‘Come. Join me,’ Caesar said, and began to trot his horse lightly in the wake of the legionaries and their four captives. Four of the praetorian horsemen went with their commander, staying close, ready to throw their shields around him if he were to suddenly come into danger. Fronto and the other officers kicked their own steeds into movement and followed the general.
Working to some unknown but prearranged plan, the legionaries moved on until they were just three hundred paces from the walls of Metropolis that reared up golden in the sunlight before them. There they fell into two lines, pushing the four captives out before them. Caesar gestured for the others to halt their horses behind the small party, while he himself rode around them so that he was clearly visible from the walls. The praetorians moved close enough to protect him if the worst should happen, for a good archer could have planted a shaft in the general from that distance. Still there were no signs of aggression from the walls, though there was equally no sign of admittance being granted.
‘Metropolis is closed to you by order of the Archon Timocreon,’ called an authoritative, militant voice.
Caesar nodded for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. ‘The Archon Timocreon might want to rethink his decision. I offer one chance to change your mind, and one only. And to aid you in your decision-making, I bring you these four good Thessalian folk.’
At his words, legionaries stepped forwards and cut the bonds of the prisoners, pushing them forwards.
‘Tell them who you are,’ Caesar said, not unkindly, which seemed odd. ‘And of Gomphi.’
Fronto felt a chill run through him as the four, who were clearly part of one family, staggered forwards into that strange, dangerous space between the Romans and the walls of the defiant city. They looked at one another, and discussed something quietly.
‘Tell them,’ Caesar said again, this time with a little more steel.
The discussion ended and the man, presumably the girl’s father, stepped forth.
‘I am Eriphus of Gomphi,’ he shouted, ‘a basket maker. This is my wife Astyothea, and my daughter Melinna and father Simmias.’
‘Well met, basket maker,’ called the man at the gate with a clear waver of uncertainty. What was this trick of the Romans?
‘We are the survivors of Gomphi.’
A plain and simple statement, yet it carried a lead weight of horror, and its effects were visible in the men on the walls. The watchers immediately broke into small groups and argued or whispered to one another. There was an extended pause.
‘Gomphi has been destroyed?’ the speaker asked finally.
‘Gomphi is gone,’ corrected the basket weaver. ‘All that remains are ruins and corpses, and those who died swiftly were the lucky ones.’ The man cast a bitter look back at Caesar, who simply nodded.
There was a flurry of movement and some heated discussion at the gate.
‘I advise you to make your decision swiftly,’ Caesar said, his tone becoming dangerous. ‘My artillery are being brought forwards.’
The pause dragged out for only four more heartbeats, and then the city gate swung open.
‘Archon Timocreon has been removed from office,’ called the voice, and Fronto snorted. There had been little time for such a thing. He had the private suspicion that the city’s archon was probably still in his council chamber deciding how to send for help, and would react with some surprise when his officers came for him to tell him he was no longer in command.
‘Gomphi is gone,’ repeated Caesar, though now quietly, to the four survivors near him. ‘I recommend that you become Eriphus the basket weaver of Metropolis.’
The four of them looked nervously at the general, who thrust a finger out towards the gate. ‘Go.’
They needed no further urging, breaking into a run, looking back repeatedly, half expecting to be ridden down by cavalry or speared with javelins. No move was made against them and in thirty heartbeats they passed through the open gate of Metropolis and to safety.
‘You, Gaius Julius Caesar, are a devious man,’ grinned Marcus Antonius.
The general shrugged. ‘It is an old adage to say that actions speak louder than words, but it is true nonetheless. The word of mouth that reached Metropolis would be dreadful, but second-hand news is still only second-hand. To hear from those who were there carries a great deal more weight, and even now the people of Metropolis are learning that they made the correct decision from those four survivors. I fear we would even now be bringing up the siege ladders had our friend Eriphus not been here to talk.’
Fronto nodded. ‘And now the word that spreads will be not only of the total destruction of Gomphi and the horrors perpetrated there, but they will also speak of your magnanimity and the offer of peace you gave Metropolis. Sharp.’
Caesar bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘And to further strengthen that reputation, if the former archon Timocreon survives, we shall pardon him and send him into comfortable retirement, though I suspect the good citizens of Metropolis will be rather eager to use him as a sign of their faithfulness.’
A party of officials from the city rode forth from the gate, unarmed and in wealthy civilian attire. As the officers sat silent and impressive, Caesar received them in state, accepted their oaths of loyalty and thanked them. Soon after, the commanders of the Caesarian army, under the watchful eye of Ingenuus and his men, made their way beneath the gate arch of Metropolis while the legions moved out to make camp in the surrounding countryside.
Fronto, close behind the general and with Galronus riding beside him, listened to the fawning offers of the desperate nobles of the city as they were escorted to the heart of the place. Caesar and his staff would be given the very best accommodation. Would they be staying long? The city had had a good year for produce and the store houses were full. They would make available for Caesar’s men everything they could spare. The harvest would be ready soon, and it appeared it would be a good one. Perhaps the legions would like to help, and reap a great reward. And so on, and so on.
