribunes: Menenius and Hortius. No shock that those two would rather see a negotiation table than a battlefield.
Caesar’s face was a mask of cold composition, expressionless and severe. Fronto knew as well as any other long-serving officer in the tent what that meant. Beneath that cold face, the general’s blood was rising to boiling point. Fury contained in a stony case.
‘There will be no negotiation with these animals. Their diplomacy has already been clearly revealed as trickery and deceit. They used the peace table to distract us while they gutted our cavalry. Should they be stupid enough to send any further emissaries, they will be taken in, executed and sent back to their people from the neck-up. Do I make myself clear?’
Cicero stepped out to join Labienus. Fronto was a little taken aback and distinctly unimpressed to see the centurions Furius and Fabius at his shoulders. It appeared that the bad apples were all congregating in a pile.
‘Caesar, it is not seemly or tactically sound to launch into further violent activity simply as an angry response to trickery. I implore you to think on the matter before making your decision.’
Caesar’s eyes flashed dangerously and Fronto diplomatically stepped between the two men, obscuring their view of one another.
‘You know me, Cicero. You know that I don’t back down from a fight, but you also know that I’m not one to waste the lives of my men in unnecessary battle. Whatever we might have done to begin with, we have given our word to the council of Gaul and our ultimatum to the Germanic tribes who crossed the river. Given their treacherous sneak attack in addition to that, we are no longer in a position to back down. Caesar is not acting impulsively through anger or pride, but through expediency and necessity. We must now beat some sense into the invaders and shove their hairy arses back over the river for good.’
A much louder roar of agreement sounded around the tent. Beneath the tumult, Caesar’s quiet voice caught Fronto’s ear.
‘I am not a child that needs defending, Marcus. I can speak for myself.’
Barely moving his lips and without turning his head, Fronto replied ‘coming from someone else, it diffuses their argument over vainglory, Caesar.’
Labienus folded his arms.
‘Marcus, you know I respect you, but can you not see the waste of an opportunity here? Are you yourself so committed to slaughter that you cannot find it in yourself to consider the alternatives?’
As a general hubbub rose, Fronto’s face coloured with irritation and, as he straightened to reply, Menenius and Hortius sniggered and his eyes shot toward them. He had distinctly heard his name in their whispered conversation alongside the word ‘donkey’.
Before he could turn his invective against the pair, his own senior tribune, Tetricus, leaned close to them from where he stood nearby. Fronto could not hear what he said to them, but they went very pale and stopped smirking.
Cicero smiled unpleasantly.
‘I see now that, unable to make your point convincingly, Fronto, you fall back on having your tribune threaten people. How diplomatic.’
A low growl began to rise in Fronto’s throat and he noted with growing ire that Furius and Fabius, still at Cicero’s shoulders, were now glaring at Tetricus with barely-concealed contempt.
‘At least I can say I’m here with honour to serve the general!’ he snapped angrily.
A roar of angry comments rose around the tent. As the noise increased and filled the dim space with deafening malice, Fronto’s eyes locked on Cicero and the two centurions. Labienus was busy arguing with Brutus, both men gesturing angrily with their hands. Menenius and Hortius had retreated to the shadows at the rear, though Tetricus had moved to stand near them again, his expression dangerous.
Fronto folded his arms amid the chaos, locked in a silent battle of wills with Cicero.
‘Enough!’
The tent snapped to silent attention at Caesar’s bellowed command. The general had his sword aloft and, as all eyes turned to him, many arms still pointing at one another accusingly, Caesar turned his hand a half circle and brought the gladius down hard, driving it deep, point first into the table, tearing through a carefully drawn map.
‘This is not a public market! This is not an academy for philosophers! This is not even the house of the old women we call a senate! This is MY COMMAND TENT and I WILL HAVE ORDER!’
Fronto and Cicero, the only two men in the tent who had not turned to the general, finally unlocked their baleful gazes from one another and turned.
‘This is not a matter for debate. This is my army, my province, and my command. I give the orders and you follow them to the best of your ability. That is how things work, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will leave a detachment to guard the baggage train and siege engines as they follow on, while the army will move at the fastest speed we can manage to engage the enemy.’
The general’s gaze flitted to Labienus and Cicero.
