Read Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) Online
Authors: S.J.A. Turney
“They’ve got some fairly potent looking brews here; the smell is curling my nose hair. There’s some wine here, though. Looks like its come all the way from Gallia Narbonensis. Could be just the thing to relax you, Marcus.”
As Fronto wandered across to the table by the window and sank into a chair, Brutus gathered other seating from around the bar where it had been overturned and Roscius, an intrigued frown on his pale brow, walked across to the bar to help Crispus.
“You actually drink the local brews?”
“Indeed, yes. Try them… you might be surprised. I’ve grown quite accustomed to them. When we returned to Rome in the winter, I had to pay an emperor’s ransom to import beer from Vesontio. Imagine that: importing Gallic goods to the capital.”
As the two men laughed and went along the kegs, Fronto undid the scroll case and unrolled the letter.
Marcus.
I do not know where to begin. Things are beginning to fall apart in Rome. I would be careful how you pass this on, but the elder Cicero has been before the senate a few times, attacking Caesar’s various bill and achievements. Not sure why or what he hopes to achieve, but he is definitely stirring up trouble for the general.
Clodius appears to have stopped visiting Pompey’s house. I suspect we have been seen observing them, since the two never meet now, but I have seen Philopater speaking to some of Pompey’s men from time to time, so there is still something going on.
A number of people who gave evidence for Caelius in the trial have come to a nasty end in the last week. It appears that Philopater has been a busy man. Three known allies turned up on the banks of the Tiber following a swim while attached to marble busts of the general, so I think we can read a message into that, and two more died when their houses mysteriously burned to the ground.
But I’m afraid I have saved the worst for last.
Your mother was attacked at the market yesterday. I was not present. She was out shopping with Posco when, according to witnesses, they were jumped by four men and dragged into an alleyway. Do not worry unduly. I had a medicus visit the house straight away as soon as they returned. Your mother was beaten, but not seriously wounded. She is more shaken and frightened than in actual pain. Posco fared worse, as he tried to fight them off.
I have no hope of discovering the identity of the men who attacked them, since there was no sign of them when I got to the site of the attack, but there is one ray of light. A beggar saw what happened. The four attackers took them into the alley and, moments later, another man entered too. The beggar said he looked like he might be a retired soldier, but whoever he was, it looks like he saved the pair of them as, moments later, they returned to the street, running for home, and shortly after, he reappeared and left the scene. The enterprising beggar followed the old soldier and gave me an address for a paltry sum of money.
I go today to try and track this man down and find out whether he is involved or merely a brave passer-by. Either way, I have spent considerable amounts of your money hiring more men and have put a permanent large guard on your mother and Faleria, and all the house and servants.
I will write again as soon as I know more. I have received nothing from you yet since my last letter, but then I assume your courier is still on route to me. I hope the campaign out there finishes soon, as we really could do with you being back here.
Hoping Fortuna continues to watch over you.
Gnaeus.
* * * * *
“The answer is no.”
Fronto ripped his hands away from the table in disgust and whirled away from the general, grinding his teeth. He took a deep breath, willing himself calm, and then turned back.
“But we’re done here, and the legions are staying. You don’t need me.”
“Fronto, whether we’re done here or not remains to be seen. The battle only concluded today, for the love of Venus!”
The general sighed and cradled his hands on the flat, wooden surface, fixing Fronto with a sympathetic look.
“I
know
you want to go home. I
understand
that, Marcus. I want to, as well. And I’m aware that Balbus is going to have to be sent back to Massilia and that you’ll want to go with him, but the timing is simply not auspicious for such acts.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Then what are we waiting for? Tell me that!”
“We have to give it at least a week here to make sure that we have all of the Veneti and that no more centres of resistance are going to spring up. We need to contact the Osismii along the coast and make sure that they know the situation and are willing to take their oaths and acquiesce to the power of Rome. We have to wait on word from Crassus, Labienus and Sabinus to make sure their actions have also been a success. I am simply not willing to leave the job unfinished and march back to Rome without being certain that Gaul is completely pacified.”
Fronto growled.
“This benighted bloody country is
never
going to be pacified. Crispus has this lovely analogy of a lumpy sleeping pallet that describes the whole damn situation in disgusting detail. And anyway, Sabinus and Labienus are capable of doing all this for you, and Crassus will probably have executed half the population of the south west by now, so you could go to Rome if you really wanted.”
A sly look crossed his face.
“Remember the letter I showed you? Cicero’s causing you trouble. You need to get home too and deal with that.”
Caesar’s eyes hardened.
“Marcus, you are
not
changing my mind; you are merely beginning to aggravate me. We will remain at Darioritum until we receive word from the other armies…”
Fronto started to speak but Caesar raised his voice and shouted over the top.
“AND IF WE ARE REQUIRED TO CARRY OUT FURTHER ACTIONS WE WILL DO THAT TOO!”
He fell silent under the glare of the Tenth’s legate and sighed again.
“Look, Marcus, I am not unsympathetic, but you are a soldier. You know how this has to be done, and if you were
thinking
like a soldier right now, it would be
you
saying these things and not me. You are angry, tired, worried and saddened by both Balbus and your family’s plight. However, your place is with me and with the Tenth until the campaign is at an end for the year.”
Fronto opened his mouth again, but Caesar held up his finger.
“You can be of no help to Balbus right now. In fact, your presence and involvement is more likely to cause him further discomfort than to relax him. As soon as my personal medicus says he can travel, I will send Balbus home with the best doctors we have to offer, a small group of helpers and an escort of veterans from Ingenuus’ guard. Likely the Eighth will want to send an escort too. And then, when the time comes and we are done in Gaul, you and I shall both visit Balbus and his lovely wife on our journey back.”
