Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto wandered over to him.

  ‘Florus, what’s for lunch?’

  Florus turned.

  ‘Lunch? This is…’

  Realising who had addressed him, Florus blushed.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, sir, I…’

  Fronto grinned at the young man.

  ‘Knock it off, lad. I’m not in the mood for a great deal of formality. I offered you a drink, and I’m here to collect you. A few of the legates and I are meeting up at a nice little tavern in the town. I presume you’ll join us, since the drinks are on me?’

  Florus smiled again.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Is it right though, sir? I mean, me drinking with the officers?’

  Fronto returned the smile.

  ‘Only if you relax a little. If you don’t stop tensing you’ll snap something!’

  Florus slumped a little.

  ‘I’d best get my kit, sir.’

  Fronto smiled benignly.

  ‘Just sling a tunic on. None of us are particularly bathed or manicured today.’

  They reached the praetorium a few moments later, Florus still trying to pull his tunic over the bandaged shoulder as he walked. Priscus and Velius awaited him. As the two approached, Priscus pointed at Florus.

  ‘He joining us, sir?’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Yes he’s joining us. Remember? I offered to buy him one a couple of nights ago.’

  Priscus smiled.

  ‘Indeed. In fact, I was going to talk to you about this young man later. He’s still on ‘new-boy’ fatigues in the Sixth Century, but I think the way he acted last night, we should put him on immune status. His centurion lauded his activities to me, and I gather he’s even made himself useful to the medics during his convalescence.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Fair enough. On your recommendation, I think we should attach him to the medical section.’

  He turned to Florus.

  ‘You’ll be excused normal duties from now on. You’re attached to the Tenth’s medics as an assistant. Who knows, you might make it to being a capsarius one day.’

  Florus beamed with pride as Fronto squared his shoulders.

  ‘Anyway, now there’s drinks to be had, and a number of senior officers sat impatiently waiting for me to arrive and buy a round. Shall we go?’

  * * * * *

  Dumnorix was fat. Fat and ostentatious, no less. He stood at one end of the square, dressed well in high quality local Gaulish garments and bedecked with gold and silver jewellery. He was being treated, as Fronto had expected, with the deference and respect that would be due a citizen of Rome. The man did not look worried. In fact, he looked arrogantly unconcerned. Fronto took an immediate dislike to him and began to regret having suggested that he would be more use alive.

  Fronto sat to one side of the square on a long log seat with a flattened surface that was draped with cloths and padded with cushions. To his left sat Caesar and to his right Sabinus, with Balbus, Crassus, Cita and Labienus seated around and behind them. Along with them sat Decimus Brutus, a young staff officer favoured by Caesar’s wife, the vapid and easily impressed Plancus, and a staff officer Fronto did not know well called Pedius who had an air of competency, completing the Roman element of the jury.

  On the other side of the square, ten of the Aedui sat facing them. Fronto recognised Liscus and Divitiacus, but the other eight were unknown to him. None of them looked particularly content, but there was a grim and determined appearance to them, in particular to Liscus.

  Fronto found his eyes straying across behind them to the tip of a tree, standing high above a nearby building, that he knew grew in the corner of a nice, shady tavern. What wouldn’t he give to be there right now rather than here? He frowned and nodded reflexively, trying to put forth the impression that he was paying some kind of attention to proceedings.

  The Aeduan magistrate, or whatever these people called them, strolled around the square, his hands clasped together behind his back. He had been annunciating at the top of his deep, resonant voice for the last quarter of an hour, though Fronto had heard barely a word. Caesar had been listening intently but had not interrupted. Balbus had begun to snore gently a few moments ago, until Longinus had nudged him.

