Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  Caesar smiled at the Druid, who had not broken his impressive frown throughout the day so far. Fronto wondered if the man had even heard of humour.

  “Very well. Sabinus, I would like you to speak with each of the tribes and work out roughly what numbers of men, both mounted and infantry, they can spare, totting up the amounts of each, and then come back to us with the figures. I’ll leave the details in your hands.”

  Sabinus nodded and stepped toward the Gauls.

  “Labienus, I want you to draft up a copy of the standard oath of allegiance that the Aedui took and speak to this man about it. Agree everything with him. I don’t mind a few alterations, so long as you deem them acceptable and appropriate.”

  Labienus saluted and joined the knot in the centre of the tent.

  Relaxing back in his chair, Caesar scratched his prominent nose reflectively.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. I see no reason to protract this meeting any further. I realise that some of you feel bitter about this, but I would like to think of this whole situation as the start of a long and peaceful Gallo-Roman coalition. I want to ensure you all that my fight is with the enemies of Rome, and not with non-Romans. You are our allies and thus we will always protect you.”

  The general sat back in his chair, looking far too smug for Fronto’s liking. His thoughts were echoed a moment later by a familiar voice speaking in relatively good Latin. He looked up in surprise to see the immense and impressive Druid addressing Caesar directly.

  “Caesar. I must say one thing and then stop. I am, as Greeks say, barbaroi, that you Roman call barbarian. How can you say you distinguish between enemy of Rome and non-Roman, when to Rome we are all barbaroi?”

  The interpreter seemed as surprised as Fronto had been. Glancing at his superior he realised, though only because he knew the man so well, that Caesar was equally surprised. He doubted the man had flinched as far as any other observer was concerned. Caesar cleared his throat.

  “I am unused to dealing with so wily a political adversary. If I had known you spoke not only my language, but that of the Greeks, I would have rather addressed you directly as a spokesman. Still, I would answer you this way. The word we use, barbarian, is used to describe those who do not follow our ways. If you have heard the word from someone, then I am not surprised that you’d interpret it this way. If you truly have a knowledge of the Greek language and their history, you may realise that this is not a derogatory term. It is merely a catch-all term for non-Romans. I would welcome the chance to speak to you alone, if you would favour me, after this meeting.”

  The Druid glared at Caesar.

  “You are clever, and very quick. No. I will not meet with you. I do not believe we need you and I do not like you. I speak here only as spokesman for the tribes. I do not speak Greek or Latin not because I speak it badly, but because I dislike speaking the language of deception and wickedness. I speak my mother tongue, because that is true. We have made our deal, so we do not need to speak more. This is over. Goodbye.”

  Turning, he made for the tent flap, the other Gauls following him as he went. Caesar glowered after him, and for moments after the Gauls left, Sabinus and Labienus stood tensely, expectantly, waiting for an outburst. Instead, the general cleared his throat and turned his thunderous expression on the two staff officers.

  “Still here?”

  Sabinus and Labienus saluted hurriedly and rushed from the tent to catch up with the Druid and his entourage. Fronto glanced sideways at the general, wondering whether the general would manage to contain himself until later. A dreadful feeling of foreboding stole over him.

  Caesar shifted slightly in his seat.

  “Longinus!”

  The man jumped at the sound of his name and sidled into the centre of the tent.

  “Yes, general.”

  The red hue was slowly draining from the general’s face and his breathing had subsided a little. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its even, politician’s tone.

  “Longinus, you’ve served well so far in this campaign, and your talents as a cavalry commander have not gone unnoticed.”

  The legate bowed respectfully.

  “It has been my privilege to have served in such a capacity, Caesar.”

  Caesar smiled at him and gestured to one of the staff officers’ seats.

  “Gaius…”

  Longinus looked up in surprise at the use of his first name, an honour few men received from the general.

