S. Turney: The Belgae

(Roman military installation outside Vesontio)

“ Quadriga: a chariot drawn by four horses, such as seen at the great races in the circus of Rome.”

“ Foederati: non-Roman states who held treaties with Rome and gained some rights under Roman law.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus gestured angrily with his vine staff from his position on top of a supply wagon as he ground his teeth irritably.

Fronto looked up at his ‘subordinate’, though the word hardly seemed appropriate. A quick glance around confirmed no one was listening within earshot.

The legate of the Tenth Legion looked tired and haggard. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of late nights and long days. Behind him, Aulus Crispus, legate of the Eleventh shook his head, a faint smile lurking somewhere beneath the dust of travel. Fronto growled gently.

“And hello to you too, Priscus. We’ve come as fast as we could.”

To illustrate, he gestured up and down himself, bringing attention to the dust and wear. There was a low muttering behind him.

“What was that?” he barked, rounding on his younger companion.

Crispus laughed lightly.

“I said: ‘via every bar between the Pyrenees and Vesontio…’”

He took one look at Fronto’s face and wisely turned away to tighten a strap on his horse. Fronto continued to glare at him for a moment and then turned back to the primus pilus of the Tenth.

“I’d say we’ve done well, myself. We didn’t even get the message ‘til a fortnight ago in Tarraco. All that way in less than two weeks? And with the horses laden with all our gear? Just be bloody grateful we left the cart behind!”

Crispus smiled benignly.

“Good afternoon, centurion. Forgive my companion. We made the most of our last night of freedom yesterday at a Gaulish tavern in a village around twenty miles from here. My head is troubling me a little and I suspect Fronto’s is a great deal worse.”

Fronto grumbled again.

“The wine they serve in some of these local places tastes like feet and feels like being hit over the head with a brick!”

“You should try their beer, Marcus. They may make poor wine, my friend, but they excel at the brewing process” Crispus smiled.

Fronto shot his companion another grim glance and then turned back to his subordinate.

“What’s all this about, Priscus? We weren’t due to return for almost a month and here we are, back in camp on the calends of April?”

“Let’s talk as we walk.”

The primus pilus dropped lightly from the wagon to land on the springy turf, his hob-nailed boots leaving a deep impression. He gestured toward the fortifications and the three men walked onward, Fronto and Crispus wearily leading their horses.

The camp had changed since Fronto was last here. During the previous season, the legions had spent a while encamped at Vesontio and had fortified their position with a palisade and ditch, their tents raised in orderly rows. Some time early in the autumn, Labienus, who had been assigned to command the six legions and their auxiliary support in the off-season, had decided that a more permanent installation was required.

Three large forts had been constructed of timber in an arc around the city, on the far bank of the river. The leather campaigning tents had been packed away for next season and the army had settled to ride out the winter in relative comfort. With a large Roman army on the doorstep, Fronto could imagine how well the entertainment industry in Vesontio had done.

“How are the legions disposed?” young Crispus enquired. “There is insufficient room here for the full army.”

Priscus nodded.

“Yessir. Yours and ours are here, along with the Eighth. The Seventh, Ninth and Twelfth are spread out, one entrenched towards the Rhine, one about twenty miles north and the other off to the west. Commander Labienus thought we ought to maintain a presence in the surroundings just in case. The legions have been rotating through the picket camps on a two-weekly basis. It’s all worked quite well, I’d say; Labienus has kept his headquarters in Vesontio, and Crassus has been moving between the three camps keeping the men on their toes and irritable.”

Fronto nodded.

“I can quite believe that. So, why the early muster?”

“Wish I could answer that, but I’m in the dark myself. Caesar sent a courier to Vesontio about a month ago and told Labienus that the legates would be returning during March and the general himself would be here at the start of April. Looks like you’ve beaten him here, but only just.”

Crispus scratched his unshaven chin.

“So the other legates are all here then?”

Priscus nodded.

“Balbus arrived early last week and has been in and out of the headquarters ever since. Rufus got here three days ago and went straight out to his men to the north. Not seen him since. And Galba came back in the middle of winter. Apparently he felt the Twelfth needed some winter training. Crassus has been lauding him up to Labienus, and I have to admit he’s really worked his men this winter.”

Fronto grumbled.

“I expect that means the rest of us look lazy! Crassus’ll think we wasted winter, but Labienus is bright. I expect he’ll know otherwise.”

Priscus sighed.

“I am capable of running things here. I did your job quite a lot last year, remember? Balventius, Felix and I kept up regular training and sorties throughout the winter. With all due respect, you’re legates… no one expects you to keep your men fit. That’s our job. You just make occasional decisions and look pretty.”

Crispus laughed.

“He has us there, Marcus.”

As they approached the gate of the first camp, a small knot of guards by the strong palisade came sharply to attention. The three officers returned their salute and drew to a halt. Fronto turned to Crispus and raised an eyebrow.

“You got ten minutes before you head to the Eleventh?”

The young legate nodded.

“They’ve managed months without me. I doubt that another few minutes will cause consternation.”

Grasping the reins of his companion’s horse, Fronto handed them and his own to a legionary.

“Have them both fed and watered and brush them down. When you’ve finished with Bucephalus, have him stabled. The legate here will need his horse shortly to head back to the Eleventh, so make sure it’s ready.”

The soldier nodded, bowed hurriedly, and led the two beasts off in the direction of the Tenth’s cavalry section. As the rest of the legionaries stood aside, Fronto and his companions strode into camp and made for the praetorium at the centre. The men of the Tenth saluted as the three officers passed, and then immediately returned to their tasks. As they reached the command building at the centre, Fronto glanced sidelong at his chief centurion.

“Alright, Priscus. You always know more about what’s going on than anyone else. Give us the lowdown. I want to be prepared when Caesar arrives.”

The primus pilus nodded at the guards by the door and gestured inside to his companions. Fronto and Crispus strolled into the main room and behind them Priscus addressed the various clerks in the headquarters.

“Go about your work elsewhere and take the guards with you. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

The actuarii gathered together their wax tablets and scrolls and hurried out, their arms full, bowing awkwardly as they left. Once they were alone, Priscus dropped his helmet and vine staff onto the low table near the door.

“I can certainly make a healthy guess as to why the general sent for you all.”