It was Crassus’ turn to blink in surprise. Brutus was, to Crassus’ mind, one of those soft, boyish officers, who had come out to war like a child on an outing, wanting to see how things were done. Brutus had nothing really to gain from his command, while he, as son of the great Marcus Licinius Crassus, needed to stamp his coins with victory slogans. He needed the prestige. Money was half the battle in Rome these days, but without Patrician blood, no matter how rich and how influential a man was, people always looked at you as though you were in some way lacking. Military victory and a triumph was the way round that.
“Listen, Brutus. You don’t need this victory but I do. It’s as simple as that. I can’t have this taken away from me. I
Brutus raised his eyebrows; it was like dealing with a petulant child.
“You had a victory last year and you’ll have the opportunity for others. Now is a time for conciliation.”
“No. We’re past that. I will stand on their neck until they
Inwardly, Brutus sighed. There would be no persuading the commander and he could see that now. He would have one last try and then have to take matters into his own hands.
“At least inform Caesar. Let him have his say. It is, after all, his army; paid for with his money.”
Crassus narrowed his eyes.
“And have Caesar pull my backside out of the flames? Or worse still, blame me for this fiasco and remove me from command? Hardly, Brutus. Mark my words: I shall have this fledgling revolution stamped out within the month and will inform Caesar of events only when I have them firmly under control once more. Now you’ve done enough damage for the day. Don’t you have anything better to do? I have to think.”
Brutus glared at him for a moment, stood and, saluting in the most half-hearted fashion possible, turned and left the room, taking care to allow the door to shut quietly. Slamming doors and stamping feet in a childish tantrum was best left to the great Imperator Crassus.
Angrily, he marched on down the street toward the north gate, where the prisoner stockade lay. He could see it from the slope; a mini camp in itself, with its own palisade, divided into sections and surrounded by defences and guards. The number of Gauls in there seemed to grow every time he looked, and every one of them would be a nobleman of one local tribe or another.
At the bottom of the hill, just inside the decumana gate, Varus and Felix were returning from delivering the prisoners. Brutus waved at them until he got their attention, and then pointed to a small, almost hidden garden off the main street. As soon as he was sure they’d seen, he strode off down that side passage and into the peaceful tranquillity of the Celtic garden.
Unlike the ordered rows and graceful arcs of a Roman garden, this small, irregularly-shaped space was a muddle of jumbled shrubs, flower beds and fruit trees, with a small pond and a rustic seating area. It was in no way an organised formal garden and should be a mess, yet it had been created with such an instinctive knowledge of nature that everything fitted perfectly, blending in with the features around it to such an extent that, when taken as a whole, the effect was charming and relaxing.
That was what Brutus needed a little of right now: charming and relaxing. Crassus was neither.
He was just musing over what benefits Rome could reap through the infusion of a little Gaulish thinking when Varus and Felix rounded the corner and entered the garden. Brutus beckoned to them.
“Have a seat. I think we have a problem.”
Varus nodded as he strode across and collapsed onto one of the benches.
“I didn’t think you’d have much luck with Crassus. He’s a stony-faced and stony-hearted imbecile.”
Brutus shook his head sadly.
“No, he’s far worse than that, Varus. He’s a six year old with an inferiority complex. His daddy is rich and powerful and all his peers are more noble than him. He’s desperate to be better than the rest of us. I think your argument with him back near the Rhine after the Ariovistus affair made him realise that being one of the nobiles was no replacement for a noble lineage. He will lead us into the wolf’s mouth and watch the whole army burn rather than admit he can’t manage something.”
Felix nodded sourly.
“I can quite believe it. I served under his father fifteen years ago when that Thracian dog Spartacus was roaming around Italia with his gladiators and slaves. The old bastard had two legions decimated for cowardice, because they lost the field to Spartacus. He was a nasty piece of work and clearly the apple has not fallen far from the tree.”
“The question then” Brutus sighed “is what we can do about it?”
Felix shrugged.
“He’s the commander. If he wants to take the legions to crush the local tribes, we can hardly say no, no matter how much we might disagree. One of the prime requisites for being a primus pilus is obedience to the chain of command.”
Brutus stared at the grass.
“It’s a delicate situation. I’ve pushed about as far as I dare and there’s no way I can stop Crassus from carrying out his little punitive war.
He straightened and flexed his shoulders.
“But I can put a little cushion in place for us to fall back on. Its possible Crassus is right, I suppose. He might be able to nip any insurrection in the bud and solve it all before it becomes a major problem. I very much doubt that’s the case, but I can’t ignore the possibility…”
Varus and Felix turned their expectant faces on him.
“But I can give him a month to try, and I can use that time to get things ready in the event he fails.”
“Like what?” asked Varus suspiciously.
“Well firstly, I have to send a letter. I need to make Caesar aware of what’s happening.”
Felix shook his head.
“That’s just going to land you knee deep in the shit. When Crassus finds out, he’ll have you cut to ribbons for going behind his back and, to an extent he’ll be justified. It’s damn near mutiny.”
“Not quite. I shall write my monthly letter to my mother; she likes to be kept informed of my activity and also that of the general. They’re friends, you see. The Julii and the Junii go back a way, and Caesar is actually a distant cousin. I shall ‘accidentally’ drop a few hints about what Crassus is doing. You can guarantee that within a week of mother getting hold of the letter, Caesar will know everything.”
Varus shook his head.
“That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Brutus. And anyway, what if Caesar’s not in Rome, but in Cisalpine Gaul or Illyricum or somewhere else?”
“Then she’ll make sure that word gets to him. She knows Fronto’s mother quite well and Fronto’s in Rome at the moment with Priscus and Crispus. Word will get back.”
Felix smiled a curious smile.
“Priscus and Crispus. Every time anyone says that it sounds like two characters from a Plautus comedy to me!”
“Anyway” Brutus went on, sparing a glare for the primus pilus by his side “on a serious note, the next thing we need to do is anticipate the trouble we’re going to be in when Crassus fails.”
“You thinking of raising your own legions, Brutus? I’m not sure the general would approve of that.”
“Not exactly. That would be even closer to mutiny, but the tribes we’re dealing with here are sailors born and bred. The Veneti almost live at sea and all these tribes centre around coastal fortresses and towns. What we need is naval support; to have access to the tribes by land and sea. If Crassus pushes us into open war, we’ll be at a serious disadvantage otherwise, and I doubt he’ll even think about the possibility of naval action.”
Varus frowned at him.
“I don’t know much about the navy, but is it feasible to get the nearest fleet all the way from Italia to here in time to help?”
“Probably not. Plus I have no authority over them and even Caesar would have to apply to the senate for control of them. No. But we can build a fleet and man it ourselves in plenty of time.”
Felix laughed.
“Madness. How are you going to build the fleet without Crassus knowing? You’ll need to use the legions and Crassus will find out what you’re up to in no time. Then there’s
