(Camp of the Germanic invaders by the Moselle River)
The scout had been accurate about the state of the enemy camp – that much was obvious as the Eighth, Tenth and Fourteenth legions crossed the brow of a low hill at a double speed march and caught their first view of the enemy encampment splayed out before them.
The camp of the invading tribes took the form of a misshapen oval, the shorter arc at the southeast eaten into by the course of the wide, fast Mosella River. The only concession to defence was a low embankment at roughly thigh height, spotted periodically with watchfires that still burned in the daylight, doubling as cooking fires, throwing numerous columns of dark smoke into the sky. Clearly the barbarians had no fear of attack. More fool them.
As the first ranks crossed the hill, the pace of the attack changed from being set by the command section to the leading officers and, as Fronto bellowed out the order for the charge, relayed by standard bearers and musicians, he could hear the same commands being echoed among the other two legions.
The pace doubled again, the legions settling into a uniform, organised run. They were already half way down the gentle incline to the barbarian camp when the first cries of alarm went up among the tents, wagons and cooking fires.
Fronto smiled in grim satisfaction. Even the legions, the most organised and efficient fighting force in the world, would stand no chance of mounting a concerted defence in the time they had. Disorganised barbarians were simply doomed.
To their credit, a number of bulky, muscular warriors managed to grasp spears or swords from somewhere and clamber up onto the mound in time to meet the advancing legions, but as a defensive force they would be as effective as wheat to the scythe.
Fronto, his horse keeping pace with the front ranks of the legion, was suddenly aware of the drum of other hooves and glanced round to see that two of the tribunes of the legion had moved forward to accompany him. Tetricus had served with the Tenth since the first days in Gaul – a very unusual choice for a junior tribune, who would usually serve the one season and then return to climb the cursus honorum in Rome. But then Tetricus was, like Fronto, a born soldier and a genius engineer – a fact that had led to Fronto promoting him to the position of senior tribune this spring in the absence of Caesar’s unfortunate nephew. Crito, next to him, had now served two seasons, declining the chance to return home last year. They were two good men to have with you in a fight.
Carbo was bellowing encouraging phrases, each more graphic and belligerent than the last, firing his men’s blood. Atenos, one of the senior centurions and the Tenth’s chief training officer, had his teeth bared like some wild animal moving in for the kill.
Pride.
That was what Fronto always felt going into battle with the Tenth. He personally disliked riding into combat while his men marched, but Carbo’s constant badgering about how an officer should act in front of his men had finally begun to take its toll. Besides, Fronto reminded himself as the legions surged across the last few paces to the rampart, he was not getting any younger. Priscus took every opportunity to remind him that he was now the oldest serving officer after Caesar himself.
Suddenly the time for thought was past.
The legions reached the camp of the Ubii, the Usipetes and the Tencteri like a swarm of glinting steel locusts, flowing over the feeble defensive embankment with barely a drop in the pace. Fronto hauled on Bucephalus’ reins and kicked, launching the beast into the air and clearing the rampart with the two tribunes at his back.
The ranks of armoured men poured through the camp, all pretence of formation and order thrown to the wind as they tore along open grass between the multi-hued tents, hacking down fleeing barbarians. Some men pushed their way into the tents as they passed, many finding the occupants still struggling to pull on boots or draw weapons.
It was slaughter, pure and simple.
Fronto and his tribunes pushed on toward the centre, occasionally swiping out with their swords and maiming or dispatching a warrior – some of whom struggled to face them while others ran, having clearly abandoned all hope of defending the camp.
Endless moments of battle passed in bloody carnage before Fronto found himself somewhere deep in the heart of the Germanic camp, spying the enemy’s baggage that stood in disordered piles among carts and grazing beasts. Legionaries surged through the camp to his left and right, some bearing the standards of the Tenth, some of the Eighth or Fourteenth, with other legions close behind them.
The first the legate realised of the trouble he was in was when Bucephalus reared in pain, a neat red line sliced across his shoulder. Fronto, never the most capable horseman, struggled for only a moment before losing his grip on the reins. The four-horned saddle held him tight for a moment, bruising his hips and smashing the breath from him as he jerked this way and that.
