Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (57 page)

And Priscus not being here still felt wrong, same as Velius. Carbo was an admirable man in the job, and clearly Atenos had fallen into place like the piece of a puzzle. They both fitted the Tenth seamlessly and the legion had moved on from the loss of their two senior centurions without issue, but not having Priscus around was like losing a limb. He’d known the man so long it was like losing family.

But of everything that had happened, and something that came as a surprise to Fronto, it was the strange hole left by the absence of Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth, that most affected him. By now the ageing officer would be sitting on the veranda of his villa at Massilia, sipping wine and watching the sparkle of the waves on the Mare Nostrum, but the gap he left was surprisingly large. The Eighth were currently without a legate, under Balventius’ able control.

Three years he’d known Balbus; only three years, but it felt like a lifetime. The man had become something of a father-figure in a peculiar way. He had looked after Fronto and reined him in when necessary, preventing the worst of his potential outbursts and joining him in revels and excitement when appropriate. He had been a central character in Fronto’s military life for those three years and…

It had come as something of a shock to Fronto to realise that he was now the oldest serving legate or senior officer in Caesar’s command. He still thought of himself as a young man… hell, only recently passed his fortieth year, so he was hardly a shrivelled old prune, but to be the second oldest officer in Gaul after the general himself was a sudden worry.

Perhaps the most pressing thing that continued to weigh him down was that, despite everything, he could have coped with all of these problems and issues if he only had the opportunity, but the general could not let him go until the Gauls were finally settled. And they just would not
stay
settled.

What
was
it with these people? It wasn’t that they were stupid or backward; Galronus and Atenos were Gaulish and they were among the most impressive and intelligent men Fronto knew. He’d met leaders, warriors, innkeepers and more in their three years in Gaul and they were intelligent, quiet, productive people. Why then could they not just accept that Rome was here to stay, reap the benefits of it and settle? Why the annual explosion of revolts and rebellions?

He gritted his teeth angrily and stabbed out at the man before him.

The enemy had thinned out while he had been lost deep in his own thoughts, stabbing and parrying automatically without the need to concentrate too hard. The warrior before him was fighting desperately, the look of violent triumph that had been evident at the start of the attack gone and replaced by a look of panicked failure.

Fronto allowed his eyes to flick up and past the man. The Gauls were fleeing back into the woods all along the line.

The man in front of him lurched backwards, Fronto’s latest blow cutting a jagged rent along his ribs. Somewhere behind Fronto, a centurion yelled out “Melee!” and the line broke, soldiers bellowing and racing off after the fleeing Gauls, trying to kill or capture as many as possible before they melted into the trees and were gone.

The man before Fronto, his eyes wide and fearful, threw his arms up, allowing his sword to fall to the ground. He jabbered something unintelligible, but Fronto snarled.

“Why can’t you lot just bloody accept it?”

The Gaul frowned in incomprehension and Fronto threw down his sword, the blade landing point first and jamming into the turf. Without taking his eyes from the Gaul, the legate let his shield fall away and unfastened his helmet strap, pushing the brim so that it toppled to the ground and rolled away.

“Independent Gaul is gone… don’t you understand?”

The Gaul shook his head and emphasised his surrender with his hands.

“It’s
no good
just giving up and surrendering yourself, though, is it?”

The Gaul stared, unable to follow the words of this mad Roman.

Fronto cracked the knuckles of his right hand.

“Because when you
do
surrender, we smile and help you rebuild. We send you engineers and grain and we trade and buy your goods, but then as soon as the legion moves on, you just up and revolt and kill hostages and kill each other and shout for the Germans to come over and help you. But there
is
no helping you because you just don’t
want to be helped
!”

Snarling again, Fronto threw a punch at the man’s face so hard that he felt his little finger break as it connected with the jaw. The man hurtled backwards and crashed to the ground, desperately trying to scramble away, but Fronto was already stamping toward him, rubbing his hand, his face red and angry.

“Everything is falling apart here and at home but I don’t have time to try and hold it together or pick up the pieces because you lot can’t just keep yourselves civilised and out of trouble for ten damn minutes!”

The man pulled himself up to an almost seated position, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and Fronto roared, a noise filled with rage, impotence and frustration. His second blow caught the man on the cheek and sent him sprawling on his side.

“I could be going home to help my family, or to check on Balbus and see if he’s even still alive. I could be finding Paetus and trying to console him for what they did to him! I could be doing any bloody thing but stamping around Gaul continually putting out the little fires of rebellion!”

