S. Turney: The Belgae

The guards by the doorway were already at attention, in their prominent position among the senior staff of the army. Pedius, at the head of the group, acknowledged them with a slight nod of the head and they went inside. The headquarters building was in what could only reasonably be described as ‘organised chaos’. Fronto knew from experience that the headquarters of a legion ran smoothly and with the minimum of fuss, since there was a hierarchy that worked with machine-like precision. The headquarters of a large army was different, though. There were six legions based around Vesontio, all with the same hierarchy and, while the general’s command had its own clerical staff, they spent most of their time trying to respond to the legionary clerks and filter, prioritise and just plain argue with them. The net result was that the higher one went in the military, the messier the paperwork became.

The three men entered the main room to find Labienus at a wide desk covered in parchment and wax tablets with the chief quartermaster, Cita, and the camp prefect, Paetus, opposite him. As he rattled out answers to their quick-fire questions, they made marks and, without turning, held out the tablets behind them where a junior clerk would grasp them and run off to deal with the issue, only to be replaced by another haggard-looking legionary clerk.

Pedius stopped in the doorway, his companions behind him, and waited for a moment, blocking the entrance and exit of various clerks, before clearing his throat.

Labienus looked up in surprise.

“Pedius? Good grief. I wasn’t expecting to see you for a while yet. Does that mean Caesar’s with you?”

That last question had a note of desperate hope in it, Fronto noted with a smile.

“Not with, I’m afraid; though I doubt he’ll be far behind. Can we interrupt your burdensome tasks?”

Labienus nodded; a little too quickly, Fronto thought again.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he addressed Cita and Paetus. “We’ll resume tomorrow morning. I think I need some time to rest anyway.”

The two officers stood and bowed to the interim commander. Turning, they saluted the officers in the doorway, who shuffled out of their way with some difficulty. Once the others had left, Balventius closed the door and the other four men walked across to the desk, while he remained standing by the door like a guard.

Labienus gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Almost my entire day now consists of two things: military bureaucracy like ‘which legion has to produce the engineering detail to maintain the command section’, and politics, like the local farmers complaining that the latrines of the Tenth are emptying into a tributary stream that their wives use to wash clothes. I just don’t understand how Caesar gets anything done!”

Pedius grinned.

“Because he delegates the irritating parts to us, you know that.”

“Ha!”

Labienus leaned back and gestured to the seats opposite him. As the officers sat, he looked up at Balventius.

“Centurion? If you’re here on business, I suggest you sit. No one will interrupt us with my door shut.”

Balventius nodded respectfully.

“Thank you sir, but I’m comfortable standing.”

“Very well,” Labienus said, stretching, “nice to see we’ve got all the staff and legates assembled again. Once Caesar arrives, I very much think we’ll be on the move quickly. There are troubles stirring.”

“We’re all aware of that” said Fronto flatly. “And I think Caesar’s already prepared. Ask Pedius who escorted him back from Cremona.”

Labienus turned to his peer and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“I had the honour of escorting the newly-raised Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions to camp.”

Labienus sank miserably back into his chair, visions of a new cartload of paperwork rolling inexorably toward his desk.

“And that’s not all…”

Fronto smiled broadly.

“They’re vaguely Romanised Gauls, not citizen troops!”

Labienus face slipped into bleak misery.

“There’ll be fights. Complaints… possibly even fatalities. We’ll have to keep them apart.”

Pedius shook his head.

“No. Integration is the key. I’ve sent them to set up between the existing legions. They may have a funny accent, but Caesar levied them months ago. They’ve been well trained by veterans at Cremona. They’ve all taken the oath. Hell, they think of themselves as Roman. So does Caesar apparently, so we’d better shift our perspective a little.”

Such news apparently did little to raise Labienus’ spirits. Pedius smiled sadly.

“There’s two more things yet.”

“Oh good.”

“Two letters. Sets of orders in fact, from the general himself. One for you, and one for Crassus.”

Labienus sighed.

“I can’t be bothered to read them right now. Just give me the highlights.”

Pedius laughed.

“Well Crassus’ letter orders him and his Seventh legion out to the north west. He’s to fortify up at the Gaulish Oppidum they call Cenabum and monitor the activity of the tribes between there and the sea. We’ve had word that there’s anti-Roman sentiment growing in the area.

Fronto frowned.

“If we’re going to be fighting a million Belgae shortly,” he muttered, “I’m glad Caesar’s given some thought to the danger of allied attacks on the flank, but if there’s real trouble stirring out there among several tribes, sending one man with one legion could be a death sentence.”

The others nodded their agreement.

“And the one for me?”

Pedius shrugged.

“Crassus’ orders were standard military orders; yours come sealed with wax. I’m intrigued, myself.”

He leaned forward and let placed a tightly rolled parchment of finest Egyptian import quality on the desk. It rolled toward Labienus a little until it hit the wax seal and stopped.

Labienus raised an eyebrow again.

“I expect I’m supposed to open this when I’m alone then?”

Fronto made a ‘tsk’ noise and tapped on the table.

“For Mars’ sake, Labienus, we’re all senior officers. Just open the bloody thing and tell us what to expect.”

Labienus retrieved the scroll and leaned back in his chair again. With a slowness and a thoroughness that irritated Fronto intensely, the interim commander cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. Fronto watched as the man scanned down the text, noting with interest the various expressions that crossed his face. A long, silent minute passed and then Labienus let go of the lower end, allowing the scroll to roll up once more before he dropped it onto the desk.

He whistled quietly through his teeth.

“I can see why that was sealed.”

“Come on, man” barked Fronto irritably. “What is it?”

“It’s an arrest warrant.”

Crispus, a look comprised of equal parts excitement and worry, leaned forward.

“An arrest warrant for whom?”

The commander stared at him in silence.

“Labienus!” barked Fronto, and the man jumped slightly and shook his head as if to clear it.

“I’m to arrest Paetus, the camp prefect.” He sat in silence for a moment, staring at the scroll. “Paetus! I’ve known the man for years!”

Fronto reached out irritably and grabbed the orders, unrolling the parchment and reading for himself.

“Looks like Paetus has been playing a few games. His family are clients of Caesar, but it appears he also belongs to Publius Clodius Pulcher, and that man’s already a serious thorn in Caesar’s side.”

Crispus turned to the older legate.

“But we cannot arrest a member of the patrician class just because he might be playing dubious political games with multiple patrons. We’d need senatorial approval.”

Fronto sighed.