His eyes drifted back ahead to the tribal capital of the Mediomatrici that loomed ahead of them. Having spent most of the preceding hours riding across a refreshingly flat plain, Divoduron showed the signs of having been founded by a man with an eye for tactical advantage. Curved like a misshapen horseshoe, the huge oppidum occupied the heights of a small range of high, wooded hills that rose like a barrier, crossing the great plain. The only clear pass in view from left to right marched directly through the huge fortified settlement. The Mediomatrici controlled the gateway to the flat lands on either side; a powerful position.
The Roman officers who had brought the army here from winter quarters as an assembly point had wisely avoided the crown of hills and settled for the flat land below for their numerous temporary camps. But the presence of eight legions and their endless support units, supply trains, cavalry corrals and suchlike seemed to have sparked this powerful oppidum into a frenzy of mercantile activity. The winding road that snaked up the pass to the Gallic settlement was dotted with small groups of pack animals – trade caravans taking advantage of the demand created by so many thousands of men. Here and there, a glittering, silvery glint betrayed the presence of Roman troops moving up and down the hill. Clearly Caesar had been magnanimous and allowed his men the luxury of utilising the oppidum’s stores, taverns and women of low repute during their off-duty time.
From above it must look like an ant’s nest.
Galronus’ face blossomed into a curious smile. Slowly, inexorably, they were drawing closer to the lands of the Remi, his tribe. Fronto wondered if they would even recognise him now.
Galronus as a brother in law? It wasn’t that he objected at all. And he liked to think of himself as a very accepting and understanding man. And yet, Fronto had found a small but insistent voice deep down in his soul that screamed denial at the idea of Gaulish blood running in a Roman family. Suppress the thought as much as he could, he still could not kill it, and this strangely intolerant deep-seated fear worried him more than anything else.
He suddenly realised that Galronus was watching him with a questioning brow and wondered what expression he had been wearing in his musings.
Forcing a thoughtful smile back on to his face, he concentrated on the approaching fortified camps. The nearest palisade held no vexillum, and the few men patrolling the rampart were clearly Gallic. The presence of corrals of hundreds of horses confirmed that the camp belonged to the allied Gallic cavalry. Beyond, the next two nearest bore the crimson standards of the legions, followed along the road by another group of horse pens and palisaded enclosures.
“This your bunch?” Fronto asked quietly, nodding at the nearest gate. There seemed to be no way to identify which auxiliary unit was which, there being so many allied Gallic horsemen compared to the few Roman cavalry, and it was only when Galronus nodded and pointed out a small group of pole-arms bearing stylised bronze boars that he could see a difference.
“We present ourselves to Caesar first, though, Marcus. It is fitting for a commander, and we must speak to the general of his nephew.”
Fronto nodded unhappily. That was a conversation he was hardly looking forward to. They’d stayed in Vienna only long enough to make sure that Pinarius made it onto a proper funeral pyre and that an appropriate urn had been purchased, then had left instructions with the priest of Jupiter as the only official to whom Fronto felt he could entrust the task. The task of placing a coin in the mouth of the deceased had fallen to Fronto and he had carefully selected a nice, shiny denarius for the journey.
“The general’s waited weeks for us. He can wait an hour longer. I want to find Priscus and Carbo first. I like to go into any briefing fully aware of everything going on first, and Priscus will know everything down to whose cloak the rats are nesting in.”
Galronus looked doubtful for a moment but then, acquiescing to the will of his friend, they rode on past the cavalry encampment, towards the central fort, larger than the others, and bearing the great gold and red Taurus flag that indicated the presence of the general.
The central camp bore also the standards of the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth legions – apart from the notable absence of the Seventh, the core of Caesar’s force; the veteran legions. The guards at the gate moved to block the entrance at the approach of two riders, despite the military tunics they wore. Fronto prepared himself and took a deep breath to announce their ranks as the transverse crest of a centurion appeared over the parapet above the gate, the shining bronze of the helmet slightly duller than the shiny pink of the chubby face.
