Two of Crassus’ legionaries, polished and straight, stood at the closed door of the headquarters building. As Fronto and his group of officers approached, they crossed their pila over the doorway.
“Sorry sir. The legate is in a meeting with the general. No one is allowed in at the moment.”
Fronto glared at the man.
“Have you any idea just how many senior officers there are here? Get out of the way.”
The legionary had the decency to look nervous and apologetic.
“I have my orders from both the legate and the general, sir and, with respect, the general outranks all of us. If I let you past I’ll be cleaning latrines until winter comes again.”
Fronto stepped uncomfortably close to the man and grinned through bared teeth, the fumes of freshly-imbibed wine washing over the man’s face and making him gag.
“You know who I am and the sort of thing I get up to. Crassus might have you emptying latrines, but if you don’t open that door, I will snap that pilum in half, stick the sharp bit up your arse and use you to mop the latrines. Do I make myself clear?”
The man held out defiantly, if nervously, for a moment longer until his companion buckled under the legate’s glare and stepped out of the way. Suddenly alone in front of an angry officer, the legionary stepped aside and averted his gaze.
“Good choice” Fronto growled as he swung the door open and stepped inside.
The building was divided into four rooms with a central corridor that connected each of them with the front door. Most were likely given over to office space, but the room to the immediate right had its door closed, from behind which Fronto could hear muffled conversation. The irritation of the guards outside still driving him, he reached for the handle and swung the door open without knocking, striding through purposefully.
Crassus, his back to the door, had apparently not noticed and continued addressing Caesar while the general looked up in surprise.
“…and we estimate that the lack of supplies will push the Veneti into submission within the month.”
“That’s not what I hear” Fronto barked, the other officers filing in behind him. Caesar furrowed his brow.
“I believe I left instructions we were not to be disturbed, Fronto? I was planning to call a meeting first thing in the morning and give you time to pickle your brain in the meantime, since it seems to be your hobby.”
Crassus spluttered as he turned. Fronto grinned at him with no humour at all.
“It sounds to me like you handled the situation badly and you’ve all but pushed the local tribes into full rebellion.”
Crassus shook his head.
“Totally untrue. Wherever the legions go we are encountering no resistance.”
“That” Fronto snapped “is because the tribesmen are gathering for war in their coastal fortresses while they send to Germany, Spain and Britannia for help.”
“Preposterous” Crassus spluttered.
Caesar, behind him, leaned forward in his chair.
“You have conflicting information, Fronto?”
“And from a number of trustworthy sources in your own army, general. The Veneti are all but ready to go to war and it looks like they have incited other tribes to the northwest, the southwest, back towards Germany and even across the water in Britannia. If they haven’t killed the hostages they took, it’ll only be because they’re holding on to them in case they need them later.”
Crassus shook his head.
“That is a stalemate. They will never execute the hostages, as I have one of their chieftains and a druid in custody myself.”
Balbus, near the door, made a grumbling noise.
“Yet you have written off any hope of getting our men back. You think they couldn’t have done the same?”
Fronto glared at Crassus while he addressed the general.
“We have to move straight away, Caesar, before this shitty situation becomes a disaster and we lose our foothold in Gaul altogether. ‘All Gaul is conquered’, remember?”
The general stared at him for a moment and then, nodding, stood, placing his hands on the large map on the table before him.
Then we have to decide on how we move now. We have less than half the army here, the rest being out on food gathering missions.” He looked up at Brutus. “What’s the state of the fleet?”
Crassus blinked.
“Fleet? What fleet?”
Brutus ignored him and scratched his chin.
“A few days from operational, Caesar. A little rigging, some more sails, and the crews are imminent. Once the ships are ready, we can leave them to the new crews with just a skeleton staff and Galba can have the rest of the Twelfth back, preparing to move.”
Crassus turned to look in confusion at Brutus and then Galba.
“What rest of the Twelfth? What fleet? What in the name of Minerva are you talking about?”
Caesar ignored the legate and nodded.
“Very well. The fleet was a good idea. Moreover, it was your idea, Brutus, so I’m putting them under your command. Draw marines from the stronger legions who can spare the men, particularly the Ninth, and then head for Turonum. As soon as the ships are finished and the crews arrive, send Galba’s men back to him and get the fleet underway. Take them downstream to the sea and stay there until the legions arrive. Use the intervening time to get a little training and practice in. Are you happy with all that?”
Brutus nodded, his face straight.
“I’m no experienced admiral, Caesar, but I know the basics. We’ll be there and ready.”
“Good. Where is Varus?”
Fronto smiled nastily at the astonished face of legate Crassus.
“I asked him to get riders sent out to the legions with the recall order.”
Crassus opened his mouth to argue but, behind him Caesar overrode him.
“Good. When he’s back, tell him to take half the cavalry and a few of the fastest moving foot auxiliary units and move across country as fast as they can to meet up with Labienus at Nemetocenna. The last report I had from Labienus a few months ago seemed to indicate that things were going exceptionally well there. He seems to be well on his way to Romanising the Belgae already and, with the cavalry reinforcements, he should be able to keep things settled and safe over there and hopefully keep the Germans on the other side of the Rhine.”
