crossroads, could hardly do better.
Fronto had nodded appreciatively. He’d been promising to visit here for the last couple of years when he was off duty and free, but had never seemed to have the time. He’d not pictured himself turning up among a group of senior officers with the general himself, though. The view was quite stunning, with the villa they were here to visit sprawling over the crest of the hill, giving a massive panorama of the city below and the coast for several miles in either direction with its coves and rocks and sapphire sea.
More welcome even than the sun and the breathtaking scenery was the figure of Quintus Balbus, commander of the Eighth Legion, standing by the gate at the entrance to his villa. Balbus looked, as always, every inch the Roman legate, his cuirass polished to a mirror shine, the protective medusa head leering out from the chest, his crimson cloak freshly cleaned and pressed, draped about his shoulders, and his plumed helmet beneath his arm. Despite the commander’s advanced years, his limbs were muscular and powerful; the result of two years of strenuous exercise during the Gallic campaigns.
Behind the grinning officer, his wife Corvinia stood, a warm, if disapproving, smile aimed directly at Fronto while she held her two girls back respectfully. In the two years since Fronto had last met them, the eldest had begun her transformation to womanhood with remarkable results. Fronto sighed. Here we go again: women. Corvinia had wanted to mother him and marry him off, whereas Lucilia, the elder daughter, had clearly seen him as a prospective catch.
But much to Corvinia’s disappointment, the general had no plans for a social visit and there was barely time to exchange pleasantries before Balbus’ horse was brought round by a slave and the legate hauled himself up to join the column riding back to the legions.
The next fortnight had been a steady ride across country, up the Rhone valley, past the various small outposts set up by Cita’s men to deal with the ever-increasing supply train that ran from Roman territory through the lands of the Allobroges and on into deeper Gaul. They had passed the oppidum of Vienna, stopped for a happy night at Bibracte, where they had recounted the tales of the Helvetii and the happy time they had spent there two years ago, and had then followed the line of the river Loire half way toward the west coast before cutting across the land and striking northwest for the legions’ winter base.
And now, as the roiling black clouds threatened yet another torrential downpour, the officers and their escort were finally within sight of Vindunum. The former town of the Andes rose on the southeast bank of the river on a bluff, with heavy walls and squat buildings of a traditional Gaulish nature. Around the town each legion, from the Seventh to the Fourteenth, had its own fortified camp, close enough to throw things between the ramparts; too close for defence, so clearly for show and to keep the legions separated.
Fronto leaned across toward Balbus and his mount sidestepped irritably as the first drops of the next shower began to patter on his face. Though he was no fan of riding in general, he had to admit he missed Bucephalus.
“Some of the camps are empty. That’s got to be a bad sign.”
Balbus nodded.
“The question is: where are they and what are they up to? Is Crassus already having to batter the tribes into submission?”
On the other side of the older legate, Crispus turned and shrugged.
“They could simply be on manoeuvres. What concerns me is the size of the camp for the Twelfth.”
Fronto frowned and scanned the settlement. Crispus was right. Each legion had its standards up and, as the riders approached, they could see that the Twelfth was in a worryingly reduced state, occupying less than a quarter of the space of any other legion.
He cleared his throat.
“Caesar?”
The general glanced round at the three legates close behind him.
“Yes?”
“You planning a meeting of the senior officers once we’re in camp, I presume?”
Caesar nodded and stretched in his saddle.
“Later on. Possibly even in the morning. First I need to speak to Crassus, then to visit the baths and my quarters and refresh myself. I sent my body slave and the bulk of my baggage on a few weeks early, but it will take me several hours, I fear, to drive this damp chill from my bones.”
Fronto nodded emphatically. The dismal conditions on the journey once they had left the south coast and the sunshine behind had made them all yearn for the warmth and cleanliness of a good bathhouse. His faint smile sliding into a grin, Fronto leaned closer to Balbus and lowered his voice.
“That gives us a good few hours and possibly even the whole night to change into something more comfortable, find a bar, and drink until we can’t see one another.”
The general, without even turning his head, replied “Be sober enough to attend a meeting should I call it, Marcus. I don’t want you falling over in front of the new staff officers.”
Fronto glowered at the back of the general’s head and winked at Balbus, who smiled benignly, like a father who has given up trying to train his wayward child and was riding the crest of a wave.
The column moved slowly on. Fronto had spent most of the journey in close company with Balbus, Crispus, Galronus and Cicero, while the various new additions to Caesar’s staff kept to themselves at the rear, often retreating into Greek for their hushed conversations.
“I suggest we report in with our legions, clean ourselves up, and then head into town and find a passable watering hole. Shall we meet in the central square in… say an hour?”
Crispus sighed.
“I suspect it will take me almost an hour just to get clean and dry and rake the knots out of my hair. Can we say two?”
Fronto grumbled a grudging acknowledgement and turned back to the camps ahead. The Tenth appeared to be quartered next to the river, close to the northern walls of the oppidum and he peered at the ordered lines of tents within the ramparts, in some way hoping to find minor fault, given the absence of both he and Priscus. Nothing appeared to be amiss at first glance, however, and Fronto rolled his shoulders before turning to his companions.
“Well I’m going to go and see what’s been happening. See you all shortly.”
As the others waved their temporary farewells and the baggage cart carrying his gear veered away from the column and followed him, Fronto kicked his horse to speed and rode through the increasing rain, down past the northern edge of the oppidum’s walls and to the gatehouse of the Tenth. As he approached, he was surprised and perversely pleased to note that no call went up announcing the return of the legion’s commander. He prepared himself for a tirade against the guard at the gate as he slowed his beast on approach, but noted at the last moment that his new primus pilus, Servius Fabricius Carbo, stood in the centre with his chubby arms folded and a wide grin on his shiny pink face.
As he reined in the horse and dismounted, Fronto’s unreasonable irritation and anger melted away. The journey, with its inclement weather, horrible waves, disobedient horses and enforced proximity to the general had contrived to plunge him into a disgruntled mood as he approached but, as he had found to his irritation last year, something about Carbo defused such moods easily.
He took a deep breath, ready to shout and the primus pilus tapped the top of his head.
“One of the great benefits of losing my hair at a frighteningly early age is that I never get soggy and waterlogged in the rain. Perhaps I can offer you something in the way of a towel and a wooden mug of something nasty enough that it eats through bronze?”
Fronto caught his deep breath, eyed the man before him, and let the air out slowly, taking the residual anger with it.
“You been taking a peek into my mind, Carbo?”
As he led his horse forward, one of the soldiers at the gate rushed out to take the reins and Carbo turned to address the other.
“Pass the call that the legate has returned.”
Fronto sighed and glanced upwards, his eyes flickering in the falling rain.
