more than successful engagement.”
“And the enemy?” enquired Brutus.
“A little vague. Estimates range from thirty thousand to eighty thousand. Until the men have finished stripping the camp of anything valuable or useful and gathered the dead for disposal we won’t have better figures. We’ll never be able to be accurate, given that the number of tribesmen who were washed away in the currents of the Mosella and the Rhenus or sank without trace due to the weight of their armour will remain unknown. Suffice it to say there were a great deal more of them than us.”
“I see the men are already dipping into the funeral club coffers and building the pyres for the Roman dead” Fronto noted. “Late this afternoon, I suggest you check the wind direction and make sure you stay upwind. It’s likely to get a bit smoky. Didn’t see pyres or pits for the enemy, though?” he added suspiciously.
“They will be left in piles for the scavengers in the wild” Caesar said flatly. Expressions of surprise and consternation rose on the faces of a number of officers, but Caesar blithely ignored them. “Prefect Lentulus?”
A cavalry officer Fronto didn’t recognise stepped out of the circle of men.
“Tell us about the flight of the camp’s inhabitants.”
Labienus stepped out and stood next to Lentulus.
“I can tell you about that, Caesar. I rode out to give them the opportunity to surrender, but this ‘officer’ here refused to rein in his men and stop chasing them, so I couldn’t find a way to address them. In my opinion, this man was not ready for such a command and should be sent back to his ala.”
The prefect shot a sour glance at Labienus and took a step forward.
“As you are aware, general, the men under my command had their blood up. They were seeking revenge on the bastards who had ambushed them in the valley, and that was well known when we were assigned to the fight. Once they had the scent of the fleeing barbarians nothing short of chaining them to the floor was going to prevent the slaughter that occurred.”
Fronto frowned. A look had passed briefly between the prefect and the general; a look of recognition; understanding; possibly even approval.
“It was unnecessary and entirely avoidable!” snapped Labienus. Lentulus turned away from Caesar and fixed his glare on the seething senior commander. “Once Commander Varus’ cavalry had cut off their escape route, it was inevitable that my men would take the opportunity to exact revenge for their own defeat and losses. No man — not even you, commander — would have been able to stop them.”
He turned back to Caesar. “And, I will state for the record that, had I been
Labienus continued to glare coldly at the man, but Caesar clapped his hands and drew everyone’s attention.
“And that is the pertinent point. We have crushed the invasion. Now all that remains is to make sure that it never happens again. I will be organising further strategy meetings in good time but, for now, we should lick our wounds, such as they are, and tot up our successes.” He turned to Varus, who stood tall and steady, despite the sling that held his broken arm tight and the padding beneath his tunic where the hip wound was bound. “I would like you to arrange mounted patrols and scouts to range up to twenty miles each way along the banks of the Rhenus and twenty miles back along the Mosella; long-range scouts out to the south, as well. I want continual and up to date information on the location and movements of the enemy cavalry that we know are still out there. We cannot afford to be taken off guard.”
Varus, standing painfully, his arm tightly slung and leaning on a stick with his good hand, started to rattle off figures and facts and Fronto’s mind began to drift along to the drone of planning. As the conversation hummed slowly around him, his eyes fell on Lentulus, now stepping back into the line, a virtual crackle of angry electricity between him and Labienus. The more he ran his mind back over the statements and the shared looks between prefect and general, the more convinced he became that the man had been following Caesar’s direct orders to wipe out as many of the barbarians as they possibly could and prevent the possibility of surrender. It would, after all, hardly be unlike the general to do such a thing.
Once more, his gaze passed to Cicero and the two centurions. Could Furius or Fabius have been responsible? They both bore their pugio at their belt, but a replacement would hardly be difficult to obtain had they lost one on the battlefield. A centurion didn’t carry a pilum into battle but, again, it would hardly be difficult to lay hands on one, even at a moment’s notice, in the press of men.
He wondered where the two weapons used were now. Had the medicus kept them when the wounds were tended? Had Tetricus taken them? It was, of course, possible that one of them had some sort of distinguishing mark that could tie them to their owner.
The meeting rolled on with discussions of the logistics of moving the army closer to the Rhenus compared with making use of the enemy’s partial fortifications and setting camp in their current location. Priscus stated his case with his usual brusqueness, Cita arguing his corner at every turn, other officers making their feelings known whenever the questions touched their commands.
Through the next twenty minutes, Fronto stood silent, letting the murmur of complications and disagreements wash over him. His thoughts drifted over the river and past the plain where the enemy cavalry raided somewhere out of scouting distance, past the great oppidum of Vesontio, over the mountains of the Helvetii’s land, past Caesar’s province of Cisalpine Gaul, across mile after mile of tilled and mined land in Italia.
His mind’s eye focused in like the view of a circling bird. A great mountain by the sea in a bay that looked from above as though a Titan had taken a bite out of the land. Cities in glorious marble and brick. Circling down away from the mountain, past the old Greek port, past the bubbling mud and steaming white crater of the Forum Vulcani, down toward the port where Fronto had spent the blistering summers of his youth.
The villa on the hillside with its familiar outbuildings. The patio where his father had first taught him how to hold a sword. And finally there she was: Lucilia, standing in a stola of midnight blue, with her back to the glittering waters of the bay far below, leaning on the balustrade and smiling at him.
“When are we going home?”
Only as a stunned silence settled around him did Fronto realise that he’d voiced the thought out loud. His mind reeled back across the hundreds of miles, leaving that wondrous figure above the shining sea and refocusing on the tent full of sweating officers. Everyone was staring at him. Priscus was still standing in the centre of the tent, his finger wagging at Cita redundantly.
“Fronto?” Caesar frowned.
The legate felt a surge of automatic panic flowing through him.
“That came out wrong. Sorry. What I mean is, though, that we’re almost done here. You and Varus both said so. Once we can round up the stray cavalry they sent across the river, we’ve completely destroyed the invaders. Very few will have fled back across the river, and they’ll have their own trouble dealing with the Suevi who pushed them here in the first place.”
Caesar simply raised his eyebrow questioningly. Fronto recognised the warning sign, but he’d accidentally committed himself now.
“So I imagine that once we’ve smashed that cavalry force, we can report the invasion dealt with to the Gallic council, quarter the troops and then go home?”
He realised with some distress and annoyance that his voice had taken on an almost whinging tone towards the end, like a petulant child wanting to leave the table half way through a meal.
“You believe that the situation will be settled then, Marcus?”
“Well, I see no reason…”
“And what of those who return across the river, and the other tribes that live nearby? What if the advance of the Suevi is too much for them and they feel compelled once more to cross the river? What if the Suevi themselves decide to cross? How can we report this border of Gallic lands safe from invasion while we allow a threat to remain?”
Fronto frowned. “You intend to crush the Germanic tribes, Caesar? Now that Gaul is peaceful, we move on east? A dangerous decision I’d say, general.”
Caesar’s knuckles had whitened where his hands were entwined on the table.
“A demonstration to the tribes across the Rhenus, Marcus. A little warning of what we are capable of and willing to do. We will cross the Rhenus and punish them to discourage them from ever considering crossing the
