(Aprilis: Approaching Vindinium in northwestern Gaul)
Fronto sighed as the mounted party crested the hill and the oppidum with its Legionary camps appeared, sprawled around the low hill beside the river.
It had not been a long journey by the standards of some he had taken, but had still been more than two weeks in all. The general and his staff and senior officers, accompanied by Aulus Ingenuus and the general’s praetorian guard had embarked on a small transport vessel at the navalia, the military port on the Campus Martius, and had taken a couple of hours to Ostia, where they had transferred to one of the triremes of the fleet for the two day journey to Massilia.
By the time the ship had put to sea, the miserable grey drizzle that had once more set in had grown to a full blown deluge. Fronto had looked nervously out at the crashing waves and asked tentatively whether the captain really thought the sea was safe enough, but the man had merely laughed at him and told him that they would put to port for storms, but not for a bit of rain.
Never the world’s best sailor, Fronto had lurched miserably from foot to foot as the Argus bounced from wave to wave, trying to ignore the smell of the cooked pork and bread dipped in spicy sauce that the others were tucking into for lunch.
The only thing that made the miserable two days bearable for Fronto was the fact that he managed to hold onto his stomach’s contents for the duration, while Galronus, who had never before stepped aboard a ship, had turned a worry grey-green colour in the first ten minutes and had made sounds like a dying goose for the whole journey.
Finally, blessedly, the ship put in at Massilia just as, to Fronto’s intense irritation, the clouds dispersed and gave way to an unseasonably bright and warm day. The officers had led their horses up from the Argus, along the dock and up the slope, to turn and watch the ship pull back out into a freshly calm and placid open sea for its return journey.
The sixteen officers and two dozen cavalry troopers, armed against the bands of thugs and robbers known to operate in the dirty streets of this great port, and followed by the dozen carts that contained their campaigning gear, had made their way slowly from the coast up the slope toward the area of exclusive villas owned by some of the more affluent, yet discerning, Roman nobles. Few men born in the great city itself would choose such a site for a country residence, but those who valued their privacy and solitude, while maintaining close access to a major crossroads, could hardly do better.
Fronto had nodded appreciatively. He’d been promising to visit here for the last couple of years when he was off duty and free, but had never seemed to have the time. He’d not pictured himself turning up among a group of senior officers with the general himself, though. The view was quite stunning, with the villa they were here to visit sprawling over the crest of the hill, giving a massive panorama of the city below and the coast for several miles in either direction with its coves and rocks and sapphire sea.
More welcome even than the sun and the breathtaking scenery was the figure of Quintus Balbus, commander of the Eighth Legion, standing by the gate at the entrance to his villa. Balbus looked, as always, every inch the Roman legate, his cuirass polished to a mirror shine, the protective medusa head leering out from the chest, his crimson cloak freshly cleaned and pressed, draped about his shoulders, and his plumed helmet beneath his arm. Despite the commander’s advanced years, his limbs were muscular and powerful; the result of two years of strenuous exercise during the Gallic campaigns.
Behind the grinning officer, his wife Corvinia stood, a warm, if disapproving, smile aimed directly at Fronto while she held her two girls back respectfully. In the two years since Fronto had last met them, the eldest had begun her transformation to womanhood with remarkable results. Fronto sighed. Here we go again: women. Corvinia had wanted to mother him and marry him off, whereas Lucilia, the elder daughter, had clearly seen him as a prospective catch.
But much to Corvinia’s disappointment, the general had no plans for a social visit and there was barely time to exchange pleasantries before Balbus’ horse was brought round by a slave and the legate hauled himself up to join the column riding back to the legions.
The next fortnight had been a steady ride across country, up the Rhone valley, past the various small outposts set up by Cita’s men to deal with the ever-increasing supply train that ran from Roman territory through the lands of the Allobroges and on into deeper Gaul. They had passed the oppidum of Vienna, stopped for a happy night at Bibracte, where they had recounted the tales of the Helvetii and the happy time they had spent there two years ago, and had then followed the line of the river Loire half way toward the west coast before cutting across the land and striking northwest for the legions’ winter base.
And now, as the roiling black clouds threatened yet another torrential downpour, the officers and their escort were finally within sight of Vindunum. The former town of the Andes rose on the southeast bank of the river on a bluff, with heavy walls and squat buildings of a traditional Gaulish nature. Around the town each legion, from the Seventh to the Fourteenth, had its own fortified camp, close enough to throw things between the ramparts; too close for defence, so clearly for show and to keep the legions separated.
Fronto leaned across toward Balbus and his mount sidestepped irritably as the first drops of the next shower began to patter on his face. Though he was no fan of riding in general, he had to admit he missed Bucephalus. This beast was disobedient to say the least and Longinus’ old horse had received the best training the Roman cavalry had to offer. He jerked his mount straight, wondering whether Bucephalus would be quartered in the camp of the Tenth.
“Some of the camps are empty. That’s got to be a bad sign.”
Balbus nodded.
