He glanced back to see his force pouring through the valley behind him, skirting the low mound of some Ruteni town or other, where the men cheered this show of strength in the face of Roman rule, and the women leaned over the walls and, despite the bone-freezing chill, bared their breasts at the passing warriors, who laughed and called back in delight.
He could only imagine the different scene if they had come the direct route across the mountain passes. Instead of the inviting pink breasts of the local women, his men would be digging a path through packed snow and spending half the time burying their own dead and snapping off hardened blue-black toes.
No. He had suggested this route to Vercingetorix, and the Arverni king had been wholeheartedly in agreement. In less than a week they would be in Narbonensis and bringing fear, fire and the sword to all who held to Roman rule.
His own tribe were not so far north of here, to the south of the Arverni, and it had been Lucterius who had given the king the initial estimates of the garrison and approximations of the general strength of Narbonensis. But recent conversations with the few Volcae who still lived outside the borders of the republic and with the free Ruteni had supported his estimates.
The standing garrison of Narbo would number no more than a thousand. There were other Roman units scattered about the province, particularly to the west, furthest from Rome, but between them all not more than a thousand. That meant a rough figure of two thousand in the whole province. A quarter of the number that Lucterius brought south. And they were not battle-hardened veteran legionaries like Caesar’s troops, but slovenly, fat and untried garrison troops who had faced no threat in living memory.
Moreover, there was almost no chance of the entire force being brought together with less than a week’s notice, scattered as they were across the breadth of the province. And there was no more threat from the Roman forces down in the Iberian lands than there was from those in Caesar’s province on the far side of the Alpes.
Narbonensis was in his sight and would fall swiftly. He had already planned the next move, once they had thundered south and taken Narbo. All ships impounded, and the cavalry would split into smaller groups, racing east and west to secure all the main routes from the province while the rest would occupy Narbo and move on in groups to the other cities and ports, securing them as they went. Word of the province’s fall would have to be kept from Caesar’s ears for as long as possible. Then, and only then, would Vercingetorix be free to wipe out their presence in the north.
And the once-subjugated tribes would help bolster the rebel forces when they realised that they were free and the continuation of that freedom depended upon their willingness to fight for it. Narbonensis’ Roman garrison may be weak, but its defence by the native tribes would be a much different matter. Rome had been expanding for generations. This spring would signal the start of its reversal.
Briefly, he wondered whether the Greek council of Massilia could be persuaded from their alliance with Rome and into a collective allegiance with the tribes. All things were possible if you were bargaining from a strong enough position. Narbo first. Then the coast and the borders, and then the great population centres: Tolosa, Arelate and Massilia.
He smiled. The province was almost within his grasp now.
* * * * *
Fronto shifted his arm slightly to distribute the weight more comfortably and reached round, patting young Lucius on the back and then running his hand round in small circling motions.
‘This is not really seemly for a soldier,’ he said, almost under his breath.
Lucilia gave him an arch look and he lowered his eyes under that flinty gaze. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘You’re doing well. Lucius is almost settled. Soon he will be fast asleep. At least I gave you him and not his brother. I wonder if Marcus is so stubborn and difficult because I gave him your name?’
Fronto sighed and continued to circle his hand.
‘I’m hungry.’
His wife opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of slapping feet across marble drew their attention to the doorway that led into the Atrium. Slapping bare feet meant one of Fronto’s singulares bodyguards. Everyone else in the villa complex had soft leather shoes for household time, but the soldiers under Fronto’s command had refused the soft boots in favour of their nail-soled military wear, so in response Lucilia had denied them access to the house with those boots on.
Sure enough, Palmatus appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat on his approach to warn them, as if that were necessary. Fronto smiled as he looked down. Palmatus’ feet, hardened like old oak by decades of marching, rested carefully on the mosaic of branches and grapes. The former legionary had never exhibited strong signs of a superstitious nature, yet Fronto had seen him perform an odd skip in his step so as not to tread on the face of a god as he passed through a room. In fact, Fronto was thinking of having the room’s floor re-laid to make it more challenging and humorous for the commander of his guard.
‘Fronto?’
Palmatus winced as the new parents in the room beyond motioned for him to lower his voice, gesturing to the almost-sleeping twins.
‘Bad night,’ Fronto whispered.
‘I know. We heard. Not so much the boys shouting, but more your own complaining as you kept wandering round the villa trying to get them back to sleep.’
‘Serves you right for setting guards. I told you you didn’t need them here.’
‘What’s the use of a bodyguard that don’t actually guard you?’ Palmatus shook his head as if to wrench himself from the conversation. ‘Stop distracting me,’ he said, and realised his voice had risen again, so dropped it low. ‘You need to come out front and see this.’
Fronto frowned and glanced at Lucilia, who was gently lowering young Marcus into the blankets. She reached out to take Lucius from him. With Fronto she would argue the point, but she knew Palmatus well enough to know that such interruptions were never trivial. Fronto passed his son over to her.
‘What is it?’ he hissed as the pair left and crossed the atrium, Palmatus performing his usual dance routine to avoid the faces.
‘As I said: you need to see it.’
The two men strode through the atrium, nodding their respect to the altar of the lares and penates and to the small shrine of Janus who blessed their comings and goings. Despite the chill in the air, the villa’s main door remained open, as Lucilia vaunted the daily airing of the whole place, pronouncing it good for the health of the children, even though it made Fronto’s knee ache unbearably and made his sleep pattern patchy at best.
The villa’s owner stopped on the doorstep, his eyes rising across the courtyard and the two neat lawns enclosed by the waist-high perimeter wall. The open grassland beyond was being systematically churned to mud by the passage of nailed boots. ‘What in the name of Fortuna?’
‘More Mars, I’d say,’ Palmatus added. The pair watched as neatly turned-out legionaries stomped past the gate in the uncomfortable rhythm of the quick march. Whoever they were and wherever they were going, they seemed to be in a hurry.
‘The council of Massilia aren’t going to like this. They disapprove of whole legions entering their boundaries without prior consent. They get touchy when a there’s more than a dozen of us together, all armoured.’
Palmatus nodded, remembering the arguments they had had with the officials of the city in getting permission for Fronto’s singulares to enter the city with him armed and in force. Masgava and Aurelius traipsed over to join them from the building’s corner. ‘Notice something unusual about them yet, sir?’ Aurelius nudged.