Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (64 page)

He sighed as
they strode out into the open and down the slope toward the
hospital.

The camp of
the Tenth legion was sullen as Fronto left his tent and made his
way to the headquarters of the general. It had been three hours
since he had accompanied the stretcher-bearers back to the camp.
Priscus had gone in to the medicus immediately, and the doctor had
taken one look, sucked in air through his teeth in a timeless
manner, and closed the door on Fronto. Since then he’d sat in the
doorway of his own tent, repeatedly filling and emptying a cup of
wine as he watched the columns of smoke rise from the hill
opposite, while the onagers were moved into position to flatten the
walls. It had seemed wrong sitting there on his own, but for some
reason, all he could think of was his primus pilus being opened up
in the hospital, and he felt less than social. Galronus was the
only other man he was inclined to talk to right now, but the Remi
officer had suffered a minor head wound during the scuffle earlier
and was in with the medics at the moment.

And now, as he
left the lines of the Tenth and two morose-looking guards saluted,
he glanced across to his right, behind the lines, where a large
stockade contained thousand upon thousand of Aduatuci prisoners.
They would have to be taken away before long, as feeding them on a
daily basis while so far beyond Cita’s supply lines was a difficult
and costly business. But then, Caesar couldn’t move just yet. They
would have to stay a week or more to impose their presence on the
surrounding tribes, to find the few pockets of Aduatuci who were
not in the oppidum, and to deal with the wounded.

He heard the
thunder of hooves as he strode toward his meeting with the general
and turned to see a small group of riders slowing as they neared
the command area. Ingenuus’ men stood at attention by the entrance
to the palisaded quarter as both riders and legate converged on the
gateway.

Fronto frowned
as the men arrived and the leader, a cavalry prefect by his armour,
dropped from his saddle and saluted. The half-dozen men looked
tired and unshaven and had clearly been riding for days; their
horses stamped and steamed.

“
You looking for me or the general?”

The prefect
wiped his brow.

“
I have a message for Caesar, sir.”

Fronto
nodded.

“
Come with me.”

With the
prefect at his heel, sweating and groaning after so long in the
saddle, Fronto strode through the gateway to the large tent that
was Caesar’s headquarters. Two more of the praetorians stood beside
the entrance, alongside the standards and the eagle. As the
officers approached, one ducked inside for a moment and then
returned.

“
The general is ready to see you, legate.”

Fronto nodded
and he and his companion strode into the dim interior of the
command tent. Caesar sat at his desk, carefully positioned so that
a shaft of light fell across the tablets and papers before him. He
looked up.

“
Ah, Marcus… good. I’ve been wanting to see you.” As the second
man entered, the general frowned. “And who is this?”

Fronto
shrugged and stepped across to stand behind a chair opposite his
commander. The prefect walked to the table and saluted.

“
General Caesar… I bring greetings from commander Labienus at
Nemetocenna.”

Caesar looked
momentarily surprised.

“
Indeed? And news, I presume?”

The prefect
smiled.

“
News, indeed, sir.”

“
Well, go on...” the general prompted.

“
Firstly, I bear tidings of legate Crassus and the Seventh in
Armorica.”

Fronto leaned
on the seat back and turned with interest at this. Caesar’s
expression hardened, and the legate realised that he couldn’t
decide whether he hoped for success or failure on the part of the
young nobleman.

“
Legate Crassus wishes to inform Caesar that he has brought the
seven maritime tribes of Armorica under the eagle, sir, and has
settled into quarters in the territory of the Veneti on the north
coast.”

The general
blinked in surprise as the prefect continued.

“
Commander Labienus wishes also to inform you, sir, that he has
concluded favourable terms with the Belgic tribes and that,
assuming that the Aduatuci are no longer a threat to the pax
Romana, all Gaul is now yours.”

Fronto
whistled through his teeth.

“
That little bugger actually conquered the northwest. With one
legion!”

Caesar
nodded.

“
A reminder from young Crassus, clearly, of his powerful
lineage. Good. He has done me a service. Thank you, prefect. Is
there anything else?”

The prefect
fished a scroll from his tunic and placed it respectfully on the
table.

“
A full account from the commander, sir, but that’s
it.”

Caesar
nodded.

“
Go and find yourself something to eat and rest for a while.
Thank you, prefect.”

As the cavalry
officer bowed and exited, the general turned to Fronto.

“
Well?”

Fronto
sighed.

“
Do I speak freely?”

A nod.

“
He’s trying to upstage you. Be sure he’s already sent a
message back to Rome informing the people that matter of his
achievement. You can claim it as your victory, but certain factions
will no doubt attribute all your success this year to the work of
Crassus. I really don’t have any great suggestion what to do about
it, though. If you stamp on his achievement, it’ll make you look
petty and ungrateful. You may just have to cheer him
on.”

Caesar nodded
sourly.

“
This, Fronto, is why I sometimes envy your avoidance of
politics.”

* * * * *

Labienus
smiled at the young chieftain.

“
We will be pulling out in a few weeks and taking the army to
winter quarters, once Caesar confirms where that will be, but I
intend to leave a small garrison at the fort here.”

The chieftain
waited for Septimius to translate and then shrugged and said
something in his guttural dialect.

The auxiliary
officer smiled.

“
The lord says that’s not necessary. They have made an oath and
they will stand by it.”

Labienus
laughed.

“
I have no doubt about that, my friend. The people I am leaving
behind will be there for your aid and support, not to control you.
They will be mostly engineers and scribes. What we have begun here
should not be stopped just because we leave for winter
quarters.”

The
translation seemed to make the chief happy and he reached out and
clasped Labienus’ hand before turning and walking away toward the
gates of Nemetocenna.

The commander
turned to Septimius and Pomponius.