“The question is: where are they and what are they up to? Is Crassus already having to batter the tribes into submission?”
On the other side of the older legate, Crispus turned and shrugged.
“They could simply be on manoeuvres. What concerns me is the size of the camp for the Twelfth.”
Fronto frowned and scanned the settlement. Crispus was right. Each legion had its standards up and, as the riders approached, they could see that the Twelfth was in a worryingly reduced state, occupying less than a quarter of the space of any other legion.
He cleared his throat.
“Caesar?”
The general glanced round at the three legates close behind him.
“Yes?”
“You planning a meeting of the senior officers once we’re in camp, I presume?”
Caesar nodded and stretched in his saddle.
“Later on. Possibly even in the morning. First I need to speak to Crassus, then to visit the baths and my quarters and refresh myself. I sent my body slave and the bulk of my baggage on a few weeks early, but it will take me several hours, I fear, to drive this damp chill from my bones.”
Fronto nodded emphatically. The dismal conditions on the journey once they had left the south coast and the sunshine behind had made them all yearn for the warmth and cleanliness of a good bathhouse. His faint smile sliding into a grin, Fronto leaned closer to Balbus and lowered his voice.
“That gives us a good few hours and possibly even the whole night to change into something more comfortable, find a bar, and drink until we can’t see one another.”
The general, without even turning his head, replied “Be sober enough to attend a meeting should I call it, Marcus. I don’t want you falling over in front of the new staff officers.”
Fronto glowered at the back of the general’s head and winked at Balbus, who smiled benignly, like a father who has given up trying to train his wayward child and was riding the crest of a wave.
The column moved slowly on. Fronto had spent most of the journey in close company with Balbus, Crispus, Galronus and Cicero, while the various new additions to Caesar’s staff kept to themselves at the rear, often retreating into Greek for their hushed conversations.
“I suggest we report in with our legions, clean ourselves up, and then head into town and find a passable watering hole. Shall we meet in the central square in… say an hour?”
Crispus sighed.
“I suspect it will take me almost an hour just to get clean and dry and rake the knots out of my hair. Can we say two?”
Fronto grumbled a grudging acknowledgement and turned back to the camps ahead. The Tenth appeared to be quartered next to the river, close to the northern walls of the oppidum and he peered at the ordered lines of tents within the ramparts, in some way hoping to find minor fault, given the absence of both he and Priscus. Nothing appeared to be amiss at first glance, however, and Fronto rolled his shoulders before turning to his companions.
“Well I’m going to go and see what’s been happening. See you all shortly.”
As the others waved their temporary farewells and the baggage cart carrying his gear veered away from the column and followed him, Fronto kicked his horse to speed and rode through the increasing rain, down past the northern edge of the oppidum’s walls and to the gatehouse of the Tenth. As he approached, he was surprised and perversely pleased to note that no call went up announcing the return of the legion’s commander. He prepared himself for a tirade against the guard at the gate as he slowed his beast on approach, but noted at the last moment that his new primus pilus, Servius Fabricius Carbo, stood in the centre with his chubby arms folded and a wide grin on his shiny pink face.
As he reined in the horse and dismounted, Fronto’s unreasonable irritation and anger melted away. The journey, with its inclement weather, horrible waves, disobedient horses and enforced proximity to the general had contrived to plunge him into a disgruntled mood as he approached but, as he had found to his irritation last year, something about Carbo defused such moods easily.
He took a deep breath, ready to shout and the primus pilus tapped the top of his head.
“One of the great benefits of losing my hair at a frighteningly early age is that I never get soggy and waterlogged in the rain. Perhaps I can offer you something in the way of a towel and a wooden mug of something nasty enough that it eats through bronze?”
Fronto caught his deep breath, eyed the man before him, and let the air out slowly, taking the residual anger with it.
“You been taking a peek into my mind, Carbo?”
As he led his horse forward, one of the soldiers at the gate rushed out to take the reins and Carbo turned to address the other.
“Pass the call that the legate has returned.”
Fronto sighed and glanced upwards, his eyes flickering in the falling rain.
“I am piss-wet through and it feels like I’ve been sleeping on a bag of helmets for the last few weeks. I’m looking forward to getting my tent set up. Do you have somewhere in the meantime I can dry off?”
He stepped in through the gate and Carbo nodded, still smiling.
“I’ve had a tent set up for you. It’s not got all your personal gear in yet, of course, but I had it stocked with food, drink, towels, sheets and blankets and four spare sets of clothes that I’m fairly sure are your size.”
Fronto blinked.
“You knew we were imminent?”
Carbo nodded seriously.
“Yesterday the Tenth’s augur saw a pigeon and a duck flying in the same direction, with a swallow going the other way. He said you’d be back before dark and would be wet and in need of a drink.”
Fronto stared at the earnest pink face and boggled.
“He did?”
Carbo burst out laughed.
“No, of course he didn’t! One of the outrider scouts saw your column two days ago and reported in. But to be honest, I had the tent stocked weeks ago, ‘cause I assumed you’d be here soon.”
