He let go of her wrist and pushed her back away from him.
‘But you will deal with him? For me?’ Clodia’s voice had almost become a whimper. Her brother turned his angry gaze on her.
‘You will disappear from view. I don’t want to see your face until the next time I send for you, and if I hear anything about your exploits from an outside source, I may well re-task Philopater with a new target. Do you understand?’
Clodia blinked.
‘You’re just going to let him go?’
‘You’ve lost, Clodia, and I will expend no further money or effort to try and salvage your tattered reputation. Now get out of my sight.’
Without a parting glance at her, Clodius turned and strode purposefully off down the steps. Behind him, Crispus straightened by the column beside which he lurked and waited for the broken and dejected figure of Clodia to shuffle off across the square. The basilica had emptied, and the last of those involved had descended and disappeared in the forum. Crispus smiled to himself as he stepped out into the open and gazed off after the retreating figure of Clodius, now on the other side of the square.
‘And you interest me, Clodius Pulcher. Just what plots and plans are you hatching?’
With a grin, he set off to catch up with the others. Priscus would certainly have something to do this summer other than babysitting, after all.
Chapter 5
(Aprilis: Approaching Vindinium in northwestern Gaul)
Fronto sighed as the mounted party crested the hill and the oppidum with its legionary camps appeared, sprawled around the low hill beside the river.
It had not been a long journey by the standards of some he had taken, but had still been more than two weeks in all. The general and his staff and senior officers, accompanied by Aulus Ingenuus and the general’s praetorian guard had embarked on a small transport vessel at the navalia, the military port on the Campus Martius, and had taken a couple of hours to Ostia, where they had transferred to one of the triremes of the fleet for the two day journey to Massilia.
By the time the ship had put to sea, the miserable grey drizzle that had once more set in had grown to a full blown deluge. Fronto had looked nervously out at the crashing waves and asked tentatively whether the captain really thought the sea was safe enough, but the man had merely laughed at him and told him that they would put to port for storms, but not for a bit of rain.
Never the world’s best sailor, Fronto had lurched miserably from foot to foot as the Argus bounced from wave to wave, trying to ignore the smell of the cooked pork and bread dipped in spicy sauce that the others were tucking into for lunch.
The only thing that made the miserable two days bearable for Fronto was the fact that he managed to hold onto his stomach’s contents for the duration, while Galronus, who had never before stepped aboard a ship, had turned a worry grey-green colour in the first quarter of an hour and had made sounds like a dying goose for the whole journey.
Finally, blessedly, the ship put in at Massilia just as, to Fronto’s intense irritation, the clouds dispersed and gave way to an unseasonably bright and warm day. The officers had led their horses up from the Argus, along the dock and up the slope, to turn and watch the ship pull back out into a freshly calm and placid open sea for its return journey.
The sixteen officers and two dozen cavalry troopers, armed against the bands of thugs and robbers known to operate in the dirty streets of this great port, and followed by the dozen carts that contained their campaigning gear, had made their way slowly from the coast up the slope toward the area of exclusive villas owned by some of the more affluent, yet discerning, Roman nobles. Few men born in the great city itself would choose such a site for a country residence, but those who valued their privacy and solitude, while maintaining close access to a major crossroads, could hardly do better.
Fronto had nodded appreciatively. He’d been promising to visit here for the last couple of years when he was off duty and free, but had never seemed to have the time. He’d not pictured himself turning up among a group of senior officers with the general himself, though. The view was quite stunning, with the villa they were here to visit sprawling over the crest of the hill, giving a massive panorama of the city below and the coast for several miles in either direction with its coves and rocks and sapphire sea.
More welcome even than the sun and the breathtaking scenery was the figure of Quintus Balbus, commander of the Eighth Legion, standing by the gate at the entrance to his villa. Balbus looked, as always, every inch the Roman legate, his cuirass polished to a mirror shine, the protective Medusa head leering out from the chest, his crimson cloak freshly cleaned and pressed, draped about his shoulders, and his plumed helmet beneath his arm. Despite the commander’s advanced years, his limbs were muscular and powerful; the result of two years of strenuous exercise during the Gallic campaigns.
Behind the grinning officer, his wife Corvinia stood, a warm, if disapproving, smile aimed directly at Fronto while she held her two girls back respectfully. In the two years since Fronto had last met them, the eldest had begun her transformation to womanhood with remarkable results. Fronto sighed. Here we go again: women. Corvinia had wanted to mother him and marry him off, whereas Lucilia, the elder daughter, had clearly seen him as a prospective catch.
But much to Corvinia’s disappointment, the general had no plans for a social visit, and there was barely time to exchange pleasantries before Balbus’ horse was brought round by a slave, and the legate hauled himself up to join the column riding back to the legions.
The next fortnight had been a steady ride across country, up the Rhone valley, past the various small outposts set up by Cita’s men to deal with the ever increasing supply train that ran from Roman territory through the lands of the Allobroges and on into deeper Gaul. They had passed the oppidum of Vienna, stopped for a happy night at Bibracte, where they had recounted the tales of the Helvetii and the happy time they had spent there two years ago, and had then followed the line of the river Loire half way toward the west coast before cutting across the land and striking northwest for the legions’ winter base.
