Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (60 page)

“People think Fronto is simple and straightforward, but the longer I know him, the more I come to realise that you just cannot predict what he will do next. He is
not
a simple man.”

The centurion was about to reply when the tent flap was thrown back and the Tenth’s legate strode in and collapsed onto his cot, immediately beginning to unlace his boots.

As he took off the first boot and rubbed his foot, Crispus poured him a drink and, leaning over, placed it on the chest next to the cot. Brutus frowned.

“What did he say, then? You’ve been hours.”

“He took some convincing at first, but he was surprisingly open to the possibilities. He’s as eager to finish this and go home as most of us, and I think he’s almost at the point where he’d pay a lot of good money just to keep this land calm. We’ll be staying here for the next week or so, pending the next move of the Morini and Menapii. If they show up in peace at the edge of the forest anywhere along the line, Caesar’s given the order that they should be allowed to pass and return to their lands. The scouts report that they’ve located the other century of men, about three miles north of where they should have been. I’d have a go at them, but to be honest I’m just too tired and relieved that it seems to be over.”

He let his second boot drop and gave that foot a quick rub before reaching for the goblet, draining it in one large mouthful and pushing it back meaningfully toward Crispus.

“So we should be going home in a week or two then?”

Fronto nodded.

“If all is well, we should, yes. I can’t see these lot causing any more trouble. We’ve battered them a bit and hopefully made them see the futility of it all. When we head south, we’ll have to stop in at Nemetocenna and make sure Labienus is aware of the situation, so that he can keep an eye on them, but the man is a born diplomat. The Belgae are rapidly becoming allies largely because of the way he’s treating them.”

“They’ll be posted somewhere in the north. Probably not around here though, or it would work against our potential peaceful relations. Maybe back towards Armorica, or towards the Rhine.”

“Not you, I fear. You still have a fleet to attend to. Caesar was talking about them, wondering whether to leave them anchored in the west, or bring them up to the north coast, or even take them back to the Mare Nostrum. You could have the fun of leading them through the pillars of Hercules!”

“I, on the other hand, along probably with the general and any senior officers returning to Rome by land, will head for Massilia and check in on Balbus. I can’t wait to see the old sod again and make sure he’s alright.”

Carbo shook his head sadly.

“It’s been a very long time since I saw Rome.”

“You must be due leave?” Fronto frowned. “I could always arrange it for you? Your second can keep the legion in order while you’re away.”

The primus pilus laughed.

“It would be nice, but not right now. When the campaign’s definitely over and the legions are pulled south I’ll take the time. For now I need to stay with the Tenth.”

Fronto smiled.

“Ever the professional.”

“
One
of us has to be!” Carbo grinned.

Crispus leaned back and sighed.

“Do you think that’s it? Is Gaul finally pacified?”

“For now” Fronto replied with a shrug. “We can just hope it stays this way. Rome could do with these people, you know? I’ve watched the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions, with all their Gaulish legionaries, and Galronus’ cavalry, and they bring a certain something to the army that it was lacking. I don’t know what you’d call it? Inventiveness? Freshness? Spirit? I don’t know, but whatever it is, we needed it.”

Brutus nodded and raised his cup.

“To Gaul and Rome… to
Roman Gaul
.”

Chapter 20

(October: the hills above Massilia.)

Fronto reined in and took a deep breath, half in relief and half in nervous anticipation. He almost jumped in the saddle as the general’s hand fell gently on his shoulder.

“You go on first, Fronto. I doubt it would be conducive to good health to have the entire sweaty, travel-worn officer corps follow you in. We will stay here and break our fast until you are ready for company.”

Fronto looked around into the general’s serious, sympathetic gaze and nodded quietly. He wasn’t at all sure about this, now. It had been months since Balbus had left the army and been taken south, pale and gaunt.

After Fronto’s escapade in the Belgic forests, the northeast had settled remarkably swiftly. From the rumours he had heard that next week in camp, the Menapii and Morini had returned to their lands in triumph, considering their resistance a success and claiming to have held off the might of Rome, yet they had notably resumed their peaceful life and trade with the garrison at Nemetocenna while conveniently forgetting about the large Roman army camped in the centre of their territory. Caesar had been irritated by the locals’ attitude, but had been relieved enough that the last resistance in Gaul had finally settled that he had overlooked the situation and allowed them to claim their petty victory, while he prepared to end the season’s campaign.

Early the next week, the army had been sent along the coast to winter there under the steady and stable command of Sabinus, while many of the senior officers prepared to travel back to Rome or to their estates in Cisalpine Gaul, Illyricum or Italy.

