THE INVASION OF GAUL (2 page)

Still, sometimes a sweeping generalisation made things easier. And no true Roman could think of the Gauls without a thread of bitterness weaving into his heart. Even the two and a half centuries that had passed since those barbarians had broken the walls of Rome and desecrated the holy places had not dampened the ardour of many a Roman nobleman. Fronto had a suspicion. He would not dare voice it yet, but the nagging feeling remained that the General planned to take the legions into Gaul and, despite the worries and implications of such an act, he could not ignore the quickening of his pulse when he thought of Romans wreaking long awaited vengeance on these uncivilised brutes. These days people said that the Gauls were a different people; that they had a culture. To Fronto, they were just another enemy; to Caesar, a stepping stone.

His mind wandering from subject to subject, deep in concentration, Fronto realised with a sudden jolt that he had walked far past the officers’ quarters and almost to the edge of the camp. There were very few soldiers outside at this time, and most of those were going about their various night time duties. None of them, of course, caught the eye of the senior officer walking in their midst. Fronto looked up at the moon. Late. Very late. By rights he should be abed now like the rest of the officers and yet sleep was far off. Reasoning that lying staring at the roof of the tent was unlikely to help him pass into the arms of Morpheus, Fronto reached out and grasped a passing legionary by the arm. The startled boy, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, stammered a respectful greeting that the officer waved casually aside.

“
Is there anywhere open in the town that serves a reasonable wine at this time?”

The young soldier’s brow creased. “I believe there’s an inn down near the river sir, which stays open almost ‘til dawn.” He suddenly pulled himself to a semblance of attention. “Not that I’ve been in such a place of course, sir.”

Fronto smiled. “Relax, lad. I’m not looking for infractions of the rules, just a drink.” He patted the boy on the shoulder and flipped a small coin into his hand. “Next time you get there, have a drink on me. I have a feeling you won’t be seeing the place for much longer.”

He walked off in the direction of the west gate, leaving the puzzled-looking soldier standing in the street, staring at the coin in his hand.

Passing through the gate with only a brief question from the duty centurion, Fronto left the camp and started down the hill toward Cremona and its warm and friendly drinking establishments. There were few locals around at this time, and those that he encountered were generally drunk and semi-conscious. He made his way down to the river, his mind once more on the great General he had left a mere quarter of an hour ago.

Caesar was a man who had been acclaimed as a hero and an advocate of Roman expansion for his deeds in Spain. Indeed, to the General himself none of the officers would say differently. Many personal journals, however, would give another impression. Those who had had the dubious honour of accompanying the General on his rise through the cursus honorum could see a side of the great man that the public would never learn of. The man was a genius; of that there could be no doubt. A modern-day Scipio, or Gracchus, matched today only by the great Pompey or Crassus. He had come from a noble family, though not a particularly wealthy one, and had risen rapidly through the shrewd borrowing of money and the clever manipulation of the general mass at Rome. In this Fronto could see unlimited ambition; had seen it time and time again in the General’s plans and actions. It was largely this ambition, smouldering scarcely concealed beneath the surface that led Fronto to suspect what was coming. Like a number of the other officers in Caesar’s command, Fronto had served with the General in Spain, on the campaign that had given Caesar a piece in the great game, and yet put him in extreme danger of prosecution for war crimes. There was no doubt in his mind that Caesar’s campaigns could be a path to glory, but they could also be a path to damnation.

Fronto turned a corner and saw a sign for a tavern. Here in Cisalpine Gaul, the influence of Roman civilisation had all but wiped the Gaulish culture from the land, and the street and tavern could easily have been on the outskirts of Misenum or Puteoli, his home town. After three days of almost constant rain, one could only wade through these badly paved streets and, as Fronto reached the front door, under the swinging, rusty sign, he took advantage of the boot scraper by the door, leaving large clods of earth. The inside, lit only by three small oil lamps, was dingy and only four men sat around the room, sipping wine or swigging beer. Fronto ordered a good wine and took a seat in a dark corner. His thoughts turned once more to the people known as the Gauls. It was a misnomer really. The innkeeper who had served Fronto’s drink was
theoretically
a Gaul, though Fronto could hardly compare this Latinised man with his slight Etrurian accent to the Gauls that had broken Rome so long ago. Nor, for that matter, with the feared Belgae or Helvetii, hardened by centuries of war amongst themselves and against the Germans across the Rhine.

Still, the Helvetii would be the ones to watch. Not only were they just over the border from here, but there had been rumours emanating from their territory for a long time now. Roman merchants had made a killing there, buying up food stocks and carts and pack animals and all manner of other goods. Each officer had his own opinion on the activities of the Helvetii, ranging from an expansion into Sequani territory, to crossing the Rhine and claiming land in Germany, to invading Gaul. There was no doubt that the Helvetii loved to make war, and the only question really was against whom. One thing that all were sure of was that the Helvetii, warlike as they were, would never consider attacking the might of Rome. And yet two things nagged at Fronto. First was Caesar’s sudden fascination with further Gaul and its tribes, and the other was a conversation he had had yesterday with a local merchant. The man, from whom many of the officers had been purchasing items for months, had been packing all his worldly goods onto a cart when Fronto came across him. Upon being asked why, the man had replied “Have you never seen the birds fleeing the forest when a predator enters?” and had refused to be pressed further.

Matters to think on; Fronto pondered as he drained the glass. He purchased another at the bar and then returned to his dingy table. The General was renowned for his ability to think problems through obliquely. Was it possible that the General had already taken stock of what had happened and used it to create a hypothesis of events in the near future? Did Caesar actually think that the Helvetii would invade Roman territory? Were it from anyone else Fronto would have laughed off such an idea, but from the General? Fronto had played the man at Latrunculi several times and considered it a personal mark of glory that he had once won a game. Fronto was at least as well versed in the rules of the game as any other well-bred Roman, and better than most, but Caesar was another matter entirely. He had a disturbingly clever habit of having calculated every possible combination of moves at least seven turns ahead. It was this gift for strategy that made Caesar as dangerous in the field as he was on the board.