  The whole thing was something of a charade anyway, put together to enhance Liscus’ standing among his people. Caesar had discussed the matter with the Aeduan leader the previous night and planned every detail. Dumnorix would be stripped of any titles and rights he held among the tribe, fined to within the borderline of poverty, and his personal cavalry would be disbanded. Dumnorix would be left no better off than the lowliest fishmonger in the tribe and would be under a restricted movement policy. He would be unable to leave the confines of the town, and must report to the magistrates at dawn and dusk. He would be effectively disempowered and imprisoned. In addition, Liscus would have him under surveillance, noting any contact he had with others and reporting appropriately to the Roman command.

  In order to build Liscus’ reputation among the tribe the Roman officers, when asked, should demand execution as a penalty. Liscus would then make a very nice and persuasive speech in defence of Dumnorix and the Romans would relent, accepting whatever punishment Liscus and his companions cared to lay upon the accused. A charade. A scene from a playwright to be performed in front of the Aedui.

  Fronto’s mind wandered, as it was prone to do on occasions like this. When was the last time he had been to see a play? Oh, he had seen the gladiatorial shows a number of times in Rome, Puteoli and Pompeii over the last few years. He had seen the quadriga racing at Rome. He had even once been persuaded to go to a music recital by some of the Greek slaves in Rome; an outing he would rather not repeat.

  No, the last time he had seen a play would probably be in Spain. In fact, he could remember where it was precisely. Tarraco was the place, in the wooden theatre down near the river. He and the other officers had been drunk by the time they arrived, having spent a good few hours around the taverns of the city before they had made their way to the theatre. He had the sneaking suspicion that Longinus had been there. He had been expecting a good old-fashioned play from the pen of one of the famous Roman playwrights, and had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Tarraco had its own flourishing artists. The play he had seen had been little more than a sarcastic and slapstick attack on the morals of the upper class in Rome. A number of the higher ranking citizens and some of the officers attending had left in an outrage. Fronto however had laughed until his eyes watered and his sides hurt. He had noticed when he left that he was the only soldier of any standing left in the theatre. Everyone else was a low-ranker.

  Suddenly, his attention was pulled back to the present. Sabinus was nudging him as unobtrusively as possible. Glancing left and right quickly, he realised that Caesar was glaring at him. There was silence from the centre of the square. Fronto’s mind raced. He suddenly felt like an eight year old boy again, caught gazing out of the window toward Vesuvius when his tutor was trying to teach him Thucydides. Sabinus gave him a sharp, painful nudge and whispered under his breath ‘say something!’

  Clearing his throat, he realised that the Aedui were all staring at him. He took a deep breath and prayed to Minerva that he knew what was going on.

  ‘Death.’

  Trying to look calm and unconcerned, he glanced surreptitiously at Balbus for confirmation, but was relieved a moment later to hear Sabinus call out ‘Death!’

  He smiled and whispered under his breath. ‘Thank you, Minerva. I’ll pour you a libation next time I see an altar.’

  Shuffling in his seat, he realised that Caesar was still glaring at him. Oh well. It was Caesar who wanted him here. He turned and smiled warmly at the general, who turned a nice shade of purple.

  He should not be required to say anything else for the duration of the trial, but he had best stay relatively alert this time.

  He focused on Liscus, who was making an eloquent speech, his hands raised imploringly towar
d the Romans, his face contorted with concern for his countryman. The man, like all politicians, was a consummate actor.

  Fronto turned once more to stare at the prisoner. For all that he could see the sense and the reasoning behind leniency, he wished he could offer a more permanent solution. Leaving an enemy, or even a potential enemy, of Rome free went against the grain. Once more the words of Domiticus the Gaul, standing naked and bound in the temporary stockade, came flooding back into Fronto’s memory. ‘There are others. Many others, and not all of them Gaulish.’ And so this man must be used to identify any more of these conspirators.

  He sat in silence, working through lists of potential enemies. The Helvetii should still be considered enemies until they were found and dealt with. The Aedui were generally allies of Rome but, as Domiticus had proved, not all of them were content with the tribe’s alliance and some may be eager for Celtic power. Then there were the innumerable Gaulish units serving as auxiliary troops in Caesar’s army. Some of them were Aedui, but others had been drawn from any number of smaller tribes on or near the border with the empire. Then there was always the possibility of disaffected Romans; officers who disagreed with the campaign and, most importantly, those who resented Caesar or were allied with his political opponents. Theoretically such men would have been weeded out by now but, with an army this size on continually mobile campaign, such control was tough.

