Fronto smiled to himself, despite everything. The image of Lucilia and the memory of the warm waters of the bay below Puteoli sprang unbidden to his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to give her the marriage she sought this year after all.
* * * * *
Fronto took a deep breath and, rolling his aching shoulders and wincing at the pains he’d suffered in the fall, glanced left and right at the crimson vexillum flags bearing Caesar’s Taurus emblem in gold, and nodded at the two guards, who opened the flap.
“Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto” announced the cavalry bodyguard, ushering Fronto into the tent.
“Ah, Marcus. I’d been hoping you would deign this meeting worthy of your presence at some point.” Caesar’s expression suggested that there was little intended humour within the sarcasm.
“Apologies Caesar” he replied with as little apology in the tone as he could manage. “I have come straight from the medicus.”
“Your tribune?”
“Tetricus, yes. He’ll live. He may suffer restricted movement in his arm and leg, but that’s what we expect from Roman weapons: killing and wounding efficiency.” His sharp, almost accusatory words echoed throughout the quiet tent and he took a moment to cast his eye round the assembled officers, allowing it to linger on Cicero and his pet centurions. Neither Furius nor Fabius seemed fazed by the words.
“The matter should be investigated, Fronto” Caesar confirmed quietly, “but you must be prepared to accept that it may have been an accident. In the press of war, accidents are inevitable, as you’re well aware.”
Fronto harrumphed and fell into position in a sullen silence, glaring for long moments at the centurions before turning to Caesar.
“The figures appear to be more than acceptable so far” Caesar announced, running a finger down the tallies on the tablets before him. “Currently they stand at forty seven men of the legions, including two centurions, an optio and a tribune, with a little over a hundred being tended by the medical section and nine unaccounted for. The cavalry lost twenty eight men and fifty one horses, due to the barbarians’ unorthodox and effective anti-horse tactics. So, even assuming the worst, we lost less than a hundred men in total. I think we can all consider that a more than successful engagement.”
“And the enemy?” enquired Brutus.
“A little vague. Estimates range from thirty thousand to eighty thousand. Until the men have finished stripping the camp of anything valuable or useful and gathered the dead for disposal we won’t have better figures. We’ll never be able to be accurate, given that the number of tribesmen who were washed away in the currents of the Mosella and the Rhenus or sank without trace due to the weight of their armour will remain unknown. Suffice it to say there were a great deal more of them than us.”
“I see the men are already dipping into the funeral club coffers and building the pyres for the Roman dead” Fronto noted. “Late this afternoon, I suggest you check the wind direction and make sure you stay upwind. It’s likely to get a bit smoky. Didn’t see pyres or pits for the enemy, though?” he added suspiciously.
“They will be left in piles for the scavengers in the wild” Caesar said flatly. Expressions of surprise and consternation rose on the faces of a number of officers, but Caesar blithely ignored them. “Prefect Lentulus?”
A cavalry officer Fronto didn’t recognise stepped out of the circle of men.
“Tell us about the flight of the camp’s inhabitants.”
Labienus stepped out and stood next to Lentulus.
“I can tell you about that, Caesar. I rode out to give them the opportunity to surrender, but this ‘officer’ here refused to rein in his men and stop chasing them, so I couldn’t find a way to address them. In my opinion, this man was not ready for such a command and should be sent back to his ala.”
The prefect shot a sour glance at Labienus and took a step forward.
“As you are aware, general, the men under my command had their blood up. They were seeking revenge on the bastards who had ambushed them in the valley, and that was well known when we were assigned to the fight. Once they had the scent of the fleeing barbarians nothing short of chaining them to the floor was going to prevent the slaughter that occurred.”
Fronto frowned. A look had passed briefly between the prefect and the general; a look of recognition; understanding; possibly even approval.
“It was unnecessary and entirely avoidable!” snapped Labienus. Lentulus turned away from Caesar and fixed his glare on the seething senior commander. “Once Commander Varus’ cavalry had cut off their escape route, it was inevitable that my men would take the opportunity to exact revenge for their own defeat and losses. No man – not even you, commander – would have been able to stop them.”
He turned back to Caesar. “And, I will state for the record that, had I been able to prevent it, I would not have done, regardless. The scum got what was coming to them. And with it we’ve ended the presence of the invaders here and achieved what we set out to do.”
Labienus continued to glare coldly at the man, but Caesar clapped his hands and drew everyone’s attention.
“And that is the pertinent point. We have crushed the invasion. Now all that remains is to make sure that it never happens again. I will be organising further strategy meetings in good time but, for now, we should lick our wounds, such as they are, and tot up our successes.” He turned to Varus, who stood tall and steady, despite the sling that held his broken arm tight and the padding beneath his tunic where the hip wound was bound. “I would like you to arrange mounted patrols and scouts to range up to twenty miles each way along the banks of the Rhenus and twenty miles back along the Mosella; long-range scouts out to the south, as well. I want continual and up to date information on the location and movements of the enemy cavalry that we know are still out there. We cannot afford to be taken off guard.”