Fronto had to admit that it was refreshing to hear. Apart from a few badly-provisioned and desperate towns throughout their journey that had hurriedly turned over what they had, most of all they had endured hardship since Dyrrachium. At least they had not been pursued by Pompey, who had chosen adequate supplies over the prosecution of the campaign. It was nice to be treated well, and the men would relish the rest.
Fronto was shown to quarters in a well-appointed house that he would be sharing with two other officers. Galronus and Brutus would be good companions, he decided. The archon of the city was brought before them in chains, pushed to the dusty ground, but Caesar magnanimously granted him a pardon for his actions and had him released.
By mid-afternoon, Fronto was once more out in the city and looking for a tavern. He found one on a gently sloping street, which had a pleasant garden shaded by plane trees, vines and climbing plants growing up trellises and across pergolas overhead. He took a seat at one of the tables and drank two pleasant, refreshing cups of watered wine before Galronus found him.
He sat there with other officers wandering past and noticing him, the odd one coming in to join in, and started as Caesar suddenly appeared outside in just his tunic and cloak, Aulus Ingenuus hovering nearby with a hand on his sword.
‘Trust you, Fronto, to always find the best tavern as soon as you arrive.’
The general smiled as he passed into the tavern’s garden. The majority of the officers present rose politely. Fronto remained seated, but reached out with his good leg and pushed a bench back for the general, who chuckled and sat obligingly. The innkeeper appeared with a sweat of panic running down his face and the most ridiculously obsequious grin.
‘Mighty Caesar, can I get you anything. All on the house for the honour you do my establishment.’
The general smiled warmly. ‘A jar of whatever this gentleman is drinking, if you would.’ He gestured at Fronto’s cup, then winked at the legate. ‘For jus
t as you gravitate to the best bar, so do you usually find the best wine on instinct alone.’
‘I was in the trade, remember,’ Fronto laughed. ‘Still am, if I ever get back to Massilia.’
A strange dark cloud passed over them for a moment, and Caesar actually contrived to look faintly guilty. In an apparent effort to drive away the shadow in the mood, the general looked around appreciatively. ‘This reminds me greatly of a tavern we once frequented at Bibracte. You remember the one?’
Fronto did, and he blinked in surprise as he looked around. It was, in fact, remarkably similar. For a moment that shadow on his soul threatened to darken as his memory helpfully furnished him with the faces of those friends who had drunk in that tavern with him, who had mostly gone to Elysium now. It seemed as though most of those he’d called friend when they went into Gaul had passed on since then.
‘Balbus was sitting here last time,’ the general smiled, gesturing to a seat nearby. ‘How is your father-in-law? I miss his steady hand among the staff.’
A flash of guilt shot through Fronto. He’d not given much of a thought to his old friend for months now, and he’d not even written to Lucilia and the boys, for the distance between here and the villa outside Tarraco, partially controlled by Pompey’s allies, made sending missives touch-and-go at best.
‘Balbus was good when I last saw him. With luck, once we trounce Pompey I will be able to return to him. My boys are growing all the time, and I’ve missed most of it. They will hardly recognise me when I return to them.’
A similar shadow now passed through Caesar’s eyes, and Fronto remembered all too late that the general’s only daughter had died a few years earlier. Damn this stupid dance of politeness: Caesar trying not to offend Fronto, Fronto trying not to offend Caesar. He bolted on a smile, forcing things back into the light.
‘How is Octavian?’ he said suddenly. ‘That lad will go far, you know?’
Caesar chuckled. ‘I quite agree. He will have changed a great deal since you saw him. That was seven or eight years ago, was it not?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I meet him periodically, and his mother keeps me abreast of matters. Sometimes he writes to me directly, for he is fourteen years old now, and with no males in his immediate family, I suspect he thinks of me as a father. He will don the toga virilis this year and be a man with whom to reckon. He tells me he already hankers after a place on my staff, but while he wears the bulla of childhood his mother will not let him.’
‘You plan to adopt him, don’t you?’
Caesar threw him a sly smile. ‘The notion has some merit, I have to admit. Of what value is a man’s legacy if there is no one to pass it to?’
Fronto nodded and fell silent, grateful that a moment later Brutus struck up a conversation with the general regarding their shared family, for something had struck Fronto at Caesar’s last words and had sent a shiver through him.
How many times had friends and enemies alike accused Caesar of monarchic aspirations. Fronto had always known him to be ambitious, and there had, he had to admit, been times when he had foreseen the general moving in that very direction. It had been the brutal realisation that the only clear alternative in the current climate of the republic was Pompey that had sent him back to Caesar’s side.
But now the man talked of a legacy, and Fronto could not help but suddenly worry what that planned legacy might be. He brushed the thought angrily aside. Adoption was hardly uncommon in the better circles of Roman society, and every family with any pride or aspirations planned for the future beyond their own demise. Still, suddenly he flashed back to a quarry in Hispania and the dying form of Verginius, begging him to put an end to Caesar before Caesar put an end to the republic.
The rest of the afternoon became rather sour for Fronto, who was unable to keep unpleasant thoughts from surfacing time and again. After a while, Caesar made polite excuses and returned to the business of state with the new archon of Metropolis. Other officers drifted off and even Galronus, who tried briefly but unsuccessfully to rid Fronto of the gloom so clearly settled upon him, eventually went back to the house.