And now, as the roiling black clouds threatened yet another torrential downpour, the officers and their escort were finally within sight of Vindunum. The former town of the Andes rose on the southeast bank of the river on a bluff, with heavy walls and squat buildings of a traditional Gaulish nature. Around the town each legion, from the Seventh to the Fourteenth, had its own fortified camp, close enough to throw things between the ramparts; too close for defence, so clearly for show and to keep the legions separated.
Fronto leaned across toward Balbus and his mount sidestepped irritably as the first drops of the next shower began to patter on his face. Though he was no fan of riding in general, he had to admit he missed Bucephalus. This beast was disobedient to say the least and Longinus’ old horse had received the best training the Roman cavalry had to offer. He jerked his mount straight, wondering whether Bucephalus would be quartered in the camp of the Tenth.
‘Some of the camps are empty. That’s got to be a bad sign.’
Balbus nodded.
‘The question is: where are they and what are they up to? Is Crassus already having to batter the tribes into submission?’
On the other side of the older legate, Crispus turned and shrugged.
‘They could simply be on manoeuvres. What concerns me is the size of the camp for the Twelfth.’
Fronto frowned and scanned the settlement. Crispus was right. Each legion had its standards up and, as the riders approached, they could see that the Twelfth was in a worryingly reduced state, occupying less than a quarter of the space of any other legion.
He cleared his throat.
‘Caesar?’
The general glanced round at the three legates close behind him.
‘Yes?’
‘You planning a meeting of the senior officers once we’re in camp, I presume?’
Caesar nodded and stretched in his saddle.
Fronto nodded emphatically. The dismal conditions on the journey once they had left the south coast and the sunshine behind had made them all yearn for the warmth and cleanliness of a good bathhouse. His faint smile sliding into a grin, Fronto leaned closer to Balbus and lowered his voice.
‘That gives us a good few hours and possibly even the whole night to change into something more comfortable, find a bar, and drink until we can’t see one another.’
The general, without even turning his head, replied ‘Be sober enough to attend a meeting should I call it, Marcus. I don’t want you falling over in front of the new staff officers.’
Fronto glowered at the back of the general’s head and winked at Balbus, who smiled benignly, like a father who has given up trying to train his wayward child and was riding the crest of a wave.
The column moved slowly on. Fronto had spent most of the journey in close company with Balbus, Crispus, Galronus and Cicero, while the various new additions to Caesar’s staff kept to themselves at the rear, often retreating into Greek for their hushed conversations.
‘I suggest we report in with our legions, clean ourselves up, and then head into town and find a passable watering hole. Shall we meet in the central square in… say an hour?’
Crispus sighed.
‘I suspect it will take me almost an hour just to get clean and dry and rake the knots out of my hair. Can we say two?’
Fronto grumbled a grudging acknowledgement and turned back to the camps ahead. The Tenth appeared to be quartered next to the river, close to the northern walls of the oppidum, and he peered at the ordered lines of tents within the ramparts, in some way hoping to find minor fault, given the absence of both he and Priscus. Nothing appeared to be amiss at first glance, however, and Fronto rolled his shoulders before turning to his companions.
‘Well I’m going to go and see what’s been happening. See you all shortly.’
As the others waved their temporary farewells and the baggage cart carrying his gear veered away from the column and followed him, Fronto kicked his horse to speed and rode through the increasing rain, down past the northern edge of the oppidum’s walls and to the gatehouse of the Tenth. As he approached, he was surprised and perversely pleased to note that no call went up announcing the return of the legion’s commander. He prepared himself for a tirade against the guard at the gate as he slowed his beast on approach, but noted at the last moment that his new primus pilus, Servius Fabricius Carbo, stood in the centre with his chubby arms folded and a wide grin on his shiny pink face.
As he reined in the horse and dismounted, Fronto’s unreasonable irritation and anger melted away. The journey, with its inclement weather, horrible waves, disobedient horses and enforced proximity to the general had contrived to plunge him into a disgruntled mood as he approached but, as he had found to his irritation last year, something about Carbo defused such moods easily.
He took a deep breath, ready to shout and the primus pilus tapped the top of his head.
‘One of the great benefits of losing my hair at a frighteningly early age is that I never get soggy and waterlogged in the rain. Perhaps I can offer you something in the way of a towel and a wooden mug of something nasty enough that it eats through bronze?’
Fronto caught his deep breath, eyed the man before him, and let the air out slowly, taking the residual anger with it.
‘You been taking a peek into my mind, Carbo?’
As he led his horse forward, one of the soldiers at the gate rushed out to take the reins and Carbo turned to address the other.
‘Pass the call that the legate has returned.’
Fronto sighed and glanced upwards, his eyes flickering in the falling rain.
‘I am piss wet through, and it feels like I’ve been sleeping on a bag of helmets for the last few weeks. I’m looking forward to getting my tent set up. Do you have somewhere in the meantime I can dry off?’
