Priscus watched from his place at the head of the Tenth, though he was wondering how much longer he could watch. This was getting embarrassing. The Roman tactics had been fine to begin with, but they needed a unit of men following them, not an individual. The inevitable had happened. The Gaul had turned the edge and had discarded his own shield, subsequently pursuing Fronto most of the way across the arena, chopping chunks out of his shield as he went. Now things were looking a little desperate.
Fronto raised his shield and gladius in the face of a huge sweep from the Gaul’s weapon. The broadsword sheared another small shard from the oval and hit the gladius just below the hilt, missing Fronto’s wrist by only a couple of inches. The strength of the blow ripped the sword from Fronto’s grasp and hurled it twenty feet across the dirt. Several of Fronto’s fingers had been broken by the strike, and maybe his wrist. Priscus, from his vantage point that was now quite close to his legate, had heard the bones crack above the silence the crowd now sat in. The Gaul grinned.
Priscus looked up and around to the three vantage points where Caesar had had archers positioned ‘just in case’. Fronto had immediately rescinded those orders, without deferring to Caesar, and there were now no archers in reserve. Priscus now wished fervently he hadn’t done that.
He turned back and looked down, dreading what he would see, but knowing he had to keep calm in front of the men. Fronto had reached the stockade at the edge of the arena and his back rubbed up against the rough timber. His sword was hopelessly out of reach and the remnants of his shield were so shoddy it could hardly be used to stop another sword-blow. His right arm hung limp where it had been broken by the sword.
The Gaul raised the broadsword high above his head, laughing like a hyena, and brought it back over in an arc toward Fronto; a blow that would split the legate in half or at least crush his head. As the sword reached its apex, Fronto delivered a left-handed punch with a force Priscus couldn’t believe he was still capable of. The hand still tight on the grip of the shattered shield, he rammed it into the Gaul’s face, the bronze dome of the boss breaking bones as he drove it home.
The Gauls cheekbones went, along with his jaw and his nose. His eyes were probably a mess, but Priscus couldn’t see through the large quantities of blood that streamed from the man’s forehead across them.
Domiticus faltered, his sword high in the air, as his nerves told his brain that his face was ruined. Priscus doubted the Gaul could hear or see a thing, and had perhaps even lost track of where he was.
As the Gaul staggered this way and that, the sword still held perfectly aloft, Fronto pulled himself upright, using the stockade for support. He tottered three steps forward and reached up with his good hand. Gently, he plucked the heavy sword from the Gaul’s hands, swung it in a wide arc, and drove it through the warrior, falling as he did, knocking the Gaul to the ground, where the sword pinned him to the dirt as the legate collapsed on top of him.
“Now we’re even, you bastard.”
Everything went black but, as consciousness slipped away, he heard the gurgle that announced the passing of the Gaul, and the day suddenly felt like a victory.
* * * * *
“The doctor tells me he thinks you’ll be able to use your arm again.”
Fronto turned his head painfully and gave Priscus the sourest look he could muster.
“Eleven fractures and breaks from one bloody hit. It’s a damn good job they’re not all like him, or we might as well pack up and go back to Rome. He had a blow like Vulcan’s hammer.”
Priscus smiled at his commander. The man had taken a pounding, but had triumphed, despite the primus pilus’ fears. When Fronto had been carried from the arena, the crowd had gone insane. The legionaries had cheered so loud that Priscus had suffered a headache for hours. The body of the Gaul had been left lying where it had fallen on the dirt. Priscus had stopped by it long enough to wrench the Celtic sword free from the body, but presumed some of the Aedui had come and taken the rest away after the Romans had all left. Frankly, he didn’t much care. Let the murderer rot in the hollow. The sword, on the other hand, was quite a fine one and he had taken it to the best blacksmith in the Tenth, who had given it a sharper edge and cleaned and tidied the blade for him. Now the sword lay next to Fronto’s bed, on the silk sheet in which it had been wrapped; Priscus’ victory gift to his commander.
