Marius' Mules XIV, page 37
Simply grateful that the war could be ended without another protracted siege, Fabius Maximus and the other legates had listened to the terms the merchant offered on behalf of the town and had agreed to them. The military therein would be disarmed and retired with no punishment. The people of Urso would be allowed to continue about their life undisturbed, paying only a small reparation for their part in the war, which would in the end help pay for the settlement of the veterans.
That had been this morning. Since then the army had gradually taken control of the town, and Fabius had composed reports for the general, which had been sent off with a courier just after noon. The rebels were done. The war was over. No town in the peninsula now held out against Caesar. The land was just tired and desired nothing more than to return to peace and attempt to rebuild.
Fronto took a last look at Urso on the brow of the hill, at the camp of the disarmed garrison now under watch by men of Caesar’s legions, and slipped into the command tent.
‘Gods but are you always this late, Fronto? Caesar warned me you were never on time.’
A chorus of chuckles suggested that the wine had been open for a while already. Fronto glowered at his peers. ‘I was under the impression this was an informal gathering. I can always piss off back to my own tent. I’ve a letter to write.’
There were nods at that. Every man here had spent time writing to their loved ones since the fall of Urso. Fronto found an empty seat and sank into it. Before he could do anything about his drink, Fabius’ slave hurried over with a fin, brightly-coloured glass goblet and took the jug from the legate, pouring a glass and then cutting it with a generous amount of water. Fronto narrowed his eyes, determining that if the slave were to be so generous with the water, he might have to pour his own from now on.
‘I’ve had word from the general,’ Fabius said. ‘I was just telling everyone.’
‘Do your messengers have wings now?’
‘What?’
‘You only sent your report this afternoon and Gades is eighty miles or more from here.’
Fabius rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not a reply, Fronto. Caesar’s courier was bound for Munda, but passed through here on the way and happened upon us. The general is finished with Gades and has moved to Hispalis. There he intends to spend two months settling the affairs of Hispania before returning to Rome. Sadly that means that my reports will reach an empty palace in Gades and have to be forwarded on. But still, two more months and then home.’
Fronto sagged. ‘I was just telling my wife I would be home soon.’
Fabius nodded wearily. ‘I think we’re all looking forward to going home, but Caesar is rather insistent that we stay on and return with him. It would not look good if the moment the fighting was done all his officers buggered off into retirement. He wants us to be visible all over the peninsula for a couple of months to remind everyone that the republic is back in control, and when he returns to Rome he wants to do it with his officers and entourage. Imagine how it’s going to go down in Rome, Fronto. The war being over. Caesar coming home. It’ll be big. The biggest thing in Rome in decades.’
‘I have never been to Rome,’ Tribune Niger murmured quietly. ‘I think I shall enjoy that.’
‘Nowhere like it,’ Fabius replied. ‘Greatest city in the world.’
‘Smells like a horse with diarrhoea in the summer and like frozen vomit in the winter. Full of squawking noblewomen and senators who can bore you to death without even opening their mouths. You’ll love it.’
Fabius gave him an odd look and Fronto hissed through his teeth and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before picking up his glass and taking a mouthful. ‘I’ve walked away from the legions a few times, Quintus, and I’ve always come back. I’ve only ever felt at home on the battlefield but, you know what? I think these last few years have ended that for me. I’m finally ready. I’m prepared to try my hand at gardening. Or fishing. Or just sitting on the veranda with my boys and telling them stories. I’m ready to go home, if Rome could be said to be home.’
‘Will you stay in Rome, then?’ Niger asked him. ‘I understand you have land in Hispania.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I’ve a villa near Tarraco. I like it there, but I think I want the boys to experience Rome for a year or two. It’ll do them good. Teach them how corrupt and shitty a city can get, at least, make them appreciate the provinces. Then, yes, Tarraco.’
He looked across at Atenos, whose expression was unreadable, but certainly not content. ‘And many of my friends from the Tenth will be settled nearby at Narbo.’
Atenos caught his eye, frowning, but saying nothing.
‘Well whatever the future holds, at least we should have seen the last of blood,’ Fabius sighed, gesturing to the slave who crossed the tent and refilled his glass.
‘We’ll all drink to that.’
* * *
Sextus Pompey climbed the ramp of the merchant ship and turned to look back. The city of Carthago Nova sat noisy and filled with life, encircled by high, grey hills, the arms reaching out to the waterline. The ship rocked gently even here in the harbour.
Behind him his small guard of nine men helped bring his pack horses aboard. The ship’s owner, a trader out of Agrigentum, was barely looking at him. The man might be slightly more animated if he knew that the rich man he’d agreed to transport back to Sicilia on his return journey was Sextus Pompey, the sole surviving architect of the resistance to Caesar. The last republican in the republic, in Sextus’ opinion. He was going by the name of Marcus Oppimius Marsala for the moment, a rich equestrian with a thriving business, a corporation controlling several quarries of marble and other valuable stones. Ostensibly he was visiting Sicilia to arrange new contracts for his goods. His heavy saddle bags and chests on the cart contained samples of his wares. Indeed, if one opened any of them, one would find just such. Marble, tufa, sandstone and more. One would have to dig to find the layer of rough sacks and then, beneath it the wealth of gold and silver brought from Corduba before it fell.