Bucephalus was rearing and bucking, smashing out with his powerful hooves at the three men making a concerted effort to put spears into the Roman officer before them. Another spear point jabbed into Bucephalus’ neck – far from a killing blow; more an accidental strike – and the great black horse bucked once more, finally sending Fronto flying from the beast’s back as one of the wood and leather saddle horns gave under the pressure and broke.
The world blurred blue, green, red and silver in a nauseating and repetitive sequence as Fronto hit the ground hard and managed to curl into a roll at the last moment, his sword thrust out to one side to prevent accidental wounding.
His head spun as he finally came to rest on his back, the breath knocked from him and a headache that felt like a four-day hangover already slamming at the inside of his skull. Blinking repeatedly to try and clear the painful, dizzying semi-blindness, Fronto just caught sight of the large shadowy shape of Bucephalus hurtling back through the alarmed crowds of legionaries. Even in the depth of battle and the fug of confusion he found time to be grateful to Fortuna that the steed, gifted to him three years ago by Longinus, had fled the scene more or less intact.
Suddenly a shadow was above him, lunging down with a spear. Desperately, he rolled to his left as the spear slammed into the turf where he had just been. In a panic he brought his sword round to try and deal with the man but, even as he did, a pilum punched through the man’s chest, hurling him back out of sight, flailing and screaming.
Then legionaries were swarming past and across him, swords out, shield bosses punching into unprotected faces. A familiar huge and muscular figure in a harness of medal discs appeared above him, a grin splitting that wide face beneath the bulky blond moustaches. Atenos reached down with his free hand and grasped Fronto’s wrist, hauling him up from the floor with as little effort as a man lifting a child’s wooden doll.
‘Trouble, sir?’
Fronto reached up and gingerly touched the back of his head, concerned that he might find a sizeable hole there leaking brains, but found only an intact skull with a little blood matting the hair.
‘Screw Carbo. Next time I do this, I do it on foot. That bloody horse is more dangerous than a thousand barbarians.’
Atenos grinned at him again and patted him on the back with enough force to make him stagger a little.
‘We’ve got them on the run anyway, sir. Looks like they’re mounting a bit more of a defence in the other half of the camp, though.’
‘Everything running smoothly?’ Fronto asked quietly as he moved his arm in circles, wincing at the muscles pulled during his fall.
‘Mostly. Haven’t seen the other tribunes since the three of you passed us just inside the defences, though.’
Fronto peered into the chaos around him. Shouts, crashes and the clang of steel on iron rang out from the north-eastern end of the camp. The legionaries now swarming through this area bore the standards of the Ninth and Seventh. Of mounted tribunes there was no sign.
‘You’d best get back to your century, Atenos. I’m going to try and find Tetricus and Crito. They were with me a moment ago, so they can’t be far.’
Atenos shook his head. ‘My men are already in the thick of it with the rest. My optio can keep them in line, and you’re in no state to go staggering through an enemy camp alone.’
As if to prove his point, the towering Gaul let go of Fronto’s shoulder that he had been clasping for the last few moments and Fronto lurched to the side and almost fell. With a wide smile, Atenos grasped him again and held him steady until the legate nodded.
‘Come on.’
The baggage area of the enemy camp had seen some of the fiercer combat through the slaughter and, though the barbarians were being constantly pushed back and were offering little in the way of resistance, the bodies here had mounted up to create piles three deep in places.
The site of the tribunes’ last position was not hard to spot.
Tetricus’ white mare lay amid the bodies, a broken spear shaft protruding from her neck. Crito’s bay steed lay still only a few paces further on. Try as he might, with a lump rising in his throat, Fronto could not see a sign of an officer’s armour or uniform among the bodies, and they should be easy enough to spot, given the scarcity of Roman corpses among the dead.
‘Over here’ Atenos shouted, beckoning to Fronto. His heart pounding, Fronto stepped through the gore and scattered bodies to where the large Gallic centurion stood pointing down into the murk.
Amid the churned turf and mud, slick with blood, lay a body face down and splayed out. Fronto reached down gingerly to the figure in the crimson tunic and the burnished cuirass and gently hauled on him, turning him over.
Crito.