An orderly entered the tent and placed a fresh bowl of water and a plate of fruit on the side.
Fronto gave another bitter look and called out.
“This is supposed to be a bloody private tent. You lot walk in and out of here like it’s the Via Appia.”
The orderly’s face retained perfect composure. He looked seriously at Fronto and said, as he turned to leave, “Calm down commander. You need rest.”
The young medic left the tent just as the pottery cup bounced off the door frame.
Priscus smiled. “I see you’ve maintained your charm and good humour throughout this. And your left arm seems good, anyway.”
There was a large dressing along the legate’s left forearm, where the blade had caught him, but the majority of the damage Fronto had suffered had been his right arm. His right was fully wrapped and splinted and bound to his torso. Priscus had watched as they’d done it and had marvelled at the glorious yellow and purple colours that blotched his commander’s arm from fingertips to upper arm.
Fronto sighed.
“I am actually left-handed Gnaeus. I could probably function just as well now as I did before this.”
He gestured at his dressings with the good arm.
Priscus nodded. He knew a number of people in the legions that were left-handed, but due to the tactics, equipment and rules of the Roman military, the shield was carried with the left and the sword hung from, and was wielded with, the right. Otherwise the shield wall tactic so favoured by the legions would become a shambles. Consequently, many had had to retrain using their off-hand. Priscus had never realised that his commander was one of them.
“The doctor also said you’d be staying in his care for at least a week before he’d let you go out and about on your own. He wanted me to stress that to you. Everyone knows you have a habit of doing whatever the hell you like.”
Fronto smirked.
“In that case, he probably expects me to stay cooped up in this mobile septic tank for three or four days in reality.”
“Anyway,” Priscus continued “we’re all probably staying put at the moment. We’re waiting for the corn deliveries from the Aedui, and Caesar’s not moving on the Helvetii until he’s very sure of the terrain. The information our allies gave him is inadequate. He asked where they were camped, and the Aedui said: a mountain. He asked them to describe the mountain, and the man just said: it’s a mountain. I think the General gave up then and sent his own scouts out to have a look. They should be back any time now.”
Fronto grimaced as he pulled himself further upright. In addition to his two main wounds, his body was a criss-cross of scars and scratches, and the discolouration of bruises left no large expanse of skin clear.
Priscus hurried to help the legate up, but Fronto pushed him away.
“I’ll stay here until Caesar decides to make a move. I don’t care how infirm I am, I’m not missing that fight. Anyway, it’s more comfortable walking or riding than lying in one of the wounded carts. Rickety bloody things, I’m surprised any of the wounded survive a journey on one.”
Priscus sighed.
“Don’t go running around causing trouble, sir. I’ll let you know well before anything important happens. In the meantime, the sawbones said you need rest and so, if you don’t rest, I shall have to ask him to recommend that you spend the next month in a wagon.”
Fronto glared at Priscus.
“Alright. I’ll not make waves, but you make sure I don’t miss anything.”
“Agreed.”
Priscus turned to leave, but stopped as he reached the doorway.
“The rest of your beloved
fans are here to see you. They’re heading this way like a herd of cattle.”
He looked out of the tent again and grinned.
“Well… like a herd of drunken cattle, anyway.”
He stepped out of the tent and to one side as Balbus, Longinus, Crispus, Galba and Sabinus came barrelling through the open doorway. Each of them was laden. Balbus, Longinus and Galba carried jars of wine and bowls of pastries, Crispus carried dice and a game board, and Sabinus a small wooden box.
“Hail the conquering hero.”
Balbus slumped gratefully into a chair next to the bed.
“I see Priscus has been keeping the seat warm for me.”
He turned to face the door again.
“You’re not going are you, centurion? The fun’s only just starting. We’ve food and wine and games to entertain the invalid.”
Priscus looked in through the tent flaps.
“Much as I’d love to join you, gentlemen, I’ve got to go see the General.”
