The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto quailed under that gaze and found that he was nodding meekly, again without having consciously made that decision. Somehow without Galronus around to add a little strength to his backbone, he seemed to cave all the easier.

  ‘Now get your sorry backside back into that villa and put on a show of being an erudite, grateful and entertaining social host so that all this effort is not for nothing.’

  Fronto nodded again and watched as her eyes fell to the stain on his leg.

  ‘But go via the atrium and clean off that leg quickly in the impluvium pool. And it’s dripped on your shoes too, so change them for your spares - the soft ones, mind, and not those clod-hopping nailed military abominations.’

  Fronto managed to recover a little and smiled disarmingly. ‘Beloved, you need to lower your voice,’ he said in a quiet and calm fashion. ‘You’ll wake the boys.’

  ‘The boys,’ she replied in a dangerous tone, ‘are out for the night now. You exhausted them earlier, and don’t think I didn’t see you dipping your finger in the wine and rubbing it on their gums. I told you before that when I saw you do that again I would have you dipped in the horse trough and you could sleep in the stables for the night.’

  Fronto’s meek nod returned as his resistance drained. Things had been so different at the villa since Galronus had taken ship for Campania a month ago. He had lost his support and had never felt quite so exposed to feminine control. Damn the man!

  ‘Where were you going anyway?’

  Fronto swallowed. If he even dared mention the Dancing Ox, his favourite little tavern down in the city, he knew he would wake the next day with a world-shaking headache. ‘Erm…’ he said, his mind racing to try and find an acceptable reason to be out in the front courtyard in the dark of a Ianuarius evening.

  ‘I thought I heard horses,’ he rattled out, trying hard to sound convincing and, as he saw Lucilia narrow her eyes, he cupped his hand to his ear. Yes. Definitely. Running horses. A lifeline to grasp for.

  ‘You don’t think I would leave you alone tonight? I went to the latrines, but I was taking the long route back for fresh air when I heard them. Do you hear them?’

  Lucilia gave him another dangerous look. ‘Yes. Though unless they’ve been running on the spot for the last few minutes or you have developed godlike hearing, you are talking utter rubbish.

  ‘Shh…’

  Her eyes widened and blazed as Fronto put a finger to his lips and frowned, turning in the direction of the increasing noise of drumming hooves.

  ‘Don’t you dare…’

  This time, Fronto placed his finger on her lips and the look he shot her stopped her anger in its tracks. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘Those are cavalry, not civilians, and armoured, too.’

  ‘Really? Whose? Ours? Gauls? How do you know?’

  Fronto simply peered out into the night. The regular, syncopated drumming hooves of three riders who were familiar and comfortable with a shared pace. The sound of mail shirts shushing with the horses’ motion. The rattle of metal fittings, scabbards and helmets. Almost certainly Roman. If they were Gauls they were the more Romanized variety and using similar kit, but then there were tribes like that. Probably no threat, but then, as Lucilia had just reminded him, they were not actually within the republic’s bounds here.

  Wordlessly he crossed to a large plant pot from which grew a well-trimmed shrub and reached down behind it, into the narrow gap against the wall. With a measured breath he withdrew a plain, traditional soldier’s gladius and slid it from the scabbard.

  ‘When did you put that there?’

  Fronto, still peering off across the dark ground beyond the villa’s low wall, shrugged. ‘I have a few in handy hiding places.’

  ‘You’ll move them before the boys start walking,’ she hissed.

  ‘Lucilia,’ he replied, pressing his finger harder against her lips as he raised the sword ready, the thunder of hooves so close now their noise was almost deafening in the quiet night air.

  The figures resolved slowly as they rounded the small copse of trees that marked the edge of the villa’s grounds and the fork in the drive that separated the road to their home and that of Lucilia’s father. Fronto tried to pick out the details of the three men, but all he could tell was that they appeared to be cloaked and mailed and moving at pace. He hefted the blade again, glinting in the moonlight.