A powerful blow from an axe had punched through the bronze armour and deep into the chest, leaving a long, jagged rent in the metal through which mangled insides oozed in recent death. The officer’s head lolled at an uncomfortable angle, his neck likely broken as he fell.
Fronto felt a surge of relief that the body was Crito and not that of Tetricus, and berated himself silently for such an unworthy thought.
‘Fronto?’
His head snapped round at the mention of his name and it took the legate a long moment to spot the source of the sound.
Tetricus’ short, curly hair appeared from the shadow beneath a wagon, a face that was paler than it should be beneath the mass of dark curls, looking up at him with obvious relief. Fronto felt a weight fall away from his shoulders as he stepped forward.
‘If I have to tell Caesar that I found you hiding under a cart, he’ll send you home, you know that?’ he said with a grin. Next to him, Atenos was frowning and, as Fronto noticed, he squinted into the shadows to see what had caused the centurion such concern.
Tetricus was hauling himself along the ground out from the shadow of the wagon with the pale, taut face of someone in great pain. Again, Fronto felt his heart lurch as he stepped forward urgently. Atenos joined him and they reached out to help Tetricus from his hiding place.
As the large centurion helped the man up, Fronto saw the wash of blood that poured down the tribune’s leg from a vicious thigh wound, the hilt of a bloody knife still protruding from it; saw the limp left arm and the jagged, blood-coated shaft that stuck out of the rear shoulder of Tetricus’ cuirass.
‘For the love of Venus, they did a number on you.’
Atenos, next to him, shook his head. ‘Look again, sir.’
Fronto blinked and looked at Tetricus again, wondering what it was he was supposed to be seeing. The man was pale, having lost a great deal of blood, but he would live. The chances were good that both arm and leg would make it through, so long as the medicus did a good job. After all, the armour had prevented…
Fronto’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer. What he had taken for a barbarian spear head beneath the thick coating of blood and mud was nothing of the sort. The bent and broken shaft that projected from Tetricus’ shoulder was all that remained of a Roman pilum, the shaft broken off. Already knowing what he was going to see, his eyes dropped to the leg wound. Again, beneath the mud and blood, the shape of a Roman pugio dagger hilt was unmistakable when he looked closer.
‘Who?’
Tetricus winced as he tried to put weight on his leg, but Atenos reached out and took a firm hold of the tribune.
‘I don’t know. Someone stabbed me in the thigh while I was still on the horse and pulled me off. We were in a thick mass of fighting, and I couldn’t see who it was – there were legionaries and officers all round me. My horse ran forward and I staggered to my feet to go catch her when something hit me in the back and knocked me flat. I must have passed out for a moment, ‘cause when I came to the fighting had moved on. I hauled myself under the nearest cart and waited.’
Fronto spun round, as though expecting to be able to find the would-be killer in plain sight, but only the occasional straggler from the Eleventh and Twelfth legions moved through the camp here, crouching to dispatch wounded barbarians and to deliver an occasional mercy strike to a fellow legionary who was beyond help.
‘When I find the bastard responsible for this, I’m going to tear his face off with my teeth’ Fronto snarled, as he reached out to take the other side of Tetricus. ‘Come on. Let’s get you to a capsarius.’
* * * * *
The three men, Fronto and Atenos all but carrying the wounded tribune between them, crossed the low embankment and moved slowly up the slope toward the Roman command section on the low rise. Caesar and his lieutenants sat on their horses in a small knot, gesturing at the camp below, deep in discussion. The artillery and the support wagons were still arriving slowly on the scene, and being corralled into groups. The medici and their staff were assembling three large tents to serve as temporary hospitals, while a number of orderlies stacked stretchers ready to run down to the camp and collect any wounded they could find.
By the time the three men were almost half way, the medical section had spotted them and two legionaries were running down with a stretcher. As they arrived and gently took control of Tetricus, lowering him to the ground ready to carry him back, Fronto caught one of them by the shoulder.
‘Make sure he’s tended first and best.’
The orderly looked for a moment as though he might counter with a sarcastic remark, but caught sight of Fronto’s face and wisely bit it back, nodding instead. Fronto and Atenos waited for a moment, watching the two men rushing Tetricus toward the only finished tent, and then became aware of someone waving at them from the command section.
