The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Ingenuus’ grin widened as he took in the faces round the room. They had no time to exchange pleasantries, however, as he immediately stepped aside and jammed his plumed helmet under his arm, to make room for the general.

  Caesar strode purposefully into the room, waving an arm in a vague fashion of greeting without letting his gaze settle on the men. Fronto eyed his commander as Labienus stood aside and vacated the chair and the general approached the desk. Caesar looked older somehow. His hair had receded a little further and thinned noticeably and his face looked slightly pale and drawn, as though sleep, never easy for the great man, was now coming rarely and sporadically. Politics was clearly causing the general a great deal more grief that Fronto had realised.

  Without a word of greeting to any of them, Caesar dropped his helmet unceremoniously on the desk and appeared to pay attention to the miscellaneous papers on the table, leaning over them with his palms flat down.

  “Is Crassus gone?”

  Labienus straightened.

  “The instructions have been delivered, Caesar, but only just. Pedius only arrived today with the new legions. I expect Crassus is making preparations to get underway. With respect, general, we weren’t expecting you yet?”

  Caesar grunted.

  “So we have seven legions at our disposal here and Crassus will be leaving today. That’s acceptable. What of Paetus?”

  There was a pause.

  “Come on!” barked the general.

  Balbus cleared his throat.

  “The prefect was detained and questioned, Caesar.”

  “And?”

  Balventius took a deep breath.

  “And it is clear to me that he knows nothing of any conspiracy, Caesar. He is…”

  The general’s arm shot out accusingly in the direction of the primus pilus of the eighth.

  “Tell me you have him under arrest.”

  “With respect general, I allowed him to retain his position while we…”

  He was interrupted as Caesar swept his arm across the table, wiping his helmet onto the floor where it landed with a dull thud and rolled slowly back and forth.

  “His head, or your head, centurion. It’s your choice!”

  Fronto cleared his throat and deliberately stepped forward between Balventius and the general’s accusing finger.

  “Caesar, he’s right. I agreed with him; we all did.”

  The general fell quiet for a moment and his head dropped forward so that he faced the surface of the table. Fronto held his breath; this could go either way. He swallowed nervously as the general looked up. The remaining colour had drained from his face and his eyes burned with cold fury.

  “Get out!”

  Crispus reached the door first and almost threw himself out of it, closely followed by Balbus and then Labienus. Pedius and Balventius followed quickly, avoiding looking back at the furious commander. Fronto, however, remained perfectly still, his arms folded. From the doorway Balbus beckoned to him. Fronto shook his head and motioned for his peer to close the door. As Balbus, bearing a worried frown, pulled the portal to with a click, Fronto cleared his throat. Caesar had not taken his eyes off the legate before him; moreover, he’d not even blinked.

  “Caesar, you need to hear me out.”

  The general glared at him.

  “You push me too far, Fronto. I am the commander of this army; the governor. We’re a long way from Rome and a long way from the senate. Out here, I am imperator. I gave out orders and they’ve been disobeyed by the entire cadre of my senior staff.”

  Fronto shrugged and held the general’s stare, calmly.

  “That’s not what’s bothering you, Caesar. You know we always act in your best interest. What’s happened?”

  Caesar’s glare remained but, as Fronto watched, the heat slowly went out of it.

  “The senate. A group of bickering old women, the lot of them. None of them will give me any room to manoeuvre. Clodius spins in the centre like an enraged bear; ripping at anyone he can get his paws near, seemingly at random. He’s trying to undo almost anything I try, but it’s not just me; he rakes at all the others. Then there’s Cato, who seems to want nothing more than to plunge a knife into my back. Even Cicero! A few years ago I invited the man to partner with Pompey, Crassus and myself, even though Crassus disapproved! I even gave his brother a position on my staff, and how does he repay me? By denouncing my every move to the senate as nothing more than self-promotion.”

  He growled and hammered his index finger down onto the surface of the table so hard that he almost broke it.

