Three of the centurions led their units across to Decius, who smiled and examined his reinforcements. Two were Cretans and the other a Hispanic; probably not a word of Latin between them.
‘Get into positions,’ he told them, waving his hand and pointing vaguely up and down the line of the wall.
He kicked his heels absently on the defences and smiled down into the forest. It was looking increasingly like reinforcements would be unnecessary. Suddenly, he saw a movement in the trees. He strained his eyes peering ahead. Was that the Belgae?
Standing, he shaded his eyes and peered into the canopy of gloom.
No, that was another of his scouts. He sighed and sat down again. Slowly, the scout clambered up through the undergrowth and then climbed the wall close to his commander.
‘Are we expecting them any time soon?’
The Cretan looked at him quizzically.
‘Gods, I’ll be pleased to get back to camp where at least the occasional person understands a single word I say!’
Pointing down into the woods, he tried to mime Belgae warriors climbing the hill. The scout shook his head and said something unintelligible. Decius had never bothered mastering Greek. It was the language of thinkers, not doers; but even if he had, the strange dialect these Cretans spoke was an entirely different entity. He listened with an uncomprehending smile as he realised what the accompanying hand gestures meant.
The way he was waving his hand flat and gesturing to the plain…
‘They’ve given up?’
He laughed.
‘We loaded all these boulders on the wall, and they never even got halfway up?’
Grinning, he slapped his thigh.
‘Wait ‘til Fronto hears that!’
* * * * *
Fronto passed his wine skin to Decius, who took it gratefully and drank deep. Down on the plain, the last of Belgae tribal bands were striking camp and moving away to join the massive force leaving the valley.
‘I’d say we have to call that a rousing success, wouldn’t you, gentlemen?’
Decius nodded wearily. To the other side Pansa and Galeo smiled.
‘Think Caesar will give us any kind of reward, sir?’
The other three turned to stare at Galeo.
‘Reward?’ Fronto said in surprise. ‘The fact that the Remi have our back now is a pretty bloody good reward as far as I can see. Iccius over there…’
He pointed at the chieftain, who was grinning like an idiot. His reputation would be growing among the Remi now. Regardless of the help of Rome, his small oppidum with its few warriors had fought off a huge army of their countrymen and had lived, intact, to tell the tale. The role of Rome would, of course, be downplayed in the tales of the Remi, but Fronto couldn’t blame them for that. Whatever anyone could say, the Remi would now recognise their ally, Rome, and honour them. For the cost of remarkably few men, Fronto had given Caesar what he needed most. Not because of the general, but rather in spite of him.
Fronto sighed. He was in danger of getting extremely angry and bitter once again over Caesar’s lack of concern. One day he would snap. Admittedly, it would be Fronto who ended up being sent back to his sister in an urn if that was the case, but there were days when…
Decius nudged him.
‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re making people nervous with that grimace. And you didn’t finish your sentence.’
The legate shook his head.
‘Sorry. Where was I? Ah yes, Iccius. Lack of sleep, you see.’
He sighed and squared his shoulders.
‘Iccius will pass the word of what we’ve done for him among his people. And it might put a bit of fear into the enemy too. All in all, I think the benefits of what we did here today are tangible. And of course, most important of all, we lived to tell the tale!’
He sighed again.
‘By rights we should get our gear stowed now and get underway back to camp.’
He noted with humour the tired and crestfallen expressions of his officers.
‘But we can move a lot faster than an army that size. Besides, they’ve got to meet up with the rest of their people before they move on Caesar. We’ve got time, and I, personally, need a rest.’
He smiled at Iccius and mimed drinking from a mug. The chieftain laughed and shouted something to one of his spear bearers.
‘Besides… I believe Pansa spilled all their drinking water, so we’ll have to rely on their beer instead.’
He noted with genuine humour the look of distaste that crossed Pansa’s face.
‘Yes,’ Fronto smiled, ‘I’ve never acquired a taste for the stuff myself either, but Crispus, the legate of the Eleventh, is quite a fan. He can even work out where it’s been brewed by the taste, or so he says. To me, it always tastes like it’s been brewed in a sock.’
Next to him, Decius laughed.
‘Frankly, I don’t care,’ added Galeo. ‘If it’s alcoholic, I’ll drink it.’
‘Well said.’
The four Romans walked toward the beckoning leader of the oppidum.
The moon rose high over Bibrax, now partially denuded of trees, and over the plain below, littered with the refuse of an army long gone. Everything looked so peaceful, particularly through the thin veil of drunkenness. The other Roman officers had long since collapsed into a stupor and would regret their activity in the morning. Fronto had, for better or worse, a cast-iron stomach and the alcohol tolerance of a marble quarry, and was now nicely hazy after a solid six hours of celebrating. The only Roman who had stayed with him was Decius, something of a prodigious drinker himself, it appeared. The prefect yawned and dangled his bare feet off the wall’s edge.
‘It might sound a bit weird, sir, but I think I might be a bit sorry to go back to the army.’
Fronto laughed drunkenly.
‘For the sake of all that’s good, stop calling me sir. Even Galeo stopped eventually. We’re both officers and patricians. When there are no enlisted men around, you can safely use my name.’
