Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (25 page)

‘And for which we need more men,’ Fronto noted. Even Caesar nodded at that.

‘The army will return to Samarobriva and wait for the arrival of the new legions,’ the general said finally and decisively. ‘Then we will have adequate forces to root out the Menapii and find the miserable little Eburone king. But I want the Nervii thoroughly downtrodden first. We have broken them, yes, but we broke them once before, and they simply rose whole again. This time I want them to be flattened and cowed and never able to rise beyond the ground. The army will divide: each legion - along with a quarter of the cavalry and adequate scouts - will take a different route back to Samarobriva, through Nervii land. Every Nervian settlement you find - regardless of size or importance - is to be enslaved, looted and burned. When we meet once more at our base of operations, I want to know that nine of every ten Nervians is face to face either with his Gods or with our slave traders.’

Fronto threw a meaningful glance at Antonius. After Avenna, he had spoken to Caesar’s friend about the concerns of the allied Gauls, and Antonius had wholeheartedly agreed with the problem, promising to speak to the general as soon as the opportunity arose.

Antonius took a moment to notice his look and then frowned in confusion. Fronto mouthed three words at him. ‘GAULS’… ‘BURNING’… ‘TROUBLE’.

Antonius shook his head dismissively, and Fronto ground his teeth for a moment and then took a deep breath.

‘General, if you continue to do unto the Belgae what Rome did to Carthage, you’re going to lose the support of the allied tribes. They grow restless.’

Caesar turned a cold look on him and Fronto rose to the bait, suddenly overwhelmed with the idiocy of his being here if he wasn’t to even be consulted or listened to, let alone given a command.

‘I
know
! You’re not happy with me. We
all
know it. It’s not a surprise to any man here, General, but the fact remains that whether you think you need me or not, you
do
need the allied tribes.’

‘Our forces still outnumber our enemies now, even without the allied tribes,’ Cicero said airily.

‘Not if you add those allied tribes to the enemy!’ Fronto snapped in reply. ‘Then it starts to look a little ropey, I think you’ll find. I only advocate a more restrained approach. As the medicus would say: ‘surgical’. You’d stand more chance of removing a gut worm with a knife than a mallet, if you get my drift.’

Antonius was glaring at Fronto, but Caesar simply narrowed his eyes.

‘I’d forgotten how outspoken and contrary you can be, Fronto, but you do have a point. Very well. You have proved yourself as resourceful as ever so far, so you find me a way to excise Ambiorix with a knife, and I will consider withdrawing the mallet. But if you cannot do so, I will continue with this course until either Ambiorix kneels before me or the entire northeast of this land is a smoking ruin.’

Fronto felt a small hard gem of hope somewhere deep inside. For the first time, Caesar had actually listened to him. Now he had to come up with some sort of plan, and a damn good one, if he was to halt this swathe of destruction sweeping across the Belgae.

‘Now attend your legions, gentlemen.’ The general straightened. ‘We march as soon as the slaves and booty are on the move. All proceeds when we return to Samarobriva will be divided as spoils among the men. Your legions will appreciate this, so bear it in mind as you pass like a cleansing fire through the Nervii. Every sestertius you tear from those benighted settlements will improve the mood and loyalty of your men. Now: off, gentlemen.’

As Caesar and the other officers dispersed, returning to the staff group or their individual forces, Antonius strode across to Fronto.

‘You have Gods’ awful timing, Marcus.’

‘You said you would speak to him!’ Fronto snapped in retort.

‘And I did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the best way to help the Condrusi of your scout friend is to remove the threat from their border. If we keep going as we are, whatever their dissenters think, we’ll have removed the Nervii from the map, and that will give the Condrusi some breathing room - a cowed Nervii to the north and a preoccupied Treveri to the south, courtesy of Labienus. And if Caesar moves on to the Menapii and then the remains of the Eburones, we’ll have freed the Condrusi from danger entirely. Then we could even smash the Treveri.’

‘You’re talking about genocide here, Antonius, and of more than one tribe.’ The smell of wine on the senior officer’s breath was strong, and possibly even the stench of Gallic beer? When had he found the time? They’d been marching all day and then fighting! Fronto was impressed in a slightly worried way, Even at the times when he was deepest in the arms of Bacchus, he couldn’t have found the opportunities Antonius did. Probably wouldn’t have been able to stand, either!