‘If anyone here is discontented with their role and wishes to resign their commission, lose my patronage and return to Rome, then they may do so. But bear in mind that I have a very long reach and an even longer memory.’
Labienus lowered his eyes deferentially, though Cicero met the general’s gaze staunchly for a moment before he nodded.
‘Apologies Caesar’ Labienus said quietly. ‘We spoke out of place.’
‘You did. Let this be an end to it. What do we know or suspect of the enemy camp?’
Fronto, glancing briefly at Cicero, turned to the general again.
‘Nothing concrete, general. Varus suspects it’s close. When the cavalry were attacked, the enemy horse were fresh, and they had peasants with them who would have travelled by foot. They wouldn’t have spent the night there waiting for us; with that many horses, they most likely came straight from their main camp at dawn. That all suggests that the enemy is encamped not more than, say, twenty miles away, at an educated guess.’
Tetricus cleared his throat.
‘With respect, Caesar, I think we will find the enemy encamped close to the Mosella, if not directly on its bank. They will need fresh water and only that river is large enough to supply such a force in this area. Also, they must have some method of crossing the flow. Quite apart from having come from the far side of the Rhenus in the first place, we know that they sent their cavalry out a few days ago to raid south of the Mosella, so they must have rafts at or near their camp in enough size and quantity to transfer a large cavalry force across the river.’
Fronto nodded thoughtfully.
‘Also, if they’ve been there long enough to send out long-range raiding parties, then that camp is at least semi-permanent. I’m guessing it could be fortified.’
Caesar leaned on the table again, his decorative, sharp blade still standing proud from it as a reminder to the more argumentative in the room.
‘We must hit them hard enough to break their will, and it would be to our advantage to attack them before their cavalry return from the south. Each legion will leave their Tenth cohort with the baggage train, along with all their standard kit. The army will travel light and fast and equipped only to fight.’
He turned to Fronto.
‘I recognise your concerns about the possibilities of them laying traps and ambushes on the route, but we cannot afford to risk their cavalry returning because we are slow and cautious. We will have to rely on scouts out in force to identify any trouble spots before we run into them.’
Standing straight again, Caesar’s gaze passed around the assembled officers.
‘Return to your units and prepare to march, gentlemen.’
* * * * *
‘You won’t bloody believe it, Gantus!’
The legionary on the far end of the four-hole wooden latrine seat that covered the stinking pit frowned at the man who had just pushed his head round the rough-hewn timber doorway. Another innovation of Priscus as camp prefect was to do away with the latrine tents that some units favoured and to close in the open trenches that others preferred, surrounding each latrine with a simple slat-wood wall that provided a measure of privacy, prevented the wind blowing the smell across the camp at ground level, and yet allowed air to circulate within and keep the gag-inducing stench a little more subdued.
Fronto looked up from his seat at the opposite end, where he had been sitting, casually reading the medicus’ injury and sickness figures for the Tenth. Curiously, despite his popularity that had always made him ‘almost-one-of-the-men’, legionaries still deferentially used the latrine seat furthest away from him.
That, or possibly it was the spiced lamb he’d had last night was having a more powerful effect than he realised. Raising a leg to flatulate more comfortably, he watched the man’s face as he realised there was a senior officer present and saluted.
‘At ease. All men are equal in the shitter.’
‘What’s up?’ Gantus asked from the far end, reaching for the sponge on a stick in its water tub and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Wish some people would make more effort to clean the sponge afterwards. I’ll be more shitty after this than I was before.’
Fronto smiled and reached to the small bucket next to him, removing his personal stick-sponge and proffering it along the bench.
‘I want it so clean afterwards you’d stir your soup with it. Understand?’
‘Thanks sir’ Gantus smiled and went to work, arcing a questioning eyebrow at his visitor.
‘The barbarians have sent more ambassadors. The gate guard didn’t know what to do with them, but the duty centurion had them disarmed and taken to the stockade.’
Fronto frowned.
‘After yesterday, they’d dare try and talk to us again? Caesar’ll be pleased as punch.’
At the far end of the seat, Gantus hurriedly cleaned himself up and then very thoroughly washed out the sponge before returning it to Fronto’s bucket.
‘Thanks again, sir.’
Fronto waved a hand dismissively and then stood, snapping shut the tablet and rapidly cleaning himself before pulling up his breeches and following the two legionaries out of the latrine.
