Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Thank you. Fronto? You coming too?’

  ‘Actually, yes. I’m afraid it looks like I’ll be leaving things in your hands again, Gnaeus. Masgava and Palmatus have planted the seed of an idea in my head and I can’t help but see it growing big and producing a bountiful crop. I need to ask Caesar for a little independence.’

  Priscus narrowed his eyes as they turned and made off towards the general’s tent. He was intrigued almost to bursting point, but he knew his old friend well and remained silent as they walked.

  Fronto’s gaze played across the newly arrived legions and he frowned.

  ‘Why are they in white?’

  Priscus shrugged. ‘That’s Pompey’s First. I asked Furius and Fabius about it. They said Pompey only paid to have the officers’ gear dyed red. That way he could spend the spare money on more useful things like armour.’

  ‘He may be a rabid shit-weasel, but he might be onto something there,’ Fronto acceded. ‘Eminently sensible idea. We ought to put it to Caesar.’

  Priscus sighed and shook his head. ‘Tried that. Cita and I both spoke to him, but Caesar is adamant that he would rather pay the extra for madder to dye the whole army. He thinks red and silver is a statement that shouts ‘ROME’ at the enemy.’

  ‘Another good point. He might be right. Seems to me that that’s a pretty good assessment of the two men: Caesar believes that half the battle is image, and he thinks too deeply about everything. Pompey seems to be relaxed and even slightly slovenly, but underneath he has a Spartan warrior’s mind. They’re never going to agree on anything, Gnaeus. You know that? This war is a bloody Gods-send for Rome, ‘cause when it ends those two bastards are going to end up in Rome together, tearing each other to pieces.’

  Priscus smiled at the thought. ‘Then we’ll just have to pray to Minerva that Crassus makes a swift job of the east and returns in triumph to keep the pair of them apart.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fronto agreed with ironic bile, ‘That’s just what the world needs: a bit more Crassus!’

  The pair wandered on, heading for the command tent where Caesar would be busy… doing whatever it was the general did when he wasn’t shouting at officers. Aulus Ingenuus himself - commander of the general’s Praetorian guard - stood beside the tent’s entrance, berating an unfortunate soldier for a poorly-polished belt. The young officer’s three-fingered hand waved angrily at the soldier as he unloaded aggression upon him, and then turned as he watched the soldier’s expression shift, to see Fronto and Priscus.

  ‘Morning.’ The young man gestured to the tent doorway. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s in a worse mood than me.’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Nothing new there with me. And Priscus could out-spite a cat with an itchy arse. Think we’ll cope. How’s things?’

  ‘Dreadful. Since you seem to have acquired your own bodyguard, we’re getting scrutinised by every officer with a self-importance complex - which seems to be all of them. The general insists on us not only being good at our jobs but looking better than your lot - not that that takes a lot of work, with such a motley collection of homicidal lunatics!’

  ‘I love you too, Aulus. Can we go in?’

  ‘Go on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Fronto and Priscus stepped up and rapped on the wooden frame of the general’s tent door. There was a pregnant, heavy pause.

  ‘Get in here, Priscus!’ a voice barked from within. ‘I can hear you grumbling under your breath even through the tent.’

  Fronto raised his eyebrows at Priscus. He had apparently been out of the general’s close council long enough that Priscus seemed to have acquired his former relationship. The prefect gestured for Fronto to go first, but the legate grinned and sketched an elaborate bow, gesturing for Priscus to lead.

  The interior was dim, lit by the same guttering braziers that kept the room warm. Seats were folded against the outer edge, soaking up the wetness from the leather skin of the tent, awaiting the next staff meeting. In the meantime, Caesar had the centre clear - in front of his desk and chair and reams of maps and documents. Fronto smiled. The general always needed room to pace.

  ‘Oh Good,’ Caesar snapped, ‘you brought the prodigal too.’

  Priscus sighed and saluted, standing at attention in the room’s centre. Fronto echoed the gesture half-heartedly. If Caesar was hardly bothering to register his presence, he felt unwilling to offer too much respect in return.

  ‘We need to do something about the new legions, General.’