  “I have made a decision regarding your place in this army. I would like you to step down as legate of the Ninth. I’m sure you’re aware, as are we all, that the legion needs a more readily accessible commander. You simply do not have the time to devote to the duties of both a legate and a cavalry commander.”

  Longinus nodded. He was, Fronto noticed, starting to look a little older; a little more worn. Indeed, he had lost a considerable amount of weight over the last few months, dividing all his waking hours between the legion and the cavalry. Fronto could sympathise to an extent, sharing his own time between the general and the Tenth. He shook his head and looked up once more as the general continued.

  “Longinus, there are going to be an increasing number of cavalry units in this army as we progress through our campaign. I want you to take the position of Master of the Horse, commander of all cavalry, both legionary and auxiliary. You may take a couple of the staff officers with you to help you organise what I’m sure will be a fairly massive undertaking, if you wish. However, from the moment you agree to step down from the Ninth, you will be placed on the staff in that role. Have you any objections or comments?”

  Longinus stood, his finger pressed to his lip deep in thought.

  “I don’t think so at this time, Caesar. I’m quite happy with the idea, but I’ll have to run through the whole thing with a few of my fellow officers and iron out some problems. Then I’ll come and see you sir, after we’ve found out what the issues are. Can I ask who you’re considering as a replacement with the Ninth? Grattius has served well in the interim. You could do a lot worse than promoting him…”

  Caesar waved a hand to one side to indicate a small knot of staff officers standing near the fabric wall of the tent.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Longinus. Grattius will continue to serve in his current position. Publius Sulpicius Rufus will be taking the position.”

  He turned to the staff.

  “Rufus, I presume you’d be happy to take the command?”

  Rufus stepped out from the side of the tent. He was an average height, with pale, sandy blond hair and, very unfashionably, a neatly trimmed beard. Despite being visibly quite young, he put forth the impression of a hardened veteran in the way he moved. As his arm came out from under his military cloak to salute the general, Fronto noticed an old but livid scar running along his inner arm from the wrist to the elbow. He decided he would probably like the man.

  Rufus bowed his head before Caesar.

  “I’d be glad to take any command, general. My sword arm’s atrophying!”

  Balbus laughed.

  “I know how that feels. I nearly wasted away in Massilia. Think I was actually getting old.”

  Caesar smiled at the two of them. This was why he tried to keep officers with units for as long as possible. They built up a rapport with their men and became hardened veterans. Political weasels were far too common in military command, and few politicians who took such a position had any tactical ability. Caesar liked to think that he followed an illustrious line of those with tried and tested ability, but he would sooner trust a career veteran to lead his men than another politician. Too many agendas and not enough talent. Things would change in time, when Caesar reached his long-sought after goals. He pulled himself from ambitious reverie and looked across at the two officers again, then back at Longinus.

  “Very well. Longinus, you are hereby promoted to the staff as Master of Horse. You’ve got two days to put together your plan and apprise me of it. Rufus, report to the
Ninth and find their primus pilus, Grattius. He should be able to fill you in on anything specific you need to know and sort out your accommodation for you. Balbus, you may want to accompany Rufus and give him a hand.”

  Balbus nodded.

  “Very well,” the General went on, “we’ll be staying here for about a week, while the army is marshalled and the initial process of pre-war negotiation is carried out. Now that these damn Gauls are out of earshot, I presume you all realise that this campaign cannot be avoided and, even if diplomacy with this German were possible, I have no intention of carrying it through. We must have military supremacy here if we are to achieve anything.”

  He turned to his other staff officers.

  “Brutus. Go into Bibracte and speak to Liscus. Find out exactly where this Ariovistus is currently based, somewhere in the lands of the Sequani.”

  He then turned to Longinus again.

  “I want a small party of heavily armed cavalry dressed in full regalia. I’m going to send an ambassador to speak with this German. That’s your job, Brutus.”

  Brutus nodded and squared his shoulders.

  “I take it you’re going to give me the details, general?”

