The column stretched out both ahead and behind and he had a fairly clear view of the whole affair from the back of the glorious ebony-coated Bucephalus — following the customary twenty minute argument with Carbo about the benefits of an officer who marched with his men.
Of course, with advance scouts, the Seventh would theoretically have time to deploy should any aggressors be discovered up ahead, but Caesar had sent Piso with one wing of the Gallic cavalry ahead to scout the lie of the land and, to both Caesar and Fronto, Piso was still something of an unknown. He seemed in every way the perfect man for the job; thoroughly Romanised — as far as an Aquitanian could hope to be, clever, brave, strong, and quick-witted. It seemed that his men had taken an almost instant shine to him too, calling him ‘Camulos’ — apparently the name of a war God from these parts. And yet, while Caesar sent this trusted man forward, Fronto remembered Piso only from his association with Labienus during that conversation upon his arrival at camp. Just how far could any man be trusted these days?
Just like the Republic, the army seemed to be decaying, riddled with tumours and cancers, falling apart and in need of surgery. His attention was suddenly caught by a single rider making to intercept the army.
Varus’ cavalry had the task of patrolling alongside the column as outriders, while Galronus and his men kept a rearguard with the wagons and the Fourteenth. The lone rider was one of Varus’ men; one of the few Roman cavalrymen among the hordes of auxiliary Gauls.
Fronto calculated the man’s rough trajectory and, nodding to Carbo to keep the men moving, dropped out of the line and turned Bucephalus to walk back along the line of the Tenth to where the senior commanders rode between Fronto’s legion and the Eighth. The crimson cloak of the general and the glinting cuirasses of the senior commanders rose from the cloud of grey dust that marked the passage of so many thousand feet, and Fronto converged with them just as the general, having spotted the rider, rode out to the side from the line of march with his top men.
The Roman cavalryman came to a halt a few yards away, reining in expertly and throwing a salute.
“Soldier?”
“General, commander Varus begs to report that a small group of what appear to be Germanic riders approached from the northeast. There are only a score or so of them and they’re demanding to speak with you. What are your orders, Caesar?”
The general gave a half smile and raised his eyebrow.
“Shall we see what they have to say, gentlemen?”
As the small party of officers turned their horses and rode off at a tangent from the column, toward the bank of the fast-flowing MosellaRiver that ran some quarter of a mile to the southeast, Fronto fell in alongside them and Varus’ man, a frown etched into his forehead. He had no doubts at all about Varus or his veteran riders, but having a vanguard out there made up of Piso’s horse and Cicero’s legion made him very nervous.
Regardless of the lack of obvious danger, Fronto’s spine was tingling in the same way as it had a couple of years ago when he’d first had bad feelings about the brutal Belgic campaign. Something about what awaited them to the northeast felt wrong and dangerous.
He suddenly realised he was rubbing between the fingers of his free hand the amulet of Fortuna he’d taken to wearing on a thong around his neck. Irritated, he pulled it away, though apparently not before Caesar saw.
“Something wrong, Marcus? You look nervous.”
Fronto muttered something under his breath.
“Marcus?”
“Nothing. Got a bad feeling about what’s coming.”
Caesar smiled benignly. “It’s rather unusual for you to be jumpy and superstitious.”
“Just a feeling, Caesar. It feels like I’m riding a wolf into combat against a bear. I don’t know which one’s going to snap at me first.”
Something in Fronto’s voice pulled a serious expression across Caesar’s face. “Anything you want to tell me, Marcus?”
Fronto forced himself to look the general in the eye, trying not to note the hard, accusatory glance Labienus was levelling at him from the general’s other side.
“Nothing concrete, general. Just a feeling of danger and unease. Let’s make sure we keep Varus’ men close by.”
“Of course.”
Ten minutes passed for Fronto in a sense of nervous agitation that deepened and sharpened with every passing step. Caesar and the others continued to pass the time in small-talk, but Fronto declined to take part in the light-hearted banter.
Finally, on a small hillock rising from the north bank of the Mosella, the group spotted a small knot of horsemen and, as they closed on them, Fronto was surprised to see that very few of them appeared to have any kind of rich adornment. Indeed, most of them bared their torsos, their only covering the baldrics that hung across them, supporting the heavy Germanic swords, and the long beards that in many cases hung down to below their collar bones, oft braided or tied in a knot. Their hair, almost uniformly wheat-coloured, was wild and tied in a knot atop their heads. Their weapons were, however, sheathed. The men who sat ahorse behind these visible front men appeared to be almost entirely naked apart from their wild hair and a loincloth, their spears pointing at the heavens.
Caesar smiled happily, and the men with whom he’d been chatting seemed to find the appearance of their visitors amusing.
Not so Fronto. The first thought that entered his head was how suicidally brave a score of mostly naked men would have to be to ride up to the Roman cavalry and demand to speak to their commander. After all, word must have spread to them by now of the Gaulish council’s decision and Caesar’ approach.
These were the sort of men who would try and outstare a crocodile.
“Let’s be patient and courteous, gentlemen” Caesar said quietly as they slowed on the approach.
“Good greet Caesar” intoned one of the lead tribesmen as the general reined in and turned his horse to face the visitors with the expert knee control of a cavalryman. Fronto, less sure and practiced, simply hauled on the reins until Bucephalus complied.
“Good day” replied Caesar. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
There was a brief silence, and then a huddle of confused murmuring.
“Who are you” simplified the general.
“We not here to fight Roman.”
“Clearly not, with only twenty men” the general smiled. The visitors frowned in incomprehension. Finally someone seemed to grasp the point.
“We — all tribe — we not cross Renos to fight Roman.”
“I can imagine.”
The man narrowed his eyes, a strange move that, given his wild hair and huge beard, almost entirely removed his face from the picture.
“But if Roman want fight, we not run.”
“How kind. It would certainly save us some energy and legwork.”
A chortle broke out among the officers and again the tribesmen conferred until they reached a consensus about what had actually been said.
“Tribes never turn from war. Ancestors fight; we fight. On to tomorrow. Never we talk ‘stead of fight. Is Roman way, yes?”
“I would invite you to put that to the test” smiled Caesar coldly, causing another confab.
“But this time different. Tribes here because we pushed across Renos.”
“Indeed.”
“So we talk. You leave us land we take, we support Roman. We make many strong horse warrior for you. Is good trade.”
Labienus nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not a bad option, Caesar. I’m sure we could talk the council around.”
Caesar glanced at him once and Fronto couldn’t see the general’s expression, but the staff officer lowered his gaze deferentially. When he turned back to the visitors, Caesar’s face had taken on the hard military look that Fronto knew only too well. Impervious, imperious and immovable.
“I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I have already given my word to the chieftains of Gaul, who we now call ally. There can be no alliance with an aggressor into their territory. There is no land available for you here. I believe that one of the tribes you represent is the Ubii who straddle both banks of the Rhenus? If that is the case, I urge you to settle in their lands on this side of the river. To this I will turn a blind eye, but to nowhere else.”