  The three horses pounded along the gravel road and through the gate. Fronto stared at these intruders. They could hardly be hostile, for their blades were still sheathed, but they were hairy, tangled, messy fellows, wrapped in travel cloaks and stained armour and…

  He frowned, and the furrowed brow slowly resolved into a wicked, dark grin. His sword lowered.

  ‘What in the name of seven fallen Vestals happened to you? You look like a hairy cow’s arse.’ Fronto leaned against the doorframe and shook his head with a grin. ‘No, no, no. You make a cow’s arse look good.’

  Priscus slipped from the horse and landed badly, almost falling. It was only then that Fronto saw through the hair and the dust and dirt of the journey and realised how bone-tired - how truly exhausted - and deadly serious his friend was. He straightened, allowing all humour to drain from him once more. The rather battered and scarred figures of Furius and Fabius on the horses behind bore that same look, which made Fronto swallow noisily as the pair slid from their saddles and joined Priscus, one of them shutting the gate behind him and securing the courtyard.

  ‘What’s up?’ Fronto breathed.

  Priscus straightened, stretched, and nodded to the villa’s master. ‘This city still have Caesar’s courier office?’

  ‘Of course.’ Now Fronto was worried. ‘Why?’

  ‘Then let’s get down there. I have to write a letter to the general and I’ll need your authority to get it sent expedited.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Preferably yesterday, but tonight will have to do.’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘The courier service doesn’t operate during the hours of darkness by Massilian law, just like any other business. It’ll have to wait ‘til first light tomorrow. Besides, I’ve seen you write letters. It’s like watching an ape reading Plautus: slow and painful. It’ll take most of the night for you to write it!’

  Priscus sagged a little. ‘Fronto, this is urgent.’

  Fabius and Furius walked their horses forward - on his nicely tended lawn, noticed Fronto - and the latter clapped his hand on his commander’s shoulder. ‘It’s been weeks, Priscus. One night more will make no difference.’

  There was a long pause and finally Priscus nodded. Fronto was about to reply with a cutting remark concerning their hirsute barbarian appearance when Lucilia stepped to his side, her eyes wide. ‘Gnaeus?’

  Priscus gave an exhausted smile. ‘Lucilia.’

  The young woman, immaculate and dressed in an elegant pale green chiton with gold accessories, jabbed Fronto so hard in the ribs he wheeled on her, his eyes bright.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Being a terrible host.’ She pushed open the front door, raised her voice and shouted inside. ‘Eudora? Send for the stable boy and tell him there are three horses here to groom, feed and then settle in. And tell the cook that we have impromptu dinner guests to add to our gathering. Three soldiers with, I suspect, very healthy appetites.’ As Fronto stood, flapping his lips wordlessly in the face of his wife’s stream of commands, her handmaid Eudora appeared. Lucilia went on without pause. ‘And make sure the furnace is stoked and the baths are clean. Make up three rooms in the south wing with fresh linen and water bowls, then send for Antinos and tell him there will be plenty of armour and weapons wanting cleaning and oiling.’

  Eudora nodded her understanding, clearly having somehow memorised a list of which Fronto had already forgotten all but the last two things, and scurried off.

  Fronto turned an embarrassed and faintly apologetic look on the guests and was about to speak when Lucilia hauled him inside.


  ‘Sorry for my boorish husband, Gnaeus… and you too, Lucius and Tullus. The Gods alone know how he manages with all the discipline and ritual of the legions, when he can’t even manage the simplest of courtesies at home.

  Fabius and Furius shared a look that Fronto caught and noted down for future reference when they pissed him off and he wanted an excuse. Priscus simply smiled.

  ‘I would dearly love to bathe and change clothes, I have to admit. I have not bathed since we passed through Narbo, and even that was a poor excuse for a bath. Sadly we are standing in all the clothes we own right now.’

  Lucilia shook her head. ‘Marcus has a small mountain of new tunics, boots, socks and so on that he never touches because they’re not ‘worn in and comfortable’. Apparently, ‘worn in and comfortable’ means shabby, dirty and almost past saving. Come in, you three, where it’s warm. The Ianuarius air is unusually temperate, but it still carries a chill. Since you’ve closed the gate, your horses can roam the lawn freely until they’re tended to. Would that Galronus and my dear sister in law were here to greet you, but they are back at Puteoli, with Marcus’ mother. Family business,’ she added with a sly smile.