For Sextus Pompey had absolutely no intention of simply lying down and handing power and control to Caesar. His father had been the greatest general in Roman history and had stood between Caesar and despotism. His brother had been foolhardy, listening to that lunatic Labienus and marching out to fight Caesar, when making the general sweat to take cities had been the clear solution. And what had they to show for it? Labienus suckling the teat of Hades in the soil of Munda and Gnaeus’ head rotting on a spear tip at Hispalis.
He could see Philo, his secretary, giving him a strange look and turned his back on the man. Philo was worried. There was nowhere in the republic they could go, the secretary had said in one of his most outspoken moments. Nowhere that the name of Pompey continued to carry any weight.
Sextus knew different. He had friends here and there, and he had a large sum of money. He would disappear for a time, living a quiet and lucrative life with a small entourage, building a new web of contacts and allies. Oh, there was no one left willing to stand against Caesar now. But within a year the general would think everything had settled and all was peace. His legions would be stood down and retired. His focus would be on Rome, his Aegyptian bitch of a lover and his half-breed runt of a son, on the gold of that ancient land, on the trouble in Syria and on the ever-present threat of Parthia. His gaze would ever look east.
And then Pompey would rise once more. When Caesar thought he was safe, he would almost certainly continue his empire building, pissing off the wrong people, and then, when the despot had almost forgotten he existed, Sextus would return to Hispania and begin again, raising new armies and preparing for war, for Caesar may have suppressed the peninsula, but he’d not conquered it. Once his grip had loosened sufficiently, Hispania would again seethe with resentment, ready for a new uprising.
The ship lurched as the sailors pulled in the ropes.
Philo was waving him over. Sextus Pompey was a far too recognisable face, even with his burgeoning beard, and Philo had worried all the way from Corduba that someone would recognise them, take all the gold, imprison them and deliver them to Caesar. Once they were out to sea, they should be safe. And landing in Sicilia they would swiftly be among friends.
Yes, he decided as the ship slid between the arms of the harbour, slipping out into the sea and away from the high grey peaks, yes, the world had not seen the last of Sextus Pompey.
And the next time, he would do it right.
Chapter 25
June 45 BC
‘I am considering issuing commemorative coinage,’ Caesar mused as his body slave massaged the day’s tension from his shoulders.
Fronto glanced across at Galronus, but the Remi’s expression was unreadable.
‘For a tree?’
‘Sorry?’ Caesar opened his eyes and turned to Fronto.
‘You’re commemorating a tree? Did something hit you in the head today?’
They both turned to look at the tree. As palm trees went, it was not a spectacular specimen. It was straggly, partially denuded and looked thirsty and brown, but… it was a tree.
‘What the tree represents, Fronto. The new shoot. We will have to issue new coinage, anyway, of course. I will run any decisions by the vigintivirate in Rome, but with appropriate permissions that I am sure I can secure, we could have them minted directly in Hispania, since the silver will come from here anyway. It seems appropriate to celebrate the return of the peninsula to the republic with Hispanic silver minted on Hispanic soil. The tree is an excellent analogy for what has happened here.’
‘It’s an excellent analogy for firewood,’ Fronto murmured.
The tree was starting to annoy him now. A week ago it had been funny, but the humour in it had waned with experience. They only had Caesar’s word for it that the tree marked his position during the siege, and the general hadn’t even been involved in the fighting anyway, being a bystander at best.
The general had been staying and working in the forum of Hispalis for the past half month when he’d visited the army’s camp outside the city and discovered the tree – the army was, of course, camped a polite distance from the walls, in the same place it had been when Hispalis was under siege.
The story was already spreading throughout the army, and the province beyond. A tree that Caesar had used as his command position during the siege of Hispalis, and which had appeared to be dead, had given off a new green shoot immediately following the fall of the rebel stronghold. It was a major omen, apparently. Priests and augurs were overjoyed, reading great things into it, for Caesar, for the republic, for Hispania. Caesar was already seeing it as the omen of a new, fresh Hispania, loyal and powerful under his aegis.
Fronto was seeing it differently. His pragmatic mind told him that Caesar had selected the tree as his supposed command point because of the shoot. He seemed to remember Caesar’s tent being considerably further to the north, and he was sure Caesar simply stood out the front of his tent. And the general had had about as much to do with the taking of Hispalis as he’d had to do with suckling Romulus and Remus. Fronto knew, because he’d been there. And he’d seen palm trees, too. That green shoot was half a year old in his opinion. Whoever had started this rumour about the magical tree had overlooked a number of fairly simple facts. But that was the thing about priests and augurs. They never let the facts get in the way of a good story. And Caesar was, of course, using it to his advantage. The general had never been more popular, and this tale was probably already crossing the sea to be passed from breathless peasant to breathless peasant across the republic.
Another slave approached Fronto, bowing his head and offering a towel and a massage. Fronto shook his head, waving him away and calling for the wine boy instead, then grumbling as he had to wait for Galronus to have his wine poured first. When had things changed so much that Gauls were served wine before Romans?
