A tiny flash of flint passed across Caesar’s eyes, but his smile, cold though it was, was quick to come.
“You have a way with words, Fronto. If only you could dress them up a little, what an orator you would make in the senate. But your words I accept as a possibility. I would then urge you to question why, when our conquest was complete and all rebellion had ended, I continued to keep all eight legions wintered in the north of Gaul? We must hold on to the peace with a warlike hand, Marcus.”
Fronto nodded wearily. He’d wished he could have thought of that when discussing the motives of the general with Balbus. It made so much sense when the general said it.
“So what’s next, Caesar? We march on them?”
Caesar shook his head. “Not yet, Marcus. I have sent out couriers to summon the Gallic council to Divoduron. Gaul is under Roman protection,” his eyes flicked uncertainly to Galronus for a moment and then back, “but it is still important for the kings and chieftains of Gaul to make the decisions about their lands and people. We can help, advise, support and protect, but, within the aegis of the RomanRepublic, these people still rule themselves. The Gallic council must decide what to do about the invaders and make a formal request of myself as the Proconsul. Only then can we legitimately move.”
Fronto frowned at the general even as he nodded. Caesar had to satisfy the senate that he was still working within their remit, in order to stem the troubles being stirred constantly in Rome, but how much of such courtesy was spoken for the benefit of Galronus as a prince of the Remi? What might Caesar have been inclined to say had the Gallic officer not been present?
Caesar smiled.
“And our army is a little depleted by years of campaigning, settling veterans, and releasing our allied cavalry from their duties. I have had some success with recruitment, despite the limits continually imposed upon me by the senate, but if the council does wish us to go to war for them, I will have to request that they supply me with further cavalry forces. I’m sure Galronus will appreciate a bolstering of his forces?”
The Remi noble nodded silently, and Fronto tried unsuccessfully to look behind those unreadable eyes to see what lay within.
“Very well, Marcus. I suspect you have a few weeks before the council arrive, despite my asking that they come with all speed. I suggest that you reacquaint yourself with your command during that time. And possibly experience the scrape of the razor once again. You are starting to look Germanic.”
Fronto and Galronus stepped out of the command tent into the bright sunshine, blinking, grateful to breathe the relatively fresh air of the camp.
“You coming for a drink?”
The Remi officer shook his head “I’ll return to my cavalry. There will be much to oversee and discuss. Perhaps I shall find you later.”
Fronto watched his friend stroll off toward the south gate once more, marvelling yet again at just how well the man fitted in among the Roman forces. His Latin was now fluent, even with a hint of an Oscan twang that had probably come from hanging around with Fronto so much. He was, admittedly, much neater and cleaner-shaven than Fronto himself.
With a small smile, he turned and strode down toward the camp of the Tenth. The sound of Carbo venting spleen at some misplaced piece of equipment rose from somewhere among the tents, but really the Tenth was as perfectly organised and efficient as ever. Fronto began to wonder, as he moved along the neat lines of tents, whether Priscus was perhaps leaning a little too heavily on the Tenth, even given the situation.
Rounding a corner and reaching the area of the command section, he was both surprised and pleased as one of the Tribunes’ tent flaps swung open and the young, energetic figure of Tetricus emerged, almost stumbling into his commander.
“Fron… sir!” Tetricus pulled himself up straight into a salute.
“Gaius” Fronto grinned. “Good to see you. You busy?”
Tetricus’ eyes flashed back and forth conspiratorially. “With respect sir, it doesn’t do to be anything other than busy. Even for a tribune. Priscus has eyes everywhere and if anyone sits down for a rest, they acquire a new job in minutes.”
Fronto sighed and grinned. “I think I’m going to have to have a word with the new camp prefect. Paetus knew how to do his job without impeding the legates and senior officers of a legion. Priscus seems to be trying to be the primus pilus of all eight legions and the support forces.”
He laughed. “Anyway. Here’s a new job for you: go find the usual reprobates and ask them to come join me for a catch-up and a drink. You too; and Priscus, if he can walk this far with that stick up his arse.”
