Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (17 page)

‘Trouble?’

‘Isn’t there always? But at least Cita’s back now, and he’s taken over the quartermaster chief’s job, so I can concentrate on my own duties. Caesar’s got me back doing the camp prefect role again.’

‘A job you are well suited for Gnaeus, or will be when you put on a little more weight and stop exercising.’

Another snort.

‘I was meaning to ask, by the way:’ Fronto said quietly as they stepped outside, ‘when we passed through Bibracte, the supply depot had gone. Is this a new system?’

Priscus shrugged. ‘We’ve been somewhat short on manpower and our forces have been concentrated in the north-east. We’ve a second supply line now coming over the mountains through Helvetii lands and on to Vesontio, but this one’s still operational occasionally. We’ve left several legs of it in the hands of Aedui merchants. It gives them an opportunity to make a little on the deal, and saves us manpower and endless organisation. I suspect that now Cita’s in charge again, things will change, but it’s worked quite well in the meantime.’

Antonius put an arm around each of their shoulders. ‘This is heart-warming and fascinating, but I am slowly becoming wetter than a fish’s private parts, and I’d rather like to be inside, near a brazier and with a jug of wine in my hands. Any offers?’

Priscus sighed. Antonius had only been in camp for four days, but already his prodigious drinking habits had become a talking point among the officers - only quietly and well out of his earshot, but there nonetheless. Priscus had already had to requisition more wine at an inordinate expense due to the new officer’s evening visits.

‘My quarters, then. It so happens I have a new jar of Rhaetican untried.’

Two figures emerged from a knot of soldiers to one side of the path and stepped in front of the three officers.

‘And who, might I ask,’ Priscus said with quiet force, ‘are you?’

‘These are friends of mine,’ Fronto grinned. ‘Priscus? Meet Palmatus and Masgava. Don’t get into a fistfight with the latter or a war of puns with the former. In fact, you and Palmatus should get on like an insula on fire. Just don’t tell him you used to be a centurion.’

‘This place stinks of sweat and piss and no one can tell me where to get a cold drink, a hot meal, and a warm woman,’ Palmatus grumbled sourly.

‘See?’ said Fronto with a grin. ‘You two are going to get on just fine.’

* * * * *

Fronto lounged in his chair, slumped like a sack of grain. His head felt as though someone had pushed a ferret in through his ear and left it there to nest. He’d intended to be slumbering in his cot not long after dark, but Antonius had had other ideas.

He looked around the tent.

Priscus leaned heavily against the trunk that contained most of Fronto’s gear, still packed from the journey. His eyelids were dark and heavy and hung like saddlebags. Even as Fronto’s gaze played across him, he heard the prefect snore and realised with a start that Priscus was actually asleep but with his eyes open. How long had he been gone?

He would have chuckled if he’d had the energy.

Brutus was still awake and arguing with Antonius, though his speech had sunk into a weary drawl and his wine cup had gone untouched for more than an hour.

Varus was toying with his bootlace, trying to tie it in an effort to escape the sucking whirlpool of the tent’s atmosphere.

Atmosphere! That in itself was a laugh. Having spent over a year in townhouses and villas and then in a variety of Gallic inns and taverns, he’d forgotten the discomfort of living in a military tent. The smell of slightly wet leather combined with the cloying smoke of the brazier that provided warmth and light, sweat from the occupants and… feet. Most overriding of all odours, that of feet.

He shuffled in his chair.

‘I know I’m sounding repetitive,’ he said, trying to cut through the debate raging in his tent, ‘but before very long the birds will be singing and the camp will be up and about, and I really think it’s time we got our heads down.’

Antonius held up a hand as if to say ‘just bear with me for a moment’ and gestured at Brutus with his cup - a cup that had just been refilled once more, Fronto noted, and with unwatered wine, no less.

‘Decimus, you have to accept that it takes a strong hand to guide any group,’ the new officer said brightly. Alert and shrewd and with a clear voice, which was absolutely unfathomable to Fronto, given the quantity of wine the man had consumed. Even on his best days, had Fronto drunk that much unwatered wine, he would now be lying face down in a puddle somewhere muttering about boobs. And yet the only effect it seemed to have had on Antonius was to bring forth a hard loquaciousness. The man had launched into arguments and debates with relish, like a horse with the bit between its teeth.

