His eyes scanned the tablets, picking out small points of interest. There was very little of note and certainly nothing of martial interest.
He was about to turn and leave when he paused, a nagging feeling clawing at his consciousness that he had totally bypassed something he should have paid more attention to. Once again, this time taking more care, he scanned the tablets and finally, on the third one, there it was.
Deaths.
Should it worry him that notification of deaths were the only things that seemed to be of import to him? No one else seemed to have noticed the important piece of news. Or was it maybe that no one recognised its importance?
How many people in the city even knew who Aurelia Cotta was?
Apparently no one in this crowd, as he could not sense even a single intake of breath.
Fronto had met the lady Aurelia maybe half a dozen times in his life and always in the presence of her only son: Gaius Julius Caesar. While Fronto had never known Caesar's father, who had died some thirty years ago, the elderly Aurelia had been a force of nature who had always impressed him. There was no other way to describe her. It was quite clearly from her that Caesar and his two sisters had inherited their shrewdness, intelligence and self-control. The lady Aurelia had held the family together with her strength and fortitude despite having been made almost destitute during the proscriptions of Sulla. She was one of the cornerstones at the very least of the entire Julian family. She was also, though he would be loath to admit it, one of the few human beings that Caesar would willingly and readily bend his knee to. A woman, in fact, who Caesar would flip the world on its back to please. It was just possible that, apart from his own daughter, the lady Aurelia was the only person that Caesar would ever truly love.
Fronto pictured the general, sitting as he was accustomed, in his folding campaign chair, poring over a table full of maps. Unbidden, an image of Caesar receiving this news leapt into his mind's eye, and the resulting picture was almost unbearable. Heart-breaking.
Suddenly, Fronto felt a wave of guilt. For the first time since he had turned his back on the general last autumn, he realised that no matter how many capable officers Caesar might have, there were some things that, Fronto having spent so long with the man, only he was qualified to deal with.
Grief was one of them.
For the first time in years it was distinctly possible that Caesar might need his shoulder to lean on; his and only his. And for the first time in years he was not there to provide it.
Ideas of a mad horse-relay ride to northern Gaul popped into his mind. If he left quickly enough, it was just possible that he might beat news of the death to the army.
No. Stupid!
It was no longer his place to be that person. And he had responsibilities here that he couldn't simply drop.
A moment later, his face set grim and his failed exercises entirely forgotten, Fronto was striding up the hill, wincing with every other step but otherwise ignoring it and making for home. By the time he reached the door, his mind had run through everything he could remember of his conversations with Catullus on the night of the wedding feast, but he was no closer to piecing together his forgotten foretelling. While Fronto was no great believer in prophecy - actively, rather than passively, disbelieving it - it was more than tempting to see the death of Aurelia Cotta as part of the same prediction.
He tried the door but found it locked tight. Of course. Hammering on the wood, he waited until Posco opened it and then strode inside. Faleria stood in the atrium as one of her endless young women arranged her best midnight blue stola and hung the gold necklace around her neck, adding a gold hair net, while another produced her best sandals.
"Going somewhere nice?"
"Not exactly" Faleria shot back at him, rather harshly. "The house of Pompey."
Fronto stepped forward and raised his hand. "Now might not exactly be the time."
"Now is precisely the time. I take it you refer to Aurelia Cotta?"
"Yes. Young Julia's going to have a lot on her mind right now."
"Why do you think I'm going, Marcus? Do use your brain once in a while."
"It's a family thing. Maybe you should leave her alone."
"Her father is a thousand miles away, Marcus, surrounded by barbarians. She hardly speaks to her aunts, and her husband might not be sympathetic enough an ear. At times like this, she needs a friend."
Fronto nodded slowly. "Then be careful. Want some company?"
"From you? No. I don't think that would help at all. You stay here and keep your wife busy - she wanted to come with me and I don't want to crowd poor Julia."
