Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (40 page)

"You are entirely correct. Again: one legion. Roscius?"

Priscus bit his lip. "The Thirteenth aren't as long-standing veterans as some." He grasped the tablet with the legion lists. "But then they are Gallic blooded. They might be more useful there than anyone else."

"So" Caesar said, moving small markers with legion numbers etched onto their face across the map, "Roscius and the Thirteenth babysitting the Aedui; and the man is a good officer with field experience so no need to support him. Plancus and the Seventh doing the same with the Carnutes, supported by Varus and his cavalry in case of trouble."

Priscus nodded as he peered at the map. "That looks workable. They will be close enough to support one another too, if trouble arises."

"I intend to leave a third legion in Gesoriacum to maintain our port garrison and control over the Morini. They have proved duplicitous before and it would do no harm to have a legion within reach of Armorica."

"Brutus' Eighth, sir?"

"The Eighth" Caesar confirmed, moving the 'VIII' marker to their current position on the map. "I am, however, putting Brutus in overall command of the garrison, the port and the navy, as well as the cavalry contingent we leave there. That means I will need to assign a legate to the legion itself. What of the two men who arrived yesterday?"

Priscus cast his mind back to the two men he'd seen sitting in the mess hall, talking quietly. They had reached Gesoriacum only an hour before the returning force from Britannia and looked to Priscus woe-fy ill-prepared for the world of Gaul. The only two officers who had yet answered Caesar's summons, the older of the two - still little more than a boy himself - appeared to be a quiet, studious character with unruly hair and a squint. The other? Well the other, for all his youth, appeared to be focused almost to the point of being dangerously taut. That, however, was not what worried Priscus. The worrying thing was his lineage.

"The younger Crassus seems perilously eager. Brutus would have his hands full just keeping Crassus under control, I think. He seems to lack the discipline of his father or brother, and that very thought frightens the shi… worries me a lot, general."

"So Gaius Fabius?"

"He's such a boyish, academic looking sort."

"So was Crispus until Fronto got to work on him, and he turned out a fine officer."

Both men fell silent for a moment at the memory of the poor, murdered academic. Priscus wondered whether Fronto had read his letter yet. Gods help Rome when he did.

"Fabius, then. At least he looks like he'll take Brutus' advice. The two should be able to work together and Gesoriacum will be safe. What will you do with Cicero if he's not commanding the Seventh?"

"I think: the Eleventh. Up here? Among the Nervii?"

Priscus nodded and watched as the 'XI' counter slid up to the north coast. "At least he's solid and shouldn't need watching."

"You may be correct, Priscus, in that he seems to have stopped exhorting me to change my mind every few moments. But just in case I think we'll transfer the two senior centurions with him from the Seventh. Pullo and Vorenus have kept Cicero at the top of his game so far. Let's let them continue to do so."

Priscus frowned.

"You've a problem there from the start. Felix is the primus pilus of the Eleventh and has been since they were raised against the Helvetii. He's a good man. But Pullo's also been primus pilus for over a year - though he's been shifted from the Thirteenth to the Seventh already. You can't move him to the Eleventh and demote him, but you can't kick Felix out of the way either. You can't have two top centurions in the legion."

"Felix?" Caesar tapped his chin. "You mean Mittius? They call him 'Felix'? Yes, he is a good man. Did us proud back at the Tamesis in Britannia. Let us keep his lucky streak going then. I shall write up the orders to promote him. He can take the position of Camp Prefect for Cicero - the man probably could do with such a stable influence anyway. Then Pullo can maintain his primus rank in the Eleventh."

Priscus sighed inwardly. With all the transfers it was a damn good job the legions were being dispersed, else all the centurions would be reacting to the calls of the wrong legions. It would be chaos. Caesar needed steady commanders and organised officers more than ever - it seemed that every passing month saw the army becoming more fragmented and complex. Indeed, the lack of experienced and trustworthy officers and the wide-spreading of forces was clearly starting to bother Caesar. Not only had the tic reappeared beneath his right eye - a mark of stress Priscus had come to recognise - but he had started to voice his private fears, albeit only to Priscus. Once more, he realised that this was exactly the reason that Fronto had been of value to the general. Not just as a senior officer or legate, but as a confidante and advisor. Priscus was doing a damnably good job standing in for him, if he did say so himself, but it was hard work.

