It was an assembly of the Gallic rulers about as much as it was an orgy of the Gods. It was, in fact, Caesar once more playing the Gauls for his own benefit. Indeed, he had even feigned ignorance over the very existence of Germanic tribes this side of the great river, just to allow the Gauls to plead, demand, and urge Caesar to come to their aid.
Showmanship.
Fronto felt uncomfortable with the whole pretence, all the more so since Labienus kept catching his eye and raising his eyebrows, nodding towards the general. He knew why it was all happening, of course. The senate continued to bemoan Caesar’s pushing beyond the limits of his granted powers, and the pleas of the allied Gallic chiefs would legitimise his campaign. But still it reeked to Fronto.
Another Gallic chieftain stood, his silvery braids whipping around his neck as he rose, his moustaches all-but obscuring his mouth as he refused to grant Caesar any more levies for his cavalry. Fronto rolled his eyes and mouthed along with Caesar’s somewhat predictable reply.
“Without adequate cavalry support, I cannot see any way in which we can reasonably challenge your Germanic aggressors.”
He’d heard Caesar use the same line three times already. It was a stalemate situation at the moment. The Gauls were all in favour of Rome coming north in force and driving out the new invaders, but many of their husbands, fathers and sons had finally been released to return to their tribes after two or three years of serving with the Romans. Their tribes were beginning to recover, the returning manpower allowing them to raise their farming and manufacturing to the levels they had achieved before Caesar had first enlisted their cavalry. Only three tribes had so far relented and agreed to provide new men for Caesar’s horse army and those were tribes that had only recently become allies and had lost few men to the campaigns.
It was all about attrition. Caesar had them in the palm of his hand. The Gauls needed him to get rid of the invaders, lacking the strength to do so themselves, and everyone there knew it. They simply jostled to get the best deal from the situation for the fewest losses. By the time the meeting was over, Caesar would have his cavalry, of that there could be no doubt. But it was extremely wearing to be a part of.
Fronto glanced across and accidentally caught Labienus’ eye once more. The staff officer was watching him intently, damn him.
Fronto’s eyes strayed to the other figure in the room whose presence offered something of an interesting alternative to the stony-faced Roman officers and wheedling, supposedly-noble Gauls.
Centurion Furius was in position at the rear of the tent, next to the entrance, casting unmoved, superior looks at the gathered chiefs. Fronto had watched him for a lot of the last hour, drinking in every detail about the man. Here was a soldier he would trust as far as he could throw a ballista.
Furius was marginally shorter than Fronto, perhaps five feet four or five, but his body mass was clearly higher. The man had shoulders like Atlas, broad and strong, a dimension betrayed by the fact that his mail shirt showed signs of having been altered to give extra shoulder room, the shinier newer links standing out against the dulled old ones. The lower half of his face was covered with grey bristles that reached from the collar of his armour almost to his eyes, covering his neck and even his cheekbones. It gave him a deeply animalistic appearance that seemed in Fronto’s opinion to suit him. One thing had particularly interested him, though: a shiny white scar on his tanned skin followed the line of his collar bone, and just above it. There were a number of ways a man could receive such a wound, of course, but Fronto couldn’t help remembering stories of the men who had worked for Clodius Pulcher and instigated mutiny in the eastern legions being executed by Lucullus’ officer with a single downward thrust into their hearts.
He shook his head to bat away such fanciful thoughts. No man would survive such a blow.
As he watched, he realized Furius had straightened and come to attention.
His mind focusing once more, Fronto glanced around. Caesar was gesturing at the centurion.
“Bring me the records of our cavalry numbers.”
Furius saluted again and turned. Fronto frowned for a moment as an opportunity struck him to escape this gloomy proceeding. Turning to the general, he cleared his throat.
“If I might be excused, general, I will bring Galronus. He has just completed a full inspection of one of the three cavalry wings and could probably provide useful information for you.”