Fronto grinned at the man, astounded that in the years he’d commanded the Tenth, he’d never noticed this man playing second fiddle to Priscus. But then, only legates who weren’t doing their job properly had time to get to know every officer in the legion who didn’t report directly to him. Still, given how smoothly this man had slid into the role of senior command, it was perhaps time he started to pay more attention to the lesser centurions.
“Well if you can cope with hanging around while I quickly towel myself dry and change, I could do with a bit of a ‘catch-up’, given what I’ve been hearing. Then I fully intend to find a bar and get merrily slammed. Two weeks of best behaviour en route with the general has me itching to get involved in a little debauchery.”
Carbo laughed.
“Your needs have been anticipated, Marcus. The cavalry commander, Varus, along with legate Brutus and the primus pilus of the Eleventh, dropped by a few hours ago and asked me to tell you where they were. I gather the senior officers have been frequenting a particular tavern in the centre where most of the rank and file go…”
He lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“I suspect that’s because it’s the only place they can go where they know legate Crassus won’t be, since he is apparently repelled by the scent of plebeians.”
Fronto laughed.
“Sounds good; in fact it sounds like just my kind of place. And I expect you, as my second in command, to join me. It would be only right, after all.”
Carbo shrugged.
“You mean put off the latrine roster til later on in order to sink a few mugs of local beer? I think I can manage that, yes.”
Fronto’s grin widened.
“Right. In the meantime, while I get changed, tell me everything that’s happened; and I don’t just mean the official version, but all the dirty and slanderous stuff and the rumours too.”
Fronto leaned back in the low chair, sliding his mug onto the table, looked over his shoulder at the three legionaries sharing a bawdy joke about a Syrian woman with one leg, and smiled sweetly.
“Here’s a deal for you: You three piss off over the other end of the bar and stop anyone coming within earshot for the next half hour and the rest of your drinks are on me. Deal?”
The affirmative comments were almost lost among the kerfuffle and scraping as the three men greedily gathered their gear from the floor around them and shuffled off along the bar, grinning and nodding respectfully at the legate as they went.
“Good,” he announced once the officers were safely alone at the dingiest end of the bar. “Now we can talk properly.”
He smiled at the faces gathered around the table, some of whom he had not seen in almost half a year. Varus and Brutus had a haunted look, the stress of the winter command telling plainly on their faces. Felix seemed to have weathered the shit-storm better, though the centurionate were notoriously hardy. Now, with Galba, Crispus, Rufus, Balbus, Cicero, Carbo and Sabinus, the core of what Fronto considered the professional officers were all present in one place for the same time in a long while. His thoughts briefly flashed to thoughts of Labienus, still camped out east in Belgae lands.
“Right. I expect we’re all heard titbits since we arrived back in camp, but it’s time we got a few things clarified.”
There was a chorus of nods and grumbling agreement around the table.
“Alright. These tribes in the area. Carbo tells me that Crassus has been less than successful in keeping them calm and under control.”
“I believe I used the words ‘almighty cock up’, actually” Carbo nodded.
Varus grumbled as he leaned across the table.
“Rather than trying to mollify them or come to terms, he seems to have abandoned any hope of getting our hostages back. Instead, he’s taking whatever crops he can from them, commandeering their cattle and goods and burning down the settlements afterwards. He seems to think that eventually they’ll just give up and accept it. My scouts tell me a whole different story.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Scorched earth never works. We’re here to make this place part of Rome, not to turn it into an ash-strewn wasteland. What’s the point in conquering a place if you’ve murdered the population?”
Galba nodded sadly.
“Indeed. Every legion is sending six cohorts out in two groups of three on ‘loot and burn’ missions. They go out for a week in some direction and if they come back without enough loot Crassus has those units given the shittiest jobs in Vindunum until their next opportunity. More than half the army is out of camp at any one time, marching around the country, taking and burning. The Twelfth have been omitted from the roster, since our veterans make up less than a cohort.”
Balbus frowned.
“Balventius tells me that you’ve been hogging the workshops, knocking out weapons and armour like madmen.”
Galba grinned at the older legate.
“I may have used the general’s name without permission to drum up new recruits among our Gallic allies on the way back from the Alps. When they’re fully trained, we’ll be back up to over half strength, even if most of them are greener than the forests they came from.”
“Where are they then?” Fronto interjected, leaning forward. “The camp of the Tenth is basically almost empty.”
Galba laughed and leaned back, taking a swig of imported wine.
“I sent them to Brutus’ shipyards at Turonum on the Loire. They’re alternating training with construction work, and it keeps Crassus in the dark about both our true strength and Brutus’ little project.”
“How’s that coming?”
Brutus leaned forward.
“We’re nearly done, to be honest. The fleet’s just having the final touches added. What we’re missing at the moment is the crews, but I am informed they’re on their way up from Narbo and should be here any time. We’ll be ready before Crassus has managed to recall his legions.”
Fronto laughed nastily.
