Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  It was vexing, to say the least.

  With a deep sigh, the general collected his folding campaign chair from the small desk in the corner and placed it before the altar, opening it out. Supplicants may generally kneel or bow or prostrate themselves, but few supplicants could claim to be one of the leading figures in the greatest nation the world had ever known. Besides, he was no longer a young man, and a seated position was sensible for the sake of his joints.

  ‘Beloved Venus, mother and queen, I entreat you…’

  He paused. Was it an entreaty? Or simply a vow?

  A shrug. It was, of course, both… a deal of sorts.

  ‘My line is your line, Divine Venus Genetrix. My family is your family. My mother is your daughter. Yet our house ails and falters. Julia is gone, and with her any hope of a grandchild. Young Brutus could provide me with one, but to make that progeny claim public would tear down much of what I have built and bring shame upon his mother. Barring perhaps Antonius - who has his own demons with whom to wrestle - none of my collection of greedy, self-obsessed and degenerate cousins or nephews would be worth the time and effort of grooming.’

  He closed his eyes and rubbed the corners of them wearily.

  ‘Except possibly Atia Caesonia’s boy. The lad shows promise, even at only nine summers. Given what he seems to know of the world and its workings, he has the makings of a strong politician, and feasibly a commander of men. But he is still several years from taking the toga virilis, and I would see him grow into manhood and display some sort of sign that he is ready before I entrust the future of all that I strive for to him.’

  He sighed and opened his eyes, flexing his fingers.

  ‘And that, great Venus, is the crux of the matter. My family - your family - is in flux, and has no clear future. What is the point of my dragging our familia from poverty and obscurity to become the most prominent in the Republic if it all crumbles and falls to dust when I pass on to Elysium because there is no one suitable to follow? I would entreat you to watch over the Julii and to strengthen us, to clear out the chaff that fills the granary of your seed and leave us only the strong grain that forms the pure, healthy bread. If Octavian is to be the future - and my gut tells me he could be that one - give me a sign. If Antonius might be worthy - despite the distance in our lineage - let him leave behind the debauchery that has plagued him since his youth and stand tall on the shoulders of the devils that now ride him. And if Brutus…?’

  He straightened.

  ‘Great Venus, I have vowed to the senate and to the Roman people that I will bring to heel the rebel leader Ambiorix, who roused the tribes against us, killed Cotta and Sabinus and all-but obliterated the Fourteenth legion, and who even now remains at large. I have vowed his end to them, and now I vow it to you. In the name of vengeance and good Roman piety I will hunt down and destroy this snake that would ruin all that I have achieved, and with his demise, the senate and the people of Rome will throw their support behind me and our line will rise to heights undreamed of.’

  He reached out to the small table beside the altar and collected a pinch of the frankincense, depositing a small pile of it on the stone beside the Goddess’ heel. Grasping the taper that smoked on the stand, where the slave kept it permanently smouldering, he placed it among the powder and resin until tendrils of blue-grey smoke began to rise, filling the tent rapidly with the heady exotic scent.

  ‘Give me an heir, Divine Venus, mother of the Julii, and in return, I will give you Gaul.’

  With a long intake of breath he sat back and watched the smoke writhing about the statue. Collecting his small tablet and stylus from the stand, he quickly scrawled the promise - not an altar or a temple, but a whole province - to the Goddess, sealed the tablet and tied it in the age-old manner to her knee. He would start with a temple - perhaps at Vienna? Or Aquae Sextiae or Arelate perhaps. Somewhere civilised to begin with. Satisfied, he turned back towards the doorway that led into the headquarters.

  ‘Ten legions, you Belgic rat. Ten. With the auxilia, that’s almost a hundred thousand men. How long can you hide, Ambiorix of the Eburones? How fast can you run?’

  Chapter One

  The fast moving liburna leapt like a dolphin as it crested a particularly impressive wave. Fronto stood clinging to the rail with whitened fingers, grateful to the swells of the previous day that had ruined his appetite and left him with nothing inside to bring up. Instead, he retched empty breath out across the sea, his stomach flipping this way and that as the vessel once more descended into the trough and shuddered with the force of Neptune’s wrath.