Fronto nodded and strode past her towards the peristyle garden, where he could hear voices. As he passed from the shadow of the house's interior out into the sunlit courtyard, he could see Lucilia sitting on that white marble bench, chatting away to Galronus, who stood nearby looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he had been left guarding the lady and didn't know from what.
"Psst!" he hissed at the Remi officer, trying not to attract the attention of the Lucilia. After a moment, Galronus turned and saw Fronto. With a nod of recognition, and pausing politely only until Lucilia finished her diatribe and returned to her reading, he strode across the garden, his feet crunching on the gravel paths, and came to a halt in front of the house's master.
As usual these days, the Gallic nobleman was attired in the Roman style, but had opted against the toga - a tendency the two men shared. His long hair was well brushed and braided, but his chiselled, clean shaven jaw tore away most of the signs of barbarism from his person. Only the hair and the gold torc at his neck would really give him away. Otherwise he might as well be Roman.
"You've heard?" he asked.
"Just. I saw the acta diurna on the corner of Ostia and Lampmakers. A courier will be riding his horse to death to get the news to Caesar already."
Galronus nodded. "How will the general take it?"
"Badly, I suspect, though no one will notice. He'll contain it and force it down inside until he's alone in the winter, when he'll have the time and space to grieve. At least by then he'll have a grandson to take the edge off it."
"A bad way to go."
Fronto frowned. "I've not heard? I assumed it was peaceful. She must have been heading for her seventh decade."
Galronus' face took on a dark edge. "A fire in the subura. It took the whole household: slaves, servants, and of course the lady herself. Only two or three people made it out alive."
Vulcan's fury.
Suddenly, Fronto realised he had gone rather cold despite the summer heat pouring down from the golden orb above. Vulcan's fury. Socrates' root had taken Catullus and now Vulcan's fury had consumed Caesar's mother. Two more to break the Republic? And Gaul apparently poised to rise up. It was like standing at the gate to Hades and peering inside.
"Galronus, I think I need a drink."
The Remi officer nodded quietly and gestured to the door that led into the triclinium, where an amphora already stood open in the room's centre, a tray of cups and glasses on the low table nearby.
As Fronto entered and sank onto one of the cushioned couches, Galronus doing the honours with the drinks, the former legate once again pictured Caesar receiving the news - he would grieve, but it would hardly break him. What had Catullus' prophecy meant? The Republic was strong.
But then Fronto had a sudden and different picture of Caesar, raging in a private hell over the death of his mother; he pictured Pompey, keeping his boiling fiery blood contained beneath a sheen of calm and pictured himself watching that sheen gradually buckle and fail. Pictured Crassus - he'd only met him the once, but his reputation was one of greed and heartlessness, and his eldest son was hardly a positive advertisement for his blood?
Three men - all volatile in their own ways. Suddenly the Republic didn't look half as secure as he had previously thought.
Chapter Six
Priscus rubbed his chin as he watched the ships bouncing and jostling in t
he harbour. It seemed like only a moment since he had been here last, contemplating the crossing and listening to Brutus complaining, while in reality it had been a number of weeks ago now - a whole trip to Treveri territory and almost a month longer of dealing with scouts and waiting for the wind to change.
"It's still a bloody stupid idea."
Titus Labienus, one of Caesar's most senior lieutenants and an increasingly outspoken opponent of the general's more aggressive policies, sighed and patted him on the shoulder. "I argued with him 'til I was blue in the face, and 'til his was purple. We're crossing today and nothing any of us can say will stop that."
"Frankly, I'm surprised he listened to you at all. Cicero was only in there for a count of about twenty before he was thrown out on his ear for gainsaying the general. Your words must carry more weight than his."
Labienus shook his head wearily. "Not really. I'm walking very close to the edge with the general these days. I can see in his eyes the question of whether he can trust me, and I suspect he has already answered that with a negative, but there are so few of us left on his staff with any talent or even much command experience. Caesar tells me that he's got a few clients and friends of friends who are looking to gain field experience and they should be with us before winter sets in, but they'll mostly be eager young puppies without an ounce of skill. Frankly I'm dreading it, given the likelihood that they'll be my responsibility over winter. There's even the possibility that Crassus' younger son will be coming, so that's a joy in itself. I can't imagine that particular sour apple has fallen far from the tree."