“His legions! Things might change a little now that Caesar’s back. The general may be a politician who doesn’t give much thought for the locals, but he does have a better than elementary grasp of tactics and enough common sense to go only so far with them. Better than Crassus, anyway.”
The table fell silent, a reaction that often greeted Fronto when he began to espouse his opinions of the great Caesar, and particularly after a few beverages.
“Anyway,” Fronto went on, glancing at Varus, “you say your scouts have told you more?”
The cavalry commander nodded unhappily.
“The tales I hear sound more like a nation gearing up for war than a beaten people trying not to starve to death. The Veneti have retreated to their fortresses on the coast which, I am informed, are almost impregnable. When the legions get to their inland settlements to impound their animals and grain, they’re finding the people are already gone and have taken everything with them. They’re stocking up for a siege and leaving nothing for us to take. It’s starting to get to Crassus.”
“I can imagine. Are we just talking about this Veneti tribe then?”
The look on Varus face answered Fronto’s question before he opened his mouth.
“There are tribes all over Armorica doing the same. But even that’s not even the main worry. Some of my outriders caught a messenger riding east. He was taking a message to the Belgae, urging both them and the Germans to rise up and drive us out of Gaul. Crassus has turned the small issue this started as into a catastrophe. We could very well be looking at an uprising all over the north.”
Crispus sighed.
“This land is somewhat like a lumpy sleeping pallet.”
He looked around at the confused faces of the others and spread his hands.
“You cannot sleep comfortably, so you have to flatten out the lump, but then a lump forms somewhere else. No matter what you do, there will always be a new lump forming somewhere. And the more you play with it, trying to make it comfortable, the more lumps you have until, in the end, there is nothing else for it but to discard the pallet and begin again with a new one.”
“That’s a depressing picture” Galba sighed.
“So” Fronto grumbled, “we may be looking at more than just these tribes?”
Varus cleared his throat meaningfully.
“I have it on good authority that their messengers also went south to the Pyrenees and the tribes around there and into Spain, and even by boat across to Britannia. The more we hear, the more it sounds like we’re about to be crushed between armies from all over the place. Who the hell knows what we could be facing if the Celts in Britannia cross the water.”
Balbus leaned back, his expression bleak.
“If all this is accurate then it would appear we are already beyond hope of negotiation. We are at war; we just haven’t moved yet.”
Varus nodded and took another slug of wine.
“Well then, gentlemen” Fronto announced, slapping his mug on the table. “It’s no use us sitting here wishing things were different. We’ve got to get things moving. We should go see the general and start pushing.”
A chuckle caught his attention and he peered across the table at Sabinus.
“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet?”
Sabinus shook his head wearily.
“I have had three months of trying to argue and gainsay Crassus with the man talking down to me and over the top of me. I’m exhausted Marcus. But it’s nice to have you back. Nothing stirs the army up like having you around!”
Fronto smiled.
“Then let’s get stirring. Time to go see the general.”
As he stood, he turned to Carbo. The primus pilus nodded.
“I know. Head back to camp and get the men on a first alert.”
Fronto nodded.
“That and more.” He turned to Varus. “Can you send riders out looking for the wandering cohorts and give them the recall order?”
Varus shrugged.
“I can do it; I just don’t have the authority.”
“I’ll take responsibility. Just get the men back here.”
As Varus nodded, he turned back to his primus pilus.
“When the rest of Tenth make it back to camp, stop anyone else leaving. There’ll be no more of this pointless burning.”
He turned back and threw the last of the wine down his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smearing deep red across his chin.
“Right. Let’s go ruin Crassus’ day.”
Two of Crassus’ legionaries, polished and straight, stood at the closed door of the headquarters building. As Fronto and his group of officers approached, they crossed their pila over the doorway.
“Sorry sir. The legate is in a meeting with the general. No one is allowed in at the moment.”
Fronto glared at the man.
“Have you any idea just how many senior officers there are here? Get out of the way.”
The legionary had the decency to look nervous and apologetic.
“I have my orders from both the legate and the general, sir and, with respect, the general outranks all of us. If I let you past I’ll be cleaning latrines until winter comes again.”
Fronto stepped uncomfortably close to the man and grinned through bared teeth, the fumes of freshly-imbibed wine washing over the man’s face and making him gag.
“You know who I am and the sort of thing I get up to. Crassus might have you emptying latrines, but if you don’t open that door, I will snap that pilum in half, stick the sharp bit up your arse and use you to mop the latrines. Do I make myself clear?”
The man held out defiantly, if nervously, for a moment longer until his companion buckled under the legate’s glare and stepped out of the way. Suddenly alone in front of an angry officer, the legionary stepped aside and averted his gaze.
“Good choice” Fronto growled as he swung the door open and stepped inside.
The building was divided into four rooms with a central corridor that connected each of them with the front door. Most were likely given over to office space, but the room to the immediate right had its door closed, from behind which Fronto could hear muffled conversation. The irritation of the guards outside still driving him, he reached for the handle and swung the door open without knocking, striding through purposefully.
