Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (18 page)

Gazing past the cordon of guards, he could see that there were four riders, but one of them was being held upright by two legionaries, clearly in agony and pale as a moonlight ghost.

‘What happened to you?’ Rufio asked of the native scouts. One of the three unwounded men stepped forward and nodded his head in deference.

‘Nervii patrol in Viromandui land. Chase us for many mile. Ategnio lose much blood. Need get to healer.’

‘The healer is on his way,’ Rufio said as comfortingly as he could and then turned to Fronto. ‘Nervii and Viromandui?’

‘The Nervii are one of the biggest Belgic tribes in the north. Caused us a lot of bother in their time. And the Viromandui are smaller, on their border. Sort of under the Nervii. Their land’s maybe forty or fifty miles from here, as the bird flies.’

‘Looks like they might be causing us more trouble, then, unless this was an unrelated and accidental incident.’

‘No attack by the Belgae is accidental,’ Fronto sighed. He turned to the scout. ‘What news do you carry?’

‘Caesar’s enemy,’ the man said slowly. ‘Nobles meet at Aduatuca one week go. Ambiorix with them.’

‘And who else?’ Varus asked quietly. ‘I’m guessing the Nervii?’

The scout nodded. ‘Nervii. And Menapii. And Treveri.’

Fronto whistled, mentally picturing the map of the Belgae lands in the general’s tent. Between those three tribes - and the Eburones of whom Ambiorix was still a King, at least in theory - they constituted most of the northeast, from the great cold sea in the north to the foothills of the Alpes in the south and along the entire western bank of the Rhenus.

‘That’s a big coalition. Caesar might have been right in planning to move before spring. Clearly Ambiorix has.’ He turned to the others. ‘Best get the word to the legion commanders, as the general’s going to want to move as soon as he’s held his briefing.’

‘Is it not a little previous to pass word to the men before it is given to us?’ Rufio asked, his brow furrowing.

‘When you’ve known Caesar for a while, you’ll realise it’s worth getting a couple of steps ahead, ‘cause he hates being made to wait when he’s itching to move. Warn the officers. Trust me.’

Crassus nodded his understanding and cleared his throat. ‘Where will we move, do you think?’

All three men seemed to be looking to Fronto for answers, despite his current uncertainty of rank or position. He shrugged. ‘The Treveri are bogged down with Labienus and won’t move anywhere with him on their flank. The Menapii are way up north in the swamps of the delta. And Caesar already avowed his intention to chisel away at the edge of Ambiorix’s power. So I would wager my money on a march into Nervii lands.’

Varus nodded. ‘And they’re closest. We can be in their lands inside two days at a forced march. Caesar can take the poor bastards by surprise.’

‘Then let’s get back up the hill. Antonius will want to know about this before he gets dragged in front of Caesar with the rest of us.’

* * * * *

The sudden order to march came as no surprise to Fronto, or to any of those used to Caesar’s decisiveness when it came to campaigning. Barely had the capsarius reached the wounded Gaul before the rest of the scouts were escorted to Caesar’s headquarters and debriefed. An hour later, when the first chirps of the dawn chorus issued from the trees and faint tendrils of orange crept through the clouds to the east, Caesar had called his staff meeting and given the entirely predictable order to break camp and march for the lands of the Nervii. Four legions had departed - the Tenth under Crassus, the Ninth under Trebonius, the Eighth under Fabius and the Eleventh under Cicero, and many of the staff had come along too, leaving only a small garrison at Samarobriva. By the time any man in his right mind would be having his ‘morning movement’ and contemplating breaking his fast, the legions were already a mile from the camp and marching east-by-northeast along the shallow river valley.

Fronto had felt appropriately ill all day, half-dead on his feet with fatigue, regretting his timing of the previous night’s activity - or rather that of the ever-vigorous Antonius. He had ridden Bucephalus as though every hoof-step that touched the ground might make him hurl, and had not been able to look at food whenever it was offered throughout the journey. The only consolation was that Varus and Brutus appeared to be feeling similarly unwell. Priscus seemed his usual dour and irascible self, though he was reasonably rested but for a kink in his neck from the way he had slept.

The irritating thing, of course, was the fact that with no sleep at all - and having consumed more wine than even an elephant should be able to comfortably stand - Marcus Antonius rode gaily along beside the general discussing this and that as though he had gone for an early night with a glass of warm mulsum. Damn the man.