Varus, standing painfully, his arm tightly slung and leaning on a stick with his good hand, started to rattle off figures and facts and Fronto’s mind began to drift along to the drone of planning. As the conversation hummed slowly around him, his eyes fell on Lentulus, now stepping back into the line, a virtual crackle of angry electricity between him and Labienus. The more he ran his mind back over the statements and the shared looks between prefect and general, the more convinced he became that the man had been following Caesar’s direct orders to wipe out as many of the barbarians as they possibly could and prevent the possibility of surrender. It would, after all, hardly be unlike the general to do such a thing.
Once more, his gaze passed to Cicero and the two centurions. Could Furius or Fabius have been responsible? They both bore their pugio at their belt, but a replacement would hardly be difficult to obtain had they lost one on the battlefield. A centurion didn’t carry a pilum into battle but, again, it would hardly be difficult to lay hands on one, even at a moment’s notice, in the press of men.
He wondered where the two weapons used were now. Had the medicus kept them when the wounds were tended? Had Tetricus taken them? It was, of course, possible that one of them had some sort of distinguishing mark that could tie them to their owner.
The meeting rolled on with discussions of the logistics of moving the army closer to the Rhenus compared with making use of the enemy’s partial fortifications and setting camp in their current location. Priscus stated his case with his usual brusqueness, Cita arguing his corner at every turn, other officers making their feelings known whenever the questions touched their commands.
Through the next twenty minutes, Fronto stood silent, letting the murmur of complications and disagreements wash over him. His thoughts drifted over the river and past the plain where the enemy cavalry raided somewhere out of scouting distance, past the great oppidum of Vesontio, over the mountains of the Helvetii’s land, past Caesar’s province of Cisalpine Gaul, across mile after mile of tilled and mined land in Italia.
His mind’s eye focused in like the view of a circling bird. A great mountain by the
sea in a bay that looked from above as though a Titan had taken a bite out of the land. Cities in glorious marble and brick. Circling down away from the mountain, past the old Greek port, past the bubbling mud and steaming white crater of the Forum Vulcani, down toward the port where Fronto had spent the blistering summers of his youth.
The villa on the hillside with its familiar outbuildings. The patio where his father had first taught him how to hold a sword. And finally there she was: Lucilia, standing in a stola of midnight blue, with her back to the glittering waters of the bay far below, leaning on the balustrade and smiling at him.
“When are we going home?”
Only as a stunned silence settled around him did Fronto realise that he’d voiced the thought out loud. His mind reeled back across the hundreds of miles, leaving that wondrous figure above the shining sea and refocusing on the tent full of sweating officers. Everyone was staring at him. Priscus was still standing in the centre of the tent, his finger wagging at Cita redundantly.
“Fronto?” Caesar frowned.
The legate felt a surge of automatic panic flowing through him.
“That came out wrong. Sorry. What I mean is, though, that we’re almost done here. You and Varus both said so. Once we can round up the stray cavalry they sent across the river, we’ve completely destroyed the invaders. Very few will have fled back across the river, and they’ll have their own trouble dealing with the Suevi who pushed them here in the first place.”
Caesar simply raised his eyebrow questioningly. Fronto recognised the warning sign, but he’d accidentally committed himself now.
“So I imagine that once we’ve smashed that cavalry force, we can report the invasion dealt with to the Gallic council, quarter the troops and then go home?”
He realised with some distress and annoyance that his voice had taken on an almost whinging tone towards the end, like a petulant child wanting to leave the table half way through a meal.
“You believe that the situation will be settled then, Marcus?”
“Well, I see no reason…”
“And what of those who return across the river, and the other tribes that live nearby? What if the advance of the Suevi is too much for them and they feel compelled once more to cross the river? What if the Suevi themselves decide to cross? How can we report this border of Gallic lands safe from invasion while we allow a threat to remain?”
Fronto frowned. “You intend to crush the Germanic tribes, Caesar? Now that Gaul is peaceful, we move on east? A dangerous decision I’d say, general.”
Caesar’s knuckles had whitened where his hands were entwined on the table.
“A demonstration to the tribes across the Rhenus, Marcus. A little warning of what we are capable of and willing to do. We will cross the Rhenus and punish them to discourage them from ever considering crossing the water again.”
A number of heads nodded in agreement. Fronto was hardly surprised to see Cicero, Labienus and a few of their cronies begin to argue in hushed tones, quietening only when Caesar threw a glance at them.
Fronto drew a deep breath. “A punitive strike across the Rhenus, then. Fair enough, general. I can see the sense in the move.”
The discussions rose once more like a wave of noise and Fronto stood quietly and listened for a few minutes more until Caesar drew the meeting to a close with an irritable sweep of his hand, his flinty gaze passing over Labienus and resting on Fronto. The legate pretended not to notice and waited as the officers began to file out, falling into the line and exiting the tent with some relief.