‘The genocide of more than one
enemy
tribe,’ corrected Antonius, showing no sign of inebriation, ‘freeing up room for our allies.’

‘And there’s no guarantee that Caesar burning every house in the north will get him Ambiorix. In fact it’s more likely to push him into hiding or across the river to the dubious, white, flabby bosom of the Germanic peoples.’

‘
Caesar
is the one who cares about Ambiorix, Fronto - not me.
My
job is to make this campaign a success for him, and crushing these rebellious Belgae is part of that. If you want to go rooting out his obsession like an ‘attack ferret’ that’s up to you, Fronto, but I’m going to keep this war on course.’

With a last defiant look, Antonius turned and stormed away after Caesar.

Fronto spotted Masgava and Palmatus with the rest of his men standing not far away, looking tense. Quickly, once more grateful that his knee was strong again and his marching speed better than he could remember, he strode across to them.

‘Alright you two. Start thinking of any way we can get to Ambiorix. I want to come up with a near-to-fool-proof plan before we reach Samarobriva so that I can present it to Caesar. If we want to stop Gaul burning, we need to think hard and fast.’

‘Already way ahead of you there, Fronto!’ Palmatus said, winking at Masgava.

‘Do tell.’

‘We’ve been thinking on something along those lines,’ Masgava admitted. ‘Sometimes a large force can be a handicap. After all, you wouldn’t send a bull down a hole to catch a rabbit, would you?’

‘I just got called an ‘attack ferret’ by Antonius. Be careful how you proceed with this conversation!’ Fronto warned with a dark look.

‘And when we get back to Samarobriva,’ Palmatus added, ‘you might note a Gallic theme to your singulares.’

Fronto frowned. He had an inkling what they were suggesting, and it was a thought that had been rattling round his subconscious too. ‘Let’s go see Galronus. If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, he could be of great help.’

Chapter Eight

‘What are you two looking at?’ Fronto asked wearily. He’d only been back in Samarobriva along with the rest of the army for a matter of hours, and everything seemed to be utter chaos. In Caesar’s absence, the three legions levied in Cisalpine Gaul had arrived - Pompey’s First, the reformed Fourteenth, and the new Fifteenth - and their commanders had already put their stamp on the quarters in the commander’s absence.

‘Shocking,’ Priscus shook his head. ‘No organisation. Look at the way they’ve pitched.’

Fronto shook his head. He could see nothing wrong, but Priscus’ term as camp prefect had given him an extra level of grumpy perfectionism that Fronto could hardly believe found room in the man’s head, given how it already overflowed with ire, irritability and gloomy pessimism.

‘Looks textbook legion procedure to me.’

‘For some situations, but we’ve learned over long years in Gaul to tailor the camp to current need. Regardless of tradition, we pitch the centurions’ tents uphill from the rest and the troublesome bastards at the bottom because it rains in Gaul every quarter of an hour and the rain should respect rank. And they’ve taken the tent space of the auxiliary cavalry, which might seem fine to good upstanding no-lip, fat-necked, dung-brained patricians, but might piss off the commanders of the only real cavalry we have. And they’ve dug their latrine by that copse of trees with the big ‘
menhir
’ stone in the middle. It doesn’t take more than a rudimentary thought process to recognise that as a native shrine. Gods, they have them in the south, in Roman land. When the princes and chieftains in the cavalry see that they’re going to drown a few gleaming, bronzed patricians in that trench!’

Fronto nodded in wonder. He’d missed all three issues and Priscus was absolutely right that they would cause trouble. ‘The new fellas can’t be expected to know these things, Gnaeus.’

‘There was a caretaker garrison here who should have made it clear. Do you see what happens to things when I’m not around to nail a few arses to walls?’

Galronus, next to the prefect, nodded wearily. ‘I’ll talk to the auxilia and try and keep tempers calm until you can sort it out with the general.’

‘Thank you. Fronto? You coming too?’

‘Actually, yes. I’m afraid it looks like I’ll be leaving things in your hands again, Gnaeus. Masgava and Palmatus have planted the seed of an idea in my head and I can’t help but see it growing big and producing a bountiful crop. I need to ask Caesar for a little independence.’

Priscus narrowed his eyes as they turned and made off towards the general’s tent. He was intrigued almost to bursting point, but he knew his old friend well and remained silent as they walked.