Balbus shrugged. The others had taken various places around the bed.
“What’s he going to see Caesar about?”
Galba prodded Fronto in the leg from his seated position on a cushion on the floor.
“Never mind. Time for you to relax.”
Fronto looked around. He was surprised to find Sabinus in the company of the legates. In the short time Fronto had been serving with the general staff, Sabinus had rarely exchanged a word with Fronto, and hadn’t spoken at all to the other legates.
“Sabinus. What brings you here with this motley bunch? Doesn’t Caesar need you at headquarters?”
The staff officer smiled at him.
“Just making a delivery and renewing an acquaintance Fronto.”
He reached out with the small wooden box and dropped it gently in Fronto’s lap.
Fronto stared at the box. It was heavy.
“Well, open it.”
Fronto looked up, suspiciously.
“You don’t know this lot, Sabinus. This could contain a scorpion or a turd for all I know.”
Sabinus grinned.
“This hasn’t been anywhere near any of them. Open it.”
Fronto released the catch and swung the lid up. A pile of coins of different denominations glinted within. He looked up questioningly at Sabinus, who nodded at the box.
“Winnings. In actual fact, a share of winnings. A number of soldiers throughout the legions made an awful lot of money out of our Aedui guests by betting on you. The soldiers in the Tenth all chipped in and sent a quarter of the winnings to you.”
Fronto boggled at the box.
“There’s a hell of a lot in there. It’s about a year’s wages for a legionary.”
“Yes. Spend it wisely.” Sabinus and Galba shared a glance. “I would suggest wine, women and song.”
“Well,” Fronto gestured with his good arm, “you’ve brought the wine, I can provide the song. Who’s going to bring me women?”
* * * * *
Priscus jogged down the slope from the headquarters tent to the makeshift hospital. Fronto was sitting, as usual, outside the tent in the warm, late afternoon air, scratching irritably at the dressing on his arm. A large jug of wine and a cup sat on the grass next to him. Occasionally a medic would walk past and ‘tut’ meaningfully at him.
He looked up as a shadow fell across his knees.
“Nice day, Gnaeus. I could get used to this.”
Priscus stopped and leaned on the tent frame for a minute, regaining his breath.
“Don’t… don’t get too used to it. Things are happening.”
Fronto raised an eyebrow.
“The Helvetii?”
Priscus nodded.
“Caesar’s scouts told him that the ascent on the hill should be easy, so Caesar’s decided we’ll go deal with them.”
Fronto smiled and took a swig from the wine.
“Sounds good. I’ll have to have a little word with the doc.”
Priscus shook his head.
“No need. Caesar’s sent your orders.” He gestured with a scroll in his hand. “I’m to give these to the doctor. You’re to dress formally, but without armour, and report to the general staff as soon as you can.”
“What’s the situation, Gnaeus? I can’t go lumbering in without a clue.”
Priscus waved the scroll at a doctor and beckoned him as he spoke.
“Caesar’s sent Labienus in command of the Eighth and the Eleventh to take the high ground above the Helvetii. We’re following up a few hours behind them. This entire hospital unit’s going to be mobilised with the army. The whole camp’s being emptied.”
Fronto smiled.
“It’s been nice being in camp for a few days again, but I suppose we had to move on sometime. At least we might get to deal with the Helvetii for good this time.”
As Priscus went through Caesar’s orders with the doctor, Fronto began gathering up the meagre possessions he had brought to the medical tent. As he left the tent with a single armful of gear, he motioned back inside.
“Gnaeus, could you grab the rest of my stuff for me?”
Priscus nodded, entering the tent and returning with the rest of the legate’s gear in his arms.
“Now let’s go and get you ready so that you can present yourself to Caesar.”
A quarter of an hour later the two officers left Fronto’s tent, Fronto wearing a standard red military tunic and breeches, a cloak thrown over the back to add a little official weight to the ensemble.
