He found himself once again thinking on the future of Gaul. The patricians of Rome saw themselves as a civilising force, offering culture and advancement to the barbarian world, though conquest if necessary. What the patrician class generally failed to realise was how much Rome itself could learn in return from those cultures. If only things would settle and stay settled, Gauls, Belgae and Romans could build something here.
He sighed. Such thoughts seemed so sensible and practical in his head, until his eyes strayed to the doorways of buildings as he passed and he saw the piled bodies within.
“Through conquest if necessary.”
“Sorry sir?” the legionary beside him queried.
“Oh, nothing.”
The small party continued down the main street where less than an hour ago Fronto had led the reserves into battle. Now, soldiers were carrying chests full of the booty they had stripped from the tribe, back down the paved avenue, across the square and through the gate to the camp.
At least they’d made something out of this. The campaign had been costly, with a chillingly high number of dead among the legions. Many of the centurionate, including some old friends, had gone to Elysium this year. But the Belgae were beaten. There would be peace, at least for a time and, after this, the Germans would be disinclined to cross the Rhine for a while. There would probably be trouble in the west of Gaul to deal with either in a month or so or, more likely, next year. But in all, things would be peaceful.
He looked up at the great wall, towers, and gate of the oppidum as he passed. He would have to speak to the artillery officers. No good burning all traces of the Aduatuci from the world but leaving their great fortification to be used again, particularly this close to Germanic territory. No, the walls would have to be completely destroyed. By the end of the week, the great oppidum of the Aduatuci would be nothing but a charred, denuded hill, and the process of wiping the tribe from history would begin. It was like Carthage again, though on a smaller scale.
He sighed as they strode out into the open and down the slope toward the hospital.
The camp of the Tenth legion was sullen as Fronto left his tent and made his way to the headquarters of the general. It had been three hours since he had accompanied the stretcher-bearers back to the camp. Priscus had gone in to the medicus immediately, and the doctor had taken one look, sucked in air through his teeth in a timeless manner, and closed the door on Fronto. Since then he’d sat in the doorway of his own tent, repeatedly filling and emptying a cup of wine as he watched the columns of smoke rise from the hill opposite, while the onagers were moved into position to flatten the walls. It had seemed wrong sitting there on his own, but for some reason, all he could think of was his primus pilus being opened up in the hospital, and he felt less than social. Galronus was the only other man he was inclined to talk to right now, but the Remi officer had suffered a minor head wound during the scuffle earlier and was in with the medics at the moment.
And now, as he left the lines of the Tenth and two morose-looking guards saluted, he glanced across to his right, behind the lines, where a large stockade contained thousand upon thousand of Aduatuci prisoners. They would have to be taken away before long, as feeding them on a daily basis while so far beyond Cita’s supply lines was a difficult and costly business. But then, Caesar couldn’t move just yet. They would have to stay a week or more to impose their presence on the surrounding tribes, to find the few pockets of Aduatuci who were not in the oppidum, and to deal with the wounded.
He heard the thunder of hooves as he strode toward his meeting with the general and turned to see a small group of riders slowing as they neared the command area. Ingenuus’ men stood at attention by the entrance to the palisaded quarter as both riders and legate converged on the gateway.
Fronto frowned as the men arrived and the leader, a cavalry prefect by his armour, dropped from his saddle and saluted. The half-dozen men looked tired and unshaven and had clearly been riding for days; their horses stamped and steamed.
“You looking for me or the general?”
The prefect wiped his brow.
“I have a message for Caesar, sir.”
Fronto nodded.
“Come with me.”
With the prefect at his heel, sweating and groaning after so long in the saddle, Fronto strode through the gateway to the large tent that was Caesar’s headquarters. Two more of the praetorians stood beside the entrance, alongside the standards and the eagle. As the officers approached, one ducked inside for a moment and then returned.
“The general is ready to see you, legate.”
Fronto nodded and he and his companion strode into the dim interior of the command tent. Caesar sat at his desk, carefully positioned so that a shaft of light fell across the tablets and papers before him. He looked up.
“Ah, Marcus… good. I’ve been wanting to see you.” As the second man entered, the general frowned. “And who is this?”
Fronto shrugged and stepped across to stand behind a chair opposite his commander. The prefect walked to the table and saluted.
“General Caesar… I bring greetings from commander Labienus at Nemetocenna.”
Caesar looked momentarily surprised.
“Indeed? And news, I presume?”
The prefect smiled.
“News, indeed, sir.”
“Well, go on...” the general prompted.
“Firstly, I bear tidings of legate Crassus and the Seventh in Armorica.”
Fronto leaned on the seat back and turned with interest at this. Caesar’s expression hardened, and the legate realised that he couldn’t decide whether he hoped for success or failure on the part of the young nobleman.
“Legate Crassus wishes to inform Caesar that he has brought the seven maritime tribes of Armorica under the eagle, sir, and has settled into quarters in the territory of the Veneti on the north coast.”
The general blinked in surprise as the prefect continued.
