Gallia Invicta

“Yes I bloody could. Three times he’s complained recently of heartburn. That’s how it starts. It’ll come to you as no surprise that my father was a lover of the vine. We thought nothing of his increased indigestion and heartburn, but then this started to happen: the collapsing; the blue skin and the fat fingers.”

“But he’s clearly recovering, Marcus. Look: his colour is returning rapidly and his breathing’s steadying.”

Fronto shook his head angrily.

“Yes, but this will have weakened him for good. Once it starts, it sets off a decline.”

He turned and grasped Balbus by the shoulders, pushing him a little more upright, and stared into the older man’s face.

“You mad old bastard. You knew something was wrong. You knew you weren’t well and you volunteer to go personally invading a fort at night? Are you crazy?”

Balbus blinked and shook his head gently. The blue had faded. He was pale as could be, but better than before. With a sad smile, he opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

“Marcus? Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

“You mad old bastard. Don’t you dare do this to me. I lost Velius last year and Longinus the year before. I’m not losing anyone this year. Gaul’s had its last taste of my friends.”

Balbus chuckled quietly and wearily.

“I’m not dead, Marcus. Far from it… just over-exerted myself a little.”

Fronto continued to stare in saddened anger at him.

“Rest. Stop speaking and rest. The medicus will sort you out.”

Balbus nodded and sank gratefully back to lean against the barrel. Fronto shot a meaningful look at two sailors who stood nearby furling ropes and gestured to the older legate. The men nodded and, dropping the ropes, leaned down to take hold of the weakened officer, supporting him as he sagged into a relieved doze.

Fronto marched angrily across the deck to the far rail and smashed his fist on the wood once again, wincing at the pain. Brutus followed him over and placed his hand gingerly on the legate’s shoulder.

“He might be alright yet, Fronto? Just because it happened to your father more than once doesn’t mean it will to Balbus.”

Fronto shook his head.

“It will. Might be years before it happens again, but it will. And each time it’ll weaken him until he just can’t fight it anymore. After my father I… consulted several doctors. Balbus might be around for years yet, but not with us.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s the end of his military career. Can’t continue to command the Eighth. He’ll have to go back to Massilia for Corvinia to look after. She’ll be beside herself when she finds out.”

Brutus sighed and turned to lean on the railing, gazing out to sea.

“I can’t imagine the staff without his input. You know the younger officers and tribunes call him ‘granddad’? Not as an insult, mind you. He’s probably the most popular officer in the army. More so than you!”

Fronto snorted derisively.

“I’m not popular. I piss too many people off.”

Brutus laughed.

“I think you might be surprised. That’s one of the reasons you’re popular.”

Fronto fell into a sad silence and stared down at the water.

“I hope this is it. Hope this is the end of Gallic revolts. Time to turn this place into a province and go home. I think I might ask Caesar to relieve me and then I can go with Balbus. Someone needs to take him home and it should be someone Corvinia knows.”

Brutus shook his head.

“If there’s anything left to do, you know Caesar won’t let you go, especially if he’s already losing the legate of the Eighth.”

Fronto ignored the comment, staring into the churning water, his mind refusing to let him rest. Balbus couldn’t have looked different from Lucius Falerius Fronto, a tall man with speckled black and grey hair and a wide face with a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and yet whenever Fronto thought of the older legate now, he couldn’t help but draw a disturbing number of parallels between the two.

Balbus had been the first friendly and sympathetic person he’d met after leaving Cremona with the Tenth more than two years ago. He’d grown close to the man in that time and realised that Balbus was, in fact, the only man in Caesar’s army that he trusted implicitly and automatically deferred to the opinion of.

The conquest of Gaul was exerting a high price indeed.

He stared out across the bay toward where he presumed Darioritum to be and willed the trireme on as fast as he could.

Fronto paced and fretted.

“For Juno’s sake, sit down! You’re giving me a headache.”

Brutus pointed meaningfully at the bench next to him and raised an eyebrow at Fronto.

“Can’t relax until I hear the medicus’ opinion.”

“I know, but he’s not going to work any faster just because you’re wearing a rut in the turf.”

He watched as Fronto kicked at a tuft of grass in irritation and tried to identify a way to turn the legate’s mind to a different subject.

“I expected you to explode at Caesar. At least an argument.”

Fronto stopped pacing and glared at him.

“He’s the general. It’s his game, so let him choose his rules.”

Brutus was beginning to worry. Fronto being argumentative and out of sorts was normal Fronto. Fronto being acquiescent and submissive was a disturbing sight. They had arrived at Caesar’s hastily-erected headquarters tent less than an hour ago. The oppidum was being systematically cleared and searched by the Eleventh and Thirteenth legions prior to becoming a temporary encampment but in the meantime, Caesar had needed somewhere to debrief with his officers and the temporary camp prefect had responded by providing a tent near the docks.

As soon as they’d landed on the jetty, Balbus had been taken off his hands by one of the capsarius that was working nearby and escorted to another hastily-raised surgical tent where the chief medicus could check him over. Fronto had refused to attend Caesar and had gone with Balbus, only to find that the medicus would not admit him. Angrily, he had raged impotently for a few minutes and then rejoined the officers at the general’s tent.

There had been surprisingly few casualties at Darioritum, given the scale of the operation, and Caesar had been in an uncharacteristically good mood, offering a great deal of praise to most of those involved, and particularly to Fronto, Brutus and the absent Balbus. Fronto had all but ignored the compliment, staring glassily into a dark corner, his mind elsewhere.

The news of Caesar’s designs for the Veneti had met with varied responses. The execution of the leaders was to be expected, given the fact that they had risen in revolt against Rome after having accepted terms only the year before. Examples had to be made and every officer knew the value of that, but the decision to ship the rest of the tribe: men, women and children indiscriminately, off to Rome to the slave markets had been more of a surprise.

Given the current objective of Romanising the Gauls, depopulating an entire region was perhaps working against their goal. The idea had been popular in some circles, though. The profit from the mass slave sales would be passed down from the general to the officers and men of the army. A legionary with a cash bonus was a happy legionary, regardless of the source of the money. Brutus had been less enthralled with the decision and had prepared for a huge outburst from Fronto. Indeed, he had not been alone. Most knowing eyes turned to the commander of the Tenth at the news, but Fronto nodded blankly, staring into the shadows.

The entire meeting had taken less than half an hour and then Brutus had accompanied the worried legate as he had left the command tent, striding across the grass while officers and men went about their assorted business, rank upon rank of Veneti captives being roped and penned ready for their long journey to permanent