Slowly, drained of energy by the violence of the past half hour and the dreadful realisations of treachery that had dogged their every footstep on this hunt, Fronto rose like some Titan of legend, his face a mask of Jupiter’ thundery wrath.
‘Someone get back inside and take the heads off Ambiorix, that other noble, and the druid. Find a sack for each and then get your gear packed tight. It’s time we got back to the army, and there’s a fair way to go.’
Palmatus wandered over to him, rubbing his neck wearily.
‘It’s all been a bit of a waste of time, hasn’t it?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Perhaps. We didn’t get to stop the destruction of the Belgae, and we didn’t get much of an interrogation in, but I do have one prize… a name: Vercingetorix.’
Chapter Twenty
Camp of the legions.
Antonius and Priscus paused at the entrance to the timber headquarters in the camp — formerly Cicero’s domain, but now firmly in the grip of Caesar. All around, the camp was flooded with the noises of legions settling in and repairing the damage done by the Germanic warband, burying and burning the dead and gathering the supplies they so badly needed. Ten legions in this one camp was a squeeze, even given the enormity of the place, and two of the legions had been forced to resort to temporary camps outside the ramparts.
With a deep breath and a shared glance, the two officers opened the door and strode inside, having been cleared for admittance by the Praetorian horsemen on guard.
The large main room of the building — simply a wooden recreation of Caesar’s command tent on campaign — was empty apart from the general, who sat at his table before the strewn maps and tablets, lists and parchments. Antonius frowned and Priscus felt a moment of concern when he realised that the general, leaning over with his head cradled in his hands, looked unwell in some way. Caesar, realising sharply that he was not alone, sat straight and the pair noticed — again with concern — the froth of spittle at the corners of his mouth and the strained, drawn paleness of his face.
‘Are you alright?’ Antonius asked quietly.
‘Fine. Mostly fine, Marcus. In actual fact what I am is not ill, but rather concerned.’
As admission of worry from the general was so almost unknown that the pair exchanged their own anxious glances.
‘Sir?’
‘News from Rome.’
Priscus felt his spirits sink. News that travelled all the way from the city to the northern fringes of Gaul was never trivial, and given the general’s expression, it was far from good. A pensive silence filled the room and Caesar tapped a scroll case before him. Priscus noted the use of Caesar’s ‘Taurus’ seal in the wax. Very few people in Rome would have the authority to use that seal. Apart from close family, the only one Priscus could name was Publius Clodius Pulcher, Caesar’s pet thug and master criminal.
‘Our good, stable triumvirate is teetering, prepared to fall.’
Priscus cocked his head in incomprehension, but Antonius stepped forward and placed his palms on the table. ‘Pompey? Has he…’
Caesar was shaking his head. ‘Crassus.’
‘The Parthians?’
A slow nod. ‘And not killed in battle like his son Publius. He was captured in ignominious surrender and then executed. The King of Kings made sure to send a detailed account of his end back to Syria and thence to Rome.’
‘Then you and Pompey…’
Caesar nodded. ‘Since Julia’s death we are hardly on the best of terms. And Pompey is busy building a reputation for magnanimity in Rome, garnering support wherever he can. I am faced with a dilemma: to stabilise Rome, or to stay and see Ambiorix finished. Whichever I choose, I damn myself to failure with the other.’
Priscus cleared his throat and stepped forward to join Antonius. ‘Have you told young Crassus?’
Caesar shook his head and indicated another sealed scroll on the table, bearing the mark of the Licinii. ‘This came to me first. Crassus has been summoned and should be here any moment. Cicero, also.’
The two officers shared a look again. Cicero’s meeting with the general had been delayed by the need to settle the legions, and everyone knew the legate had spent almost two days now sitting in his quarters, sweating, awaiting the dreaded interview.
‘You’ll punish him, of course,’ Priscus prompted.
‘’I will upbraid him, of course.’
‘Upbraid?’ snorted Antonius. ‘For his stupidity and disobedience, the man should be nailed to a cross and burned.’
‘A slight over-reaction, Marcus?’
‘Well you’ll at least strip him of command and send him back to Rome in shame?’
Caesar shook his head slowly and both officers frowned again. ‘Why?’
‘With the situation in Rome,’ Caesar explained quietly, ‘I need to preserve every connection I have there. Cicero’s brother is one of the most respected orators in the city and with no small political influence. He has already been outspoken against me in the past, and we have recently settled into a mutual quiet discontent that harms neither of us. If I send this idiot home in disgrace, I most definitely turn his brother against me. The elder Cicero will blacken my name through the senate and beyond. No. We must, for now, mollycoddle our wayward legate.’
With a sigh of understanding, the pair nodded.
‘The larger problem is what to do with Rome and Ambiorix. I have pledged to Rome and to Venus herself to remove the man from the face of the world, and I cannot leave such a vow unfulfiled — it would be political suicide. And yet to stay here, concentrating on him, and leave Rome to a few lackeys without the wit to peel an apple unaided would display an incredible lack of foresight.’
Antonius wandered across and sat in one of the chairs at the side, crossing his legs and producing the inevitable wine flask from his belt.
‘Not a decision anyone can make for you, Gaius, I’m afraid. We can advise, but nothing more.’
Before Caesar could reply, a knock echoed round the room, and Caesar raised his voice.
‘Come!’
Crassus strode into the office in dazzling armour and freshly laundered and pressed tunic and cloak. He looked glorious, for all his youth and inexperience, with his helm tucked beneath his arm — like one of the statues in the forum of generals of old.
‘Crassus. Good. Sit.’
‘I would rather stand, General.’
‘You might regret that decision in a moment, but as you wish. I am the bearer of news, and I am afraid it is not happy news.’
Crassus faltered very slightly, his leg shuffling into a new position to mask a slight shake. Priscus was impressed. ‘My father, General?’
Nod.
‘The Parthians?’
Another nod. ‘And there’s more, I’m afraid.’
‘Publius?’
‘Yes. It seems your father agreed to parlay with the King of Kings when his army was destroyed, and he suffered an ignoble end, but your brother went to Elysium like a true Roman, buying time for his cavalry to leave the field. It saddens me to relay the news, but better, I thought, to come in sympathetic tones than in a cold written missive.’ He held out the unopened scroll and Crassus took it and tucked it away without cracking the seal. His arm quivered a little, but Priscus was still surprised at the show of control.
‘Your situation in Rome will have changed, General.’
Again, Priscus noted with surprise how suddenly the young, enthusiastic officer was almost gone, subsumed by a shadow of his father and brother. He’d heard of the legate’s command in the forest and the burning of the survivors, and marked it as another step down on the ladder to his family’s harshness of spirit. Every passing month brought the young man a little closer in resemblance to his brother and now, here, Crassus was speaking to Caesar as something of an equal. Priscus was almost waiting for Caesar to take exception, but the general simply nodded and smiled sympathetically.