Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (31 page)

* * * * *

Legionary Aurelius sighed with relief. Despite their position, far from the army and deep in Gallic lands, life had improved for him no end. For all Fronto’s warnings of what a place in this unit would mean, for Aurelius it meant no more digging latrines, raising earth ramparts or ‘soft duty’ - removing and cleaning the tribunes’ piss pots from their rooms. Even though he’d drawn one of the black stones and had to make do with finding a sleeping space in the hay loft of the stables, it was still a dozen steps above life in the old cohort.

Carefully, so as not to wake the rest of the slumbering soldiers, Aurelius descended the ladder from the loft, alighting in his bare feet. After all, he’d only be a few moments, and the ground was drier than it had been for months.

Taking a deep breath, he trotted out of the stable’s river-side door. The familiar shape of Drusus sat hunched against the wall, cloak wrapped around him for warmth in the chill of the night and fastened with the ‘naked girl clasp’ which had cost him a bundle a few years back. The heavier-set legionary nodded to him in recognition and Aurelius nodded back before wandering across to the river. Standing at the cobbled dock and grumbling about the ache of the lumpy uneven surface on his bare feet, Aurelius hoisted up his tunic and pulled aside his subligaculum, straining for a moment before a long arc of steaming urine jetted out into the wide, glass-dark river with a loud spatter.

Relief.

He watched the far bank, where only scrub bushes and occasional knots of trees punctuated the monotony of green slopes beneath the black-purple sky. From what they said about the great forest of Arduenna, on whose periphery they now waited, the chances of seeing such open spaces and such an expanse of sky again for some time were rather small. Some people said that the protector Goddess sealed off the sky with the boughs of her trees so that even birds could not enter or flee without her leave.

Turning, he smiled at Drusus, who was shuffling to achieve a more comfortable position under his cloak. Arduenna could go screw herself. No native witch was going to worry him. He took a step forward and something smacked into his forehead, obscuring his vision, scratching… fighting... blinding.

Aurelius felt a moment of true, earth-shaking panic as his vision was occluded by something black and flapping, pincer points digging into his scalp. He shrieked and threw his arms up in panic, simultaneously soiling his woollen undergarment.

The bat that had become tangled in his overlong locks managed to free itself and flit away into the night. Aurelius realised that he was shaking like a leaf and a steady, warm, unpleasant smell was rising from his nethers. Despite the explosion of raucous laughter that issued from Drusus where he sat on guard, Aurelius felt neither embarrassment nor anger.

He was too busy feeling bone-chilling fear.

Removing his underwear and flinging it into the water, aware of the trickle of blood running down from his scalp, he dipped into the river and began to wash his nethers with the ice cold water, all the while throwing up at the sky apologies to great Arduenna and her spirits. After all, if she could control bats, what was she truly capable of?

Chapter Ten

Samarobriva - Caesar’s camp

The days had passed for Priscus in an increasingly irritating haze. Already, mere days after Fronto and his party had left, the tribal leaders had begun to arrive at Samarobriva for the assembly, and the general had been largely closeted away on his own, leaving the ever-enthusiastic Marcus Antonius at something of a loss.

Antonius seemed to be one of those people who find it almost unbearable to pass the time on their own, and any moment in which he found himself at a loose end, he descended on one of the other officers to socialise. Fronto had been his companion of choice for much of his brief time in Gaul, but now - with Fronto gone - Priscus seemed to have been selected to fill the void.

Every night for the past four nights, Antonius had turned up at his door with an amphora of wine - often with some unintelligible - if shapely - local girl draped on his arm. Priscus had almost forgotten what it felt like to go to sleep sober and to spend a morning without a ‘seven horn’ hangover. In his more malicious moments, he wondered if this was what it had felt like to be Fronto.

Rubbing his pink eyes and wondering what fresh hell the day would provide, Priscus stepped out from his tent and spotted, with a sinking heart, Antonius striding towards him across the grass.

‘Ah shit.’

‘Gnaeus?’

‘Antonius. You seem agitated.’

And he did. Antonius was almost bouncing as he walked, and his face had creased into a frown of concern, lacking its usual mischievous humour.

