Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (38 page)

Fronto fell into a sad silence and stared down at the water.

“I hope this is it. Hope this is the end of Gallic revolts. Time to turn this place into a province and go home. I think I might ask Caesar to relieve me and then I can go with Balbus. Someone needs to take him home and it should be someone Corvinia knows.”

Brutus shook his head.

“If there’s anything left to do, you know Caesar won’t let you go, especially if he’s already losing the legate of the Eighth.”

Fronto ignored the comment, staring into the churning water, his mind refusing to let him rest. Balbus couldn’t have looked different from Lucius Falerius Fronto, a tall man with speckled black and grey hair and a wide face with a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and yet whenever Fronto thought of the older legate now, he couldn’t help but draw a disturbing number of parallels between the two.

Balbus had been the first friendly and sympathetic person he’d met after leaving Cremona with the Tenth more than two years ago. He’d grown close to the man in that time and realised that Balbus was, in fact, the only man in Caesar’s army that he trusted implicitly and automatically deferred to the opinion of.

The conquest of Gaul was exerting a high price indeed.

He stared out across the bay toward where he presumed Darioritum to be and willed the trireme on as fast as he could.

* * * * *

He watched as Fronto kicked at a tuft of grass in irritation and tried to identify a way to turn the legate’s mind to a different subject.

Brutus was beginning to worry. Fronto being argumentative and out of sorts was
normal
Fronto. Fronto being acquiescent and submissive was a disturbing sight. They had arrived at Caesar’s hastily-erected headquarters tent less than an hour ago. The oppidum was being systematically cleared and searched by the Eleventh and Thirteenth legions prior to becoming a temporary encampment but in the meantime, Caesar had needed somewhere to debrief with his officers and the temporary camp prefect had responded by providing a tent near the docks.

As soon as they’d landed on the jetty, Balbus had been taken off his hands by one of the capsarius that was working nearby and escorted to another hastily-raised surgical tent where the chief medicus could check him over. Fronto had refused to attend Caesar and had gone with Balbus, only to find that the medicus would not admit him. Angrily, he had raged impotently for a few minutes and then rejoined the officers at the general’s tent.

There had been surprisingly few casualties at Darioritum, given the scale of the operation, and Caesar had been in an uncharacteristically good mood, offering a great deal of praise to most of those involved, and particularly to Fronto, Brutus and the absent Balbus. Fronto had all but ignored the compliment, staring glassily into a dark corner, his mind elsewhere.

The news of Caesar’s designs for the Veneti had met with varied responses. The execution of the leaders was to be expected, given the fact that they had risen in revolt against Rome after having accepted terms only the year before. Examples had to be made and every officer knew the value of that, but the decision to ship the rest of the tribe: men, women and children indiscriminately, off to Rome to the slave markets had been more of a surprise.

Given the current objective of Romanising the Gauls, depopulating an entire region was perhaps working against their goal. The idea had been popular in some circles, though. The profit from the mass slave sales would be passed down from the general to the officers and men of the army. A legionary with a cash bonus was a happy legionary, regardless of the source of the money. Brutus had been less enthralled with the decision and had prepared for a huge outburst from Fronto. Indeed, he had not been alone. Most knowing eyes turned to the commander of the Tenth at the news, but Fronto nodded blankly, staring into the shadows.

The entire meeting had taken less than half an hour and then Brutus had accompanied the worried legate as he had left the command tent, striding across the grass while officers and men went about their assorted business, rank upon rank of Veneti captives being roped and penned ready for their long journey to permanent servitude. On the high walls of the oppidum, close to the main gate, the leaders of the Veneti were being crucified on ‘T’ shaped posts, where they would remain until exposure or carrion feeders took their last breath from them, or until Caesar relented and decided to grant them a quick death by the sword.

And now, for the last twenty minutes, they had stayed outside the tent of the chief medicus on Caesar’s staff, Brutus sitting in a gloom of his own while Fronto paced and grumbled.

“Fronto!”

The pair of them looked up at the call. Crispus, the young legate of the Eleventh, was making his way toward them alongside an officer Fronto didn’t recognise. The worried legate waved a hand half-heartedly in greeting.

“How’s he doing?” Crispus asked as they reached the bench, his voice full of concern.

“How the bloody hell would
we
know?” Fronto barked irritably. Crispus drew back in surprise, his companion’s face registering the same expression.

“Sorry” Brutus apologised for him. “The medicus won’t let him in.”

Fronto glared at them.

“Look,” Crispus said quietly, “I know that you’re vexed. As soon as you have seen the medicus, we are going to take you into the city and find a purveyor of alcohol where we can let you drown that sorrow.”

Fronto shook his head silently, still pacing.

“It wasn’t an offer, Fronto. It was a statement.”

Fronto rounded on him, a finger raised, and opened his mouth, just as the tent flap opened. The four men attending outside looked up apprehensively.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“Good thing really. I don’t think I was a very courteous host that day. But then, I
was
piss wet through.”

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.”

“Oh, a
written
message. Alright.”

“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.”

“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.