Fronto grumbled, but kept his mouth shut.
“Your sister and mother are in the best hands available, Fronto, as you well know. Priscus is not going to let anything happen to them. Your mother has suffered, I know, but now Priscus will be looking after her and making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Again, Fronto grumbled, but said nothing.
“Marcus, we have to be sure
here
first. Logical. Methodical. Certain. Go and find your close friends, drink yourself into a comfortable stupor, get some good solid sleep, visit Balbus in the morning, and then we’ll talk again. I can’t spare you until the campaign’s over and you know that, but in the morning you’ll be rested and thinking straight.”
The general smiled slyly.
“How often do I actually advocate your binges, Marcus? Look on this as an opportunity, as I will not expect you at the staff meeting in the morning.”
Fronto sagged. The problem was that the general was correct in everything he said. His presence would only make Balbus try harder and strain himself, when he should be lying back and relaxing. Priscus would have taken the attack on his mother rather personally and would tear Rome to pieces to stop it happening again. And most of all, if the army did not complete the job here in Gaul, they would end up coming back again later in the year, or early in the next, to put down yet another rebellious tribe.
It galled him, but he couldn’t fault the reasoning. Of course, he didn’t
feel
very reasonable, right now.
“I’ll do just that. Try not to be too surprised if I’m not here tomorrow, though.”
It was a stupid and petty thing to say, and he knew it. His gaze refused to rise to meet that of Caesar. The general smiled as though he saw plainly through the childishness.
“Drink, relax and sleep, Marcus. Tomorrow is a new day.”
Fronto glared up at him, but nodded despondently and then turned and scuffed his feet angrily on the way out of the tent.
By now, all the Veneti prisoners had been processed and were safely locked away in guarded stockades. The commotion had died down considerably, the Roman fleet moored in the bay, and much of the army organising themselves ready to move into the oppidum, leaving large vexillations of troops outside in camps. Fronto marched past them, ignoring the activity as he made his way back to the gate with its grisly decoration and the street beyond with the tavern sign that marked the location of his friends.
As he rounded the gate entrance and entered the main thoroughfare, his gaze fell on four men making their way down the centre of the road toward him and he frowned.
The two men in the centre were staggering, supported by legionaries at their shoulders. They appeared to be Gauls, dirty and unkempt; perhaps refugees who had hidden in a pig pen or a…
He blinked as he realised that the brown, stained and torn tunics that the men wore beneath the fresh woollen cloaks about their shoulders had once been the crimson tunics of Romans. The two men were Romans. His eyes refocused. They were Romans, but they had beards and long hair. Dirty and disfigured.
No… not disfigured, but walking with limps and cradling weakened or broken arms.
“Who’s that?”
The legionaries, startled by the sudden attention from a legate, almost jumped to a salute, remembering at the last minute to hold on to the men they escorted. One of the hairy, unkempt figures looked up in surprise.
“Fronto?”
The legate frowned.
“Who the hell
are
you?”
The man opened his mouth and grinned, three missing teeth making a conspicuous hole in his smile.
“Quintus Velanius.”
“Velanius?”
He knew the name, but couldn’t place it.
“Oh come on, Fronto. We played dice often enough last year? Senior tribune of the Eleventh.”
Fronto’s eyes widened.
“Velanius? I thought you were dead.
Everyone
thought you were dead. It’s been months!”
The legate came to a halt as the groups met and he looked the tribune and his companion up and down. They had clearly been brutalised and tortured, but nothing that wouldn’t mend. He couldn’t believe it.
“Stop shaking your head, Fronto. You look like there’s something wrong with you.”
“But how?”
“We were kept in a cellar; a virtual dungeon. It’s like the tullianum. We’ve been shouting for hours, since we heard the Veneti leave, but these lads only just found us.”
Fronto grinned, feeling a little of the weight of anger and sadness fall away.
“You need a shave.”
The tribune next to Velanius, whose name escaped Fronto, laughed.
“Not just shave, but scrape months of crud from the skin. I feel like I’ve been living in a latrine… a
cramped
latrine.”
“And then” Fronto added, “after you’ve had a bath, you need to report to the general, get yourself debriefed as quickly as possible, and then get back here and make for that building over there, with the hanging sign.”
Velanius shook his head, smiling.
“You never change, Fronto. We’ll join you tomorrow, perhaps. Today, we need to recuperate and sleep.”
Fronto shrugged.
“Suit yourself, but my purse only stays open for so long.”
“Yes, until you’ve lost it all at dice.”
“Sod off” he said, grinning madly.
The officers continued to smile at one another for a while, and then Velanius sighed.
“Come on. We need to go. See you later, Fronto.”
The legate nodded, smiling, as the two men limped off with their escort. He watched them until they passed through the gate and out of sight, and then turned and crossed the street, entering the tavern. To his surprise, no one else had yet joined the other three occupants.
“Fronto. How’d it go?”
As he entered, he strode across to the seat he’d left around an hour ago as he’d finished reading Priscus’ letter, and sank gratefully into it. As he exhaled slowly, Crispus placed a mug in front of him. Fronto eyed it and then looked up at this friend, an eyebrow raised.
“No wine?”
“Drink that. It will do you good. I’ve tested three or four now, and I think I can safely say that this is the one you need tonight.”
Reaching forward, he sniffed the mug and recoiled before grasping it and tentatively taking a sip.