‘And for which we need more men,’ Fronto noted. Even Caesar nodded at that.
‘The army will return to Samarobriva and wait for the arrival of the new legions,’ the general said finally and decisively. ‘Then we will have adequate forces to root out the Menapii and find the miserable little Eburone king. But I want the Nervii thoroughly downtrodden first. We have broken them, yes, but we broke them once before, and they simply rose whole again. This time I want them to be flattened and cowed and never able to rise beyond the ground. The army will divide: each legion — along with a quarter of the cavalry and adequate scouts — will take a different route back to Samarobriva, through Nervii land. Every Nervian settlement you find — regardless of size or importance — is to be enslaved, looted and burned. When we meet once more at our base of operations, I want to know that nine of every ten Nervians is face to face either with his Gods or with our slave traders.’
Fronto threw a meaningful glance at Antonius. After Avenna, he had spoken to Caesar’s friend about the concerns of the allied Gauls, and Antonius had wholeheartedly agreed with the problem, promising to speak to the general as soon as the opportunity arose.
Antonius took a moment to notice his look and then frowned in confusion. Fronto mouthed three words at him. ‘GAULS’… ‘BURNING’… ‘TROUBLE’.
Antonius shook his head dismissively, and Fronto ground his teeth for a moment and then took a deep breath.
‘General, if you continue to do unto the Belgae what Rome did to Carthage, you’re going to lose the support of the allied tribes. They grow restless.’
Caesar turned a cold look on him and Fronto rose to the bait, suddenly overwhelmed with the idiocy of his being here if he wasn’t to even be consulted or listened to, let alone given a command.
‘I know! You’re not happy with me. We all know it. It’s not a surprise to any man here, General, but the fact remains that whether you think you need me or not, you do need the allied tribes.’
‘Our forces still outnumber our enemies now, even without the allied tribes,’ Cicero said airily.
‘Not if you add those allied tribes to the enemy!’ Fronto snapped in reply. ‘Then it starts to look a little ropey, I think you’ll find. I only advocate a more restrained approach. As the medicus would say: ‘surgical’. You’d stand more chance of removing a gut worm with a knife than a mallet, if you get my drift.’
Antonius was glaring at Fronto, but Caesar simply narrowed his eyes.
‘I’d forgotten how outspoken and contrary you can be, Fronto, but you do have a point. Very well. You have proved yourself as resourceful as ever so far, so you find me a way to excise Ambiorix with a knife, and I will consider withdrawing the mallet. But if you cannot do so, I will continue with this course until either Ambiorix kneels before me or the entire northeast of this land is a smoking ruin.’
Fronto felt a small hard gem of hope somewhere deep inside. For the first time, Caesar had actually listened to him. Now he had to come up with some sort of plan, and a damn good one, if he was to halt this swathe of destruction sweeping across the Belgae.
‘Now attend your legions, gentlemen.’ The general straightened. ‘We march as soon as the slaves and booty are on the move. All proceeds when we return to Samarobriva will be divided as spoils among the men. Your legions will appreciate this, so bear it in mind as you pass like a cleansing fire through the Nervii. Every sestertius you tear from those benighted settlements will improve the mood and loyalty of your men. Now: off, gentlemen.’
As Caesar and the other officers dispersed, returning to the staff group or their individual forces, Antonius strode across to Fronto.
‘You have Gods’ awful timing, Marcus.’
‘You said you would speak to him!’ Fronto snapped in retort.
‘And I did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the best way to help the Condrusi of your scout friend is to remove the threat from their border. If we keep going as we are, whatever their dissenters think, we’ll have removed the Nervii from the map, and that will give the Condrusi some breathing room — a cowed Nervii to the north and a preoccupied Treveri to the south, courtesy of Labienus. And if Caesar moves on to the Menapii and then the remains of the Eburones, we’ll have freed the Condrusi from danger entirely. Then we could even smash the Treveri.’
‘You’re talking about genocide here, Antonius, and of more than one tribe.’ The smell of wine on the senior officer’s breath was strong, and possibly even the stench of Gallic beer? When had he found the time? They’d been marching all day and then fighting! Fronto was impressed in a slightly worried way, Even at the times when he was deepest in the arms of Bacchus, he couldn’t have found the opportunities Antonius did. Probably wouldn’t have been able to stand, either!
‘The genocide of more than one enemy tribe,’ corrected Antonius, showing no sign of inebriation, ‘freeing up room for our allies.’
‘And there’s no guarantee that Caesar burning every house in the north will get him Ambiorix. In fact it’s more likely to push him into hiding or across the river to the dubious, white, flabby bosom of the Germanic peoples.’
‘Caesar is the one who cares about Ambiorix, Fronto — not me. My job is to make this campaign a success for him, and crushing these rebellious Belgae is part of that. If you want to go rooting out his obsession like an ‘attack ferret’ that’s up to you, Fronto, but I’m going to keep this war on course.’
With a last defiant look, Antonius turned and stormed away after Caesar.
Fronto spotted Masgava and Palmatus with the rest of his men standing not far away, looking tense. Quickly, once more grateful that his knee was strong again and his marching speed better than he could remember, he strode across to them.
‘Alright you two. Start thinking of any way we can get to Ambiorix. I want to come up with a near-to-fool-proof plan before we reach Samarobriva so that I can present it to Caesar. If we want to stop Gaul burning, we need to think hard and fast.’
‘Already way ahead of you there, Fronto!’ Palmatus said, winking at Masgava.
‘Do tell.’
‘We’ve been thinking on something along those lines,’ Masgava admitted. ‘Sometimes a large force can be a handicap. After all, you wouldn’t send a bull down a hole to catch a rabbit, would you?’
‘I just got called an ‘attack ferret’ by Antonius. Be careful how you proceed with this conversation!’ Fronto warned with a dark look.
‘And when we get back to Samarobriva,’ Palmatus added, ‘you might note a Gallic theme to your singulares.’
Fronto frowned. He had an inkling what they were suggesting, and it was a thought that had been rattling round his subconscious too. ‘Let’s go see Galronus. If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, he could be of great help.’
Chapter Eight
‘What are you two looking at?’ Fronto asked wearily. He’d only been back in Samarobriva along with the rest of the army for a matter of hours, and everything seemed to be utter chaos. In Caesar’s absence, the three legions levied in Cisalpine Gaul had arrived — Pompey’s First, the reformed Fourteenth, and the new Fifteenth — and their commanders had already put their stamp on the quarters in the commander’s absence.
‘Shocking,’ Priscus shook his head. ‘No organisation. Look at the way they’ve pitched.’
Fronto shook his head. He could see nothing wrong, but Priscus’ term as camp prefect had given him an extra level of grumpy perfectionism that Fronto could hardly believe found room in the man’s head, given how it already overflowed with ire, irritability and gloomy pessimism.
‘Looks textbook legion procedure to me.’