“I know,” the scruffy legate agreed, swigging wine. ”Don’t repeat any of this, for your own sake. Not even to your closest.”
Another swig.
“I don’t think he’s stopped there, though. If Caesar was sending out these scouts and spies as a reaction to news of the Belgae, Labienus would have been the first man to know about it. But no… Caesar sends a message to him and he starts sending out men who are dressed to look as un-Roman as possible?”
Crispus slapped his head.
“He’s doing it again?”
“Yes.”
“He’s actually fomented discord and rebellion among the Belgae just to provide us with an excuse to put down more of Gaul?”
Balbus glared at his young companion. Balventius stood and crossed the room, opening the door and peering outside.
“It’s alright. Nobody’s listening.”
Balbus sighed.
“A little care, Crispus!”
“He’s correct, though,” the young man replied quietly. “Caesar has pushed the Belgae until they snapped. Now he’s preparing to take them to task. And, of course, the Belgae are the fiercest of all the tribes, or so they say. If Caesar can defeat the Belgae, all of Gaul should fall and cower before him. It’s a bold move!”
“It’s a stupid move!”
The other three turned to Fronto in surprise. The tired legate took a last swig and grounded his goblet.
“He’s riled the Belgae so he can fight them and beat them and show all of Gaul who’s the master. But he’s done it too well. The Belgae have decided it’s time to piss on Rome. But they’re not stupid. They know how big Rome is; how powerful. So they, in turn, foment discord among the Gaulish tribes and the next thing we know is that the Council of Chiefs has been called without any of our allies. So half of Gaul looks like their siding with the Belgae. And they’ve even thrown out hooks into Germania. There’s nothing so sure as most of the German tribes would love nothing more after last summer than to kick six shades of shit out of us!”
Balventius whistled through his teeth.
“Looks like we’re wading in it shortly, then?”
Balbus sighed.
“Then I hope Caesar’s the tactician everyone thinks he is. We’ve got to have something up our sleeve, or we’re facing odds of at least ten to one!”
He leaned forward and gestured at Fronto.
“Pass me that wine…”
* * * * *
The four men emerged, blinking, into the light. Fronto had meant to ask why Balbus had drapes over the windows but, in the end, they had proved useful both for maintaining privacy and for preventing sunlight from worsening his headache. The thumping came back like the weaponsmiths of the Tenth at work.
The other three strolled ahead, chatting, while Fronto plodded along unhappily at the back. They were still set on going to see Labienus, despite the fact that Fronto was sure they would learn nothing new of value. He was filled now with a cold conviction that Caesar had put his men in the worst possible danger for his own vainglorious expedition and, regardless of Balbus’ fervent hopes that the general had a surprise up his sleeve, Fronto also knew with leaden certainty that it would be left to men like himself to make the general’s grand plans work out.
He spat on the ground with irritation and looked up once more.
As they strolled down the hill toward the river and the bridge that linked the military garrison with the Gaulish city of Vesontio, he noticed the guards at the riverbank pointing and gesturing excitedly to each other. Squinting, for they were still some distance away yet, he tried to focus on the small figures and tracked back from them in the direction they were pointing.
A vast array of armoured legionaries was stomping up the valley in the direction of the bridge and the camps. He stopped for a moment, drawing a tense breath while his companions, unaware, continued on down the path.
No amount of squinting would allow him to focus enough to identify the flags they bore, but his initial fears were easily brushed aside: these couldn’t be the retreating survivors of the first wave of Gaulish counter-invasions. The army in front of him was fresh and tidy. Perhaps Labienus had called the outer legions back to Vesontio before the general arrived.
“Yes… that’ll be it” he muttered to himself and then hurried along to catch up with his companions.
As the four officers reached the gate of the camp, the duty guards snapped to attention with great professionalism. As always, Fronto studied them carefully. He found the Eighth a great yardstick for measuring the performance of his own legion; the two were the closest among the army in both age and command style.
The spring bees hummed around the grass and scrub outside the gate as the men trod heavily on the dirt track that had formed from months of soldiers tracking to and fro between the camp and city across the river. From here the path ran down a gentle grassy slope to the bridge, where it converged with similar tracks that had been worn from the camps of the Eleventh and Tenth Legions. At the meeting point by the bridge two posts had been erected; one bore direction signs to the city and the three camps, presumably erected so that merchants and teamsters knew where to sell and to deliver; the other post held a banner with the eagle of Rome.
“”What is Labienus thinking?” snapped Fronto as he pointed down at the flag.
“Hmm?” Balbus looked closely and frowned.
“I suppose it’s just there to denote the presence of the legions and the headquarters in the citadel in town?”
Fronto grumbled.
“Labienus is bright enough to know that you don’t plant the flag of Rome in territory we don’t own. It basically tells anyone who sees it that we either think we do own it or that we intend to own it shortly.”
Crispus shrugged.
“And yet it remains. I cannot help but wonder why the indigenous people have not requested it be taken down. I’m sure that if they had, Labienus would have done so.”
Fronto growled again.
“Stupid. Arrogant and stupid.”
Balventius rolled his eye around and laughed.
“I think you’re crediting them with a little too much intelligence there, Fronto. Six legions bring a lot of money into an area. Even the lowest vagrant in Vesontio is dining out and wearing silk now. After this winter it’s probably the richest city in Gaul. Most of them would let you plant a flag in their back if you jingled your purse!”
“Well…” Fronto pointed up the valley, “it looks like their customer base is about to increase again. Can’t see which legion that is, but they’re coming from roughly south west. Which legion’s camped out west?”
Balventius frowned.
“That would be Crassus’ Seventh. Why the hell are they coming in?”
“That’s not the Seventh.” Crispus shaded his eyes and squinted. “In fact, I have no idea who they are.”
He became aware that Fronto was looking at him expectantly, but with a hint of irritation.
“Well I cannot see the legion number on the flags, but all of Caesar’s legions bear the Taurus emblem. Those flags seem to have horses.”
Fronto boggled at him.
“You can’t see how many ‘I’s are on the flag, but at that distance you can distinguish between quadrupeds?”
“It’s a simple matter of shape, Fronto. In fact, those symbols look a lot more like Gaulish ones than Roman.”
“Let’s get to the bottom of this!”
Without waiting for the other three, Fronto started striding purposefully out from the path in the direction of the approaching legionaries. After a minute, he became aware that the others had caught up, Crispus coming alongside in a vaguely undignified scurry, Balbus lagging a little, and Balventius striding calmly along.
The insignia became gradually clearer as the four approached and, once he finally picked out the detail, Fronto came to a sudden halt, as did his companions.