Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (14 page)

‘Maybe your memory’s at fault?’ Galronus shrugged. ‘People often look back on their past with a biased view. The Remi are Caesar’s men to the hilt, and yet our towns are still defended and ready. Regardless of treaties with Rome, there will always be other hungry tribes in Gaul and Germania who eye our cities with greed.’

‘I hope you’re right and this is just something internecine and simple,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘All the same, I was planning to stay here a few nights before we leave but I think, in the event, we’ll move on first thing in the morning.’

Palmatus and Masgava nodded at the sense of the decision, and the four men rode towards the gate, which stood open under the protective gaze of half a dozen solid, well-armoured Aedui warriors.

‘Want me to do the honours?’ Galronus asked as they approached.

Fronto shook his head. Despite the fact that the cavalry officer spoke his Belgic tongue naturally, it would sound almost foreign to the Aedui, the accent so different that he might as well be a German. Besides, Fronto was interested to see the reaction of the guards to a Roman in their midst. The legate was relatively incognito, unarmoured and just in his riding gear with an officer’s tunic beneath his heavy wool cloak, even wearing his Gallic torc - a gift from Galronus - around his neck. Palmatus wore old leathers and tunic, Masgava hardly appeared to be Roman, and Galronus was clearly a native. But as soon as Fronto opened his mouth, his origins would be clear. What would the Aedui say?

As they approached, the riders slowed. Palmatus and Galronus staying back a little and Masgava at the rear, holding the rope to the pack horses that carried all their main gear, including their armour.

He took a deep breath.

‘In the name of Rome and the Proconsul Gaius Julius Caesar, greetings,’ the legate intoned in an official manner. ‘I am Marcus Falerius Fronto, of the Proconsul’s staff, and these three are my colleagues. In the absence of the Roman supply depot here, we seek shelter for the night in your oppidum.’

There was a long, strange pause and Fronto began to wonder whether he had been incomprehensible. When the army had been here regularly, the city’s leaders had made sure that the men who stood by the gates spoke enough Latin to communicate with the soldiers and officers, and Fronto had assumed that, with the presence of the supply depot, the same had held true ever since. Perhaps since the demise of the supply post, Latin was no longer a concern among the guards.

He was about to gesture Galronus forward when one of the Aedui stepped to the parapet and held up his arm in salute. ‘Greetings, Fronto of Rome, legate of the Tenth Legion. You and your companions are welcome within our walls.’

Fronto heaved a sigh of relief but even as the man clambered down the steps out of sight and then emerged through the open gate, his oppressive feeling of unease refused to lift.

‘I am Danotalos of the Aedui. You are welcome to Bibracte and are known here.’ The Gaul looked him up and down. ‘I remember you myself. You have grown strong.’

‘Thanks,’ Fronto said drily. ‘This place seems… quiet? Nervous?’

Danotalos shrugged. ‘Our neighbours to the north - the Carnutes - stir up trouble. Your Seventh legion has been placed among them to quell the trouble, and the Carnutes’ arrogance and stupidity brought Roman uncertainty even upon us. We had your Thirteenth legion quartered in the north of our lands until the snows lifted. In such times it is wise for a city to look to its security.’

Fronto nodded his agreement, and could see out of the corner of his eye Galronus’ satisfaction at hearing the reasonable explanation of the city’s readiness, but somehow his spine was still tingling and he reached up and touched the little figure of Fortuna hanging on the thong around his neck before forcing a smile to his face.

‘There was a small tavern not far from this gate run by a man called Lugos, I think? A nice place on a steep street, with a shady garden covered in trees and vines?’

‘Lugulcos’ the man smiled. ‘The tavern is still open and its owner as miserable and cheap as ever. He may even still have some of your wine. The supply of new Roman wine dried up when the garrison outside left, but few here have the taste for it.’

Fronto nodded, noting something that unnerved him about that last phrase, or rather about the way it was said.

‘Will he have rooms in his place for four men for the night? We’ll be moving on in the morning.’

‘I am sure Lugulcos will make room for such men.’ the Gaul grinned. ‘Though you might regret it when he offers up his bill!’

