Once again, Fronto looked up in surprise. That task was the sort that Caesar traditionally passed on to Labienus. Throughout their time in Gaul, the tall staff officer had been Caesar’s senior lieutenant who took charge of multi-legion forces in the general’s absence. This sudden shift in policy would not have gone unnoticed and cast Labienus in a distinctly unfavourable light.
“Very well, gentlemen; you all have work to do: I suggest you get to it. Standard briefing at first light. Dismissed.”
Fronto sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his knee.
“Is that it, general?”
“I think so, Marcus. You’re fully briefed, and I’ll be with you anyway. Just be aware of the Seventh at all times and make sure you don’t commit the Tenth to dangerous action when the Seventh could do the job for you.”
Fronto nodded, trying not to resent the general’s dismissive attitude to a whole legion of men.
“Then…” he was interrupted by a rapping on the wooden tent frame.
“Come” barked Caesar.
The cavalry trooper on guard ducked in through the tent’s entrance, bearing a wax-sealed scroll case.
“This just arrived from Rome by fast courier for you, general.”
Caesar nodded and the man strode forward and delivered the ivory cylinder. Waving the trooper away, Caesar glanced at the seal, frowning at something he saw, and then broke it, tipping out the parchment sheet and unrolling it, discarding the case on the desk. Fronto watched with interest as Caesar’s expression underwent a number of blink-of-an-eye changes, despite his trying to maintain a straight face. Surprise, annoyance, anger, disappointment, decision, resignation.
“News from home, Caesar?”
The general glanced up in surprise, apparently having entirely forgotten Fronto’s presence in his studious attention to the letter.
“Mmh? Oh. Yes.”
“From your pet slug, Clodius, perchance?”
The veneer completely cracked for a moment, though Fronto was puzzled to see not anger on the general’s face, but almost panic.
“Yes, Fronto” he snapped, “from Clodius.”
“You’d do well to cut that one off, Caesar.”
“Dictating terms to your commander?” There was a dangerous edge to the general’s voice, but Fronto ignored it pointedly.
“We spent half a year cleansing Rome of his infection. The piece of shit tried to kill me and my family. Hell, he tried to kill you! And now you use him? Have you even the faintest idea how dangerous that is?”
Caesar’s gaze had strayed once more to the letter in his hands and he seemed to take control of himself with visible effort, rolling up the parchment and dropping it on the desk in front of him.
“Do not presume to lecture me on dangers, Fronto. Who was it who embraced his capture and then chastised the Cilician pirates? Who marched with Crassus against that slave-filth Spartacus? Who survived Sulla’s proscriptions? Who was hailed ‘Imperator’ in Hispania? I recognise that you will probably serve in the military until you die or are too old and feeble to do so, and will then likely retire to an easy life back in Puteoli. But should you ever dabble in the cess pool and viper pit all-in-one that is Rome, you will come to understand that even the most odious and untrustworthy of people can be a useful tool for some tasks.”
“So what has the sewer rat been up to this time?”
Again, Fronto was somewhat surprised to notice a flash of uncertainty — even panic? — flash across the general’s eyes.
“Nothing of consequence, Marcus. Nothing of consequence.”
An inexplicable shiver ran down Fronto’s spine and he sat silently for a moment until Caesar waved him away in dismissal. Standing, he turned and left the tent, pausing at the doorway to glance back at the general, only to see him tearing the parchment into small pieces and dropping them in one of the braziers.
Something peculiar and dangerous was going on with the evasive, taciturn Caesar, and Fronto had a horrible gut feeling that it somehow involved him.
Chapter 13
(Gesoriacum, on the Gaulish coast, opposite Britannia)
Word of the impending campaign had already spread beyond the Roman forces and the civilian town; of that there could be absolutely no doubt. Only two days after the decision to sail had been confirmed, ambassadors from the tribes of Britannia had begun to appear. Caesar had greeted their arrival with his traditional grave expression, though Fronto couldn’t help noticing a lightening of the general’s mood with each new advocate.
Eight tribes had sent deputations, promising hostages, support, supplies and money to the Romans. Some had even gone so far as to submit themselves to Caesar’s governance. It appeared that the fate of the Belgae in previous years was still fresh in the mind of the tribes of Britannia, many of whom were related to the Belgae by blood and tradition. Rather than face the inevitable iron-shod boot of the Roman republic pressing down on their necks, it seemed that several of the nearer tribes were willing to submit.
Moreover, and much to Caesar’s pleasure, their arrival had supplied him with eight new, heavy Celtic ships with which to brave the crossing — ships that were designed for these waters and were capable of withstanding the tremendous pressures and strains.
After a few days, when it became apparent that no further ambassadors were likely, Caesar had taken the hostages offered and quartered them in Gesoriacum’s fort. He had then set the eight groups of men on board a single ship and released them to go back to their own land, along with promises of Roman support and peaceful relations, encouraging them to spread the word and their particular brand of ‘Pax Britannia’ among the more reticent tribes.
Now, only three days after the ambassadors’ ship had sailed off from Gesoriacum on a sea as calm as the impluvium pool of a Roman villa, the men of the Seventh and Tenth legions sat or stood on the decks of the motley collection of ships that made up the Gallo-Roman fleet in the town’s harbour, staring out at what appeared to be distinctly unfriendly waters.
Only an hour before the troops had begun to board on Caesar’s orders, a wind had whipped up the water’s surface and changed its appearance utterly. Moreover, dark grey clouds started to roll in from the northeast as the evening sky began to darken, threatening heavy rain and worse. Brutus and Volusenus had conferred with three of the captains, two native guides and even with Caesar but, much to Fronto’s dismay, had pronounced conditions acceptable.
Even the pure white lamb that had displayed a healthy liver and kidneys and clearly shown Neptune’s favour had not put his fears to rest. He’d spent a small fortune on food, wine and trinkets merely to leave them reverentially on any altar he could find — Roman or native — to try and appease whoever controlled that particular stretch of water and his passage over it. He’d become increasingly convinced that his bandy-legged amulet was an image of some fat Gallic fishwife with as much divine connection to Fortuna as a dead herring.
All in all, everything pointed to a complete disaster as far as Fronto was concerned.
Then there had been the news that the eighteen ships destined to convey the cavalry across the water had been trapped in the next port down the coast, due to the weather. That was hardly encouraging and Fronto had watched with bitter dismay as Varus and his cavalry wing had ridden off south to find their vessels. The senior cavalry commander still sported his splinted arm and a pained look, but had recently taken to riding again as often as possible. Fronto had wondered with idle depression whether he’d seen the last of his brave cavalry-officer friend.
The only bright spark had been the surprise addition to the fleet of Galronus and a single turma of thirty Gallic riders, their horses crammed in with the men and spread across the fleet. Caesar had apparently given the Remi officer permission to accompany the legions on the basis that he and his men shared a common heritage with the island’s inhabitants — a bond that could prove useful.