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  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?”

  The soldiers immediately went quietly back to work, and Priscus looked down at one of his helpers.

  “How many does that make so far, Nonus?”

  The legionary drew the stylus down the list and looked up. “Twenty eight down and stowed, seven in progress sir.”

  As Priscus opened his mouth again, he noticed Fro
nto standing next to one of the supply wagons with an amused look on his face. He glowered.

  “With all respect sir, if you think this is funny, perhaps you’d care to have a try?”

  Fronto grinned and stepped forward.

  “I’ve had my fair share of this, Priscus, don’t you worry. Oh, and I think you can relax the pace a little. I’ve just been past the Ninth and they haven’t struck a single tent yet. I daresay the Tenth will be eating a hearty breakfast and relaxing on the grass while the other legions are still working. They may complain now, but they’ll be happy in the morning.”

  “It is the morning. Do I take it you’d like the others rounded up sir, for a briefing?”

  Fronto nodded. “I’ll be at the bath house on the edge of town. No one else here will have time to use it at the moment, and the locals don’t go at this time of night, so it seems a good place for us to have our little meeting. Get them rounded up and in the changing room in about thirty minutes.”

  Priscus returned the nod. “Nonus, you take charge of this rabble for the time being. I’m going to find the other officers and go meet the legate.”

  Ten minutes later the officers and senior NCOs of the Tenth met at the changing room of Cremona’s secondary bath house. The main baths were in the centre of town, in constant use by the citizens and closed late at night, but a secondary baths had been constructed outside civic limits largely for the use of the military when they came here during the summer months. This one was never closed and rarely visited by civilians, staffed only by soldiers in need of extra pay. Fronto was already lounging in the hot bath when his officers entered. At the sound of their arrival, he raised himself from the steaming water and, wrapping a towel around his waist and shuffling his feet into wooden sandals, made his way through to the steam room, beckoning to Priscus as he did.

  Priscus gestured in return with the small amphora of wine he carried. “Didn’t bring any goblets sir. I presume there are some hereabouts?”

  “On the table near the entrance, next to the strigils.”

  The officers stripped out of their uniforms, none of them wearing armour due to the nature of their current labours and, each pouring himself a goblet of wine, made their way into the baths. No urban complex this; no perfumed Greeks here to scrape the day’s dirt away with a strigil. Three of the officers collected the scrapers from a table on their way into the steam room. Within minutes all were present among the clouds of steam, seated around the walls, with their eyes on Fronto.

  “Gentlemen, you are all aware that we are about to break camp. All the legions and support units will be on the march in a couple of days. I realise that this is relatively short notice after such a prolonged period of inactivity, but it is the intention of our illustrious general to meet the Helvetii, who are of a mind to cross the borders of mighty Rome on their way to another part of gods-forsaken Gaul and are already on the move. Caesar, along with the Eighth, who are coming up from Massilia, and a few of the senior officers, will be heading for Geneva tomorrow for the initial negotiations and conflicts. The three legions here will make for Vienna and will stay there and await the almost certain arrival of the Helvetii.”

  One of the centurions from the Seventh Cohort leaned forward.

  “Sir, if he expects a big fight, why not take all the legions to Geneva and finish it there.”

  Fronto swallowed. He knew the truth of course, but couldn’t allow word of the General’s future plans to leak out. He hated lying to his men.

  “The General does not want to meet them in a defensive situation by the river. Siege warfare has rarely been a bonus for the legions. He would much rather drive them into open land and then meet them on a field where our full tactics can come into play. Caesar feels they might need to meet the full force of Rome in order to deter them and, if they will not be deterred, to chastise them appropriately. Do you all get my drift?”

  The rest of the room’s occupants nodded their understanding, the gestures half-lost in the increasing steaminess of the room. Priscus was the only one to speak.

  “Sir, you’ve heard about these Helvetii. They say they’re the fiercest of all the tribes in the east. They’re not going to turn round and go home, even if we put all the legions in their way. This is going to come down to a hard fight, and you know it. And I’m sure Caesar will know it. That’s why he’s preparing a trap, isn’t it?”

  Fronto smiled a grim smile.