If he wasn’t so bloody likeable!

Fronto had ridden in silence all day, alone with his discomfort and at the rear of the staff, away from anyone he really knew who might try to engage him in conversation, and it had been with an immense sense of relief that Fronto had watched Caesar hold up his hand to halt the column at the position the advanced scouts and engineers had selected as the site for the night’s encampment.

While the legions, under the watchful eyes of their centurions and optios, had broken up into work parties, digging ditches and raising ramparts, excavating numerous deep latrine trenches at the edge that was currently downwind, gathering water from the river nearby, raising tents and lighting cooking fires, setting the watch, assigning pickets, and the myriad other tasks required and allocated by Priscus as camp prefect, the staff and the four legates had gathered on a low hill nearby to discuss the next stage of the march and to await their accommodation’s raising and furnishing - one of the first tasks of the workers.

The scouts had confirmed that the next day would bring them through Viromandui lands and into the territory of the Nervii. The former, smaller, tribe had no links to the latter’s treachery as far as the native levy were aware and had been nothing but obsequious and accommodating as the army had passed through. Things might change in Nervii lands, though.

‘From the morning, we slow the march a little, with cavalry scouting in a wide arc ahead and beside us,’ Caesar announced. ‘I want no chance of us blundering into a trap and we have no idea how long the Nervii have been plotting with our enemies. With the blessing of Fortuna we will have taken them by surprise and they will be totally unaware of our approach and thoroughly unprepared, but I will not rely upon the fact. When we move, the Eighth will play rear-guard, behind the baggage train. The Ninth will take the lead, and the Tenth and Eleventh will march side by side in two wide columns, with the officers, artillery, baggage and auxiliary infantry in the centre. If we
are
taken by surprise I want my veteran heavy infantry on all the edges to form shield walls.’

This was greeted by nods all around and Fronto looked out across the landscape. Much like the lands they had just left, the Viromandui’s territory was mostly flat and covered with a patchwork of fields, with occasional ripples of low hill to break up the monotony. A wide marching formation was no trouble in this land, and it would be exceedingly difficult to launch a sneak attack upon the legions until they reached a hillier, more forested area.

As Fronto pondered, wishing he could collapse into his bed and sleep instead of sitting on his horse in the chilling cold and the fading light, Caesar continued to give out commands and answer the questions of his officers, and Fronto was almost asleep in the saddle when the general clapped his hands in a business-like manner and dismissed them all.

‘You look like a drunk on a four-day session,’ Antonius grinned as he pulled his dappled grey alongside Fronto. ‘And you smell like my aunt Hybrida, which cannot be good as she suffered from a permanent and debilitating bowel complaint and had to have her own separate latrine.’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much. Particularly given that this is largely your fault.’

‘My mistake, Fronto. You see I had you pegged as a soldier, not as a flagging woman.’ He grinned, waiting for an outburst, but Fronto was too tired to play the offended victim.

‘Let’s just go find our tents so that I can fall over and not move again until the sun has gone and come back again.’

Antonius laughed and the pair rode on down the slope in the wake of the other officers, towards the already-half-constructed camp. The officers’ quarters were already in position, the tents raised and legionaries unloading the furnishings from the wagons at the camp’s edge, carrying cots, tables, chairs and more into the confines.

Fronto looked for his tent. It used to be easy, as it would be located with the Tenth, but these days his was one of the miscellaneous ones in the staff area near the general’s own accommodation. After scanning the area, he picked out an officer’s tent no different from the rest, but with a smaller legionary tent pitched close by. Masgava and Palmatus. That was the best way to identify his.

‘Care for a drink?’

Fronto turned a withering gaze on Antonius. ‘Do you never stop?’

‘One of the advantages of a strong constitution and a position in command is that I never really have to. Similar tales are told of you, you know?’

‘I can hold my own, but I do like to have a day off occasionally to rest. Anyway, the answer’s no. I want nothing more than to fall face down on my bunk and drool into my pillow. Find Priscus. He’ll want a drink after watching the men ruin his carefully laid camp plans, mark my words.’

Antonius gave a low chuckle as they passed the first groups of workmen, crossing the causeway that overlaid the already-excavated ditch.