Fronto nodded approvingly. Labienus was, most certainly, the man for the job. With him watching their back, Fronto felt reasonably secure.
“So are we going to concentrate the rest of the forces on Armorica and hope the example we make keeps the Spanish and the British out of it?”
Caesar waggled his hand in a non-committal fashion.
“Partially. There’s very little we can do at the moment about Britannia. We just have to hope that either they decide against interference, or they take so long preparing that we have dealt with the situation before they can land in Gaul. Spain is a different matter.”
Fronto nodded. He had personal experience of the Celtic and Iberian tribes across the Pyrenees. They were as hardy as the Gauls but less inclined to settle and negotiate, a fact that had contributed greatly to the heavy-handed and brutal tactics Caesar had employed there years ago when Fronto had commanded the Ninth.
“We need something like the Labienus situation down there.”
“No” Caesar disagreed, shaking his head. “This is different. What we need with the Pyrenean tribes is to frighten them into submission. They’ve no real experience or appreciation of Roman culture, despite being so close to Narbo. They won’t be talked out of action, and we need to put a stop to them getting involved and also to seal the passes over the mountains and stop the Spanish tribes helping them.”
Sabinus, near the back of the room, frowned.
“Sounds like we’re in danger of splitting the army and spreading it a little too thin for comfort, Caesar?”
The general nodded, rubbing his temple.
“We can’t spare too many men,
for certain.”
Sabinus cleared his throat.
“If you want me to take a legion or two and deal with it, sir?”
Caesar shook his head, examining the map by his hand.
“No. I shall be sending you, Crassus.”
The room fell silent, many faces quickly registering both surprise and disapproval. The tense quiet was broken when Crassus, finding his voice for the first time since the conversation began, turned to the general.
“Sir?”
The general glowered at him.
“You took a peaceful situation up here and turned it into a war. You are a good commander for punitive campaigns, Crassus, but to be frank, you are just too brutal in your methods to administer a freshly-conquered land.”
Fronto almost laughed aloud. To be considered ‘too brutal’ by the man who had ordered the execution of an entire captive tribe not long after they’d first ever marched into this country said a great deal.
Crassus was nodding, though, as though the general had complimented him.
“You want their spirit and their will to resist crushed?”
The general smiled.
“I see you have the picture. Can you repeat your success of last year?”
Crassus nodded, an unpleasant smile creeping across his face.
“I shall take the Seventh and seal off the southwest completely, general.”
“Good. You will need to be highly manoeuvrable in the foothills of the Pyrenees, so I’m sending the rest of the cavalry with you.”
Crispus leaned close to Fronto and whispered in his ear “That’ll please Varus!”
Fronto nodded slightly and spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“Question is: will he go with them to Labienus where he won’t have to deal with Crassus, or would he rather go south and keep his eye on his men?”
He became aware that Caesar was glaring at him.
“Sorry sir. Go on.”
The general took a deep breath and then focused on Sabinus, standing at the back of the room.
“Are you still up for a command, Sabinus?”
“Of course, general.”
“Good. I’m giving you the weaker legions, I’m afraid. Take the Twelfth, who are still busy training and re-equipping, the Fourteenth who are still very green and a little… Gallic… if you get my drift, and most of the Ninth.” He scanned the room for the legates of those legions and spotted Rufus near the door.
“Sabinus acts with the full authority of Praetor over the three legions, while you’ll each maintain command of your individual legions. However, I require three cohorts of the ninth to join the navy as marines. The ninth had experience of naval combat near Saguntum a few years ago, so they may be useful.”
Rufus saluted, his expression neutral.
Sabinus frowned. “What am I to do then, General?”
“You’ll take the Ninth, Tenth and Fourteenth up toward the north coast. Do whatever you have to in order to keep those tribes from marching south and joining the Veneti. Keep the peace if you can; keep them subdued if not.”
Sabinus nodded.
“Good,” the general said, leaning back. “That means the rest of you are with me. The Eighth, Tenth, Eleventh, and Thirteenth will be moving against the Veneti, backed by Brutus’ fleet. I intend to put this situation in order as fast as possible. I need to be back in Rome in the autumn, and I don’t want to drag this out.”
Balbus cleared his throat.
“We can move as soon as the roving cohorts return, general, but are we leaving a garrison here? We could be in danger of letting the locals rise up behind us, given how I hear they’ve been treated during the winter.” He cast a quick glance at Crassus, who glared back balefully at the veiled accusation.
The general rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I was trying to avoid it. We can’t really spare the men.”
“There is another solution…”
They turned to Crispus, who was smiling, a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes?”
“The Labienus solution? We are, after all, trying to Romanise the land and enforce the pax Romana? A little trust given goes a long way to receiving more in return.”
Caesar frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
Crispus smiled.
