As the evening truly closed in to night and the next watch sounded, Galronus began to form more of a plan. He would have to remain for the night, of course. And he would have to leave tomorrow. To stay too long was to tempt the fates. And he would have to be up as early as possible, for every hour in this camp would teach him things that could be of use.
Another hour of wandering, looking for likely places to hide out for the night, and he fortunately and gratefully happened upon a tent with a small cooking fire outside, a pot of some sort of stew bubbling up and a plate of bread, the owners temporarily absent. They would almost certainly be back any moment, so he hurriedly dipped half a dozen pieces of bread in the stew, tipped them onto a spare plate and ran off with them. It was neither the most filling, nor most exciting meal of his life, but it would stop the worst pangs of hunger and he devoured it with relish, hidden behind some other tent in the periphery.
He could do with more equipment. Perhaps a blanket or cloak, at least. Hurrying around the margins of the camp, he spotted a tent with sacks of grain stacked outside, legionaries busy ferrying it in for storage. Grinning, he hid himself and watched. It did not take long, and the eight men ambled off, rubbing sore muscles and complaining about officers who never had to dirty their hands or do a real day’s work.
Once they were gone, he moved to a better vantage point. The granary tents had two guards, legionaries who sat huddled under cloaks in the dark, for no naked flames were allowed this close to the dangerously combustible grain. Ignoring them, he moved around the back of the tents. They were well put together but left little gaps, for it was important to keep grain dry, but also well ventilated. It took only three slashes of his dagger to slip through the leather flaps. Twenty heartbeats later he was nestled at the rear of the tent among relatively comfortable grain sacks. Fifty heartbeats later he was asleep.
* * *
It was, Galronus reasoned as he clambered back from blessed slumber, a good thing that he did not snore like Fronto, who sounded increasingly like a distressed ox as he grew older. He had passed the night unnoticed and it was only as the front of the tent was opened and exhausted-sounding voices cursed some tribune called Gaetulicus that he truly woke. With great care and slowness, he picked his way back to the torn flap at the rear of the tent, listening intently. It was pre-dawn, but these legionaries had been allocated the duty of disseminating the grain ration to the various unit representatives who would collect it to bake bread for their tent mates’ breakfast.
Perhaps he was being overconfident, but Galronus actually grinned and chuckled to himself as he hurried away from the grain stores and paused to swipe a plate of cheese outside a tent. It was leftovers from the previous night and smelled like damp feet, but he ate it anyway and then stopped further along the same unit’s tent lines. There had to be a line between daring and foolish, and he was fairly sure he was starting to walk along it, but the opportunity was too good to resist.
A legionary had been removing rust spots from his chain shirt and had paused, perhaps for a latrine break, leaving the tell-tale barrel of rough sand with the gleaming shirt inside.
Galronus simply could not help himself. Praying to Sucellos and to Jupiter, which came as something of a personal surprise, that the legionary would not return too swiftly, he removed the shirt from the barrel and shook the worst of the sand from it.
Then he ran. He did not stop until he was among the tents of another legion and, though he raised the odd eyebrow on his journey, legionaries running with a chain shirt were not that surprising. He cleaned the rest of the sand off in relative safety and then donned it over his red tunic. As the first golden streaks appeared over the mountains to the east, he found a group of legionaries at a water trough, washing and shaving. Finding a shiny bronze plaque there that was being used as a communal mirror, he began trying to tidy up his tufty hair. He had barely begun before a burly soldier with a tattoo of a Capricorn on his forearm interrupted.
‘You’re going to end up with a gouge in your head like that. Give me your knife.’
Heart pounding, aware of the potential danger, Galronus did as asked, saying ‘thanks’ in as Italian an accent as he could manage. It was perhaps testament to just how much he’d lost his regional tones that the legionary clearly accepted it. He sat patiently as the big man trimmed down his hair into a standard legionary cut. When he’d finished, the man ,dipped the knife in the water and passed it back.
