‘They’re clean. That’s pretty damned odd for a start!’
‘No, sir. No insignia, sir. Can’t be a legion without insignia.’
Fronto frowned, but the singulares soldier was quite right. As he watched century after century of men go past there was not a hint of a standard or vexillum flag among them. ‘No standards? Then who are they?’
‘Dunno, sir,’ Aurelius replied. ‘But they had no eagle in the van either.’
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘Masgava? Run along to the barracks and have the men fall in, well turned-out and so fast they leave blurred lines in the air.’
Without questioning, the big Numidian ran off around the corner for the bunkhouse the singulares shared, Aurelius at his heel.
‘Why?’ Palmatus asked.
‘Caesar.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Who else would be marching through Massilia in the direction of Gaul with a legion so new they don’t even have a name or number?’ He glanced at Palmatus. The man was not armed or armoured, but he wore a neat, clean tunic and his military belt, and was already slipping on his nailed boots that had been waiting outside the door. He was neat enough to pass muster, especially since he had still not taken the army’s oath, serving in a non-standard unit outside the ranks of the legions.
Sure enough, as Fronto listened, he could hear the drumming of hooves as a small party of horsemen came trotting along the line of men, the gold-on-crimson Taurus flag of Caesar wavering in the cold wind above them.
‘Looks like we’ll be heading north early this year,’ Fronto hissed.
‘You knew he’d come quickly,’ Priscus replied, stepping out of the villa and lacing his boots hurriedly.
‘Shit. Galronus is still down in Campania. We’re going to have to go without him!’
Priscus gave him a sly grin. ‘I’ve met your sister, Fronto. Galronus has got plenty of his own battles in store without having to return to Gaul.’
The three men stood before the villa’s door as the small party of cavalry reached the gate and slowed, three riders dropping from their saddles, stretching in the manner of men who had been ahorse too long for comfort. Caesar looked bright and well, and his face, while it held no smile, did not appear perturbed as Fronto had expected. Aulus Ingenuus — the general’s praetorian commander — walked alongside easily, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his gladius. The man at the other side brought a smile to Fronto’s face. He had not seen Brutus for some time, and the young officer’s presence brightened any occasion.
‘General,’ Fronto bowed his head, a gesture echoed by the men at his sides.
Caesar nodded in return as Ingenuus’ ever-watchful eyes inspected every corner of the building and Brutus smiled warmly. ‘Marcus. Gnaeus.’ His eyes picked out Palmatus and he simply nodded, unable to recall the man’s name. ‘Apologies for the unannounced visit, but we travelled as fast as any message might have done.’
‘And with a new legion?’
The general chuckled. ‘The bones and tendons of a legion, but without the muscle and skin as yet. They are far from ready, but are fully equipped and have had the introduction of basic training. They move and look like a legion, and they are still enthusiastic.’
Priscus shrugged. ‘They can be trained when we reach Agedincum and they combine with the rest of the legions. I presume we are to pack, general?’
Caesar smiled wearily. ‘Yes, but not this day. The recruits will encamp upon the heath above you for the night. We must away before the day wears on tomorrow, but I think everyone needs one night’s rest and it would be remiss of me to pass through without paying my respects to your charming wife and her father. And meeting your boys, of course. I bring gifts for them both.’
Fronto frowned. ‘How did you know…?’
‘I hear everything, Marcus. You know that.’ He looked past Fronto at Priscus, standing in the doorway. ‘I have decided to forego the peril of marching up the Rhodanus and into inevitable Gaulish traps, Prefect. We are bound instead for Narbo and the mountain passes into Arverni lands. I gather from your missive that you took that route in your escape, so perhaps you can tell me a little of what we face?’
As the general swept past them into the villa, uninvited and falling in side by side with Priscus, Fronto watched them, shaking his head. Every time Caesar appeared upon the scene, the play ran off-course from its text and all bets were off. He sighed.
‘Have you missed us, Fronto?’ Brutus chuckled.
Chapter 3
Valley 60 miles northwest of Narbo. Roman territory.
Lucterius glanced back over his shoulder. His small band of a dozen warriors were barely discernible, scrambling through the brush and trying not to make noise despite the frosty brittleness of the world, which waited impatiently for spring to return, bringing life and warmth. The army itself was not visible from here, safely secured around the spur of land up the valley. They had widely skirted the great metropolis the Romans called Tolosa days ago, taking care not to alert any Roman authorities to their presence.
It had been an interminable journey, and he knew that the army and the nobles who commanded it were restless, wishing nothing more than to be at the gates of Narbo putting Roman patricians to the sword. And even Lucterius, who was careful and knew the need for such a circuitous route, was grateful for a small chance at action.
The army had zigged and zagged like the trail of a snake through the lands of tribes who had as much cause to support the Romans as his own rebels, carefully seeking out those who could be trusted, turning peoples to their cause and increasing the size of his army. For the past three days they had edged southeast along the fringe of Roman territory, staying out of sight of the larger population centres, just in case.
And now, perhaps an hour ago, they had passed that invisible, yet oh-so-crucial line that the Romans had drawn across the world to say ‘this is ours’ and located the first of the Roman watch posts. The helpful Ruteni had described the Roman border well. A series of watchtowers within sight of each other, each built on a high place along ridges or river banks as nature dictated.
For three days, Lucterius had put off the move, despite the complaints of his nobles; for he knew that crossing the border with any sizeable force would set off the signal fires that would warn the entire province of danger. And then, this morning, blessed Sucellos had sent up a chill mist from the low peaks of the region, rising like perspiration from the sodden trees that covered the uplands. And Lucterius had known that the time had come. The army could approach the Roman border unnoticed and a small force could take out a signal station without being spotted by its neighbours. And if it all took place quickly enough, the army could be among the mountain passes and in the province unseen before anything happened.
Which would be several days yet. The Ruteni had confirmed that the Roman guards spent a week at the watchtower before they returned to their garrison, rotated with other soldiers. By the time the destruction of the signal tower was discovered, the army of Lucterius of the Cadurci would be in the streets of Narbo and the warning would be fruitless.
A dozen men. That was all he had taken. Given that the Ruteni said the garrison of one of these signal stations was an eight-man unit it should be plenty to silence the place without too much trouble, especially with surprise on their side, and he had chosen to deal with the place himself partially to display his willingness to be part of the army as well as its commander, but mostly to relieve the tension and ennui that had come with the waiting.
Focusing his attention on the task at hand, Lucterius paused as he reached the high, lichen-pasted wall of a chambered tomb, still undisturbed and with shrubbery growing up the front. Peering around the edge as he waved his men to stop, he examined his target.