‘Going to be a shitty day’ Fronto noted.
‘Not unusual up here at this time of the year. Seems odd that we’ve been in Gaul for so long that we’re used to its climate and changes.’
‘Come on. Let’s stroll.’
The two men pottered past the tent that had been requisitioned for Palmatus and Masgava, where snoring and farting confirmed that the two men were in residence and asleep. On past the gathered tents of the tribunes and prefects the pair strolled, their feet squelching in the grass until they made it onto the sunken-timber walkways that criss-crossed the semi-permanent camp and prevented the main roads turning to a quagmire in the wet.
The decumanus led down to the east gate from here and, for want of anything better to do, the two men strolled on towards the defences, thinking to climb the ramparts and gain a good view of the low hills and wide plains of the Ambiani tribe stretching off towards the rising sun.
‘You heard the news as well, then?’
Fronto jumped at the sudden voice at his shoulder and turned to see Rufio and young Crassus falling into step behind them, the former rubbing his eyes sleepily and the latter still fastening the expensive belt around his middle and hoisting his knee-length tunic up, cinching it in place.
‘News?’
‘Just a night owl then,’ smiled Rufio. ‘Messenger at the gate.’
‘At this time of night?’ Fronto shook his head. ‘What is he: half-man, half-owl?’
‘Curious, eh? But then the Gauls all seem to work on a different schedule to the rest of the world.’
The four men strode down the road at a faster pace, converging on the gate, where a knot of officers stood, surrounded by legionaries and lit by the braziers of the watch. As they closed, Fronto noted a small group of natives at the centre, dismounted, their horses snorting and huffing in the cold air. There was something about the colours of their clothes — more russets and browns than the colourful blues and greens of the Gauls that suggested they were Belgae, from the east. It struck Fronto as interesting that he had spent long enough out here that could actually pick up on such details, even after a year away.
‘Sir!’ barked the duty centurion, snapping to attention and saluting the four approaching officers, though clearly uncertain as to whom to defer as the most senior. Fronto allowed the others to step ahead of him. Whatever position he might hold in the army right now, he was fairly sure that he could claim less seniority than any of these men, even the young relatively-untried Crassus.
Rufio, seeming to sense the need for a spokesman, stepped ahead and saluted the centurion in return. ‘Your runner said we had a messenger?’
‘Yessir. A scout party that’s been out in the forest of Arduenna. One of them’s wounded, so I sent for the capsarius from the Tenth. Should be here any moment.’
‘Wounded?’ Fronto queried, stepping in.
‘Yessir. Arrow in the back.’
Gazing past the cordon of guards, he could see that there were four riders, but one of them was being held upright by two legionaries, clearly in agony and pale as a moonlight ghost.
‘What happened to you?’ Rufio asked of the native scouts. One of the three unwounded men stepped forward and nodded his head in deference.
‘Nervii patrol in Viromandui land. Chase us for many mile. Ategnio lose much blood. Need get to healer.’
‘The healer is on his way,’ Rufio said as comfortingly as he could and then turned to Fronto. ‘Nervii and Viromandui?’
‘The Nervii are one of the biggest Belgic tribes in the north. Caused us a lot of bother in their time. And the Viromandui are smaller, on their border. Sort of under the Nervii. Their land’s maybe forty or fifty miles from here, as the bird flies.’
‘Looks like they might be causing us more trouble, then, unless this was an unrelated and accidental incident.’
‘No attack by the Belgae is accidental,’ Fronto sighed. He turned to the scout. ‘What news do you carry?’
‘Caesar’s enemy,’ the man said slowly. ‘Nobles meet at Aduatuca one week go. Ambiorix with them.’
‘And who else?’ Varus asked quietly. ‘I’m guessing the Nervii?’
The scout nodded. ‘Nervii. And Menapii. And Treveri.’
Fronto whistled, mentally picturing the map of the Belgae lands in the general’s tent. Between those three tribes — and the Eburones of whom Ambiorix was still a King, at least in theory — they constituted most of the northeast, from the great cold sea in the north to the foothills of the Alpes in the south and along the entire western bank of the Rhenus.
‘That’s a big coalition. Caesar might have been right in planning to move before spring. Clearly Ambiorix has.’ He turned to the others. ‘Best get the word to the legion commanders, as the general’s going to want to move as soon as he’s held his briefing.’
‘Is it not a little previous to pass word to the men before it is given to us?’ Rufio asked, his brow furrowing.
‘When you’ve known Caesar for a while, you’ll realise it’s worth getting a couple of steps ahead, ‘cause he hates being made to wait when he’s itching to move. Warn the officers. Trust me.’
Crassus nodded his understanding and cleared his throat. ‘Where will we move, do you think?’
All three men seemed to be looking to Fronto for answers, despite his current uncertainty of rank or position. He shrugged. ‘The Treveri are bogged down with Labienus and won’t move anywhere with him on their flank. The Menapii are way up north in the swamps of the delta. And Caesar already avowed his intention to chisel away at the edge of Ambiorix’s power. So I would wager my money on a march into Nervii lands.’
Varus nodded. ‘And they’re closest. We can be in their lands inside two days at a forced march. Caesar can take the poor bastards by surprise.’
‘Then let’s get back up the hill. Antonius will want to know about this before he gets dragged in front of Caesar with the rest of us.’
* * * * *
The sudden order to march came as no surprise to Fronto, or to any of those used to Caesar’s decisiveness when it came to campaigning. Barely had the capsarius reached the wounded Gaul before the rest of the scouts were escorted to Caesar’s headquarters and debriefed. An hour later, when the first chirps of the dawn chorus issued from the trees and faint tendrils of orange crept through the clouds to the east, Caesar had called his staff meeting and given the entirely predictable order to break camp and march for the lands of the Nervii. Four legions had departed — the Tenth under Crassus, the Ninth under Trebonius, the Eighth under Fabius and the Eleventh under Cicero, and many of the staff had come along too, leaving only a small garrison at Samarobriva. By the time any man in his right mind would be having his ‘morning movement’ and contemplating breaking his fast, the legions were already a mile from the camp and marching east-by-northeast along the shallow river valley.
Fronto had felt appropriately ill all day, half-dead on his feet with fatigue, regretting his timing of the previous night’s activity — or rather that of the ever-vigorous Antonius. He had ridden Bucephalus as though every hoof-step that touched the ground might make him hurl, and had not been able to look at food whenever it was offered throughout the journey. The only consolation was that Varus and Brutus appeared to be feeling similarly unwell. Priscus seemed his usual dour and irascible self, though he was reasonably rested but for a kink in his neck from the way he had slept.
The irritating thing, of course, was the fact that with no sleep at all — and having consumed more wine than even an elephant should be able to comfortably stand — Marcus Antonius rode gaily along beside the general discussing this and that as though he had gone for an early night with a glass of warm mulsum. Damn the man.