A pause ensued.
‘Anyway,’ he said suddenly, startling his companion, ‘how come you ended up as a prefect of a minor auxiliary unit? Your family’s got to be better off than mine, and probably more popular, given that I’m as popular in political circles as a turd in a city bathhouse.’
Decius laughed.
‘I have a nasty habit of speaking my mind. Get’s you in trouble, that kind of thing.’
Fronto’s turn to laugh.
‘You have no idea…’
‘Well the problem is that I served in the Seventh from the outset. It was good in the early days. But then early last year before all this started we got assigned Crassus as a legate. Now I know he’s one of the leading lights of Rome and all that, and I suppose I don’t really want to talk out of turn, but…’
‘But the man is an arsehole of the highest order. Yes, I’ve noticed. But if you’re in the Seventh, why aren’t you out west with him getting massacred by angry Gauls?’
Decius chuckled.
‘Well I inadvertently mentioned something about his ancestors having evolved from goats. He demanded I resign my commission in his legion and return to Rome. But legate Balbus was looking for men to take on his auxiliary units at the time. So I accepted a demotion. I left the Seventh and all my glory and honour to come live with a bunch of Greek hunters in the Eighth.’
Fronto frowned.
‘That’s a hell of a pay cut.’
‘As you mentioned, my family’s not poor. I just need to stay away from home at the moment. My wife’s just had her third baby and her mother’s living with us.’
Fronto laughed.
‘Shouldn’t you be back bringing up your child, though?’
‘I don’t think you heard me, Fronto. I’ve been in Gaul for a year and a half, and my wife’s having her third baby…’
‘Oh.’
Fronto looked down at his feet.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Wh
en I do one day get back to Rome, I shall make it a very messy and public divorce and I shall get rid of her and her harpy of a mother in one fell swoop.’
Fronto tried not to laugh as Decius mimed a swoop with his hand, and the effort and momentum caused him to topple over sideways. He failed.
‘I think I should have a word with Balbus. You need to be in a more commanding position than this. I imagine he can find room for another tribune.’
‘Thanks. Now where’s that beer. I need to drink ‘til I’ve forgotten about Vespilla and her harpy mother again.’
Chapter 7
(Caesar’s camp by the Aisne River.)
‘Laconicum: the steam room or sauna in a Roman bath house.’
A cheer went up among the men of the Tenth as their legate, dirty, limping and dishevelled, plodded through the wooden gate of the enormous camp. Behind him came the various auxiliary units, elated by their victory at Bibrax, but weary and largely suffering on account of bad heads. The linen tunics of the archers and slingers were stained brown and grey, and the Roman prefects who led them marched in traditional fashion, but with a stiffness and tiredness to their gait.
Fronto smiled at the men at the gate and returned their salute. He wondered how these auxiliary missile troops felt about being cheered by professional, well trained legionaries. It must be odd for them. He smiled again to himself. As far as most of the army would be concerned, Fronto and his officers had pulled off an impossible task.
Standing by an armaments cache on the main via, Priscus, the primus pilus of the Tenth, laughed and folded his arms.
‘Fortuna certainly kisses your arse, sir.’
Fronto grinned.
‘Priscus, you have no idea. I am Fortuna’s servant. I make her luck!’
He threw up his arm to halt the advance of his column.
‘I’m going to take the prefects to headquarters. Can you have somewhere set aside for these units to relax and stand down?’ He smiled wearily. ‘Oh, and send someone to Cita and requisition some decent wine for them all. They bloody well deserve it, and it’ll wash the taste of Bibrax’s nasty beer out of their mouths.’
Priscus raised an eyebrow.
‘Could cause resentment in the legions, sir, if you show such favour to noncitizens? No one’s giving our lads any wine.’
Fronto shrugged.
‘They may not be citizens, but they just fought hard and well for Rome. Get the wine. If anyone complains, I’ll deal with it personally.’
Priscus nodded and beckoned to a couple of legionaries standing at attention nearby. While he relayed the appropriate orders, Fronto turned to look back along his column, formed up four abreast.
‘Decius, Galeo and Pansa. Follow me.’
He stepped out ahead of the column and turned as the three officers made their way from the bulk of their men and converged on the legate.
‘Sir?’
Fronto smiled wearily.
‘I’m going for debriefing with the general. You three gentlemen were instrumental in our success yesterday, and I want to make sure Caesar knows that, so I want you all to accompany me.’
The three men shared surprised glances but nodded respectfully.
‘Shouldn’t we clean up a bit before seeing Caesar?’ asked Pansa, indicating his drab and dirty red tunic, torn in several places and with stains that may now be permanent.
Behind him, Priscus laughed.
‘Caesar’s used to seeing the legate looking like that. It’ll come as no surprise, I’m sure.’
Fronto shot an irritated glance at his second in command and then turned back to the three prefects.
‘Right now, you look like you’ve just fought a nasty action. You look like victorious soldiers. If you get smartened up, you’ll not stand out quite so much.’
