Priscus stood on the ramparts of Cicero's camp and shook his head in exasperated wonder. For the last hour, as the Eighth and Tenth legions had scurried around putting things right at the ravaged winter quarters, and while the scant remnants of the brave Eleventh had rested and eaten freshly delivered rations in peace, Priscus had prowled the battlefield like some restless spirit, trying to take in the enormity of what had happened here.
It clearly was the uprising he had suspected, that he should have been able to prevent.
And yet something nagged at him and made his scalp itch. Though Ambiorix and Cativolcus had both escaped so he could hardly prove it, none of the captives they had found had ever heard of 'Esus' even when questioned by Blattius Secundus and his evil knife. That, and the distinct absence of any druidical influence found among the enemy - both dead and captive - prompted Priscus to believe that this was something somehow disconnected from his discoveries; that worse was still to come.
The dead were being carried off and dumped in piles for burning, the records of the legion being checked against the corpses' identity tags. Priscus knew from experience that near a tenth of the men would not be found or identified, but at least this way the ferryman could be paid for most of them and stones set up in their memory.
Somewhere back across the camp, he could hear Caesar's voice raised in praise, delivering a public address to the Eleventh and thanking them for their bravery and fortitude, promising them bonuses and loot from the smashed Gallic army and their tribal lands - once punishment was delivered upon them.
The Eleventh weren't cheering, but no one expected that. The poor brave bastards had fought for weeks against insurmountable odds with no hope of relief and with a commander who had apparently been laid low by an almost fatal fever.
It was a feat just to have survived this long. There would be tales written and songs sung about Cicero's siege. He had succeeded on a level more pronounced even than Sabinus' failure.
Priscus tried to block out the sound of the general's words.
No druids. No 'Esus'. Just two big tribes and a lot of smaller ones riding in their wake, raised against Rome. It felt like a war of opportunity, not the grand-scale revolt he had been finding rumours of with every Gallic stone upturned. Even with the troubles down among the Carnutes - which had presumably caused no issue for Plancus - and with the resistance Labienus was meeting in the lands of the Treveri, this was less than nothing compared with what he'd been expecting.
No druids. 'No Esus'.
It wasn't over yet.
This was a prelude.
One of the things that had bound Priscus to his commander - Fronto - in their early days together had been a shared heritage in the great lands of Campania to the south. While Fronto hailed from the seaport of Puteoli and serious lineage and money, Priscus had been raised inland at Nuvlana into an unpopular branch of an old family, with faded glory and heavy debts.
But the one thing they could both recount was the tremors that habitually swept through their homeland. No child of the region had lived to adulthood without feeling the shaking of the ground more than once. And sometimes, when there was to be a big quake - one that sheared marble columns and toppled weaker buildings - there were warning signs in the hours to its approach that a native could watch for: Faint trembles; cracks appearing in walls; even the birds leaving the trees in droves.
That was what this felt like.
It was a first rumble. A crack in the fabric of Gaul. A warning of the earth-shaking to come.
With a sense of foreboding, and wishing for the thousandth time that his old friend was here to share his fears, Priscus turned from the rampart to tend to the business of command.
* * * * *
Caesar pushed the lists and maps back across the table.
‘I think that is all we can do.’
Priscus peered at the map and its markers. ‘The Eighth back in place. The Tenth and Eleventh to Samarobriva. What of the Ninth? Trebonius will likely be here tomorrow.’
‘The Ninth to Samarobriva as well. It was a tactically sound idea to spread out the army, but we've learned a painful lesson, Priscus. Now let us have a strong central force that we can take to any trouble spots. Samarobriva is within a week's march of almost anywhere it could be needed.’
Priscus nodded. ‘With the Eighth back on the coast, and assuming that Labienus is still in position and not wiped out, we have a reasonable grip on the land. I'd like to hear word from both he and Plancus before things are set in stone, though.’
‘Agreed. We will send fast riders in the morning to determine their status. With changes of horse, they should be able to being us news within a week.’
Priscus rubbed his eyes wearily. He really needed to sleep.
‘Are you staying with us until all the reports are in, general? The weather is still unseasonably mild for travelling south.’
Caesar leaned back in his chair.
‘More than that, Priscus: I will be wintering in Samarobriva with you and the main force.’
The veteran officer blinked in surprise. The general never wintered with the army, with political and familial commitments elsewhere. Illyricum sometimes; Cremona and Cisalpine Gaul on occasion. Even Rome for some months. But never the far flung Belgic lands.
‘Caesar?’
‘We both know Gaul is far from settled, Priscus. Anything could happen in the coming months and I do not intend to be sitting sipping mulsum in Pola while Gaul bucks and churns and attempts to dislodge us.’
‘General? Your administration? Your family?’
Something passed across Caesar's face and Priscus found himself leaning back away from the great man's suddenly frightening dark eyes.
‘The administration of a province can be carried out without its governor, Priscus. Only those skimming a dangerous sum from the takings need to supervise it personally. And with my parents and children gone, I am freed of personal entanglements in Rome.’
Priscus felt as though he'd been hit with a brick, such was the force of whatever passed between them in that simple, dead, shocking statement. He sat silent for eight heartbeats, not knowing what to say to his commander, and with a strange suddenness the cloud passed and Caesar stretched, his demeanour switching seamlessly back to the casual military officer
‘Then if that it all, Priscus, I think we should call a general meeting and brief the others, yes?’
Priscus could only nod.
In a year that had brought Rome's control of Gaul to the brink and threatened their very existence, it seemed that crises and disasters were not limited to the army. With a second nod - this time to himself - he stood, wishing the army had not fragmented so much this past year.
‘With respect, Caesar, I fear you need to look to the command system again and promote a few good men to senior positions.’
The general gave him a strange, quirky smile.
‘The matter is in hand, Priscus. Upon our return to Gesoriacum, I enlisted the aid of an old friend. Call the rest in and we will plan ahead for the winter.’