Though the legate had not yet seen the stockade in the latest camp, it was not hard to locate, the roar of jeering soldiers drawing his attention. As he walked swiftly out to the main thoroughfare, he could see Caesar, Labienus, Brutus and Priscus striding toward the scene. Pausing, he fell in alongside.
‘You’ve heard the news then?’ Priscus asked.
‘Yes. I find it somewhat hard to believe, though. Are they crazed?’
‘Let us find out’ Caesar said with a cold, malicious smile.
The stockade was a simple palisade of twelve foot stakes, with a door held closed by a heavy bar. There was room within to contain a dozen men comfortably or a century in cramped conditions. The eight man contubernium guarding the stockade stood to attention, as alert as could be, keeping the gathered crowd of soldiers back largely by the force of their challenging glares.
Fronto’s eyes played across the shouting, jeering crowd. It came as little surprise to him that only perhaps a quarter of them were legionaries, the rest being Gallic cavalrymen, many with some small wound marking them as soldiers who had survived the massacre the previous day. Their anger was entirely justified and the joint hatred of these Germanic invaders seemed to have bound the regular legionaries and their auxiliary Gaulish counterparts together in a camaraderie that had not previously been evident.
The duty centurion and a contubernium of his men stood nearby, watching the scene carefully.
‘If you really want to take it out on these ambassadors’ Fronto muttered to Caesar, ‘all you have to do is open the doors and let those cavalrymen in. They’ll tear them to shreds by hand.’
Caesar nodded.
‘I cannot deny it is tempting. But I want to speak to them first.’
As they arrived, the duty centurion bellowed a command that opened up a path through the crowd. Caesar and his party of officers strode through. Labienus’ face, Fronto noted, showed a personal battle raging within, conflicting emotions fighting for control of him. The man was the army’s greatest advocate for peaceful solutions these days.
Fronto had asked him about it one night in camp and Labienus’ eyes had taken on a haunted look. ‘Back when we fought the Belgae, Marcus’ he had replied. ‘Women and children. Old men. So many. So needless. Just so that they couldn’t be enslaved. You never saw the piles of babies. It... it changes a man.’
Fronto had tactfully pressed no further, but something that had happened to Labienus two years ago seemed to have knocked from him the will to conquer. In its place it had left a man who Fronto – truth be told – much preferred. The Labienus who served Caesar now was a thoughtful, peaceful and calm man. He would be a man Fronto would value as a friend in Puteoli. But to an army on campaign, all it did was make him less effective and possibly even dangerous to have along. Even now he fought his own demons at every turn.
Labienus seemed to come to some decision and his face took on a stony impassiveness.
At a word from Caesar, the man on each side of the gate set his pilum point-down in the turf and heaved the bar to one side, freeing the gate. Two other men immediately moved in with their pila, keeping them levelled as the gate ground slowly open. The caution turned out to be somewhat unnecessary, given that the dozen prisoners sat at the far side of the enclosure, their arms encircling their knees.
After the group of low-status warriors and peasants that had masqueraded as ambassadors yesterday to keep the officers busy, these men were clearly the real thing. Their weapons and armour had been stripped by the duty officer and his men upon their arrival, but their clothes were reminiscent of the high quality woollen garments worn by the Belgic nobles, and they were adorned with gold and bronze arm rings, torcs and finger rings.
As Caesar strode first into the enclosure, waving aside the worried protests of the guards, the enemy ambassadors stood and bowed surprisingly deeply and deferentially.
‘Great Caesar.’
The general said nothing, merely coming to a halt in the centre of the stockade, with his officers fanning out to either side.
‘Caesar, we have come to denounce a traitor in our own tribe and publically distance ourselves from the man who led an unauthorised attack on your army yesterday. If you will agree to hear us out and open talks with us, we are authorised to deliver this man to you for punishment.’
An unpleasant, feral smile curved Caesar’s lip.
‘Fronto is right. You are relaxed and vital. You have not been in the saddle more than a few hours. I think your camp is less than twenty miles away; perhaps even ten.’
The ambassadors frowned at the strange turn of conversation.
Caesar turned to the duty centurion who had moved in with his men to join them. ‘Your sword please, centurion.’