“No caretaker garrison. We speak to their leaders, who have been dispossessed and moved across the river. We thank them for their help and support. We tell them that we are moving on and apologise for inconveniencing them. When we leave, we leave them some of our surplus supplies… we don’t have many, but Cita has more coming in from the south. They will have their oppidum back, but we have cleaned it, strengthened it, constructed an aqueduct channel from the springs to the north, and stockpiled goods. To give it back to them might go some way to repairing our somewhat tattered reputation and make our task easier?”
Fronto laughed.
“He’s quite right, Caesar. We need to stop burning bridges and build the occasional one.”
The general took another deep breath and straightened.
“Very well. You all know what to do. Let’s start clearing Vindunum up and getting the troops onto a war footing. Most of you are dismissed, with the exceptions of Crassus, Sabinus and Brutus. We have further plans to hammer out, so I’ll need you to stay behind.”
He looked up at Fronto as the rest began to file out.
“And when you see Varus, send him to see me.”
Fronto nodded with satisfaction. He’d been getting soft back in Rome with all that easy living. It felt good to be back in the saddle… figuratively speaking, he added mentally, rubbing his still saddle-sore rump as he left the room.
It had taken four days for the various vexillations of legionaries to be recalled and to arrive at Vindunum, and then a full two days further to take down the defences of the various camps surrounding the oppidum and prepare to move out. The downside of having such a large army quartered in one place for so long was the extent of the roots they put down in that time and how long it took to pull them up and move on.
The almost constant drizzle of the preceding week had finally let up, brightening the atmosphere of the soldiers working in the soggy conditions to demolish ramparts and pack gear. Still, the next week had, instead, threatened the advance of yet worse weather. The winds had become so strong that taking down the tents had required every man available and huge sheets of leather wafting away down the river valley were not an uncommon sight for a while. Then, once the horrendous winds had disappeared late yesterday, they had been replaced by Jupiter’s own clouds, roiling and threatening thunder and lightning.
It was not, Fronto had to admit, an auspicious start to a campaign. He wasn’t feeling uneasy about it, though, as he increasingly had with last year’s foray against the Belgae, and the haruspices had found nothing untoward in the goat they disembowelled before departing. It was just the weather that put funny thoughts in one’s head.
They had departed Vindunum in the battering winds and numbing cold, saying their farewells to Sabinus and Varus and their companions as the officers prepared to travel north and east to keep the peace while the bulk of the army dealt with the Veneti. Crassus had taken the Seventh and his cavalry detachment with no fond goodbyes, though Galronus, who commanded part of the cavalry, had dropped in to bid farewell to Fronto and his friends.
And then the worst part of any campaign: the travelling. The four legions, with their auxiliary support and supply train had set off southwest from Vindunum for the hundred mile journey to the mouth of the Loire. Each day the legions managed perhaps fifteen miles, given the interminable pace set by the wagons with their oxen, and yet each day it felt as though they had marched forty miles, with the constant cold and the battering of the forceful winds.
Fronto rode Bucephalus once more, at the head of the Tenth, grateful not to be traipsing through the soggy, muddy turf. The beautiful black steed was steady and calm, though clearly miser
able in the unpleasant cold and windy conditions. Even Carbo, marching along behind him with his helmet hanging from his shoulder, had taken to wrapping his scarf around his hairless cranium to keep the numbing cold away.
Where had the lovely Gaulish summers of the last two years gone, Fronto wondered? It was almost as though the land itself was turning against them. But finally, early on the afternoon of the seventh day out of Vindunum, the army had crested a low rise and the Atlantic ocean stretched out before them, the great wide mouth of the Loire feeding into it.
Likely on a hot summer’s day the sight would be magnificent, the water a stunning turquoise and the coast visible for dozens of miles in either direction. With the black and grey clouds glowering above them, however, the water looked dark and forbidding and the waves began to make Fronto feel uneasy even standing on dry land and watching them.
The army had paused there for a time, watching with fascination the numerous ships of Brutus’ fleet manoeuvring in the bay. It seemed to Fronto as he watched that they bobbed around barely under control, like those toy ships he and his sister had made of parchment when they were children and raced down the channel of the Aqua Appia where it surfaced near their home. He was unbelievably thankful that he was not currently on board one of them.
And then the legions had separated as they descended to the coast to make camp, likely for several days. The officers, along with the general and his praetorian cavalry, however, had ridden ahead down to the water’s edge, where temporary ramparts contained the tents and support wagons of the fleet crews and their marines.
As they reined in outside the command tent in the open muster area, Fronto handed the reins of Bucephalus to one of the Marines and turned to look at his fellow officers. Each of them, once they dismounted, spent a few moments stamping their feet and bringing life back to their frozen appendages. Fronto looked up apprehensively as a deep rumble some miles away caught his attention.
“Let’s get inside, general, before Neptune pisses on us.”
Caesar, weary from the journey and as cold as his men, nodded silently and strode through into the tent. Inside, several men in dark tunics with their cloaks tightly wrapped around them stood at a large central table with Brutus. Fronto almost sighed as the warmth from the four braziers that heated the tent hit him like a wall of comfort. The small hole in the roof issued smoke as though the place were on fire and the upper regions of the headquarters were invisible through the murk. And yet, down below, where the men gathered, the warmth was far more important than the smoky conditions.
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