  The three visiting soldiers stepped into the atrium, and Priscus narrowed his eyes, looking sidelong at Fronto as he scratched at several days’ growth of beard. ‘There’s trouble afoot, my friend. We are in the proverbial sewer and Jupiter just took a mountain-sized shit!’ He suddenly remembered their company and turned an apologetic look to Lucilia, who brushed it aside.

  ‘If you heard some of the filth my father and my husband come out with together over a few cups, you wouldn’t worry about a word like that.’

  ‘Priscus!’ hissed Fronto.

  ‘Sorry, yes. We were down at Gergovia among the Arverni, managing to set up deals and arrangements with a few of the native nobles who were apparently still pro-Rome when Gaul basically erupted next to us.’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘Our friend Vercingetorix - who we used to know as Esus - is on the ascent, Fronto. He took Gergovia with a force of loyal rebels and put all dissenters to the sword. We barely made it out alive, and we’ve been running ever since, heading for yourself and Caesar.’

  ‘Via Narbo?’

  ‘We overheard the Gaulish shi… scumbag… saying that they’d destroyed the mercantile station at Cenabum and cut the supply lines up there, so we couldn’t trust the Rhodanus valley. We came over the mountains and south. And it was a bugger of a trip, too. Have you any idea how high the passes are. There’s a lot of snow this time of year, too.’

  ‘Do you think it was just the first move in the game?’ Fronto hazarded. ‘Are they starting to pull things together at the moment, or do you think they’re already moving and putting their plan into action?’

  Priscus pursed his lips and regarded Fronto levelly. ‘What do you think? They’ve just taken over the Arverni by force, and they’re obviously allied with the Carnutes now, ‘cause it was them who flattened Cenabum. How long would they now have to plan before any tribes still allied to us took action? No. They must already have had most things in place before a move as overt as this. The big rising we’ve been expecting is already happening, and we’re totally unprepared, despite everything we’ve done.’

  The legate of the Tenth nodded his agreement as a slave arrived carrying a tray bearing two jugs and four cups, hovering expectantly. Fronto grabbed the tray and placed it atop the lararium - the altar to the household spirits - that stood close to the door. As the man scuttled off, Fronto poured four cups of wine and left the others to water their own, tipping barely a mouthful of dilutant into his own. He may have already spilled on his leg, but it was not through drunkenness.

  ‘If they are making their move, the bastard’s timed it nicely. Caesar’s in Aquileia, the legions are in the north, and the officers are scattered about either up there or on furlough down here. It’ll take time to pull everything together, and I’d be willing to bet that’s what the Arverni turd’s counting on.’

  Lucilia gave the four men an indulgent smile and excused herself, ducking back through into one of the interior rooms. ‘I shall just go and inform father of your arrival and explain to the others.’

  Priscus gave Fronto a questioning look and the legate shrugged. ‘Half a dozen knob-heads from the local government Lucilia wants me to brown-nose. I’ve half a mind to take you in to meet them like this. Would do them all good to see what a proper soldier looks like.’ He sighed. ‘But Lucilia would tear me a second arsehole for that. Anyway, before you bathe and meet politicians, back to the problem at hand.’

  ‘It may be a problem,’ threw in Fabius as he reached for the water and topped up his mug before draining it in one long gulp, ‘but we still have an advantage.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘On our journey we confirmed that the supply lines have been severed. No word has reached the south of anything strange, despite at least one major Roman depot burning. None of the merchants have returned from the north, either, and the traders in Narbonensis are already whispering of trouble and pulling out any interests they have upriver. Given that, it’s reasonable to assume that the rebels are sitting happy, believing that the legions and the general are both living in ignorant bliss of any trouble. But we do know. And soon, so will Caesar. Perhaps we can turn that unpreparedness into an advantage?’

  ‘But the general will still be mired down with Rome, surely? What with Pompey and Clodius and so on.’ Priscus frowned, and Fronto gave him a strange smile.