The two week journey across the length of Gaul had been swift and purposeful, every member of the group itching to return to their homes, supported by Caesar’s cavalry guard under Aulus Ingenuus, while the baggage train trundled along many days behind under heavy guard. All the way, Fronto had been almost twitching with the need to see his old friend and confirm for himself that everything was truly alright and yet now, as he sat ahorse on the hill above Balbus’ rural villa, the churning waters of the Mare Nostrum and the hectic bustle of Massilia below and beyond, he finally had pause to worry.

Had Balbus even made it back here? There had been no word; the aging legate would not have sent couriers to Caesar anyway, given the likelihood the entire army would have moved on long before then. What if he had reached this place and then the final boatman had come for him before Fronto arrived? If he was in fine health, would he even be pleased to see Fronto?

The legate shifted uneasily in his saddle and became aware that the gathered officers of Caesar’s army, particularly the longer-serving ones, were watching him intently.

“Best go, then” he said, his voice cracking slightly, and he kicked his horse into life and walked Bucephalus slowly down toward the villa.

The outbuildings were quiet, the orchards heavy and laden with unharvested fruit, the grass long and wild, causing a nervous lump to appear in Fronto’s throat as he rode past them and toward the main house. It would have been easiest to approach through the orchard at the rear of the house, but certain proprieties had to be maintained.

The front of the villa was exactly as Fronto remembered from their brief stop on the way to Gaul. The roses that had been lovingly grown and carefully trained grew up the white walls, reaching toward the red tiled roof and providing just the right splash of colour to make the place look truly homely. No group waited at the gate to speak to him this time.

Fronto took a deep breath as he rode to the front gate and dismounted slowly and nervously. There was no movement in the doorway or the few external windows as he tied the reins to the post and walked quietly down the path.

The door stood firmly shut and again Fronto hesitated as he reached it. Biting the inside of his cheek, he reached out finally and gave three sharp raps on the wood. There was silence and his heart rose into his mouth as he stood in the sweet-smelling garden watching for any movement out of the corner of his eye.

He actually jumped a little when there was a heavy metallic click and the door swung inwards. A house slave, thin and tall and likely as old as his master looked Fronto up and down and gave a curt bow. The legate faltered again. The man bore such a serious expression.

“Marcus Falerius Fronto to see your master” he finally said and hoped he’d managed to keep the rising worry out of his voice.

The man gave him a sad look and then stepped to one side.

“If you would care to follow me, sir, I shall lead you to the summer triclinium. The sunlight this time of year brings the room to life.”

Again, the legate faltered as he followed the slave into the house.

“Master Fronto?”

He stopped, his brow raised in surprise as he turned to look down the corridor to the peristyle garden and its covered walkway. Balbina, the household’s youngest daughter, had stopped as she appeared in the corridor from a side room and was staring at him, the glass of water in her hand suddenly forgotten.

Fronto smiled and the slave came to a halt as he waited patiently. The sight of the young lady was a welcome one; a sign that something of ordinary life went on in the house.

“Everything was so quiet… I thought…” he shook his head. “Where
is
your father?”

“Pardon, my lady, but I thought to escort legate Fronto to the
summer triclinium
before I fetched your father?”

Fronto narrowed his eyes at the stressed words, but spun back to Balbina as she replied with a smile “Ah, yes the summer triclinium. A perfect idea. Keep him company Caro, while I fetch father.”

Fronto straightened, his frown still deep as the young lady danced off down the corridor whence she had come. Turning his suspicious frown on the slave, he nodded.

“Lead on, then, Caro.”

What the slave had said about the summer triclinium had been an understatement. The arcade of windows that looked out into the central garden gave a stunning view of the apple, orange and lemon trees outside in their varying stages of ripeness, but the real effect was that caused by the golden sun lighting the red tiles of the veranda opposite and its columns of yellow African marble and the reflected glow this brought to the room.

It was a beautiful sight, and yet Fronto found his attention drawn more to the figure lounging on one of the couches by a low table laden with fruit.

“Lucilia?”

The knowing looks on the faces of slave and young girl alike suddenly fell into place as Balbus’ older daughter looked up, her eyelashes fluttering masterfully, her fingers teasing the bunch of grapes. Fronto suddenly felt warm and extremely uncomfortable.

“Thank you Caro. I shall entertain our guest until father returns.”

Fronto’s mind ran through a number of reasons to protest, but failed to find his voice before the slave had bowed and retreated from the room.

“I tire of fruit and fields, to be honest” she said, her face slightly lowered in such a careful way as to accentuate her piercing blue eyes with their kohl-blackened lining. Fronto swallowed.

“Yes… well, I’m a city man myself. Pavement and… and so on” he finished weakly. He was finding it extremely hard not to focus on her low neckline with the way the golden glow from the window seemed to focus there.

Lucilia laughed again.

“Father will be very pleased to see you. I’m sure he’s rushing through the villa as we speak at a break-neck speed somewhat detrimental to his health.”