‘At least now you don’t look like some sort of rodent.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Galronus smiled. He spent a moment tidying his shaven cheeks and chin, then left, hoping despite everything that the big legionary came out of the coming days intact and healthy. Sometimes it was uncomfortable to be reminded that the enemy were all too human.
He wandered on as the day began to dawn, and the moment that changed everything came quite by chance. He happened to have wandered back close to the headquarters in the half-light of dawn and passed what appeared to be a temporary wooden shack guarded by legionaries. He had picked up a small pile of dirty tunics outside a tent and was carrying them with purpose, for the first rule of being invisible is to be clearly involved in something menial and uninteresting. As he passed the wooden building, a voice emerged from the door that was at once totally unexpected and horribly familiar. He actually jumped a little, and the pile of tunics fell from his hands scattering across the grass.
‘Pick ‘em up, idiot,’ grinned one of the guards, and Galronus did just that, slowly, carefully, keeping his face lowered as the owner of the voice emerged from the building. Labienus looked older than Galronus remembered. He was dressed only in an expensive tunic and boots, and with a towel around his neck, his hair wet. Another officer emerged who Galronus couldn’t quite put a name to, though he remembered him from Rome upon a time. A senator, perhaps.
‘I do not trust it,’ the second officer said, rubbing his own hair with a towel as he walked. Galronus hurriedly grabbed up the rest of the laundry. Four soldiers followed the two officers, their personal guard, but Galronus took care to follow on, apparently on his own business, but close enough to hear.
‘Pompey knows what he is doing,’ Labienus replied. ‘My only concern is how alike Caesar he can be. I worry that he will have some difficulty laying aside such power when the time comes.’
‘Caesar is sharp,’ the other man replied. ‘He may have fewer cavalry…’ Oh? Cavalry? Galronus’ ears pricked up. ‘…but Caesar has a solid history of being prepared for the unexpected. Look how strong he is despite what happened at Dyrrachium.’
‘We have six and a half thousand horse, Cato,’ Labienus said impatiently. ‘Caesar has at best a thousand. We will commit to the flank, and so will he. It is the way of things and he can do nothing else when he sees our formation. But through sheer numbers we will punch his horse aside and then fall upon the rear. It is far from foolproof, I will grant you, but it is a good, solid plan.’
‘Caesar’s army are clever. They are veterans.’
Labienus stopped suddenly, grasping at the other man’s elbow. Galronus almost walked into them, and had to skirt around the edge and walk on.
‘These are not the conquerors of Gaul, Cato,’ Labienus hissed. ‘Most of those veterans are either with us or have been retired or killed. This army is smaller, greener, hungrier and poorer than the great force we had in Gaul. Remember that you sat in the curia arguing, but I was there. I fought alongside King Caesar in Gaul and Belgica, and I’ve fought him in Illyricum. I know that of which I speak. They are not the same army. They can be beaten.’
Galronus was forced to keep walking. He was leaving them behind, but to stop would have aroused too much suspicion.
‘You think you can command the cavalry?’ Cato said uncertainly.
‘I shall. You just need to persuade him to commit to a damn fight.’
The rest was lost. Galronus was out of earshot and moving. A flanking attack with vastly superior cavalry. Gods, but it was importan
t for him to get back to Caesar now. Gaining the enemy’s watch word was impressive. Identifying their units might be useful. But to know the tactics the enemy planned to use? That could change everything. And Labienus was entirely correct. Six thousand against one thousand was too much. Unless Caesar could pull off the impossible, Pompey’s horse would flank the army and destroy them. Pompey’s plan was good.
Only one flaw in it: Galronus of the Remi.
The problem that remained was how to return to his own camp. For some time, he wandered again, noting things of minor interest, all of which were largely lost against the enormity of what he’d learned. Leaving the camp with a water detail would be much more dangerous than arriving with a tired and wounded one. And shortly the entire army would move out onto the slopes and parade in front of Caesar’s inferior force. Galronus could not go with them. He had no place in the lines and would likely end up unmasked. He contemplated losing himself among the scouts, but he was now attired as a legionary, and would have to change again, and very likely all the scouts knew one another.
