Lucilia smiled nervously. “Fruit juice will be fine for me, thank you my lady.” Faleria nodded. “For me too.”
Lucilia gestured to the spare couches and snapped her fingers.
“Agorion? Play something sweet for our guests.”
A thin, ebony-skinned man in a loincloth plucked a lyre from beside a pillar and stepped to the side of the room, beginning to pick out a light melody with seeming ease.
“So you have decided to spend the summer in Rome while the men are off playing soldier with the barbarian. Very sensible, I should say. Sadly, you missed one of the great social engagements of the spring, when lady Sepunia held her orgy. It was quite a party, I can tell you. Some juicy scandal and some delicious slaves from Tingis.”
Lucilia sat gingerly on the couch to one side and raised her feet, removing her sandals. Faleria mirrored her opposite with a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Atia. I don’t know about you, but I find litters to be less comfort than walking. The bones are shaken up with every step.”
“Indeed, though it would not do for ladies to walk so far unescorted, of course.”
“Of course.”
The opening pleasantries over, Atia turned to Lucilia with a smile.
“Your father has a villa near to Massilia, I understand, where the family resides much of the time?”
“Very true, lady Atia.”
“Do you not find yourselves overcome with the tedium? Do you not miss the spectacle of Rome?”
Lucilia shrugged.
“I have not spent a great deal of my time here, my lady. Much of my youth I lived in the provinces with father and mother. I have only ever spent short stints in the city.”
“Then we shall have to train you up in the manner of a lady of the city, my darling Lucilia. Why I shall make it my personal task to introduce you to every important face and every delight the city has to offer.”
Faleria switched off. Lucilia was handling herself well, and something that had attracted Faleria’s interest since she’d first entered nagged at her. Over the general hubbub of the house, the chattering of the lady and her slaves in this room, there had been the barely-discernible sound of male voices in deep discussion somewhere in the house. Now, as she concentrated, trying to filter out the lyre music and the inane chat, she could hear them more clearly.
Because they were becoming louder.
She realised suddenly that the sources of the noise were approaching.
With the pretence of sorting an errant coil in her hair, she draped the falling locks like a curtain, hiding her face from the door, while being able to look between the coils and strands.
Half a dozen men passed the doorway on the way to the front entrance without even a glance in at the lady who owned the building: an unthinkable breech in etiquette that it seemed odd for Atia to ignore.
Faleria squinted through the hair curtain. The men were rough thugs dressed in dirty tunics and leather, at least one bearing the mark of a former legionary on his upper arm. All were armed with knives or stout sticks.
She was peering intently when the face of Publius Clodius Pulcher appeared at the end of the small group of men, his sharp gaze snapping around to the room and Atia’s visitors. He was dressed in a toga, yet even he carried a knife. Faleria’s heart raced at the sight of the loathsome man. Here was the villain who had burned down their house and tried to kill her family.
So casually that it almost pained her, she turned her face to Atia, away from the door, her pulse thudding, hoping that the man had somehow not recognised her.
“We must away for the afternoon my lady” Clodius said pleasantly. “Business to attend to; you known how it is.”
Atia waved dismissively at him.
“Just don’t disturb my guests and I when you return.”
There was an unpleasant laugh.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Though the lady Faleria and I are old friends, are we not?”
Faleria winced, but he clearly didn’t expect an answer as he strode out laughing lightly, following his men to the door.
“Horrible man, but he does have his uses” said Atia, apologetically.
Faleria murmured platitudes and made a small deal of the matter, turning the conversation back to Lucilia as her mind raced. Clodius leading thugs from the house of Caesar’s niece and following Cicero and other senators. One thing was certain: if Clodius was involved, those senators were far from safe.
It was time to write to Fronto.
Chapter 6
(Border of Treveri and Ubii lands close to the Rhine and Moselle Rivers)
Caesar’s fist slammed down on the table surface, causing the cup of water and the wooden writing tablets to jump and clatter back to the oak top.
“How many?”
“We don’t have full figures yet” Fronto said quietly. “But Varus estimated over a thousand horses and at least five hundred riders.”
Labienus leaned forward from the line of officers. “How is the commander?”
“Lucky to be alive. The medicus says he’ll be out of commission for weeks and he may lose the use of his left arm and some movement in his hip. Varus is of a different opinion. He reckons that if his arm’s splinted up properly he’ll be back in his saddle tomorrow. The truth’s probably somewhere in between.”
The two officers were suddenly aware that Caesar was glaring at them for this change of subject. Fronto cleared his throat.
“Caesar, we’ve been marching boldly towards these invaders on the assumption we were going to meet them in pitched battle in the field, as usual. The fact is that they’ve taken us by surprise and completely battered the cavalry in the first engagement. We can’t afford to go strutting forward now. We need to be cautious or we could lose half the army to tricky ambushes before we can even bring them to a fight.”
Caesar narrowed his eyes at Fronto.
“I have no intention of treading lightly because of a simple setback, Fronto.”
Another throat was cleared and Labienus stepped from the ranks.
“Caesar? Might I suggest that now would be a good time to reconsider a diplomatic solution?”