  “Very astute Priscus. Yes. I think it’s safe to say there’s a fair fight coming our way in a few weeks, and I intend the Tenth to be ready for it and to do our traditional job of showing up any other unit in the campaign. To this end, I want all drills doubled, even while on the march. Every evening in camp, the men will be put through their paces. I’m afraid, however, that I’ll have to leave the details to you, Priscus. I am one of the people the General intends to take to Geneva, so you’ll all be reporting to Priscus here as senior officer. There’s a lot of upheaval coming, but I have procured for the legion twenty amphorae of good Campanian wine and two cows for butchering. At the end of every day’s march and at the end of the training sessions, the top three men will dine on choice beef and drink good wine as a reward for their efforts.”

  Velius, renowned for his crude and occasionally brutal humour and his heartless training techniques, and the only officer to have brought his vine staff into the baths, looked up at his commander.

  “Sir. What else? You’re not the sort of man to call a meeting in the middle of important work to give us orders you could have given in front of the men and in the morning. What’s the murderous bastard got planned for us?”

  “Velius,” Fronto replied through gritted teeth, “your mouth is going to be the death of you. Regardless of your opinions, that is no way to speak of the General, and I’ll caution you against doing it again.”

  He sighed and looked around.

  “You are, on the other hand, entirely correct.”

  “This is on a strictly need-to-know basis, and I believe Caesar would not consider it necessary for you to know. You will not, under any circumstance, pass this information on to another living soul.”

  The tension in the room was tangible.

  “I can’t say too much at this time, but prepare yourselves for a long and drawn-out campaign. I believe it is very unlikely indeed that we will return to Cremona in the near future, or even at all. Sell anything you can’t take tonight, and make sure the men aren’t carrying useless extras with them.”

  “We’ll be going on beyond the Helvetii then? Perhaps having a go at the Gauls?” Priscus was nearing the edge of his seat, anticipation clearly audible in his voice.

  “I’ll give you nothing further, but mark what I said. I don’t care if the other legions aren’t prepared and have to leave their accumulated goodies to rot in a camp they won’t be returning to, but the Tenth will be prepared for anything the General cares to throw us into.”

  He turned his gaze to Velius.

  “You, however, have a different job. Your optio will be commanding your century on the march. I’m afraid your training talents have been brought to the General’s attention. He’s raising two new legions here within the week. You will be assigned both of them for training. They will each be given only a partial officer staff for the time being, so you’ll be effectively in charge. As soon as you’ve got them assembled, they’re to march on Geneva and meet up with the General’s forces there. You’ll have to train them on the move and in action, I’m afraid. They’ll only receive a senior command unit when they reach Geneva.”

  Velius opened his mouth to object, his face already taking on a slightly purple colour. Fronto waved his hand at the centurion; a gesture for silence.

  “Now, gentlemen, I’m going to oil down and get clean, then have a refreshing cold bath. Would one of you like to be a bootlicker and get a strigil to help me?”

  Chapter 2

  (Around the city of Geneva and the fort of the 8th Legion)

  “
Honesta Missio: A soldier’s honourable discharge from the legions, with grants of land and money, after a term of service of varied length but rarely less than 5 years.”

  “Optio: A legionary centurion’s second in command.”

  “Decurion: 1) The civil council of a Roman town. 2) Lesser cavalry officer, serving under a cavalry Prefect, with command of 32 men.”

  It had been a long and gruelling march to this outpost on the edge of the Empire. Fronto wandered around the ditch and among the defences outside the ramparts and stockade of the regular summer training camp of the Eighth. They were taking great care to make the camp secure, as the general belief among the common soldiery was that the legion might be staying here for some time. The Eighth, though based in Massilia, were the only legion assigned to Transalpine Gaul and, as such, they were required to make their presence felt along the entirety of the Rhone’s east bank, from the Mediterranean to the lake at Geneva. Their summer training quarters were occupied as regularly as their base in Massilia, and had all the facilities of a permanent installation.

  He glanced over at the frightening form of Balventius, the scarred and partially blinded primus pilus of the Eighth, standing on a wagon and directing a unit of men deepening the defensive ditch. Behind him, the civilian settlement lay sprawled from the river up the slope of the valley, with the summer fort of the Eighth built up against the walls of the town. Glancing east, Fronto could see small detachments of the legion building a new temporary camp less than a mile distant and he knew, even though he couldn’t see them, that more soldiers were following suit on the other side of the town. Caesar had decided, quite rightly, that it would save a lot of training time for the two new legions if they arrived to find their camps already prepared. All in all, when the Eleventh and Twelfth turned up, the best part of fifteen thousand heavy infantry would lay in a line a mile and a half to either side of the town of Geneva.