Fronto took a brief wander, located a local scribe and purchased vellum, ink, stilus, wax and a scroll case at a somewhat inflated price, and then slowly made his way back to the tavern. There he sat alone in the shade of the trees with good wine and penned the first letter to his family in half a year. When he finally finished and tucked the missive into the scroll case, he slipped the signet ring from his finger, melted the wax over a candle and sealed the case. He would pass it in the morning to Hirtius, who dealt with Caesar’s correspondence. Whether it would ever reach Tarraco he couldn’t say in these uncertain times of war, but he had at least done his best.
His mood had improved with every line he wrote and, catharsis complete, he once more sought out Galronus, intent on spending an evening of social good humour. Within an hour word of he and the Remi laughing raucously in the tavern garden had spread and other officers joined them, including Atenos and Salvius Cursor. The evening passed thereafter in laughter and wine.
The following day the army seemed set in. Caesar had announced that they would continue to reside in Metropolis for at least the next few days. There had been no word of Pompey or Scipio in the vicinity, and scouts and outposts had now been set up all around the edge of the Thessalian plain to give adequate warning of any approach. Moreover, Caesar wanted to wait and judge from further reports the mood of the rest of Achaea. Mostly, Fronto suspected, the general was happy and comfortable in a place with adequate supplies and no apparent danger, and was less than willing to give that up. It was sometimes easy to forget that the general was not a young man. Fronto tried not to admit that he was not far off the general’s age himself. He mostly failed.
Over the next few days, that tavern became the standard social meeting place for officers, though Fronto noted that his favourite table in the corner remained free at all times, awaiting him. The tavern’s owner, who had likely never seen so much business and would end this campaign a wealthy man, could not do enough for them, constantly on hand and sourcing the very best food and drink for his customers. For a time, Fronto began to relax.
News began to drift in slowly over the following days, and initially it was all good. Calenus was succeeding in securing all of the south of Achaea from a base at Athens, and had even made overtures to the ancient cities across the sea in Asia. City after city across Thessaly sent diplomats or messages, guaranteeing their support to the Caesarian cause and offering both men and supplies.
Then, one warm and pleasant afternoon, came the first bad news. The city of Larissa, some forty miles to the north-east, had failed to send any sort of overture, and Caesar had been pushed to enquire of them from neighbouring states. It seemed that Larissa was menaced by the threat of Scipio to the north, and did not feel they could submit to Caesar with such a dangerous enemy close by.
The discovery that Scipio was close now changed everything, for it seemed unlikely that Scipio would be moving closer to Caesar without Pompey’s main force in support. It would appear that the enemy was on the advance once more and this time of comfortable peace would soon be over.
That same afternoon, Caesar put in another appearance at the tavern, most of the staff at his heel. Praetorians pulled three of the tables together, and Hirtius produced a map of the region and spread it out, anchoring the corners with heavy earthenware cups.
‘We’re preparing to move?’ Fronto prompted.
Caesar nodded without looking up. ‘The time is almost upon us, gentlemen. Scipio threatens Larissa, which puts him no more than sixty or seventy miles from here. We cannot safely assume Pompey to be far behind him. I anticipate news of my old partner’s arrival in Thessaly in a matter of days, now. On the bright side, the damage of Dyrrachium is healed, and I think we can all agree that we made the correct decision following the disaster.’
Fronto nodded as he rose, poured another wine and crossed to the map
table with the others.
‘Our objective when we retreated from Dyrrachium,’ the general reminded everyone, ‘was to find adequate time and space to heal our men’s morale, while endeavouring if possible to lower that of the enemy, and to allow us to acquire sufficient resources to rebuild, ready to face him once more. Our army is now as spirited as it has ever been, it is well-equipped and well-fed, and now somewhat bolstered by the addition of Calvinus’ own cohorts and of those bodies supplies as auxilia by the local cities. We are, I think, as prepared as we can ever truly hope to be.’
His finger tapped the northern edge of the map. ‘By comparison, Scipio’s forces have been almost constantly on the move and engaged since he left Syria, and our agents in Achaea have been stirring up trouble behind him, such that his supply lines must be disrupted at best. Pompey has been forced to move slowly in order to preserve his own supply chain from Dyrrachium and Macedonia, and his men will be impatient and tetchy from their own hardships. There will never be a better time to meet the old warhorse and his cronies in the field and finally dispose of them.’
He looked up from beneath grey brows. ‘And make no mistake, gentlemen, I mean this to be our last engagement with Pompey. I will not retreat again, and I will not countenance such failures among my officers as we suffered previously. I want the calibre of service I remember from Gaul. That is why I have continually drafted the old guard back into my staff. When we meet Pompey this time, I want him beaten and with no opportunity to rebuild. It all ends this summer.’
He turned back to the map.
‘All that remains is to decide upon our ground, for we are in the most advantageous position of being able to select at least where we will meet Pompey, if not when.’
‘Given that we don’t know how long we have,’ Antonius put in, ‘we could do with gathering all the provisions we can manage.’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 26