The general’s head whipped around to turn his withering glare on his most senior officer. “Diplomacy, Labienus?”
“With respect, Caesar, we are endangering the army and costing both the republic and your esteemed person a great deal of money by keeping this large army marching against a foe who seems to have the measure of us and a good idea of how to whittle down our numbers. Those same foes have offered us the hand of peace and even service in your army for a small allotment of land this side of the Rhenus. It could be considered vainglorious and even prideful to continue this push, considering the alternatives available.”
A small chorus of agreement rose from one corner of the tent, where Cicero was nodding emphatically, his face a picture of suspicion. Fronto’s eyes slipped from Cicero to the applauding figures of the two foppish tribunes: Menenius and Hortius. No shock that those two would rather see a negotiation table than a battlefield.
Caesar’s face was a mask of cold composition, expressionless and severe. Fronto knew as well as any other long-serving officer in the tent what that meant. Beneath that cold face, the general’s blood was rising to boiling point. Fury contained in a stony case.
“There will be no negotiation with these animals. Their diplomacy has already been clearly revealed as trickery and deceit. They used the peace table to distract us while they gutted our cavalry. Should they be stupid enough to send any further emissaries, they will be taken in, executed and sent back to their people from the neck-up. Do I make myself clear?”
Cicero stepped out to join Labienus. Fronto was a little taken aback and distinctly unimpressed to see the centurions Furius and Fabius at his shoulders. It appeared that the bad apples were all congregating in a pile.
“Caesar, it is not seemly or tactically sound to launch into further violent activity simply as an angry response to trickery
. I implore you to think on the matter before making your decision.”
Caesar’s eyes flashed dangerously and Fronto diplomatically stepped between the two men, obscuring their view of one another.
“You know me, Cicero. You know that I don’t back down from a fight, but you also know that I’m not one to waste the lives of my men in unnecessary battle. Whatever we might have done to begin with, we have given our word to the council of Gaul and our ultimatum to the Germanic tribes who crossed the river. Given their treacherous sneak attack in addition to that, we are no longer in a position to back down. Caesar is not acting impulsively through anger or pride, but through expediency and necessity. We must now beat some sense into the invaders and shove their hairy arses back over the river for good.”
A much louder roar of agreement sounded around the tent. Beneath the tumult, Caesar’s quiet voice caught Fronto’s ear.
“I am not a child that needs defending, Marcus. I can speak for myself.”
Barely moving his lips and without turning his head, Fronto replied “coming from someone else, it diffuses their argument over vainglory, Caesar.”
Labienus folded his arms.
“Marcus, you know I respect you, but can you not see the waste of an opportunity here? Are you yourself so committed to slaughter that you cannot find it in yourself to consider the alternatives?”
As a general hubbub rose, Fronto’s face coloured with irritation and, as he straightened to reply, Menenius and Hortius sniggered and his eyes shot towards them. He’d distinctly heard his name in their whispered conversation alongside the word ‘donkey’.
Before he could turn his invective against the pair, his own senior tribune, Tetricus, leaned close to them from where he stood nearby. Fronto couldn’t hear what he said to them, but they went very pale and stopped smirking.
Cicero smiled unpleasantly.
“I see now that, unable to make your point convincingly, Fronto, you fall back on having your tribune threaten people. How diplomatic.”
A low growl began to rise in Fronto’s throat and he noted with growing ire that Furius and Fabius, still at Cicero’s shoulders, were now glaring at Tetricus with barely-concealed contempt.
“At least I can say I’m here with honour to serve the general!” he snapped angrily.
A roar of angry comments rose around the tent. As the noise increased and filled the dim space with deafening malice, Fronto’s eyes locked on Cicero and the two centurions. Labienus was busy arguing with Brutus, both men gesturing angrily with their hands. Menenius and Hortius had retreated to the shadows at the rear, though Tetricus had moved to stand near them again, his expression dangerous.
Fronto folded his arms amid the chaos, locked in a silent battle of wills with Cicero.
“Enough!”
The tent snapped to silent attention at Caesar’s bellowed command. The general had his sword aloft and, as all eyes turned to him, many arms still pointing at one another accusingly, Caesar turned his hand a half circle and brought the gladius down hard, driving it deep, point-first into the table, tearing through a carefully drawn map.
“This is not a public market! This is not an academy for philosophers! This is not even the house of the old women we call a senate! This is MY COMMAND TENT and I WILL HAVE ORDER!”
Fronto and Cicero, the only two men in the tent who had not turned to the general, finally unlocked their baleful gazes from one another and turned.
“This is not a matter for debate. This is my army, my province, and my command. I give the orders and you follow them to the best of your ability. That is how things work, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will leave a detachment to guard the baggage train and siege engines as they follow on, while the army will move at the fastest speed we can manage to engage the enemy.”
The general’s gaze flitted to Labienus and Cicero.
“If anyone here is discontented with their role and wishes to resign their commission, lose my patronage and return to Rome, then they may do so. But bear in mind that I have a very long reach and an even longer memory.”
Labienus lowered his eyes deferentially, though Cicero met the general’s gaze staunchly for a moment before he nodded.
“Apologies Caesar” Labienus said quietly. “We spoke out of place.”