"Where will you put Labienus, then? South, in Treveri lands? At the southern extent of the Arduenna forest?"

"Yes. With the Twelfth" the general confirmed, sliding a piece across the map. "Again, he needs no supervision." He looked down at the north eastern stretches of Gaul. "That leaves us an arc around the most dangerous region. We have hemmed the area in. Now let us populate it."

He slid the remaining three counters across the map: IX, X, and XIV.

"We have two experienced legions and one relatively green one. And we have a number of experienced commanders left. I am inclined to place the two strongest legions at the centre of this entire web, on the western border of the great forest, where they can come to the support of most of the other legions in short order. That would be the Ninth and Tenth."

Priscus nodded. "My men will be ready and eager, general."

The general rubbed his chin and sat back in his chair. "I hope they can, Priscus. I'm moving you out again. You'll be coming to serve directly on my staff."

Priscus stared at the map. "Then who… no. No, no, no, no!"

"Yes, Gnaeus. Young Crassus will take command of the Tenth. I need you in your advisory and strategic role, much as you are now. Surely you must have noticed that I've been grooming you for the role all year. Only the lack of available legates kept you in command."

"The lack of available '
experienced
' legates, you said, general. Crassus is a boy and one, I suspect, with a dangerous temper."

"He is also the son of one of my two most powerful colleagues. With Pompey's grip ever on the increase in Rome, I might need Crassus' support at any time. To that end, I will grant his younger boy all the honours I can. The place he can do the least damage is with my best legion, who will not be swayed to stupidity. Especially since you will not be joining me until the spring. I want you to winter with Crassus and the Tenth and guide him into the role."

"Is there no other way, general?" Priscus stared at the map and then grabbed the legion list and staff list and started to run his finger down them.

"What of the Fourteenth?"

"I shall be posting them to the far northeast, in Eburones territory. It's very much out of the way and not in an area of direct threat, so they should be safe enough. Besides, they being one of the weakest, greenest legions, I am hardly going to place them under the command of a green, weak officer, am I?"

"So who?"

"Cotta. Since Cicero has the Eleventh, Cotta will take the Fourteenth. And with him, Sabinus to keep thing stable. Given their somewhat distant position, I shall also assign a cavalry contingent to Sabinus."

Priscus was still shaking his head at the bleak prospect of grooming that angry-looking boy to command his pride and joy, but something struck him as he peered at the map. "Are you sure about this position here?" He stabbed his finger down at the point where Caesar had placed the XIV marker.

"We have had no reports of unrest from the Eburones. It will be very much a garrison to control the flank of the army."

"It looks bloody cut-off and dangerous to me, general. It's surrounded to the north and east by the Rhenus and beyond that are half a million angry Germanic monsters looking to rip off our heads and piss down our necks."

"I am assured that the river there is far too wide for a force of any size to cross. If anything, it is a better defensive position than most of the others."

"Still looks damn dangerous to me, general. You really interested in my advice?"

"Go on."

"Either pull them back a way to the west or give them the support of a few veterans at the least. Maybe we can move the Ninth or Tenth up there and leave just one legion floating here?"

Caesar pored over the map for a while and finally tapped the position of Gesoriacum. "This is the most stable region, and the Morini are now thoroughly cowed. We will spare half the garrison legion. Five cohorts of the Eighth under the command of their primus pilus can accompany the Fourteenth to their quarters. A few turmae of cavalry too. You approve?"

Priscus looked across the map, shaking his head. There were so many things of which he did not approve that it was hard to know where to begin. But the worst thing was that every moment longer he stared at the map, the fewer alternatives suggested themselves. It was like playing Latrunculi with Carbo. Despite the centurion's face, full of shiny, pink, open honesty, the man was devious as a snake inside a fox when it came to playing complex games. Every time they played, each new move further restricted Priscus until he reached the point where it mattered not what piece he planned to move, he could see why it would lead to him losing the game.

