Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (2 page)

Priscus winced at the sharpness in the general’s voice. Caesar was controlling his temper by a fine thread at best, and another word could snap it. Not even risking an apology, the officer simply bowed curtly, turned and left the tent.

Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul and Illyricum, governor of Transalpine Gaul, beloved of the Roman people and descendant of Venus, pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to ignore the blinding headache that was rising in his temple with every crunch of Priscus’ footsteps crossing the frosty grass away from the tent.

Gaul was killing him by degrees.

Every morning he felt slightly more worn, as though the very act of waking up in this rebellious world abraded a little of his spirit and body both. He had always reproached Fronto for his drinking habits, and had taken to doing so with Priscus, and yet was forced to admit to himself that his own consumption had risen drastically the past two years. Once upon a time, he had rarely slept, working through the hours of darkness and taking but a few hours of rest before launching into the coming day with renewed vigour. Not so these days. The wine helped him sleep of course, but also the days seemed to press on him so much now that rest was becoming more of a necessity.

Gaul had to be settled.

Straightening, he stalked across the tent to the door, pulling aside one of the hanging leather flaps. Two of Aulus Ingenuus’ horse guard stood at attention outside, one to each side. Other than that the nearest activity was a collection of senior officers - including Priscus - chattering away by the water tank near the camp prefect’s tent.

‘I am not to be disturbed,’ he announced to the bodyguards, who saluted without tearing their eyes away from the camp and any potential trouble. Ingenuus was always serious about his task, and that professionalism filtered down through his men.

With a nod of satisfaction, Caesar returned to his tent and allowed the leather flap to drop back behind him. Ignoring the table with its huge map of Gaul and collection of tablets and scrolls, the cupboards and desks that held all his records and correspondence, the chairs and banners, standards and trophies, he turned to the door in the dividing wall.

Caesar’s tent was, needless to say, the largest in the camp by a sizeable margin, given the fact that it served as both his private apartments and the army’s headquarters. The front room was large enough to comfortably accommodate a briefing of twenty officers, and that was only a third of the whole structure.

The Illyrian slave who stood folding Caesar’s tunics ready to place them in the shelves turned at the general’s sudden entrance, bowing low and then replacing the linen and scurrying over to his master. Caesar frowned. For some reason he couldn’t remember the slave’s name. He’d had a series of miscellaneous house and body slaves during the campaign, but they never seemed to be up to the task and in the end they were all sent on to other duties, some not even hanging around long enough to remember their face. The latest seemed to be obsessed with neatness, which was fine, but was never there when Caesar discovered he needed him.

‘Leave me.’

The slave bowed respectfully, and then scurried towards the other doorway that led into the general’s sleeping chamber.

‘Not that way. Outside. Go and wash something.’

Nodding nervously, the young Illyrian shuffled through the room and disappeared into the public area and then outside. Caesar sighed and allowed himself to sag a little as solitude enfolded him in its comforting embrace. It was an unfortunate consequence of public life and military command that he rarely ever found himself alone unless he was actually asleep. Privacy was a precious commodity, though he’d had a little more of it these past few months, since Labienus was away east with his legion keeping the Treveri busy and some of the more vocal and time-consuming officers were either back in Rome or gracing the fields of Elysium.

Soon, that respite would vanish. A couple of months of wintering with the troops had brought its own hardships, but at least there had been a certain level of inactivity. No one campaigned in the winter. But the weather was perceptibly changing, and in a matter of weeks the first hints of spring would show, which meant that ships would start to sail and Antonius would arrive in Gaul with a new herd of eager officers. Then the business of command would become fraught once more.

His eyes fell upon the thing to which he must now tend - the reason he had dismissed the slave and sought privacy.

The altar.

Most of the officers had brought small altars on campaign with them, replete with portable divine figures cast in bronze or sculpted from wood or ivory. The Olympian Gods graced shrines in every officer’s tent, and even the common soldiery would carry miniature figures of their chosen deities with them to pray before.