Crassus, his back to the door, had apparently not noticed and continued addressing Caesar while the general looked up in surprise.
“…and we estimate that the lack of supplies will push the Veneti into submission within the month.”
“That’s not what I hear” Fronto barked, the other officers filing in behind him. Caesar furrowed his brow.
“I believe I left instructions we were not to be disturbed, Fronto? I was planning to call a meeting first thing in the morning and give you time to pickle your brain in the meantime, since it seems to be your hobby.”
Crassus spluttered as he turned. Fronto grinned at him with no humour at all.
“It sounds to me like you handled the situation badly and you’ve all but pushed the local tribes into full rebellion.”
Crassus shook his head.
“Totally untrue. Wherever the legions go we are encountering no resistance.”
“That” Fronto snapped “is because the tribesmen are gathering for war in their coastal fortresses while they send to Germany, Spain and Britannia for help.”
“Preposterous” Crassus spluttered.
Caesar, behind him, leaned forward in his chair.
“You have conflicting information, Fronto?”
“And from a number of trustworthy sources in your own army, general. The Veneti are all but ready to go to war and it looks like they have incited other tribes to the northwest, the southwest, back towards Germany and even across the water in Britannia. If they haven’t killed the hostages they took, it’ll only be because they’re holding on to them in case they need them later.”
Crassus shook his head.
“That is a stalemate. They will never execute the hostages, as I have one of their chieftains and a druid in custody myself.”
Balbus, near the door, made a grumbling noise.
“Yet you have written off any hope of getting our men back. You think they couldn’t have done the same?”
Fronto glared at Crassus while he addressed the general.
“We have to move straight away, Caesar, before this shitty situation becomes a disaster and we lose our foothold in Gaul altogether. ‘All Gaul is conquered’, remember?”
The general stared at him for a moment and then, nodding, stood, placing his hands on the large map on the table before him.
Then we have to decide on how we move now. We have less than half the army here, the rest being out on food gathering missions.” He looked up at Brutus. “What’s the state of the fleet?”
Crassus blinked.
“Fleet? What fleet?”
Brutus ignored him and scratched his chin.
“A few days from operational, Caesar. A little rigging, some more sails, and the crews are imminent. Once the ships are ready, we can leave them to the new crews with just a skeleton staff and Galba can have the rest of the Twelfth back, preparing to move.”
Crassus turned to look in confusion at Brutus and then Galba.
“What rest of the Twelfth? What fleet? What in the name of Minerva are you talking about?”
Caesar ignored the legate and nodded.
“Very well. The fleet was a good idea. Moreover, it was your idea, Brutus, so I’m putting them under your command. Draw marines from the stronger legions who can spare the men, particularly the Ninth, and then head for Turonum. As soon as the ships are finished and the crews arrive, send Galba’s men back to him and get the fleet underway. Take them downstream to the sea and stay there until the legions arrive. Use the intervening time to get a little training and practice in. Are you happy with all that?”
Brutus nodded, his face straight.
“I’m no experienced admiral, Caesar, but I know the basics. We’ll be there and ready.”
“Good. Where is Varus?”
Fronto smiled nastily at the astonished face of legate Crassus.
“I asked him to get riders sent out to the legions with the recall order.”
Crassus opened his mouth to argue but, behind him Caesar overrode him.
“Good. When he’s back, tell him to take half the cavalry and a few of the fastest moving foot auxiliary units and move across country as fast as they can to meet up with Labienus at Nemetocenna. The last report I had from Labienus a few months ago seemed to indicate that things were going exceptionally well there. He seems to be well on his way to Romanising the Belgae already and, with the cavalry reinforcements, he should be able to keep things settled and safe over there and hopefully keep the Germans on the other side of the Rhine.”
Fronto nodded approvingly. Labienus was, most certainly, the man for the job. With him watching their back, Fronto felt reasonably secure.
“So are we going to concentrate the rest of the forces on Armorica and hope the example we make keeps the Spanish and the British out of it?”
Caesar waggled his hand in a non-committal fashion.
“Partially. There’s very little we can do at the moment about Britannia. We just have to hope that either they decide against interference, or they take so long preparing that we have dealt with the situation before they can land in Gaul. Spain is a different matter.”
Fronto nodded. He had personal experience of the Celtic and Iberian tribes across the Pyrenees. They were as hardy as the Gauls but less inclined to settle and negotiate, a fact that had contributed greatly to the heavy-handed and brutal tactics Caesar had employed there years ago when Fronto had commanded the Ninth.
“We need something like the Labienus situation down there.”
“No” Caesar disagreed, shaking his head. “This is different. What we need with the Pyrenean tribes is to frighten them into submission. They’ve no real experience or appreciation of Roman culture, despite being so close to Narbo. They won’t be talked out of action, and we need to put a stop to them getting involved and also to seal the passes over the mountains and stop the Spanish tribes helping them.”
Sabinus, near the back of the room, frowned.
“Sounds like we’re in danger of splitting the army and spreading it a little too thin for comfort, Caesar?”
