Turning his back, he walked away, his face sour and angry, leaving the two men bearing the carved ‘Taurus’ bull emblem on their face as a badge on their journey to the underworld.
Chapter 8
(Roman camp near the Rhine)
Galronus nodded. “Lentulus is the obvious choice.”
“No, no, no, no, no” Fronto grumbled, the wine — less watered than anyone else’s in the tent — sloshed over the side of his cup and added a fresh spatter on the legate’s breeches. “Lentulus let his men go berserk chasing down the fleeing tribesmen. Possibly on Caesar’s orders, but a cavalry commander needs to have full control.”
Varus leaned back against a prop of cushions, his sling undone and resting the rigidly-splinted arm on a padded pillow. Despite the argument and concerns of the medicus, he’d been in the saddle again the morning after the battle, unarmed of course, and wincing with every thud of the horse’s hooves, but where he belonged. Between rides, however, he seemed to be mollycoddling the break. He shared a look with Galronus and pursed his lips.
“Marcus, Lentulus was in full control. It was a command decision, whether his or Caesar’s, to sacrifice mercy and potential slaves in order to allow that cavalry wing their revenge. I honestly can’t say whether I’d have tried to rein them in myself. You agreed with him in the debrief! What would you do if the Tenth were hacked to pieces and then given the opportunity to take it out on their attackers?”
“I’d restrain them.”
“No you damn well wouldn’t, and you know it. What is all this about, Marcus. You’re all over the place at the moment. One minute you’re standing up for Caesar and supporting any amount of bloodshed he might suggest, and the next ranting about him over the deaths of enemy civilians. I realise that you’ve always had your differences with the general, but I can’t figure out what’s going on in your head. Sometimes you’re starting to sound like Labienus.”
Fronto glared angrily down into his cup.
“I don’t know, Varus. I’ve never really been able to figure Caesar out. Sometimes he’s the very model of a generous, merciful commander and a good man; other times I see things in him that really worry me; twisted things.”
“Nobody is simply good or bad, Marcus” Galronus shrugged. “That’s a very simplified way of looking at the world.”
“If it hadn’t been for what happened in Rome — the gladiators and Clodius and his men — I don’t know whether I’d even be here this summer. Caesar saved my family, and that’s hard to forget and let go. But something Balbus said to me a couple of months back has really stuck in my head. And then there’s all these divisions in command, and new men drafted in that I wouldn’t turn my back on, just in case.”
Varus shook his head. “I have to admit that the army does seem to be drifting into factions. It’s Caesar’s army, and he pays the men and gives his patronage to the officers. But…” he lowered his voice, “there are clear pockets of men who are plainly anti-Caesarian. It shouldn’t be worrying, but, let’s face it, Caesar wouldn’t be the first praetor to have an army turn against him.”
“You think Labienus would wrest command from the general? You even think he could?”
Varus sighed. “I’ve heard how the tide of opinion flows in Rome, Marcus. Caesar’s got the mob in his pocket, but that’s only so much use. Pompey wouldn’t fart to help Caesar if he needed it and Crassus is busy flouncing about in the east trying to emulate Alexander the Great and building up to invade Parthia. The senate are well-stacked against Caesar and only favours and threats are keeping them from hauling on the leash and dragging him back to Rome.”
Fronto stared at him. “I didn’t realise you were so politically minded, Varus?”
“I just keep my eyes and ears open, Marcus. The thing is: Caesar is balanced on a knife edge these days. If things went wrong, we might find the senate rescinding Caesar’s position and command. They could even prosecute him… hell, if Cicero has his way they’ll declare him an enemy of the state. It sounds so ridiculous and unlikely, but it really isn’t that fantastic.”
Galronus frowned as he thought it through. “And if the senate ends Caesar’s command, Labienus has the authority to turn around and take the army off him; maybe even assume the governorship. Is that really likely?”
“As I say, it all depends on the amount of support Caesar can maintain in Rome. As long as the senate either supports him or is frightened enough not to cross him, he’ll be fine. He still has enough influence, money and men to assure both, I believe. The people love him for his victories, so he’s never short of loyal muscle to hire, if you get my drift.”
Galronus scratched his chin. “It’s maybe worth noting that Caesar hasn’t put Labienus in command of a single action so far this summer. I would guess the general has thought this through to the same end. How long do you think it’ll be before Labienus ends up attached to Cicero’s Seventh and all the other untrustworthy dissenters? I just don’t understand why he hasn’t sent Labienus and Cicero home just to be certain.”
“Because you can’t waste talent on suspicions” Fronto said with a shrug. “Labienus may be arguing a lot and disagreeing with Caesar, but the man has obeyed Caesar’s every command regardless. Disagreement is a long, long way from mutiny, and Labienus is still one of the half-dozen most talented military strategists on this side of the Mare Nostrum. Can’t afford to let a top man go because he’s argumentative.”
“And Cicero?”
“Would you want to send him back to Rome in disgrace where he can join his brother and stir up even more trouble? No. Cicero is safer under Caesar’s nose.”
A knock at the wooden frame of the door interrupted the conversation and Fronto made ‘shush’ing motions at the other two.
“Who is it?”
“How many people are you expecting?” barked the irritable voice of Priscus. Fronto relaxed back to the cushion and refilled his cup, adding the slightest dash of water for modesty. “Come on in.”
The door flap swung out to reveal the figures of Priscus, Carbo and Atenos.
“You said there’d be dice” Priscus noted hopefully, “and wine.”
“Help yourself to the wine. Now that you’re here I’ll dig out the dice. We were just discussing the divisions in command. Labienus, Cicero, Caesar, the senate and so on. Any opinions?”
“My opinion is that it’d be a better discussion without me” grumbled Priscus, slumping to a cushion and pouring himself a generous cup of wine, watering it healthily.
“I wonder who’s going to be left in command of the winter quarters once we’ve rounded up the rest of the invaders” mused Carbo, reaching for a dark, earthenware cup.
“Not Labienus, for sure” replied Atenos with a grin.
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself” Fronto said quietly. “This isn’t the end of things. I argued with Balbus back at Massilia, but I’m more and more convinced he was right as the weeks roll on.”
He glanced up at the silence and realised the other five men were frowning at him in incomprehension.
“He feels that Caesar will continue to push even when there’s no reason. For glory and the applause of the mob in Rome. The senate are never going to root for him, so he needs the support of the people, and that means he can’t stop conquering and winning glory for Rome. He won’t waste the campaigning season when he could be drumming up popular support.”
“So you mean the general is going to spend the rest of the season ploughing into the lands across the Rhenus? All to please the poor and the homeless back in Rome?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Any news about the tribune?” Carbo asked quietly, deftly changing the subject.
Fronto sat up a little straighter. “He’s recovering nicely apparently. Not as quick as the invincible horseman over there” he gestured at Varus, who grinned. “Looks like Tetricus was very lucky; the wounds could have been that much worse if just a fraction of an inch different. I think he’s lucky he was moving and there was a big fight on. If the bastards had cornered him in an alley, it would have been a different matter.”