The officer obliged, withdrawing a well-tended and wickedly-sharp gladius with a personalised hilt bearing images of the Dioscuri carved in bone. Caesar reached across and took the handle with an appreciative gaze. ‘A nice weapon, centurion. I shall be careful not to damage it.’
Everyone in the party accompanying the general had a fair idea of what was about to happen next. Labienus, Fronto noted, turned his face away.
Caesar stepped forward, the sword hanging by his side, coming to a halt an arm’s-length away from the vocal diplomat. Without preamble or explanation, he lanced out with the blade, driving the point into the man’s stomach. The barbarian’s eyes widened in shock, but Caesar calmly turned the sword slightly and ripped it across to the other side of the man’s stomach, tearing the steel free at the furthest extent and raising it to look at the crimson blade.
‘It may, however, need a good clean, centurion.’
The officer shrugged. ‘I have a man for that, general.’
The barbarian stared down at the wide slash in his belly, his eyes wide with shock, fresh waves of horror and nausea assaulting him as he watched the first purple and pale coils of his intestines slipping out of the hole. Desperately, he grasped the loops and tried to prevent their escape, stuffing his own insides back through the jagged rent. Caesar watched with an interested frown as the man gradually went pale with the pain and effort and sank to his knees in tears, trying to contain his innards.
The other eleven ambassadors had moved sharply forward at the attack, but the centurion’s men had stepped to meet them, pila and swords levelled threateningly.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded one of the nobles in very strong Latin, though thick with some barbaric accent.
Caesar glanced down at the man and then the blade in his hand, flexing his arm muscles as though preparing for another strike.
‘Sometimes’ he said quietly, ‘people can assume that threats are merely empty, hollow things that are used to bargain with. I wanted you to be very well aware of the realism and accuracy of any threat I might level. I hope that this has made very clear just how little your very existence means to me and to what levels I am prepared to sink to achieve my aims.’
There was a silence that spoke of frightened understanding.
‘Good. We have fallen foul of your trickery once and our cavalry paid a heavy price.’
He stepped toward the man who had challenged his strike. The man backed a step away, but Caesar followed a pace and the man suddenly became aware that other soldiers had entered the stockade and lined the walls, surrounding them all.
‘Now’ Caesar said calmly, ‘tell me the precise location of your camp.’
The man frowned. ‘We are camped by the river near here.’
‘Not precise enough.’ Caesar’s blade lanced out, cutting a slice from the man’s arm. The ambassador cried out in pain.
‘Oh shut up, man. I’ve suffered worse myself. Now tell me the precise location of your camp.’
One of the other barbarians stepped forward. ‘Three hours ride at an easy pace, general Caesar. Follow the river and you will find the going easiest.’
‘And the traps most numerous, no doubt.’ Caesar replied.
‘Traps, Caesar?’
With a lightning-quick move, Caesar’s sword arm jerked up. The sharp tip of the blade sliced through the lightly-wounded ambassador’s neck just below his jawline, up through his mouth, shattering teeth, the point appearing through the man’s tongue as he opened his mouth to scream.
‘I want to know about the ambushes and traps you have set between here and there. You!’ he barked at the man who had volunteered the information, ripping the blade out from his latest victim’s throat. ‘And you’ he pointed the gore-slicked sword at a man who had cowered from the outset, shrinking back away from the violence. ‘You two will go with this man’ he gestured at Priscus ‘and you will tell him everything he wishes to know. The prefect is an astute man and will know instinctively if you lie to him. If he is satisfied that you have answered everything truthfully, he will return your mounts to you and you will be free to return to your people. That is the limit of my mercy.’
The two men’s eyes took on a hungry desperation as Priscus gestured to them, four of the legionaries stepping out to join him in escorting them away. Caesar waited until they had left, watching the life draining with infinite slowness from the man who sat cross legged on the floor, whimpering and burbling to his own intestines. Gut wounds could linger for days.
Slowly he looked up at the nine men who remained standing, one of whom was clutching his neck as blood ran between his fingers and soaked into his woollen tunic.
‘Two of you get to live, for now.’ He gestured apparently at random to two of the ambassadors, though Fronto knew damn well that nothing Caesar did was random and that the two men he had picked out were those who had remained as far apart from the rest as possible. Cowards? Or at least men with some sense of self-preservation.