Fronto fell silent once more as the four men followed Danotalos up the street from the gate and made their way towards the small tavern that had played host to some of Fronto’s favourite moments of the entire campaign in Gaul.

Each and every person they passed, be they man, woman or child, nodded their respect to Fronto and quite a few of them smiled, even warmly. And yet there was an atmosphere over the whole place that refused to let up. Even as the shady, tree-covered garden of the tavern appeared around a corner, Fronto was already looking forward to being gone from this place.

* * * * *

Fronto pushed his plate across the table and slid his wine cup into position before him. With care he poured a small quantity of the strong rich red liquid - imported from Cisalpine Gaul across the mountains - into the cup and watered it thoroughly. It had not kept over-well and had a sharpness to it that tingled the tongue but beggars, as they said, could not be choosers, and it was still better than the frothy ditch water being consumed by the locals in the tavern.

The discarded plate still contained some of the thick, rich gravy and morsels of meat with some soggy uneaten bread. The portion had been more than adequate and he felt his waistline stretched to the limit - almost to the width at which it had normally sat a year ago, he thought wryly.

Masgava was giving him a meaningful look and he simply nodded. At the signal, the big Numidian reached over and swiped his plate, stuffing the leftovers into his face like a man possessed. How he could eat like he did and not gain even the slightest fat was beyond Fronto. If
he
wanted to maintain his new lithe figure he had to be extremely careful. He only had to look at honey cakes and he felt his weight increase.  But then he was older than Masgava by quite a margin.

Palmatus had finished his plate completely and was now supping down the wine with aplomb. Galronus had left half his meal and was toying with a piece of bread, dipping it in his wine cup and letting it soak up the red, then nibbling at it. The rest of his dinner had already made its way across the table to Masgava and had vanished into the empty pit that was his stomach.

‘I notice they still refer to you here as legate of the Tenth,’ Palmatus said quietly. ‘You must have made an impression.’

Fronto smiled wearily and took a sip of his wine. ‘I know Pompey shifts his legates round as the situation demands - in the old way - but Caesar’s tried to keep the same legate with the same legion for as long as possible, unless the need for change arises. Thinks it increases their efficiency. I think he’s right, too. I was legate of the Tenth for a number of years. Thought I always would be.’

He fell silent with a slightly morose expression.

‘You think you’ll be made legate of the Tenth again then?’

Fronto looked across at Palmatus. ‘The way the general is likely to receive me I’ll be lucky to command anything other than a latrine pit. I understand he took my departure sort of personally.’

Galronus shook his head with a smile. ‘You basically called him an amoral power-monger and told him you’d have nothing to do with him. It
was
personal.’ He leaned back with his soggy bread. ‘But the general is ever the player of the game. He will forgive if you are of value, and Antonius seems to think that is the case.’

Fronto nodded slowly. He would have to play his arrival somewhat carefully. Too familiar or arrogant and Caesar would simply take offence. Too humble and quiet and he might not make enough of an impression to gain the general’s trust again. The answer, of course, was to be himself, as he always had. The general would come around eventually, and he would be given some sort of command.

‘I’m hoping to get a legion, I have to admit. It would be nice if it were the Tenth, but there are good men in the others, too. So long as I don’t get to take over from Plancus. He’ll have ruined his men at best. Or one of the new bunch… can’t see a former Pompeian legion taking to me all that well, and the others will be so green you’d mistake them for a cabbage.’

‘I’m a former Pompeian legionary, and I only find you mildly irritating,’ grinned Palmatus.

‘Funny.’

‘But seriously, Fronto. Any legion is better than nothing. You’re a man of the army and you know it. You’ll not be happy anywhere else.’

Fronto nodded slowly. ‘It will happen. And when it does we’re going to have to sort you two out. Galronus will go back to his Remi cavalry, but you two would make good centurions. Masgava: you should be a chief training officer. Any legion you train will be a nightmare to face.’

‘Piss on that idea,’ smirked Palmatus.

‘What?’

‘I’m no centurion, Fronto. I have no interest in bending over and letting the young tribunes have their way with me. Never yet met a centurion I like, so I’m damn well not going to
be
one.’

