FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  As the riders, with the large native cavalry contingent following on, passed along the road between the wide, sluggish river and the forested hill toward the heavy city walls ahead, Caesar’s mood grew pensive and disquieted. Something was clearly wrong. Even had the three legions sent south from Gaul to join Fabius had not yet arrived, and that would put them weeks overdue lost somewhere this side of the mountains, there should still be a massive encampment of legionaries here, with the three legions from Narbo and their auxiliary support.

  No encampment was visible on the plain across the river, the only flat ground large enough to play host to an army that size.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve camped somewhere nearby?’ Salvius Cursor hazarded.

  Caesar shook his head. ‘Since Pompey first settled this place any force passing through has used the field of Mars across the river to camp and muster. If the legions are not camped there, then they are not at Gerunda at all.’

  ‘Which begs the question: where are they?’ added Marcus Antonius.

  Directing the cavalry to the far bank to set up camp, Caesar, his cadre of officers and a small guard under Aulus Ingenuus rode on through the gates of Gerunda, where the two evocati veterans who guarded this approach bowed their heads in respect at the party of senior Roman officers. This was not a fortress or camp, with military control. No password or identification were required to enter, and the lack of security strengthened the theory that Fabius and his legions were nowhere in the area.

  ‘Where will I find the most senior councillor of Gerunda?’ Caesar asked the two veterans, pausing in the gateway.

  ‘That would be Papirius Cilo, Proconsul. He is the speaker in the ordo and… likes to think he rules the city himself.’

  Caesar gave a wolfish smile, and the man went on. ‘He will be in the large domus next to the basilica in the forum. There’s a wine shop built into the front wall, sir. Can’t miss it. Don’t buy the wine either. It’s over-priced.’

  Fronto grinned as they trotted on into the city. With the banks of the Alba river rising into such high hills, sunset came sudden and strong, and Fronto could see the last of the golden light sliding up the higher storeys of the buildings to either side of the street as the shadow enveloped Gerunda.

  ‘Why not just enquire of the veterans, Caesar?’ Antonius muttered as they rode.

  ‘Pompey’s veterans. I am sure they feel themselves beyond such divisions in retirement, but I would find myself beset constantly by niggling doubt if I based my decisions on information drawn from my enemy’s veterans. The town’s councillors, however, should be much easier to intimidate into clear truths.’

  Fronto caught the eye of Salvius, expecting some sour look, given that he himself was a former Pompeian officer, but the man showed no emotion at all.

  By the time they reached the forum, the city’s workers were out lighting torches in sconces that burned with oily black smoke but relieved the forum of some of its gloom. Taverns and shops and establishments of a more carnal nature displayed open, welcoming doors with lamp-lit golden interiors, but Caesar’s eyes were on the columns of the basilica and the wine shop beside it. More specifically on the ostentatious door in the high wall next to the shop. They dismounted as they reached the place and Fronto rolled his eyes at the sight of the expensive cedar-wood doors which had clearly either been imported all the way from the east or purchased at great expense from Numidian merchants across the southern straits. The doors were covered in ornate bronze discs, and the handles were formed of bronze lion heads. Even the bell that hung beside the door was of bronze and embossed with the shapes of exotic animals.

  Fronto had never met Papirius Cilo, but already he disliked the man. His hand closed on the pommel of his sword and he realised with chagrin that the sort of mind that commissioned the decorative orichalcum hilt of his own sword was the very same that might desire those doors. His gaze slid to Galronus, who was giving him a knowing grin as though reading his mind.

  Ingenuus tugged on the bell and they waited in the warm night air for long moments before the door inched open and a man with an impressive hooked nose that almost overshot his mouth peered out suspiciously.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul,’ announced Ingenuus in a clear tone, ‘to see master Papirius Cilo.’

  The man didn’t even blink, apparently unfazed by the impressive title. ‘Wait here,’ he rumbled, and shut the door again. Caesar and Antonius shared a bemused look. ‘Perhaps I should be accompanied with my lictors after all,’ the general mused, ‘since even doormen seem unimpressed.’