The Gaul had the good sense to stay down, cowering, and Fronto drew back his leg for a brutal kick to the man’s side, but suddenly found that hands were wrapping themselves around his arms and gently hauling him back. His head spun from side to side, but all he could see of the two men that were restraining him was the red tunic of legionaries.

It took him a moment to remember that he was dressed only in his nondescript crimson tunic and breeches, with no armour or emblem that could possibly denote his rank and, moreover, he was surrounded mostly by men of the Fourteenth who had little call to recognise him.

He shook his head.

Dishonour the uniform? The very thought of that stopped him in his tracks and he went limp.

The men beside him loosened their grip on his arms as a third legionary helped the fallen enemy to his feet, accepting his surrender. Fronto turned to the men slowly.

“I’m not really sure what just happened.”

He looked up into the faces of two soldiers. Both were clearly of Gallic stock, their hair still braided and moustaches and beards still adorning their faces. Fronto was suddenly acutely aware that his recent outburst had been largely anti-Gallic and likely right in front of these men. The taller man wore the crest and harness of a centurion.

“You snapped” the centurion said. “Happens to the best of us. Pressure gets too much and you snap. But the important thing is to not snap in the middle of a battle. You could have got yourself carved up badly there.”

“Cantorix” said the centurion and gestured to his companion with a turned thumb. “Centurion of the Third cohort’s Third century. And this is Dannos. He’s part weasel himself, though for Gods’ sake don’t let him tell you which part, ‘cause that’s a conversation you just don’t want to have!”

Fronto laughed and stretched.

“You’re not one of mine” the centurion said, looking him up and down. “One of the Tenth? You must be due your honesta missio, yes? Ready for retirement.”

“No man’s
that
useful. Run along, lad.”

Fronto threw a full salute to the centurion and, turning professionally on his heel, jogged back across the grass. All along the forest’s edge the action had ended, the battle clearly over. The survivors had fled into the forest and the legions were calling their men to muster. All around him, small pockets of two or three legionaries wearily dragged their feet back to their units.

Not Fronto.

For some reason he felt almost impossibly good. There was a spring in his step that he just couldn’t subdue and he couldn’t stop smiling. He might have to look up centurion Cantorix of the Fourteenth and buy him a drink some time soon.
That
would shake the bugger, when he turned up at the centurion’s tent in full dress! He grinned and, casting his eyes around, spotted Carbo and Atenos following a detachment of the Tenth back toward the camping site.

“I expect he was helping an injured man, Carbo. He would never have deliberately launched himself unarmoured into a fight, ‘specially after you warning him not to. After all, that’d be stupid. No, I’m sure there’s some sensible explanation.”

Chapter 19

(September: Caesar’s camp, in Menapii territory.)

Fronto rapped quickly on the frame next to the tent’s door and, lifting the flap aside, strode in without ceremony. The general looked up from his desk, where he was making marks on a number of wax tablets.

“Not at all. In fact, Brutus was right: you actually appear almost
content
. It is very disconcerting, particularly after weeks of moping and stomping around.”

“I hope you’re right. I really do hope you are right. I need to return to Rome as much as you do, Marcus, and I need a settled Gaul before I do.”

Fronto shrugged.

“It’s been a week without more than the occasional gnat bite from these tribes. They’ve retreated so deep in the forests it’s pretty clear they have no wish to fight us. Perhaps it’s time we tried to bring things to a conclusion? Perhaps force the issue so that they might accept terms?”

Caesar nodded.

“I had been considering the possibility. Slaves and an example made are good things, but at this point expediency may call for a temperate response to the situation. The deforestation seems to be proceeding apace. I can barely see as far as the tree line now.”

“Yes, we’ve taken the forest back well over a mile now. But to keep doing so will take so long it’ll be winter before we leave here. We need to do something now to try and bring things to a satisfactory end.”

Caesar frowned. There was a sparkle in Fronto’s eyes that he recognised.

“What are you planning, Marcus? I know that look: you have an idea.”

“I was talking to the scouts on the way over here. The latest searches along the forest paths have become a little more revealing.”

“Go on…”

“Yesterday they found a clearing only a half mile from the current forest edge. It had clearly held wagons in large numbers until recently.”

“And that means that the enemy’s supplies, their entire wagon train, is closer to us than it really should be. It can’t be far inside the forest. I suspect that, while the tribes can easily move deeper and deeper into the woods, they have left the area where their trails and tracks are and moved into inhospitable terrain. They’ll be having to hack and clear a path for their wagons as they move and it’ll be slowing the whole process down. Their wagon train is exposed, general.”