  Caesar smiled viciously.

  “Oh yes. When you’ve found out where he is, come back here and we’ll go through the conditions. I fully intend to make them unacceptable, even unbearable, for him. I won’t let him deal with this quietly.”

  He squared his shoulders and stood.

  “Alright gentlemen, you’ve got your orders. Let’s start a war.”

  He strode from the room, through the curtain-covered doorway and into his personal chambers. At this cue, the other officers exited the tent. Fronto stood by the entrance, waiting as the staff and senior officers exited. Balbus and Rufus left together, heading for the ranks of the Ninth. Longinus and Brutus left in the direction of the cavalry enclosure and Bibracte. Fronto sighed. It was a rarity when one of Caesar’s meetings ended and he didn’t have some task to attend to.

  Wandering down the hill, he caught sight of Priscus and a couple of the junior centurions from the Tenth. As he approached, he broke into a smile as his ears caught the familiar sound of a dressing-down. The two juniors stood, red faced, their helmets and vine staves under their arms. Fronto waited respectfully until Priscus had finished shouting and the two men had left, sheepishly but in a great hurry.

  “Gnaeus, I do believe you were born with a centurion’s crest. Have you finished shouting? I’m looking for someone to join me for a quiet drink, or possibly even a raucous one.”

  Priscus smiled.

  “I think I’m about done here. Are you thinking of that nice little tavern in town, ‘cos I just saw Crispus and Galba heading that way too.”

  “Good. Let’s go see them and get drunk. We’ve got nothing to do, and we might never see the place again after this week.”

  * * * * *

  Fronto tagged along with the small party of officers striding to the main gate of the camp. At a word from Sabinus, the soldiers that had gathered at the gate pulled themselves out of the way of the officers, coming to attention with a snap. Fronto stood next to the others, watching the slight rise on the other side of the valley. The sun hung pale and watery over the grass, casting an eerie half-light over the early morning landscape. It all looked slightly unreal to Fronto’s tired eyes. After a moment, he caught the distant jingle of armour and equestrian equipment and then, over the saddle he saw the standards appear and sagged with relief. Though the scouts had reported Brutus and his escort returning when they were still two miles distant, they had not been close enough to give too many details.

  Fronto had worried. It was not unknown for Roman ambassadors to be ill-treated by barbarians, and the sight of legionary standards protected by only a few cavalry could have proved too tempting for them. Fortunately, despite the fearsome reputation of the Germans, Ariovistus had apparently dealt with them in the manner of a civilised leader. The cavalry looked tired and travel-worn but intact and fully equipped, with all standards accounted for.

  Brutus was clearly exhausted. Though still in good health he looked weary, pale and drawn as the party reined in outside the gate. He slid with little grace and decorum from the saddle to the grass, his cloak billowing slightly in the breeze.

  The common soldiery saluted smartly, while Sabinus reached forward to grasp the reins of Brutus’ horse. Brutus barely acknowledged the salutes of the men, waving a hand dismissively. He turned his pale face and watery eyes on Sabinus and Fronto.

  “Let’s get to the command tent, so I can get this over with and get some rest.”

  Nodding, the staff officers fell into step alongside Brutus as he wearily trudged up the Via Decumana toward Caesar’s command post. They passed through the guard at the praetorium without a word and made straight for Caesar’s tent. The general would have been informed of the ambassador’s arrival by now. The guard by the entrance of the command tent took one look at Brutus and wisely decided that, since Caesar was expecting them, challenging the travel-beaten officer would hardly be a positive career move. He stepped to the side of the doorway and snapped to attention, the horsehair crest on his helmet brushing the leather flap of the tent. Again, Brutus barely noticed him as he shuffled inside. Sabinus followed and Fronto gave the poor soldier a sympathetic look. He could imagine how hard it must be for the common soldiery to deal with the irrational actions of the staff.