Without waiting further, he turned and started marching up toward the command block in the centre of the camp. The legions had done a tremendous job in his absence. The bridge across the Aisne was strong and wide enough for two carts; a camp protected the far side with a palisaded annexe that contained all the supplies and supply wagons that constantly rolled across the countryside back and forth to keep the legions fed. Very efficient, but nothing quite as impressive as this fort.
Tetricus had constructed on this hill above the river a camp of traditional rectangular shape, but the dimensions and the fortifications were breathtaking. Once or twice in his career, Fronto had come across a camp big enough to accommodate two, or even three, legions, but this was on another scale entirely. A single camp large enough to hold the bulk of seven legions, plus all their auxiliary units, cavalry and artillery. It was almost mind-blowing to see. The four men had walked fully quarter of an hour from the gate before they came to the edge of the principia: more than a dozen campaign tents, with Caesar’s imposing headquarters at the centre.
The general’s guard maintained their perimeter and stepped forward to challenge the four scruffy men approaching.
‘State your name and purpose!’
‘Gods,’ Fronto laughed, ‘Ingenuus has you lot on form, doesn’t he? Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto of the Tenth Legion, accompanied by three auxiliary prefects, to see the general.’
The two men before him saluted, and one turned and ran off into the principia. The other remained at attention.
‘If you would just bear with us while we inform the general?’
Fronto nodded and the four men stood, kicking idly at the dried mud and few surviving tufts of grass on the ground. After half a hundred heartbeats, the guard returned and beckoned, escorting them into the general’s tent.
As they entered, pausing to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, Caesar rose from his seat behind the table.
‘It is good to see you alive, Fronto. I was starting to worry. Last night I poured a libation on the altar of Mars and asked him to bring you back unharmed.’
Fronto sighed wearily.
‘With respect, general, it wasn’t Mars that did it. It was us; myself, the three officers behind me and their men.’
Caesar blinked.
‘Did it? Did what?’
Fronto smiled.
‘Brought you the Remi, safe and sound. Bibrax stands firm. In fact yesterday it stood firm amid a sea of Belgae around thirty thousand strong.’
The general was clearly astonished.
‘You succeeded? I had assumed you harried the enemy and pulled out? You actually succeeded?’
Fronto nodded.
‘Not only that, but you remember those chieftains we met back at Durocorteron? Iccius and Antebogus or something?’
‘Antebrogius’ corrected the general absently.
‘Yes, well it turns out that Bibrax was Iccius’ village. Good job we did go, eh?’
The general’s eyes flashed momentarily at the barely-veiled note of accusation in the legate’s tone.
‘Then you gentlemen did me a great service.’
Fronto nodded.
‘At the very least I’d say these three need seriously looking at for decoration and promotion.’
Caesar nodded thoughtfully.
‘Identify yourselves, gentlemen.’
‘Titus Decius Quadratus, auxiliary prefect of the Eighth.’
Decius saluted wearily. As he stepped back into line, the next man stepped forward.
‘Servius Galeo, auxiliary prefect of the Eleventh.’
Another step forward.
‘Vibius Pansa, auxiliary prefect of the Twelfth.’
Caesar smiled benignly. Fronto knew that smile and how the general had perfected it such that it looked so genuine.
‘Well, gentlemen. We’ll have to see what we can do for you all.’
Fronto nodded.
‘However, that may have to wait. That’s the other thing. On the way back here, we skirted round the edge of the Belgae. All of them. Judging by the relaxed atmosphere in the camp, I presume you’re not aware of them?’
Caesar frowned.
‘
I have scouts out far and wide. They were last reported about twenty miles distant… They can’t be anywhere near yet? We’d have had reports.’
Fronto shook his head and pointed at the tent’s doorway.
‘They’re out there. What looks like half a million of them to me. And they’re so close that if you pissed off a high ladder you could probably hit them!’
The general’s frown deepened and he leaned forward, placing the flats of his palms on the table.
‘How close?’
‘Two miles. Maybe a little further. And I can tell you this: there are a bloody lot of them.’ He turned to the prefects behind him.
‘How many d’you reckon, Decius?’
The prefect frowned.
‘I reckon their camps cover about eight miles or more.’
Fronto nodded.
‘Something like that. And they’ve burned everything they’ve come across between Bibrax and here. I think you’ve got a big fight waiting for you just out of sight.’
Caesar growled.
‘Then either my native scouts are defecting to the Belgae or the enemy have caught and killed every last one of them.’
He smashed his fist on the table.
‘How can I have been so blind?’
Fronto smiled.
‘Simple. I wasn’t here.’
The general gave him a weak and humourless smile.
‘What’s the terrain like between here and there, do you know? I’m planning blind, here.’
Fronto shrugged.
‘A couple of low grassy humps and the odd belt of trees, and then a wide plain.’
Galeo shook his head and stepped forward.
‘If I may, sirs?’
The general and his legate nodded at him.
‘Well it looks like a plain at first glance from a distance, where we marched past, but I saw tell-tale signs. That plain’s a marsh at the moment. I think it probably gets flooded by the Aisne over winter and spring and stays swampy until high summer. There’s reeds in clumps, and there are herons perching and flying around. It’s never quite dry, I’d say. In fact, I think that’s why the Belgae made their camp where they did: the marsh lies between us.’
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 66