Masgava was nodding. ‘Too restrictive. Too rigid. Not for me either.’

‘Then can I ask,’ Fronto sighed, ‘what you were hoping for when you came north with me?’

‘We signed on to serve you, Fronto. Not the general.’

‘Well don’t look for anything higher than a centurion,’ Fronto said, sipping his wine again. ‘I can’t make tribunes or prefects of you. When I’m given a command again, I’ll be able to push transfers through for centurions, but Caesar will veto any attempt to put you two in higher office.’

‘Don’t worry about us. Arrange a tent for us and meals and leave us to it.’

Fronto shook his head. There was no arguing with them. Theoretically they both worked for him and, although he’d not paid them a wage since Puteoli, he’d sprung for all the food and drink, transport and accommodation on the journey. They were living free.

‘Well just don’t get yourselves into trouble. Or me.’

‘No,’ Palmatus grinned. ‘We’ll leave that up to you.’

The former legionary picked up the eating knife from the table and placed the point down onto the much-scarred wooden surface, twiddling it this way and that with the fingers of his left hand while he drank wine from his right. As he drained the final dregs, he lowered the cup and grinned.

‘Thing is, Fronto, I’ve been thinking.’

‘You should watch that,’ the legate replied acidly. ‘You could strain yourself.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Palmatus repeated ‘about what we’ll do when we get there. I’m assuming Caesar has a Praetorian guard?’

Fronto nodded. ‘A horse regiment led by a professional young soldier called Ingenuus. Why? Surely with your saddle trouble you’re not planning to turn horse-humper?’

Palmatus shook his head, smiling. ‘Back in Pontus I served for a while under Quintus Metellus Celer. He was a legate of Pompey’s and he formed his own guard - his singulares - like a Praetorian guard. Apparently it’s not unknown for a legate to do so?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of it being done, but usually only by those legates who have reason to fear, or those who like their pomp and show. I remember a few years ago young Crassus did it for a few months, and Plancus was going to until Caesar gave him the hard word.’

‘Well I see no reason why you shouldn’t have your own ‘singulares’? As a legate you’d have the right, and certainly you seem to have a habit of getting yourself into trouble. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a few broad-shouldered lads close by when you decide to go off into the fight?’

Fronto shook his head flatly. ‘Not a hope. I have no intention of swanning around with a bodyguard unit in shiny steel and crimson plumes, looking like some ponce from a triumph. Forget it.’

But Palmatus simply turned and looked across at Masgava, whose brow furrowed in thought before he nodded his agreement and then started into the last morsels on his plate.

‘You can plan all you like,’ Fronto shrugged, ‘but I will not sanction a ‘singulares’ unit for myself, and neither will the rest of the officers. Caesar doesn’t like his legates to build themselves up like that. He allowed Crassus, but only because of his father. Start thinking differently. Make other plans. Maybe you could set up an independent training school for legionaries with too much pay who want an extra edge?’

But the two men were sharing a look that Fronto knew well. It was the look his sister and his wife shared when they had plans for him and no intention of letting him interfere with them.

Refilling his wine cup, he tried not to allow his thoughts to wander down the avenue of home, though his mind furnished him with a speculative image of his wife stumbling around the villa in Massilia with a large, pregnant bump.

He drew a deep breath and took a swig of the wine. Time to think more on the present rather than the future or the past. He glanced around the bar surreptitiously. He’d have liked to have sat outside in the tree-shaded yard he remembered so well, but the season was against it. They’d sat at the outside bench for half an hour but as the sun began to disappear behind the hill of Bibracte the temperature plummeted and they soon moved inside.

There were eight other inhabitants of the bar and most of them had been there since the start of the evening, eating or drinking and talking in small groups, playing some sort of dice game that was unknown to him. With only a couple of people leaving or arriving during that time there had been polite acknowledgements of his presence, but mostly locals minding their own business.

Now, as he scanned the place, the other occupants were all busy with their own social lives. He was struck once more how, despite the war and the cultural differences between Gaul and Roman, there was so much they had in common when you got down to the bottom line.