With a gesture to the duty centurion, Caesar stepped back. The centurion and his men rough-handled the two prisoners away. Caesar gestured to him as he left and handed back the crimson sword. The seven remaining ambassadors watched with leaden faces as Caesar stepped back from the circle, gesturing for his senior officers to join him. As they reached the gate, Caesar issued a further command and the legionaries who had lined the inner face of the stockade filed slowly out. The ambassadors stood in confusion in the centre as the circular space emptied around them. Outside, the guards made to close the door but Caesar stayed their hands with an order.
With a gleam of vengeance in his eye, he turned to the assembled mass of angry Gallic auxiliaries.
‘Inside are seven of the leaders responsible for your fight yesterday. Do as you will with them, but I want their heads at least vaguely recognisable afterwards.’
A roar of approval went up among the angry Gauls and Fronto swallowed, his mouth dry at the thought of what was about to happen within that stockade. Dozens and dozens of cavalrymen pushed and jostled to get to the entrance and have a first go at the prisoners.
Caesar glanced around and his gaze fell on a regular cavalry decurion in the crowd. He gestured with a crooked finger and the man strode over, saluting.
‘Once it’s over, have their heads removed, cleaned and bagged up for the journey.’
The soldier saluted again. Fronto looked across at Caesar as they started to walk away.
‘What of the two you had removed at the end there?’
Caesar shrugged. ‘Priscus will probably get everything we need from the first two, but I thought it prudent to have two men spare for him to question afterwards.’
‘And will they be released afterwards as well?’
Caesar flashed a genuine frown of incomprehension at him.
‘As well?’ Realisation struck him. ‘Oh you expect me to release the first two after interrogation? Marcus, if everything goes the way I expect there will not be enough of them left to ride a horse afterwards. There are times, Marcus,’ he added with a curious smile ‘when you are almost deliciously naïve.’
* * * * *
Fronto glanced over his shoulder, trying to keep his mind on the mundanities of legion command, the ordered lines of soldiers marching through the dust behind him, kicking up clouds of grey, the standards glinting in the sunlight, the crimson flags that stood out blood-red against the blue and green of the summer’s day…
But the problem was that even they were too reminiscent and drew his gaze back around to settle on the grisly sight at the front of the army.
Twelve bearded, top-knotted, grisly severed heads bounced up and down on the tips of spears, bobbing along to the gait of the walking horses beneath them. Caesar’s cavalry guard had been given the ‘honour’ of carrying the trophies, and Aulus Ingenuus had selected a dozen of his toughest and most loyal men to carry out the unpleasant task. Flies buzzed in clouds around them where they rode, at the ‘head’ of the army, as Priscus had put it in a moment of attempted light relief.
It was yet another display of ruthlessness from the general that jarred his sensibilities, and yet Fronto could not help but think that the fault really lay with himself. Somehow, despite having served for over a decade with Caesar, in two different theatres of war, deep down Fronto still expected Caesar to live up to the expectations that he’d had all those years ago when he disembarked in Hispania to take up his post. The fact that Caesar consistently failed to live up to them was more likely a problem with his own expectations being too high than with Caesar being less than he could be.
Irritated with the general for his shortcomings, himself for his naivety and the Germanic invaders for being stupid enough to cross the Rhenus and push the matter, Fronto clicked his tongue angrily and glared at the bobbing heads.
‘Do you approve?’
The voice was so close and unexpected that Fronto actually jumped a little in the saddle. Turning, his heart sank at the sight of Labienus, pulling alongside with his dappled grey mare. The staff officer was pointing at the heads.
‘Do you like the new standards the general has raised for the army? Are you proud that the Tenth get to march at the front behind them?’
‘Leave it, Titus.’
‘Do you approve of the execution of men of diplomacy to create a symbol of Roman implacability?’
‘Titus…’snapped Fronto, turning a warning glare on him. Labienus blithely ignored it.
‘Is this the man you came to Gaul to serve with? ‘Cause I know for certain that this is not the man I followed.’
‘Just leave it, Titus.’ Fronto’s face darkened further and Labienus searched his companion’s eyes, feeling that he had scored a point somewhere – touched a nerve; perhaps there was a chance here…
‘Why did you defend the general in the command tent? There was the chance of a peaceful solution. It only took a little more support; a few more of us to stand before Caesar and nudge him to a diplomatic answer. But you defended him. Even though you knew Cicero and I were right. And you did know that, didn’t you?’