“Open the gate for Legate Fronto of the Tenth!” he bellowed before descending the turf rampart, disappearing from sight.
The legionaries at the gate stepped back into position, throwing out a salute to the two officers, and Fronto nodded at them as he passed within, wondering if they were men of the Tenth, given the presence of their primus pilus.
Carbo, remarkably neat and polished, appeared around the gate side and came to attention with a salute and a half-smile.
“Legate. All officers are required to attend the general upon arrival.” Turning to the gate guard, he gestured with his vine staff. “It’s a bloody shambles. Get that walkway cleared of crap and clean out oven number two. I shall be having a word with your officer. Any more of this slovenliness and I’ll be reducing pay at such an alarming rate that you’ll be paying me by October!”
By the time he turned back to Fronto and Galronus, who were dismounting, he wore a happy grin.
“Gotta keep ‘em on their toes sir, eh?”
A harassed-looking legionary hurried over and took their reins for them, others grasping for their pack animals behind.
“Come on, sirs” Carbo said loudly and gestured up the main thoroughfare to the gathering of large tents at the centre, dotted about with the general’s horseguard. As soon as they were out of sight of the gate, the centurion wiped his brow. I expect you’ll be wanting to check in with myself after the general, yes, sir?”
Fronto nodded. “I will, Carbo, but first I want to go find Priscus. Any idea where he might be?”
Carbo pointed to one of the tents ahead. “That’s his tent there, sir. He’s just finished morning inspection of the camps, so he’ll be there. It’s astounding how many things he can find wrong, legate.”
Fronto smiled for the first time that day.
“Giving you a hard time, eh? He has to, Carbo. Having come from the Tenth, he can’t be seen to be showing favouritism.”
“Don’t I know it, sir? He was never this tough when he was my commander. I shall be at the Tenth’s principia tent when you require me.”
Fronto nodded as the man strode off toward his own command.
“See who lurks nearby” Galronus muttered, leaning close. Fronto followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes. Centurion Fabius leaned against a tethering post close to the command section, idly picking his teeth with a splinter from a stick.
“I think we can afford another minute’s detour.” Fronto smiled unpleasantly, and angled toward the officer. Fabius, a dour-looking man with dark stubble reaching almost from eyes to collar, turned a pale ice-blue, piercing gaze on Fronto and straightened with an almost deliberately insolent slowness, throwing out a salute. He was unarmoured and unarmed apart from his vine staff, his tousled iron-grey hair waving in the gentle breeze.
“Fabius?”
“Legate Fronto. I trust you had a good journey?”
Fronto nodded. He’d seen the attitude before: borderline insolent, full of hidden disdain, with a faint sneer. It was an expression career soldiers, and centurions in particular, reserved for the noble classes who liked to play commander without any real hint of military sense. Fabius could hardly be expected to view Fronto any differently, but it did little to prevent Fronto’s dislike of the dark officer growing to almost boiling point.
“Been in camp long, Fabius?”
“Four days, sir. Made good time. Left our luggage to come on later with the supply train and just
brought a saddlebag, sir. Like you, apparently.”
“Did you travel alone then?”
“Yessir. For speed.”
“Dangerous, given the unsettled nature of Gaul.” The centurion shrugged as if to suggest that he found more dangerous things than barbarian Gaul in his boot. “And the tribunes you were with at Massilia?”
Fabius shrugged nonchalantly. “The two junior tribunes got a message at the staging post in Massilia and rushed off ahead even of us. I think they were authorised to use courier horses and change mounts. They’d been here for days when we arrived. I think the senior tribune bloke was going to knock around in Massilia for a bit before he set off. Didn’t seem too inclined to rush.”
Fronto frowned and wished Priscus was with him. His former chief centurion claimed to be able to identify lies, and the results of dice games with him suggested it was true. Though Fronto would be prepared to put a month’s wage on there being an untruth or half-truth there, he could not confirm it.
