Caesar nodded. ‘We have four legions in place. Two will remain in position blocking the passes. The Seventh and Ninth, however, will split up and search around the enemy’s position. Find any source of sustenance and secure it. I want fortifications here that make Alesia look like a child’s sand fort. Both routes to the Iberus and Octogesa fully fortified, and no water or food within reach.’
Fronto saluted, trying not to feel irritated at the withering, bile-filled looks he was receiving from Salvius and Antonius, as well as the clear disapproval emanating from other officers in the tent.
He tried not to be irritated with himself too. His sentiments had been noble, but he’d almost choked on them. He’d had the chance to end it here and within a few days he might have been back with his wife, planning how to solve Balbus’ problem. Instead, he had drawn out the campaign once more and prevented anyone from going home.
He was going to drink a lot of wine tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
28th of Quintilis – south-west of Ilerda
Fronto closed the tent flaps and stepped away, Antonius at his side.
‘He will be well. He’s been this bad before.’
Fronto nodded, though in truth he was considerably less convinced. Four times now over the years he had seen Caesar fall to his recurring illness, but this was by far the worst. His personal medicus was watching over him now – the knowledge of his condition was still a tightly guarded secret and even the medical sections of the various legions knew nothing of it. The fit had ended, and Caesar was resting, but it had lasted so long and been so violent, Fronto had wondered if it would be the end this time. The fit had finally subsided, much to the relief of he and Antonius who had been with the general when it struck, but it had left Caesar weak and exhausted and he could do little more than lie in his cot and rest as the medicus checked him over and applied pointless poultices.
‘I still say it is because he shuns sleep so much,’ Antonius grumbled. ‘No man can exist on the paltry hours Gaius keeps.’
‘I think it goes deeper than that,’ Fronto replied. ‘I wonder if his father suffered the same?’
‘Anyway, other matters demand our attention,’ the staff officer noted, pointing across the camp at a small group of men approaching with a legionary guard. They were wearing the uniforms of officers, but the vexillum behind them was not one of Caesar’s. It bore a ‘II’ and a horse in gold.
‘Deputation from the enemy. Well timed, with the general down.’
‘Let’s see what they have to say,’ Antonius replied.
‘But somewhere private.’
The legionaries escorted the small party forward. The enemy deputation had been allowed to keep their weapons and standards. The lead man was a tribune and, Fronto was surprised to note, a rather young one – far too young really to be wearing the broad stripe. With him were a narrow-stripe tribune, four centurions and a prefect, as well as an honour guard, though they had been kept at a small distance, just in case.
The deputation stopped in front of them and the officers inclined their heads respectfully. The senior tribune cleared his throat. He sounded nervous to Fronto, and clasped his hands tightly, probably to control trembling by the looks of it.
‘Proconsul?’ the man enquired, looking at Antonius. The curly haired officer chuckled.
‘I wish. No. I have the honour to be Caesar’s lieutenant and confidante, Marcus Antonius, and this is the esteemed legate and hero of the Gallic Wars, Marcus Falerius Fronto. Might I enquire of your name?’
The young man coughed nervously again. His eyes darted this way and that. ‘I am Publius Cassius Bucco, senior tribune and interim commander of the Second Vernacular Legion. This is my colleague Gaius Afranius, son of the general. I trust the traditional rules of war apply and we are in no danger?’
Fronto frowned. No danger from him, certainly, or from Antonius. In fact, in no danger from anywhere in this camp, but two junior officers coming to Caesar rather than the senior generals was interesting, and Fronto would bet any danger to them would be posed by the junior tribune’s own father when he found out about this.
‘Of course,’ Antonius replied smoothly and reassuringly.
‘I would rather speak to the proconsul. It is he we came to visit.’
‘The proconsul is indisposed at this moment,’ Fronto replied, but be assured that we have the authority to speak for him in all matters. Come.’
He gestured to the headquarters tent and the party followed. At the door, Antonius waved at the centurions and Ingenuus’ dismounted cavalrymen who formed the core of the escort. ‘The guards can stay out here, along with most of the officers. If the two tribunes will join us for a cup of wine?’
