S. Turney: Caesar's Vow

Soon, that respite would vanish. A couple of months of wintering with the troops had brought its own hardships, but at least there had been a certain level of inactivity. No one campaigned in the winter. But the weather was perceptibly changing, and in a matter of weeks the first hints of spring would show, which meant that ships would start to sail and Antonius would arrive in Gaul with a new herd of eager officers. Then the business of command would become fraught once more.

His eyes fell upon the thing to which he must now tend — the reason he had dismissed the slave and sought privacy.

The altar.

Most of the officers had brought small altars on campaign with them, replete with portable divine figures cast in bronze or sculpted from wood or ivory. The Olympian Gods graced shrines in every officer’s tent, and even the common soldiery would carry miniature figures of their chosen deities with them to pray before.

The general’s, of course, was something a little grander. A full-size altar of carved marble shipped with his personal gear from Rome, decorated with scenes of the Goddess granting favours — and dallying with Mars of course — painted in bright colours with the care and skill of a true artist. Atop the altar — a flat surface surrounded by delicate scroll-work — stood the statue of the Goddess herself. Unusually for her divine portrayals, this particular Venus was clothed for modesty, though her shapeliness showed through the diaphanous gown, and her languid pose suggested less than modest pursuits.

The various offerings he had found cause to place upon the altar top around the lady’s figure remained in situ. The slight bowl-shaped depression between her toes was stained a deep dark red from old dried wine libations. Small piles of ash abounded — all that remained of silver frankincense, brought from Arabia via Rome at the cost of a legionary’s yearly pay for each shipment. Tiny bronze, orichalcum, silver and gold charms commissioned from Gallic smiths for the honour of the Goddess were scattered here and there. All in favour of Venus Genetrix, the mother of the Julian family line and patron divinity of the general.

This shrine, with its altar, statue and offerings, represented an outlay of money that would make even Crassus wince. And while Caesar only had passing time for Gods as a whole, preferring to trust his own abilities and knowledge, he was careful to keep the family Goddess appeased and on his side.

Yet, despite this, his grand plan seemed to be foundering.

When he had initially secured his command and the Proconsulship — hurriedly, after the end of his Consular term — he had imagined that by now he would be back in Rome, reaping the rewards of his campaign and securing a previously undreamed of level of power for his descendants.

And now here he was in his sixth year of Gaul, on his second extended term of governorship, still struggling to keep the tribes under control, his mother perished in a conflagration, his daughter passed away without issue and taking with her all hopes of peace and reconciliation with Pompey, the senate beginning to speak against him and even his beloved mob of plebs questioning his ability to control Gaul.

It was vexing, to say the least.

With a deep sigh, the general collected his folding campaign chair from the small desk in the corner and placed it before the altar, opening it out. Supplicants may generally kneel or bow or prostrate themselves, but few supplicants could claim to be one of the leading figures in the greatest nation the world had ever known. Besides, he was no longer a young man, and a seated position was sensible for the sake of his joints.

‘Beloved Venus, mother and queen, I entreat you…’

He paused. Was it an entreaty? Or simply a vow?

A shrug. It was, of course, both… a deal of sorts.

‘ My line is your line, Divine Venus Genetrix. My family is your family. My mother is your daughter . Yet our house ails and falters. Julia is gone, and with her any hope of a grandchild. Young Brutus could provide me with one, but to make that progeny claim public would tear down much of what I have built and bring shame upon his mother. Barring perhaps Antonius — who has his own demons with whom to wrestle — none of my collection of greedy, self-obsessed and degenerate cousins or nephews would be worth the time and effort of grooming.’

He closed his eyes and rubbed the corners of them wearily.

‘Except possibly Atia Caesonia’s boy. The lad shows promise, even at only nine summers. Given what he seems to know of the world and its workings, he has the makings of a strong politician, and feasibly a commander of men. But he is still several years from taking the toga virilis, and I would see him grow into manhood and display some sort of sign that he is ready before I entrust the future of all that I strive for to him.’

He sighed and opened his eyes, flexing his fingers.

‘And that, great Venus, is the crux of the matter. My family — your family — is in flux, and has no clear future. What is the point of my dragging our familia from poverty and obscurity to become the most prominent in the Republic if it all crumbles and falls to dust when I pass on to Elysium because there is no one suitable to follow? I would entreat you to watch over the Julii and to strengthen us, to clear out the chaff that fills the granary of your seed and leave us only the strong grain that forms the pure, healthy bread. If Octavian is to be the future — and my gut tells me he could be that one — give me a sign. If Antonius might be worthy — despite the distance in our lineage — let him leave behind the debauchery that has plagued him since his youth and stand tall on the shoulders of the devils that now ride him. And if Brutus…?’

He straightened.

‘Great Venus, I have vowed to the senate and to the Roman people that I will bring to heel the rebel leader Ambiorix, who roused the tribes against us, killed Cotta and Sabinus and all-but obliterated the Fourteenth legion, and who even now remains at large. I have vowed his end to them, and now I vow it to you. In the name of vengeance and good Roman piety I will hunt down and destroy this snake that would ruin all that I have achieved, and with his demise, the senate and the people of Rome will throw their support behind me and our line will rise to heights undreamed of.’

He reached out to the small table beside the altar and collected a pinch of the frankincense, depositing a small pile of it on the stone beside the Goddess’ heel. Grasping the taper that smoked on the stand, where the slave kept it permanently smouldering, he placed it among the powder and resin until tendrils of blue-grey smoke began to rise, filling the tent rapidly with the heady exotic scent.

‘Give me an heir, Divine Venus, mother of the Julii, and in return, I will give you Gaul .’

With a long intake of breath he sat back and watched the smoke writhing about the statue. Collecting his small tablet and stylus from the stand, he quickly scrawled the promise — not an altar or a temple, but a whole province — to the Goddess, sealed the tablet and tied it in the age-old manner to her knee. He would start with a temple — perhaps at Vienna? Or Aquae Sextiae or Arelate perhaps. Somewhere civilised to begin with. Satisfied, he turned back towards the doorway that led into the headquarters.

‘Ten legions, you Belgic rat. Ten. With the auxilia, that’s almost a hundred thousand men. How long can you hide, Ambiorix of the Eburones? How fast can you run?’

The fast moving liburna leapt like a dolphin as it crested a particularly impressive wave. Fronto stood clinging to the rail with whitened fingers, grateful to the swells of the previous day that had ruined his appetite and left him with nothing inside to bring up. Instead, he retched empty breath out across the sea, his stomach flipping this way and that as the vessel once more descended into the trough and shuddered with the force of Neptune’s wrath.