  Caesar pursed his lips angrily.

  ‘I intend to release them on the Menapii shortly. Is that enough for you, prefect?’

  Priscus practically bristled, and Fronto was impressed at the level of equality that seemed to exist between the two men - a thing he had once had himself.

  ‘Not really, General, with respect. The new boys don’t know how things work here and the garrison we left didn’t explain things to them. They’ve annoyed all the native cavalry commanders. I’ve not had a chance to speak to the three legates in charge yet, but I can guess with some conviction that the garrison tried to direct them to our tried and tested systems and were entirely ignored. We get this with every officer new to Gaul. I need to invoke your authority in order to shift the pillocks and their badly-set camps and put everything right, before there are fistfights and even latrine murders between them all.’

  Caesar narrowed his eyes for a moment as though weighing up Priscus’ words and finally nodded. ‘You have it.’ He scribbled something on a scrap of vellum and dripped wax, stamping it with his Taurus seal. ‘Get them organised and keep everyone happy. Are we done now?’

  He had not looked at Fronto since they first entered the tent.

  Priscus shrugged, with a sidelong glance at his friend, and stepped forward to collect the authorisation. ‘Happy with that, General. I’ll leave you with chief bronze-balls here. If he’s suggesting what I think he is, then he’s got testes of orichalcum.’

  With a last raised eyebrow at Fronto, Priscus saluted, turned, and strode from the tent.

  ‘This had better be good, Fronto. I’m in no mood for your insolence,’ Caesar said, coldly.

  ‘Were you ever, General? I need to ask for something and to offer something, but before I do, we need to clear the air, you and I.’

  The general’s gaze hardened yet further, if such were possible. ‘You and I are colleagues, Fronto. You need the army, and I need your command experience. Do not expect anything more than that relationship!’

  Fronto stepped three paces forward and placed his hands on the desk face down. ‘Bullshit. If that were the case you’d be putting me in charge of men right now, where I could be of use to you. Or asking my advice. Instead, you’re excluding me and ignoring me out of spite, because I turned my back on you. Get over it, Caesar.’

  The general’s expression faltered between anger, surprise and pride. ‘I will not be spoken…’

  ‘I will speak to you as I see fit until you acknowledge that I am here as one of your officers and put me in charge of a legion.’ He bridled. ‘Preferably the Tenth!’

  Caesar actually gave a low chuckle, though there was little humour in it. ‘The Tenth has a legate. All the legions do.’ He stood from his chair, hammering his fist on the table to punctuate his words. ‘You turned your back on me, Marcus! But not only that! I could have worked around that. I am not infallible, but I know it. I would have taken you back into the fold even that very day. But you walked off into the arms of that overweight, overemotional, warmonger and despot Pompey! And you did it willingly, because you saw him as an improvement on me!’

  Fronto blinked. He’d never considered it from that angle.

  ‘How do you think that sits with me, Fronto? You’ve clearly come to a sensible conclusion in the end, though, since you’re back. So now you know. You know that Pompey is a rabid dog, ready to savage the Republic, barely contained in a smiling human shell. Shall I tell you about Crassus? Shall I tell you just how much I have to do
just to keep a level of balance that maintains safety for the whole of Rome? You think I fight here for glory?’

  He stepped out from behind the desk and marched on Fronto with such force that the former legate actually took a couple of steps backwards, the general’s finger wagging at his chest.

  ‘You do - I know that. You and Cicero and the others. The dissenters and pacifists. You think I do this for vainglory. Whole portions of the senate are of the same opinion. But you and they have no idea, Marcus. You have not the slightest clue about the pressure under which I find myself every waking moment. Pompey is a raging, bloodthirsty lunatic wearing a thin veil of civility. And Crassus is a plutomaniac. He would sell Rome if he was offered the right price. And me? You think I wade through the swamps of Gaul and hunt criminals for fun? Tell me!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Tell me why I am here. Knowing now what you do about my peers in the city.’