Bucco and Afranius nodded their assent and the four men entered the tent.
‘I bring you greetings from the camp of the Ilerda legions,’ Bucco said as he took the indicated seat. Antonius collected a jug of wine and four cups from the cupboard. Fronto glared pointedly at him as he put them on the table and, with a grin, Antonius returned and collected the water too. Pouring four cups, he sank into his seat.
‘You have a proposal for us?’ he said.
Fronto, still with narrowed, suspicious eyes, held up a hand. ‘Your camp numbers at least four legates, numerous senior prefects, several ex consuls and two generals. I don’t intend any insult here, but might you explain why we are speaking to two tribunes?’
Bucco and Afranius shared what appeared to be an extraordinarily guilty look. Fronto’s suspicions seemed well founded.
‘There is,’ the senior tribune said, skirting a reply by some margin, ‘a strong sense in our camp that we are setting lines to go to war with our friends. Many of the officers and men of the Ilerda legions, regardless of this current nightmare and our allegiances to the governor, can claim at least distant blood ties to the men of your own legions. Some are closer than that. My own camp prefect has received a missive from his father warning him that his cousin serves as a senior centurion in your Eleventh Legion. And this is not an isolated case. We have fought three or four skirmishes now, but as yet the blades of the legions have not been too sullied with Roman blood. There is a feeling that this whole situation could be resolved before that happens.’
A nice speech, Fronto smiled. The delivery suggested that the lad had been rehearsing it word for word all morning. Educated and clever, then, but still unsure and lacking that strength of a veteran commander.
‘This is ever the case in a civil war, Tribune,’ Fronto replied, ‘and it is highly regrettable. Unfortunately no matter how much all concerned might wish for peace, in order to achieve it one side must capitulate. And you have to be aware that we are in a vastly superior position. Your army is starving and going thirsty. You have minimal supplies and nowhere to run. We, on the other hand, now control Ilerda, Tarraco, and the routes to Octogesa and the river. Caesar has no reason to capitulate. I ask you again, why two tribunes, and not a senior ambassador?’
Again, the two men looked at one another, and this time it was the junior tribune who spoke.
‘My father might consider terms.’ He sighed. ‘He is certainly in favour of avoiding unnecessary bloodshed among Romans. But Petreius is like a savage dog. He sees only enemies, not brothers. Petreius is the one who needs persuasion. But many of the centurions and officers in our camp would seek terms, given the chance.’
‘So your father sent you out without informing his fellow general?’
‘Not quite,’ Bucco croaked. ‘The two generals took a force to try and secure water where your Ninth Legion are preventing them. In their absence, there has been a debate among other senior officers. We were sent as a deputation, for my father is a friend of Cicero’s and was present at his meeting with the general earlier this year, and Afranius can speak for his own sire. The question that I fear plays highest in the minds of our men and officers is: can your general be trusted.’
Antonius’ face took on a slightly offended look. ‘Did you c
ome here to insult us?’
‘Nononono. The fact is that Caesar’s name has something of a mixed reputation here in Hispania. Some see him as one of their own, from his time in the south, and others see him as a man who came here only to rape the land for his own gain.’
Fair comment, thought Fronto, rather privately.
‘And that reputation, which is embedded in the Hispanic legions, is somewhat increased by the general belief among the supporters of Pompey that Caesar is a war criminal, a would-be-king and a despot.’
He saw the ire building in Antonius’ eyes, and made mollifying motions with his hands. ‘I am forced to tell the truth as it is seen. But the fact remains that over the weeks in Ilerda, we have seen your army repeatedly pass up chances for slaughter. Caesar might have the reputation of a bloodthirsty conqueror, but what we have seen speaks more of a man seeking a measured and peaceful conclusion. Am I off the mark?’
Fronto shook his head. ‘Very much on the mark, in fact.’
