“I have no intention of launching any sort of battle here and now. The ground is not favourable, the enemy are far too prepared, and we are in the territory of our allies. I have no intention of turning our recently acquired Aedui auxiliaries against us by destroying their lands in battle. We will follow and harry them, making sure they cause no damage to the other tribes, until we can deal with them more surely.”
He turned to Fronto.
“I want you to find Longinus and Balbus. Send Balbus to me. He and the Eighth will lead the vanguard of the army with the colour unit. Also, I want you to deliver these orders to Longinus: I want him and his cavalry forever on the tail of the barbarians to keep them moving and busy. We need to herd them along at this time until they’re out of our allies’ lands or at least in an acceptable place for battle.”
Fronto bowed as far as his saddle allowed and wheeled his horse to carry out the orders. As he rode back down the slope, he spied Balbus riding up toward the group of officers. As the two approached each other, Balbus reined in and leaned in the saddle to address Fronto.
“What the hell’s he up to. It sounds like the Helvetii are leaving.”
Fronto shrugged.
“That’s exactly what they’re doing. I’ve no idea what he’s playing at, but we’re apparently going to be following them. He tossed out some feeble explanations, but he must have some good reason not to grind them into the dirt now. He actually offered to help them settle, but I’d say it was an empty offer. He made demands they were never going to accept. Anyway, the general wants to see you and I’ve got errands to run. See you at camp tonight?”
Balbus nodded and continued his way up the slope.
Fronto rode off in the opposite direction, making for the Ninth Legion and the massive cavalry contingent out to one side. Scanning the front ranks of the steaming horsemen, he finally spotted their commander in deep conversation with an auxiliary horseman in Gaulish dress.
“Longinus!”
He made his way across the front of the army, aware that a shouted name was unlikely to be heard over the cumulative noise of six legions and several thousand horse. Longinus smiled as he saw Fronto approaching.
“Fronto, have you met Dumnorix, the head of our auxiliaries?”
Fronto nodded a brief greeting at the Gaul and then turned back to the legate.
“Longinus, I need to have a word with you briefly.”
The tired looking officer glanced briefly at the Gaulish officer and rode forward to join Fronto away from the throng.
”What’s up?”
Fronto tried to think how best to phrase this. Caesar had given him the most perfunctory of orders, and had assumed that he would fill in the necessary blanks. The general had been doing this a lot recently, trying, Fronto supposed, to train him into thinking like a senior staff officer and into taking command decisions at a strategic level.
“You’re going to be moving out ahead of the column again. Not as a scout this time, but with your entire cavalry. The army’s going to stay on the back of the Helvetii throughout their ‘march’ at a distance of a few miles. You get the fun, though. You get to stay less than a mile behind, always in sight and keep an eye on them. Stay just far enough back so as to not get entangled with them, but to still be a constant nag and reminder to the bastards. I’ve no idea why Caesar’s delaying this fight, but we’re not going to be the ones to cock up his plans, eh?”
Longinus nodded and, turning, trotted back toward his cavalry.
* * * * *
Fronto and Balbus walked along the Via Decumana of the temporary camp. For three days now the army had been shadowing the Helvetii, marching at a peculiar three quarter pace so as to stay far enough back from the stragglers of the tribe. Longinus had been having immense trouble manoeuvring his cavalry without either running into the Helvetii or getting in the way of the Roman vanguard. Every night after an exhausting day of what Velius had named ‘midget marching’, the legions had to build a series of fortified temporary camps and set picket lines, scouts and guards.
Whispered complaints had become the norm among the soldiers. Constant campaigning was one thing; being ever watchful and ready though not allowed to actually engage the enemy in battle was another. Also, the quartermasters were beginning to be quite vocal concerning the diminishing corn stores and the increasing distance from the supply line at the Saone. Fronto could quite understand their mood even if he couldn’t condone it. Every day since the meeting of the armies, Fronto had tried to persuade Caesar to bring the barbarians to battle, and always he refused.
Ahead, the command tents of the Tenth stood at the centre of the camp. Fronto had quarters with the staff officers in the camp of the Eighth, but had made sure Priscus had put up his tent with the Tenth as well, and he had spent as much time as possible among his own legion. Priscus had, after the first night, actually followed Fronto’s orders and had a tent erected for himself at the command centre next to the legate’s.
Tonight, Balbus had suggested that they meet at his tent among the Eighth, but Fronto had declined due to the proximity to the general. If they were near the staff officers, Fronto would get given jobs. And so they had made their way across the picket lines, giving the appropriate passwords, and into the camp of the Tenth.
Fronto smiled at the other legate.
“Shall I ask Priscus to join us?”
Balbus smiled.
“Why not? The more you get dragged into high-level strategy, the more he’s having to act as a legate anyway.”
The two officers stepped toward the second command tent and then stopped as Fronto caught his arm.
Sounds of laughter issued from the primus pilus’ tent. As they listened further there was the ‘clonk’ of an amphora tipping against the side of a metal drinking vessel, followed by the gurgle of liquid refreshment. More laughter and the sound of rolling dice.
Fronto grinned at Balbus.
“Looks like the drinks are on him.”
As Fronto made to enter the tent, Balbus held up his hand and stopped him.
“Let’s have some fun.”
As Fronto stepped back, Balbus drew himself up to his full height next to the tent flap and took a deep breath.
“Centurion Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus, this is the camp prefect and the provost. May we come in?”
A clatter within suggested that Balbus’ announcement had had the desired effect. A table was heard overturned and there was the slosh of a spilt drink. At least five voices swore in hushed tones. Balbus and Fronto grinned at each other and then hauled the flap of the tent back. Fronto was first inside.
As Balbus ducked in behind him, he laughed out loud. In much the same way as rats flee into dark corners when suddenly illuminated, eight men were caught mid-flight. A small gaming circle with dice and piles of denarii sat in the centre, surrounded by cushions. Of three tables that had supported oil lamps, drinking vessels and wine jugs, only one remained upright. Two men were already halfway under the leather at the back of the tent. Priscus and Velius stood at attention in the wreckage of a table. The four other men were caught like rabbits in bright light in the act of rescuing fallen wine jugs and putting out the fire on a cushion caused by a falling oil lamp.
“Precious!”
Fronto collapsed onto a small pile of cushions next to the door. Balbus stood in the doorway directing a broad, beaming smile at Priscus.
The primus pilus stayed at attention, as did Velius. The other four officers stood, surreptitiously stamping out the singed cushions with one foot.
“Sir?”
Fronto waved an arm expansively.
“Oh for crying out loud, at ease. Sit down and pass me some of that wine; we’re off duty and looking for somewhere to relax. What stakes are we playing for, lads?”
Velius gratefully sank once more to a cushion, as did a number of other men. Two centurions Fronto recognised from the Second Cohort scrambled back under the wall and into the tent, smiling nervously. Priscus continued to stand, trembling slightly and with a purple hue to his face.