Gallia Invicta

servitude. On the high walls of the oppidum, close to the main gate, the leaders of the Veneti were being crucified on ‘T’ shaped posts, where they would remain until exposure or carrion feeders took their last breath from them, or until Caesar relented and decided to grant them a quick death by the sword.

And now, for the last twenty minutes, they had stayed outside the tent of the chief medicus on Caesar’s staff, Brutus sitting in a gloom of his own while Fronto paced and grumbled.

“Fronto!”

The pair of them looked up at the call. Crispus, the young legate of the Eleventh, was making his way toward them alongside an officer Fronto didn’t recognise. The worried legate waved a hand half-heartedly in greeting.

“How’s he doing?” Crispus asked as they reached the bench, his voice full of concern.

“How the bloody hell would we know?” Fronto barked irritably. Crispus drew back in surprise, his companion’s face registering the same expression.

“Sorry” Brutus apologised for him. “The medicus won’t let him in.”

Fronto glared at them.

“Look,” Crispus said quietly, “I know that you’re vexed. As soon as you have seen the medicus, we are going to take you into the city and find a purveyor of alcohol where we can let you drown that sorrow.”

Fronto shook his head silently, still pacing.

“It wasn’t an offer, Fronto. It was a statement.”

Fronto rounded on him, a finger raised, and opened his mouth, just as the tent flap opened. The four men attending outside looked up apprehensively.

“Legate Balbus is resting.”

“Out of the way.”

As Fronto tried to push the medicus aside, the man stood firm in the doorway until the other three officers pulled the struggling legate back into the open. Fronto rounded on the unknown officer, a pale, thin, serious looking fellow with straight black hair.

“These two can get away with that.” He raised his hand threateningly. “You I don’t know, and you’d better be on first name terms with the Styx boatman if you ever touch me again.”

Crispus hauled Fronto around.

“This is Lucius Roscius, your fellow legate from the Thirteenth. Roscius, don’t mind Fronto, he’s just a little upset right now.”

Fronto turned a withering glare on them and then swung back to the medicus, who was standing rigid and blocking the doorway.

“Let me in.”

“No, legate Fronto. Your friend is resting and may well already be asleep. I have administered a mixture of henbane and opium to induce extended rest. If he is strong enough, I will allow you to visit tomorrow morning. He will not be disturbed or moved now until tonight when he can be carefully transferred to a safe, hygienic, building in the oppidum.”

Fronto glared at the medicus and Brutus frowned.

“So what is your diagnosis?”

“I have let his blood in appropriate quantities and slowed the flow with mandragora. The symptoms I have had described to me are consistent with a condition Galen noted, and the physical evidence supports that diagnosis. If there are no complications of which I am unaware, legate Balbus can prevent further attacks of this kind with a careful regimen of diet, light exercise and a calm environment that is not too wet and earthy, since his black bile is, I fear, in excess. There should also be periodic bloodletting to help restore the balance of the humors and bring the black bile back down.”

Fronto shook his head angrily.

“He doesn’t need cutting. They did that to my dad and it made no difference.”

The medicus glared at him.

“Do not presume, legate, to lecture me on medicine. I know nothing of your father’s progression, but I am entirely confident in my diagnosis. You may visit tomorrow morning.”

Without a further word, he turned and retreated into the tent. Fronto lunged for the doorway, but Brutus stepped into the way.

“Come and have a drink. You need it, whether you want it or not.”

Grasping the shoulder of the grumbling legate, Brutus turned him away from the tent. Almost as though a spell were broken when he lost sight of the leather door flap, Fronto took a deep breath and gripped and released his hands a couple of times.

“Yes. Wine. Or possibly even Gaulish beer. Preferably by the cask, in either case.”

As the four men strode toward the oppidum’s gate, Fronto turned to the pale young man in the burnished breastplate to his left.

“Sorry. Rude of me. Not your fault. I guess we met in Rome?”

Roscius smiled, an odd sight on his grave, alabaster face.

“I had the honour of accompanying Caesar to your home on the Aventine, yes, legate, though we had no opportunity to speak then.”

Fronto nodded.

“Good thing really. I don’t think I was a very courteous host that day. But then, I was piss wet through.”

Roscius smiled again.

“I believe you merely corrected bad manners among your guests. No gentleman could find fault with that.”

Fronto gave a weak smile, his first in hours.

“I think I like you, Roscius.”

“High praise indeed” the man said, his face straight, but a twinkle in his eye.

Fronto laughed as the four officers approached the gate of Darioritum.

Balbus had been one of his best friends these past few years, but it was occasionally driven home into his gloomy consciousness that there were more people he relied on in this army than the legate of the Eighth. A small collection of good friends always seemed to be on hand whenever he needed them.

The oppidum was eerie. The entire population of Darioritum had been rounded up, along with the other Veneti refugees, and placed in guarded stockades nearby. The town itself stood hollow and empty, like Carthage after Scipio was done with it. The only signs of life were the occasional contubernium of legionaries, performing a secondary sweep of the buildings, and the occasional moans of the crucified leaders on the wall.

The gate remained intact, the huge portal standing open; a testament to how easily the Roman force had stormed the oppidum.

“I’m not sure I like the ‘Carthage’ solution. When we occupy a Gallic oppidum, there’s usually local merchants and innkeepers still there to serve us afterwards. That’s how it goes: we beat them, but then we invite them to become part of our empire and we pay them for their services appropriately. It’s all good… but when they’re systematically extinguished, it feels wrong.”

Crispus nodded sagely.

“It is an old-fashioned response. And brutal, I admit. However, in terms of inn keeping, I fear I have frequented enough establishments these days to have a strong grasp of what is required. Let us find a tavern and I shall serve the drinks.”

Fronto smiled at him.

“You, Crispus, are a constant source of support to a weary old soldier.”

“Sir?” a strong voice called out from behind.

The four men turned together to see Atenos, chief centurion of the Second cohort in the Tenth legion, striding after them.

“Centurion?”

“Legate, I have a message for you.”

Fronto nodded “Go on then?”