S. Turney: The conquest of Gaul

Caesar nodded.

“You have more ambition than I. Possibly more than anyone alive in the state, including the great Pompey; ambition that could carry Rome to the limits of the earth. I mean no insult by this; I’m merely stating the facts the way I see them. I believe you will find a reason to wage war on the Helvetii, even if they go home in peace. I think you need it for your own personal self-worth, you need it to win the support of those in Rome who currently favour others, and you need it in order to create further opportunities.”

“Further opportunities, Marcus?” Caesar smiled a grim smile, and Fronto swallowed again, aware of the danger in which he had just placed himself.

“The Gauls sir. The Helvetii are not important enough for you. Certainly not enough to keep the four legions you have in these provinces busy. No, you want the big fish, sir, don’t you? You want the Gauls. It’d be a massive campaign, but that doesn’t matter, does it sir? The Gauls are famous. All Romans know them. Many fear them. Most hate them. To destroy the Gauls would be to earn a place in history, sir. Or am I far from the mark?”

Caesar sat silently for a while, swilling the wine around in his cup. After a disturbingly long pause, he once more raised his head and fixed Fronto with his mesmerising stare.

“I was right about you Fronto. You could be exceptionally useful to me, but you could be a dangerous man. Few others have ever spoken to me like that, and none of them have come away better off for the experience. But you? You’re career military, with absolutely no pretensions to politics and no designs on Rome, and I find that, against all odds, I actually trust you. Do you know how many people there are in the whole of the Empire that I feel I could actually trust? Very few indeed, even in my own family. Very well; you have had your say, and I shall explain.”

“You are, of course, entirely correct in so far as you go. I have no intention of letting the Helvetii go, though we must not be seen to go wading into Gaulish territory unbidden. If we want Gaul, we have to manufacture a reason that will put all of Rome behind us. The Helvetii are merely the key. That idiot noble of theirs, Orgetorix, had worked so hard to bring himself to sole power over the Helvetii, and to create a union with a number of other tribes. If he had succeeded, we would have our reason now.”

Fronto frowned, mulling through the information. He suddenly looked up, his eyes glinting.

“You don’t want to destroy the Helvetii at all, do you sir? The legions by the Rhone aren’t there to trap them, but to divert them and drive them on. You want them to go west, into Gaul, where they become enough of a danger for you to take the battle to them, yes?”

“Very good, Marcus. Very good indeed. Yes, we need the Helvetii to become enough of a threat to warrant Senatorial approval of our intervention. And once we’re deep into Gaul…”

“Nothing can stop us, sir?” Fronto smiled.

“Exactly! I know you have no interest in politics, Marcus, and I know that you’re only truly happy when you’re involved in a bloodbath, so I trust you won’t cause me any trouble?”

“Trouble, sir?”

“Marcus, there are a lot of people who would consider this plan as dangerous; even reckless; and the greatest benefit at the end will be felt by myself and my army. Senators and fat noblemen get very testy when so many resources are put into something with so little visible benefit to them. There are few I can take on campaign with me that I can trust to do everything within their power to achieve the goals we set. I think you are one of them. The Tenth Legion will take prime position among the forces in Further Gaul. I want you and yours to show the Helvetii what it means to face the world’s greatest fighting force, and I want the other legions to look at the Tenth and marvel so much that they strain to be like them. Do you understand?”

Fronto’s face fell into his usual sour and serious cast. He mulled over, only for moments, what his commander had just implied.

“Caesar, as always, I and the Tenth are at your command.” A small grin passed across his face. “Although I would respectfully submit that the Tenth already have that effect on their enemies and friends, sir.”

His eyes narrowed again as a thought struck him.

“By the way, sir, I may have drifted off a little toward the end, and I don’t remember hearing who was coming with you to Geneva.”

Caesar sighed.

“Longinus, yourself and Tetricus, a tribune from the Seventh. Oh, and that vicious-sounding training officer from your Tenth will be staying behind.”

“Why sir? Why us, when you’ll have the commander of the Eighth there with you? Who’ll command these three legions on the march? And why is Velius staying here?”

Caesar leaned forward.

“Sometimes I wish you’d listen so that I didn’t have to go over the same things twice. Longinus is a good man with cavalry, and we may want his advice on skirmishers and scouts. I’m sure you remember some of his cavalry actions in Spain. Tetricus because he’s an old hand at planning defensive earthworks. You because I need you for advice on a command level at the least. And Velius is staying here because of the training needs of the two new legions.”

Fronto’s elbow slipped from the chair arm.

“What new legions?”

Another sigh.

“Good grief Marcus, how long were you asleep? I’ve already had Sabinus out tonight setting up the recruiting staff. I want enough men to create two legions within the week. They will then march to Geneva to meet us with your training officer in command. I hear good things about him.”

Fronto leaned back and then levered himself out of the chair.

“Very well sir. If you would excuse me, I would like to get back and see what Priscus has done in my absence. Our legion insignia’s probably pink now. Thank you very much for the wine and your confidence.”

The General nodded as Fronto retrieved his cloak, stood, bowed, and left the tent.

The camp of the Tenth was a flurry of activity as Fronto returned. As he made his way between the cookhouse and the latrines, a legionary wearing only his tunic and covered in pig-grease stains came smartly to attention, almost concussing himself with the tool he carried.

“At ease, soldier. Have you any idea where centurion Priscus is?”

The soldier relaxed and swung the heavy head of the pick-axe to the ground.

“Sir, the centurion is over near the granaries, giving out orders sir.”

With a nod of thanks, Fronto made his way toward the wooden granaries that stood at one end of the Tenth’s quarters. Priscus was standing on two of the projecting beams at the base of the granary itself, around two feet off the floor. A standard bearer and three legionaries with excused-duty status stood around his feet with wax tablets, checking and marking as the centurion called out. As Fronto approached with a smile on his face, Priscus waved an arm toward one of the most complex areas of activity. Over the hubbub, he bellowed

“Arius, you piece of horse excrement! Wet side OUT, damn it, wet side OUT!”

Arius, a recent addition to the officer class and the most junior optio of the legion, jumped at hearing his name and dropped the huge, half-folded tent into the mire that was the result of so many pairs of hobnailed boots. The tent fabric landed in the brown liquid with a sucking sound and Arius turned to face Priscus, his face slowly turning purple. The other soldiers laughed raucously as they went about their own efficient business.

Priscus’ eyes flashed momentarily and he held his vine staff, one of the centurion’s badges of office, in the air. “There’s a vicious battering with this awaiting the next man who laughs at an officer. D’you understand, you swine?”