The general nodded, rubbing his temple.
“We can’t spare too many men, for certain.”
Sabinus cleared his throat.
“If you want me to take a legion or two and deal with it, sir?”
Caesar shook his head, examining the map by his hand.
“No. I shall be sending you, Crassus.”
The room fell silent, many faces quickly registering both surprise and disapproval. The tense quiet was broken when Crassus, finding his voice for the first time since the conversation began, turned to the general.
“Sir?”
The general glowered at him.
“You took a peaceful situation up here and turned it into a war. You are a good commander for punitive campaigns, Crassus, but to be frank, you are just too brutal in your methods to administer a freshly-conquered land.”
Fronto almost laughed aloud. To be considered ‘too brutal’ by the man who had ordered the execution of an entire captive tribe not long after they’d first ever marched into this country said a great deal.
Crassus was nodding, though, as though the general had complimented him.
“You want their spirit and their will to resist crushed?”
The general smiled.
“I see you have the picture. Can you repeat your success of last year?”
Crassus nodded, an unpleasant smile creeping across his face.
“I shall take the Seventh and seal off the southwest completely, general.”
“Good. You will need to be highly manoeuvrable in the foothills of the Pyrenees, so I’m sending the rest of the cavalry with you.”
Crispus leaned close to Fronto and whispered in his ear “That’ll please Varus!”
Fronto nodded slightly and spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“Question is: will he go with them to Labienus where he won’t have to deal with Crassus, or would he rather go south and keep his eye on his men?”
He became aware that Caesar was glaring at him.
“Sorry sir. Go on.”
The general took a deep breath and then focused on Sabinus, standing at the back of the room.
“Are you still up for a command, Sabinus?”
“Of course, general.”
“Good. I’m giving you the weaker legions, I’m afraid. Take the Twelfth, who are still busy training and re-equipping, the Fourteenth who are still very green and a little… Gallic… if you get my drift, and most of the Ninth.” He scanned the room for the legates of those legions and spotted Rufus near the door.
“Sabinus acts with the full authority of Praetor over the three legions, while you’ll each maintain command of your individual legions. However, I require three cohorts of the ninth to join the navy as marines. The ninth had experience of naval combat near Saguntum a few years ago, so they may be useful.”
Rufus saluted, his expression neutral.
Sabinus frowned. “What am I to do then, General?”
“You’ll take the Ninth, Tenth and Fourteenth up toward the north coast. Do whatever you have to in order to keep those tribes from marching south and joining the Veneti. Keep the peace if you can; keep them subdued if not.”
Sabinus nodded.
“Good,” the general said, leaning back. “That means the rest of you are with me. The Eighth, Tenth, Eleventh, and Thirteenth will be moving against the Veneti, backed by Brutus’ fleet. I intend to put this situation in order as fast as possible. I need to be back in Rome in the autumn, and I don’t want to drag this out.”
Balbus cleared his throat.
“We can move as soon as the roving cohorts return, general, but are we leaving a garrison here? We could be in danger of letting the locals rise up behind us, given how I hear they’ve been treated during the winter.” He cast a quick glance at Crassus, who glared back balefully at the veiled accusation.
The general rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I was trying to avoid it. We can’t really spare the men.”
“There is another solution…”
They turned to Crispus, who was smiling, a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes?”
“The Labienus solution? We are, after all, trying to Romanise the land and enforce the pax Romana? A little trust given goes a long way to receiving more in return.”
Caesar frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
Crispus smiled.
“No caretaker garrison. We speak to their leaders, who have been dispossessed and moved across the river. We thank them for their help and support. We tell them that we are moving on and apologise for inconveniencing them. When we leave, we leave them some of our surplus supplies… we don’t have many, but Cita has more coming in from the south. They will have their oppidum back, but we have cleaned it, strengthened it, constructed an aqueduct channel from the springs to the north, and stockpiled goods. To give it back to them might go some way to repairing our somewhat tattered reputation and make our task easier?”
Fronto laughed.
“He’s quite right, Caesar. We need to stop burning bridges and build the occasional one.”
The general took another deep breath and straightened.
“Very well. You all know what to do. Let’s start clearing Vindunum up and getting the troops onto a war footing. Most of you are dismissed, with the exceptions of Crassus, Sabinus and Brutus. We have further plans to hammer out, so I’ll need you to stay behind.”
He looked up at Fronto as the rest began to file out.
“And when you see Varus, send him to see me.”
Fronto nodded with satisfaction. He’d been getting soft back in Rome with all that easy living. It felt good to be back in the saddle… figuratively speaking, he added mentally, rubbing his still saddle-sore rump as he left the room.
It had taken four days for the various vexillations of legionaries to be recalled and to arrive at Vindunum, and then a full two days further to take down the defences of the various camps surrounding the oppidum and prepare to move out. The downside of having such a large army quartered in one place for so long was the extent of the roots they put down in that time and how long it took to pull them up and move on.