‘In the military, I agree, though with reservations,’ Brutus replied wearily and with a slight slur. ‘Discipline is important and without it we’re just a well-armoured rabble. And you and I both know that the grand strategy requires a single mind, though we also both know how misguided that single mind could be without a staff of solid officers to advise. And although the legatus can direct a legion into a battle, his tribunes might as well be garlands hanging round his neck for all the use they are. And moreover,’ he slurred, pointing at Antonius and only missing by a few feet, ‘we all know that when sword hits shield, it’s the centurions that run the show.’

‘Pah!’ Antonius swept the argument aside with his hand. ‘Look back to armies commanded by more than one man. Back to the days of the wars with Carthage or of the last slave revolt. Flaminius and Servilius with half the army each and look what happened to them! Or Gellius and Lentulus against that Thracian gladiator and his thugs! Divisions in command, you see? And in both cases it took a single strong hand at the reins to put things right. Crassus for the latter and Scipio for the former. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

Varus, having given up attempting to lace his boot and leaving the leather thong flapping, waved his arm. ‘In fairness, that was down to Pompey as much as Crassus, and
two
Scipios - younger and elder.’

Antonius waved the words aside irritably and Varus sensibly fell quiet. Fronto and the others had seen Antonius’ ire beginning to rise several times throughout the evening, and had moved to defuse it as quickly as they could. Though he’d not seen Antonius angry, there was something about him which suggested to Fronto that he might not want to do so.

‘Anyway,’ Brutus cut in, ‘the same cannot be said for the Republic. The last time we had a ‘strong hand on the reins’ as you put it was in the age of kings, and look at what that was like. We are a Republic and proud to be so. All the freedoms and advantages of a government by a concerned group of citizens without the randomness and failings of the Greek model.’

‘Sulla!’ snorted Antonius in reply, as he threw the entire cup of wine down his throat apparently without the need to swallow. Fronto sighed and gave up on the idea of disbanding the gathering for much needed sleep.

‘Sulla was a bump in the road - a tyrant trying to wrestle power from the legitimate government. He was a butcher and a villain. The lesson there has been learned, though, and Rome will not allow something like that to happen again.’

‘You are short-sighted, Decimus, if you think Sulla was the last tyrant Rome will see. And whatever you think of the man, he halted and reversed the chaos gripping the Republic. A strong hand. The damned place could do with another Sulla, if you ask me.’

‘I dearly hope you’re wrong, Antonius.’

‘Will somebody please fasten my bootlace?’ drawled Varus wearily.

‘Pila!’ yelled Priscus, causing everyone’s head to snap round in shock, only to realise that the prefect was still fast asleep, his eyes open and his dreaming fingers twitching around the haft of an imaginary javelin.

Fronto snorted with laughter and, as the debate on the nature of command burst into renewed vigour, interrupted periodically by Varus’ complaints concerning his boot, he hauled himself wearily out of his seat and staggered across to the bed. Taking his lesson from Varus, he didn’t even bother trying to fiddle with the laces and leaving them on, simply collapsed, face down on the cold blankets and buried his head in the pillow allowing the argument to drone on around him.

For perhaps half an hour he lay there, breathing in the linen cover of the pillow and attempting to shut out the conversation that raged over the rebellion of Sertorius and the dangers of breakaway states, trying to picture nothing but blackness in an attempt to let sleep overcome him.

Unfortunately, every time his mind emptied enough to permit sleepiness, his aching gut acted up and his head thumped in a sickening way, between them pushing the welcoming arms of Somnus far beyond reach.

After a time, he gave up, sitting upright in an attempt to fight off the fiery indigestion that coursed through his system. His body was simply not used to this sort of activity these days. A couple of years ago it had been the norm, and he could easily imagine slipping into his old ways, but he was not willing to relinquish his newfound strength and health to the vine.

‘Are you lot settled in for the night?’

Antonius waved at him in answer and Fronto sighed, aware that he’d basically lost his tent and along with it any hope of sleep.

‘Try not to throw up on my cot and don’t let the tent burn down. I’m going out for a walk.’