He stepped in through the gate and Carbo nodded, still smiling.
‘I’ve had a tent set up for you. It’s not got all your personal gear in yet, of course, but I had it stocked with food, drink, towels, sheets and blankets and four spare sets of clothes that I’m fairly sure are your size.’
Fronto blinked.
‘You knew we were imminent?’
Carbo nodded seriously.
‘Yesterday the Tenth’s augur saw a pigeon and a duck flying in the same direction, with a swallow going the other way. He said you’d be back before dark and would be wet and in need of a drink.’
Fronto stared at the earnest pink face and boggled.
‘He did?’
Carbo burst out laughed.
‘No, of course he didn’t! One of the outrider scouts saw your column two days ago and reported in. But to be honest, I had the tent stocked weeks ago, ‘cause I assumed you’d be here soon.’
Fronto grinned at the man, astounded that in the years he’d commanded the Tenth, he’d never noticed this man playing second fiddle to Priscus. But then, only legates who were not doing their job properly had time to get to know every officer in the legion who did not report directly to him. Still, given how smoothly this man had slid into the role of senior command, it was perhaps time he started to pay more attention to the lesser centurions.
‘Well if you can cope with hanging around while I quickly towel myself dry and change, I could do with a bit of a ‘catch up’, given what I’ve been hearing. Then I fully intend to find a bar and get merrily slammed. Two weeks of best behaviour en route with the general has me itching to get involved in a little debauchery.’
Carbo laughed.
‘Your needs have been anticipated, Marcus. The cavalry commander, Varus, along with legate Brutus and the primus pilus of the Eleventh, dropped by a few hours ago and asked me to tell you where they were. I gather the senior officers have been frequenting a particular tavern in the centre where most of the rank and file go…’
He lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘I suspect that’s because it’s the only place they can go where they know legate Crassus won’t be, since he is apparently repelled by the scent of plebeians.’
Fronto laughed.
‘Sounds good; in fact it sounds like just my kind of place. And I expect you, as my second in command, to join me. It would be only right, after all.’
Carbo shrugged.
‘You mean put off the latrine roster til later on in order to sink a few mugs of local beer? I think I can manage that, yes.’
Fronto’s grin widened.
‘Right. In the meantime, while I get changed, tell me everything that’s happened; and I don’t just mean the official version, but all the dirty and slanderous stuff and the rumours too.’
* * * * *
Fronto leaned back in the low chair, sliding his mug onto the table, looked over his shoulder at the three legionaries sharing a bawdy joke about a Syrian woman with one leg, and smiled sweetly.
‘Here’s a deal for you: You three piss off over the other end of the bar and stop anyone coming within earshot for the next half hour and the rest of your drinks are on me. Deal?’
The affirmative comments were almost lost among the kerfuffle and scraping as the three men greedily gathered their gear from the floor around them and shuffled off along the bar, grinning and nodding respectfully at the legate as they went.
‘Good,’ he announced once the officers were safely alone at the dingiest end of the bar. ‘Now we can talk properly.’
He smiled at the faces gathered around the table, some of whom he had not seen in almost half a year. Varus and Brutus had a haunted look, the stress of the winter command telling plainly on their faces. Felix seemed to have weathered the shit-storm bette
r, though the centurionate were notoriously hardy. Now, with Galba, Crispus, Rufus, Balbus, Cicero, Carbo and Sabinus, the core of what Fronto considered the professional officers were all present in one place for the same time in a long while. His thoughts briefly flashed to thoughts of Labienus, still camped out east in Belgae lands.
‘Right. I expect we’re all heard titbits since we arrived back in camp, but it’s time we got a few things clarified.’
There was a chorus of nods and grumbling agreement around the table.
‘Alright. These tribes in the area. Carbo tells me that Crassus has been less than successful in keeping them calm and under control.’
‘I believe I used the words ‘almighty cock up’, actually’ Carbo nodded.
Varus grumbled as he leaned across the table.
‘Rather than trying to mollify them or come to terms, he seems to have abandoned any hope of getting our hostages back. Instead, he’s taking whatever crops he can from them, commandeering their cattle and goods and burning down the settlements afterwards. He seems to think that eventually they’ll just give up and accept it. My scouts tell me a whole different story.’
Fronto shook his head.
‘Scorched earth never works. We’re here to make this place part of Rome, not to turn it into an ash-strewn wasteland. What’s the point in conquering a place if you’ve murdered the population?’
Galba nodded sadly.
‘Indeed. Every legion is sending six cohorts out in two groups of three on ‘loot and burn’ missions. They go out for a week in some direction and if they come back without enough loot Crassus has those units given the shittiest jobs in Vindunum until their next opportunity. More than half the army is out of camp at any one time, marching around the country, taking and burning. The Twelfth have been omitted from the roster, since our veterans make up less than a cohort.’
Balbus frowned.
‘Balventius tells me that you’ve been hogging the workshops, knocking out weapons and armour like madmen.’
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 110
