He wondered where the two weapons used were now. Had the medicus kept them when the wounds were tended? Had Tetricus taken them? It was, of course, possible that one of them had some sort of distinguishing mark that could tie them to their owner.
The meeting rolled on with discussions of the logistics of moving the army closer to the Rhenus compared with making use of the enemy’s partial fortifications and setting camp in their current location. Priscus stated his case with his usual brusqueness, Cita arguing his corner at every turn, other officers making their feelings known whenever the questions touched their commands.
Through the next twenty minutes, Fronto stood silent, letting the murmur of complications and disagreements wash over him. His thoughts drifted over the river and past the plain where the enemy cavalry raided somewhere out of scouting distance, past the great oppidum of Vesontio, over the mountains of the Helvetii’s land, past Caesar’s province of Cisalpine Gaul, across mile after mile of tilled and mined land in Italia.
His mind’s eye focused in like the view of a circling bird. A great mountain by the sea in a bay that looked from above as though a Titan had taken a bite out of the land. Cities in glorious marble and brick. Circling down away from the mountain, past the old Greek port, past the bubbling mud and steaming white crater of the Forum Vulcani, down toward the port where Fronto had spent the blistering summers of his youth.
The villa on the hillside with its familiar outbuildings. The patio where his father had first taught him how to hold a sword. And finally there she was: Lucilia, standing in a stola of midnight blue, with her back to the glittering waters of the bay far below, leaning on the balustrade and smiling at him.
“When are we going home?”
Only as a stunned silence settled around him did Fronto realise that he’d voiced the thought out loud. His mind reeled back across the hundreds of miles, leaving that wondrous figure above the shining sea and refocusing on the tent full of sweating officers. Everyone was staring at him. Priscus was still standing in the centre of the tent, his finger wagging at Cita redundantly.
“Fronto?” Caesar frowned.
The legate felt a surge of automatic panic flowing through him.
“That came out wrong. Sorry. What I mean is, though, that we’re almost done here. You and Varus both said so. Once we can round up the stray cavalry they sent across the river, we’ve completely destroyed the invaders. Very few will have fled back across the river, and they’ll have their own trouble dealing with the Suevi who pushed them here in the first place.”
Caesar simply raised his eyebrow questioningly. Fronto recognised the warning sign, but he’d accidentally committed himself now.
“So I imagine that once we’ve smashed that cavalry force, we can report the invasion dealt with to the Gallic council, quarter the troops and then go home?”
He realised with some distress and annoyance that his voice had taken on an almost whinging tone towards the end, like a petulant child wanting to leave the table half way through a meal.
“You believe that the situation will be settled then, Marcus?”
“Well, I see no reason…”
“And what of those who return across the river, and the other tribes that live nearby? What if the advance of the Suevi is too much for them and they feel compelled once more to cross the river? What if the Suevi themselves decide to cross? How can we report this border of Gallic lands safe from invasion while we allow a threat to remain?”
Fronto frowned. “You intend to crush the Germanic tribes, Caesar? Now that Gaul is peaceful, we move on east? A dangerous decision I’d say, general.”
Caesar’s knuckles had whitened where his hands were entwined on the table.
“A demonstration to the tribes across the Rhenus, Marcus. A little warning of what we are capable of and willing to do. We will cross the Rhenus and punish them to discourage them from ever considering crossing the water again.”
A number of heads nodded in agreement. Fronto was hardly surprised to see Cicero, Labienus and a few of their cronies begin to argue in hushed tones, quietening only when Caesar threw a glance at them.
Fronto drew a deep breath. “A punitive strike across the Rhenus, then. Fair enough, general. I can see the sense in the move.”
The discussions rose once more like a wave of noise and Fronto stood quietly and listened for a few minutes more until Caesar drew the meeting to a close with an irritable sweep of his hand, his flinty gaze passing over Labienus and resting on Fronto. The legate pretended not to notice and waited as the officers began to file out, falling into the line and exiting the tent with some relief.
So it wasn’t over yet. His mind reached back over the weeks and months to Balbus’ villa above Massilia. “He will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume”, Balbus had said with a faintly challenging tone. Fronto had refused to listen; refused to acknowledge any possible truth in the accusation of Balbus’ words. “Watch what happens” he’d added. “If the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”
Fronto’s gaze passed across the assembled legions and auxiliary cavalry. He’d not questioned the general about the possibility of settling the veterans here, but it would be a solution; a good one. With a permanently resident force of veteran ex-soldiers, able to take up arms and defend their land, no Germanic tribe would find crossing into Belgic territory so easy in future. But this was clearly not the general’s intention. He wanted a push into their own lands. The senate would have a fit when they heard. The people would celebrate and praise the general, but the tide in the senate would turn against him all the more.
“Cicero!”
Spotting the commander of the Seventh, for once lacking the company of Furius and Fabius, Fronto hurried to catch up.
“Fronto.”
“You heard about my tribune?”
Cicero nodded. “Nasty business. You actually believe he was deliberately targeted by our own people?”
“It seems the only conclusion I can draw from finding a pilum and a pugio sticking out of him, yes.”
“Unfortunate. I don’t really know the man, but I gather he’s something of a hero. A clever engineer they say. Wasn’t he involved in the fight at Geneva?”
“Yes. He’s a good friend, Cicero. I will be… vexed… when I find out who’s behind it.”
Cicero paused and turned to him, his face darkening.
“A threat, Fronto?”
“Not at all. Why would I threaten you, since you had nothing to do with it? No. But a couple of centurions with a grudge against him might want to keep one eye open for the rest of their lives.”
Cicero sighed and strolled on. “You have to stop letting your personal prejudices against my men inform all your opinions and actions, Fronto. I may not agree with Caesar or even you at times, and Furius and Fabius may have been Pompeian veterans, but they fought like lions yesterday for our cause. Whatever else happens, Fronto, we’re all Romans. Remember that.”
Fronto came to a halt and watched as Cicero strode off towards the camp of the Seventh.
Just how far could any man be trusted in the army of Caesar these days?
ROME
Balbus ducked behind a pillar of the temple of Saturn, his gaze playing across the small crowd outside the basilica Aemilia. Cicero had emerged ten minutes ago from a public haranguing of Caesar and his ‘needlessly self-glorifying personal crusade to conquer the world’ and behind him had come half a dozen togate men, clearly of like mind. At least three of them were senators, known to Balbus from his regular visits to the forum to keep an eye on things.