S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

(Tenth Legion’s Summer Camp at Cremona)

“ Cursus Honorum: The ladder of political and military positions a noble Roman is expected to ascend.”

“ Tarpeian Rock: Cliff on the Capitoline Hill of Rome from which traitors were hurled.”

“ Latrunculi: Roman board game involving stones of two colours on a board, resembling the Chinese game of Go.”

Marcus Falerius Fronto trudged through the mud between the headquarters pavilion and his tent, kicking in irritation at errant stones, which disappeared into the dark with a skittering sound. He would have given good money to be back at the winter quarters in Aquileia, on the warm Adriatic. For all that Cremona was a reasonably sized town with all the facilities and amenities a Roman gentleman could enjoy, the camp itself, almost a mile away, was much the same as any practice camp throughout the Empire: cold, damp and dirty. Like many of the mighty General’s senior officers, Fronto’s quarters were considerably closer to the centre of command than he would truly wish. Though concentration of the officers made for better organisation and a certain camaraderie, the great Caesar slept little and late and had a tendency, when thoughts occurred in the dark of night, to wander among the tents of his officers and seek out their opinions of grand designs and obscure schemes. It was said by some of the men that Caesar never slept, though Fronto knew the truth, having just removed the cup from the General’s hand, emptied the dregs outside the tent and draped a blanket over the figure slumbering in the folding campaign chair.

Fronto’s mind wandered back over the briefing earlier in the evening and the array of maps on the campaign table that he had tidied and gathered up before he left. Some of the officers present had had the foresight to heavily water their wine, knowing how Generals tended to drag out these meetings for many hours, considering every minute detail. Those who were unprepared had begun to doze hours ago and would be looking to the security of their careers in the morning. The General himself, as always, drank a half and half mixture of good Latin wine and water, remaining sober until most of his officers had left, and never drinking enough to lose control of his tongue. This was a man with many secrets, Fronto was reminded.

There had been much speculation among the officers over the last couple of days as to why Caesar had come to Aquileia at all, yet alone to a practice camp for three legions in the hinterland. He had been quietly settled in Rome ever since his governorship had been confirmed and had shown no special interest in the troops under his command. Then suddenly he had arrived in camp with an entourage of his favourite staff officers and a wagon full of maps and supplies. Fronto had been apprised of the imminent arrival of a party of soldiers by the sentries, had immediately recognised the standards and the man in the red cloak on the white horse, and had alerted the other officers without delay. He had his own theories concerning the General’s presence.

Caesar had had a command tent raised and with barely a nod of recognition to the officers with whom he had served before, called for a meeting and disappeared within. An hour later, the General had briefed all present on the nature, geography and politics of Gaul and the Gaulish tribes, though still no one had been enlightened as to the reason for this meeting and the information divulged.

The ordinary civilian back in Rome tended to label anyone from north or west of Roman territory a ‘Gaul’ though in truth, the land to the north was held by the Helvetii, above them the Belgae and the Germanic tribes and to the far west, by the sea, the Aquitani peoples. The Gauls consisted the tribes that lay between these others.

Still, sometimes a sweeping generalisation made things easier. And no true Roman could think of the Gauls without a thread of bitterness weaving into his heart. Even the two and a half centuries that had passed since those barbarians had broken the walls of Rome and desecrated the holy places had not dampened the ardour of many a Roman nobleman. Fronto had a suspicion. He would not dare voice it yet, but the nagging feeling remained that the General planned to take the legions into Gaul and, despite the worries and implications of such an act, he could not ignore the quickening of his pulse when he thought of Romans wreaking long awaited vengeance on these uncivilised brutes. These days people said that the Gauls were a different people; that they had a culture. To Fronto, they were just another enemy; to Caesar, a stepping stone.

His mind wandering from subject to subject, deep in concentration, Fronto realised with a sudden jolt that he had walked far past the officers’ quarters and almost to the edge of the camp. There were very few soldiers outside at this time, and most of those were going about their various night time duties. None of them, of course, caught the eye of the senior officer walking in their midst. Fronto looked up at the moon. Late. Very late. By rights he should be abed now like the rest of the officers and yet sleep was far off. Reasoning that lying staring at the roof of the tent was unlikely to help him pass into the arms of Morpheus, Fronto reached out and grasped a passing legionary by the arm. The startled boy, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, stammered a respectful greeting that the officer waved casually aside.

“Is there anywhere open in the town that serves a reasonable wine at this time?”

The young soldier’s brow creased. “I believe there’s an inn down near the river sir, which stays open almost ‘til dawn.” He suddenly pulled himself to a semblance of attention. “Not that I’ve been in such a place of course, sir.”

Fronto smiled. “Relax, lad. I’m not looking for infractions of the rules, just a drink.” He patted the boy on the shoulder and flipped a small coin into his hand. “Next time you get there, have a drink on me. I have a feeling you won’t be seeing the place for much longer.”

He walked off in the direction of the west gate, leaving the puzzled-looking soldier standing in the street, staring at the coin in his hand.

Passing through the gate with only a brief question from the duty centurion, Fronto left the camp and started down the hill toward Cremona and its warm and friendly drinking establishments. There were few locals around at this time, and those that he encountered were generally drunk and semi-conscious. He made his way down to the river, his mind once more on the great General he had left a mere quarter of an hour ago.

Caesar was a man who had been acclaimed as a hero and an advocate of Roman expansion for his deeds in Spain. Indeed, to the General himself none of the officers would say differently. Many personal journals, however, would give another impression. Those who had had the dubious honour of accompanying the General on his rise through the cursus honorum could see a side of the great man that the public would never learn of. The man was a genius; of that there could be no doubt. A modern-day Scipio, or Gracchus, matched today only by the great Pompey or Crassus. He had come from a noble family, though not a particularly wealthy one, and had risen rapidly through the shrewd borrowing of money and the clever manipulation of the general mass at Rome. In this Fronto could see unlimited ambition; had seen it time and time again in the General’s plans and actions. It was largely this ambition, smouldering scarcely concealed beneath the surface that led Fronto to suspect what was coming. Like a number of the other officers in Caesar’s command, Fronto had served with the General in Spain, on the campaign that had given Caesar a piece in the great game, and yet put him in extreme danger of prosecution for war crimes. There was no doubt in his mind that Caesar’s campaigns could be a path to glory, but they could also be a path to damnation.