The general’s, of course, was something a little grander. A full-size altar of carved marble shipped with his personal gear from Rome, decorated with scenes of the Goddess granting favours - and dallying with Mars of course - painted in bright colours with the care and skill of a true artist. Atop the altar - a flat surface surrounded by delicate scroll-work - stood the statue of the Goddess herself. Unusually for her divine portrayals, this particular Venus was clothed for modesty, though her shapeliness showed through the diaphanous gown, and her languid pose suggested less than modest pursuits.

The various offerings he had found cause to place upon the altar top around the lady’s figure remained in situ. The slight bowl-shaped depression between her toes was stained a deep dark red from old dried wine libations. Small piles of ash abounded - all that remained of silver frankincense, brought from Arabia via Rome at the cost of a legionary’s yearly pay for each shipment. Tiny bronze, orichalcum, silver and gold charms commissioned from Gallic smiths for the honour of the Goddess were scattered here and there. All in favour of Venus Genetrix, the mother of the Julian family line and patron divinity of the general.

This shrine, with its altar, statue and offerings, represented an outlay of money that would make even Crassus wince. And while Caesar only had passing time for Gods as a whole, preferring to trust his own abilities and knowledge, he was careful to keep the family Goddess appeased and on his side.

Yet, despite this, his grand plan seemed to be foundering.

When he had initially secured his command and the Proconsulship - hurriedly, after the end of his Consular term - he had imagined that by now he would be back in Rome, reaping the rewards of his campaign and securing a previously undreamed of level of power for his descendants.

And now here he was in his sixth year of Gaul, on his second extended term of governorship, still struggling to keep the tribes under control, his mother perished in a conflagration, his daughter passed away without issue and taking with her all hopes of peace and reconciliation with Pompey, the senate beginning to speak against him and even his beloved mob of plebs questioning his ability to control Gaul.

It was vexing, to say the least.

With a deep sigh, the general collected his folding campaign chair from the small desk in the corner and placed it before the altar, opening it out. Supplicants may generally kneel or bow or prostrate themselves, but few supplicants could claim to be one of the leading figures in the greatest nation the world had ever known. Besides, he was no longer a young man, and a seated position was sensible for the sake of his joints.

‘Beloved Venus, mother and queen, I entreat you…’

He paused. Was it an entreaty? Or simply a vow?

A shrug. It was, of course, both… a deal of sorts.

‘
My
line is
your
line, Divine Venus Genetrix.
My
family is
your
family. My
mother
is your
daughter
. Yet our house ails and falters. Julia is gone, and with her any hope of a grandchild. Young Brutus could provide me with one, but to make
that
progeny claim public would tear down much of what I have built and bring shame upon his mother. Barring perhaps Antonius - who has his own demons with whom to wrestle - none of my collection of greedy, self-obsessed and degenerate cousins or nephews would be worth the time and effort of grooming.’

He closed his eyes and rubbed the corners of them wearily.

‘Except possibly Atia Caesonia’s boy. The lad shows promise, even at only nine summers. Given what he seems to know of the world and its workings, he has the makings of a strong politician, and feasibly a commander of men. But he is still several years from taking the toga virilis, and I would see him grow into manhood and display some sort of sign that he is ready before I entrust the future of all that I strive for to him.’

He sighed and opened his eyes, flexing his fingers.

‘And that, great Venus, is the crux of the matter. My family -
your
family - is in flux, and has no clear future. What is the point of my dragging our familia from poverty and obscurity to become the most prominent in the Republic if it all crumbles and falls to dust when I pass on to Elysium because there is no one suitable to follow? I would entreat you to watch over the Julii and to strengthen us, to clear out the chaff that fills the granary of your seed and leave us only the strong grain that forms the pure, healthy bread. If Octavian is to be the future - and my gut tells me he could be that one - give me a sign. If Antonius might be worthy - despite the distance in our lineage - let him leave behind the debauchery that has plagued him since his youth and stand tall on the shoulders of the devils that now ride him. And if Brutus…?’

He straightened.