This map was the same.

He could move a commander to another legion, but in the end, each move left a weak legion with inadequate command, or an inadequate officer with a dangerous command, or a good officer with no one to command. It was hair-tearing. The legions could perhaps be better dispositioned, but only by splitting several legions into several-cohort vexillations, and that not only weakened each legion, but raised the number of commanders required. It seemed that Caesar had placed his pieces in the optimum positions no matter how little Priscus liked it.

Besides, something in the general's demeanour had changed following the arrival of his news and Priscus was far from sure that right now was a good time to start arguing with him. There was a strange feeling of tautness about the great man, as though touching him even with a feather might snap him. He scratched his head.

"While Balventius is going to curse me for sending his boys out there with the Fourteenth, sadly I concur, general. Shall I start to write up the orders?"

"Do so, Priscus. Thank you."

With a weary sigh, the soon-to-be-ex-legate-yet-again turned and left the tent.

Chapter Thirteen

Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth legion and pro-tem commander of the five cohorts attached to the Fourteenth, threw his gaze back and forth along the edge of the woods. Despite their veteran status, the men of the Eighth had been the first selected to scour the countryside and commandeer goods, cut timber and gather supplies - ostensibly because they were the most experienced and prepared for whatever might occur. Balventius had little doubt that in reality they suffered for their commander being subordinate to those of the Fourteenth.

Cotta's legion and its accompanying five cohorts had settled into their winter quarters only two days ago and already the tension was beginning to show between the two commanders, each of whom held the same rank and the same position as one of Caesar's staff, despite their specific assignments here. In a way, the allocation of supply harvesting to the men of the Eighth was a blessed relief, as it kept Balventius out of the constant arguments and disagreements in the command tent. While Sabinus held nominal seniority and Balventius was junior to both of them, the handling of his cohorts was still entirely his responsibility and out here, away from the now-fy-constructed camp, things were simple and military.

His gaze swept back to the fort in the distance and he could almost hear the 'frank exchanges of ideas' from here. The fortified winter quarters lay on raised ground some two miles from the river, several hundred paces from the small coppices and thickets that marked the very edge of the great forest of Arduenna. A steep incline away protected the north, but the forest still had to be cut back sufficiently to give a clear surround to the camp - and to supply timber for interior buildings - another thing that Sabinus and Cotta had argued over the necessity of.

The six centuries of the third cohort chopped wood, stripped the boles of their branches, topped and tailed the timber and then loaded the result into the wagons for transport back to the camp. Only one cohort at a time spent each watch out of the camp on such duties, rotating with the others on his orders, despite the urging of Sabinus and Cotta to speed up the process. While supplies were needed in short order, only a fool committed a third of his entire force to such duties at a time.

And so far Balventius had taken personal command of each cohort, barring his own First, leaving that one to his subordinate. Quite apart from the constant bickering between the commanders, which drove him to leave the camp at every opportunity, something about this place had made him uneasy from the start and Sabinus and Cotta were doing nothing to ease his fears.

And as his gaze made the latest pass of the trees it appeared that those fears had been borne out.

His eye stung from the constant squinting into the sun and the endless clouds of dust rising from the work, but he was alert constantly, regardless. Something first caught his attention on the slope of the low hill off to the copse's right. By the time he had rubbed his eye clear of the dust and focused, he could count more than a dozen figures cresting the hill. Alerted by some unknown sense, he spun only to see other figures rounding the edge of the woods to the far end.

An instant appraisal borne from near five seasons of fighting in Gaul labelled them Germanic. They could be one of the Belgae tribes, but their mad, almost raging scramble towards the fight was symptomatic of those violent tribes from across the Rhenus. They lacked the pomp of the proud Belgae that Balventius had experienced: the carnyx blaring its tortured goat sounds; the waving boar and wolf standards of the Celts; the flanking cavalry that was such a strength of the Gallic tribes that Caesar had been adopting them for years into the Roman force. If they were Belgae or Gauls, they were wild ones, almost as crazed and vicious as the Germanic peoples.