The conquest of Gaul was exerting a high price indeed.
He stared out across the bay toward where he presumed Darioritum to be and willed the trireme on as fast as he could.
* * * * *
Fronto paced and fretted.
“For Juno’s sake, sit down! You’re giving me a headache.”
Brutus pointed meaningfully at the bench next to him and raised an eyebrow at Fronto.
“Can’t relax until I hear the medicus’ opinion.”
“I know, but he’s not going to work any faster just because you’re wearing a rut in the turf.”
He watched as Fronto kicked at a tuft of grass in irritation and tried to identify a way to turn the legate’s mind to a different subject.
“I expected you to explode at Caesar. At least an argument.”
Fronto stopped pacing and glared at him.
“He’s the general. It’s his game, so let him choose his rules.”
Brutus was beginning to worry. Fronto being argumentative and out of sorts was normal Fronto. Fronto being acquiescent and submissive was a disturbing sight. They had arrived at Caesar’s hastily-erected headquarters tent less than an hour ago. The oppidum was being systematically cleared and searched by the Eleventh and Thirteenth legions prior to becoming a temporary encampment but in the meantime, Caesar had needed somewhere to debrief with his officers and the temporary camp prefect had responded by providing a tent near the docks.
As soon as they’d landed on the jetty, Balbus had been taken off his hands by one of the capsarius that was working nearby and escorted to another hastily-raised surgical tent where the chief medicus could check him over. Fronto had refused to attend Caesar and had gone with Balbus, only to find that the medicus would not admit him. Angrily, he had raged impotently for a few minutes and then rejoined the officers at the general’s tent.
There had been surprisingly few casualties at Darioritum, given the scale of the operation, and Caesar had been in an uncharacteristically good mood, offering a great deal of praise to most of those involved, and particularly to Fronto, Brutus and the absent Balbus. Fronto had all but ignored the compliment, staring glassily into a dark corner, his mind elsewhere.
The news of Caesar’s designs for the Veneti had met with varied responses. The execution of the leaders was to be expected, given the fact that they had risen in revolt against Rome after having accepted terms only the year before. Examples had to be made and every officer knew the value of that, but the decision to ship the rest of the tribe: men, women and children indiscriminately, off to Rome to the slave markets had been more of a surprise.
Given the current objective of Romanising the Gauls, depopulating an entire region was perhaps working against their goal. The idea had been popular in some circles, though. The profit from the mass slave sales would be passed down from the general to the officers and men of the army. A legionary with a cash bonus was a happy legionary, regardless of the source of the money. Brutus had been less enthralled with the decision and had prepared for a huge outburst from Fronto. Indeed, he had not been alone. Most knowing eyes turned to the commander of the Tenth at the news, but Fronto nodded blankly, staring into the shadows.
The entire meeting had taken less than half an hour and then Brutus had accompanied the worried legate as he had left the command tent, striding across the grass while officers and men went about their assorted business, rank upon rank of Veneti captives being roped and penned ready for their long journey to permanent servitude. On the high walls of the oppidum, close to the main gate, the leaders of the Veneti were being crucified on ‘T’ shaped posts, where they would remain until exposure or carrion feeders took their last breath from them, or until Caesar relented and decided to grant them a quick death by the sword.
And now, for the last twenty minutes, they had stayed outside the tent of the chief medicus on Caesar’s staff, Brutus sitting in a gloom of his own while Fronto paced and grumbled.
“Fronto!”
The pair of them looked up at the call. Crispus, the young legate of the Eleventh, was making his way toward them alongside an officer Fronto didn’t recognise. The worried legate waved a hand half-heartedly in greeting.
“How’s he doing?” Crispus asked as they reached the bench, his voice full of concern.
“How the bloody hell would we know?” Fronto barked irritably. Crispus drew back in surprise, his companion’s face registering the same expression.
“Sorry” Brutus apologised for him. “The medicus won’t let him in.”
Fronto glared at them.
“Look,” Crispus said quietly, “I know that you’re vexed. As soon as you have seen the medicus, we are going to take you into the city and find a purveyor of alcohol where we can let you drown that sorrow.”
Fronto shook his head silently, still pacing.
“It wasn’t an offer, Fronto. It was a statement.”
Fronto rounded on him, a finger raised, and opened his mouth, just as the tent flap opened. The four men attending outside looked up apprehensively.
“Legate Balbus is resting.”
“Out of the way.”
As Fronto tried to push the medicus aside, the man stood firm in the doorway until the other three officers pulled the struggling legate back into the open. Fronto rounded on the unknown officer, a pale, thin, serious looking fellow with straight black hair.
“These two can get away with that.” He raised his hand threateningly. “You I don’t know, and you’d better be on first name terms with the Styx boatman if you ever touch me again.”
Crispus hauled Fronto around.