Fronto’s gaze played across the newly arrived legions and he frowned.

‘Why are they in white?’

Priscus shrugged. ‘That’s Pompey’s First. I asked Furius and Fabius about it. They said Pompey only paid to have the officers’ gear dyed red. That way he could spend the spare money on more useful things like armour.’

‘He may be a rabid shit-weasel, but he might be onto something there,’ Fronto acceded. ‘Eminently sensible idea. We ought to put it to Caesar.’

Priscus sighed and shook his head. ‘Tried that. Cita and I both spoke to him, but Caesar is adamant that he would rather pay the extra for madder to dye the whole army. He thinks red and silver is a statement that shouts ‘ROME’ at the enemy.’

‘Another good point. He might be right. Seems to me that that’s a pretty good assessment of the two men: Caesar believes that half the battle is image, and he thinks too deeply about everything. Pompey seems to be relaxed and even slightly slovenly, but underneath he has a Spartan warrior’s mind. They’re never going to agree on anything, Gnaeus. You know that? This war is a bloody Gods-send for Rome, ‘cause when it ends those two bastards are going to end up in Rome together, tearing each other to pieces.’

Priscus smiled at the thought. ‘Then we’ll just have to pray to Minerva that Crassus makes a swift job of the east and returns in triumph to keep the pair of them apart.’

‘Yes,’ Fronto agreed with ironic bile, ‘That’s just what the world needs: a bit more Crassus!’

The pair wandered on, heading for the command tent where Caesar would be busy… doing whatever it was the general did when he wasn’t shouting at officers. Aulus Ingenuus himself - commander of the general’s Praetorian guard - stood beside the tent’s entrance, berating an unfortunate soldier for a poorly-polished belt. The young officer’s three-fingered hand waved angrily at the soldier as he unloaded aggression upon him, and then turned as he watched the soldier’s expression shift, to see Fronto and Priscus.

‘Morning.’ The young man gestured to the tent doorway. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s in a worse mood than me.’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Nothing new there with me. And Priscus could out-spite a cat with an itchy arse. Think we’ll cope. How’s things?’

‘Dreadful. Since you seem to have acquired your own bodyguard, we’re getting scrutinised by every officer with a self-importance complex - which seems to be all of them. The general insists on us not only being good at our jobs but looking better than your lot - not that that takes a lot of work, with such a motley collection of homicidal lunatics!’

‘I love you too, Aulus. Can we go in?’

‘Go on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Fronto and Priscus stepped up and rapped on the wooden frame of the general’s tent door. There was a pregnant, heavy pause.

‘Get in here, Priscus!’ a voice barked from within. ‘I can hear you grumbling under your breath even through the tent.’

Fronto raised his eyebrows at Priscus. He had apparently been out of the general’s close council long enough that Priscus seemed to have acquired his former relationship. The prefect gestured for Fronto to go first, but the legate grinned and sketched an elaborate bow, gesturing for Priscus to lead.

The interior was dim, lit by the same guttering braziers that kept the room warm. Seats were folded against the outer edge, soaking up the wetness from the leather skin of the tent, awaiting the next staff meeting. In the meantime, Caesar had the centre clear - in front of his desk and chair and reams of maps and documents. Fronto smiled. The general always needed room to pace.

‘Oh Good,’ Caesar snapped, ‘you brought the prodigal too.’

Priscus sighed and saluted, standing at attention in the room’s centre. Fronto echoed the gesture half-heartedly. If Caesar was hardly bothering to register his presence, he felt unwilling to offer too much respect in return.

‘We need to do something about the new legions, General.’

Caesar pursed his lips angrily.

‘I intend to release them on the Menapii shortly. Is that enough for you, prefect?’

Priscus practically bristled, and Fronto was impressed at the level of equality that seemed to exist between the two men - a thing he had once had himself.

‘Not really, General, with respect. The new boys don’t know how things work here and the garrison we left didn’t explain things to them. They’ve annoyed all the native cavalry commanders. I’ve not had a chance to speak to the three legates in charge yet, but I can guess with some conviction that the garrison tried to direct them to our tried and tested systems and were entirely ignored. We get this with every officer new to Gaul. I need to invoke your authority in order to shift the pillocks and their badly-set camps and put everything right, before there are fistfights and even latrine murders between them all.’