“Commander Labienus wishes also to inform you, sir, that he has concluded favourable terms with the Belgic tribes and that, assuming that the Aduatuci are no longer a threat to the pax Romana, all Gaul is now yours.”
Fronto whistled through his teeth.
“That little bugger actually conquered the northwest. With one legion!”
Caesar nodded.
“A reminder from young Crassus, clearly, of his powerful lineage. Good. He has done me a service. Thank you, prefect. Is there anything else?”
The prefect fished a scroll from his tunic and placed it respectfully on the table.
“A full account from the commander, sir, but that’s it.”
Caesar nodded.
“Go and find yourself something to eat and rest for a while. Thank you, prefect.”
As the cavalry officer bowed and exited, the general turned to Fronto.
“Well?”
Fronto sighed.
“Do I speak freely?”
A nod.
“He’s trying to upstage you. Be sure he’s already sent a message back to Rome informing the people that matter of his achievement. You can claim it as your victory, but certain factions will no doubt attribute all your success this year to the work of Crassus. I really don’t have any great suggestion what to do about it, though. If you stamp on his achievement, it’ll make you look petty and ungrateful. You may just have to cheer him on.”
Caesar nodded sourly.
“This, Fronto, is why I sometimes envy your avoidance of politics.”
* * * * *
Labienus smiled at the young chieftain.
“We will be pulling out in a few weeks and taking the army to winter quarters, once Caesar confirms where that will be, but I intend to leave a small garrison at the fort here.”
The chieftain waited for Septimius to translate and then shrugged and said something in his guttural dialect.
The auxiliary officer smiled.
“The lord says that’s not necessary. They have made an oath and they wil
l stand by it.”
Labienus laughed.
“I have no doubt about that, my friend. The people I am leaving behind will be there for your aid and support, not to control you. They will be mostly engineers and scribes. What we have begun here should not be stopped just because we leave for winter quarters.”
The translation seemed to make the chief happy and he reached out and clasped Labienus’ hand before turning and walking away toward the gates of Nemetocenna.
The commander turned to Septimius and Pomponius.
“I think, unless you have any objection, that I will leave one cohort here over winter, and I’d like you two to take command? I realise that you were expecting to return to ‘civilised’ lands, but you have been in at the top here on what I’ve tried to achieve, and I trust you will continue the good work?”
Pomponius nodded.
“Frankly, sir, with all the projects on the horizon here, I’m a happy as a pig in muck.”
Labienus laughed. Engineers never changed.
“I too am happy to stay,” Septimius agreed.
“Good.”
Labienus glanced across the hillside to where teams of engineers were, even now, creating good solid stone flags to pave the roads of the oppidum.
“Not Gaulish; not Roman. Gallo-Roman perhaps?”
* * * * *
Fronto woke with a start. A medical orderly was shaking him as gently and respectfully as possible, and had been doing so for several minutes while Fronto snored like a sick bear.
“Whassup?”
The orderly looked visibly relieved.
“Sir, the primus pilus is awake.”
Fronto, suddenly awake, scrambled madly out of the seat in the hospital that he had spent much of the last three days occupying. Three days of waiting, but he’d been practicing stretching and flexing his left arm to keep himself entertained and the muscle was clearly healing. There was less strength in it than he had ever felt, and he couldn’t pick up even the smallest or lightest thing, but the arm worked, and every day brought some small improvement.
In the side room that had been sealed off from the main tent, the primus pilus of the Tenth lay flat on a table. Once again it struck him just how badly wounded the man really was. Lying there in just a tunic, there was still hardly an inch of flesh visible from the neck down, swaddled as he was in linen, splints, wraps and more. Where the skin was visible, around his neck and hands and one lower leg, it was largely purple and yellow.
“You’ve looked better.”
Fronto forced himself to smile.
Priscus rolled his eyes and then shut them tightly for a moment.
“I… I can’t move. Any of me!”
Fronto nodded.
“Don’t try. You’re being held together with sticks and ropes right now. But the doctors tell me that most of it will heal nicely.”
“Most?”
Priscus glared at his commander.
“Your arms should be fine, and your right leg will be alright, so long as your ankle heals properly. Your left leg… well…”
Priscus growled/
“What about it?”
“You’re going to have trouble walking fast. Maybe even walking at all.”
“Shit!”
Fronto nodded.
“They’ve done everything possible, Gnaeus. You know that.”
Priscus growled.
“If I can’t walk, they should have let me die. You know what a crippled soldier has to look forward to. I’m not a rich patrician; I came up through the ranks. When I get thrown out I’ll end up begging in the subura and getting pissed on by people. You know how it goes.”
Fronto shook his head.
“You saved Caesar’s life, so you’ll not be needy. Hell, it’s possible you’ll be able to stay with the legions. Just let it heal and then see.”
Priscus sighed and let his head drop back.
“How are the lads?”
Fronto laughed.