Again, it was entirely chance that threw the opportunity into his lap. He passed the officers’ quarters of one of the newer legions, where the senior centurion was busy bellowing at someone in his tent. Outside, by the door, lay a nondescript leather satchel. A capsa, of the sort used by field medics. And by couriers…
He snatched up the satchel, slinging it over his shoulder as he ran. Finding a horse was more troublesome, and he needed one as a courier. He found the corrals of cavalry beasts easily enough. It took careful planning from there, though. He waited near the gate of the corral as a small crowd of native scouts argued with the equisio in charge of the beasts. Their argument, in some eastern tongue, became gradually more heated, and the officer stormed off into his tent in a huff, waving at three horses being brought by a soldier. The scouts also waved at the beasts, though rather derisively, and then followed the man inside. Still shouting.
Galronus again threw up a prayer for good fortune in the next few moments. He almost directed it at Fronto’s favourite Fortuna, but decided that he was all too readily letting go of his heritage, and instead implored sacred Epona, the lady of the horses, for her aid. Taking a deep breath, and aware that the argument raging in the tent was the only thing distracting them and buying him time, he helpfully opened the gate for the soldier, who thanked him and walked all three horses out. Galronus dutifully closed the gate and then reached out, grasping the reins of one of the three horses.
‘Sorry?’ demanded the legionary in confusion.
‘Time’s important,’ Galronus grunted, trying to force his voice into an Italian accent again. ‘General Libo needs these orders.’ He tapped the satchel for emphasis. The legionary looked all too uncertain, his nervous gaze darting to the tent where the argument was still in full swing.
‘I don’t…’
‘If there is a problem,’ Galronus said wearily, ‘tell your commander to speak to mine. Centurion Gobinius Adrastus.’
The legionary still looked unconvinced, yet he did not resist as Galronus plucked the reins from the man’s hands and nodded his thanks, walking the beast away. As soon as he was out of sight, Galronus mounted swiftly and rode the horse via a complex route towards the north, an area of the camp he had scouted last night where there was less activity that the south and east, which faced Caesar and the river.
As he moved out into the main Via Praetoria, he could see the north gate. As he’d hoped, it was already open despite dawn still being little more than an indigo glow. Wagons and beasts were already arriving, part of Pompey’s excellent supply system. Praying he managed this last stage safely, Galronus trotted his horse past the wagons and to the gate, where four legionaries peered at him in a bored manner as they checked the arriving carts one by one for anything untoward, surreptitiously syphoning off bits and pieces they could personally consume or sell.
Adopting a similar sense of ennui, Galronus reined in.
‘Where are you bound?’
‘North,’ he replied calmly. ‘Then east, to Byzantium.’
‘Long ride.’
‘With a lot of mansios and wine on the way,’ winked Galronus.
The soldier gave him the bitter look of a man condemned to battle while Galronus rode to safety. ‘Password?’
‘Hercules Invictus,’ Galronus said confidently.
The soldier nodded and waved on the lucky courier.
Galronus did not dare look back until he was away from the hill and on the flat ground. Nothing untoward was happening back in the camp. He had seemingly got away with it. He resisted the urge to laugh maniacally, and bent over the horse, riding around the northern edge of the next, higher hill. There he would meet the main Larissa road, and could turn south for home.
Two miles distant, he found a picket post by the side of the local road he travelled, though they let him pass without trouble when he gave the password. A second encounter with a small group of scouts was similarly easy and uneventful, and it was with vast relief that the Remi noble turned the edge of the hill and laid eyes upon the distant dark mass of Caesars camp.
It was full morning light when he finally approached the pickets outside the camp. The sun hung pensively over the eastern horizon.
‘Password?’ muttered the pickets suspiciously.