  ‘Dearest, divine Fortuna, who I have loved and graced with my devotions these past decades, if you see fit to just drown me now and put me out of my misery, I will consider it your last blessing.’

  The ship bucked once more in answer and Fronto felt his foot slip for a moment.

  ‘I wouldn’t beg to drown now, Fronto. The worst of it’s over.’

  The sea-sick officer turned from the rail to examine the speaker and immediately wished he hadn’t. Marcus Antonius was striding up the deck as though out for an afternoon stroll in balmy sunlight. He had no grip on the rail, despite the dangerous rise and fall of the boards, since one hand was wrapped tightly round a greasy chicken leg and the other clutched a goblet that slopped and splashed with rich, unwatered wine.

  ‘How in the name of Bacchus you can drink anything while this ship jumps up and down like a startled horse is beyond me. And how you can…’

  His voice tailed off as the very thought of chewing on the wobbly, dripping chicken leg made every organ inside him turn over and pucker. By the time he had finished emptying himself of nothing yet again, Antonius was leaning beside him, watching the waves rise and fall as though it were a comic play. Damn the man.

  ‘Wine inures one to the motion of the ocean’ Antonius grinned. ‘And anyway, you should be thanking the Gods for our passage. See those lights ahead?’

  Fronto blinked against the salt spray.

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘Well I can. That’s Ostia, with its welcoming wharves, whorehouses and taverns. In less than an half an hour we make landfall and then we’ll be able to make the most of a thriving port town for the night before we move on.’

  ‘If we make it to the dock, just lie me down on the stone and turn me over every now and then so I don’t drown when I throw up.’

  Antonius laughed aloud and slapped Fronto on the back, bringing on a fresh bout of retching. ‘Keep your eyes locked on those lights and watch them grow as we approach. I’m going back inside to finish this rather delectable chicken, empty the last of the amphora and win all that remains of Rufio’s sparse coin before we dock and the thieves can try their luck on him.’

  He straightened, somehow miraculously staying upright as the ship crested a wave, hovered almost as though floating in the air, and then suddenly crashed back down into the brine with a jolt.

  ‘Want me to send out your wife? She’s complaining that she’s hardly seen you all voyage.’

  ‘Then she should have agreed to go by horse with me.’

  Again, the senior officer laughed and, turning, strode back towards the stern, where the party of travellers sheltered from the chilling, salty winds within the ship’s sturdy rear housing. Fronto watched him go with irritation.

  Antonius was an engaging and eminently likeable man. He had been good to Fronto and the ladies during the journey, and was a fine wit and a shrewd gambler, despite the fact that he was rarely to be seen without a cup in his hand and Fronto had yet to see him add water to his wine.

  Really, they would have been a good bunch to be travelling with, had he not spent the journey either standing at the rail and emptying his stomach contents into Neptune’s garden, or in the port taverns where they stayed the night, wishing he was dead and avoiding all temptation of food.

  Lucilia and Faleria travelled with them, as well as the sad and silent young Balbina, her father - the ageing former legate Balbus
- keeping the girls safe and busy. Palmatus, Galronus and Masgava had largely kept themselves to themselves, not wishing to intrude their selves into the business of the Roman nobility on board. In fact, the three seemed now to be as tight a group of friends as could be found anywhere, and Fronto somewhat resented his sea-sickness keeping him from their circle. Masgava seemed to be recovering from his dreadful stomach wound with disturbing alacrity. Apparently the sea air was helping. It wasn’t helping Fronto, that was for sure. It would be months yet before the big former gladiator could comfortably ride a horse or undertake any form of physical exercise, but he had been proclaimed safe and out of danger, and the big man had grinned like a lunatic when he’d learned he would now have a scar twice the size of any other on his much-battered torso.

  Most of the others were the usual bunch of Roman nobiles, stiff and formal and not greatly forthcoming. Volcatius, Basilus, Aristius, Sextius, Calenus, Silanus and Reginus had all passed the time of day here and there with Fronto, and Antonius had assured him that every man in the party of new officers was a highly competent military mind, but they had yet to make any sort of impression on Fronto, other than that of bored nobles.