Priscus shrugged. "I saw that a few have already arrived: three new officers were in the mess hall last night. Two chinless babies, but with them a tall, thin one who seemed to have a clue what he was talking about. Maybe it's not as bad as you think?"
"Trebonius, that is, and I suspect he's the shining diamond among the dull stones. Besides, Caesar's already said he's taking him across to Britannia, so it's no use to me. I'll be left with the two pale and reedy children with the flapping lips and no chin."
Priscus pinched the bridge of his nose. "At least you get to stay and play nursemaid to the Gauls while we get to cross to 'swampland' and get tenderised by a bunch of naked savages plastered with white mud. You've got my list of names and locations for while I'm away, yes?"
Labienus nodded sagely. Priscus' somewhat expansive and ever growing network of spies had been documented on seven tablets in the sort of detail only a former camp prefect or chief quartermaster would ever consider. In his head, Labienus corrected himself. Not 'spies'. 'Scouts'. Priscus had flown off the handle when Labienus had referred to the man's 'web of spies', snapping and raging about how only dishonourable and twisted politicians used spies. Even 'agents' was a touchy term to the Tenth's legate. As far as he was concerned the men he had sent out to the various tribes to try and unearth any details of this mysterious figure at the heart of Gallic rebellion were simply scouts and nothing more. It was a military use of a military resource.
"Don't act on any information that you get unless it's of critical urgency. I've spent a long time setting all this up and there's a lot at stake. Everything should be handled slowly and carefully."
Labienus patted him reassuringly on the shoulder again.
"I'm not about to do anything precipitous. I'm a great believer that we could still settle all these troubles diplomatically."
"I used to think that was possible too, until last year. That Morini rising at Gesoriacum just goes to show, though, that even when you think everything is calm and quiet it's just building up for another kick in the teeth. I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that the only way to stop these constant risings is to bring the whole bloody lot to battle, stand on their neck and break them once and for all. Like Carthage, or the Greeks at Corinthus."
Labienus turned, a suspicious frown creasing his forehead.
"Wait a moment… you're not trying to stop this rebellion at all, are you?"
"Pardon?"
"You're keeping tabs on it all and aware of what's happening, and you're investigating it, but you're not actually trying to stop any of it are you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Priscus shifted uneasily.
"Gods above and below! You're actually fostering it!"
"Shhhhh!" hissed Priscus. "That kind of talk could get a lot of people into a lot of trouble."
Labienus, eyes wide, was shaking his head. "I underestimated you. You're even playing the general, aren't you? Do you really think you can direct an enemy rebellion?
Priscus glanced round to make sure no one was listening and then glared at his fellow officer. "I'm not 'fostering' or 'directing' anything, and I'm not 'playing' anyone, but it struck me recently that these druids and their mysterious leader are doing us a bloody favour. We could spend another ten years stomping around Gaul putting out little fires and still never see an end to it. But if they truly are trying to band the whole nation together into one great army and face us, then we could finish it in one blow; break them like Hannibal's mob. We can't deal effectively with these little risings, but no army the world across can stand against eight legions in the open field."
"Juno, man, are you playing a dangerous game! What happens if we let them fan their fires of rebellion and then discover all too late that they're better than we expected. They can field more men than us. And a man fighting for freedom will always fight harder than a man fighting for coin. You're madder than Fronto!"
"Quite possibly; I served with him a long time. Feel free to spend the weeks we're across the sea in trying to quench those flames with words and promises. Good luck to you - until a few weeks ago I was intent on trying to stop the Gauls rising until I had this epiphany and I'll be the first to buy you a drink if we come back to find Gaul peaceful and content. But I think that's an unachievable dream. And when your diplomacy fails I want their collective neck in one place to stand on."
Priscus narrowed his eyes.
"This was all off the record, I presume."