‘The Aeduan chieftain has turned up, in a small party of warriors, alongside the Sequani and Lingones.’

‘That must be nearly the full complement, then,’ Priscus said in surprise. ‘No assembly’s ever been gathered so quickly. ‘Who are we missing?’

‘The Carnutes and the Senones, apparently,’ Antonius replied with a strange tone that Priscus couldn’t quite identify.

He frowned. ‘But the Carnutes and the Senones are two of the more local tribes - certainly a lot more local than the Sequani and the Aedui. They should have been among the first to arrive.’

Again: that look, as Antonius nodded.

‘The two wolves who won’t eat with the pack’.

‘What?’

‘Hercules speaks to me plainly on occasion. Suffice it to say, the Carnutes and the Senones won’t be attending. Nor the Treveri, Nervii, Eburones or Menapii, of course, but Caesar didn’t bother sending messengers there, given the situation.’

‘What has the general to say on the matter?’

‘I’m about to go see him. I thought you might like to accompany me.’

‘
Like
is a strong word,’ Priscus grumbled. ‘Come on, then.’

The two officers strode across the damp, dewy grass. While spring was officially upon the land, the weather Gods had apparently failed to notice and were gripping tight to winter, unwilling to see it leave. Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalrymen stood at attention by the tent, but did not deign to question the approach of two such senior officers. By the time Priscus and Antonius had reached the command tent, one of the guards had already ducked inside and announced them, returning to his place and holding aside the tent flap for them to enter.

‘Morning, Gaius,’ Antonius said conversationally as he stepped inside. Priscus had long-since become accustomed to the casual, familial relationship between the two men and simply saluted and waited to one side as Caesar acknowledged them with an idle wave of the hand without looking up from his work.

‘I think we have a problem with the assembly.’ Antonius scratched his chin.

The general paused in his scratching of marks onto his tablet and looked up. ‘Oh?’

‘The Senones and the Carnutes have not sent deputations.’

Caesar’s brow creased for a moment, but he shook his head. ‘Perhaps they are delayed. The experience of repeated councils at this time of year has allowed the tribes to send their ambassadors with unusual alacrity, yet we cannot expect every tribe to be so prompt. My couriers were fast, and the chieftains will have been awaiting the summons, but still, it is inclement and early. We have to allow a little leeway.’

Antonius shook his head. ‘They’re not coming, Caesar… trust me on that. You hold to your consultations of Venus and you know that I do so with Hercules. The great club-bearer himself tells me they are not coming.’

Caesar’s brow continued to lower. ‘What would you have me do, Antonius?’

Priscus cleared his throat with a quick glance at Antonius. ‘It might be prudent to bide our time and be certain, General. For all the wisdom of the Gods, I would prefer to trust the word of our scouts and the evidence of my own eyes. When your couriers return we will know for certain whether those tribes are refusing the summons.’

He held his breath. A delay in the council would buy Fronto a few extra days, and could make a great deal of difference to him. There was a leaden pause in the room. Antonius had agreed that they should do what they could to grant Fronto the space to work, but Priscus was coming to realise that the new senior officer was as unpredictable as he was cunning. He had back-flipped on more than one decision since Priscus had got to know him.

‘No.’ Caesar straightened and stretched. ‘The Carnutes have been troublesome before, which is why we garrisoned a legion on them last year. And the Senones are local enough that they should have been here by now if they had any intention of attending. Your demi-God is correct, Antonius. These two tribes have refused my summons. So the question now is what to do about it?’

‘I think the answer to that is fairly clear,’ Antonius replied with a firm, hard edge to his voice.

‘Dispatch the legions?’ Caesar enquired.

‘Send them against these two tribes. Do unto them what you did to the Nervii.’

Priscus narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Antonius. Was the man attempting to buy Fronto more time or simply moving to slake his thirst for battle? Such an action would certainly delay the council, but Fronto would hardly approve of the method. To utterly wipe out two tribes just to buy Fronto time was hardly appropriate.

The general frowned. ‘I do not like the idea of moving the entire army further west, while my main objective lies east.’

Priscus cleared his throat again. ‘And with respect, General, we do not have the details yet. It is somewhat premature to order the extermination of tribes without being fully aware of why we are doing so.’