  Fronto’s mind was racing. Caught horribly on the back foot in a situation where he’d expected to have the upper hand, he was struggling, but new thoughts were battering his subconscious. New opinions were beginning to form in his mind. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You fight to stay ahead of them.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I do. Pompey is the hero of the pirates and the slave wars. He is a three-time triumphant general of Rome. All the people see - the senate as well as the plebs - is a hero. They might very well hand him a damned crown if he won another victory for the Republic. But you know what Rome would be like if Pompey ruled the roost?’

  ‘Hades. It would be like Hades. Constant war at the expense of the people.’

  ‘Yes it would.’ Caesar stepped back and made use of his carefully cleared pacing space. ‘And what of Crassus?’

  ‘Rome would be a commodity. Everything in it would be a commodity. The only reason he hasn’t risen to the top is because he hasn’t…’ The truth came crashing in on Fronto and silenced him.

  ‘Precisely!’ Caesar snapped. ‘Pompey has the military record but has to keep his true face hidden. He builds the people theatres and woos them in his bid for supremacy so that they do not see him for what he is. Crassus has the money but needs a triumph to go with his purchase of senators. Both seek the power that Rome cannot bestow - never has since Tarquinius the Proud was exiled and the city abolished the monarchy. And both could conceivably actually achieve the unthinkable. And here am I. I am the third player in this Greek tragedy - The Aeneas to their Paris and Hector. I have to do whatever I can to stay ahead of them both. I have less money than Crassus, but more support among the people, and a better record. Pompey is a threat, but with every victory we achieve, I win the plebs over and remove a strut from beneath him. Gaul is my stepping stone to climb above the pair.’

  ‘And then take the crown.’ Even as Fronto’s lips closed, he started, aware that he’d said out loud something he would barely even contemplate thinking to himself.

  ‘No, Fronto,’ Caesar said quietly. ‘The Republic has provision for putting a man in charge when necessary: Dictator. It has its uses. But no Roman will wear a crown while I am alive.’

  Despite himself, Fronto was impressed. How far he felt this to be the truth was immaterial. The general was born to lead and to persuade, and he had Fronto in his purse now. Both men knew it.

  ‘I apologise, General.’

  ‘It was a stupid, short-sighted comment, made in a heated moment.’

  ‘Not for the comment about the crown. For doubting you against Pompey. The man is an animal.’

  ‘Better!’ Caesar stopped pacing and leaned back against the table. ‘The fact remains, Fronto, that I have no space for a legate right now. You should stay on staff and advise. Roles will develop in due course.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Fronto said and stepped forward, his excitement giving him an edge. ‘The thing is: you asked me to find you a way to excise your Gallic infection and I intend to do so. Give me free rein with my singulares. Give them whatever equipment and supplies they need, and give me the room to work. I will take my small unit and I will bring you Ambiorix.’

  ‘An offer I can’t refuse?’

  ‘An offer you shouldn’t refuse. For the loss of one officer and a score of men, I will bring you the enemy. But that’s only my side of the deal.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware this was a deal?’

  ‘Well it is. In return I ask you to halt your obliteration of the Belgae. Hold off the destruction in order to keep your Gallic allies and start the healing process this country needs. And…’ he grinned, ‘when this is over, you give me the Tenth.’

  Caesar frowned. ‘You ask a lot, Marcus. I have vowed to bring Ambiorix down. Not only to the senate and the people, but to Venus herself! Would you ask me to defy a God?’

  ‘You’re not defying her. I will be your proxy.’

  Caesar took a deep breath, his eyes flicking to the map, to the altar through the open doorway into the rear of the tent, and then back to Fronto. ‘I will meet you part way. I will give you weeks. A month, maybe... a head start in your hunt. I need to raise more cavalry, and I need to assure myself of the tribes’ loyalty, so I am calling the Gaulish assembly to meet here. It will allow time for the three new legions to acclimatise and will grant me the opportunity to increase our mounted contingent. Until that is done, I will hold off. But then I move on the Menapii unless you bring me Ambiorix’s head.’ He smiled cruelly. ‘And if you grant me the death of Ambiorix, I will move Hades itself to give you back your legion. How does that sound?’