Fronto raised a warning hand.
‘Why?’ Labienus pressed. ‘Why defend him? You’ve always stood up to him and argued when you thought he’d crossed the line. You’re renowned for it. It’s what makes most of the officers respect you. I know that I’ve changed over the past four years, but so have you, Marcus. I may have begun to understand something beyond the simple discharge of duty, but you? You’ve hardened. Half the time now, when the general is crossing a line, you’re crossing it with him! Why?’
Fronto turned in the saddle and something in his eyes made Labienus shrink back. Perhaps he had misjudged the legate.
‘Don’t stir up things you don’t understand, Titus.’
‘Fronto…’
‘Could it be that there are things you don’t know? Could it be that I feel I have a duty to defend and support the man who saved Faleria and my mother from murder by the mob in Rome? Could it be that without Caesar my entire family might have died when thugs and gladiators set fire to my father’s house and came to carve Faleria to pieces? That Caesar fought side by side and back to back with me to defend my family? That only he and his veterans stood with us?’
Labienus blinked. He had been in winter quarters with the legions much of the past two years and the troubles in Rome had reached him as mostly rumour, notes and fragments from people like Cicero. He opened his mouth to speak, but Fronto was almost snarling, spittle at the corner of his mouth.
‘Do you think I serve Caesar because of his patronage? The only thing I ever got from him was my first military post in Hispania all those years ago, and I’ve paid him back for that a hundred times over. Patronage? I’m Caesar’s client because I choose to be, not because I’m beholden to him. Do you think that every sestertius Caesar borrowed to put himself at the top came from Crassus? Of course not, but I’ve written off every last coin that changed hands between us because of what that man has done for my family. It’s nothing to do with money or power or position. You know me well enough, Titus, to know I don’t give a rat’s shit about that. But a man who will stand in front of a blade for my sister’s sake?’
Labienus shook his head. ‘I didn’t know, Marcus.’
‘You!’ Fronto snapped, jabbing a finger into Labienus’ chest. ‘You owe him nothing. I know that. You’re no client of Caesar’s. You came on the staff as an equal; a friend and a colleague. You could walk away at any time, so don’t push me to do what you won’t yourself.’
‘Fronto, I have to stay. Someone has to be here to try and temper the worst excesses of this endless war. To gainsay Caesar when he steps across that line. Fair enough if that person cannot be you anymore, and I do understand what you say. I can see the point. But someone has to be here. Where else would I be able to make a difference?’
Fronto withdrew his jabbing finger and fell into a sullen silence. Labienus took a deep breath, dangerously aware that he was about to poke a bear with a sharp stick.
‘But even with what you say and your personal bond with the general, surely you can still see the wrongness of that.’ He pointed at the bobbing heads. ‘He broke his word. He murdered them all, or allowed it to happen. Twelve men of peace and diplomacy hacked to bits in interrogation or torn to pieces by angry Gauls, despite the fact that he’d promised clemency to at least four of them. An oathbreaker is a man to watch, and you know it.’
When Fronto turned back to him, there was a glassy deadness to his stare.
‘It worked. It may not have been the gentlemanly thing to do, and it sure as shit was not the nicest. But look at the results. Three ambushes we might have fallen prey to, and each one dealt with efficiently and quickly by scouts and advance parties just because we knew where to look. Not a man escaped to tell the tale, either. As far as the enemy is concerned, they don’t even know we’re on the way. All because of what happened to those ambassadors. And the very fact that there were such ambushes tells you just how diplomatic those men were planning on being.’
He gestured with a sweep of his arm. ‘And look at the army. Look at the Gaulish auxiliaries and the men of the legions. Those heads don’t make them question the general. Those heads have focused the mind of every man here. The cavalry were beaten, angry and humiliated by their defeat. Now, they’re hungry. They strain at the leash. They’re caged lions waiting to be freed and pointed at the enemy.’
He turned to face the front again.
‘You can call it barbaric or wrong and you may be correct in doing so. But it served a purpose, as Caesar intended. He never does anything without thinking it through.’
Labienus nodded sadly.
‘I can see that you truly believe that, Marcus. I hope that the day when you realise he’s gone too far is not the day you realise that you’ve gone too far as well. Sooner or later the general’s going to cross the line permanently.’