Changing direction, they jogged up the gentle slope to the officers, where Labienus walked his horse forward a few steps to meet them. Fronto saw the strain in the man’s face and the risen colour that spoke eloquently of the arguments the man had been very recently involved in.
‘Fronto? You’ve been in the midst of it. Tell me what’s happening.’
The legate shrugged. ‘As expected. We caught them completely unawares. They’ve fought a desperate defence across the camp, but it was hardly even an obstacle.’
‘Do you think they’d surrender, given the opportunity?’
‘I don’t think they’re organised and calm enough to surrender. I doubt they’d even listen to you. My guess is they’ll flee the camp and try and get away. They certainly can’t hold it.’
Labienus sagged, but Caesar, who had been close by and listening, stepped his own horse forward to join them.
‘It looks like they’re trying to float their rafts out into the river. If they can get across to the far bank, they’ll be safe.’
Sabinus, nearby, nodded. ‘There’s a mass of them at the far side now too. You can just see them. They’re running toward the Rhenus. We’ve broken them completely.’
Fronto glanced across at Caesar, whose expression suggested that the fight was far from over yet. He gestured to one of the mounted messengers who waited nearby. ‘Get to the cavalry commanders. Tell them to leave the wagons and form up their men. Varus is still in recovery, so speak to his second. I want his wing to skirt the camp as fast as they can and cut off any survivors fleeing to the Rhenus. Galronus needs to take his men to the right of the field, along the river bank and deal with those men trying to get the rafts into the water. This fight ends here.’
Labienus turned to Caesar, a frown of concern creasing his face. ‘And once they’re surrounded and with no escape, general?’
Caesar turned a flat expression on his senior officer.
‘They aren’t just warriors, Caesar. This is three whole tribes who came across the Rhenus. There are women and children, old folk and babies. We need at least to try and behave like civilised soldiers.’
A flash of anger passed across Caesar’s face at the scarcely concealed accusation of barbarism.
‘Very well, Titus. If you want to save their old folk, go and try. Obtain their surrender.’
‘But Caesar? You need to call off the pursuit first.’
The general’s cold eyes regarded Labienus with steely dispassion.
‘I will do no such thing. I have to consider the likelihood that you will not even get their attention. I will not give them time to regroup and face me properly.’
Labienus glared at Caesar for a moment and then turned and rode off down the hill, kicking his horse into speed as he raced toward what had now become a scene of slaughter and mayhem. Fronto turned to Atenos.
‘We’d best get back to the Tenth and try and rein them in a bit’ he said quietly, glancing at Caesar and hoping his words had been quiet enough to go unheard. But the general was paying him no attention, his gaze instead was locked on the two wings of cavalry that were now marshalling on the low rise and beginning to move down to their assigned tasks.
* * * * *
The camp resembled a mass grave as the two officers picked their way through it. All the wounded barbarians had been dispatched by the second and third waves of assaulting legionaries, and most of the Roman casualties had now been moved off by the capsarii and the medical orderlies, stretchered back up to the three great surgical tents being raised on the hill.
Fronto and Atenos picked their way through the field of bodies, wondering where the Tenth would be now. The sounds of distant fighting still echoed from the far end of the camp, and the two men made toward the sound as swiftly as they could.
The bodies that littered the ground were so numerous that it was impossible to not pay a certain amount of attention as they hurried through and Fronto noted with some distaste as he moved just how many of them appeared to be the women and children of whom Labienus had spoken. It seemed that not only had the attacking legionaries been less than selective with their targets, but also the Germanic tribesfolk had done nothing to try and shelter their civilian counterparts, the warriors having run alongside them and many women and children being left to die as the warriors ran.
A distant call from a buccina identified the location of the Tenth and the two men angled off to the south, toward the river Mosella. A sound like distant thunder told them that Galronus and his cavalry were converging on the very same spot.
The sounds of fighting became gradually louder and more distinct as they neared the river and finally, pushing their way past a large, partially collapsed tent, Fronto and Atenos laid eyes on the scene at the water’s edge.