“They’ll be a sight happier when they hear you’re awake. They’ve been moping like grounded children. I don’t know how you do it. They’re frightened to death of you, but they get all soppy about you when you’re not there.”
“Ha.”
Priscus let out a low grumble.
“I can’t even raise my arm to drink anything.”
“Good. The doctors don’t want you to at the moment.”
“So…” Priscus sighed, “you’ve not said anything, but I assume from the general tone and the fact that you’re sat here that we won?”
Fronto nodded.
“The Aduatuci are no more. Aduatuca is no more. There are currently more prisoners in this camp than there are soldiers! The legions are stood down for now and will be going off to winter quarters shortly. Galronus apparently got smashed over the head and is somewhere in here too, but he’s going to be alright.”
The legate stood for a long moment and stared down at his old friend and finally Priscus sighed again.
“Look, I’m still very tired. Perhaps I should try and sleep.”
Fronto nodded, noting with some distress the tear that rolled unbidden down the centurion’s cheek and into his ear. Forcing himself to smile positively, he squared his shoulders.
“I’ve got my arm working a little again. Keep working on your legs, and I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re better rested.”
With a final wave, he turned and, wrapped in sadness, strode from the tent.
* * * * *
Paetus sat in the stockade at the rear of the Nemetocenna fort, dirty and hairy. Every day that passed made him feel less and less human. But he’d heard the guards talking. In a week or so the prisoners would be taken south under guard of a small force of provosts and Gallic auxiliaries. It was a long journey back to Rome, and he had had plenty of time to devise plans.
Getting free would be easy. Even getting away from the guards without being noticed should not be too much trouble. The big problem was going to be getting away without the other prisoners either getting involved and interfering or drawing the attention of the provosts. But he had plenty of time for that. He couldn’t escape until he was safely within reach of Rome, where he could go to ground, anyway.
Rome.
And Caesar and Clodius.
* * * * *
The weather, already on the turn when the legions had arrived at Aduatuca, set in for autumn over the next two weeks. The mornings were misty and cold and invariably gave way to overcast and damp days. Every day, Fronto noted the faces of the men who were looking forward to winter quarters and being settled somewhere. Even when winter quarters were deep in Gallic lands, six months or more of being stationary meant that local traders, bars and brothels would spring up to entertain them.
Even the senior officers generally wore faraway looks as they yearned for family estates in Italia and the south; of the waves of the Mare Nostrum, or sitting on a balcony on the Esquiline hill, looking out over the roofs of Rome with a glass of Falernian in hand. Fronto, unsure of what his plans were for the winter, strode across the ground toward Caesar’s tent.
Despite the gloom, he was feeling unusually cheerful. He had called in this morning for his daily visit to Priscus to find him partially-raised up and practicing lifting things with his left arm. The doctors had been impressed with his progress. Piously, they put it down to the offerings and libations that Fronto habitually poured on the altar of Aescapulus as he entered and left the hospital. Fronto, ever a man of the world, put it down to the sheer indomitable bloody-mindedness of the Tenth’s primus pilus.
Ingenuus’ guards saluted as he passed into the gloom once again. Inside, Sabinus sat with Balbus opposite the general, who smiled.
“Ah, Fronto, good.”
The legate strode across the tent and dropped wearily into a spare seat. Caesar frowned momentarily at the impropriety and then brushed it aside.
“How is your chief centurion today?”
Fronto sat back and began to flex his
arm as he habitually did these days.
“He seems to be healing. I think he aims on being able to resume his post next year.”
Caesar raised his eyebrows.
“The doctors told me his military career was over.”
Fronto laughed.
“Priscus? You know the centurionate, Caesar. They’re a hardy breed. Look at Balventius; or Baculus. Baculus suffered over a dozen wounds at the Selle, but refused to go in a cart when he left with Labienus. The man actually marched off. You can’t keep them down.” The smile faded slightly.
“But I think you’re right about Gnaeus; his combat days are over. Can’t have a centurion limping at the front of the lines with a gammy leg.”
Caesar nodded sagely.
“But we must do something for him. The man deserves to be recognised for what he did. He effectively save both the army and my own life.”
Fronto smiled.
“He shouldn’t end up as a beggar in the streets of Rome, certainly. Perhaps a sizeable pension, like you offered Balventius? An estate in Cisalpine Gaul or Illyricum? A villa by the Adriatic?”
Caesar grinned; a cheeky and unexpected look that made Fronto frown suspiciously.
“What?”
“I have a better suggestion, I believe. Priscus, like Balventius, would not take to the life of a country gentleman.”
“Ye-e-e-s” Fronto said slowly and uncertainly. “So?”
“I need a new camp prefect. A primus pilus needs to be fit and active, but I think you’ll agree that previous evidence suggests the camp prefect can be a fairly sedentary person.”
Fronto frowned.
“He won’t like the idea. He’ll hate the idea.”
“More than retirement?”
Slowly, like a sunrise, the smile spread across Fronto’s face.
“D’you know, general? You might be onto something there.”
The Belgae Page 46