‘Would Caesar agree terms that are beneficial to both sides?’ Bucco asked. ‘Other than a blanket surrender, I mean.’
‘He would need the terms to secure Hispania and remove the danger of a Pompeian surge against him.’
‘I believe such a thing is possible,’ Bucco mused. ‘We cannot speak for the governor of Hispania Ulterior, of course. Hispania Inferior could come to terms.’
‘But those terms would involve the generals going free,’ young Afranius blurted, earning him a despairing look from his companions.
Antonius was shaking his head, though Fronto was already thinking it through. To let Petreius go was to invite future troubles, but the same had been said about Ahenobarbus, and Caesar had still freed him. But then, perhaps the general had learned from that mistake. After all, Ahenobarbus had gone on to fortify Massilia against him. Yet if Petreius and Afranius going free was the price of peace, it was worth considering, certainly.
‘You understand what we wish?’ Bucco prodded.
‘We do,’ Antonius replied in flat tones. ‘I cannot promise anything at this moment, but I will take your proposal to the general and see what he says. Return to your camp and speak to your people. We will send a deputation within the hour.’
Bucco and Afranius nodded and, taking a token swig from their untouched cups, rose from their seats and departed the tent. Antonius looked at Fronto.
‘Afranius we can deal with. I don’t think even Caesar will let Petreius go, and if he considers it, I’ll counsel him against it.’
Fronto winced. ‘Let’s not be precipitous. Peace is worth a high price. It needs considering.’
Antonius threw him a sour look and moved around the table, downing the two largely-untouched cups of wine and straightening.
‘Let’s go talk to the old man, then.’
Emerging from the tent, they could see the Pompeian deputation making their way back to the gate to return to their own forces. Fronto gazed after them, and then followed Antonius across to the general’s private quarters. A quick rap on the woodwork and the staff officer entered, Fronto at his heel. Caesar was partially upright now, seated on the edge of his cot. He held a plain earthenware cup and was looking into it with a foul expression.
‘How do you feel?’ Antonius asked.
‘Much improved, thank you,’ the general replied. ‘Though on this occasion, the cure may just be worse than the illness. I saw him crack a large, spotted egg into the cup, and whatever else he’s added still had bits of fur attached. In order to cure my head, dear old Atticus seems determined to empty my stomach.’
Fronto snorted. ‘Medics. They’re brilliant with wounds - I’ve been stitched back together more or less from head to foot – but anything they give you in a cup I’ve learned to avoid like the plague.’
Antonius nodded his agreement. ‘Three glasses of unwatered Rhaetic, and you’ll be right as rain.’
Caesar took the tiniest sip from the cup, pulled a face and placed the vessel on the table nearby. ‘I think I prefer the thunder in my head. What brings you two back so quickly? The medicus says I need several hours’ rest yet.’
‘It seems the divisions in the enemy camp run deeper than we even suspected,’ Antonius replied. ‘Apparently Afranius is all-but ready to come to terms, though Petreius wishes to fight on. But regardless, while both are out of the camp trying to cause trouble for the Ninth, their officers sent us ambassadors. They are willing to discuss terms on certain conditions.’
‘Conditions?’
‘That the terms are favourable to them, and not total submission,’ Fronto replied. ‘I believe the subtext to be that the legions wish to retain their standards and honour and to remain stationed in Hispania.’
‘Their officers would have to change,’ Caesar noted.
‘Agreed. And they want the two generals to go free.’
‘Which is unacceptable,’ Antonius pointed out. ‘Afranius, if he is the one seeking peace, we can deal with, but Petreius must be handed over.’
Caesar’s left brow rose.
‘You know I’m right,’ Antonius grunted. ‘That bastard needs to be chained or he’ll be another Ahenobarbus. He’ll turn up somewhere in the future, standing on strong walls and calling you a cock.’
Caesar rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It is worth considering all terms at this point.’
‘Afranius’ son was one of those who came to us,’ Fronto noted. ‘So he should know his father’s mind.’