  Rufio was a little less ordinary. Apparently the son of a freedman, he was a world apart from the nobs aboard, and yet he seemed to have found his place among them with consummate ease. Still, despite that, he managed to retain something curiously low-born in his manner that put Masgava, Galronus and Palmatus at ease in conversation with him too. Fronto had found him engaging and clever, and had quickly formed the opinion that if the man was as good a commander as Antonius claimed, he would go far in Caesar’s army.

  Caninius was one of the ‘new men’ of Rome - a self-made noble in the vein of Crassus or Caesar himself. By all rights, Fronto felt he should dislike the man, but found nothing about him that was wanting. Indeed, Caninius seemed not to miss a trick. He was aware of his surroundings to a level that surprised the others, and Fronto noted to himself that he would have to watch the man. If Fronto said the wrong thing at any time - something he was well aware that he was wont to do - he felt sure Caninius would retain the words.

  The other figure aboard had come as something of a surprise to Fronto. Cita, the former senior quartermaster of Caesar’s army, who had retired the previous year, had somehow been persuaded by Antonius to return to the general’s service. A year in the Campanian sun seemed to have done the man good. He had lost the worry lines, the darting eyes and the numerous twitches that had marked him throughout his former service, and seemed more at ease with himself. It had, however, made Fronto smile how the mere sight of him had brought back one little facial tic to Cita’s otherwise carefree face.

  Including himself, that made twelve veteran officers making their way back to Caesar’s service - more than enough to revitalise the army that Priscus had apparently found flagging. Of course they were still in discussion with Balbus as to his position. The old legate had stated his intention to stay at Massilia with the families and not proceed north to the army. Antonius had been very persuasive, and Fronto had found himself hoping that his old friend would change his mind, but a small part of him was grateful that when he went north a trustworthy friend - his father-in-law in fact - would have a watchful eye on the womenfolk.

  What Palmatus and Masgava intended to do was more of a mystery. The former legionary had shrugged and admitted that a return to his fairly impoverished lifestyle in the Subura would be dull to say the least, and had decided to accompany his employer north. The former gladiator still felt honour-bound to serve Fronto, despite having been granted his manumission some time back. Fronto felt sure that both men, solid martial characters that they were, would find a good place in the army. He would do everything he could to make sure that happened.

  Of course, given his recent history with Caesar, it remained to be seen whether he would succeed in securing a good place in that army for himself. Antonius had assured him he would take care of it, but with every mile that brought them back towards the general, Fronto felt his doubts grow that little bit.

  He returned to the mnemonic that he’d devised in order to remember the new officers:

  ‘Veteran Roman commanders sense calamity rising back at Samarobriva.’

  Volcatius, Rufio, Caninius, Sextius, Calenus, Reginus, Basilus, Aristius, Silanus. Funny how they spelled such a portentous phrase. Fronto had wondered for a moment whether divine Fortuna had a part in its devising.

  For the following quarter of an hour and more, Fronto tried to pick out something memorable about each officer as he ran through his mnemonic, attempting to keep his mind from the motion of the vessel and what remained of his stomach lining on the inside.

  Gradually, as he repeated by rote and peered into the spray, he spotted the lights that sharp-eyed Antonius had seen earlier occasionally dipping beneath the waves and then rising into the evening gloom. At least there hadn’t been a storm. The ship’s captain had been convinced a tempest was on the way and had flatly refused to sail until Antonius talked him around with honeyed words and a fat purse.

  The journey had been rain free, but the high, cold winds of late winter had turned the sea’s surface into something that resembled a relief map of the Alpes, and the journey had been far from comfortable.

  He watched with growing relief as the diffuse orange blooms gradually resolved into distinguishable lights glowing in windows and the shipping beacon on the end of the dock, and slowly the buildings of Ostia began to take shape in the purple blanket of evening. Finally, as the ship bucked ever closer to the city, he began to make out individual figures on the dock and sighed with happiness. Antonius had promised a stop-over of a few nights in Ostia before Caesar’s trireme took them north to Gaul. Apparently the man had business to attend to in Rome before they left, and he would have to meet up with Caesar’s agents to pick up any new information.