  There was a drawn out pause once more, and then the door was flung suddenly open and a man appeared in the opening, bowing obsequiously. His face was flushed and his skin sweaty and over-abundant, covering multiple rolls of fat. His scant black hair seemed to be trying to escape via the rear, leaving much of his head shiny and pink while the back of his skull remained dark and curly, matted hair covering his neck and shoulders without interruption. He wore an expensive toga. Well… almost wore. Clearly he had just thrown it on, on his way to the door, and had not had time to let his slaves adjust and settle it. Even as he straightened from his bow, most of his toga tried to escape downwards in sympathy with his hair. Fronto would be able to describe the man only as some kind of shaved ape.

  ‘Proconsul, I am humbled by your presence.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Antonius snorted, earning himself a reproving look from Caesar.

  ‘I do not wish to cause you too much disturbance, councillor Papirius, and I do apologise for having disturbed you from your… ah… labours. I am seeking information as to the whereabouts of my lieutenant – Gaius Fabius Pictor – who was reported to have brought his legions through the mountains and was intending to base himself at Gerunda until my arrival. Might you have further details for me?’

  The man’s eyes rolled in worry. His toga slid a little more and the sweat literally ran off him.

  ‘General Fabius, Proconsul? He was here some weeks ago. Three legions encamped across the river and he remained with his officers in Gerunda until a further force joined them. Biggest army I’ve ever witnessed, I have to say. Aggressive, too. We had to put a ban on parties of more than eight men at a time entering the city because of the disgraceful behaviour. I’d hate to be in the Citerior legions with that bunch baying for my blood. Not that I have any love for Pompey,’ he added hurriedly, gathering the sliding folds of toga in a growing pool of sweat.

  ‘So Fabius gathered six legions and moved on?’ Antonius prompted.

  ‘Why yes. The army left the day after the new legions arrived.’

  ‘Might you have information as to their intended destination?’ Caesar said quietly, in a tone that Fronto recognised as the general trying to eke out the last of his patience.

  ‘I am afraid not, Caesar, though rumour says that your lieutenant has moved west with the intent of bringing to battle the legions of Afranius and Petreius, Pompey’s maggot-ridden men in the province.’

  Fronto almost laughed at the stress the men put on the insult, given the extreme likelihood that he had fawned all over both of those men at some point during his tenure at Gerunda. The man was a politician to the core, even when suddenly faced with the most powerful man in the world turning up on his doorstep.

  ‘The last reports I know of,’ Fronto piped up, remembering the briefings back in Massilia, ‘put the legions of Hispania Citerior somewhere on the other side of Tarraco. Would Pompey’s lieutenants not try to hold Tarraco against Fabius, it being the capital of the province?’

  Caesar nodded. ‘If they are not engaged around Tarraco, they will certainly be in the region, and news of the situation will be clearer in the city. We ride on in the morning, following the coastal route to Tarraco in the hope that Fabius is there.’

  He waved to the sweating man in a tangle of toga. ‘Thank you for your time, Papirius Cilo. I pray you have a good evening.’

>   Leaving the trembling councillor on his doorstep, Caesar turned his horse and began to walk it across the forum. Once they were away from the house, finally, Caesar released his temper, thumping the horn of his saddle in anger.

  ‘What in the name of sacred Venus is the man doing? I gave Fabius strict orders to secure the mountain passes and hold the access to Hispania. And we arrive to discover that he appears to have taken it upon himself to launch a war in Hispania. I shall give Fabius a piece of my mind when we track down the man,’ he added in a tone that suggested the flaying of a certain officer’s skin loomed in the near future.

  Fronto shrugged, remembering Fabius Pictor, a serious, intelligent man. ‘I don’t think he would have exceeded his orders without good reason, Caesar.’ He bit down on pointing out the rather glaring parallel between Fabius being sent to secure the passes of the Pyrenaei and launching a war in Hispania beyond, and Caesar a decade ago moving north across the border of his province with the ostensible goal of preventing Helvetii migration and turning that into an eight year campaign of conquest in Gaul. Somehow, he didn’t think Caesar would see the funny side of that.