  ‘Of course, you won’t have heard! Clodius was killed in a scuffle on the Appian Way a month or so ago, and Pompey is winding his neck in a bit now, for fear of any flying blame sticking to him, since it appears Milo was involved. If ever Caesar had a lull to deal with Gaul, this is it. The timing is propitious and owes much to Fortuna.’ He took a gulp of wine and nodded. ‘I like your thinking, Fabius. Knowing more than the enemy believe you do is always an advantage.’

  As the four men swigged their drinks, a slave appeared, bowing. ‘The bath house is ready, Dominus.’

  Fronto nodded and gestured to the others. ‘Go and get yourselves cleaned up, then you can keep me sane while we entertain a few local donkeys, then when we’re done with that farce, we’ll sit down over a few cups and hammer out the details of this message to Caesar. The couriers can have the despatch with him in about four days, and I would lay bets that in the same amount of time again, the general will be at my door on his way north.”

  As the other three wandered off, following the slave to the baths, Fronto glanced back towards the door through which Lucilia had retreated.

  And that would give him little more than a week with her and the boys before the never-ending wars in Gaul drew him northwards once more.

  * * * * *

  The oppidum of Gergovia in Arverni lands.

  Cavarinos rubbed his chin reflexively. He’d had a thick beard tugged downward by a copper ring ever since he had grown to manhood, and it was taking some getting used to the absence of the same, his bushy, bristling moustache doing little to make up for its loss. He stole a sharp glance at his brother, Critognatos, who stood waiting, looking a little bored and fidgety, stroking his luxurious facial mop, and Cavarinos grunted irritably. He should never have shaved the damn thing off, but it had been the last straw when someone had mistaken him for his brother so thoroughly that he had been unable to convince them of their mistake. No, the beard had had to go for that reason alone. It was little consolation that he now looked more like most of the Arverni warriors, including their glorious leader. He’d liked his beard.

  Ripping his hand tetchily from his chin, Cavarinos settled his helmet on his head, considered tying the strap that joined the cheek-pieces, but realised how that would feel on his bristly chin and gave up, drumming his fingers on the pommel of the heavy sword at his side.

  ‘Can you hear Lucterius and his Cadurci warriors on the move already, while we sit here and wait?’ Critognatos snapp
ed angrily as he stomped over to the window and peered through the gap at the scene outside. Cavarinos could hear the assembled warriors waiting expectantly, horses snorting and stomping, mail shushing and metalwork clunking. It was irritating him too, but he was determined to draw as definite a line as possible between his brother and himself. Patience.

  ‘There’s no rush, brother. The Bituriges aren’t going anywhere.’

  Critognatos snorted, his face contorting into a boar-like snout of spite. That was better - now they did not resemble one another at all - and turned from the window.

  ‘We should not be fighting other tribes. We should be fighting Romans. The Gods have brought us to this place and time because they despise the Romans and their childish idols.’ He snorted again. ‘You’ve seen the statues in their temples… great God-fathers who look more like women-folk. Wearing togas’ - he spat the word with venom - ‘and carrying mere sticks. No wonder great Taranis waits to ride his chariot over the beaten body of their womanly Jupiler!’

  ‘Jupiter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Their Gods-father is called Jupiter. Or Jove, I believe. Not Jupiler.’

  Critognatos narrowed his eyes as he stormed across the room, waving an angry finger. ‘Who gives a shit what his name is? The important thing is for the great lord of Thunder to nail the bastard to a tree and tear out his innards.’

  ‘You do talk absolute bollocks, brother.’ Cavarinos curled his lip, calm in the face of the wagging finger. ‘The Gods have not brought us to this place and time for hatred of their Roman counterparts. The Gods have not brought us to this place and time at all! Vercingetorix’s leadership and charisma have brought us here, along with a healthy dose of desperation and anger among the other tribes and the underhanded dealings of those forest-shepherds the druids.’

  Critognatos made several warding signs against the displeasure of the Gods, glaring at his brother. ‘Without the Gods…’