A detachment of legionaries – what looked like roughly half a legion in total – had pinned the barbarians against the waterside. The standards and flags identified the detachment as being composed of men from the Tenth and the Seventh, while Galronus’ green cavalry wing, even as Fronto watched, crashed into the barbarians’ flank along the river, jabbing down with their spears and scything out with swords, their organisation and fighting style still very much Gallic, as yet untempered by too much Roman influence.
With some dismay, Fronto noted that once again the barbarian force consisted of warriors, but also of women, children and old folk, and yet all of them seemed determined to fight back, women wielding weapons stolen from the dead, children swishing and stabbing with sticks, throwing stones, or hefting other makeshift weapons.
The reason for their combined and desperate defiance lay beyond, protected from the Roman attackers by a sea of flailing people: two dozen sizeable rafts, each large enough to carry twenty or more people, were being manhandled into the water, still tied to the bank with ropes to prevent them rushing away downstream. Even as Fronto watched, the first raft began to float out into the water. The occupants had no oars but, using heavy poles, they pushed the raft out into the deeper, fast flowing water before throwing the poles to the bank for the next group, then dropping their arms into the water and scooping their way out into mid-river.
The rafts were just as likely to return to this bank further down or hurtle downriver until they flowed out into the massive channel of the Rhenus as they were actually to cross here, but that seemed of little consequence to the fleeing folk before him.
Fronto paused.
‘What are you thinking?’ murmured Atenos next to him.
‘I’m trying to decide whether Labienus is right. Perhaps we ought to just let them go. Look at them. They’re in a panic and they’re mostly civilians. This lot aren’t going turn round and regroup. They won’t stop running and swimming until they reach the east bank of the Rhenus again.’
Atenos nodded.
‘It would be breaking the general’s orders, though, sir. And these people are invaders. Don’t forget that.’
Fronto turned to his centurion friend in surprise, but nodded.
‘You’re right. And, of course, slaves help pay for the campaign too. Come on.’
Breaking into a jog, Fronto and Atenos made their way to the scene of fighting, shouting at the rear ranks of legionaries to step aside, making for where they could see a group of standards wavering. Slowly, they managed to push through the crowd until they spotted Cicero’s ornate helmet and white plume near the standards. Angling toward him, Fronto hauled men out of the way.
‘Cicero!’
The man was busy bellowing orders to his men and threats to the barbarians only twenty feet away and roaring their defiance in guttural tongues.
‘Cicero!’ Fronto bellowed again as the two men reached the small command group. Two of Cicero’s tribunes finally spotted the mud-spattered legate and his centurion and tugged at Cicero. The Seventh’s commander turned and noticed Fronto.
‘The bastards are getting away, Fronto. We can’t kill them fast enough to get to the rafts.’
Fronto nodded.
‘Galronus’ cavalry are here now and they’re pushing along the water’s edge. They’ll cut the enemy off completely in a few moments. Maybe three or four rafts will get away. That’s all. Once their escape route’s gone, they should surrender!’
Cicero smiled grimly and turned back to his men, shouting orders and encouragement.
‘Had a bit of a fall, legate?’
Fronto turned to see Fabius standing nearby, a cold smile on his face. The centurion was liberally spattered with blood and wielded a gladius in one hand and his vine staff in the other.
‘Horse threw me in the fight.’ His eyes strayed down suspiciously to the man’s waist, expecting an empty scabbard where the man’s pugio should be, but he was a little disappointed to note that the hilt of the dagger rose proud from the sheath.
Fabius nodded a faint bow and then turned and pushed his way back into the fight. Fronto glared after him until he was lost from sight in the press. He would be willing to put money on the fact that, if he found Furius, the other veteran’s dagger sheath would be empty.
A hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly and he looked round to see Atenos smiling.
‘The cavalry’s behind them now. It’s over, sir.’
Fronto tried to see across the crowd but, being more than a head shorter than the centurion, he could see little but a sea of milling legionaries.
‘They’re cutting the ropes’ Atenos said with satisfaction. ‘You can see the empty rafts drifting out into the water. Arms are getting raised too. Looks like they’re surrendering.’
As Fronto listened, he could hear the distinctive sound of hundreds, even thousands, of weapons being cast to the ground in defeat.
