Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  “You need a shave.”

  The tribune next to Velanius, whose name escaped Fronto, laughed.

  “Not just shave, but scrape months of crud from the skin. I feel like I’ve been living in a latrine… a cramped latrine.”

  “And then” Fronto added, “after you’ve had a bath, you need to report to the general, get yourself debriefed as quickly as possible, and then get back here and make for that building over there, with the hanging sign.”

  Velanius shook his head, smiling.

  “You never change, Fronto. We’ll join you tomorrow, perhaps. Today, we need to recuperate and sleep.”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “Suit yourself, but my purse only stays open for so long.”

  “Yes, until you’ve lost it all at dice.”

  “Sod off” he said, grinning madly.

  The officers continued to smile at one another for a while, and then Velanius sighed.

  “Come on. We need to go. See you later, Fronto.”

  The legate nodded, smiling, as the two men limped off with their escort. He watched them until they passed through the gate and out of sight, and then turned and crossed the street, entering the tavern. To his surprise, no one else had yet joined the other three occupants.

  “Fronto. How’d it go?”

  As he entered, he strode across to the seat he’d left around an hour ago as he’d finished reading Priscus’ letter, and sank gratefully into it. As he exhaled slowly, Crispus placed a mug in front of him. Fronto eyed it and then looked up at this friend, an eyebrow raised.

  “No wine?”

  “Drink that. It will do you good. I’ve tested three or four now, and I think I can safely say that this is the one you need tonight.”

  Reaching forward, he sniffed the mug and recoiled before grasping it and tentatively taking a sip.

  “Juno’s arse… that tastes like… well, I suppose it tastes like Juno’s arse, probably.”

  “Get it down you.”

  Opposite, Brutus, grasping a cup of wine that Fronto eyed enviously, sat back.

  “I assume that Caesar said no?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Not really a surprise. We knew he would. What did he say about Balbus? Is he sending him back straight away?”

  “Soon as the medicus agrees to it.”

  “Has he decided on what to do with the Eighth?”

  Fronto frowned.

  “You have the sound of a man angling for a legate’s position?”

  Brutus shrugged.

  “Little need for more naval activity. I don’t want to jump into Balbus’ boots while they’re still warm but… well, yes. I can see myself in the position. Can’t you?”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “Probably not. Maybe, but probably not. The general had already lined up Cicero for the next available legate position. Not sure whether he’ll still go through with it, given that Cicero’s brother’s busy calling him names in front of the senate, but there you go.”

  Crispus retrieved his own drink, and Roscius of the Thirteenth used a foot to push a chair out for him. Crispus nodded and sat.

  “So the situation in Rome is not troublesome enough to encourage Caesar back there yet? Not even the disturbing possibility that Pompey and Cicero are now in league together against him; possibly even with Clodius?”

  Fronto shook his head and eyed the mug of dark, frothy liquid suspiciously.

  “There’s no real evidence of that. It’s just conjecture. Problem is: I like Pompey. Always did. If Caesar had half of Pompey’s honour; his way with people, he could rule the world.”

  He smiled.

  “Mind you, if Pompey had half of Caesar’s guts, so could he.”

  Crispus nodded.

  “Between them, Crassus and Clodius, the future of Rome is beginning to look distinctly oligarchic.”

  Fronto frowned in incomprehension and Roscius smiled.

  “Run by a few powerful men. Like multiple kings” he said quietly.

  Fronto sighed.

  “There was me being desperate to get home, but the more you lot talk about it, the gladder I am that I’m out here.”

  Brutus smiled and took a sip of wine.

  “On the bright side, Marcus, we’ve some time to breathe, rest and recover. Nothing else is likely to happen until we have word from the other armies.”

  Fronto leaned back in his seat and, closing his eyes tight, threw down the entire mug of insipid ale in three huge gulps, before belching loudly and slamming the mug on the table.

  “Resting it is, then. Now take this shit away and find me something in a nice red.”

  Interim — Late Quintilis: Rome

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus slumped against the cold marble and winced. He’d been kidding himself all winter and spring that by the end of the year he’d be as strong on his feet as ever he was, but this last day of ducking into doorways and stomping around the streets of the city had made it abundantly clear that he’d never be that Priscus again. His lame leg was strong enough to support him and walk for a while though after an hour every step became a dull, painful ache. The limp slowed him down and, after a day on his feet, he was beginning to worry that, if he fell over, he might never get up again.

  But the day was almost over. The sun had already sunk behind the Esquiline Gate away behind him and night was beginning to draw in.

  He’d been curious this morning when he first shadowed the address the beggar had given him. The apartment block in which the mysterious man had been renting a room was what could charitably be called ‘humble’, and Priscus had loitered across the passageway at dawn, wrapped in a plain woollen cloak, waiting for the man to show his face.

  And when he did, Priscus had frowned and watched the man intently, trying not to register his surprise. He knew him from somewhere. Perhaps he was a veteran of the Tenth, or someone he’d met among the other legions over the past couple of years. He couldn’t place the face precisely, but the man was hauntingly familiar, with his light and athletic frame and chiselled, sun-tanned features.