Caesar nodded and Antonius cast a momentary irritated look at the prefect.

‘Very well…’ the general said, leaning on his desk. ‘There is a supply depot two days south of here at the Parisii capital: Lutetia. That’s on the border of both Carnute and Senone lands. I will move two legions there and reconvene the assembly. You,’ he pointed at Antonius, ‘will take three legions south immediately. Strip them of kit so that they can travel fast and move against these two tribes. Be quick and either bring them to the assembly or find out why they have not attended and chastise them appropriately. The rest of the army can stay here and wait for us to return.’

Antonius nodded his approval.

‘And you, Priscus… I shall put the camps in the hands of my lieutenants for the time being. You go with Antonius. He is new to Gaul, but you know the tribes and their ways well enough now. Antonius? You have a tendency to leap in with both feet before you test the water’s temperature. Priscus knows the Gauls. Listen to him, and if he advises you to do something, I strongly suggest you do it.’

The prefect saluted. He had attempted to slow things, but it seemed Caesar was set on putting things in order quickly before he moved on. At least with Priscus along for the ride and with Caesar’s given authority, he might be able to nudge Antonius’ hand and keep him on the right path. Caesar’s friend and senior officer gave Priscus a sour look and the prefect sighed. What Caesar saw as sensible advice, Antonius likely saw as emasculation.

Reaching out, Caesar drew his tablets and stylus across the table, ready to return to his work. He looked up at them briefly.

‘Are you still here? Go. You have your orders.’

Priscus and Antonius saluted and turned, striding from the tent. As soon as the flap had fallen back into place and they were past the protective cordon of Ingenuus’ guards, the younger - yet more senior - of the two men turned, grasping Priscus by the shoulder and jarring him to a halt.

‘What the fuck was that about?’

Priscus sighed.

‘What?’

‘You wanted to buy Fronto time. I bought him a whole damn campaign’s worth. Now we delay matters long enough to kick seven shades of shit out of the Carnutes and the Senones. Fronto will be grateful. And instead of giving me a hand, you start throwing around all this rubbish about waiting just in case and being sure they deserve a beating. I thought you were Fronto’s friend?’

The prefect bridled and turned, wrenching his shoulder from Antonius’ powerful grip.

‘The whole reason that Fronto is
doing this
is to prevent the unnecessary ravaging, enslaving and burning of whole tribes. We should be working on making allies and subjects out of them, not corpses and slaves. You really think the best way to aid Fronto is by further perpetrating exactly what he’s trying to stop? For the love of Mars, Antonius! What if the Senones and the Carnutes aren’t attending because they’re falling foul of other rebellious tribes? It’s happened before!’

‘Then we’ll find out while our nailed boots are poised over their throats,’ Antonius snapped. ‘Better to negotiate from a position of strength, I’d say.’

‘Well we’re set now’ Priscus sighed. ‘We lead three legions against them and deal with whatever we find. The big problem we have is timing. It would benefit Fronto if we took as long as possible in the task, but two things weigh against that.’

‘Caesar’s orders to move fast,’ agreed Antonius, nodding.

‘And the fact that, if these tribes
are
planning on rebelling, every extra day we give them allows them more time to prepare. Sadly for Fronto, I think we need to do as Caesar commanded and move as fast as possible.’

Antonius tapped his chin in thought. ‘We take the most veteran, trained and experienced legions. They’ll move faster and work better together.’

‘That would be the Seventh, Ninth and Tenth, I’d say,’ Priscus agreed. ‘The Eighth are as long-standing, but despite years under Plancus’ rotting command, the Seventh were posted in Carnute territory over winter, so they might be more use.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to pass the news to them. What’s our first move? You know these people, as Caesar says.’

‘The Senones, I’d say,’ Priscus replied. ‘They’re closer, smaller, and easily reached along the river valley. We move south. The nearest Senone oppidum of any size is Melodunon, but the bigger ones of Vellaunodunon and Agedincum are not far south of that. We take Melodunon and hopefully we’ll resolve what’s happening. If we need to move further, from there we can move to either of the larger settlements along the river, as the Sequana forks and each lies on one branch.’