  He became aware that Liscus had finished speaking. Rebuking himself for having drifted off again despite his best intentions, Fronto glanced around the assembly. This time no one was staring at him. He relaxed a little as Caesar stood.

  ‘Friend Liscus, I would request a short recess in order to confer with my officers.’

  Liscus turned and bowed. ‘By all means, general. Shall we reconvene in, say half an hour?’

  Caesar nodded confirmation and the Roman contingent rose from their seats, knees creaking from the extended period of rest. Fronto shuffled out of the square with the rest. As they entered the main street Caesar stretched, raising his arms above his head.

  ‘Gentlemen. Since there is, in fact, very little to discuss, I would suggest we retire to the officers’ mess tent for quarter of an hour.’

  Balbus cleared his throat.

  ‘General, I think we would be better served staying close to the square. There is a rather pleasant tavern that we found just a little further along the street. Perhaps we should stop there instead?’ Turning his head, he winked at Fronto.

  Caesar smiled.

  ‘Very well Quintus, we’ll try your tavern.’

  The tavern keeper nodded in friendly recognition to Fronto and Balbus as they approached, then breathed in sharply and performed a deep bow as Caesar rounded the corner, surrounded by staff officers. Fronto smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Can I suggest your very best wine, innkeeper.’

  The Gaul nodded nervously, swallowed and scurried off inside.

  By the time the group of Romans had seated themselves around the two rearmost tables under the cover of the trees, the Gaul had returned carrying a tray of fine goblets. He was followed by two servants heaving a large amphora of wine. Once at the table, they began to decant the wine into several smaller jugs, which Balbus and Fronto used to fill the goblets. Caesar craned his head and looked around the yard.

  ‘A pleasant establishment this, Balbus. Very nice indeed. Shame I hadn’t heard of it earlier.’

  Balbus grinned.

  ‘Needless to say, general, it was actually Fronto that found it.’

  A number of the officers laughed as Fronto shrugged. ‘What can I say? It’s hard to find good wine when you’re on campaign. We’ve been in here most days when we’ve had free time.’

  Balbus glanced toward the door whence the tavern keeper had returned and smiled.

  ‘I expect he’s raking in the money. He’ll probably want to put a sign over the door saying ‘By appointment to the Roman army’.’

  Fronto frowned and spoke darkly.

  ‘I don’t think that would be a very safe thing to do at the moment. Sentiment is not a hundred per cent pro-Roman among these people.’

  A cavalry trooper appeared at the gate of the inn and bowed. Sabinus, nearest to the entrance, raised a hand and beckoned him in. The young man was visibly nervous in the presence of the high command.

  ‘Sir… Sirs…’

  Caesar sighed.

  ‘Yes trooper?’

  ‘Legate Longinus sent me to warn you that he’s escorting ambassadors from the Helvetii and’ll be here in an hour or so.’

  Caesar smiled and his shoulders slumped a little as he relaxed.

  ‘Thank you, trooper. What of the rest of their tribe?’

  ‘The cavalry’s escorting them all back here. They should be here tomorrow.’

  Caesar’s smile widened.

  ‘Excellent. Well done, man.’

  The staff quartermaster, Cita, gestured at the trooper.

  ‘Report to my adjutant in camp and draw yourself some extra rations and wine. You may take the rest of the day off.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The trooper stood to attention and saluted. Turning, he left the tavern, reached up to the reins of his horse and walked it off down the street.

  Fronto relaxed, leaning back and stretching his feet out under the table. Today was really rather nice. The sun-dappled yard hummed with the sound of bees. Barely a cloud marred the sky where it could be seen between the trees. Even Caesar appeared happy and relaxed now.