  For a while, he had worried that his limp and slight deformity would make his pursuit obvious. He hadn’t realised until he paid attention to the people in the streets around him, however, just how many lame or crippled folk littered the streets of the great city in the lower class areas, and his prey remained unaware of the former centurion following his every move.

  It was humbling to think on how many of these lame people all around had also served in the legions until that wound crippled them and took away their livelihood. It struck home how privileged he was to be allowed to continue to serve in such a condition.

  And so he had blended with the poor folk of Rome as he followed his quarry throughout the day, and the man had busied himself with what Priscus considered to be the most dull and mundane routine possible. The absolute high point of excitement had been a visit to the baths and a bite of lunch, breaking up the monotony of shopping, washing clothes, reading the notices of the acta diurna in the forum, a couple of visits to temples and an hour or two spent poring through records in the Tabularium. Priscus had tried, but had not managed to get close enough to see what records the man had examined. All in all, a frustrating day for the lame spy.

  He had been about to give up on the whole affair and pass off the situation and the saving of lady Faleria, Fronto’s mother, as pure good chance. As a last nod toward thoroughness, he had followed the man, clearly a former soldier, back toward his rooms as the sun began to sink, only to watch him walk straight past the building and to the market stall along the street, where he stopped to purchase a spray of colourful and sweet smelling flowers.

  Intrigued now, he had followed the man once more as he made his way east to the edge of the city and then out through the Esquiline Gate, past the sub-urban spread beyond, and out along the great Via Labicana, lined with its tombs, monuments and mausolea.

  He had been forced to fall back a little once they had left the press o
f city folk and made their way along the sparsely populated road.

  Finally, but a moment ago, the man had stopped and, producing a key, ducked furtively to the roadside and unlocked the gate of a tall, circular mausoleum.

  Priscus watched with interest as he leaned against the marble, rubbing his hip and thigh and wincing with the pain. When this was over, he would have to travel half the width of the city to get back to the Falerius household. He would need a soak and a drink when he got back.

  Grumbling, he watched the silent bulk of the circular tomb. The light continued to fade and he had to pull sharply back into the shadows as the man reappeared and, locking the gate, turned back toward the city and strode off with a weary, heavy gait.

  Priscus dithered, unsure whether to follow the man back to town or investigate the mausoleum, but the pause allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and he spared one last glance at the retreating figure of his quarry before lumbering quietly across the road and to the solid iron gate of the tomb.

  Inset into a smooth marble facade, the gate was fastened with a sturdy lock, the interior obscured by a second curved wall that formed a passage around the edge of the mausoleum and circled a central chamber. Priscus could see a small oil lamp on the shelf opposite, and the heady, mixed aroma of sweet flowers and burning oil proclaimed that the lamp had been used recently. A striking flint stood on the shelf next to it.

  Was it sacrilegious? Would he be pursued throughout the rest of his life by the lemures if he did what he was thinking of doing? He smiled. Fronto was getting all superstitious and worrying about ghosts and demons, but the Vinicii were made of more practical stuff.

  Still smiling, he reached into his tunic and withdrew a steel spike around three inches long. He may be from a respectable family himself, but there were skills one learned that came from lower-born influences. The smile sliding into a wide grin, he began to work at the lock with the spike, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth until, after a minute, there was a click and the lock fell open.

  Much better this way. A rock would have been quicker, but it would have been impossible to conceal the fact that someone unauthorised had been here.

  Taking a quick glance around the area, he satisfied himself that he was alone in the near dark. Taking a deep breath, he swung the gate open, grateful that it did not grind or squeak.

  Lighting the oil lamp was quick and easy, since it had only very recently been extinguished and Priscus raised it above his head so as not to blind his night vision with the flickering flame. The encircling corridor stretched off for a couple of yards ahead but, as he shuffled down it, the arch into the central enclosure was close by.

  Taking a deep breath, the possibility that someone could be lurking in the dark only now occurring to him, Priscus ducked swiftly through the arch and stood, his jaw agape as he took in the sight of the central chamber.

  As with most high-born family mausolea of this fashion, the walls were dotted with alcoves, each of which held a cinerary urn for a member of the family. Between them, often below the urns, small inscriptions of high quality named the deceased, though none were large enough to be visible in the flickering lamplight from the doorway.

  It was not these that had caused Priscus’ jaw to drop.

  A large slab or table stood in the centre of the chamber and upon it lay the body of a woman. Priscus almost dropped the lamp as he stared at the peaceful form of the lady Clodia, coins on her eyes for the journey, her arms folded across her chest and topped with fresh flowers, the body wrapped from feet to sternum in expensive white Egyptian linen.

  Priscus stumbled forward, his mind reeling. Clodia had been missing for months, though clearly, from the lack of decay, she had only died some time in the last day or two. His heart racing, he crossed to her and looked at the body in a low panic. Her throat bore a thin purple line. Strangled with something narrow; possibly a leather thong. He shuddered. Clodia was, there was no denying it, a wicked and troublesome woman and she had likely deserved this; earned it a hundred time over. And yet it was with a strange sadness that Priscus stood over the sleeping woman, her perfect face finally peaceful in death.