“
I think, unless you have any objection, that I will leave one
cohort here over winter, and I’d like you two to take command? I
realise that you were expecting to return to ‘civilised’ lands, but
you have been in at the top here on what I’ve tried to achieve, and
I trust you will continue the good work?”

Pomponius
nodded.

“
Frankly, sir, with all the projects on the horizon here, I’m a
happy as a pig in muck.”

Labienus
laughed. Engineers never changed.

“
I too am happy to stay,” Septimius agreed.

“
Good.”

Labienus
glanced across the hillside to where teams of engineers were, even
now, creating good solid stone flags to pave the roads of the
oppidum.

“
Not Gaulish; not Roman. Gallo-Roman perhaps?”

* * * * *

Fronto woke
with a start. A medical orderly was shaking him as gently and
respectfully as possible, and had been doing so for several minutes
while Fronto snored like a sick bear.

“
Whassup?”

The orderly
looked visibly relieved.

“
Sir, the primus pilus is awake.”

Fronto,
suddenly awake, scrambled madly out of the seat in the hospital
that he had spent much of the last three days occupying. Three days
of waiting, but he’d been practicing stretching and flexing his
left arm to keep himself entertained and the muscle was clearly
healing. There was less strength in it than he had ever felt, and
he couldn’t pick up even the smallest or lightest thing, but the
arm worked, and every day brought some small improvement.

In the side
room that had been sealed off from the main tent, the primus pilus
of the Tenth lay flat on a table. Once again it struck him just how
badly wounded the man really was. Lying there in just a tunic,
there was still hardly an inch of flesh visible from the neck down,
swaddled as he was in linen, splints, wraps and more. Where the
skin was visible, around his neck and hands and one lower leg, it
was largely purple and yellow.

“
You’ve looked better.”

Fronto forced
himself to smile.

Priscus rolled
his eyes and then shut them tightly for a moment.

“
I… I can’t move. Any of me!”

Fronto
nodded.

“
Don’t try. You’re being held together with sticks and ropes
right now. But the doctors tell me that most of it will heal
nicely.”

“
Most?”

Priscus glared
at his commander.

“
Your arms should be fine, and your right leg will be alright,
so long as your ankle heals properly. Your left leg…
well…”

Priscus
growled/

“
What about it?”

“
You’re going to have trouble walking fast. Maybe even walking
at all.”

“
Shit!”

Fronto
nodded.

“
They’ve done everything possible, Gnaeus. You know
that.”

Priscus
growled.

“
If I can’t walk, they should have let me die. You know what a
crippled soldier has to look forward to. I’m not a rich patrician;
I came up through the ranks. When I get thrown out I’ll end up
begging in the subura and getting pissed on by people. You know how
it goes.”

Fronto shook
his head.

“
You saved Caesar’s life, so you’ll not be needy. Hell, it’s
possible you’ll be able to stay with the legions. Just let it heal
and then see.”

Priscus sighed
and let his head drop back.

“
How are the lads?”

Fronto
laughed.

“
They’ll be a sight happier when they hear you’re awake.
They’ve been moping like grounded children. I don’t know how you do
it. They’re frightened to death of you, but they get all soppy
about you when you’re not there.”

“
Ha.”

Priscus let
out a low grumble.

“
I can’t even raise my arm to drink anything.”

“
Good. The doctors don’t want you to at the moment.”

“
So…” Priscus sighed, “you’ve not said anything, but I assume
from the general tone and the fact that you’re sat here that we
won?”

Fronto
nodded.

“
The Aduatuci are no more. Aduatuca is no more. There are
currently more prisoners in this camp than there are soldiers! The
legions are stood down for now and will be going off to winter
quarters shortly. Galronus apparently got smashed over the head and
is somewhere in here too, but he’s going to be alright.”

The legate
stood for a long moment and stared down at his old friend and
finally Priscus sighed again.

“
Look, I’m still very tired. Perhaps I should try and
sleep.”

Fronto nodded,
noting with some distress the tear that rolled unbidden down the
centurion’s cheek and into his ear. Forcing himself to smile
positively, he squared his shoulders.

“
I’ve got my arm working a little again. Keep working on your
legs, and I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re better
rested.”

With a final
wave, he turned and, wrapped in sadness, strode from the tent.

* * * * *

Paetus sat in
the stockade at the rear of the Nemetocenna fort, dirty and hairy.
Every day that passed made him feel less and less human. But he’d
heard the guards talking. In a week or so the prisoners would be
taken south under guard of a small force of provosts and Gallic
auxiliaries. It was a long journey back to Rome, and he had had
plenty of time to devise plans.

Getting free
would be easy. Even getting away from the guards without being
noticed should not be too much trouble. The big problem was going
to be getting away without the other prisoners either getting
involved and interfering or drawing the attention of the provosts.
But he had plenty of time for that. He couldn’t escape until he was
safely within reach of Rome, where he could go to ground,
anyway.

Rome.

And Caesar and
Clodius.

* * * * *

The weather,
already on the turn when the legions had arrived at Aduatuca, set
in for autumn over the next two weeks. The mornings were misty and
cold and invariably gave way to overcast and damp days. Every day,
Fronto noted the faces of the men who were looking forward to
winter quarters and being settled somewhere. Even when winter
quarters were deep in Gallic lands, six months or more of being
stationary meant that local traders, bars and brothels would spring
up to entertain them.

Even the
senior officers generally wore faraway looks as they yearned for
family estates in Italia and the south; of the waves of the Mare
Nostrum, or sitting on a balcony on the Esquiline hill, looking out
over the roofs of Rome with a glass of Falernian in hand. Fronto,
unsure of what his plans were for the winter, strode across the
ground toward Caesar’s tent.