“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 ac
hieve, 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.”
Caesar’s eyes hardened.
“Marcus, you are not changing my mind; you are merely beginning to aggravate me. We will remain at Darioritum until we receive word from the other armies…”
Fronto started to speak but Caesar raised his voice and shouted over the top.
“AND IF WE ARE REQUIRED TO CARRY OUT FURTHER ACTIONS WE WILL DO THAT TOO!”
He fell silent under the glare of the Tenth’s legate and sighed again.
“Look, Marcus, I am not unsympathetic, but you are a soldier. You know how this has to be done, and if you were thinking like a soldier right now, it would be you saying these things and not me. You are angry, tired, worried and saddened by both Balbus and your family’s plight. However, your place is with me and with the Tenth until the campaign is at an end for the year.”
Fronto opened his mouth again, but Caesar held up his finger.
“You can be of no help to Balbus right now. In fact, your presence and involvement is more likely to cause him further discomfort than to relax him. As soon as my personal medicus says he can travel, I will send Balbus home with the best doctors we have to offer, a small group of helpers and an escort of veterans from Ingenuus’ guard. Likely the Eighth will want to send an escort too. And then, when the time comes and we are done in Gaul, you and I shall both visit Balbus and his lovely wife on our journey back.”
Fronto grumbled, but kept his mouth shut.
“Your sister and mother are in the best hands available, Fronto, as you well know. Priscus is not going to let anything happen to them. Your mother has suffered, I know, but now Priscus will be looking after her and making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Again, Fronto grumbled, but said nothing.
“Marcus, we have to be sure here first. Logical. Methodical. Certain. Go and find your close friends, drink yourself into a comfortable stupor, get some good solid sleep, visit Balbus in the morning, and then we’ll talk again. I can’t spare you until the campaign’s over and you know that, but in the morning you’ll be rested and thinking straight.”
The general smiled slyly.
“How often do I actually advocate your binges, Marcus? Look on this as an opportunity, as I will not expect you at the staff meeting in the morning.”
Fronto sagged. The problem was that the general was correct in everything he said. His presence would only make Balbus try harder and strain himself, when he should be lying back and relaxing. Priscus would have taken the attack on his mother rather personally and would tear Rome to pieces to stop it happening again. And most of all, if the army did not complete the job here in Gaul, they would end up coming back again later in the year, or early in the next, to put down yet another rebellious tribe.
It galled him, but he couldn’t fault the reasoning. Of course, he didn’t feel very reasonable, right now.
“I’ll do just that. Try not to be too surprised if I’m not here tomorrow, though.”
It was a stupid and petty thing to say, and he knew it. His gaze refused to rise to meet that of Caesar. The general smiled as though he saw plainly through the childishness.
“Drink, relax and sleep, Marcus. Tomorrow is a new day.”
Fronto glared up at him, but nodded despondently and then turned and scuffed his feet angrily on the way out of the tent.
By now, all the Veneti prisoners had been processed and were safely locked away in guarded stockades. The commotion had died down considerably, the Roman fleet moored in the bay, and much of the army organising themselves ready to move into the oppidum, leaving large vexillations of troops outside in camps. Fronto marched past them, ignoring the activity as he made his way back to the gate with its grisly decoration and the street beyond with the tavern sign that marked the location of hi
s friends.
As he rounded the gate entrance and entered the main thoroughfare, his gaze fell on four men making their way down the centre of the road toward him and he frowned.
The two men in the centre were staggering, supported by legionaries at their shoulders. They appeared to be Gauls, dirty and unkempt; perhaps refugees who had hidden in a pig pen or a…
He blinked as he realised that the brown, stained and torn tunics that the men wore beneath the fresh woollen cloaks about their shoulders had once been the crimson tunics of Romans. The two men were Romans. His eyes refocused. They were Romans, but they had beards and long hair. Dirty and disfigured.
No… not disfigured, but walking with limps and cradling weakened or broken arms.
“Who’s that?”
The legionaries, startled by the sudden attention from a legate, almost jumped to a salute, remembering at the last minute to hold on to the men they escorted. One of the hairy, unkempt figures looked up in surprise.
“Fronto?”
The legate frowned.
“Who the hell are you?”
The man opened his mouth and grinned, three missing teeth making a conspicuous hole in his smile.
“Quintus Velanius.”
“Velanius?”
He knew the name, but couldn’t place it.
“Oh come on, Fronto. We played dice often enough last year? Senior tribune of the Eleventh.”
Fronto’s eyes widened.
“Velanius? I thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead. It’s been months!”
The legate came to a halt as the groups met and he looked the tribune and his companion up and down. They had clearly been brutalised and tortured, but nothing that wouldn’t mend. He couldn’t believe it.
“Stop shaking your head, Fronto. You look like there’s something wrong with you.”
“But how?”
“We were kept in a cellar; a virtual dungeon. It’s like the tullianum. We’ve been shouting for hours, since we heard the Veneti leave, but these lads only just found us.”
Fronto grinned, feeling a little of the weight of anger and sadness fall away.
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