S. J. A. Turney
Caesar's Vow
Prologue
‘I will hear nothing more of it, Priscus.’
Caesar drummed his fingers irritably on the table top as his brow twitched, leaden-cold eyes locked challengingly on the man before him. The general, Priscus noted, looked more tired than ever, yet there was something about him that had been lacking in evidence this past year or two: a fire. A purpose. Something had changed in Caesar, and it revolved around the missives he had sent to and received from Rome.
Priscus scratched his chin — bristly and none-too-clean — reflectively, wondering how far he could push the general this morning before he was properly upbraided. The state of his chin brought him back once more to a regular theme in his musings: just how much it seemed he was becoming Fronto. When he’d borne the transverse crest of a centurion the very idea of a morning unshaven would have stunned him. A three-day growth would have been unthinkable — he’d slapped month-long latrine duties on soldiers for less. And here he was, looking like some callow Roman youth emerging from his debauched pit after the Lupercalia festival, eyes red-rimmed with too much wine, wreathed in a smell faintly reminiscent of old dog. He would have to make a short sharp visit to the baths when he left here and get himself in shape.
‘With respect, General, you’ve sent for reinforcements. You will command the biggest army Rome has raised since that Thracian gladiator stomped up and down the countryside freeing slaves. Gaul is unsettled and troublesome — more than ever — and now is not the time to concentrate on small things, but to look to the security of the fledgling province as a whole.’
Caesar glared at him and he took a steadying breath, aware of how close to the edge he was treading. ‘I will hear nothing more of it’ was a warning sign.
‘Again, respectfully, you could stand on the throat of all the Belgae tribes with just eight legions; nine if you really feel the need to flatten them. All I ask is one legion. Even a green, untried one as long as the officers are competent. I’ll take one legion and unpick this whole damn land until I’ve revealed every sign of trouble. We do know that Esus…’
He stopped abruptly as Caesar slapped his palm on the table angrily, his face contorting with a snarl.
‘Enough with this damned ‘Esus’, Priscus. I am sick to the back teeth of hearing about mythical Gallic rebels who consort with druids and foment discord behind the scenes. If he exists, how come we have discovered nothing about him in over a year of campaigning?’ He pointed at the officer before him, denying Priscus the right to reply. ‘Simply because he is a fiction! Or if not a fiction, then the emphasis that you and your pet spies place upon him is vastly overrated. If he does exist, most likely this Esus is Ambiorix.’
Priscus prepared himself. He had bent the reed just about as far as it would go and it was clear what would happen unless he acquiesced now. Sadly, a dishevelled appearance was not the only thing he seemed to have inherited from Fronto. A pig-headed unwillingness to halt in the face of trouble seemed to have taken hold in his spirit too.
‘I do not think that is the case, Caesar. Ambiorix was a small scale rebel…’
‘Small scale?’ snapped Caesar. ‘That piece of Belgic filth wiped out a legion, lost me two veteran commanders — of Senatorial rank, no less — and endangered the rest of the army, almost finishing off Cicero in the process. And despite our timely arrival in force, still the mangy dog escaped us. Now he runs around free once more, gathering warriors to his banner in defiance of Rome. Get out of my tent, Priscus. Go bathe yourself in wine and forget all about your Gallic demi-God and his machinations. This army has a purpose at this time, other than the simple pacification of tribes: vengeance, Priscus. Simple revenge. Now go see to yourself and your fellow officers.’
Priscus winced at the sharpness in the general’s voice. Caesar was controlling his temper by a fine thread at best, and another word could snap it. Not even risking an apology, the officer simply bowed curtly, turned and left the tent.
Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul and Illyricum, governor of Transalpine Gaul, beloved of the Roman people and descendant of Venus, pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to ignore the blinding headache that was rising in his temple with every crunch of Priscus’ footsteps crossing the frosty grass away from the tent.
Gaul was killing him by degrees.
Every morning he felt slightly more worn, as though the very act of waking up in this rebellious world abraded a little of his spirit and body both. He had always reproached Fronto for his drinking habits, and had taken to doing so with Priscus, and yet was forced to admit to himself that his own consumption had risen drastically the past two years. Once upon a time, he had rarely slept, working through the hours of darkness and taking but a few hours of rest before launching into the coming day with renewed vigour. Not so these days. The wine helped him sleep of course, but also the days seemed to press on him so much now that rest was becoming more of a necessity.
Gaul had to be settled.
Straightening, he stalked across the tent to the door, pulling aside one of the hanging leather flaps. Two of Aulus Ingenuus’ horse guard stood at attention outside, one to each side. Other than that the nearest activity was a collection of senior officers — including Priscus — chattering away by the water tank near the camp prefect’s tent.
‘I am not to be disturbed,’ he announced to the bodyguards, who saluted without tearing their eyes away from the camp and any potential trouble. Ingenuus was always serious about his task, and that professionalism filtered down through his men.
With a nod of satisfaction, Caesar returned to his tent and allowed the leather flap to drop back behind him. Ignoring the table with its huge map of Gaul and collection of tablets and scrolls, the cupboards and desks that held all his records and correspondence, the chairs and banners, standards and trophies, he turned to the door in the dividing wall.
Caesar’s tent was, needless to say, the largest in the camp by a sizeable margin, given the fact that it served as both his private apartments and the army’s headquarters. The front room was large enough to comfortably accommodate a briefing of twenty officers, and that was only a third of the whole structure.
The Illyrian slave who stood folding Caesar’s tunics ready to place them in the shelves turned at the general’s sudden entrance, bowing low and then replacing the linen and scurrying over to his master. Caesar frowned. For some reason he couldn’t remember the slave’s name. He’d had a series of miscellaneous house and body slaves during the campaign, but they never seemed to be up to the task and in the end they were all sent on to other duties, some not even hanging around long enough to remember their face. The latest seemed to be obsessed with neatness, which was fine, but was never there when Caesar discovered he needed him.
‘Leave me.’
The slave bowed respectfully, and then scurried towards the other doorway that led into the general’s sleeping chamber.
‘Not that way. Outside. Go and wash something.’
Nodding nervously, the young Illyrian shuffled through the room and disappeared into the public area and then outside. Caesar sighed and allowed himself to sag a little as solitude enfolded him in its comforting embrace. It was an unfortunate consequence of public life and military command that he rarely ever found himself alone unless he was actually asleep. Privacy was a precious commodity, though he’d had a little more of it these past few months, since Labienus was away east with his legion keeping the Treveri busy and some of the more vocal and time-consuming officers were either back in Rome or gracing the fields of Elysium.