S. Turney - The Great Revolt

Fronto clenched his teeth. Hardly what he’d been pushing for.

Caesar seemed to note the resentment emanating from his legate and cast a quick sharp glance at Fronto before addressing the enemy again. ‘This is the clemency of Caesar. I had privately vowed that none who fought from that oppidum would live as a free man for their part in the rebellion, so consider this a boon. I will not allow my men to return home empty-handed after all their blood and sacrifice, and so your people will supply the captives required. However, above and beyond that number, the rest of the population atop the hill are free to return to their villages and to till their fields and raise their children safe in the knowledge that Rome will protect them from any further danger.’

He paused. ‘Am I understood?’

Fronto cleared his throat, but Cavarinos flashed him a look and answered quickly. ‘Your terms are acceptable, Caesar. We shall return at noon.’

Antonius leaned close to Caesar again and another brief confab occurred, following which the general cleared his throat again. ‘Furthermore, my terms are to be applied to all tribes barring the Aedui and the Arverni, who will not supply further captives.’

Cavarinos and Fronto both looked across at the general with uncomprehending frowns and Caesar smiled.

‘The Aedui have been tricked into a betrayal that was not in their nature, and they shall not suffer as do the other tribes who willingly placed their trust in the rebel king. The Aedui were long friends of Rome and I hope they will be able to step into that role once more. And the Arverni, we feel, have been unjustly led into a rebellion that would have appalled previous generations, for a handful of years ago that tribe executed one of their own for attempting just such despotism. That they followed Vercingetorix to this war suggests to us that the rebel king and his druid accomplices were duplicitous and conniving and betrayed their own people far more than any such betrayal to us.’

Fronto stared. The Arverni ? But they had been at the very heart of the rebellion from the beginning…

‘Go now, with my terms, and return at noon as I commanded if you find them acceptable, which I strongly recommend.’

Fronto was still boggling as Cavarinos nodded and turned with his companions, riding back towards the oppidum across the valley. As soon as they were out of missile range, the general and his officers departed from the wall, each heading to their own tasks, many following Caesar back to the command tent. Antonius slowed to fall in at the rear, producing his flask from his belt. With the frown still riveted to his face, Fronto dropped in beside him.

‘What was that with the Arverni?’

‘Hmm?’

Fronto glared. ‘Don’t be coy with me. That wasn’t Caesar. That was your doing. The Aedui I can understand, but the Arverni? And don’t feed me this rubbish about them being led against their will. I saw the fight in them yesterday. So why?’

Antonius gave him a sly, sidelong smile.

‘Politics, Fronto. You’re a soldier, not a politician.’

‘What?’

‘The Arverni were at the heart of the rebellion. The Aedui were the linch-pin that turned a rebel army into a national force.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And we do not, under any circumstances, want this to happen again.’

Fronto was starting to get annoyed. ‘So?’

‘So how readily do you think any tribe who has supplied us with slaves is going to follow one who didn’t — an official friend of Rome — into a second war against us.’

Fronto stared. ‘That’s twisted!’

‘That’s politics, Fronto. That’s why you’re a career soldier and you never climbed the cursus.’

Fronto stopped, watching Antonius disappear with the other officers, swigging wine as he went. Devious. Strange, complex, cunning and devious. Did Lucilia really think he could be anything more complex than a soldier? His gaze moved to the columns of smoke rising from the funeral pyres that covered the plains like a rash. Perhaps she was right. And as long as men like Antonius were drinking wine, importing the stuff from Campania might be a nice change from a thousand scattered bodies.

Lucilia. Suddenly he found he was more desperate to be home than he could ever remember being.

Fronto stood close to the gate. He was expected to be with the officers up in the praetorium, of course, but he simply did not have the patience, the heart or the stomach to watch what was about to happen: the subjugation and humiliation of a king. Being present at this great occasion and being seen to be so close to Caesar, supporting him, would be a career move that would confirm a few glittering futures today. Caesar would notice Fronto wasn’t there. He would be irritated by it, despite everything else happening.

But this morning, only an hour before this historic event, Fronto had visited the general and officially resigned his commission as legate of the Tenth legion. He had unknotted the red ribbon around his cuirass and handed it over. As of now, he was not an officer in Caesar’s army, and no man could order him to stand there and watch the end of Gaul, for that was exactly what was happening.

The musicians were blowing their instruments with glorious fanfares so long and so loud that he half expected a lung to pop out of the end of a cornu, and the whole thing was beginning to give him a headache. Caesar sat back up the hill on his campaign chair which had been draped with exotic animal pelts to look a little more throne-like. The officers were gathered around him, along with the eagles and standards of ten legions. The hillside was forested with captured Gallic standards as a monument to the rebels’ failure. And every officer of the legions, from tessarius, optio and centurion up to the tribunes, stood lining the Via Principalis from the north gate to the gathering at the headquarters, all in dress uniform, gleaming and proud to watch the humiliation of Vercingetorix.

Fronto watched the beaten tribesmen passing beneath the gate’s arch, their weapons discarded, their expressions disconsolate and lost. The foremost forty or so were supposedly the chieftains and leaders of the tribes, but Fronto had watched as they passed, and he was almost certain that they were nothing more than farmers and sailors bearing the torcs and arm-rings of their masters. Were the real leaders dead? Hiding and awaiting a chance to flee? He didn’t really care.

And then there he was.

Cavarinos walked past with the rest, wearing the arm-ring of his Arvernian heritage.

Fronto stepped out and addressed the centurion at the street’s edge.

‘I’ll take that one.’

The centurion — from the Thirteenth, apparently — gave Fronto a disparaging look. ‘Slaves will be assigned at a later date. Besides, he’s Arverni, so he’s immune.’

Fronto gave a low menacing growl as he watched Cavarinos moving away up the street.

‘I need to speak to that man, now get out of my way.’ Shoving the centurion aside, he grabbed Cavarinos’ arm, dragging him out of the parade of misery and into the shadows near the gate. The centurion opened his mouth to argue, even though the offender was wearing the tunic of an officer, but half a dozen singulares veterans suddenly closed up around the man protectively and, shrugging off the incident, the centurion turned back to the road.

A moment later, Vercingetorix went past, chin high and proud, unarmed and unarmoured, yet attired as a king. He was going to meet Caesar as a defeated equal and not a subjugated enemy.

Good luck with that.

‘I will be missed.’

‘No you won’t,’ Fronto muttered.

‘There is no need to save me, Fronto. Remember, the Arverni are not to be punished.’