Again, Caesar nodded. ‘I cannot go to them. Quite apart from the fact that I am weak as a kitten and need considerable rest before I move out of my tent, I would no more walk into their camp than Petreius would walk into mine. But we do need to agree terms. If this can be ended well, then it is our duty to Rome to do so. The question is, I believe, whether the generals can be persuaded to this. You say their officers are in favour of terms?’
‘That was what our young visitors said,’ Antonius replied.
‘I need to be sure of the will of their officers and the chances that their commanders will agree. Fronto, take a deputation in reply. Tell them I am willing to consider terms that favour the legions remaining in control of Hispania, on the condition that they renounce all ties to Pompey and their senior officers, tribunes, prefects and legates, all step down from their commands to be replaced by neutrally-aligned personnel. If they are willing to do that, then I will guarantee the freedom of all officers to head back to Rome or to their homes and the legions may return to garrison. The stumbling block might be the two generals, but see if you can gauge their likelihood of surrender and whether they would be willing to do so without a guarantee of total freedom.’
Antonius smiled. ‘We’ll get them to agree.’
‘Not you,’ Caesar said. ‘There are times you can be a little direct and impolitic. Fronto is calmer. He can do it. You need to be visible in the camp in my absence. I will be out to address the soldiers at the evening watch, but I must rest ‘til then.’
Antonius, disapproval on his face, nodded. As he and Fronto emerged once more, he turned to the legate of the Eleventh. ‘You will take an honour guard from your legion, Fronto.’
‘Of course.’
‘Including your senior tribune.’
Fronto sighed.
* * *
The approach was tense, to say the least. Fronto and his guard, along with Salvius Cursor and Felix, rode purposely through the gates of the Pompeian camp. They dismounted inside the ramparts – hastily thrown up mounds of earth little more than a couple of feet in height, surmounted by a fence of sudis stakes drawn from one of the surviving carts, augmented by whatever obstacles could be procured. It would not hold off an attack for long, Fronto was sure.
Their horses were taken by men of some unknown legion and tied to a hitching post near the gate before being given feed bags to keep them busy. Fronto and his men strode on up the sloping path toward the centre of the camp, between ordered rows of tents. It was ridiculous, really. He
could as easily have been in their own camp, but for the nervous, suspicious looks of the legionaries around them.
One notable thing, though, was the lack of barrels and cauldrons. In his own camp, every few tents there was a cook fire with a cauldron of water for boiling foodstuffs. Here, water was rare in the extreme, and no such pots were in evidence, nor the troughs and barrels the men used for washing and cleaning up. A consequence of that was the unshaven, dirty appearance of the men and the odour of sweat that clung to the hillside. A further consequence of water deprivation was detectable as an undercurrent to the sweat that only increased as they moved through the camp. With no water, there could be no cleaning of latrines, no flushing away of urine. The stench of the stale latrines was beginning to permeate the camp after only half a day. What it would be like in a few days’ time was the stuff of nightmares.
Never before had Fronto been so acutely aware of the depravities that a siege placed upon a camp, and in particular the absence of water. Certainly if this was his army, he’d be considering terms by now.
A consilium of officers awaited them in the command tent on the hill. Two were legates, as well as three prefects and various tribunes, including both Bucco and Afranius. As they entered, Fronto inclined his head and his men saluted. There were, he noted, no seats set out for them here. Fronto folded his arms.
‘Be aware,’ he said, quietly and with a dark undertone, ‘that without the presence of your commanders, discussing terms with the enemy is seditio. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you all of what that means. Before I speak further I need to know you are serious.’
There was a long pause. Legions rarely revolted against their generals but it had been known, and almost always resulted in harsh repercussions for those responsible. Fronto had to gauge how committed they all were to the idea.
‘It has been discussed,’ one of the legates said. ‘But there are mitigating factors. If we make terms with the proconsul, we break only our oaths to Pompey. Our vows to Rome and the senate remain intact, for the senate is now in support of Caesar, being almost entirely populated with his men.’
FIELDS OF MARS Page 34