Tetricus smiled with relief. “Varus and Brutus in particular have been waiting for you to get here, Marcus. I’ll bring everyone along shortly.”
Fronto nodded as Tetricus threw him another quick salute and ran off in search of their various friends. Shaking his head in exasperation at the effect Priscus’ promotion seemed to be having on the army, Fronto turned and strode between the tribunes’ tents to his own, where he was surprised to find four men standing in quiet conversation outside.
Labienus had changed little, though his face was a little more drawn and a haunted shadow seemed to flick around his eyes. His smile as he spotted Fronto was as friendly as ever, though. The man beside him was faintly familiar, though Fronto could not say from where, and his eyes lingered on the man only long enough to realise that, despite his Roman officer’s mode of dress and clean-shaven face, his hair was braided in the Gallic fashion, and the tell-tale bulge of a neck torc showed beneath his tunic. One of the cavalry, most likely, and doubtless an officer if Fronto recognised him.
The bigger surprise for a moment was the presence of the tribunes from the Fourteenth, Menenius and Hortius. They stood in easy conversation, hands on hips as though in friendly banter, and it took a moment for Fronto to remember that he’d asked them to come.
Labienus stepped out of the group, somewhat rudely interrupting Menenius, who appeared to be extolling the virtues of some sculptor or other.
“Marcus. By Mercury’s wings, it’s good to see you. I had word that you’d returned.”
Fronto noticed the way the Gallic officer beside him stepped forward like a shadow imitation of Labienus and wondered whether it was a move informed by desire to stay close to the staff officer whom he obviously knew, or more by the need to stay away from the mindless chatter of the two tribunes who seemed to be quietly discussing something that made the pair of them giggle like girls at a bawdy house.
“Titus” he smiled at the senior officer. “Good to see you too. Would you like to step inside and I’ll join you in a moment. I’ve not been in yet, but if Carbo’s following his standing orders, there’ll be a dozen cups and two amphorae of good Latin wine.”
Labienus raised a questioning eyebrow, his eyes flicking momentarily to the two tribunes, and then he nodded, his gaze searching out the meaning in Fronto’s dour expression and finding none.
“Come, Piso. Let us avail ourselves of Fronto’s wine. He always has an excellent stock. Hopefully he’s got water for it too, though you can never be too sure with Fronto.”
With a smile and a last curious glance, Labienus escorted Piso inside.
Fronto waited until the two tribunes finally noticed he was watching, and then beckoned them with a crooked finger and turned, walking toward Tetricus’ tent nearby. Lifting the flap, he motioned for the two fops to enter and then followed them in, allowing the flap to drop behind them.
Tetricus’ tent was exactly as Fronto would have expected. The engineer’s logical, analytical mind was reflected perfectly in his surroundings: every item in the interior placed with precision and nothing out of place. A wooden cabinet stood to one side with half a dozen drawers. A rack for two dozen scrolls stood on top and it crossed Fronto’s mind for a moment to pry, before he forced the urge away.
The two tribunes stood, looking somewhat befuddled, in the centre of the tent, almost lost in the dim light.
Fronto w
alked round them in a circle, looking them up and down. He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected to find, but he needed to be sure that these two men had nothing to do with Pinarius’ death. The two tribunes watched him move like a prospective buyer at the slave market, probably wondering if he was going to open their mouths to examine their teeth.
Both men wore white leather tunics with white pteruges hanging in two rows from both waist and shoulders, each strip edged with gold and ending in a gilded fringe; ostentatious in the extreme. Though they wore no cuirass, helm or greaves, their boots were enclosed, soft leather efforts, a fleece lining poking from the top. Under normal circumstances, they would have attracted the same disparaging mental comments as the tunics in Fronto’s mind, but he was also painfully aware of their similarity to the boots he currently wore, courtesy of Lucilia’s mania for renovating him. Perhaps he could acquire a new pair of boots from Cita and start pissing them into shape over this summer? He made a mental note to do so.