‘Hercules Invictus,’ Galronus said confidently, then laughed out loud at the men’s expression. ‘Oh, yes. Wrong one. Venus Venetrix.’
Still with narrow, suspicious eyes the pickets let him pass, though one of them escorted him to the camp gate, where he this time gave the correct password easily.
‘Name and unit?’ the centurion above the gate said carefully, even as the gates began to creak.
‘Galronus of the Remi, Praepositus in charge of allied cavalry under Prefect Volusenus.’
There was a brief, urgent confab, and the centurion leaned over the gate as the locking bar was removed inside. 'Galronus? Thank the gods. Legate Fronto has been giving us all earache for the best part of a day.’
* * *
‘Before you say anything…’
Fronto turned at the voice, his face drawn and pale with worry. ‘You mad, dangerous, stupid shitbag.’
‘I said before you say anything…’ Fronto took three paces and threw his arms around the Remi, who had the grace to look a little embarrassed at the episode. ‘Marcus, I’m sure you were worried but we’re both grown men, officers and warriors.’
‘I know that, you arsehole, and I’ve buried more friends than I care to remember, but you do not get to do that. Ever. You don’t vanish without word, and you don’t go off doing what I think you’ve been doing where I think you’ve been doing it.’
‘Men like Atenos…’ tried the Remi, but was mercilessly ridden down.
‘No. You don’t get to compare like that. It’s not the same. You are betrothed to my sister.’
‘And here was me thinking you were worried.’
Fronto’s expression slid more from worried to angry. ‘Don’t be bloody facetious. You know I was worried. But I’ve already lost Verginius on campaign. It took her decades to get over that. Can you imagine what she’d be like if I let you die? She’d never recover.’
Galronus nodded. ‘I recognise that it was perhaps selfish, Marcus. But the simple fact was that I saw an opportunity that may never have arisen again, and I had to go for it if we were to have any hope of getting through this.’
Fronto simmered for a while, fists still clenched, then nodded reluctantly. ‘In truth, I would probably have done the same. You went with the survivors back to Pompey’s camp?’
Galronus nodded. ‘I have learned things, Marcus. Things that can help us turn the tide.’
A hundred heartbeats later they were in the headquarters and the majority of the staff were there, called in for an emergency evening briefing. Caesar welcomed them all, and then opened the floor to Galronus, who cleared his throat and looked pensively around his audience. He had never a
ddressed such a meeting before. He was no Roman orator. And his dirty, crude look as an overly-hairy legionary did little to boost his appearance. Yet the moment he began, relating his combat first and how well the men had done, what needed to be looked at and what went well, he realised he was fine and his audience was rapt.
He went on to tell them of his sneaking into the enemy camp, his intelligence gathering on units and nationalities, his tense night, the password, which could be important, and finally the conversation he had overheard between Labienus and Cato. Fronto and Caesar shared a look with Marcus Antonius over the mention of their old political rival in Rome. Finally, he described his escape and flight.
A long, heavy silence followed, during which Caesar and Antonius seemingly managed a huge conversation with only their eyes. Finally, the general nodded and broke the silence, straightening.
‘Pompey has a good plan as to how to break us. It will take cunning and subtlety to counter that plan without giving it away too early. I believe I have an idea how to achieve that, but it will take excellent tactical skills, experience and timing, and I will require the very best from the best of my officers. However, in order to test their plan and any counter-plan I develop, we still need to bring Pompey down from that hill. Ideas, gentlemen?’
Salvius Cursor rose. ‘In Hispania, we had a similar reluctance from Petreius and Afranius, but the moment we moved to take a critical position, they committed in response.’
‘Quite so,’ Caesar replied, ‘but we have no such position to take this time. We might consider cutting off access to the river but there are streams to the north. They are smaller than the river and further afield, but they would keep him fed. No, I do not think we can trust to making a move and pushing him into it. It must be something else. Something that even the most recalcitrant senator with a voice in the staff might fall for.’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 29