water again.”
A number of heads nodded in agreement. Fronto was hardly surprised to see Cicero, Labienus and a few of their cronies begin to argue in hushed tones, quietening only when Caesar threw a glance at them.
Fronto drew a deep breath. “A punitive strike across the Rhenus, then. Fair enough, general. I can see the sense in the move.”
The discussions rose once more like a wave of noise and Fronto stood quietly and listened for a few minutes more until Caesar drew the meeting to a close with an irritable sweep of his hand, his flinty gaze passing over Labienus and resting on Fronto. The legate pretended not to notice and waited as the officers began to file out, falling into the line and exiting the tent with some relief.
So it wasn’t over yet. His mind reached back over the weeks and months to Balbus’ villa above Massilia. “He will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume”, Balbus had said with a faintly challenging tone. Fronto had refused to listen; refused to acknowledge any possible truth in the accusation of Balbus’ words. “Watch what happens” he’d added. “If the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”
Fronto’s gaze passed across the assembled legions and auxiliary cavalry. He’d not questioned the general about the possibility of settling the veterans here, but it would be a solution; a good one. With a permanently resident force of veteran ex-soldiers, able to take up arms and defend their land, no Germanic tribe would find crossing into Belgic territory so easy in future. But this was clearly not the general’s intention. He wanted a push into their own lands. The senate would have a fit when they heard. The people would celebrate and praise the general, but the tide in the senate would turn against him all the more.
“Cicero!”
Spotting the commander of the Seventh, for once lacking the company of Furius and Fabius, Fronto hurried to catch up.
“Fronto.”
“You heard about my tribune?”
Cicero nodded. “Nasty business. You actually believe he was deliberately targeted by our own people?”
“It seems the only conclusion I can draw from finding a pilum and a pugio sticking out of him, yes.”
“Unfortunate. I don’t really know the man, but I gather he’s something of a hero. A clever engineer they say. Wasn’t he involved in the fight at Geneva?”
“Yes. He’s a good friend, Cicero. I will be… vexed… when I find out who’s behind it.”
Cicero paused and turned to him, his face darkening.
“A threat, Fronto?”
“Not at all. Why would I threaten you, since you had nothing to do with it? No. But a couple of centurions with a grudge against him might want to keep one eye open for the rest of their lives.”
Cicero sighed and strolled on. “You have to stop letting your personal prejudices against my men inform all your opinions and actions, Fronto. I may not agree with Caesar or even you at times, and Furius and Fabius may have been Pompeian veterans, but they fought like lions yesterday for our cause. Whatever else happens, Fronto, we’re all Romans. Remember that.”
Fronto came to a halt and watched as Cicero strode off towards the camp of the Seventh.
Just how far could any man be trusted in the army of Caesar these days?
ROME
Balbus ducked behind a pillar of the temple of Saturn, his gaze playing across the small crowd outside the basilica Aemilia. Cicero had emerged ten minutes ago from a public haranguing of Caesar and his ‘needlessly self- glorifying personal crusade to conquer the world’ and behind him had come half a dozen togate men, clearly of like mind. At least three of them were senators, known to Balbus from his regular visits to the forum to keep an eye on things.
Since Lucilia and Faleria’s somewhat troublesome and dangerous visit to the lady Atia’s villa and the revelation that Clodius was now running small gangs of thugs from the houses of Caesar’s family — and therefore almost certainly at Caesar’s command — he had been expecting to see trouble in the streets surrounding those who spoke out against Balbus’ former general.
Cicero and two of the senators shared a private joke, laughing hard, and then clasped hands and separated. Balbus frowned as he watched them move out across the forum square. The pair of senators, still laughing and joking, strode along the Vicus Iugarius towards the meat and flower markets and the river, their togate forms blending into the general tide of humanity that flowed this way and that along the street.
Balbus’ eyes pulled back from them, aware that, even with the unusual shock of red hair that marked one of the senators out in a crowd, he might well lose them in the press as soon as he shifted his gaze. Instead, he watched Cicero as the man stood for a long moment, tapping his lip as though struggling with a difficult decision. Finally, the great orator nodded in answer to some internal question, and strode across to the dilapidated arcades of the ancient Basilica Sempronia. Balbus frowned again as he watched the man enter the building.
Once the main venue for matters of law and public and political debate, the Sempronia had been damaged several decades ago by a tremor in the earth and cracks cobwebbed the walls and columns. It was far from unstable, but generally considered poor quality and unlucky so most business had now moved to the basilica Aemilia across the forum. Why Cicero should want to be in there, he couldn’t imagine.
He felt torn. Watching Cicero could be very interesting, but the Sempronia was rarely frequented by more than half a dozen people these days, and the interior was bright and airy. He would find it difficult to observe the orator without being easily observed himself — at least close enough to overhear any conversation. Perhaps that interesting meeting was a task for another day. Conversely, with the press of people in the streets, it should be easy enough to catch up with the two senators and see what they were up to.
Plagued by indecision, Balbus finally settled on Cicero, hurrying across the forum to the stained and badly- maintained walls of the basilica Sempronia. Clambering up the steps two at a time, he paused, heaving in heavy breaths. Despite his waistline, Balbus knew he was fitter than many men his age, and probably almost as fit as he’d been most of his military life, but his illness last year had put a strain on his chest and he could feel the labouring of his heart when he did things like this.
Slowing, carefully, he ducked beneath the columns of the basilica’s facade and scurried along in the shadows to a doorway — one of the numerous in the basilica’s wall, but not the one through which Cicero had entered.
Pausing, he peered into the interior, his gaze scanning the open hallway until he spotted Cicero standing before a statue of the brothers Gracchus, the great statesmen of the previous century. The man was standing with his back to the entrance and therefore to Balbus, and waited patiently. Two minutes passed, Balbus struggling with the decision of whether to stay and wait too, or to run off after the other senators. Just as he straightened to leave, a second figure strolled out of the shadows and crossed to Cicero, the two men clasping hands in greeting before turning back to the statue and conversing in tones that Balbus would never hear unless he loitered nearby.
The second man turned for a moment, gesturing expansively at the interior of the basilica and Balbus pressed himself against the wall, his heart thumping with recognition. Titus Annius Milo, former tribune, commander of one of the largest private forces in Rome, and loyal client of Pompey. So… Cicero and Pompey. Not unexpected, and also not good for Caesar.
Nodding to himself and aware that he was unlikely to glean any further information here without his presence becoming known to the two men, Balbus left the doorway, skipping down the steps, and pushed his way into the crowd in the Vicus Iugarius. The chances of him finding the two senators, almost five minutes behind them, were small, but he was not expected back at the house for almost two hours yet and, if all else failed, there was a nice little tavern on the edge of the Forum Holitorium that served a surprisingly good wine.
Balbus grinned to himself as he moved through the crowd, laughing at how much effect Fronto had had on his life and habits in the three years of their acquaintance.
Few along the street wore togas, this street leading into a lower-class, more mercantile area, with the markets, the sewer outflow and the dung piles mucked out from the circus maximus, and Balbus found himself peering intently every time he spotted someone wearing the bulky garment of the wealthy and noble citizenry. He himself wore a simple tunic and cloak that could have marked him out as anything from a trader to a dung-
