The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Caesar nodded.

  “There will, of course, have to be a great deal of reorganisation this winter. We may even need to delay our campaigns next year.”

  “Next year?”

  “Of course,” Caesar smiled. “The lands of the Gauls and the Belgae are ours, but there’s bound to be trouble with the Germans; or the Britons, or even the Aquitanii. We’ve stamped our presence here, but we’re far from done.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Then the legions will be wintering in Gaul?”

  Caesar turned to the great map of the northern lands on the wall of the tent behind him.

  “Given the flighty nature of tribal politics and the newness of accords between us, I intend to keep the army close to the areas of activity this year. Labienus has concluded some solid treaties. I, myself, would have given less on our side of the treaty and taken more from theirs, but the result is not unsatisfactory. As part of his work, he intends to leave a caretaker garrison of one cohort at Nemetocenna.”

  His hand strayed west across the map.

  “Crassus claims to have pacified the northwest. Hopefully he has been thorough and things are settled, but there is always the possibility of reprisal attacks and uprisings, and I don’t like not leaving Crassus entirely unmanaged. So, most of the army will be picking up the stray cohorts at Nemetocenna and heading to the west, to Vindunum in the land of the Carnutes, where Crassus’ force will rejoin them.”

  Fronto nodded, frowning.

  “So you’re leaving only Labienus’ one cohort among the Belgae?”

  Caesar sighed and an irritated look passed across his face.

  “One of the things Labienus has agreed with the Belgae is that we will not station a large military force within their lands, only the caretaker garrison there. However, a force at Vindunum can be anywhere in northern or western Gaul, or in Belgae territory, in a matter of weeks.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “He has also arranged for a number of fairly beneficial trade agreements with the Belgae but, if I am to make the best of this, I will need to open a major trade route from Cisalpine Gaul across the mountains and down to Vesontio. The current route that runs up the Rhone is too slow and long.”

  He tapped at the southern edge of the map, where a deep pass was marked across the Alps between Lake Geneva and Cisalpine Gaul.

  “The straightest route for trade would be through this pass, starting at the oppidum of Octodurus, capital of the Veragri tribe.”

  Balbus frowned.

  “That’s a bad area, general. Some of the braver merchants already use that pass, but it’s rife with bandits and the Veragri levy unreasonable tolls to cross through their lands. That’s why everyone goes along the coast into Narbonensis and up the Rhone.”

  “Indeed,” the general nodded. “That’s why I’m going to install a garrison at Octodurus. I thought the Twelfth. They distinguished themselves in battle this year.”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “General, there’s hardly anything left of the Twelfth!”

  “Yes,” the general agreed, “but they should only have to keep down banditry along the pass, and I’m intending to levy new troops in Cisalpine Gaul as time and money allow. The Twelfth will be close, so the reinforcements can join them in short order.”

  Fronto continued to shake his head.

  “I don’t like it, Caesar. It’s dangerous. If anything goes wrong and trouble flares up, the Twelfth will be undermanned and on their own. The rest of the army will be several hundred miles away.”

  The general smiled.

  “Fortunately, Fronto, I do not require your permission to do these things. That is the disposition of the legions then: the Twelfth at Octodurus, one cohort at Nemetocenna, and the rest in the west at Vindunum. As new troops are levied, they will be sent to the legions, starting with the Twelfth, to bring the numbers back up, hopefully to paper strength, though I will set one of my lieutenants to the task, for I shall be needed in Rome.”

  Fronto caught the look on Sabinus’ face. The staff officer clearly knew the task was destined for him. He suddenly realised Caesar was watching him intently.

  “General?”

  “Are you bound for Rome for the winter, Fronto, or to some drinking and whoring pit on the edge of the civilised world?”

  Fronto grinned.

  “There are plenty of uncivilised drinking and whoring pits at Rome, general. Yes, I think it’s time to visit the family.”

  “Good. Then we shall travel together.”

  Fronto continued to look at the general, the smile plastered across his face, nodding jovially while, inside, the prospect of travelling the best part of a thousand miles with the general and his entourage made his very soul cry out.

  “That would be nice, sir.”

  Willing his smile to stay there, he turned to Balbus and Sabinus, both straight faced and avoiding his gaze.

  “I take it we’re not leaving immediately?”

  Caesar shook his head.

  “A few days. Very well, gentlemen. I think we’re done here.”

  The three officers stood, saluted, and left the tent, heaving sighs of relief as they stepped out into the air. Fronto stretched.

  “You two coming for a drink? I need a drink.”

  Balbus laughed.

  “I’ll bet you do. Get the amphora open. I’ll be along very shortly.”

  Sabinus nodded.

  “Since we’re going to be departing shortly, perhaps we ought to get all the officers together for a send off?”

  Fronto grinned.

  “I’ll get the wine. You get the company.”

  As Balbus and Sabinus strode off about their business, Fronto called in quickly to see Cita. He couldn’t be bothered to argue with the quartermaster and simply paid him above the odds for a large quantity of wine to be delivered to the legate’s tent.