He frowned as he sniffed. Rose petals and camphor? It was a cloying scent. He wondered for a moment why the two men stood together wearing scents that combined to such appalling effect until he realised that, in fact, both men wore the combination individually. His eyes watering, he stepped back and faced them.
“Tell me about your journey.”
The two tribunes exchanged a slightly baffled look, and then Hortius smiled.
“I had a piebald mare. I called her Aphrodite, because she was so sleek and beautiful. I used to have a horse like her on the estate at Alba Fucens, only I called her Hector, because I was initially confused about sex, and…”
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose and held up his hand to stop the tribune, who may well still be a little confused about sex as far as Fronto was concerned.
“Too much background detail, Hortius. Tell me about Massilia to Divoduron.”
Menenius smiled. “He cannot help it, legate. He likes horses. We were rather swift actually. I went into Massilia, but not to the military staging post. You see my uncle, who was a praetor two years ago, retired to a villa above Massilia and he has enormous influence with both the Greek council there and the local officials at Arelate. I managed to secure us a constant change of horses at the courier stations until we passed Vienna, where we purchased several fast horses and just gave the tired ones to some poor sad-looking local each time we changed mounts thereafter. It’s amazing what a little money and influence can achieve.”
Fronto held his tongue, his own opinion of nepotistic and monied influence being unlikely to sit well with these two.
“So you were here before any of us.”
“I would imagine so.”
“And you travelled alone, through Gaul? With no escort?”
Menenius frowned in incomprehension. “Yes. Gaul is conquered, and no uneducated barbarian would interfere with a Roman officer on official duty. You took an escort?”
Fronto blinked. “Well, no. But I had a Gaul with me, and anyway, we’re more…” his voice tailed off as he could find no way of saying what sprang to mind without levelling an insult or two at the pair. “Fair enough. What of Publius Pinarius Posca?”
Hortius’ brow furrowed. “Pinarius? Did he not travel with those two burly brutes of centurions? He stayed in Massilia to see the sights; wouldn’t accept our offer of relay horses. I think, to be quite honest, that he’s not quite the man we all are, eh, legate? Cannot imagine young Pinarius riding a horse. Probably had a silk-lined wagon.”
The two men burst into an annoying cacophony of snorts and giggles at the idea of Caesar’s wet nephew riding a courier horse. Fronto rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to complain about being lumped in with them as ‘men’ almost as heavily as the urge to try and beat some sense of military decorum into them..
“Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know.”
The two men slowly recovered from their humour and shrugged.
“Any time, legate, my lovely.”
Fronto managed to leave the tent somehow, miraculously, without laying a hand on either of them. He found himself simply grateful that they were not assigned to the Tenth, else he would have buried them both up to their necks in a latrine trench before they ever got as far as war.
The two men exited behind him and moved across the camp, giggling like idiots while Fronto, still breathing deeply in annoyance, strolled back towards his tent.
Throwing the flap aside, he found Labienus and his friend sitting in camp chairs beside his table, with cups of wine, a third poured ready for him. With a nod of thanks, he sank gratefully onto his bunk, undoing his boots and letting them drop to the floor. Labienus shuffled his chair a few feet further away, his eyes quickly beginning to water.
“New boots, Marcus?”
“Bloody women” was his sole reply as he let the other fall, peeled off the now-greyed woollen socks and wiggled his toes, releasing a fresh waft of four-day stink.
“There’s a bath tub in a bathing tent in the command section for senior officers, Marcus, and there’s always heated water ready.”
“How nice.”
“So if you’d like to scrub off your journey first…?”
“No, you’re alright, Titus. I need to rest and have a few cups first.”
Labienus glanced across at his friend, who had also moved his chair a few feet further away.
“I’d like you to meet Piso, Marcus. He’s a chieftain among the Aquitani and now one of the senior cavalry commanders along with Varus and Galronus. They’ll command a wing each, with Varus in overall charge, of course.”