It seemed that it really was over. The invaders had been smashed and beaten, their army destroyed, their camp ravaged. Survivors who made it to safety would be few and far between and there would be a lot of slaves taken. It was not even midsummer and the legions had already achieved their season’s objectives.
Fronto smiled to himself, despite everything. The image of Lucilia and the memory of the warm waters of the bay below Puteoli sprang unbidden to his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to give her the marriage she sought this year after all.
* * * * *
Fronto took a deep breath and, rolling his aching shoulders and wincing at the pains he had suffered in the fall, glanced left and right at the crimson vexillum flags bearing Caesar’s Taurus emblem in gold, and nodded at the two guards, who opened the flap.
‘Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto’ announced the cavalry bodyguard, ushering Fronto into the tent.
‘Ah, Marcus. I’d been hoping you would deign this meeting worthy of your presence at some point.’ Caesar’s expression suggested that there was little intended humour within the sarcasm.
‘Apologies Caesar’ he replied with as little apology in the tone as he could manage. ‘I have come straight from the medicus.’
‘Your tribune?’
‘Tetricus, yes. He’ll live. He may suffer restricted movement in his arm and leg, but that’s what we expect from Roman weapons: killing and wounding efficiency.’ His sharp, almost accusatory words echoed throughout the quiet tent and he took a moment to cast his eye round the assembled officers, allowing it to linger on Cicero and his pet centurions. Neither Furius nor Fabius seemed fazed by the words.
‘The matter should be investigated, Fronto’ Caesar confirmed quietly, ‘but you must be prepared to accept that it may have been an accident. In the press of war, accidents are inevitable, as you’re well aware.’
Fronto harrumphed and fell into position in a sullen silence, glaring for long moments at the centurions before turning to Caesar.
‘The figures appear to be more than acceptable so far’ Caesar announced, running a finger down the tallies on the tablets before him. ‘Currently they stand at forty seven men of the legions, including two centurions, an optio and a tribune, with a little over a hundred being tended by the medical section and nine unaccounted for. The cavalry lost twenty eight men and fifty one horses, due to the barbarians’ unorthodox and effective anti-horse tactics. So, even assuming the worst, we lost less than a hundred men in total. I think we can all consider that a more than successful engagement.’
‘And the enemy?’ enquired Brutus.
‘A little vague. Estimates range from thirty thousand to eighty thousand. Until the men have finished stripping the camp of anything valuable or useful and gathered the dead for disposal we won’t have better figures. We’ll never be able to be accurate, given that the number of tribesmen who were washed away in the currents of the Mosella and the Rhenus or sank without trace due to the weight of their armour will remain unknown. Suffice it to say there were a great deal more of them than us.’
‘I see the men are already dipping into the funeral club coffers and building the pyres for the Roman dead’ Fronto noted. ‘Late this afternoon, I suggest you check the wind direction and make sure you stay upwind. It’s likely to get a bit smoky. Didn’t see pyres or pits for the enemy, though?’ he added suspiciously.
‘They will be left in piles for the scavengers in the wild’ Caesar said flatly. Expressions of surprise and consternation rose on the faces of a number of officers, but Caesar blithely ignored them. ‘Prefect Lentulus?’
A cavalry officer Fronto did not recognise stepped out of the circle of men.
‘Tell us about the flight of the camp’s inhabitants.’
Labienus stepped out and stood next to Lentulus.
‘I can tell you about that, Caesar. I rode out to give them the opportunity to surrender, but this ‘officer’ here refused to rein in his men and stop chasing them, so I couldn’t find a way to address them. In my opinion, this man was not ready for such a command and should be sent back to his ala.’
The prefect shot a sour glance at Labienus and took a step forward.
‘As you are aware, general, the men under my command had their blood up. They were seeking revenge on the bastards who had ambushed them in the valley, and that was well known when we were assigned to the fight. Once they had the scent of the fleeing barbarians nothing short of chaining them to the floor was going to prevent the slaughter that occurred.’
Fronto frowned. A look had passed briefly between the prefect and the general; a look of recognition; understanding; possibly even approval.