So it wasn’t over yet. His mind reached back over the weeks and months to Balbus’ villa above Massilia. “He will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume”, Balbus had said with a faintly challenging tone. Fronto had refused to listen; refused to acknowledge any possible truth in the accusation of Balbus’ words. “Watch what happens” he’d added. “If the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”
Fronto’s gaze passed across the assembled legions and auxiliary cavalry. He’d not questioned the general about the possibility of settling the veterans here, but it would be a solution; a good one. With a permanently resident force of veteran ex-soldiers, able to take up arms and defend their land, no Germanic tribe would find crossing into Belgic territory so easy in future. But this was clearly not the general’s intention. He wanted a push into their own lands. The senate would have a fit when they heard. The people would celebrate and praise the general, but the tide in the senate would turn against him all the more.
“Cicero!”
Spotting the commander of the Seventh, for once lacking the company of Furius and Fabius, Fronto hurried to catch up.
“Fronto.”
“You heard about my tribune?”
Cicero nodded. “Nasty business. You actually believe he was deliberately targeted by our own people?”
“It seems the only conclusion I can draw from finding a pilum and a pugio sticking out of him, yes.”
“Unfortunate. I don’t really know the man, but I gather he’s something of a hero. A clever engineer they say. Wasn’t he involved in the fight at Geneva?”
“Yes. He’s a good friend, Cicero. I will be… vexed… when I find out who’s behind it.”
Cicero paused and turned to him, his face darkening.
“A threat, Fronto?”
“Not at all. Why would I threaten you, since you had nothing to do with it? No. But a couple of centurions with a grudge against him might want to keep one eye open for the rest of their lives.”
Cicero sighed and strolled on. “You have to stop letting your personal prejudices against my men inform all your opinions and actions, Fronto. I may not agree with Caesar or even you at times, and Furius and Fabius may have been Pompeian veterans, but they fought like lions yesterday for our cause. Whatever else happens, Fronto, we’re all Romans. Remember that.”
Fronto came to a halt and watched as Cicero strode off towards the camp of the Seventh.
Just how far could any man be trusted in the army of Caesar these days?
ROME
Balbus ducked behind a pillar of the temple of Saturn, his gaze playing across the small crowd outside the basilica Aemilia. Cicero had emerged ten minutes ago from a public haranguing of Caesar and his ‘needlessly self-glorifying personal crusade to conquer the world’ and behind him had come half a dozen togate men, clearly of like mind. At least three of them were senators, known to Balbus from his regular visits to the forum to keep an eye on things.
Since Lucilia and Faleria’s somewhat troublesome and dangerous visit to the lady Atia’s villa and the revelation that Clodius was now running small gangs of thugs from the houses of Caesar’s family – and therefore almost certainly at Caesar’s command – he had been expecting to see trouble in the streets surrounding those who spoke out against Balbus’ former general.
Cicero and two of the senators shared a private joke, laughing hard, and then clasped hands and separated. Balbus frowned as he watched them move out across the forum square. The pair of senators, still laughing and joking, strode along the Vicus Iugarius towards the meat and flower markets and the river, their togate forms blending into the general tide of humanity that flowed this way and that along the street.
Balbus’ eyes pulled back from them, aware that, even with the unusual shock of red hair that marked one of the senators out in a crowd, he might well lose them in the press as soon as he shifted his gaze. Instead, he watched Cicero as the man stood for a long moment, tapping his lip as though struggling with a difficult decision. Finally, the great orator nodded in answer to some internal question, and strode across to the dilapidated arcades of the ancient Basilica Sempronia. Balbus frowned again as he watched the man enter the building.
Once the main venue for matters of law and public and pol
itical debate, the Sempronia had been damaged several decades ago by a tremor in the earth and cracks cobwebbed the walls and columns. It was far from unstable, but generally considered poor quality and unlucky so most business had now moved to the basilica Aemilia across the forum. Why Cicero should want to be in there, he couldn’t imagine.
He felt torn. Watching Cicero could be very interesting, but the Sempronia was rarely frequented by more than half a dozen people these days, and the interior was bright and airy. He would find it difficult to observe the orator without being easily observed himself – at least close enough to overhear any conversation. Perhaps that interesting meeting was a task for another day. Conversely, with the press of people in the streets, it should be easy enough to catch up with the two senators and see what they were up to.
Plagued by indecision, Balbus finally settled on Cicero, hurrying across the forum to the stained and badly-maintained walls of the basilica Sempronia. Clambering up the steps two at a time, he paused, heaving in heavy breaths. Despite his waistline, Balbus knew he was fitter than many men his age, and probably almost as fit as he’d been most of his military life, but his illness last year had put a strain on his chest and he could feel the labouring of his heart when he did things like this.
Slowing, carefully, he ducked beneath the columns of the basilica’s façade and scurried along in the shadows to a doorway – one of the numerous in the basilica’s wall, but not the one through which Cicero had entered.
Pausing, he peered into the interior, his gaze scanning the open hallway until he spotted Cicero standing before a statue of the brothers Gracchus, the great statesmen of the previous century. The man was standing with his back to the entrance and therefore to Balbus, and waited patiently. Two minutes passed, Balbus struggling with the decision of whether to stay and wait too, or to run off after the other senators. Just as he straightened to leave, a second figure strolled out of the shadows and crossed to Cicero, the two men clasping hands in greeting before turning back to the statue and conversing in tones that Balbus would never hear unless he loitered nearby.
Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles Page 17