Fronto nodded his greeting, scratching his toes and rubbing his feet with a free hand while consuming the prepared wine with the other, noting with distaste how Labienus had already watered it for him.
“I thought I’d best introduce you. There are still a great number of blinkered officers in this army who will not consider a non-Roman officer worthy of their attention, but I know you’re not one of them. Galronus, after all…”
Fronto nodded as he placed the cup on the table and stretched back on his bunk.
“Pleased to meet you, Piso. You seem, like Galronus, to be a man fond of our custom?”
Piso shrugged. “In weaponry, art and devotion to the Gods, the Aquitani will always be paramount, but I am not beyond being able to see the advantage of a comfortable tunic and a clean-shaven neck. It is my staunch belief that both Roman and Gaul have much to learn from one another.”
Fronto smiled appreciatively and nodded toward Labienus.
“A seductive viewpoint that our officer friend here has propounded to me before.”
“Marcus, there’s a particular reason I wanted you to meet Piso. Beyond being an embodiment of what I see for the future of Gaul.”
Something in Labienus’ tone made Fronto sit up straight. The staff officer looked nervous; pensive.
“What is it, Titus?”
“Did you know that Caesar continues to draw more levies from the tribes of Gaul, Marcus?”
“Well, yes. He needs them to push the Germanic tribes back out.”
“Fronto, Caesar could deal with those invaders with two legions and a single cavalry wing. Do you not think it’s time to put the future of Gaul back in the hands of the Gauls?”
Fronto frowned. “That’s what he’s doing. He’s summoned the Gallic council so they can decide whether to ask for our help.”
“Marcus, don’t be so blind. Listen to yourself. Caesar has ‘summoned’ the kings of Gaul. Only a despot can do that. Caesar places himself above those kings. He only panders to them because he is not yet strong enough to oppose the senate!”
Fronto’s stomach knotted and he felt a sudden cold shiver run down his spine. This conversation was starting to sound disturbingly familiar.
“Have you been listening to Cicero and his brother? This is a dangerous path to walk, Titus, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”
Labienus shook his head and poured Fronto another cup of wine.
“I’m not advocating mutiny or anything like that, Marcus, but I think we need to start questioning the general on his motives and actions and perhaps try to persuade him toward the path of reason. We need to bring him back into concord with the senate before things turn ugly.”
“Enough, Titus. You’re one of the general’s most senior lieutenants. Don’t say anything else you might learn to regret.”
“But Marcus…”
“Enough, Titus! I think the pair of you had best leave now before the others get here.”
Labienus rose slowly from his chair, alongside Piso. Before exiting the tent, he paused and turned back, pointing a finger at Fronto. “Think on it, Marcus.”
Before Fronto could shout angrily at him, the two slipped out, leaving Fronto seething and uncertain. What was this damned army he’d come back to? It barely resembled the one he’d left last autumn.
ROME
Quintus Lucilius Balbus sat on the steps of the wide stairway that led up from the forum to the Arx, from which the grand temple of Juno dominated the skyline. The ancient temple of Concordia’s featureless and high north wall cast a deep shadow on the stairway, bringing blessed relief from the sizzling sun that already, even in the mid-morning, was unseasonably hot.
His eyes had been straying across the numerous structures that formed the nucleus of the city and the heart of the republic. It had been some time since he’d made a trip to Rome, where he’d spent so much of his youth and his early adulthood. The shape and form of the conurbation had changed even in those few years, with ever more grand buildings rising to display the wealth and generosity of various power-seeking benefactors, and each one was accompanied elsewhere by another towering brick hovel; a monstrosity of living quarters that would shame a slave, and yet were clamoured for by the poor of the republic.
And the forum had never been so alive in his youth, or so it probably seemed through the eyes of age. Men, women and children of every colour and every social status rubbed elbows as though they were equal in the press of people buying goods, haranguing public speakers, making for the law courts, picking purses, or any of the myriad of diversions the forum provided.
Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4 Page 7