Caesar frowned for a moment at the breach of protocol, though hardly unexpected, given the perpetrator, and then nodded.
“Be quick.”
Fronto bowed slightly and shuffled out behind the line of officers, making his way around the tent and out of the entrance. The arguing began once more before he’d even made it out of earshot.
He knew exactly where Galronus would be: in Fronto’s tent, helping himself to whatever tasty vittles he could find. Fronto had arranged to meet him after the meeting. Almost certainly Priscus would be there, too, and Priscus would be the man with the cavalry records.
Centurion Furius was busy striding across the command compound toward the camp prefect’s tent. With a tight smile, Fronto jogged off after him. As they approached the large tent, Furius came to a halt outside and barked out a request for entry, his voice deep and gravelly.
Fronto slowed and sauntered up alongside him.
“He won’t be in there, centurion.”
Furius turned and glowered at the legate.
“Sir?”
“Priscus. He won’t be there. He’ll be at my tent.”
The centurion nodded his thanks, showing no sign of real gratitude in the movement. As he turned and strode off toward the Tenth’s ranks, Fronto fell in alongside and walked with him.
“You served with Pompey? Or Lucullus?”
Furius cast him a suspicious look.
“Both, legate.”
“Lucullus was an extraordinary general. Never met him, but I wish I had. My father spoke highly of him.”
The centurion nodded. Fronto waited. Clearly conversation was not one of Furius’ strong points.
“And Pompey, eh?”
Another nod.
“And now you serve with Caesar. You’re making a career of soldiering for some great generals. Did you not think of signing up to go east with Crassus?”
Furius’ step faltered and he slowed, turning to Fronto and casting a withering glance that took the legate by surprise.
“Well, I mean” Fronto said almost defensively, “you’ve served in the east before with Lucullus and Pompey. You know the lands and peoples. You’ll be used to the heat and the dryness, and it’s no secret even in Rome that Crassus is mounting a campaign against Parthia. I imagine at least half of the veterans of Pompey and Lucullus’ legions will be signing on to march with him.”
The withering stare was making him extremely uncomfortable. With the almost bestial features of the man, he couldn’t escape the impression that Furius was eyeing him in much the same way as a bear might eye its next prospective meal.
“I’m just interested in what brings a veteran of the eastern campaigns out to soggy, cold Gaul when he has the option of returning to the east.”
They were approaching the Tenth’s command tents now as Furius turned to face front again. The centurion made a strange nasal noise and cleared his throat.
“Caesar is a great general. Even Pompey thinks so. Crassus is a rich moron with the military expertise of a gutter whore. Those who go east with Crassus are signing on for a parched journey into the jaws of Cerberus. I choose life and glory.”
As they came to a halt at the tent, Furius turned to him again.
“It has been obvious since Ostia that you neither like nor trust me, legate Fronto. And from what I’ve heard of you, I believe you’re a dangerously unpredictable drunkard to have in a position of command; insolent and disobedient. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the centurionate before you were beaten to death for the things you say and do. I think we can both agree that w
e dislike each other intensely and that we’re both grateful we serve in different legions, and whatever you’re hoping to get out of this conversation, I hope you’ve got it now, because the conversation is over. I will not breach protocol by entering the tent of a senior officer unbidden and I have no desire to lay eyes on the debauchery that I hear goes on. Would you be so kind as to send the camp prefect out to speak to me?”
Fronto stood still for a long moment, staring at the centurion. The man had just insulted him at a very personal level as well as a professional one and, in theory, Fronto could have the man broken for speaking to him like that. And yet he found that no words would spring to his lips for his throat had run as dry as the Parthian sands.
Trying to communicate his anger with only his expression, Fronto turned away and entered his tent.
Priscus sat on his bunk, shaking two dice in a leather cup, while Galronus, Brutus and Varus sat on cushions on the floor with cups of well-watered wine.
“Gnaeus? There’s a self-righteous arsehole of a centurion outside who needs accurate cavalry figures for Caesar.”
