S. Turney - The Belgae

“Next year?”

“Of course,” Caesar smiled. “The lands of the Gauls and the Belgae are ours, but there’s bound to be trouble with the Germans; or the Britons, or even the Aquitanii. We’ve stamped our presence here, but we’re far from done.”

Fronto nodded.

“Then the legions will be wintering in Gaul?”

Caesar turned to the great map of the northern lands on the wall of the tent behind him.

“Given the flighty nature of tribal politics and the newness of accords between us, I intend to keep the army close to the areas of activity this year. Labienus has concluded some solid treaties. I, myself, would have given less on our side of the treaty and taken more from theirs, but the result is not unsatisfactory. As part of his work, he intends to leave a caretaker garrison of one cohort at Nemetocenna.”

His hand strayed west across the map.

“Crassus claims to have pacified the northwest. Hopefully he has been thorough and things are settled, but there is always the possibility of reprisal attacks and uprisings, and I don’t like not leaving Crassus entirely unmanaged. So, most of the army will be picking up the stray cohorts at Nemetocenna and heading to the west, to Vindunum in the land of the Carnutes, where Crassus’ force will rejoin them.”

Fronto nodded, frowning.

“So you’re leaving only Labienus’ one cohort among the Belgae?”

Caesar sighed and an irritated look passed across his face.

“One of the things Labienus has agreed with the Belgae is that we will not station a large military force within their lands, only the caretaker garrison there. However, a force at Vindunum can be anywhere in northern or western Gaul, or in Belgae territory, in a matter of weeks.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He has also arranged for a number of fairly beneficial trade agreements with the Belgae but, if I am to make the best of this, I will need to open a major trade route from Cisalpine Gaul across the mountains and down to Vesontio. The current route that runs up the Rhone is too slow and long.”

He tapped at the southern edge of the map, where a deep pass was marked across the Alps between Lake Geneva and Cisalpine Gaul.

“The straightest route for trade would be through this pass, starting at the oppidum of Octodurus, capital of the Veragri tribe.”

Balbus frowned.

“That’s a bad area, general. Some of the braver merchants already use that pass, but it’s rife with bandits and the Veragri levy unreasonable tolls to cross through their lands. That’s why everyone goes along the coast into Narbonensis and up the Rhone.”

“Indeed,” the general nodded. “That’s why I’m going to install a garrison at Octodurus. I thought the Twelfth. They distinguished themselves in battle this year.”

Fronto shook his head.

“General, there’s hardly anything left of the Twelfth!”

“Yes,” the general agreed, “but they should only have to keep down banditry along the pass, and I’m intending to levy new troops in Cisalpine Gaul as time and money allow. The Twelfth will be close, so the reinforcements can join them in short order.”

Fronto continued to shake his head.

“I don’t like it, Caesar. It’s dangerous. If anything goes wrong and trouble flares up, the Twelfth will be undermanned and on their own. The rest of the army will be several hundred miles away.”

The general smiled.

“Fortunately, Fronto, I do not require your permission to do these things. That is the disposition of the legions then: the Twelfth at Octodurus, one cohort at Nemetocenna, and the rest in the west at Vindunum. As new troops are levied, they will be sent to the legions, starting with the Twelfth, to bring the numbers back up, hopefully to paper strength, though I will set one of my lieutenants to the task, for I shall be needed in Rome.”

Fronto caught the look on Sabinus’ face. The staff officer clearly knew the task was destined for him. He suddenly realised Caesar was watching him intently.

“General?”

“Are you bound for Rome for the winter, Fronto, or to some drinking and whoring pit on the edge of the civilised world?”

Fronto grinned.

“There are plenty of uncivilised drinking and whoring pits at Rome, general. Yes, I think it’s time to visit the family.”

“Good. Then we shall travel together.”

Fronto continued to look at the general, the smile plastered across his face, nodding jovially while, inside, the prospect of travelling the best part of a thousand miles with the general and his entourage made his very soul cry out.

“That would be nice, sir.”

Willing his smile to stay there, he turned to Balbus and Sabinus, both straight faced and avoiding his gaze.

“I take it we’re not leaving immediately?”

Caesar shook his head.

“A few days. Very well, gentlemen. I think we’re done here.”

The three officers stood, saluted, and left the tent, heaving sighs of relief as they stepped out into the air. Fronto stretched.

“You two coming for a drink? I need a drink.”

Balbus laughed.

“I’ll bet you do. Get the amphora open. I’ll be along very shortly.”

Sabinus nodded.

“Since we’re going to be departing shortly, perhaps we ought to get all the officers together for a send off?”

Fronto grinned.

“I’ll get the wine. You get the company.”

As Balbus and Sabinus strode off about their business, Fronto called in quickly to see Cita. He couldn’t be bothered to argue with the quartermaster and simply paid him above the odds for a large quantity of wine to be delivered to the legate’s tent.

“You know you never invite me to these sessions, Fronto?”

The legate grinned.

“Maybe if you stopped complaining at me…Half an hour. My tent. Bring money and be prepared to lose it.”

Leaving the man with his wagons, he strode across to his own encampment, the guards saluting him as he passed through the gateway. More salutes and polite greetings met him as he walked up the decumana to his tent. The atmosphere in the camp had improved no end since news had spread of Priscus’ rapid recovery.

Smiling at the guards around the principia of the Tenth as he approached, Fronto frowned. A centurion he vaguely recognised was standing by the tent flap.

“Can I help you, centurion?”

The man, middle aged and surprisingly rosy and large for a combat officer, saluted.

“May I speak to you, legate?”

Fronto shrugged and, throwing aside the tent flap, made his way inside. The centurion waited for a moment for a command and, receiving none, also shrugged and made his own way in. Fronto, in no mood to stand on ceremony, collapsed to his bunk, where he sat, removing his boots and sighing with relief.

“So. I know your face, centurion. First cohort, yes?”

The man grinned. His smile was infectious, like a happy puppy, and Fronto realised that he was smiling himself without intending to. Idiot. He forced a straight face. In front of him, the centurion unbuckled his helmet and placed it beneath his arm. Removing the padded cap that protected him from chafing exposed his pink, shiny head; not a hair to be seen. Fronto struggled to keep his face straight.

“I am Servius Fabricius Carbo, centurion of the First Cohort, Second Century.”

Fronto sighed and fell back on his bunk.

“Ah… this is about promotion. I see.”

Carbo smiled. It was, Fronto noted, a confident and knowing smile. There was apparently more to this shiny, pink, chubby officer than at first there seemed.

“In a manner of speaking, sir. Essentially, I have taken the liberty of promoting myself.”

“What?” Fronto gripped the bunk and turned his head.

“Sir, the primus pilus has been out of action for a long time now. The legion has to have a chief centurion. I am the second most senior man in the legion and the obvious choice for the position. I am quite capable of the job and, frankly, since you and Priscus were such good friends, it’s going to be very unpleasant for you trying to organise his replacement, which is, I assume, why it’s taking so long.”