“You did. Let this be an end to it. What do we know or suspect of the enemy camp?”
Fronto, glancing briefly at Cicero, turned to the general again.
“Nothing concrete, general. Varus suspects it’s close. When the cavalry were attacked, the enemy horse were fresh, and they had peasants with them who would have travelled by foot. They wouldn’t have spent the night there waiting for us; with that many horses, they most likely came straight from their main camp at dawn. That all suggests that the enemy is encamped not more than, say, twenty miles away, at an educated guess.”
Tetricus cleared his throat.
“With respect, Caesar, I think we will find the enemy encamped close to the Mosella, if not directly on its bank. They will need fresh water and only that river is large enough to supply such a force in this area. Also, they must have some method of crossing the flow. Quite apart from having come from the far side of the Rhenus in the first place, we know that they sent their cavalry out a few days ago to raid south of the Mosella, so they must have rafts at or near their camp in enough size and quantity to transfer a large cavalry force across the river.”
Fronto nodded thoughtfully.
“Also, if they’ve been there long enough to send out long-range raiding parties, then that camp is at least semi-permanent. I’m guessing it could be fortified.”
Caesar leaned on the table again, his decorative, sharp blade still standing proud from it as a reminder to the more argumentative in the room.
“We must hit them hard enough to break their will, and it would be to our advantage to attack them before their cavalry return from the south. Each legion will leave their Tenth cohort with the baggage train, along with all their standard kit. The army will travel light and fast and equipped only to fight.”
He turned to Fronto.
“I recognise your concerns about the possibilities of them laying traps and ambushes on the route, but we cannot afford to risk their cavalry returning because we are slow and cautious. We will have to rely on scouts out in force to identify any trouble spots before we run into them.”
Standing straight again, Caesar’s gaze passed around the assembled officers.
“Return to your units and prepare to march, gentlemen.”
“You won’t bloody believe it, Gantus!”
The legionary on the far end of the four-hole wooden latrine seat that covered the stinking pit frowned at the man who had just pushed his head round the rough-hewn timber doorway. Another innovation of Priscus as camp prefect was to do away with the latrine tents that some units favoured and to close in the open trenches that others preferred, surrounding each latrine with a simple slat-wood wall that provided a measure of privacy, prevented the wind blowing the smell across the camp at ground level, and yet allowed air to circulate within and keep the gag-inducing stench a little more subdued.
Fronto looked up from his seat at the opposite end, where he had been sitting, casually reading the medicus’ injury and sickness figures for the Tenth. Curiously, despite his popularity that had always made him ‘almost-one-of-the-men’, legionaries still deferentially used the latrine seat furthest away from him.
That, or possibly it was the spiced lamb he’d had last night was having a more powerful effect than he realised. Raising a leg to flatulate more comfortably, he watched the man’s face as he realised there was a senior officer present and saluted.
“At ease. All men are equal in the shitter.”
“What’s up?” Gantus asked from the far end, reaching for the sponge on a stick in its water tub and eyeing it suspiciously. “Wish some people would make more effort to clean the sponge afterwards. I’ll be more shitty after this than I was before.”
Fronto smiled and reached to the small bucket next to him, removing his personal stick-sponge and proffering it along the bench.
“I want it so clean afterwards you’d stir your soup with it. Understand?”
“Thanks sir” Gantus smiled and went to work, arcing a questioning eyebrow at his visitor.
“The barbarians have sent more ambassadors. The gate guard didn’t know what to do with them, but the duty centurion had them disarmed and taken to the stockade.”
Fronto frowned.
“After yesterday, they’d dare try and talk to us again? Caesar’ll be pleased as punch.”
At the far end of the seat, Gantus hurriedly cleaned himself up and then very thoroughly washed out the sponge before returning it to Fronto’s bucket.
“Thanks again, sir.”
Fronto waved a hand dismissively and then stood, snapping shut the tablet and rapidly cleaning himself before pulling up his breeches and following the two legionaries out of the latrine.
Though the legate had not yet seen the stockade in the latest camp, it was not hard to locate, the roar of jeering soldiers drawing his attention. As he walked swiftly out to the main thoroughfare, he could see Caesar, Labienus, Brutus and Priscus striding toward the scene. Pausing, he fell in alongside.
“You’ve heard the news then?” Priscus asked.
“Yes. I find it somewhat hard to believe, though. Are they crazed?”
“Let us find out” Caesar said with a cold, malicious smile.
The stockade was a simple palisade of twelve foot stakes, with a door held closed by a heavy bar. There was room within to contain a dozen men comfortably or a century in cramped conditions. The eight-man contubernium guarding the stockade stood to attention, as alert as could be, keeping the gathered crowd of soldiers back largely by the force of their challenging glares.
Fronto’s eyes played across the shouting, jeering crowd. It came as little surprise to him that only perhaps a quarter of them were legionaries, the rest being Gallic cavalrymen, many with some small wound marking them as soldiers who had survived the massacre the previous day. Their anger was entirely justified and the joint hatred of these Germanic invaders seemed to have bound the regular legionaries and their auxiliary Gaulish counterparts together in a camaraderie that had not previously been evident.
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