“Anything else, sir?”
Fronto glared at that smug smile, wondering momentarily whether he could legitimately get away with wiping it away with a right hook. The glare sliding into a sullen frown, he folded his arms and straightened.
“No. If you see Menenius and his ferret-brained friend can you ask them to come and find me.”
The man’s parting salute carried, if anything, even more insolence and spite than his opening one, but Fronto ignored it and turned back, gesturing to Galronus as the pair strode on to the camp prefect’s tent ahead.
Two of Aulus Ingenuus’ praetorian cavalry guard stood outside Priscus’ tent, rigid and armed for war, their crimson plumes whipping in the breeze. Their spears crossed as the two men approached, barring the way. Fronto came to a halt and nodded at them.
“Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth, and Galronus, commander of the allied Gallic horse to see the camp prefect.”
“The prefect’s left orders he is not to be disturbed, legate, I’m afraid.”
Fronto glared at the man and cleared his throat.
“Priscus!” he bellowed. There was a sudden crash and a thud in the tent as of something heavy toppling over.
“Fronto?” came a slightly muffled voice.
“Let us in!”
A moment passed before the tent door was heaved aside and Priscus’ face appeared in the gap. His eyes were underlined with dark circles, his face pale and unhealthy, and his hair knotted and uncombed.
“You took your bloody time. Get in here.”
Fronto shared a look with Galronus as the camp prefect disappeared inside once more and the two guards saluted and straightened, removing the obstacle from their path.
* * * * *
Priscus had returned to a large desk and was busy trying to gather a pile of wooden writing tablets that had fallen to the floor, though they kept slipping from his grasp in comedic fashion. Fronto and Galronus stood in the tent’s entrance and took in the sight.
Priscus had the look of a man extremely short on sleep and bothered. Somehow it was extremely odd seeing their old friend dressed in the leather tunic and pteruges of a senior officer, his burnished cuirass and helmet standing on one of a number of wooden cabinets around the tent.
“You need a hand, Gnaeus?”
“Just sit down and let me get these put away” Priscus snapped, returning to grumbling under his breath as he replaced the tablets on the table, then rearranged them half a dozen times until he was satisfied that they were in the correct order. His gaze then strayed up from them to his visitors and he slapped his hands down on the oak surface, leaning heavily.
“Paetus may have been trouble, but the man must have had a mind like a damn librarian. How he kept all this straight, I have no idea. I’d just about got things set over the winter quarters, then we move here and it starts all over again. It’s a never-ending bloody task. The last time I slept we had different Consuls, I’m sure.”
Fronto smiled benignly. “I suspect you’re taking on more than you need to. I understand you’ve been interfering in the quartermaster’s duties too?”
“I had to” Priscus snapped irritably. “You have no idea how damn disorganised it all was. Whatever I needed was always ‘on the way’ or ‘snagged up in transport at Massilia’ or ‘not available until next month’. Cita’s organisation is a pissing joke! Caesar’s trying to foist a number of assistants on me to play camp prefect for each legion; says that’s what Pompey always did. But that just means I have eight more disorganised idiots to tidy up after, so I’ve set them all to counting things just to piss off Cita and his assistants.”
Fronto couldn’t stifle his short laugh and Galronus was starting to smile now.
“Can you give me a quick rundown on what’s happening before I go see Caesar?”
Priscus narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t been yet?”
Fronto shook his head, and Priscus scratched his chin and then slumped into a seat. “You’d best hurry then; he’ll be twitching for you to turn up.”
“Fine. Just give me a quick list, then. Note form if you need to.”
Priscus leaned back and scratched his head.
“Well you’ll see that all eight legions are here, along with the cavalry, though they’re all a bit depleted since Caesar settled his veterans and almost half the Gallic horse have disbanded now that the uprisings have been quashed. Their contract to the general was complete and Caesar thought it politic to let them return to their tribes.”
“Aye, we’ve seen the forces. And I know there’s some trouble with the Germanic tribes. Go on.”
