close to Samarobriva—about twenty-five miles away, on the border between the Bellovaci and the Ambiani. Take the Eighth. Fabius, you'll stay here in Portus Itius with the Seventh. Quintus Cicero, you and the Ninth will go to the Nervii. Roscius, you can enjoy some peace and quiet—I'm sending you and the Fifth Alauda down among the Esubii, just to let the Celtae know that I haven't forgotten they exist.”
“You're expecting trouble among the Belgae,” said Labienus, frowning. “I agree they've been too quiet. Do you want me to go to the Treveri as usual?”
“Not quite so far away as Treves. Among the Treveri but adjacent to the Remi. Take the cavalry as well as the Eleventh.”
“Then I'll sit myself down on the Mosa near Virodunum. If the snow isn't ten feet deep, there'll be plenty of grazing.” Caesar rose to his feet, the signal for dismissal. He had called his legates together the moment he came ashore, which meant he wanted the eight legions at present encamped at Portus Itius shifted to their permanent winter quarters immediately. Even so, all the legates were now aware that it had been Julia who died. The news had been contained in many letters to those like Labienus who had not gone to Britannia. But no one said a word.“ You'll be nice and cozy,” said Labienus to Trebonius as they walked away. The big horse's teeth showed. “Sabinus's stupidity staggers me! If he'd kept his mouth shut, he'd be cozy. Fancy spending the winter up there not so far from the mouth of the Mosa, with the wind shrieking, the sea flooding in, the hills rocks, the flat ground salt fen or peat marsh, and the Germans sniffing up your arse when the Eburones and Nervii aren't.”
“They can get to the sea for fish, eels and sea-bird eggs,” said Trebonius.“ Thank you, I'm happy with freshwater fish, and my servants can keep chickens.”
“Caesar definitely thinks there's going to be trouble.”
“Either that, or he's cultivating an excuse not to have to return to Italian Gaul for the winter.”
“Eh?”
“Oh, Trebonius, he doesn't want to have to face all those Romans! He'd be accepting condolences from Salona to Ocelum, and spend the whole winter terrified that he might break down.”
Trebonius stopped, his rather mournful grey eyes startled. “I didn't know you understood him so well, Labienus.”
“I've been with him since he came among the Long-hairs.”
“But Romans don't consider it unmanly to weep!”
“Nor did he when he was young. But he wasn't Caesar then in anything but name.”
“Eh?”
“It's not a name anymore,” said Labienus with rare patience. “It's a symbol.”
“Oh!” Trebonius resumed walking. “I miss Decimus Brutus!” he said suddenly. “Sabinus is no substitute.”
“He'll be back. You all itch for Rome occasionally.”
“Except you.” Caesar's senior legate grunted. “I know when I'm well off.”
“So do I. Samarobriva! Imagine, Labienus! I'll be living in a real house with heated floors and a bathtub.”
“Sybarite,” said Labienus.
Correspondence with the Senate was copious and had to be attended to before anything else, which kept Caesar busy for three days. Outside the General's wooden house the legions were on the move, not a process which created a great deal of fuss or noise; the paperwork could proceed in tranquillity. Even the torpid Gaius Trebatius was flung into the whirlpool, for Caesar had a habit of dictating to three secretaries at once, pacing between the figures hunched over their waxed tablets, giving each a couple of rapid sentences before going on to the next one, never tangling subjects or thoughts. It was his awesome capacity for work had won Trebatius's heart. Difficult to hate a man who could keep so many pots on the boil at one and the same time.
But finally the personal letters had to be dealt with, for more communications from Rome kept coming in every day. It was eight hundred miles from Portus Itius to Rome along roads which were
“You're expecting trouble among the Belgae,” said Labienus, frowning. “I agree they've been too quiet. Do you want me to go to the Treveri as usual?”
“Not quite so far away as Treves. Among the Treveri but adjacent to the Remi. Take the cavalry as well as the Eleventh.”
“Then I'll sit myself down on the Mosa near Virodunum. If the snow isn't ten feet deep, there'll be plenty of grazing.” Caesar rose to his feet, the signal for dismissal. He had called his legates together the moment he came ashore, which meant he wanted the eight legions at present encamped at Portus Itius shifted to their permanent winter quarters immediately. Even so, all the legates were now aware that it had been Julia who died. The news had been contained in many letters to those like Labienus who had not gone to Britannia. But no one said a word.“ You'll be nice and cozy,” said Labienus to Trebonius as they walked away. The big horse's teeth showed. “Sabinus's stupidity staggers me! If he'd kept his mouth shut, he'd be cozy. Fancy spending the winter up there not so far from the mouth of the Mosa, with the wind shrieking, the sea flooding in, the hills rocks, the flat ground salt fen or peat marsh, and the Germans sniffing up your arse when the Eburones and Nervii aren't.”
“They can get to the sea for fish, eels and sea-bird eggs,” said Trebonius.“ Thank you, I'm happy with freshwater fish, and my servants can keep chickens.”
“Caesar definitely thinks there's going to be trouble.”
“Either that, or he's cultivating an excuse not to have to return to Italian Gaul for the winter.”
“Eh?”
“Oh, Trebonius, he doesn't want to have to face all those Romans! He'd be accepting condolences from Salona to Ocelum, and spend the whole winter terrified that he might break down.”
Trebonius stopped, his rather mournful grey eyes startled. “I didn't know you understood him so well, Labienus.”
“I've been with him since he came among the Long-hairs.”
“But Romans don't consider it unmanly to weep!”
“Nor did he when he was young. But he wasn't Caesar then in anything but name.”
“Eh?”
“It's not a name anymore,” said Labienus with rare patience. “It's a symbol.”
“Oh!” Trebonius resumed walking. “I miss Decimus Brutus!” he said suddenly. “Sabinus is no substitute.”
“He'll be back. You all itch for Rome occasionally.”
“Except you.” Caesar's senior legate grunted. “I know when I'm well off.”
“So do I. Samarobriva! Imagine, Labienus! I'll be living in a real house with heated floors and a bathtub.”
“Sybarite,” said Labienus.
Correspondence with the Senate was copious and had to be attended to before anything else, which kept Caesar busy for three days. Outside the General's wooden house the legions were on the move, not a process which created a great deal of fuss or noise; the paperwork could proceed in tranquillity. Even the torpid Gaius Trebatius was flung into the whirlpool, for Caesar had a habit of dictating to three secretaries at once, pacing between the figures hunched over their waxed tablets, giving each a couple of rapid sentences before going on to the next one, never tangling subjects or thoughts. It was his awesome capacity for work had won Trebatius's heart. Difficult to hate a man who could keep so many pots on the boil at one and the same time.
But finally the personal letters had to be dealt with, for more communications from Rome kept coming in every day. It was eight hundred miles from Portus Itius to Rome along roads which were