  “Mark my words: the days of the senate are slowly coming to an end.”

  Fronto grimaced.

  “I mean it, Marcus. We threw the kings out of Rome because they were corrupt and useless. But what are these meddling morons if not corrupt and useless. Rome will never accept a king again, but it has to find something better than this!”

  He sighed and sank back into the chair.

  “I apologise, Fronto. My whole winter has been spent fending off political attacks and I tire of it. I returned to Vesontio early because there’s an honesty in soldiering that the senate lacks.”

  Fronto nodded earnestly. Caesar and he could disagree on many things, but with that point he could find no room to argue.

  Caesar reached down and collected his helmet, brushing the dust from the plume.

  “Very well. Tell me about Paetus.”

  Fronto nodded and finally took the seat opposite the general.

  “Paetus took on his father-in-law’s debt to Clodius. Now that arsehole thinks he owns the man. The problem is that while Paetus’ family are half a mile from Clodius but he’s here with us, the bastard pretty much does own him. Balventius is convinced of Paetus’ innocence and I tend to agree.”

  Caesar nodded soberly.

  “So?”

  “Well,” Fronto went on, “that leaves us in an unusual and useful position.”

  “Do tell” the general replied, steepling his fingers.

  “I’m not sure what you’d want to do to cause Clodius trouble, but Paetus is your pipeline to doing it. If we can persuade the prefect to deliver information back to Clodius, you could feed him a line of whatever rubbish you felt like. I’d bet you could make him look like a complete tit in front of the senate if you thought about it.”

  A slow smile spread across Caesar’s face.

  “I can see you’ve thought this through, Marcus.”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “Actually, this was all Balventius’ idea, but there’s a small hitch.”

  “What?”

  “Well Paetus is unlikely to want to help us if it’s putting his family in danger. We need to think of a way to protect them from Clodius.”

  Caesar smiled. Fronto shuddered. It wasn’t a nice smile at all.

  “I think I can sort that out, Fronto. When we’re done here, go find Balventius and Paetus and bring them here. I’ll…”

  He suddenly frowned and reached across towards Fronto.

  “Is there a smell like tin?”

  Fronto frowned.

  “Caesar?”

  “And it’s not got a little darker?”

  “Erm… no, Caesar.”

  The general stood, slightly stiffly.

  “I think we’re done for the moment, Marcus. Best get to your duties.”

  Fronto stared.

  “Caesar?”

  “Go, Fronto. Get to work. Come back tomorrow with the others.”

  Fronto stared for a moment longer and then bowed and strode for the door, opened it and, exiting, pulled it shut behind him. As he stood alone in the corridor, staring at the wood, he wondered what the hell had got into the general. After a moment, he shrugged and, turning, made his way from the building.

  Out in the courtyard area, the other officers stood in a small knot, arguing in low voices. The sound died out sharply when Crispus drew their attention to the puzzled legate as strode from the headquarters building. />
  “Marcus? What happened?”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “I wish I knew.” For a second he stared into nowhere and then realised they were speaking of the argument.

  “Politics. Bad moods. He’s alright now.”

  Gesturing at Balventius, he smiled.

  “He wants you, me and Paetus to come back and see him in the morning, but I think we’re off the hook for the rest of the day.”

  He grinned.

  “All of a sudden I find myself very thirsty. Anyone care to join me? We have to walk past the taverns on the way out of town, after all…”

  Chapter 3

  (Tavern on the main street of Vesontio)

  “Mansio and mutatio: stopping places on the Roman road network for officials, military staff and couriers to stay or exchange horses if necessary.”

  Balbus grinned unevenly.

  “Problem is…”

  He sat for a moment, pointing a shaky finger at Fronto as his face went blank.

  “Problem is that I can’t remember what the problem is!”

  Fronto burst out laughing as the older legate stared down forlornly into his mug. Next to him, Crispus made snorting sounds and on the other side of the table, Labienus grinned.

  “I swear the Gauls put something in this wine that rots the brain.”