The almost constant drizzle of the preceding week had finally let up, brightening the atmosphere of the soldiers working in the soggy conditions to demolish ramparts and pack gear. Still, the next week had, instead, threatened the advance of yet worse weather. The winds had become so strong that taking down the tents had required every man available and huge sheets of leather wafting away down the river valley were not an uncommon sight for a while. Then, once the horrendous winds had disappeared late yesterday, they had been replaced by Jupiter’s own clouds, roiling and threatening thunder and lightning.
It was not, Fronto had to admit, an auspicious start to a campaign. He wasn’t feeling uneasy about it, though, as he increasingly had with last year’s foray against the Belgae, and the haruspices had found nothing untoward in the goat they disembowelled before departing. It was just the weather that put funny thoughts in one’s head.
They had departed Vindunum in the battering winds and numbing cold, saying their farewells to Sabinus and Varus and their companions as the officers prepared to travel north and east to keep the peace while the bulk of the army dealt with the Veneti. Crassus had taken the Seventh and his cavalry detachment with no fond goodbyes, though Galronus, who commanded part of the cavalry, had dropped in to bid farewell to Fronto and his friends.
And then the worst part of any campaign: the travelling. The four legions, with their auxiliary support and supply train had set off southwest from Vindunum for the hundred mile journey to the mouth of the Loire. Each day the legions managed perhaps fifteen miles, given the interminable pace set by the wagons with their oxen, and yet each day it felt as though they had marched forty miles, with the constant cold and the battering of the forceful winds.
Fronto rode Bucephalus once more, at the head of the Tenth, grateful not to be traipsing through the soggy, muddy turf. The beautiful black steed was steady and calm, though clearly miserable in the unpleasant cold and windy conditions. Even Carbo, marching along behind him with his helmet hanging from his shoulder, had taken to wrapping his scarf around his hairless cranium to keep the numbing cold away.
Where had the lovely Gaulish summers of the last two years gone, Fronto wondered? It was almost as though the land itself was turning against them. But finally, early on the afternoon of the seventh day out of Vindunum, the army had crested a low rise and the Atlantic ocean stretched out before them, the great wide mouth of the Loire feeding into it.
Likely on a hot summer’s day the sight would be magnificent, the water a stunning turquoise and the coast visible for dozens of miles in either direction. With the black and grey clouds glowering above them, however, the water looked dark and forbidding and the waves began to make Fronto feel uneasy even standing on dry land and watching them.
The army had paused there for a time, watching with fascination the numerous ships of Brutus’ fleet manoeuvring in the bay. It seemed to Fronto as he watched that they bobbed around barely under control, like those toy ships he and his sister had made of parchment when they were children and raced down the channel of the Aqua Appia where it surfaced near their home. He was unbelievably thankful that he was not currently on board one of them.
And then the legions had separated as they descended to the coast to make camp, likely for several days. The officers, along with the general and his praetorian cavalry, however, had ridden ahead down to the water’s edge, where temporary ramparts contained the tents and support wagons of the fleet crews and their marines.
As they reined in outside the command tent in the open muster area, Fronto handed the reins of Bucephalus to one of the Marines and turned to look at his fellow officers. Each of them, once they dismounted, spent a few moments stamping their feet and bringing life back to their frozen appendages. Fronto looked up apprehensively as a deep rumble some miles away caught his attention.
“Let’s get inside, general, before Neptune pisses on us.”
Caesar, weary from the journey and as cold as his men, nodded silently and strode through into the tent. Inside, several men in dark tunics with their cloaks tightly wrapped around them stood at a large central table with Brutus. Fronto almost sighed as the warmth from the four braziers that heated the tent hit him like a wall of comfort. The small hole in the roof issued smoke as though the place were on fire and the upper regions of the headquarters were invisible through the murk. And yet, down below, where the men gathered, the warmth was far more important than the smoky conditions.
As the general entered, with Fronto and Cicero at his shoulders, the others behind and Ingenuus’ troopers creating a protective cordon outside the tent, the occupants turned to see who had entered and came suddenly to attention. Brutus, poring over the map, looked up and straightened wearily, saluting the general.
Caesar waved aside the pleasantries and Fronto noted with concern the pale, haggard look of the young staff officer and the dark circles beneath his eyes that told of stress, overwork and lack of good sleep.
“The army is here and ready to set up camp” the general stated. “I don’t mean to rush you, Decimus, but I need to know the status of the fleet before I can plan our first move. We’ll call a full meeting in the morning when the legions are settled, but what can you tell me quickly?”
Brutus sighed and stood back from the table, flicking one of the little model triremes onto its side.
“I’m afraid it’s not good, general. We’ve got a lot of good sailors and some experienced officers who’ve taken part in naval battles and after six days of training and manoeuvres they have uniformly come to the opinion that the Veneti could trounce us in the blink of an eye.”
Caesar frowned.
“What is the problem? You have a good number of solid triremes and quinqueremes; perhaps a hundred of them, with fresh sailors and experienced officers and marines.”
Brutus nodded.
