S. Turney: The conquest of Gaul

Fronto smiled. “You did well, Gnaeus; very well. Caesar will almost certainly call another staff meeting, and it stands the Tenth in good stead if we appear to be well prepared. Get back to the others and call up all the officers of the Tenth. As soon as I’ve seen the General, I’ll want to call a private meeting.”

Priscus saluted again and turned as they reached the gate, giving the agreed password to the guards. As the gates swung shut and the centurion made for the Tenth, Fronto called out after him “Oh and Gnaeus, get some of the good wine out of storage. This might be a long meeting and a long night.” Priscus grinned and set off at a jog.

Fronto made his way through to the commanders’ tents and, reaching his own, examined himself in the large bronze mirror he had recently purchased from a vendor in the village. Generally presentable, though with muddy boots and some very serious-smelling horse dung on the hem of his red cloak. He looked around the tent for his spare boots and laid eyes on them where he had left them beneath his small table. Muddy, but better and, with a bit of hasty rubbing, the dried mud would come off. The sounds of activity outside heralded the fact that the news had reached the General. Fronto hastily cleared off the worst of his boots and contemplated what to do about the cloak. He couldn’t present himself to the general smelling like a livery stable. In a rush now, he opened his travel chest and retrieved a crimson cloak from inside, neatly folded the way only his sister could have done. How long had it been since he had worn it? So few occasions to dress up these days. Needless to say, some of the others would take every opportunity to rib him about this over the next few days, but the smell of horse shit would be a stronger fuel for their jibes.

Moments later a breathless messenger reached his tent and knocked on the wooden post at the door. “Sir, the General…”

Before he could finish the summons, Fronto was out of his quarters in full dress and marching toward the command tent. Over his shoulder he called back “Yes soldier, I know.”

Fronto had been the first to arrive at Caesar’s tent by a clear minute and, though he was now waiting outside the flaps, he knew that his promptness would have been noted. As several of the lower ranks passed by in the torchlight, the officer was sure he heard a few badly-concealed sniggers. Ignoring them, he kept his eyes on the tent’s entrance, waiting for Caesar’s attendant to call him. Footsteps behind told him that the other senior officers had arrived.

A jolly voice behind him said “Why, who is this joining us for the briefing? Could it be the great Scipio? Or perhaps Apollo himself is deigning to lighten our lives with his radiant presence.” Slightly subdued laughter rippled down the line behind Fronto.

Without turning his head, Fronto addressed the voice.

“Longinus, you missed your chance for a career on the stage. What are you doing here, among these serious and talented military types? Have you tired of talking to your mule?”

He heard Longinus’ intake of breath, ready to launch into a diatribe on the nature of Fronto’s family and their resemblance to certain species of amphibian. The new commander of the Ninth resorted to this subject in every one of their arguments whenever he ran out of clever things to say. Fronto suspected that the slightly portly officer resented the fact that his command of the Ninth had come only because Fronto had resigned his commission with that unit on his return with Caesar to Rome. Moreover, the Ninth still held Fronto in esteem since he had been with them throughout their time in Spain.

Before Longinus could get his comment out, Caesar’s servant appeared at the doorway.

“Gentlemen, the General will see you now.”

As the officers filed into the tent, Fronto took the only seat he knew to be comfortable. Once the eleven men were seated, a curtain to the left was pulled aside, and Caesar himself strode in. The officers stood as one, saluting and bowing. Caesar acknowledged them and sat, followed by the others. As his servant poured a glass of wine, the General opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. His eyes had fallen on Fronto. A warm smile spread across Caesar’s face.

“My dear Fronto, did my summons catch you on your way to anywhere glamorous and important? How inconvenient of me.” Fronto could feel the colour rising in his cheeks as laughter filled the room.

He carefully folded back the sides of the cloak so that the red lining covered the worst of the golden images on the outside. His sister had had the cloak made to order by one of the best men in Rome to celebrate Fronto’s triumphant return from Spain a few years ago. The golden gods and victories cavorted with mythical creatures and horses, covering most of the plain red. A single gold thread hung from one shoulder where Fronto had, after one particularly drunken evening, unsuccessfully tried to unpick a representation of Pegasus. He gratefully accepted the proffered glass from Caesar’s servant and sank his face into it. After a moment’s steadying he lowered the glass and, in a gesture that he felt sure few of the other officers would dare match, fixed Caesar with a warming smile, holding his eyes.

“General, as you know the history of this cloak, you know it has only ever been worn once in public, and it places upon your revered self a mark of great distinction that I would don it for your presence.”

Caesar’s smile faltered and Fronto wondered for a moment if he had gone too far. A moment later, however, the General laughed uproariously. Some of the officers joined in, though Longinus retained a frustrated silence. The General slapped his knee and wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Fronto, you are well named. You have more front about you than any man I know. Very well, honour me with your priceless cloak and pray that the next time I see your charming sister I do not tell her what you really think of this ostentatious piece of apparel.” He took a sip of wine and sat up straighter.

“To business gentlemen. Your orders and your explanation. You will immediately, upon leaving this briefing, return to your legions or other duties, and see that the entire camp stands to. I want all three legions ready to march at an hour’s notice. Paetus, you will have the camp made ready for the army’s march. Cita, get all the necessary provisions and pack animals for two weeks in the field. Almost the entire camp will be leaving, including the cavalry.”

Looking around, Fronto counted the faces registering surprise with satisfaction. He returned his eyes to the General.

“Now, I expect you’re all aware by now that a messenger reached the camp tonight. He has come from the north, where he was accompanying a trader dealing with the Helvetii. There has been something of a disturbance among the tribe’s leadership. Some of you may remember the name of Orgetorix from earlier briefings. He has evidently tried to arrange a coup for control of the tribe, in association with other ambitious men of the Aedui and Sequani tribes. I rather gather that this failed, as Orgetorix committed suicide four days ago whilst on trial for the attempt. In the normal flow of events, this would stand well for Rome. The man was obviously a rabble-rouser and could conceivably have united three tribes into a confederation on our border. Unfortunately the latest news, from two days ago, is that villages and towns of the Helvetii are burning across the length and breadth of the mountains. Those of you who have studied this particular tribal area will be aware that the Helvetii are by far the strongest group, and are unlikely to have been bested very quickly by anyone bar us.” He paused for a moment, smiling.

“However, it is a strange custom of these peoples to destroy what they leave behind. Not, like us, to prevent them being used by erstwhile enemies, but to help bind the tribe together and provide the added impetus needed to keep such a group collected and moving with purpose.” Again the General paused to make sure he was being followed.