  Caesar stood to one side of the tent, pouring his own goblet of watered wine. He turned and gestured to the half dozen campaign chairs in the room.

  “Brutus, do sit down please before you fall down.”

  Brutus sank gratefully into a chair. The other officers remained standing until Caesar noticed and irritably waved them to the other chairs before taking his own seat and nodding at his ambassador.

  “A quick report, Decius, and then you can go and catch up on sleep.”

  Brutus sighed.

  “As you commanded, Caesar, we rode hard and met with Ariovistus. I demanded, fairly imperiously, that he name some patch of neutral ground where he could meet with you and discuss affairs of state.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “And? You’re back so fast. Don’t tell me he agreed? You went armed with the most unreasonable and insulting terms. Don’t tell me he just rolled over and said yes?”

  Brutus shook his head wearily.

  “No, Caesar. I didn’t get time to dig into him and get him fired up. He all but threw us out of their camp. As soon as I’d got the first sentence out, his guards were around us and shoving us towards the gate.”

  Caesar’s eyes widened.

  “Who in the name of Minerva is this man? Does he have any idea who he’s dealing with? Is that it, they just threw you out?”

  “Not quite Caesar. He gave me a few words for you. He said that if he’d wanted anything, he’d have come to you, and if you want anything, you should go to him. He said that he wouldn’t come into the lands you occupy without his army, and asks what you’re doing in his Gaul anyway, since he’s the one conquering it, not you.”

  Fronto winced. Caesar was unlikely to take this kind of answer well, not being noted for his patience. Gritting his teeth, waiting for the outburst, he turned and looked at the general.

  Much of the colour had drained from Caesar’s face, a sign well-known to Fronto that the man was reaching the end of his tether.

  Caesar gripped the arms of his campaign chair so tightly his knuckles went white.

  “Brutus, go and get some rest.”

  The officer nodded and, standing slowly and painfully, turned to leave.

  Caesar drummed his fingers on the chair arms irritably. Fronto tried to shuffle out of the general’s line of sight. A number of times he’d seen Caesar planning something like this and had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, resulting in his being landed with an unpleasant or arduous task. He was determined this time not to be Caesar’s victim.

  In the even
t, when Caesar did look up, his eyes locked only momentarily on Fronto before slipping sideways to Labienus.

  “Very well. Labienus, you’ve represented Rome in general and me in particular on a number of occasions. You’ve a good command of rhetoric and are not easily fazed.”

  Labienus bowed, respectfully, though hesitantly.

  “Thank you, general.”

  Caesar smiled his most predatory smile.

  “Don’t thank me, Titus. You’ve just volunteered to be my next ambassador. I haven’t the time to develop diplomatic frippery with you, so I want you to go and keep him busy. Improvise. Just be rhetorical and act the part of the ambassador, but do not play humble to him. I need you to buy us time.”

  Fronto raised himself a little from the chair and gestured to Caesar.

  “That’s a little dangerous, general. You heard how he reacted to Brutus. If we keep pushing him, he might break. You’re talking about a very warlike and proud man here.”

  Instant regret. Caesar’s eyes alighted upon him.

  “You are, of course, absolutely correct, Marcus. Take an entire cohort of the Tenth. Speak to Longinus to arrange cavalry support. Go in force, and make sure the entire unit is in full ceremonial uniform, including crests. Don’t take the First Cohort though, as I’ll need your primus pilus here.”

  Fronto nodded miserably. There was no point in arguing. He’d done this to himself.

  “What will Priscus be required for, Caesar?”

  The general smiled the same, tight, wolfish smile as before.

  “Obviously Fronto, while you’re keeping this arrogant German occupied, we’ll be marshalling our forces and preparing for war. After you’ve spoken to him, have Longinus sent to me. He’s going to need to put his auxilia in order very sharply. You can all go about your business now. I need to think for a while.”

  The officer rose and made to leave, but Fronto stood and confronted the general.