‘It was unnecessary and entirely avoidable!’ snapped Labienus. Lentulus turned away from Caesar and fixed his glare on the seething senior commander. ‘Once Commander Varus’ cavalry had cut off their escape route, it was inevitable that my men would take the opportunity to exact revenge for their own defeat and losses. No man – not even you, commander – would have been able to stop them.’
He turned back to Caesar. ‘And, I will state for the record that, had I been able to prevent it, I would not have done, regardless. The scum got what was coming to them. And with it we’ve ended the presence of the invaders here and achieved what we set out to do.’
Labienus continued to glare coldly at the man, but Caesar clapped his hands and drew everyone’s attention.
‘And that is the pertinent point. We have crushed the invasion. Now all that remains is to make sure that it never happens again. I will be organising further strategy meetings in good time but, for now, we should lick our wounds, such as they are, and tot up our successes.’ He turned to Varus, who stood tall and steady, despite the sling that held his broken arm tight and the padding beneath his tunic where the hip wound was bound. ‘I would like you to arrange mounted patrols and scouts to range up to twenty miles each way along the banks of the Rhenus and twenty miles back along the Mosella; long-range scouts out to the south, as well. I want continual and up to date information on the location and movements of the enemy cavalry that we know are still out there. We cannot afford to be taken off guard.’
Varus, standing painfully, his arm tightly slung and leaning on a stick with his good hand, started to rattle off figures and facts and Fronto’s mind began to drift along to the drone of planning. As the conversation hummed slowly around him, his eyes fell on Lentulus, now stepping back into the line, a virtual crackle of angry electricity between him and Labienus. The more he ran his mind back over the statements and the shared looks between prefect and general, the more convinced he became that the man had been following Caesar’s direct orders to wipe out as many of the barbarians as they possibly could and prevent the possibility of surrender. It would, after all, hardly be unlike the general to do such a thing.
Once more, his gaze passed to Cicero and the two centurions. Could Furius or Fabius have been responsible? They both bore their pugio at their belt, but a replacement would hardly be difficult to obtain had they lost one on the battlefield. A centurion did not carry a pilum into battle but, again, it would hardly be difficult to lay hands on one, even at a moment’s notice, in the press of men.
He wondered where the two weapons used were now. Had the medicus kept them when the wounds were tended? Had Tetricus taken them? It was, of course, possible that one of them had some sort of distinguishing mark that could tie them to their owner.
The meeting rolled on with discussions of the logistics of moving the army closer to the Rhenus compared with making use of the enemy’s partial fortifications and setting camp in their current location. Priscus stated his case with his usual brusqueness, Cita arguing his corner at every turn, other officers making their feelings known whenever the questions touched their commands.
Through the next quarter hour and more, Fronto stood silent, letting the murmur of complications and disagreements wash over him. His thoughts drifted over the river and past the plain where the enemy cavalry raided somewhere out of scouting distance, past the great oppidum of Vesontio, over the mountains of the Helvetii’s land, past Caesar’s province of Cisalpine Gaul, across mile after mile of tilled and mined land in Italia.
His mind’s eye focused in like the view of a circling bird. A great mountain by the sea in a bay that looked from above as though a Titan had taken a bite out of the land. Cities in glorious marble and brick. Circling down away from the mountain, past the old Greek port, past the bubbling mud and steaming white crater of the Forum Vulcani, down toward the port where Fronto had spent the blistering summers of his youth.
The villa on the hillside with its familiar outbuildings. The patio where his father had first taught him how to hold a sword. And finally there she was: Lucilia, standing in a stola of midnight blue, with her back to the glittering waters of the bay far below, leaning on the balustrade and smiling at him.
‘When are we going home?’
Only as a stunned silence settled around him did Fronto realise that he had voiced the thought out loud. His mind reeled back across the hundreds of miles, leaving that wondrous figure above the shining sea and refocusing on the tent full of sweating officers. Everyone was staring at him. Priscus was still standing in the centre of the tent, his finger wagging at Cita redundantly.
‘Fronto?’ Caesar frowned.
The legate felt a surge of automatic panic flowing through him.