‘Great Venus, I have vowed to the senate and to the Roman people that I will bring to heel the rebel leader Ambiorix, who roused the tribes against us, killed Cotta and Sabinus and all-but obliterated the Fourteenth legion, and who even now remains at large. I have vowed his end to them, and now I vow it to you. In the name of vengeance and good Roman piety I will hunt down and destroy this snake that would ruin all that I have achieved, and with his demise, the senate and the people of Rome will throw their support behind me and our line will rise to heights undreamed of.’

He reached out to the small table beside the altar and collected a pinch of the frankincense, depositing a small pile of it on the stone beside the Goddess’ heel. Grasping the taper that smoked on the stand, where the slave kept it permanently smouldering, he placed it among the powder and resin until tendrils of blue-grey smoke began to rise, filling the tent rapidly with the heady exotic scent.

‘Give me an heir, Divine Venus, mother of the Julii, and in return, I will give you
Gaul
.’

With a long intake of breath he sat back and watched the smoke writhing about the statue. Collecting his small tablet and stylus from the stand, he quickly scrawled the promise - not an altar or a temple, but a whole province - to the Goddess, sealed the tablet and tied it in the age-old manner to her knee. He would start with a temple - perhaps at Vienna? Or Aquae Sextiae or Arelate perhaps. Somewhere civilised to begin with. Satisfied, he turned back towards the doorway that led into the headquarters.

‘Ten legions, you Belgic rat. Ten. With the auxilia, that’s almost a hundred thousand men. How long can you hide, Ambiorix of the Eburones? How fast can you run?’

Chapter One

The fast moving liburna leapt like a dolphin as it crested a particularly impressive wave. Fronto stood clinging to the rail with whitened fingers, grateful to the swells of the previous day that had ruined his appetite and left him with nothing inside to bring up. Instead, he retched empty breath out across the sea, his stomach flipping this way and that as the vessel once more descended into the trough and shuddered with the force of Neptune’s wrath.

‘Dearest, divine Fortuna, who I have loved and graced with my devotions these past decades, if you see fit to just drown me now and put me out of my misery, I will consider it your last blessing.’

The ship bucked once more in answer and Fronto felt his foot slip for a moment.

‘I wouldn’t beg to drown now, Fronto. The worst of it’s over.’

The sea-sick officer turned from the rail to examine the speaker and immediately wished he hadn’t. Marcus Antonius was striding up the deck as though out for an afternoon stroll in balmy sunlight. He had no grip on the rail, despite the dangerous rise and fall of the boards, since one hand was wrapped tightly round a greasy chicken leg and the other clutched a goblet that slopped and splashed with rich, unwatered wine.

‘How in the name of Bacchus you can drink anything while this ship jumps up and down like a startled horse is beyond me. And how you can…’

His voice tailed off as the very thought of chewing on the wobbly, dripping chicken leg made every organ inside him turn over and pucker. By the time he had finished emptying himself of nothing yet again, Antonius was leaning beside him, watching the waves rise and fall as though it were a comic play. Damn the man.

‘Wine inures one to the motion of the ocean’ Antonius grinned. ‘And anyway, you should be thanking the Gods for our passage. See those lights ahead?’

Fronto blinked against the salt spray.

‘Frankly, no.’

‘Well I can. That’s Ostia, with its welcoming wharves, whorehouses and taverns. In less than an half an hour we make landfall and then we’ll be able to make the most of a thriving port town for the night before we move on.’

‘If we make it to the dock, just lie me down on the stone and turn me over every now and then so I don’t drown when I throw up.’

Antonius laughed aloud and slapped Fronto on the back, bringing on a fresh bout of retching. ‘Keep your eyes locked on those lights and watch them grow as we approach. I’m going back inside to finish this rather delectable chicken, empty the last of the amphora and win all that remains of Rufio’s sparse coin before we dock and the thieves can try their luck on him.’

He straightened, somehow miraculously staying upright as the ship crested a wave, hovered almost as though floating in the air, and then suddenly crashed back down into the brine with a jolt.