Caesar’s command tent was busy. Sabinus stood by the door, deep in conversation with Crassus. He waved a greeting to Fronto as he approached.
Fronto smiled a fixed smile. Sabinus was turning out to be a good man, against all expectations. He still wasn’t sure he liked Crassus though, and he was beginning to form a suspicion that the young man coveted the command of the Tenth. He had begun making noises about the lack of a full-time legate recently, and Priscus had complained about the close attention the young legate had paid the Tenth on their march from Vienna. He would be one to watch, but not to cross lightly, with his father being one of Caesar’s sponsors and one of the more powerful men in Rome. He forced himself to continue smiling.
“Afternoon lads. How’s tricks?”
Crassus made a gesture to indicate that he was bored. Sabinus just sighed.
“Busy as always. We’re all being run ragged to prepare for the off. How’s the arm?”
Fronto shrugged, and winced at the pain the ill-thought out manoeuvre produced.
“I’ll live.”
“Good,” replied Caesar as he stepped through the tent doorway.
“Fronto. I want you with us on the staff in an advisory role for now. I can’t have you charging off and trying to conquer Gaul single handed. You’re convalescing, and I had to argue very hard with the surgeons to get you permission to ride a horse. On no account are you to leave the colour party.”
Fronto nodded to the General.
“Yes sir. Have the cavalry been mobilised yet?”
Caesar raised a hand to shelter his eyes as he gazed into the distance.
“You can still see Longinus and his men on the ridge over there if you strain your eyes. They’ll be moving a little ahead of us as we march.”
Fronto thought for a moment.
“We are presuming here that Labienus has been successful. If not, the cavalry will be unable to deal with anything they might find. Have you given thought to scouts?”
Caesar sighed.
“I want you here in an advisory role, but you don’t need to mother me quite this much, Marcus. Yes, I’ve sent out Publius Considius with the scouting party.”
Fronto frowned.
The general drew himself up to his full height and placed his hands crossly on his hips.
“What now?”
“I know that Considius is a member of the staff, Caesar, but I rather thought that was more as a reward for past deeds than for his active military usefulness.”
/> Caesar bridled.
“Be careful what you say, Fronto. He has considerable seniority over you.”
Fronto shook his head.
“I’m intending no insult Caesar, but I’m a plain speaking man, and if I can foresee a problem, I have to question it. Considius served well under Sulla and Crassus, but that was twenty years ago. He’s seen no active duty since then, and he’s had precious little involvement so far with any of this Gaulish campaign. He’s going to be very rusty and out of touch with tactics. I would very much have advised against that choice sir.”
Caesar put his hands to his forehead in deep thought.
“You can be a trifle inelegant at times, Marcus, but you do talk some sense. However, what’s done is done, and we’ll have to hope he doesn’t get himself into any trouble. At least he should have Labienus ahead to look after him, and Longinus supporting him from the rear.”
Fronto nodded unhappily.
“Is there anything else, sir, or should I find my horse and get ready to ride.”
“You do that Fronto. Be here in twenty minutes. And warn your officers: we march through the night”
* * * * *
Fronto reached out with his good arm, steering the horse with his thighs, and tapped Sabinus on the arm.
“Yes?”
“I presume that’s where we’re headed?”
He pointed into the distance where about a mile and a half away a large peak stood high above the surrounding hills, glowing in the dawn light.
Sabinus nodded and grunted an affirmative.
“Labienus is up there somewhere. Let’s hope he’s managed to avoid any major confrontation with the Helvetii. Otherwise we could be in a world of trouble. What’s that?”
A column of dust rose up from the hillside a little ahead.
“Horsemen,” replied Fronto, shading his eyes from the glare on the white peak ahead. “Looks like irregular cavalry.”
Caesar pulled the vanguard to a halt. The legions ceased their steady tramping as they came to a stop in perfect unison. The staff officers pulled forward into a horseshoe, waiting for the half-dozen riders.
Marius' Mules Page 20