“This is Lucius Roscius, your fellow legate from the Thirteenth. Roscius, don’t mind Fronto, he’s just a little upset right now.”
Fronto turned a withering glare on them and then swung back to the medicus, who was standing rigid and blocking the doorway.
“Let me in.”
“No, legate Fronto. Your friend is resting and may well already be asleep. I have administered a mixture of henbane and opium to induce extended rest. If he is strong enough, I will allow you to visit tomorrow morning. He will not be disturbed or moved now until tonight when he can be carefully transferred to a safe, hygienic, building in the oppidum.”
Fronto glared at the medicus and Brutus frowned.
“So what is your diagnosis?”
“I have let his blood in appropriate quantities and slowed the flow with mandragora. The symptoms I have had described to me are consistent with a condition Galen noted, and the physical evidence supports that diagnosis. If there are no complications of which I am unaware, legate Balbus can prevent further attacks of this kind with a careful regimen of diet, light exercise and a calm environment that is not too wet and earthy, since his black bile is, I fear, in excess. There should also be periodic bloodletting to help restore the balance of the humors and bring the black bile back down.”
Fronto shook his head angrily.
“He doesn’t need cutting. They did that to my dad and it made no difference.”
The medicus glared at him.
“Do not presume, legate, to lecture me on medicine. I know nothing of your father’s progression, but I am entirely confident in my diagnosis. You may visit tomorrow morning.”
Without a further word, he turned and retreated into the tent. Fronto lunged for the doorway, but Brutus stepped into the way.
“Come and have a drink. You need it, whether you want it or not.”
Grasping the shoulder of the grumbling legate, Brutus turned him away from the tent. Almost as though a spell were broken when he lost sight of the leather door flap, Fronto took a deep breath and gripped and released his hands a couple of times.
“Yes. Wine. Or possibly even Gaulish beer. Preferably by the cask, in either case.”
As the four men strode toward the oppidum’s gate, Fronto turned to the pale young man in the burnished breastplate to his left.
“Sorry. Rude of me. Not your fault. I guess we
met in Rome?”
Roscius smiled, an odd sight on his grave, alabaster face.
“I had the honour of accompanying Caesar to your home on the Aventine, yes, legate, though we had no opportunity to speak then.”
Fronto nodded.
“Good thing really. I don’t think I was a very courteous host that day. But then, I was piss wet through.”
Roscius smiled again.
“I believe you merely corrected bad manners among your guests. No gentleman could find fault with that.”
Fronto gave a weak smile, his first in hours.
“I think I like you, Roscius.”
“High praise indeed” the man said, his face straight, but a twinkle in his eye.
Fronto laughed as the four officers approached the gate of Darioritum.
Balbus had been one of his best friends these past few years, but it was occasionally driven home into his gloomy consciousness that there were more people he relied on in this army than the legate of the Eighth. A small collection of good friends always seemed to be on hand whenever he needed them.
The oppidum was eerie. The entire population of Darioritum had been rounded up, along with the other Veneti refugees, and placed in guarded stockades nearby. The town itself stood hollow and empty, like Carthage after Scipio was done with it. The only signs of life were the occasional contubernium of legionaries, performing a secondary sweep of the buildings, and the occasional moans of the crucified leaders on the wall.
The gate remained intact, the huge portal standing open; a testament to how easily the Roman force had stormed the oppidum.
“I’m not sure I like the ‘Carthage’ solution. When we occupy a Gallic oppidum, there’s usually local merchants and innkeepers still there to serve us afterwards. That’s how it goes: we beat them, but then we invite them to become part of our empire and we pay them for their services appropriately. It’s all good… but when they’re systematically extinguished, it feels wrong.”
Crispus nodded sagely.
“It is an old-fashioned response. And brutal, I admit. However, in terms of inn keeping, I fear I have frequented enough establishments these days to have a strong grasp of what is required. Let us find a tavern and I shall serve the drinks.”
Fronto smiled at him.
“You, Crispus, are a constant source of support to a weary old soldier.”
“Sir?” a strong voice called out from behind.
The four men turned together to see Atenos, chief centurion of the Second cohort in the Tenth legion, striding after them.
“Centurion?”
“Legate, I have a message for you.”
Fronto nodded “Go on then?”
The huge Gallic centurion held out his hand. A neat scroll tube lay in it.
“Oh, a written message. Alright.”
As he grasped it, he frowned.
“This has come from Priscus in Rome. He doesn’t let other people handle these?”
Atenos shrugged.
“I wasn’t about to let the courier disturb you now, legate. I may have made him soil his breeches before he agreed to hand it over, though.”
Fronto stared.
“Anyway, Atenos… I’ve been hearing stories about your performance since we parted. What the hell did you think you were doing?”
The big Gaul shrugged.
“Training, sir.”
With a salute, he turned and strode off. Fronto shook his head.
