S. Turney: The Belgae

Fronto dropped heavily onto a bench and reached out for a jug of water and a goblet, directing a questioning look to Crispus. The young man joined him on the bench, nodding, and, as Fronto poured two goblets of iced water, Priscus sighed.

“We’re not popular out here.”

“Nothing new there,” muttered Fronto. “We spent last year fighting one bunch of Celts on behalf of another bunch of Celts and from their point of view I can see how they might think it’s none of our business.”

“It’s not just that, Marcus” the primus pilus continued. “If we’d stopped at that, I think there’d be peace now. But the Gauls all thought the legions would be going home. I think we’ve pissed a lot of people off by not just staying in Gaul, but so far outside our own territory. They think we’re here to stay.”

He reached out for the jar and a goblet.

“And I think they’re right.”

Fronto nodded.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that Caesar already sees an eagle planted in the middle of Gaul with all the tribes in its shadow.”

Crispus nodded sadly.

“I do believe that the general intends to climb the cursus honorum until he can reach the very Gods themselves. And the first step to that is to attain a great conquest.”

A chorus of nods greeted that comment.

“So what you’re saying,” Fronto glanced at Priscus, “is that trouble’s brewing among the tribes?”

The centurion nodded.

“You remember that assembly of the Gaulish chiefs we had at Bibracte last year?”

A nod.

“Well that’s some great big annual event. And it’s happened twice this year already. And the worrying thing is, from what I hear, that none of the tribes allied to Rome were invited to either of them. But the word is that it wasn’t just Gauls either; some German chiefs and the leaders of the Belgae were included.”

Crispus frowned.

“Sounds awfully like the northern tribes are gearing up to protest the Roman presence, doesn’t it?”

Priscus nodded.

“We’ve had a rash of desertions among the Gaulish levies too. Then there’s the native scouts. They’ve been riding in and out of the city for months, and they all have Labienus’ permission to go anywhere they like. They disappear into the headquarters in Vesontio for a few hours, then resupply and ride out again. Then the next day another one arrives. It’s even got me a bit jumpy, truth be told…”

“Spies and scouts everywhere… that’s Caesar’s doing. He’ll have had Labienus keeping a very close eye on things while he was away.”

He frowned.

“But the immediate question is: how prepared to we need to be? Has Caesar called us all back early in case the Gauls collectively decide its time to kick some Roman backside, or does he know something we don’t?”

Crispus shook his head.

“It’s a problem, for certain. Perhaps we should enquire of Labienus?”

“Shortly,” Fronto agreed. “First you have to go show your face to your men. Then, I’d suggest we meet up in a couple of hours and go visit Balbus in his tent before we head into the city. Besides, I’m absolutely shattered. I think a half hour with my boots off and maybe a ‘hair of the dog’ is in order before I start running around and panicking about agitated Gauls.”

Crispus nodded.

“You make a fair point, Marcus my good friend. I shall go and renew my acquaintance with my officers.”

Fronto smiled.

“Your horse won’t be ready for you for fifteen minutes or so. Might as well join me for a ‘hair’ eh?”

Crispus grinned and reached across to the chest on which stood a small jar of wine, while Fronto removed his boots with a deep sigh.

Priscus rolled his eyes and picked up his vine staff.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go and find something useful to do. Nice to see you both again, but if I spend ten minutes in the company of those feet I’ll never breathe clear again.”

Wafting his hand across his face, Priscus gripped his helmet and left the building, his eyes screwed up tightly.

“What?” demanded Fronto irritably as Crispus breathed in deep ragged gasps between bursts of laughter.

* * * * *

Crispus burst into a fresh bout of laughter. It had been over an hour since he’d left Fronto’s camp, leading his freshly fed and groomed horse back to his own unit. Though he’d not had time to visit the temporary bathhouse, he had taken a quick dip in a tub of cold water, shaved, and raked his hair straight. Dressed in clean clothes from his pack, he once more felt human, though there was an insistent, if gentle, thumping deep in his brain.

Which is why the sight of Fronto, still dishevelled and covered in dust with a hairstyle that… well ‘style’ was being excessively kind. Crispus covered his mouth and sniggered gently. His peer from the Tenth Legion smelled faintly like a dead bear.

“I shall leap to the assumption that you do not really care what Labienus thinks of you, Marcus? You look like you’ve had accident with a quadriga and a midden.”

“Shut up.”

Raking his fingers through his unruly hair, where they caught in a tangle, Fronto strode across to the gate of the Eighth Legion’s temporary fortress. Despite his travel-worn state, he still wore his cuirass and plumed helmet, along with the almost-red military cloak, clearly marking him out as an officer. The guards at the gate stood at attention and saluted, absolutely straight faced.

“Shut up” he said again, this time to the legionaries whose faces were so sombre that it was clear they were deliberately forcing themselves not to smile.

Accompanied by the grinning Crispus, Fronto strode up the Decumana towards Balbus’ headquarters. As with his own camp, soldiers saluted as they passed and then went quickly about their business. He was starting to feel a little better-humoured, despite the horrible pounding behind his left eye, when a voice like a saw through marble called out from a side street.

“You look like shit!”

As his head snapped angrily round, Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth Legion, fell into step alongside him. Fronto opened his mouth and then quickly bit back his acerbic retort. Getting into a battle of insults with Balventius would be a perilous thing indeed.

“Balventius. Did you leave at all during the winter? Did you go and check out your new estate?”

The grizzled veteran rolled his one good eye, the milky white one fixed firmly, if disconcertingly, ahead.

“I went back for a month or so. It’s nice, I suppose. Lots of room. Spent a couple of weeks building a fence, bought some horses and put ‘em in there. Then a bear came bumbling out of the woods and the horses smashed my fence to pieces and bolted. I wrote half of the property over to my brother and left him to sort out the mess while I came back here.”

Crispus smiled uncertainly.

“I have no idea know why, Titus, but I’m having a little difficulty picturing your brother.”

Balventius glanced across at him and then turned to Fronto.

“He sounds less posh? I’m not having to concentrate so hard to follow him.”

Fronto nodded.

“I’ve been trying to drive out the orator in him and lower his brow a bit, but I don’t think it worked. I think it’s all that Gaulish beer that’s rotting his brain. That’s what’s done it!”

Balventius smiled. The effect was fairly frightening through his criss-crossed network of scars.

“My brother’s a lot like me,” he said, turning to Crispus. “But less handsome. He’d still be serving under Pompey’s legions but he got hamstrung about five years ago. He’s been living off his honesta missio, but Pompey’s not as generous as Caesar. Half my grant’s more than all of his.”