  ‘There is a mansio in Gerunda,’ the general said. ‘We shall pass the night there and then move on at dawn. Get some sleep. We travel fast again.’

  * * *

  On the sixteenth of June, Caesar’s party arrived at Tarraco to find neither a huge encampment of six legions plus auxiliary support, nor a war in progress. Caesar’s knuckles whitened as his grip nearly broke through the leather of his saddle, and Fronto could see the frustration and anger starting to boil over in the general’s very demeanour.

  As they rode toward the upper city and the governor’s palace, Fronto could not help but repeatedly glance over his shoulder, back along the coast, as though he might be able to see the villa he had purchased from the estate of Longinus last year, where his family should at least be safe now, given the fact that the armies of both sides had yet to be located.

  He remembered both Afranius and Petreius, the men who would now be arrayed with legions against them – if they ever turned up. While Pompey was officially Proconsular governor of both Hispanias, the quiet, inoffensive Varro governed in his stead over Hispania Ulterior in western Gades. And Afranius and Petreius governed in his name in Hispania Citerior, Afranius controlling civil government from the high city of Tarraco, while Petreius controlled the legions in the constant push to add what was left of free Hispania to the Roman provinces. Afranius was an accomplished officer with a string of victories to his name, all in Pompey’s service as far back as the Sertorian wars. But for all his military ability, Afranius was careful and pacific by nature. Not so, Petreius, a man given to feats of martial prowess and who hungered for war and victory.

  It came as no surprise to any of them to find no real military presence at all in Tarraco, barring once again a few evocati veterans who served as support for the governor’s guard. Two of them stood roughly at attention by the main gate to the upper city as Caesar and his officers reined in.

  ‘I am here to see the governor’s representative,’ Caesar announced loudly.

  The two men looked at each other, then one of them cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m afraid, General, that neither the governor, nor his lieutenant, are in residence at this time. The best you’ll find in Tarraco is the questor, though he’s very busy and might not see you.’

  Caesar’s eyebrow rose slightly at the faint air of insolence about the men, soldiers who would be Pompeian through and through.

  ‘Might I enquire as to where the governor’s man – Afranius, if I am not mistaken – might be?’

  Fronto could see the difficulty his commander was having in controlling his temper. He coughed and, as Caesar turned to look at him, gave the general a meaningful look. The last thing he wanted right now was for Caesar to have one of his attacks.

  ‘Governor Lucius Afranius is with General Petreius at Ilerda, kicking seven shades of shit out of your man Fabius,’ chuckled the other veteran. Fronto watched, alarmed, as the vein on Caesar’s forehead began to visibly throb.

  ‘Even in times of war, there are ways to talk to a Proconsul of Rome,’ Antonius snapped, ‘and ways that are simply unacceptable. For now, be about your business and, when we have put down Pompey’s pups in this province and brought their army to heel, I will be back in Tarraco. When I am, I will be looking for your two faces and you have better fucking pray I do not find them. Do I make myself clear?’

  Something in Antonius’ tone or expression seemed to have a profound effect on the two veterans, who straightened and lowered their faces.

  ‘That’s more like it. You may serve Pompey, but you’re still soldiers of Rome, and we are still Roman nobiles and officers. Remember that, you pair of snivelling little scrotums.’

  He turned his back on the two chastened men and glanced past Caesar to Fronto. ‘You know this city better than any of us Marcus. If we’re to ride on to Ilerda and join a war, I personally want a strong drink and a good night’s sleep first. Anywhere you recommend?’

  Caesar was still seething and the look on his face suggested that his mind was going over everything, processing the information and planning their next move. Fronto grinned at Antonius. ‘There are a few good taverns in the city, but if I might suggest, I have a villa a few miles out of town with its own vineyard?’

  Antonius clapped his hands together. ‘Capital. Now that’s the first good news I’ve heard since we left Rome. Come on, Gaius,’ he slapped Caesar on the shoulder. ‘If we must stay the night at Tarraco, we might as well drink Fronto out of house and home.’