  “It’s what you’re putting the wine into that’s doing that!”

  As Balbus turned to stare at Labienus, the other collapsed in fresh waves of laughter.

  “So…” Fronto pulled himself upright and rubbed his face with his hand. “The general’s been here two weeks. We’re rushed back from the blue shores of the Mare Nostrum in such an awful hurry because the Belgae are stomping around getting twitchy, and then we sit in camp waiting for something to happen. Come on, Titus. You’ve spent the most time with Caesar. What’s he told you? Why are we still sat here?”

  Labienus shrugged.

  “He’s waiting on a few things; that I know for certain.”

  He tapped his mug on the table rhythmically as he spoke.

  “I’ve been told to watch for a report from Crassus on the situation with the tribes up in Armorica. It’s possible Crassus managed to get his legion to Cenabum in a week, since it’s just men and kit with no baggage or artillery, though that’s a tall order in itself, being best part of two hundred miles away. Let’s say he can get a courier back to us in, what… five days? I mean there’s no mansios or staging posts out here in Gaul; nowhere to change horses, so he’d have to let the beast rest. That means that even at breakneck speed, he’d only have had a couple of days to check up on the tribes. I’d say we’ve at the very least another week or two before we look like moving.”

  He quickly glanced around to make sure no one else was listening.

  “And those riders he sent back to Rome too.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “You know… the Paetus thing? He’s waiting for a reply from them too.”

  He sat back, letting his mug sit still long enough for Balbus to refill it.

  “And there’s still almost a dozen native scouts out there among the tribes near the Belgae. He’ll be waiting for those to come in with their information.”

  Fronto grumbled.

  “So basically, he’s waiting for his mail to arrive!”

  Balbus laughed.

  “What’s up, Marcus? Are you so desperate to get stuck into the Belgae? From what I remember, the last few fights you’ve been in, you’ve ended up wounded and convalescing. You do look a bit too healthy at the moment.”

  Fronto glared at him.

  “You can go off people really quickly, you know that, Quintus?”

  “Ahem…”

  The four of them turned at the sound of the throat clearing. The yard was attached to the side of the tavern itself, surrounded by a low stone wall and sheltered by a wooden structure covered with ivy. Apart from the other two tables and the benches that served them, the yard was empty. Over the wall, however, life and business went on as always on the steeply-sloping main street.

  Titus Sabinus, senior staff officer and currently one of the general’s busiest aides, stood in the road with folded arms and a false frown. As the four stared up at him like vacant fish, he slipped into a smile.

  “Thought I’d find you lot in one of the bars. This is the third one I’ve tried though.”

  “Us too!” Balbus grinned.

  “I’ve brought some weary travellers to join you” the staff officer announced.

  Turning, he beckoned down the street and, moments later, the travel-worn faces of Rufus and Galba, legates of the Ninth and Twelfth Legions, appeared around the corner. Galba, a short, stocky and swarthy man, looked tired to the point of exhaustion. Rufus, younger than Galba by several years, looked equally weary, yet walked with a straight-backed professionalism. The two men looked across at the men in the tavern yard and gave a faint smile.

  Sabinus pointed at Fronto while addressing the two latecomers.

  “This man knows how to relax. You’ve been training solidly for weeks. Take a rest. You’ll need it, because you won’t be here long.”

  He turned to the others.

  “Look after them.”

  Crispus frowned.

  “Caesar’s pulled all the legions back to Vesontio?”

  Sabinus nodded.

  “All but the Seventh, of course. Things are in motion, Marcus. Won’t be long now. “He gestured at the mug in front of the legate.” Make the most of that. I doubt the Belgae will be as hospitable!”

  Fronto mumbled something and then took a deep pull from his mug.

  Galba and Rufus entered the yard as Sabinus gave a nod and wandered on up the street to report to the general. After a brief discussion, they collected a table between them and, carrying it over, butted it up against the one at which their companions sat. Retrieving the benches, they sank gratefully to the oak seats. Balbus grinned and banged heavily on the table.

