Gallia Invicta

if you got them built. How many sailors do you know?”

Brutus smiled at the primus pilus.

“We can start constructing a fleet at Turonum. It’s only a day’s march from here, with a mercantile harbour on the Loire, which has naval access all the way to the sea. I’m sure we can siphon a few of the men away from the army to work on them. So long as we can get a few engineers who know what they’re doing, we can recruit the locals to do a lot of the basic labour. I can organise remuneration for them; the Junii are not short of a few denarii as I’m sure you’re aware. As for the crew, we’ll have to send to Narbo. The province is Caesar’s anyway, and the whole land is full of fishermen and sea traders, so we shouldn’t have any problems raising up a crew from there.”

He turned to Varus and grinned.

“If I supply you with the appropriate letters and finance, can you organise a few discreet cavalry officers to ride to Narbo and put things into motion?”

Varus shrugged.

“If you’re taking the responsibility for this, I can provide whatever you need.”

Nodding, Brutus turned to Felix.

“And how about engineers? Think you can spare a few good men from the Eleventh?”

The primus pilus grinned.

“You mean give them the option of continuing to dig latrines for the camp or go help design and build a navy away from our illustrious commander? They’ll bite my hand off.”

“Good” Brutus nodded. “And Galba’s coming any day now with the Twelfth. We can probably rely on some men from him, since Crassus has no idea about the Twelfth’s strength as it is.”

He stood, stretching.

“And I think that later I might swing by the headquarters of the Tenth. I don’t know their new primus pilus very well, but people say he’s got his head screwed on right and if Fronto trusts him, then it’s worth seeing if he can spare a few men.”

He rolled his shoulders a couple of times and then smiled.

“Well, I shall see you fellows later on, at the tavern? I have to go write a letter home.”

Chapter 3

(Ianuarius: Rome. The house of the Falerii on the Aventine)

“Not long now, Gnaeus, and the general will be back.”

Priscus sighed and looked at Fronto over the top of the cup.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend the winter in Illyricum. From what I hear, the whole place is just mountains, goats and toothless women.”

Crispus frowned disapprovingly.

“Ah, now Gnaeus, that’s hardly fair. Illyricum is an ancient region with a rich history and a distinct culture.”

“Bollocks. It’s a vaguely Greek toilet that never achieved anything notable other than becoming Roman. Name me one great person or thing that ever came from Illyricum.”

Crispus fell silent and frowned, his head angling slightly. There was a long moment’s silence.

“See? Goats, mountains and toothless women.”

Crispus shrugged with a laugh.

“I simply cannot find an argument; no fault in your logic.”

Priscus grinned.

“Anyway, I’ll be pleased when Caesar does come back, cause he’ll drag you two off onto the next mad war he’s planned and I’ll finally be free of people calling me ‘leftie’ and making jokes about me being limp.”

Fronto nodded, his face suddenly sombre. His former primus pilus was putting a brave face on things and he knew it well. Priscus would be smarting over the situation. His combat career was over and, while he might settle into the role of camp prefect in time, he was on a year’s enforced convalescence and was forbidden from joining the legions until the general’s personal surgeon decided otherwise.

The three men, along with Galronus of the Remi, had returned to Rome before the winter set in. Crispus had been to visit his family for a while and the other three had descended upon Fronto’s family townhouse, causing his sister to fuss and complain about the lack of warning. Priscus had stayed with them, given that he had no surviving family, and the winter months had been among the most relaxed and interesting that Fronto could remember.

Every day saw something new. The three Romans showed Galronus the delights of the great city and introduced him to expensive wine and racing in the Circus Maximus, following which the Belgic auxiliary officer had begun his descent into the world of gambling, racing and late night tavern visits. Fronto’s sister Faleria had initially taken a fancy to the striking foreigner, but the lustre had soon worn off when she realised that Galronus was more like her brother than she’d originally imagined and she now treated him with the same loving contempt.

Priscus left the house rarely to begin with, unsure of his ability to walk any sustained distance. The first few months, however, had seen a tremendous change as his leg strengthened. He still limped, his foot angled uncomfortably inwards, and occasionally had to stop and rest against something but Fronto was convinced, with great relief, that by the end of his convalescence, his old friend would be mobile, if uncomfortable. As Priscus put a brave face on his injuries, so did his companions help by turning the horrific wounds of the previous year into a source of endless humorous jibes.

“I’m sort of getting used to being back home and not facing screaming Gauls and biting women and having to take a shit in a bucket while the latrines are being dug. I have to admit I’m starting to dread the call in spring.”

Crispus turned to look at Fronto, frowning.

“You fool nobody Marcus. If I said such a thing, you would believe me. You, however, have a vine staff for a spine. I have watched you many times, and you’re only truly happy when you stand facing a screaming enemy with a sword in your hand.”

Fronto winced.

“Don’t say things like that near Faleria. She already has enough ammunition for making my life difficult without you providing a character reference!”

Priscus slugged down the last of his wine.

“Where is Galronus, anyway? I thought we were going to the Circus Flaminius for the camel racing?”

“I imagine he’s only just now waking up with a thick head in the bed chamber of some delightful young lady in the subura. He’ll be here in plenty of time. He’s never late for the first race, you know that.”

Priscus opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when the door opened with a polite knock. The shiny, wrinkled, olive pate of Posco, the house’s chief slave, poked round the door.

“Master Marcus? There are visitors for you. I have shown them into the atrium.”

Fronto frowned. He and Posco had known one another long enough that he knew the little Greek’s signals; the two were far more friends than master and slave these days and Posco rarely even told Fronto about his visitors, dealing with the various irritating issues himself without bothering his master. The stress he laid on the word ‘visitors’, however, meant that these particular people were out of the ordinary.

“Would you like them shown through or to meet them there?”

Fronto frowned.

“I think you should lead them on in, thank you, Posco.”

With a nod, the little man exited the room and shut the door.

“Visitors?” Priscus raised an eyebrow. “Can’t be the general. He won’t be back here for a few weeks. Who then?”

Fronto shrugged.