But the taciturn legate remained facing resolutely away, his silence a powerful statement about his mood. Labienus rode alongside for another few moments and finally shrugged, hauling on the reins and drawing his mount out of the column. His eyes narrowed suddenly and he turned back, keeping pace with the column once more as the dusty scout on his fast Gallic horse converged with the column. His eyes rising beyond the man, Labienus could distinctly see half a dozen other scouts pulling back to the column. Another ambush? There should not be any more according to the information Priscus had torn from the captives.
‘Ho! Over here.’
The scout, tracking the call, spotted the armour and plume of a senior officer and veered toward him. Moments later, the man came alongside and slowed his sweating horse to match the column’s sedate pace, saluting somewhat half-heartedly, as the irregular scouts were wont to do.
‘Commander. I report finding enemy camp.’
Labienus nodded seriously, his eyes slipping sideways to see Fronto turn and pay sudden attention.
‘What have you found? Details. Were they prepared? Were you spotted?’
‘Enemy not know we come. Busy with meal. No defences; just picket. Not see us. Caesar get easy fight.’
Labienus nodded with satisfaction. Fronto could not help his lip curling a little contemptuously. It was all well and good to condemn the general’s tactics in favour of a peaceful solution, yet the senior commander could not help but nod appreciatively at the prospect of taking the enemy unawares, regardless.
‘You’d best get back to the general. He’ll want to pass out the orders.’
‘What about you, Fronto? You need to be there too.’
Fronto, shaking his head, pointed back along the line. ‘Everyone else has some manoeuvring to do. Not the Tenth. We stay at the front.’
As Labienus moved off toward the command section, beyond the first three legions where Caesar and his staff rode, Fronto watched the scouts converging on the column.
Riding quietly, his mood dark, Fronto heard the distinctive and purposeful clearing of the throat behind him only on the third time it happened.
‘What?’ he snapped quietly, not even turning.
‘That was a somewhat unprofessional exchange, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.’ Carbo murmured quietly from behind.
‘I find it difficult to care right now.’
There was an uncomfortable silence which, Fronto knew, denoted Carbo taking a mental pause before saying something his commander did not want to hear.
‘I fell the men back out of earshot as soon as I realised you weren’t going to stop, sir, but you have to remember not to show divisions between those in command in front of the men, and not to talk about them as though they’re sheep whose attitude can be manipulated with a few stinking barbarian heads.’
‘But they can, Carbo.’
‘Yes sir. I know that and you know that, and in all likelihood a lot of them know that, but there are some things you just don’t say in front of the men.’
Fronto, his anger beginning to boil over, turned to his chief centurion, but the open sincerity and utmost concern in the man’s pink, shiny, bald face was so utterly disarming that he found himself deflating and calming down before he even realised it.
‘You’re absolutely right, of course, Carbo. Thank you as always. For watching my back, I mean.’
‘My pleasure sir. Wait 'til you get your sword stuck into a few stinking naked tribesmen. It’ll all be alright then.’
Fronto could not help but smile. It was quite astounding how easily Carbo and Atenos, the new training officer, had managed to fill the gaping hole left by the transfer of Priscus and the death of Velius over a year ago. Already he was not at all sure what he would do without the good natured pink face of Carbo interfering in his affairs.
By the time his mood had risen enough to pay attention once more to the world around him, Fronto could see the army moving into position as per Caesar’s pre-arranged orders. The bulk of the cavalry had fallen back to protect the baggage train, their tactics being less useful in an assault on a camp than in a pitched field battle. Only the blooded and vengeful cavalry of Piso, currently serving under a promoted prefect, would be given a direct hand in the fight. The Tenth remained in central position at the front, while the Eighth moved into position on their left and the Fourteenth on their right.
Three columns of legions, with the Seventh, Ninth and Thirteenth following on behind and the Eleventh and Twelfth, along with the vengeful cavalry alae, in the third wave that would seal the trap and prevent escapes.
Fronto squinted into the distance, wishing he could already see the enemy. But they would be in view soon enough. Wishing he could dismount and send his horse back to the commanders, he plodded forward for a while until the command section’s buccinae began to blare out the order to pick up to double speed.
Time to run.
Time to fight.