  As they rounded the breakwater and made for the river and the dock that sat beside it, the waves fell to blessedly low levels and the ship settled, leaving Fronto feeling surprisingly disorientated with its deceptive calm. He gripped the rail as the ship closed on the dock and forced himself to stand upright and look military, rather than preparing to leap over the side onto land in order to kiss the stonework like a long lost lover.

  Ostia slid closer and closer until a thump that made Fronto scrabble to maintain his grip on the rail announced that they had docked. The crew of the liburna ran back and forth securing lines and running out a ramp, and Fronto finally let go of the rail and attempted to walk on unstable, wobbling legs towards the plank. The other passengers emerged smiling and laughing from the rear housing and converged on his position, Balbus and the ladies leading the way.

  Lucilia gave him what she probably thought was a smile, but put him more in mind of a predator weighing up whether its prey was worth the effort. Faleria had much the same look, but Fronto knew her well enough to recognise she was well aware of her expression and had cultivated it on purpose.

  ‘Gods,’ he thought to himself in a moment of dreadful realisation and with a wicked smile, ‘I’ve married my sister!’

  ‘What are you laughing about, chuckles?’ Lucilia asked, raising an eyebrow as they approached the ramp.

  ‘Nothing. Just making sure I got today’s good mood out of the way before I had it forcibly ripped from me.’

  ‘Don’t be so over-dramatic Marcus. Sea travel always makes you so cranky.’

  ‘It would make you ‘cranky’ too if you’d turned inside out once an hour and not eaten in three days.’

  ‘Well we’re having a stop-over here. Dear Antonius has agreed that we can stay as long as we need to in order to pay our proper respects to mother, on the proviso that Caesar has no urgent demands.’

  ‘Good. Maybe by the time we put back out to sea I’ll have had sufficient time on land to recover enough to eat a piece of bread. Extra fuel for sickness on the next leg.’

  ‘Oh do stop complaining and lead us down the ramp
.’

  Fronto glared at his young wife and turned, stomping angrily down the ramp. She was right, of course. Lucilia was rarely anything but loving and courteous, but sea travel made him tetchy even at the best of times, and the knowledge that her new husband was about to abandon her for months on end and march off to war had done little to raise her spirits.

  He forced himself to calm a little. He was being selfish and he knew it. Lucilia was facing her first summer of married life alone - apart from her sister-in-law and father - and even before then they were about to visit the tomb of her recently-deceased mother. He mentally chided himself for not having smiled straight away.

  ‘Marcus Antonius?’

  Fronto blinked as he turned his attention from the beautiful young woman behind and to the source of the voice. On the dock, amid the working sailors and dockers, stood a man in the uniform tunic and cloak of a military officer, though lacking weapons and armour. He was a tall man with a pinched, mouse-like face and a twitching nose. His thinning hair was a strange mix of blond and grey.

  ‘No,’ Fronto replied. ‘Antonius is back up there.’

  Stepping off the ramp and holding out his hand for the ladies to alight, he watched until Antonius appeared at the rail. ‘That’s your man,’ he noted to the tall soldier.

  ‘Marcus Antonius?’ the man repeated, this time up to the deck.

  ‘That would be me,’ Antonius replied. Without waiting for the ramp to clear, the somewhat inebriated commander simply stepped up onto the rail and leapt down onto the dock. Fronto stared as the man made a hard landing which probably jarred every bone and organ in his body. A fall like that could have broken his leg!

  Antonius grinned, his cheeks flushed. ‘Marcus Antonius, lately cavalry commander for the Proconsul of Syria and now aide to the Proconsul of Gaul.’ He stopped, frowning as his gaze focused on the tall man. The newly arrived officer stepped back suspiciously, his gait reminding Fronto of a crane fly. ‘Hirtius?’ Antonius hazarded.