‘That came out wrong. Sorry. What I mean is, though, that we’re almost done here. You and Varus both said so. Once we can round up the stray cavalry they sent across the river, we’ve completely destroyed the invaders. Very few will have fled back across the river, and they’ll have their own trouble dealing with the Suevi who pushed them here in the first place.’
Caesar simply raised his eyebrow questioningly. Fronto recognised the warning sign, but he had accidentally committed himself now.
‘So I imagine that once we’ve smashed that cavalry force, we can report the invasion dealt with to the Gallic council, quarter the troops and then go home?’
He realised with some distress and annoyance that his voice had taken on an almost whinging tone toward the end, like a petulant child wanting to leave the table half way through a meal.
‘You believe that the situation will be settled then, Marcus?’
‘Well, I see no reason…’
‘And what of those who return across the river, and the other tribes that live nearby? What if the advance of the Suevi is too much for them and they feel compelled once more to cross the river? What if the Suevi themselves decide to cross? How can we report this border of Gallic lands safe from invasion while we allow a threat to remain?’
Fronto frowned. ‘You intend to crush the Germanic tribes, Caesar? Now that Gaul is peaceful, we move on east? A dangerous decision I’d say, general.’
Caesar’s knuckles had whitened where his hands were entwined on the table.
‘A demonstration to the tribes across the Rhenus, Marcus. A little warning of what we are capable of and willing to do. We will cross the Rhenus and punish them to discourage them from ever considering crossing the water again.’
A number of heads nodded in agreement. Fronto was hardly surprised to see Cicero, Labienus and a few of their cronies begin to argue in hushed tones, quietening only when Caesar threw a glance at them.
Fronto drew a deep breath. ‘A punitive strike across the Rhenus, then. Fair enough, general. I can see the sense in the move.’
The discussions rose once more like a wave of noise and Fronto stood quietly and listened for a few moments more until Caesar drew the meeting to a close with an irritable sweep of his hand, his flinty gaze passing over Labienus and resting on Fronto. The legate pretended not to notice and waited as the officers began to file out, falling into the line and exiting the tent with some relief.
So it was not over yet. His mind reached back over the weeks and months to Balbus’ villa above Massilia. ‘He will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume’, Balbus had said with a faintly challenging tone. Fronto had refused to listen; refused to acknowledge any possible truth in the accusation of Balbus’ words. ‘Watch what happens’ he had added. ‘If the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.’
Fronto’s gaze passed across the assembled legions and auxiliary cavalry. He had not questioned the general about the possibility of settling the veterans here, but it would be a solution; a good one. With a permanently resident force of veteran ex-soldiers, able to take up arms and defend their land, no Germanic tribe would find crossing into Belgic territory so easy in future. But this was clearly not the general’s intention. He wanted a push into their own lands. The senate would have a fit when they heard. The people would celebrate and praise the general, but the tide in the senate would turn against him all the more.
‘Cicero!’
Spotting the commander of the Seventh, for once lacking the company of Furius and Fabius, Fronto hurried to catch up.
‘Fronto.’
‘You heard about my tribune?’
Cicero nodded. ‘Nasty business. You actually believe he was deliberately targeted by our own people?’
‘It seems the only conclusion I can draw from finding a pilum and a pugio sticking out of him, yes.’
‘Unfortunate. I don’t really know the man, but I gather he’s something of a hero. A clever engineer they say. Wasn’t he involved in the fight at Geneva?’
‘Yes. He’s a good friend, Cicero. I will be… vexed… when I find out who’s behind it.’
Cicero paused and turned to him, his face darkening.
‘A threat, Fronto?’
‘Not at all. Why would I threaten you, since you had nothing to do with it? No. But a couple of centurions with a grudge against him might want to keep one eye open for the rest of their lives.’
Cicero sighed and strolled on. ‘You have to stop letting your personal prejudices against my men inform all your opinions and actions, Fronto. I may not agree with Caesar or even you at times, and Furius and Fabius may have been Pompeian veterans, but they fought like lions yesterday for our cause. Whatever else happens, Fronto, we’re all Romans. Remember that.’
Fronto came to a halt and watched as Cicero strode off toward the camp of the Seventh.
Just how far could any man be trusted in the army of Caesar these days?