Priscus nodded, making to rise.
“Slow down, my friend. I would take it as a very great personal favour if you took your time getting him them. Perhaps you could struggle to find the tablets with the figures on?”
Priscus gave him a half-smile. “I won’t need to fake that. Finding anything in that mess is like trying to find a virgin at the Bacchanalia. Bit childish, though? Making him look bad like that?”
Fronto glared at him. “I’ve already been called insolent, disobedient, drunken and debauched in the last two minutes. I could do without you adding childish to the list.”
Priscus grinned. “But they’re almost all your most endearing traits!”
A ripple of laughter ran through the men on the floor and Fronto shared his glare with them all.
“Just do it, Gnaeus.”
Priscus nodded and made for the tent’s exit. Fronto turned his attention to the rest of them.
“Varus? Galronus? Just how detailed is your knowledge of your commands?”
Varus smiled, immediately latching on to Fronto’s point. “Good enough, I’d say. Let’s just stop off and pick up Piso on the way. He’s with the quartermaster.”
Fronto smiled. It was petty. It was childish in the most pathetic way, to sidetrack Furius and delay him, while he himself supplied Caesar with the information directly from the commanders of the three cavalry units. And yet it gave him a little thrill of happiness to drop the obstinate centurion in the dung heap.
* * * * *
Two weeks passed in drudgery at the Divoduron camps. Spring began to blossom into early summer with a brief play of storms that cleared the air and brought a fresh blue-skied world to northern Gaul. The cavalry had mounted patrols that ranged over the few miles around the encampment and across the ridge onto the far plain, though the Germanic aggressors remained steadfastly out of reach toward the Rhenus.
The legions champed at the bit each and every day, feeling the need to move and exercise their sword arms as opposed to sitting in camp digging latrines and carrying out routine guard duties. The men asked of their centurions and optios when the army would move, and those officers in turn asked their legates and tribunes when the march would begin. And inevitably, since few dared question the permanently-busy general, most senior officers asked the same question of the camp prefect.
Priscus pushed aside the flap of the tent without asking for admittance or preamble of any sort, ignoring the surprised look from Fronto who stood shaving with a specially sharpened knife in front of a bronze disc. As the legate turned at the unexpected and unorthodox interruption, Priscus unfastened his helmet as he crossed the large tent and flung it angrily at the wall, where it hit, bounced, and rolled under the bed.
“Come in.”
The prefect turned a glare on Fronto that carried so much raw irritation that the legate accidentally jumped a little and nicked a neat red line above his Adam’s apple.
“Don’t start with me, Marcus. Your tent was the nearest place I knew I could drown my sorrows.”
“Bad day again?”
“I’d never have accepted this commission if I’d known what it involved. Morons, donkey-brains, thieves, wastrels, layabouts and flatheads all badgering me day and night for details I don’t have, supplies I can’t get, tasks that no one will do and shite-knows what else. I swear the next person who asks me when the army marches is going to be visiting the medicus with a gladius hanging out of his arse, only probably hilt-upwards.”
Fronto grinned. “So when…”
“Knob off. Get the wine out and don’t bother with the water. I’ll go down your route today.”
Fronto looked at the patchy bristles on his face in the bronze disc, shrugged and, turning, collected two cups and a wine jug from the table by the bed – a location for keeping wine that had practical benefits of which his sister wholeheartedly disapproved. He’d even joked about digging a personal latrine on the other side, too, so he wouldn’t need to get out of bed until he was called for.
“So what’s especially troubling you today?”
Priscus sighed as he gratefully accepted a proffered cup. “The simple answer is that the army will be moving in the next few days, and every hour it gets closer brings more work and more idiots.”
He gestured expansively with his free arm, sloshing the wine over the edge of his cup onto Fronto’s bed, the legate noted with dismay.