  * * *

  Fronto sank back into the couch with the most relief he had felt that entire year.

  Every step that had taken him closer to the villa had made him more tense. What if Afranius had learned that one of Caesar’s officers had family in the area and had imprisoned them, or worse. What if Afranius and his army had been at work ravaging the area? What if Fabius had ravaged the place in passing, for he would not know of Fronto’s property? There were so many ways this could have gone horribly wrong for the family. He could see a similar concern building on Galronus’ face as they turned up the drive, too.

  In the end, all his fears had been unfounded. Not only had the villa escaped all trouble and even the notice of the anti-Caesarian elements in Hispanic government, the place had actually thrived. Business was good, the crop had been abundant, and peace had reigned. Fronto had almost melted as they arrived, to see Marcus and Lucius, his two boys, running around the villa’s lawns with sticks, shouting things about Gauls and barbarians and delivering deadly uppercuts to finely manicured bushes.

  It never ceased to amaze him how much the boys had grown every time he saw them. They were marching toward their fourth birthday now, and clearly causing trouble as was the wont of all three year olds.

  Lucilia had thrown her arms around Fronto and smothered him in kisses, much to the wry amusement of Caesar and Antonius, who sat astride their horses behind him. Faleria had been considerably more restrained, grasping Galronus’ hand as he dismounted and leading him away around a corner, though the end result must have been much the same, judging by Galronus’ grinning red face by the time he put in another appearance.

  Masgava, Aurelius and Arcadios were looking well, if a little out of shape – the latter two, anyway. Fronto had never yet seen excess fat on Masgava. The man was basically a muscle with limbs.

  The only thing that gave Fronto pause was the sight of Balbus as he appeared through the atrium to shake Fronto’s hand. The old man had a faintly haunted look, and the sight of Caesar made him pale slightly, though only Fronto seemed to have noticed.

  Caesar, Antonius and the other officers were welcomed into the villa as honoured guests, along with the most senior cavalry commanders. As Salvius Cursor cast a disapproving eye over the place, Fronto wondered whether he could legitimately refuse accommodation to the tribune, but decided that the backlash
it would create was not worth it. He endured the lunatic’s bile day in and day out. What was one more night?

  Lucilia and Faleria both bore expressions of frustration as Fronto asked humbly whether they might be able to find somewhere in the villa’s grounds for a not-so-small cavalry unit to camp. In the end the auxilia had set up their rows of tents to the east of the villa, on common grazing land at the estate’s edge, allowing their horses to be corralled with the estate’s animals, a decision made by Fronto’s mother who, though appearing to have aged several years since he’d last seen her, was still as much a force of nature as ever.

  That afternoon the three ladies of the family set to ordering about the villa’s staff while the menfolk made use of the private bath suite in shifts and retired to their rooms, emerging refreshed and in clean, fresh clothes in time for an evening meal that would have put to shame any social engagement held by a senator of Rome. Fronto had eaten until he felt distinctly unwell, and then continued to make himself feel all the more bloated by topping up with several cups of wine.

  ‘This is an excellent vintage,’ Antonius complimented him. ‘Reminds me more of a wine from the Greek islands than the usual western fare.’

  Fronto grinned. ‘If you would like to compare, later on this evening, I will take you to the store sheds out back. We have a shipment there of Chian that was bound for Massilia but was rerouted due to the… well, you know.’

  ‘Funny how even a disaster like Massilia can result in the odd unforeseen advantage,’ chuckled Antonius. ‘Chian is one of my favourites.’

  Caesar rolled his eyes. ‘If it’s red, comes in a jar and dulls the senses, then it’s naturally one of your favourites!’

  Gentle chuckles filled the room for a moment, then died away. It did not escape Fronto’s notice that Salvius Cursor had sat as far away from him as possible, had not smiled once during the evening, and had wrinkled his nose in distaste at the food and drink proffered to him. Indeed, the man had not said a word all night, his eyes peeling layers from everything he looked at… everything, and everyone.