“That man is going to either make or break the Tenth. I’m not sure which, but I’m certainly glad he’s on our side.”
A chorus of chuckles greeted the comment and the officers ambled on through the main street until they spotted, not far along, a tavern sign hanging over a low, oaken building.
“That’ll do.”
As they made their way into the murky interior, Crispus trotted lightly over to the bar area and began to look up and down behind it.
“They’ve got some fairly potent looking brews here; the smell is curling my nose hair. There’s some wine here, though. Looks like its come all the way from Gallia Narbonensis. Could be just the thing to relax you, Marcus.”
As Fronto wandered across to the table by the window and sank into a chair, Brutus gathered other seating from around the bar where it had been overturned and Roscius, an intrigued frown on his pale brow, walked across to the bar to help Crispus.
“You actually drink the local brews?”
“Indeed, yes. Try them… you might be surprised. I’ve grown quite accustomed to them. When we returned to Rome in the winter, I had to pay an emperor’s ransom to import beer from Vesontio. Imagine that: importing Gallic goods to the capital.”
As the two men laughed and went along the kegs, Fronto undid the scroll case and unrolled the letter.
Marcus.
I do not know where to begin. Things are beginning to fall apart in Rome. I would be careful how you pass this on, but the elder Cicero has been before the senate a few times, attacking Caesar’s various bill and achievements. Not sure why or what he hopes to achieve, but he is definitely stirring up trouble for the general.
Clodius appears to have stopped visiting Pompey’s house. I suspect we have been seen observing them, since the two never meet now, but I have seen Philopater speaking to some of Pompey’s men from time to time, so there is still something going on.
A number of people who gave evidence for Caelius in the trial have come to a nasty end in the last week. It appears that Philopater has been a busy man. Three known allies turned up on the banks of the Tiber following a swim while attached to marble busts of the general, so I think we can read a message into that, and two more died when their houses mysteriously burned to the ground.
But I’m afraid I have saved the worst for last.
Your mother was attacked at the market yesterday. I was not present. She was out shopping with Posco when, according to witnesses, they were jumped by four men and dragged into an alleyway. Do not worry unduly. I had a medicus visit the house straight away as soon as they returned. Your mother was beaten, but not seriously wounded. She is more shaken and frightened than in actual pain. Posco fared worse, as he tried to fight them off.
I have no hope of discovering the identity of the men who attacked them, since there was no sign of them when I got to the site of the attack, but there is one ray of light. A beggar saw what happened. The four attackers took them into the alley and, moments later, another man entered too. The beggar said he looked like he might be a retired soldier, but whoever he was, it looks like he saved the pair of them as, moments later, they returned to the street, running for home, and shortly after, he reappeared and left the scene. The enterprising beggar followed the old soldier and gave me an address for a paltry sum of money.
I go today to try and track this man down and find out whether he is involved or merely a brave passer-by. Either way, I have spent considerable amounts of your money hiring more men and have put a permanent large guard on your mother and Faleria, and all the house and servants.
I will write again as soon as I know more. I have received nothing from you yet since my last letter, but then I assume your courier is still on route to me. I hope the campaign out there finishes soon, as we really could do with you being back here.
Hoping Fortuna continues to watch over you.
Gnaeus.
* * * * *
“The answer is no.”
Fronto ripped his hands away from the table in disgust and whirled away from the general, grinding his teeth. He took a deep breath, willing himself calm, and then turned back.
“But we’re done here, and the legions are staying. You don’t need me.”
“Fronto, whether we’re done here or not remains to be seen. The battle only concluded today, for the love of Venus!”
The general sighed and cradled his hands on the flat, wooden surface, fixing Fronto with a sympathetic look.
“I know you want to go home. I understand that, Marcus. I want to, as well.
And I’m aware that Balbus is going to have to be sent back to Massilia and that you’ll want to go with him, but the timing is simply not auspicious for such acts.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Then what are we waiting for? Tell me that!”
“We have to give it at least a week here to make sure that we have all of the Veneti and that no more centres of resistance are going to spring up. We need to contact the Osismii along the coast and make sure that they know the situation and are willing to take their oaths and acquiesce to the power of Rome. We have to wait on word from Crassus, Labienus and Sabinus to make sure their actions have also been a success. I am simply not willing to leave the job unfinished and march back to Rome without being certain that Gaul is completely pacified.”
Fronto growled.
“This benighted bloody country is never going to be pacified. Crispus has this lovely analogy of a lumpy sleeping pallet that describes the whole damn situation in disgusting detail. And anyway, Sabinus and Labienus are capable of doing all this for you, and Crassus will probably have executed half the population of the south west by now, so you could go to Rome if you really wanted.”
A sly look crossed his face.
“Remember the letter I showed you? Cicero’s causing you trouble. You need to get home too and deal with that.”
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) Page 29