In response to his unsettled feeling, Fronto had put his command, the Tenth, on a state of alert within moments of Caesar’s arrival at the camp. There had been plenty of complaints from the senior centurions of course, but Fronto had silenced them with a look. He had commanded legions before, under this General and others. The senior men of the Tenth knew that; they also knew that something was in the wind. Fronto also had a habit of being prepared.

He sighed and wondered whether he would be a legionary officer all his life. He had served in a number of theatres and commanded a number of legions as and when he had been required. Commanding a legion had always been a temporary post at the whim of the army’s General, and in those days Fronto had been keen and continually seeking a new challenge. Caesar had broken tradition in many ways, including his tendency to leave an officer in command of a legion for long periods. Thus in Spain, Fronto had commanded the Ninth for a considerable time, becoming very familiar with its officers and their quirks. In fact long-term command had permanently changed Fronto’s views and attitudes toward the military, and he could see the benefit of building a rapport with a legion.

His command in Spain had perhaps tied him a little too closely to Caesar and he had narrowly escaped prosecution along with the General, after which he had tried to dabble in political circles at Rome as the cursus honorum demanded. A dull and incomprehensible two years in Rome had given Fronto enough of a taste of Rome’s political life to know that his place was in the field, and he had applied to the Senate once more for a command. For over a year he served in various locations, never tied to a unit for more than a month, his reputation constantly growing, until he heard of his old patron’s appointment as governor of Illyricum and Cisalpine Gaul. Sure of his path, he had visited Caesar and asked the General if there was a place in Gaul for him. Caesar had smiled and, without hesitation, sent him to Aquileia to command the Tenth, whose current commander was returning to Rome.

He was fated to the soldier’s life. He would never sit in the Senate; he may never make a Provincial Governor, and he was resigned to that. Only two things still ate away at him late at night. Firstly there were the young, go-getting officers, just starting off on the cursus honorum, who could not comprehend why a man would backtrack down the rungs of the ladder. Fronto suspected that they laughed about him behind his back. The other was, of course, his family. Neither his mother nor his sister had ever forgiven him for his abortive political career, when he had been expected to make Senator at least. He knew he was bright enough, as did the womenfolk, but he preferred the clear-cut blacks and whites of military command to the soul-destroying greys of politics. Throwing back the last of his second unwatered cup faster than he probably should, Fronto stood, thanked the barman, and made his way out of the tavern.

The streets of the town were muddy, dark and deserted, and Fronto carefully picked his way through the murky alleys until he came out near the bridge. So deep in thought was he that he almost knocked down the figure entering the alley as he left it. Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus, the Tenth’s leading centurion, staggered against the wall, righted himself quickly and saluted Fronto. The officer waved the salute aside and growled, covering his own embarrassment.

“
Priscus, what the hell are you doing sneaking around down here at this time of night? Haven’t you got duties in camp?” He grasped the centurion by the shoulder fastenings of his mail shirt and turned him around, walking him out of the alley.

Priscus looked momentarily taken aback and for a second a fleeting and knowing smile crossed his face before professionalism took over. “Sir. I was, in fact, looking for you. One of the gate guards told me you had come down here. We intercepted a messenger coming to the camp. I thought you would want to know before word reached the other officers.”

“
A messenger?” Visions of Gaulish hordes sweeping south across the Empire’s borders ran unbidden through his mind. “A messenger from whom?”

Priscus stumbled on the dark road; looked up in time to see that they were emerging into the faint circle of light cast by the torches on the camp’s walls.

“
One of our friendly merchants, up on the frontier, near the Helvetii. It seems big things are happening over the border. His message was for the officer commanding, but I got a few hints. There’s been some kind of failed coup in the tribe’s leadership.” Priscus held up his hand and signalled to the guards, who swung open the great wooden gates to allow them entry.

Fronto smiled. “You did well, Gnaeus; very well. Caesar will almost certainly call another staff meeting, and it stands the Tenth in good stead if we appear to be well prepared. Get back to the others and call up all the officers of the Tenth. As soon as I’ve seen the General, I’ll want to call a private meeting.”

Priscus saluted again and turned as they reached the gate, giving the agreed password to the guards. As the gates swung shut and the centurion made for the Tenth, Fronto called out after him “Oh and Gnaeus, get some of the good wine out of storage. This might be a long meeting and a long night.” Priscus grinned and set off at a jog.

Fronto made his way through to the commanders’ tents and, reaching his own, examined himself in the large bronze mirror he had recently purchased from a vendor in the village. Generally presentable, though with muddy boots and some very serious-smelling horse dung on the hem of his red cloak. He looked around the tent for his spare boots and laid eyes on them where he had left them beneath his small table. Muddy, but better and, with a bit of hasty rubbing, the dried mud would come off. The sounds of activity outside heralded the fact that the news had reached the General. Fronto hastily cleared off the worst of his boots and contemplated what to do about the cloak. He couldn’t present himself to the general smelling like a livery stable. In a rush now, he opened his travel chest and retrieved a crimson cloak from inside, neatly folded the way only his sister could have done. How long had it been since he had worn it? So few occasions to dress up these days. Needless to say, some of the others would take every opportunity to rib him about this over the next few days, but the smell of horse shit would be a stronger fuel for their jibes.

Moments later a breathless messenger reached his tent and knocked on the wooden post at the door. “Sir, the General…”

Before he could finish the summons, Fronto was out of his quarters in full dress and marching toward the command tent. Over his shoulder he called back “Yes soldier, I know.”