‘Why do you hate Crassus?’ the man said suddenly. Fronto blinked.

‘What?’

‘Crassus. I’ve seen the way you look at him, as though you’d trodden in something distasteful.’

Fronto shrugged, too tired to maintain a civil fiction. ‘I don’t, really. I sort of resent him, is all. He’s young and pleasant and not half as vicious or grasping as the rest of his family, and there’s nothing about him to dislike. But he commands my legion.’

‘
Your
legion?’

‘The Tenth. I know, I know,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s the Proconsul’s prerogative to select his legates, but I commanded the Tenth long enough that they’re like my family. It’s like watching your children with another father.’ He frowned, wondering where
that
analogy had sprung from, given that he
had
no children. Well, not yet, at least. He fought down the rising image of a pregnant Lucilia with difficulty. ‘I keep waiting for Caesar to call me in so that we can talk but he seems to have no interest in speaking to me at all. And as long as I’m on the periphery, I’m just along for the ride. I’m no use to him without a legion. You know that.’

‘I know. Give it time. I keep speaking to him, but Gaius is stubborn; you know that. I will get you your command in time. Maybe even the Tenth, but be patient. Let me work on him.’

‘Thanks.’

He reined in Bucephalus as he rounded the tent of another officer and beheld his own small empire. The big black steed huffed in irritation and stepped high in place, itching to exercise more, having been restricted to a plod on the march. As well as Fronto’s tent and the smaller one that belonged to Masgava and Palmatus, another tent was busy rising in the lee of his own - a traditional legionary soldiers’ tent.

‘It appears your entourage grows,’ mused Antonius. Fronto frowned at the men hauling the leather sections into position and tying them into place. Though they all wore military-style tunics, they were plain off-white wool rather than the russet colour favoured by Caesar’s command. Some of the men were of Roman origins, as was obvious from their swarthy appearance and neatly-trimmed military haircuts, but three of them appeared to be Gauls stuffed into Roman uniform. Not drawn from the Gallic-blooded legions, though, since
they
had now all adopted the Roman model at their officers’ urging. So these three must be from the native auxiliary cavalry units.

‘Eight men. A contubernium of the most mixed variety,’ Antonius said with more than a hint of curiosity in his tone.

As they watched, Palmatus appeared from his tent, dressed in a similar colourless tunic, with a well-used but well-maintained mail shirt over the top. Fronto couldn’t help but wonder how the ex-legionary had managed to come by a good mail shirt here. He didn’t have that much money and now that Cita was back in charge of the quartermasters there was more hope of the outspoken Roman growing a second bumhole than persuading the supply officers to give out a freebie.

‘Erm, Palmatus?’ Fronto said quietly. The unshaven former soldier turned and, noticing Antonius, gave a half-hearted salute. The smiling senior officer waved the formality aside, given the fact that the man in the mail shirt was officially a civilian and a Roman citizen.

‘Sir?’ the man replied with more deference than Fronto had heard him use all year.

‘What is this?’ Fronto took in the rising tent and its workmen with a sweep of his hand.

‘Singulares unit,’ Palmatus replied airily. ‘Told you we were working on it.

‘And I told you to stick it up your arse, didn’t I?’

‘Legate with your record of danger and combat should have a bodyguard,’ Palmatus said dismissively, nodding to Masgava as the latter emerged from the tent, similarly dressed in pale tunic and mail shirt - though his enormous bulk strained the shirt and made it look like a winesack stretched over a ballista.

‘Palmatus, I am not a legate. In fact I’m little more than an observer at the moment. The chance of me actually getting close enough to any action to experience any danger is tiny, so I hardly need a bodyguard. What I’m more in need of is an entertainer to keep me busy. Or a mallet to knock me out and send me to sleep.’

‘Don’t tempt them,’ grinned Antonius. ‘I can see these two complying with your request.’

‘And who are they, anyway?’ Fronto grumbled. ‘Weirdest looking bunch.’

‘Chosen men. Pick of Galronus’ best, along with four veterans of the Tenth who opted for this rather than their honesta missio and a friend of Carbo’s who has been deemed a little over-excitable by his optio. Good men, every one. I’m working on getting the Gauls to cut their hair and shave off their ‘taches, but it’s an uphill job.’