Leaving them to it, Fronto stepped across the tent, his foot brushing Priscus’ leg and eliciting a muttered ‘testudo’ order given to the dream army that he commanded.

‘If you’ll fasten this pigging bootlace, I’ll join you,’ Varus grumbled.

Pausing near the entrance, Fronto leaned down to Varus. Being charitable, he assumed that Varus’ trouble stemmed from the wounded arm that still gave him trouble in wet weather, and went to help him fasten his lace, only to discover that one end of the lace turned out in fact to be threaded wrong through the eyelets in the boot. With an almost paternal sigh, he spent a few moments re-lacing the boot and then tied it off.

‘Come on, you daft sod.’

With a grunt, he helped lift the cavalry commander from the floor and the two men ambled unsteadily out of the tent door, leaving the sleeping Priscus as silent witness to the heated debate going on within.

The damp pre-dawn air settled onto them, almost immediately chilling them to the bone and leaving a fine layer of dew on their tunics.

‘Why are we not wearing cloaks?’ Varus asked, shivering in the cold.

‘Because you didn’t bring one with you, while mine is underneath Priscus, and if I try to retrieve it, he’ll probably punch me in his sleep.’

‘Fair enough. Bracing, isn’t it?’

‘That’s one word for it.’

The huge encampment spread northwards before them, rolling down the gentle slope to the wide river, with the Gallic oppidum over to the west side. Camp fires and braziers burned here and there providing light and heat for the few men still on duty. A faint glow off to their right, over the crest of the hill, suggested that dawn was not a long way off, and Fronto blinked wearily. There were no stars and the moon was obscured by a thick grey layer, warning of a high likelihood of rain.

‘Going to be a shitty day’ Fronto noted.

‘Not unusual up here at this time of the year. Seems odd that we’ve been in Gaul for so long that we’re used to its climate and changes.’

‘Come on. Let’s stroll.’

The two men pottered past the tent that had been requisitioned for Palmatus and Masgava, where snoring and farting confirmed that the two men were in residence and asleep. On past the gathered tents of the tribunes and prefects the pair strolled, their feet squelching in the grass until they made it onto the sunken-timber walkways that criss-crossed the semi-permanent camp and prevented the main roads turning to a quagmire in the wet.

The decumanus led down to the east gate from here and, for want of anything better to do, the two men strolled on towards the defences, thinking to climb the ramparts and gain a good view of the low hills and wide plains of the Ambiani tribe stretching off towards the rising sun.

‘You heard the news as well, then?’

Fronto jumped at the sudden voice at his shoulder and turned to see Rufio and young Crassus falling into step behind them, the former rubbing his eyes sleepily and the latter still fastening the expensive belt around his middle and hoisting his knee-length tunic up, cinching it in place.

‘News?’

‘Just a night owl then,’ smiled Rufio. ‘Messenger at the gate.’

‘At this time of night?’ Fronto shook his head. ‘What is he: half-man, half-owl?’

‘Curious, eh? But then the Gauls all seem to work on a different schedule to the rest of the world.’

The four men strode down the road at a faster pace, converging on the gate, where a knot of officers stood, surrounded by legionaries and lit by the braziers of the watch. As they closed, Fronto noted a small group of natives at the centre, dismounted, their horses snorting and huffing in the cold air. There was something about the colours of their clothes - more russets and browns than the colourful blues and greens of the Gauls that suggested they were Belgae, from the east. It struck Fronto as interesting that he had spent long enough out here that could actually pick up on such details, even after a year away.

‘Sir!’ barked the duty centurion, snapping to attention and saluting the four approaching officers, though clearly uncertain as to whom to defer as the most senior. Fronto allowed the others to step ahead of him. Whatever position he might hold in the army right now, he was fairly sure that he could claim less seniority than any of these men, even the young relatively-untried Crassus.

Rufio, seeming to sense the need for a spokesman, stepped ahead and saluted the centurion in return. ‘Your runner said we had a messenger?’

‘Yessir. A scout party that’s been out in the forest of Arduenna. One of them’s wounded, so I sent for the capsarius from the Tenth. Should be here any moment.’

‘Wounded?’ Fronto queried, stepping in.

‘Yessir. Arrow in the back.’