  “You know you never invite me to these sessions, Fronto?”

  The legate grinned.

  “Maybe if you stopped complaining at me…Half an hour. My tent. Bring money and be prepared to lose it.”

  Leaving the man with his wagons, he strode across to his own encampment, the guards saluting him as he passed through the gateway. More salutes and polite greetings met him as he walked up the decumana to his tent. The atmosphere in the camp had improved no end since news had spread of Priscus’ rapid recovery.

  Smiling at the guards around the principia of the Tenth as he approached, Fronto frowned. A centurion he vaguely recognised was standing by the tent flap.

  “Can I help you, centurion?”

  The man, middle aged and surprisingly rosy and large for a combat officer, saluted.

  “May I speak to you, legate?”

  Fronto shrugged and, throwing aside the tent flap, made his way inside. The centurion waited for a moment for a command and, receiving none, also shrugged and made his own way in. Fronto, in no mood to stand on ceremony, collapsed to his bunk, where he sat, removing his boots and sighing with relief.

  “So. I know your face, centurion. First cohort, yes?”

  The man grinned. His smile was infectious, like a happy puppy, and Fronto realised that he was smiling himself without intending to. Idiot. He forced a straight face. In front of him, the centurion unbuckled his helmet and placed it beneath his arm. Removing the padded cap that protected him from chafing exposed his pink, shiny head; not a hair to be seen. Fronto struggled to keep his face straight.

  “I am Servius Fabricius Carbo, centurion of the First Cohort, Second Century.”

  Fronto sighed and fell back on his bunk.

  “Ah… this is about promotion. I see.”

  Carbo smiled. It was, Fronto noted, a confident and knowing smile. There was apparently more to this shiny, pink, chubby officer than at first there seemed.

  “In a manner of speaking, sir. Essentially, I have taken the liberty of promoting myself.”

  “What?” Fronto gripped the bunk and tur
ned his head.

  “Sir, the primus pilus has been out of action for a long time now. The legion has to have a chief centurion. I am the second most senior man in the legion and the obvious choice for the position. I am quite capable of the job and, frankly, since you and Priscus were such good friends, it’s going to be very unpleasant for you trying to organise his replacement, which is, I assume, why it’s taking so long.”

  Fronto stared at the man.

  “What if Priscus can retain his position?”

  Carbo shook his head.

  “You know that’s not going to happen, sir. You’re in denial. That’s why I have to take charge.”

  “What?”

  Fronto’s voice had gone up an octave and yet, inside, he realised this was not so much through anger, but more a mixture of shock and regret.

  “Legate, you’ve lost two senior centurions this year. More than that, I’m very well aware that they were two of your best friends. The reason the Tenth works so well and functions beyond all expectations is that the officers know each other well and work well together. You need people like Priscus and Velius who will talk straight to you…” he smiled that infectious smile again “… and even down to you, when necessary. You need that as much as the Tenth needs you.”

  As Fronto watched, his mouth hanging open, Carbo jabbed his vine staff into the ground, hung his helmet on it, strolled over to the cabinet where the last of Fronto’s current wine store was, and poured two cups.

  “Drink.”

  Fronto stared at the cup and then took it, dumfounded.

  “You presume a great deal, Centurion Carbo.”

  The shiny pink face split into that wide grin again.

  “Servius if you prefer sir, when we’re alone, but Carbo’s fine if you’re uncomfortable with it.”

  Fronto took a deep quaff from the cup and stared over the rim at this incredibly insolent man. His face split into a smile.

  “I think we’ll get on just fine, Servius. But there’s a condition attached to the position.”

  Carbo nodded professionally.

  “And that would be?”

  “Finding an excuse for me not to travel back to Rome with the general.”

  Carbo smiled and refilled his commander’s cup.

  “Rome? Now? Not a hope, Marcus. You’ll be busy here for a while. I have some new schedules, promotions, budgets and so on. And we have to select a new training officer. And of course, you need to be here during the hand-over between Priscus and myself. Oh, no. You could be here for weeks.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “I was hoping you’d say that. A lot of the senior officers will be here shortly, with enough wine to float a trireme. I think it’s time they met you.”

  He raised an eyebrow humorously.

  “Can you play dice?”

  * * * * *

  The light of the oil lamps and the fire in the hearth cast dancing golden waves around the shadowy interior of the room. Crimson drapes covered the leaded windows and one had to squint to pick out even the most basic detail on the intricate wall paintings. From the corner of the room in deep shadow, a strong hand reached out, a gold signet ring on the little finger, and collected the jewelled glass from the small table.

  Publius Clodius Pulcher raised his own glass in salute to his shadowy companion and took a quick drink, frowning at the taste.

  “I distinctly remember telling Appio to get the best Falernian. I suspect he bought a cheap substitute and pocketed the change. I shall have him flogged until he is unrecognisable.”

  The hidden figure rumbled and chuckled in a deep voice.