  ‘Better than a poke in the eye with a shit-sponge, General.’

  ‘Then get moving, Fronto, and Fortuna be with you - as it seems she always is.’

  ‘We’ll move out in the morning, as soon as I’ve raped Cita’s supplies for everything we need. But before I go, I thought I should tell you about Rome.’

  ‘A hive of villainy. I know the place. Has Clodius got himself killed yet?’

  Fronto smiled. ‘Not yet, Caesar. But we were there for Parentalia as we travelled north.’

  ‘Your father was a sad loss to the Republic, Marcus.’

  Fronto felt a sudden pang of guilt. He had not even thought to visit his father’s tomb before they’d left, though it had not been Parentalia then. His mother would have been there for the festival.

  ‘Perhaps, General, but father was interred in Puteoli. Quintus and I thought it would be fitting to pay a visit and a libation to your mother and your daughter while we were there. After all, with you being a thousand miles away…’

  He saw a sudden flair of pain in the general’s face. Almost as quickly as it arrived, it was gone.

  ‘Thank you, Marcus. All is well? Did you see Atia?’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘We had our little meal and made our offerings. Atia had apparently visited earlier. But we had the fortune to cross paths with your great nephew.’

  ‘Octavian was there?’ the general frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘It seemed he felt that the ladies and your ancestors required a little more devotion than had already been given them. He gave them Caecuban wine. A vintage. The vintage!’

  Caesar nodded and a slow, knowing smile began to reach his face for the first time. ‘He is a good boy, that one. Had Julia had children, they would have been like that, I think.’

  ‘He’s far too damn worldly-wise for his age in my opinion,’ Fronto said with a sly smile. ‘He reminds me dreadfully of you.’

  And Caesar laughed. Just once - and for a moment, Fronto was newly arrived in Gaul once more, with his ambitious general, sharing a joke. The feeling passed in the blink of an eye, but it had astounding cathartic effect. Somehow, it felt as though an obstacle had been overcome.

  ‘Are we…’ Fronto couldn’t decide what word it was that he sought. Friends? They had been friends. And confidantes. Compatriots. Sword-brothers even, at times. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on the word he needed.

  Caesar simply nodded. ‘I won’t renege on a vow to the Goddess, Marcus. I give
you time to bring me Ambiorix, but once the Gallic assembly is done with, I will move. Find me the villain.’

  Fronto stepped back to the doorway and gave a salute. Suddenly he felt like a soldier again, for the first time since he had returned. It felt good. ‘I will, General. Good luck.’

  ‘And to you. Fortuna seems to coddle you, Marcus. Let us hope she continues to do so. I think I will call a meeting of the officers and make the plans known.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto approached the tent cautiously. He had no real reason to see Antonius, given that he would be leaving before the council was convened, and certainly not attending the meeting of the general’s staff that was about to be called. In fact, he had plenty to do. But for some reason, the way he’d left things with Antonius after Asadunon was preying on his mind. The two officers had not spoken on the return journey, since they had travelled with different forces.

  But, before he and his singulares went off on their insane quest to hunt Ambiorix, he felt it might be important to settle matters with the officer.

  Antonius’ own singulares guard stood to either side of the door, their dark skin sheened with sweat in their heavy armour. The men wore a scarlet, eye-piercing red, their cuirasses burnished to mirror brightness. Their helms were of a strange, eastern design, and both men eyed him with hard, unflinching stares. Syrians. Apparently, Antonius had brought them back from their own land. They’d been with him for years.

  He’d heard the other officers talking about Antonius’ guards. They were not popular.

  ‘I need to see Marcus Antonius.’

  ‘What yo business.’

  ‘That is between he and I.’

  ‘No business. No go.’

  Fronto ground his teeth. ‘Listen, you weird, tunic-lifting, inbred easterner: I am a staff officer of the army, as is Antonius. He is also a friend. I will speak to him and I see no reason to pass my business though your greasy, dubious hands. Your job is to stop assassins or the unwanted bothering Antonius. Nothing more. Feel free to go in and announce me, but that’s as far as your remit extends, soldier.’