“Yes, general. But conditions out there are nothing like anything they’ve ever dealt with before. We’re used to the Mare Nostrum. No Roman fleet has ever operated beyond the Pillars of Hercules and we just had no idea what to expect. The Atlantic Ocean is, if you’ll pardon the pun, a whole different pot of fish.”
“The sea is different?” Caesar asked dubiously.
Brutus sighed.
“The Mare Nostrum is like a still, glassy pond compared with this. We’ve lost one quinquereme and two triremes in the last three days and all we’ve been doing is practicing. The waves and currents out there could capsize an island if it were small enough. We strike out forward but, despite the best efforts of the oarsmen and the captains, most of the time the ships go more sideways than forwards. We keep having very unpleasant collisions. And with the weather the way it is, there’s simply no way we can rely on the wind. The first attempt to unfurl the sails almost lost us a quarter of the fleet as they were thrown around the bay.”
He waved his hand dismissively at the map on the table.
“I can’t see how the Veneti can manage in these conditions. Their ships must be totally different to ours. I feel like the first Roman sailor to meet the Carthaginian navy.”
Caesar frowned.
“How could they be so different?”
Brutus shrugged unhappily.
“Well for a start, they have to be a lot stronger and heavier. Out there it feels like we’ve been thrown into the cloaca maxima on a leaf. We’ve little control over the ships and only stronger construction and a lot more weight would counteract that. Then they must have a much shallower hull. I don’t know whether you’ve seen the rocks around this coast, but there are shelves of them hidden just below the waves most of the time. We can’t even get within striking distance of the coast in most places.”
To illustrate his displeasure, he leaned across the table, gathered the small models of the fleet and put them in a pile in the mouth of the Loire on the map.
“That’s the operational ability of the fleet, general. We could use them as a bridge I suppose?”
“Are you telling me that the fleet is effectively useless?”
Brutus sighed again and rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Not exactly, but we are totally at the mercy of conditions beyond our control, Caesar. The weather… well frankly, the weather is shit, sir, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. If the wind would die down and the sun would come out, then the sea would calm and we might have a totally different situation. Once summer actually arrives, we might be able to do something, but until the weather changes, I wouldn’t give a bent denarius for the chances of any ship making it as far up the coast as the next navigable harbour.”
The general grumbled and rubbed his face irritably.
“The Veneti are a people that are heavily dependant upon the sea. I need to take the legions against them and put them in their place, but my ability to do that is greatly hampered without support from your ships. I have been working on my next move based on the principle that we would have naval support.”
Brutus shook his head, exasperated.
“I know, general. I had been labouring under the same illusion, but we simply could not have prepared for this. No Roman ship has ever tried to operate in these waters and we could not have known. All I can say is that as soon as the weather breaks, we can try again, but every time I send a ship out more than a few hundred yards I’m putting it in danger of sinking.”
Again the general grumbled before straightening.
“Very well. We’ll have to go back to relying on the legions. But I want you to stay here and keep working at this, Decimus. Practice. Try to change things. Try new ideas and non-traditional tactics. Quite simply, find a way to make this work and get the fleet involved as soon as possible.”
Brutus sighed.
“It raises logistical issues too, Caesar. If we suddenly find we have a nice day and can sail, how will we know where you are?”
Fronto leaned forward.
“Signals.”
“Sorry?”
The legate looked at the general and shrugged.
“The Veneti have retreated to their coastal fortresses, right? So that means the army is only going to be operating close to the coast anyway. We have no reason to go inland. So we set up a number of small scout units that stay on the cliffs and beaches near the army who can signal the fleet if Brutus arrives. They can pass messages back and forth and, well let’s face it, we’re going to need scouts on the coast keeping an eye on any moves the Veneti make at sea anyway.”
Caesar nodded, still clearly unsatisfied by the situation.
“I suppose that’s workable. Brutus? Keep working here and get this fleet operational. As soon as you can move, travel up the coast and watch for the signals.”
Brutus nodded and Fronto smiled at him.
“And for the love of Fortuna, get some sleep. You’re exhausted.”
Brutus smiled a weak smile back at him and gave a half-hearted nod.
“Well, Caesar” Fronto said, straightening, “it looks like the legions are going to have to march on the Veneti. Perhaps we should call a meeting of the legates, tribunes and senior centurions. And we need to get some scouts out there to locate the fortresses and check the terrain and situation for us.”
Caesar nodded and turned back to the door.
“Cicero? Gather the officers and prepare a meeting. Send me a message when they’re ready. We’ll meet in the command tent once it’s up.”
As the staff officer nodded and turned to leave, Caesar turned to Fronto.
“Marcus, I am tired and somewhat peeved and I may need someone to vent at. Come with me.”
Fronto nodded, rolling his eyes as the general turned away, making a silent motion to the praetorian trooper at the door, suggesting that the delivery of an amphora of wine to Caesar’s tent in the immediate future might be a good career move.
As they left the tent, Jupiter and Neptune met with a resounding crash and the downpour began in earnest.