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.
“Later on. Possibly even in the morning. First I need to speak to Crassus, then to visit the baths and my quarters and refresh myself. I sent my body slave and the bulk of my baggage on a few weeks early, but it will take me several hours, I fear, to drive this damp chill from my bones.”
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 weren’t doing their job properly had time to get to know every officer in the legion who didn’t 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 centuri
ons.
“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 better, 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.”
Galba grinned at the older legate.
“I may have used the general’s name without permission to drum up new recruits among our Gallic allies on the way back from the Alps. When they’re fully trained, we’ll be back up to over half strength, even if most of them are greener than the forests they came from.”
“Where are they then?” Fronto interjected, leaning forward. “The camp of the Tenth is basically almost empty.”
Galba laughed and leaned back, taking a swig of imported wine.
“I sent them to Brutus’ shipyards at Turonum on the Loire. They’re alternating training with construction work, and it keeps Crassus in the dark about both our true strength and Brutus’ little project.”
“How’s that coming?”
Brutus leaned forward.
“We’re nearly done, to be honest. The fleet’s just having the final touches added. What we’re missing at the moment is the crews, but I am informed they’re on their way up from Narbo and should be here any time. We’ll be ready before Crassus has managed to recall his legions.”
Fronto laughed nastily.
“His legions! Things might change a little now that Caesar’s back. The general may be a politician who doesn’t give much thought for the locals, but he does have a better than elementary grasp of tactics and enough common sense to go only so far with them. Better than Crassus, anyway.”
The table fell silent, a reaction that often greeted Fronto when he began to espouse his opinions of the great Caesar, and particularly after a few beverages.
“Anyway,” Fronto went on, glancing at Varus, “you say your scouts have told you more?”
The cavalry commander nodded unhappily.
“The tales I hear sound more like a nation gearing up for war than a beaten people trying not to starve to death. The Veneti have retreated to their fortresses on the coast which, I am informed, are almost impregnable. When the legions get to their inland settlements to impound their animals and grain, they’re finding the people are already gone and have taken everything with them. They’re stocking up for a siege and leaving nothing for us to take. It’s starting to get to Crassus.”
“I can imagine. Are we just talking about this Veneti tribe then?”
The look on Varus face answered Fronto’s question before he opened his mouth.
“There are tribes all over Armorica doing the same. But even that’s not even the main worry. Some of my outriders caught a messenger riding east. He was taking a message to the Belgae, urging both them and the Germans to rise up and drive us out of Gaul. Crassus has turned the small issue this started as into a catastrophe. We could very well be looking at an uprising all over the north.”
Crispus sighed.
“This land is somewhat like a lumpy sleeping pallet.”
He looked around at the confused faces of the others and spread his hands.
“You cannot sleep comfortably, so you have to flatten out the lump, but then a lump forms somewhere else. No matter what you do, there will always be a new lump forming somewhere. And the more you play with it, trying to make it comfortable, the more lumps you have until, in the end, there is nothing else for it but to discard the pallet and begin again with a new one.”
“That’s a depressing picture” Galba sighed.
“So” Fronto grumbled, “we may be looking at more than just these tribes?”
Varus cleared his throat meaningfully.
“I have it on good authority that their messengers also went south to the Pyrenees and the tribes around there and
into Spain, and even by boat across to Britannia. The more we hear, the more it sounds like we’re about to be crushed between armies from all over the place. Who the hell knows what we could be facing if the Celts in Britannia cross the water.”
Balbus leaned back, his expression bleak.
“If all this is accurate then it would appear we are already beyond hope of negotiation. We are at war; we just haven’t moved yet.”
Varus nodded and took another slug of wine.
“Well then, gentlemen” Fronto announced, slapping his mug on the table. “It’s no use us sitting here wishing things were different. We’ve got to get things moving. We should go see the general and start pushing.”
A chuckle caught his attention and he peered across the table at Sabinus.
“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet?”
Sabinus shook his head wearily.
“I have had three months of trying to argue and gainsay Crassus with the man talking down to me and over the top of me. I’m exhausted Marcus. But it’s nice to have you back. Nothing stirs the army up like having you around!”
Fronto smiled.
“Then let’s get stirring. Time to go see the general.”
As he stood, he turned to Carbo. The primus pilus nodded.
“I know. Head back to camp and get the men on a first alert.”
Fronto nodded.
“That and more.” He turned to Varus. “Can you send riders out looking for the wandering cohorts and give them the recall order?”
Varus shrugged.
“I can do it; I just don’t have the authority.”
“I’ll take responsibility. Just get the men back here.”
As Varus nodded, he turned back to his primus pilus.
“When the rest of Tenth make it back to camp, stop anyone else leaving. There’ll be no more of this pointless burning.”
He turned back and threw the last of the wine down his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smearing deep red across his chin.
“Right. Let’s go ruin Crassus’ day.”
Gallia Invicta mm-3 Page 11