‘Perhaps it could even be seen as a validation of everything we have done,’ Caesar added, then groaned gently as the slave began to pound his shoulder.
‘So you’re going to use it as an excuse to conquer some more?’ Fronto grumbled, watching the wine boy and Galronus impatiently.
Caesar threw him a sharp look. ‘I forget sometimes how outspoken you can be, Fronto.’ He sighed. ‘But in essence you’re not far from the mark.’
‘If you don’t stand the legions down and agree to let go the dictatorship, you’re going to make a lot of enemies in Rome. You’re immensely popular right now, but there are still those who think you aim for a crown. Don’t feed their rumours.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘I don’t mean to do it like that. Not like a king. But I have plans, for the republic. Until Rome no one could have matched the empire of Alexander.’
‘Not this again,’ Fronto grunted, rolling his eyes and holding out his glass as the wine boy finally reached him. Many years ago, when they’d first been in Hispania together, Caesar had picked up a minor obsession with the Macedonian king and his exploits. He’d vowed to better them. It had not been mentioned in so long that Fronto had almost forgotten about it.
‘It is a matter of pride in the republic, Fronto, not personal glory.’
‘Of course not. How could that be,’
Another acidic glance from the general.
‘The simple fact is, Fronto, that with the addition of Gaul to the republic, we are close to being able to challenge Alexander. Rome will be the greatest empire the world has ever known, and I will help to make that happen.’
‘You know an empire has an emperor, don’t you?’
‘Fronto, I am talking about expansion. About a republic that spans the world, unopposed. Now that things are settled across the west, only the east remains to be dealt with. Syria is in foment, and needs to be settled.’
‘Not by swords. Not with blood.’
‘However it can be. It needs to happen. But we are almost ready to accept Aegyptus into our great republic. Its days as an empire of its own are long gone, and its time as a client state are more or less ended. The young Ptolemy pup has no destiny of rule, and Cleopatra sees the future of her people as part of Rome. Within my lifetime, and I have a good decade of activity in me yet, Fronto, I will see Aegyptus as a province of Rome. Soon, I hope. And If I can secure the governorship of that new province, basing myself in Alexandria, I can turn my attention towards Rome’s other great enemy of old.’
‘The camel? The pyramid? The dung beetle?’
‘Fronto, I swear you are deliberately trying to rile me.’
‘Sorry. I’m tired.’
‘Centuries ago, the Gauls sacked our holy places. They invaded Rome itself. For hundreds of years, the people of Rome lived with the shadow of the savage Gaul over them. Now they are free of it. Those savage Gauls who sacked Rome wear togas and drink wine.’
Fronto threw a look at Galronus with a wicked grin. The Remi, clad in a Roman tunic and holding a glass of wine, narrowed his eyes dangerously.
‘The other ancient enemy,’ Caesar went on, ‘is Parthia. Alexander managed to conquer them, but his premature death and the collapse of his empire without an heir saw it separate once more and rise again into a dangerous power. From a Roman Aegyptus, if Syria is settled, we can campaign against Parthia and bring that ancient land into the republic. Then we will have outdone Alexander, and our borders will sport no dangerous ancient enemy. Admit it, Fronto, that this is something to value.’
‘Convenient that it also gives you the opportunity to start again as you did in Gaul.’
‘It has value.’
‘Parthia is a field of death. Everyone who attacks Parthia loses. Alexander, dead of fever… in Parthia. Crassus. Lost in battle and, if the rumours are true, executed by having molten gold poured into his avaricious mouth… in Parthia. Is further conquest truly that important?’
‘You would have me retire? Fronto, I know you and your friends refer to me as the old man, but I am fifty five summers, no more. I’ve only a few years on you. Crassus was seven years older than I when he invaded Parthia. Pompey was two years older than I am now when he led the opposition against us. Are you ready to lay down your sword?’
Fronto shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His wine seemed to have evaporated rather fast. He waved the slave over and was further annoyed that the boy once again went first to Galronus, who was still glaring at him over the Gaul comments.
‘You know what, Caesar? I am. I’m ready. I promised Lucilia that this would be my last campaign. I missed my boys growing up so far, and I don’t want to miss the rest. And I’m getting creaky.’
‘You will move into politics?’
Fronto snorted. ‘Hardly. If I were going to do that I’d have climbed the cursus like a good little patrician long ago. No. I intend to retire. Properly retire.’
Caesar gave a light chuckle. ‘If anyone had asked me back in Cremona when we first prepared to move against the Helvetii, when you were wearing that gods-awful cloak your sister made you, what Fronto would be like in fourteen years’ time after fighting across half the world, the last phrase that would have leapt to my mind was family man.’
‘Well I changed. You will, too, now you have a son.’
The general’s face took on a troubled look and Fronto regretted bringing it up, for the mood changed in an instant. Caesar could adopt Caesarion into his family, but the public outrage might just bring him down. It would be killing the general inside to finally have a true son and heir, but not to be able to acknowledge him as such without putting any reputation and inheritance in jeopardy.