  “You will set a dangerous precedent by punishing a man with vision and a taste for profit. Most governors and senators are no better.”

  Clodius smiled; a crocodile smile.

  “Perhaps. You’ve heard that, despite my best efforts, Cicero has returned from exile?”

  “Yes. He will likely pick up where he left off in his attempts to prosecute you.”

  Clodius laughed.

  “I have taken the first step there. I had him attacked and beaten on the Clivus Scauri yesterday. We also wrecked his house and burned down that of his brother. I trust now that he will think twice before bringing up old cases.”

  There was another deep laugh from the shadows.

  “Burning down his brother’s house may have been a mistake. The younger Cicero commands one of Caesar’s legions and the man has already set his sight on you.”

  Clodius shook his head dismissively.

  “Caesar is a jumped up little fish trying to command a pond full of pike. He seems to think he’s invincible, but I assure you, he’s not. I have several people quite close the general, some of whom are somewhat disaffected with him. I am aware of every move he makes, often before he’s made it. No; Caesar’s not a worry to me. My sister… now she’s a worry. I have to find a way to contain her and dampen down her more excessive desires.”

  The shadowy figure laughed once more and replaced the glass on the table.

  “I had best leave. Terentius’ play will finish presently and there will be comment if I am not seen to stand and applaud at the end.”

  As Clodius nodded respectfully, the figure stood in the shadowy corner and wrapped the toga more tightly about himself.

  “As always, this conversation never took place. I was never here.”

  Clodius nodded again, leaning back on his couch.

  “Enjoy the post-theatre party.”

  “I shall,” the visitor yawned, “as much as possible. Remember: be careful. And, regardless of what you say, watch Caesar. He may yet surprise you.”

  Clodius took another sip of wine as the figure left the room. Moments later he heard the door open and close and he was alone once more. Grinding his teeth, he flung the glass at the fire.

  “To Hades Caesar. Damn the man.”

  End

  Full Glossary of Terms

  • Actuarius: Clerks, both civil and military. In the legions, Actuarii existed from the very top command levels, down to century levels, where excused duty soldiers served in the role.

  • Ad aciem: military command essentially equivalent to ‘Battle stations!’

  • Amphora (pl. Amphorae): A large pottery storage container, generally used for wine or olive oil.

  • Aquilifer: a specialised standard bearer that carried a legion’s eagle standard.

  • Aurora: Roman Goddess of the dawn, sister of Sol and Luna.

  • Bacchanalia: the wild and often drunken festival of Bacchus.

  • Burial Club: A fund looked after by the standard bearer that each legionary pays into to cover costs of funerals and monuments to fallen colleagues.

  • Caligae: the standard Roman military boot. A sandal-style of leather strips laced to above the ankle with a hard sole, driven through with hob-nails.

  • Capsarius: Legionary soldiers trained as combat medics, whose job was to patch men up in the field until they could reach a hospital.

  • Carnarium: a wooden frame covered in hooks for hanging sides of meat.

  • Civitas: Latin name given to a certain class of civil settlement, often the capital of a tribal group or a former military base.

  • Cloaca Maxima: The great sewer of republican Rome that drained the forum into the Tiber.

  • Contubernium (pl. Contubernia): the smallest division of unit in the Roman legion, numbering eight men who shared a tent.

  • Cornu: A G-shaped horn-like musical instrument used primarily by the military for relaying signals. A trumpeter was called a cornicen.

  • Corona: Lit: ‘Crowns’. Awards given to military officers. The Corona Muralis and Castrensis were awards for storming enemy walls, while the Aurea was for an outstanding single combat.

  • Curia: the meeting place of the senate in the forum of Rome.

  • Cursus Honorum: The ladder of political and military positions a noble Roman is expected to ascend.

  • Decimation: the worst (and
fortunately rarest) form of Roman military punishment, saved generally for insurrection or cowardice of a whole unit. The entire unit would be lined up; the officer would walk down the line and mark every tenth man, who would then be beaten to death by his comrades.

  • Decurion: 1) The civil council of a Roman town. 2) Lesser cavalry officer, serving under a cavalry prefect, with command of 32 men.

  • Dolabra: entrenching tool, carried by a legionary, which served as a shovel, pick and axe combined.

  • Duplicarius: A soldier on double the basic pay.

  • Equestrian: The often wealthier, though less noble mercantile class, known as knights.

  • Equisio: A horse attendant or stable master.

  • Foederati: non-Roman states who held treaties with Rome and gained some rights under Roman law.

  • Fossa: Defensive ditches, such as those constructed round a Roman camp or fort.

  • Furca: T-shaped pole carried by legionaries which held all their standard travelling kit.

  • Gaesatus: a spearman, usually a mercenary of Gallic origin.

  • Galician: Breed of horse from the north of the Spanish peninsula, strong, hardy and short, bred from a mix of Roman and native Iberian horses.

  • Gladius: the Roman army’s standard short, stabbing sword, originally based on a Spanish sword design.