  His hip gave way again and he staggered, fumbling with the lamp and almost dropping it. Wincing, he fell back against the wall, his heart leaping as two of the funeral urns wobbled distressingly for a moment. He grasped the base of an alcove and steadied himself as, for the first time, his eyes fell upon one of the inscriptions.

  Q Aelius Paetus Numidius

  Priscus’ mind swam. He stared and then, shaking his head, pulled himself across to one of the other alcoves.

  T Paetus Corvus

  More.

  Every alcove another Paetus.

  Priscus stood blinking in the presence of the innumerable dead, heaving in deep breaths. Fronto was going to love his next letter!

  PART TWO: ROMA INVICTA

  Chapter 13

  (Iunius: 5 miles from the north coast of Gaul, several weeks prior to Caesar’s victory over the Veneti at the battle of Darioritum.)

  “It’s an actual city, then?”

  Galba shrugged.

  “Crociatonum? By Roman terms, hardly. But it’s certainly bigger and more… civic, than the oppida and villages we’ve been coming across. All evidence points to it being the centre of the Unelli’s tribal lands, and it’s crawling with thousands of people.”

  Sabinus nodded thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his lip as his horse danced impatiently.

  “The Unelli do seem to be at the centre of this grouping. The question is how to approach the situation.”

  The three legates, each sat ahorse beside the commander, frowned to a man.

  “If what we’ve been hearing is true, there could be a massive army lurking there; more even than the thousands the scouts reported. I’d have to counsel caution” Galba said quietly.

  Rufus nodded.

  “At least until the scouts return and give us more detailed information. Perhaps we can set up a temporary camp here.”

  Sabinus glanced up at Plancus, who wore a thoughtful look.

  “Has anyone given thought to why the Unelli would be gathering an army?” the man asked quietly.

  “Because the Veneti have stirred up this entire corner of Gaul” Sabinus said flatly.

  “Not true,” the legate of the Fourteenth said, frowning. “Crassus’ reports stated that the leaders of the Unelli and the Lexovii, at least, were very much pro-Roman late last year. Of all the tribes he dealt with up here, the Unelli chieftains actually supported him and even lent him troops. Why then would they revolt now?”

  Sabinus sat silent, staring at the legate. Plancus had a point. The man had built such a bad reputation in the first year or two of the campaign that the rest of the officer corps had reached the point where they were automatically ignoring his opinions, in much the same fashion as the legions were treating Plancus’ heavily-Gallic Fourteenth.

  “Interesting,” he nodded finally. “Certainly the Lexovii have sent their warriors here; numerous scouts have confirmed that. Although we cannot be sure the same is true of the Curiosolitae, the same seems likely to be the case. But then that raises a second question: if they’ve gathered a large army here, why is it just sitting in their city and not marching south to help their countrymen fight off Caesar?”

  The four men exchanged doubtful glances. This entire action was an unknown quantity and, while Sabinus had the might of three Roman legions at his beck and call, the reduced and largely untrained Twelfth, the unpopular Fourteenth, and the under-strength Ninth constituted less than two full legions between them in terms of proper numbers. If all three of these tribes had sent their strength to this place, then estimates were that the Roman force would be facing odds of at least three to one, if not more.

  “Sir!”

  The officers turned to the cavalry trooper who was trotting up the hill toward them.

  “What is it, soldier?”

  “One of the scout pa
rties is returning, general.”

  Sabinus smiled.

  “Good. Some useful information, hopefully.”

  The trooper frowned.

  “Sir, I don’t think they’re alone. There is a small party of native riders following them.”

  “Chasing them?”

  Rufus squinted into the distance.

  “I don’t think so. They seem to be riding casually. I think we’re about to have visitors, sir.”

  Sabinus nodded and looked around him before turning to the buccina player.

  “Have the legions fall in and put the call out for the tribunes to join us.”

  As the horn blared out, he smiled at the officers around him. “I know the men are tired, but we need to make an impression here. We need to present a solid core of hardened officers.”

  Turning to Plancus, he pursed his lips.

  “Do you have any senior officers in the Fourteenth who are still predominantly Gaulish?”

  Plancus nodded, his face sour.

  “Most of my officers are still braid-haired Gauls, general. Only half of them understand me at all.”

  Sabinus chuckled.

  “I’d like one of the most senior to join us. It could be very useful having someone who speaks their tongue up here.”

  Plancus saluted and wheeled his horse, riding the hundred yards or so to the head of the Fourteenth Legion, which was busy coming to full attention at the buccina call. As Sabinus and his officers watched the approaching parties, Plancus quickly returned, a centurion jogging along beside him. The general glanced down at the man, who stopped running and, without even a laboured breath, saluted and dropped into a formal posture.

  “Centurion? I am given to understand you speak the dialect?”

  “Better than Latin, sir.”

  “Good.” He pointed at the approaching riders. “I would like you to listen carefully. So long as one of them speaks Latin, you shouldn’t need to be involved unless you hear something that makes interruption necessary. I would just like a trained ear on them.”

  He smiled.