"Don't worry. I'm not about to go around blurting this out. Who'd believe me? And if they did they'd likely think it insane. I hope for a better path, but I'm no fool, Priscus. I can see the sense in a single strike policy to fall back on. Just don't tell Cicero. You do that and word of it will be whispered round the senate in a month."
Priscus nodded as his eyes strayed once more across the vessels in the harbour. There were so many of them, and of such an unfamiliar shape and size. His gaze came to rest on two ships that sat somewhat apart from the rest - as far as that was possible in the rather packed harbour - with a strong legionary guard patrolling both the vessels and the dock at which it stood.
"What happens if those sink?" he mused. "Would it solve a problem do you think? Or make your diplomatic option non-viable?"
Labienus peered at the two ships - impromptu floating stockades that played host to a surprising number of nobles from almost two dozen of the larger tribes of Gaul, Aquitania and Belgica. In addition to those captured in the forest of Arduenna, more had been escorted into the camp over the past week by Priscus' and Caesar's assigned units, nobles from as far afield as Vesontio, Burdigala and the tip of Armorica.
"I think it would make things more difficult for all of us" Labienus said quietly. "Other men would rise to take their places and we would have to familiarise ourselves with a whole new generation of leaders. Besides, if we happened to be responsible for the deaths of over a hundred Gallic chieftains, I suspect we would be handing them all the more reason to…"
He paused and narrowed his eyes at Priscus' carefully blank expression.
"Tell me you wouldn't sink a ship full of prisoners just to push the Gauls together against us."
The Tenth's legate sighed and allowed his shoulders to slump a little.
"Sadly, no. That would be murder pure and simple and a soldier kills on the battlefield - not like that. But I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind. Although the genera
l and I have not discussed the matter, I have the deep suspicion that he is of much the same opinion as me in terms of Gallic rebellion, so you never know - those two ships may not weather the storm regardless of my lack of interference. I think Caesar's taken the murder of that poor young bugger Crispus badly. He may well want to punish the whole of Gaul for it. I'm dreading writing to Fronto with that bit of news - the old bastard treated Crispus like a son."
Labienus sighed. "Try and keep the general from doing anything dangerous or inflammatory."
"And you look after our ports. Don't want a repeat of last year's debacle. We want to get back here in a month or two and find a friendly port waiting for us, not a bunch of natives with pitchforks. Make good use of the Eighth."
"Priscus, I have been commanding legions for more years than I care to think. Please don't treat me like an idiot."
"It's just… well the Fourteenth are still so largely untried and the Twelfth are half raw recruits after Octodurus."
"Yes. I know. The Eighth are my veterans. And I have a couple of thousand horse too. Just go organise your own legion. Caesar wants everyone ready with the tide."
Priscus peered once, suspiciously, at the ships and then turned, clasped hands with Labienus and then strode off towards the camp of the Tenth.
* * * * *
"I swear I just felt a spot of rain" Carbo frowned, plucking the helm and lining cap from his head to reveal his shiny pink scalp and rubbing away the sweat.
"Fronto said this land just seeps rain" Priscus grumbled. "There's not a damn cloud in the sky but I can feel it too. There's probably so much of the bloody stuff it's raining back upwards to refill the sky."
"But it's a blue summer's day. How can it rain?" Carbo stared at his hand as he felt a tiny droplet ping off it and then scoured the cloud-free sky with suspicious eyes.
Around them the Tenth slogged up the beach in neat formations, shields to the fore, prepared for the inevitable resistance of the Britons. It was new territory to Priscus, of course, who had stayed in Gesoriacum last year while Fronto led the Tenth across the sea, but it felt little different to northern Gaul, and so it held a slightly irritating familiarity for him. Apparently, this gentle sloping beach was where the army had landed the previous year and Caesar had aimed for it from the start, knowing it to be a good place to beach. Priscus had been suitably impressed by the huge white cliffs that had slid past on their left this morning, but other than that, little of Britannia recommended itself to him.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 15