  ‘They’ll be panicking when they get back here and have to wait for you to finish the trial before you deal with them. Should give them a bit more time to live on their nerves.’

  Caesar grinned, though only with his mouth. His eyes stayed hard and cold. The effect was thoroughly disconcerting.

  ‘That would no doubt be the case Fronto, but they won’t have to wait. I shan't be dealing with them myself. The rest of us will be occupied with the Aedui, and I cannot afford to offend them. Moreover I intend to demean the Helvetii as much as I can. To that end, none of the general staff will be dealing with them. You will be dealing with them Marcus.’

  Fronto coughed, spilling wine on the table.

  ‘Me, sir?’

  Caesar grinned that distressing grin once more.

  ‘I can’t think of anyone better, can you? You’re a legionary legate with, and no insult intended here, little of the rigid bearing of a regular staff officer, which means that their surrender will be accepted by a ranking officer, not the high command. Not only that but, apart from myself, you are the man they hate most; the man who destroyed a quarter of their tribe. That will vex them further. Oh, and you seem incapable of even staying awake in court, and so, frankly, I’d rather not have you back with us after the recess. Good luck in your new role, Marcus. I think you’d best get going. You’ll want to tidy your tent no doubt, and gather an appropriate retinue of officers.’

  Fronto sat, his head turning and mouth open, trying to think of an excuse, but failing to find one.

  ‘Fronto, you’re getting shorter on time.’

  Grumbling, Fronto refilled his goblet and threw the wine down his throat before he left the table. As an afterthought, he reached back and swiped one of the smaller jugs of wine.

  ‘I daresay you won’t need all of this if you have to go soon.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto felt stupid. He always did when he was dressed in full ceremonial uniform. He was fairly sure that Caesar had meant him to deal with the Helvetii looking as he normally did; scruffy and dirty and wearing the trappings of a veteran soldier. That would be the most insulting. Instead, Fronto had sent his cuirass and helmet to the legion’s smithy for a quarter of an hour, and they had come back burnished and bright. His red plume had been brushed out and washed and now adorned his helm proudly. He had the red ribbon tied in the military knot around the shiny breastplate, clean boots, and clean red cloak. All in all he looked every inch the Roman general.r />
  Sitting on a campaign chair in the centre of his command tent, he was backed by a number of officers. Wagering that the Helvetii would not know the uniform of one rank from another, Fronto had filled his tent with tribunes, centurions and optios, a dozen in all. Tetricus, Velius and Priscus stood behind him, all wearing the best clothing and armour available. Everyone below tribune rank had been forbidden from wearing helmets, so that the crests would not give away their ranks. Fronto held his own helm on his lap, with his officer’s vine staff laid across behind it.

  In the last few moments the camp had been manic as Fronto had given the order for the whole legion to stand to and clear away all the loose equipment. Legionaries had brought all the standards, eagles, flags and maps they could find and arranged them in an honour display at the rear of the tent. As an afterthought, Fronto had ordered the other officers to stand throughout the meeting. It would be uncomfortable, but imposing. With Fronto seated in a campaign chair, the effect would be impressive. He had arranged for one of the low log benches to be brought in for the Helvetii ambassadors. They must be made to feel as small as possible.

  Now it was a matter of waiting. He nervously reached out to the goblet by his side and took a swig of the wine. Behind him Priscus cleared his throat and whispered.

  ‘Sir, lay off the drink. It won’t look good if you slur at them.’

  Muttering under his breath, Fronto put the goblet back.

  Longinus had been spotted with a number of riders by a lookout a few moments earlier and would be here any time now. The sentries at the camps’ perimeters had all been given the instructions as to what Longinus should do with the ambassadors.

  A sentry arrived at the door of the tent and bowed.

  ‘Sir, Commander Longinus is here with a number of Gauls. Shall I admit them?’

  Fronto nodded. ‘Yes soldier, show them in.’