“Well, there’s the Seventh. At Caesar’s behest, I’ve spent the entire winter trying to identify any soldier that has any Pompeian connection or uncertain history and transferring them all to the Seventh. Appropriately, most of the veterans and solid men of the Seventh have now been moved out and dispersed among the other legions. It’s been a bureaucratic nightmare.”
“Who has been given command of this rotten legion, then?” asked Galronus quietly.
“Who else? Cicero. With his ties to the knobs in Rome who’re speaking out against the general, he was an obvious choice.”
“I thought Cicero was bound for the Eighth since Balbus left?”
“Young Brutus has managed to secure the Eighth. Spent half the winter badgering the general by letter, I gather, and started in person as soon as Caesar arrived. They seem quite happy with him. The Seventh is a bit restive, mind.”
“Not surprised. They’ll have plenty of chances to prove their loyalty, I suspect. I’m guessing that two new centurions by the name of Furius and Fabius are now in the Seventh? Anything else? What about the Tenth?”
Priscus shrugged. “Tenth are as good as they’re ever going to be without me sticking a vine staff up their arse on morning parade. Carbo’s a good man. I’ve got him terrorising the worst layabouts. And yes, there’s two new veteran centurions with the Seventh, as well as a few optios and legionaries. You met them then?”
“The pair travelled with us a way. I’d trust them about as far as I could reasonably spit a donkey. Pompeians through and through.”
Priscus nodded. “Pompeians they may be, but those two centurions have a hell of an impressive record. Might be just what the Seventh need if they’re going to prove themselves.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing you won’t hear when the Gauls arrive to speak to the general – I expect he’ll tell you about that. Anyway, I am busy, so you’d best go present yourselves before Caesar starts to get angry. I’ll be along shortly.”
Fronto glanced at Galronus as Priscus turned back to his bureaucracy, acutely aware that they’d just been summarily dismissed by a theoretically inferior officer. The two men shrugged and, ignored by the camp prefect, strode out of the office and turned to make for the large command tent nearby, guarded by six of Ingenuus’ cavalrymen.
The men to either side of the door straightened and crossed their spears again a
s the two men approached and Fronto drew in a deep breath to announce himself just as the familiar, tight and strained voice of the general issued from the tent.
“Fronto? Get in here.”
Galronus smiled at him as the two guardsmen straightened and removed the impediment, allowing them to enter the slightly dim, spacious interior. The general was clearly in his element. Always invigorated by the commencement of a military campaign, and animated in his planning of such, Caesar moved energetically to the desk, his eyes bright, and leaned his back against it, crossing his arms. His hair seemed to have receded a little further over the winter, but otherwise he appeared as young and vital as ever he had.
“I was starting to think about sending out scouts to try and find you, Marcus.” His sole concession to Galronus’ presence was a respectful nod in his direction.
“We came with good speed, Caesar, barring a two day layover at Massilia to visit Balbus.”
“And how is Quintus? Well, I hope? In truth I had hoped to pay him a visit myself on my journey north, though events beyond my control required me to reach the army with all speed.” His face took on a sly smile. “But then, I suspect you had a more pressing need to speak to him than I. How is the lovely Lucilia?”
Fronto felt the colour rise to his face and once more damned his own blood for it.
“She’s good Caesar. Look, I’m sorry about this, but there’s some bad news we have to deliver before anything else happens.”
Caesar nodded. “Best get on with it then.”
Fronto looked at Galronus, who shrugged uncertainly. Turning back to the general, he clenched his fists by his side.
“It’s about your nephew, Caesar.”
“Young Pinarius? I’d assumed he’d come with you. Don’t tell me the half-wit’s got himself waylaid.”
“I’m sorry, Caesar, but it’s worse than that. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Dead?” The general never even flinched. His eyebrow arched slightly, but the only other sign that the news was of import was a slight whitening of the knuckles as he gripped his own elbows. “How?”
Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles Page 6
