His gaze strayed as they climbed the lower slopes and approached the outer edge of the town and its walls, and he felt uneasy suddenly.
The low rectangular earthwork off to his right had been the Roman supply station the last time he was here. Clearly it had been gone for a year or more now, the timber palisade and wooden huts pulled down and the Roman presence removed. He made a mental note to ask Priscus about the new system. Were they now wholly reliant on local produce, tribute from the tribes and foraging? Seemed unlikely, given the number of men Caesar had, so the supply line must have moved.
Causing him more consternation, though, was the fact that the last time he had been here, the town had clearly outgrown its walls and new homes and other small structures had been built on the slopes below.
No longer.
The walls reared up impressively, and no external constructions obscured the line of sight for any man atop them. The spread of the city had been halted and those offending buildings had been torn down, the wounds they had left on the land remaining to mark their passing.
His gaze took in the figures of Aedui warriors on the wall, watching with spears in hand.
Fronto felt a shiver run up his spine. Bibracte looked for all the world like a city on a war footing.
‘Is something wrong?’ Galronus asked, sensing Fronto’s discomfort.
‘Maybe. Not sure. I don’t like the way the walls have been cleared for line of sight and lookouts stand guard. It’s not the relaxed and peaceful Bibracte I remember.’
‘Maybe your memory’s at fault?’ Galronus shrugged. ‘People often look back on their past with a biased view. The Remi are Caesar’s men to the hilt, and yet our towns are still defended and ready. Regardless of treaties with Rome, there will always be other hungry tribes in Gaul and Germania who eye our cities with greed.’
‘I hope you’re right and this is just something internecine and simple,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘All the same, I was planning to stay here a few nights before we leave but I think, in the event, we’ll move on first thing in the morning.’
Palmatus and Masgava nodded at the sense of the decision, and the four men rode towards the gate, which stood open under the protective gaze of half a dozen solid, well-armoured Aedui warriors.
‘Want me to do the honours?’ Galronus asked as they approached.
Fronto shook his head. Despite the fact that the cavalry officer spoke his Belgic tongue naturally, it would sound almost foreign to the Aedui, the accent so different that he might as well be a German. Besides, Fronto was interested to see the reaction of the guards to a Roman in their midst. The legate was relatively incognito, unarmoured and just in his riding gear with an officer’s tunic beneath his heavy wool cloak, even wearing his Gallic torc — a gift from Galronus — around his neck. Palmatus wore old leathers and tunic, Masgava hardly appeared to be Roman, and Galronus was clearly a native. But as soon as Fronto opened his mouth, his origins would be clear. What would the Aedui say?
As they approached, the riders slowed. Palmatus and Galronus staying back a little and Masgava at the rear, holding the rope to the pack horses that carried all their main gear, including their armour.
He took a deep breath.
‘In the name of Rome and the Proconsul Gaius Julius Caesar, greetings,’ the legate intoned in an official manner. ‘I am Marcus Falerius Fronto, of the Proconsul’s staff, and these three are my colleagues. In the absence of the Roman supply depot here, we seek shelter for the night in your oppidum.’
There was a long, strange pause and Fronto began to wonder whether he had been incomprehensible. When the army had been here regularly, the city’s leaders had made sure that the men who stood by the gates spoke enough Latin to communicate with the soldiers and officers, and Fronto had assumed that, with the presence of the supply depot, the same had held true ever since. Perhaps since the demise of the supply post, Latin was no longer a concern among the guards.
He was about to gesture Galronus forward when one of the Aedui stepped to the parapet and held up his arm in salute. ‘Greetings, Fronto of Rome, legate of the Tenth Legion. You and your companions are welcome within our walls.’
Fronto heaved a sigh of relief but even as the man clambered down the steps out of sight and then emerged through the open gate, his oppressive feeling of unease refused to lift.
‘I am Danotalos of the Aedui. You are welcome to Bibracte and are known here.’ The Gaul looked him up and down. ‘I remember you myself. You have grown strong.’
‘Thanks,’ Fronto said drily. ‘This place seems… quiet? Nervous?’
Danotalos shrugged. ‘Our neighbours to the north — the Carnutes — stir up trouble. Your Seventh legion has been placed among them to quell the trouble, and the Carnutes’ arrogance and stupidity brought Roman uncertainty even upon us. We had your Thirteenth legion quartered in the north of our lands until the snows lifted. In such times it is wise for a city to look to its security.’
Fronto nodded his agreement, and could see out of the corner of his eye Galronus’ satisfaction at hearing the reasonable explanation of the city’s readiness, but somehow his spine was still tingling and he reached up and touched the little figure of Fortuna hanging on the thong around his neck before forcing a smile to his face.
‘There was a small tavern not far from this gate run by a man called Lugos, I think? A nice place on a steep street, with a shady garden covered in trees and vines?’
‘Lugulcos’ the man smiled. ‘The tavern is still open and its owner as miserable and cheap as ever. He may even still have some of your wine. The supply of new Roman wine dried up when the garrison outside left, but few here have the taste for it.’
Fronto nodded, noting something that unnerved him about that last phrase, or rather about the way it was said.
‘Will he have rooms in his place for four men for the night? We’ll be moving on in the morning.’
‘I am sure Lugulcos will make room for such men.’ the Gaul grinned. ‘Though you might regret it when he offers up his bill!’
Fronto fell silent once more as the four men followed Danotalos up the street from the gate and made their way towards the small tavern that had played host to some of Fronto’s favourite moments of the entire campaign in Gaul.
Each and every person they passed, be they man, woman or child, nodded their respect to Fronto and quite a few of them smiled, even warmly. And yet there was an atmosphere over the whole place that refused to let up. Even as the shady, tree-covered garden of the tavern appeared around a corner, Fronto was already looking forward to being gone from this place.
* * * * *
Fronto pushed his plate across the table and slid his wine cup into position before him. With care he poured a small quantity of the strong rich red liquid — imported from Cisalpine Gaul across the mountains — into the cup and watered it thoroughly. It had not kept over-well and had a sharpness to it that tingled the tongue but beggars, as they said, could not be choosers, and it was still better than the frothy ditch water being consumed by the locals in the tavern.
The discarded plate still contained some of the thick, rich gravy and morsels of meat with some soggy uneaten bread. The portion had been more than adequate and he felt his waistline stretched to the limit — almost to the width at which it had normally sat a year ago, he thought wryly.
Masgava was giving him a meaningful look and he simply nodded. At the signal, the big Numidian reached over and swiped his plate, stuffing the leftovers into his face like a man possessed. How he could eat like he did and not gain even the slightest fat was beyond Fronto. If he wanted to maintain his new lithe figure he had to be extremely careful. He only had to look at honey cakes and he felt his weight increase. But then he was older than Masgava by quite a margin.