“We currently have in supply enough grain to keep the entire force in the field for four weeks. Caesar seems to think that the amount is ample and that, if the campaign stretches more than a month, we can start foraging and rely on the supply train reaching us from Vesontio and beyond.”
“And we can’t?”
“One thing I’ve learned in this job is that quartermasters are disorganised and lazy and that Cita is the biggest, fattest, laziest blob of grease that ever wore a helmet. We’d probably be better relying on buying it from local tribes if it weren’t for the fact that the local tribes won’t have any because of the bloody stinking Germanics!”
Fronto opened his mouth, but Priscus was in full flow. “And we’ve got several thousand new cavalry coming in later today, which will stretch those supplies slightly thinner too. Plus for some unknown reason it’s become my job to organise the redistribution of the cavalry between Varus, Piso and Galronus. As if they couldn’t do it themselves.”
Fronto grunted and let his friend barrage on.
“I’ve decided on the quick answer to that anyway. Galronus’ lot will be split to bolster the other existing units and our Remi friend can have all the new raw cavalry for his own.”
“That’s hardly fair on Galronus.”
“Varus will argue against having them and take it to Caesar, and Piso has a good rep, but I don’t know him well enough yet. At least Galronus can mould them into a unit and I don’t have to do any splitting up and moving about.”
Fronto smiled and took a quick pull of the wine, the last jar of good stuff that he’d brought in his personal baggage. After this it was a matter of relying on whatever Cita had in stock.
“Well at least you’ll be able to relax once we’re on the move.”
“It doesn’t bloody work like that, Marcus. When we move, I just have to start working on the next night’s camp.”
“You’ll just have to train up some of the men Caesar gave you and then…”
His helpful suggestion tailed off as the door flap swept open once again and Carbo ducked in through the door.
“Sir?”
“Does nobody in this camp knock any more?”
Carbo, the primus pilus of the Tenth, held his helmet beneath his arm, the feathery transverse crest tickling his armpit as he gestured breathlessly with his vine staff.
“Sorry, legate… no time.” He gulped in a deep breath. “Need help, sort of urgent-ish!”
Fronto framed his question, but Carbo had alr
eady ducked back outside the tent. The legate and the camp prefect shared a confused and concerned frown. Carbo was not a man to rush or be jumpy for paltry things. Grateful he’d already strapped on his boots, Fronto stood, dropping the cup to the table and grasping the hilt of his gladius. If something had made Carbo jumpy, he wanted to be prepared.
Priscus was at his shoulder as he stepped outside to find Carbo waiting impatiently on the main roadway, his usual pink features flushed to an almost beetroot colour.
“What the hell is it?”
Carbo gestured down the road and started to jog with the gait of a man who has just sprinted to his own speed record and needs a breather. As he ran, the two senior officers keeping pace with him, he spoke in brief staccato bursts between heaving breaths.
“Centurion in… the Seventh. He’s… he’s sentenced a man… to death.”
Fronto and Priscus shared a surprised glance again. It was an unpleasant thing, but hardly unknown, and nothing to do with anyone outside the Seventh.
“Carbo, what is the actual problem?”
The centurion realised they’d stopped and pulled up short, heaving in a huge breath.
“Man fell out of step during drill. Now he’s to be beaten to death!”
Fronto’s eyes widened. “That’s insane!”
Carbo, his breath spent, simply nodded and pointed onwards, in the direction of the distant camp of the Seventh.
Priscus narrowed his eyes. “But this is the province of their legate. Where’s Cicero. You should have gone to him first.”
Carbo shook his head wildly. “Legate Cicero is in with Caesar and not to be disturbed, like most of the seniors. One of their lesser centurions found me and asked me to help. He was one of ours til he got reassigned over winter.”
Fronto and Priscus began to run.
“I have a sinking feeling. The centurion who’s in charge of the punishment. Would it be a certain Furius by any chance?”
Carbo shook his head. “Name’s Fabius.”
Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles Page 9