  The Gaulish innkeeper came scurrying out of the doorway. As soon as he saw his two new customers, he rushed back inside and returned with two more jars of wine and two more goblets, which he distributed appropriately round the table.

  Galba sighed with relief and poured a drink for himself and his companion.

  Labienus regarded them with a raised eyebrow.

  “You two been overworked? You look exhausted.”

  Rufus shrugged lightly.

  “Crassus set a pretty heavy training schedule for the forward camps this last month.” He glanced at his companion. “And Galba here is determined not to be outdone, so he’s driven his men to work twice as hard as that!”

  Galba nodded.

  “We’re still a new legion and when we get into the thick of it this year, I’m determined the Twelfth are going to weather it with the best of them. Most importantly, I’m bloody damned if that humourless dick is going to prove a better legate than me, just because he was born with a golden rod up his arse.”

  Rufus gave a tired chuckle.

  “And of course, if Crassus is pushing his men to the edge to prove they’re best, and then Galba starts doing the same on the other side, what am I supposed to do in the middle?”

  He let out a small laugh.

  “Actually, I gave my men an easy run of it compared with these other two, but then the Ninth has always had a good reputation anyway.” He raised his goblet to Fronto. “You’ll remember that, I guess, since you’re responsible for a lot of it.”

  Fronto smiled. There was something vaguely sad about Rufus. He couldn’t define exactly what it was, but even when the young man was smiling and passing on a compliment, it felt like he was delivering cheerless news. There was a permanently haunting look about that young face that made him turn away, back to his drink.

  Clearing his throat, he looked back up, this time at Galba.

  “Far be it from me to question another commander’s methods…”

  He paused for a second as he noticed the scathing look
in Labienus’ eyes and ignored it as best he could.

  “You should be careful about taking your cue from Crassus. That man’s bad news. For us; for you; but most of all for his own men!”

  “Fronto…”

  He flicked his eyes across to Labienus, who was giving him a warning look.

  “No. I’m right. Crassus is a dangerous man. He’s got the drive, the ambition and the ruthlessness of Caesar…” he ignored Labienus’ frantic motions to shut up. “But he doesn’t have Caesar’s redeeming features. Caesar’s a showman and tactically sound. He knows what to do and when to do it, and he knows how to make his men love him. Crassus is just making his legion resent him, and that’s never a good thing.”

  Irritably, he pushed Labienus’ waving hand down to the table.

  “Mark my words: Crassus is going to find himself in trouble out there in the west. He’s got one legion. They’re a good legion and he’s had them training like mad, but still, even with his auxiliaries and support, there can’t be more than seven or eight thousand of them.”

  He waved his arm in a sweeping motion to indicate the whole of northwest Gaul, knocking Crispus’ mug in the process so that the young legate had to grab it quickly to prevent spillage.

  “But there’s hundreds of thousands of Gauls out there.”

  He waited for that to sink in during the silence that followed.

  “Eight thousand versus more than a hundred thousand. That’s the odds if it comes down to a fight against all the tribes up there. And, let’s face it: Crassus is going to push something until it breaks. He’s as diplomatic as a turd stew.”

  Labienus grasped his waving hand and forced it down.

  “Fronto, there are soldiers out in the street who can hear all this. For Jupiter’s sake shut the hell up!”

  Fronto growled at him.

  “Shaln’t!”

  He pulled his wrist free.

  “And even if he manages to maintain peace, I wouldn’t trust his men not to revolt against their commander. He treats them like slaves.”

  “For Gods’ sake Fronto, shut up!”

  Fronto pushed Labienus’ arm aside.

  “And the worst thing? Absolutely the worst thing that could come of any of this? What if Crassus somehow pulls this round and makes himself look good? You know as well as me that there’s only one possible reason Caesar sent him out to be surrounded by those odds with only one legion? It’s a bloody death sentence; that’s what it is!”