The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  He became aware that Galba and Rufus were staring at him in disbelief and that Crispus had joined in the arm motions encouraging him to calm down. For a moment, he wondered whether he’d had too much to drink, but the drink-fuelled courage told him that was stupid and he had an important point to make. Can’t back down now…

  “A waste though, don’t you think? Sacrificing a veteran legion just to get an inconvenience out of the way?”

  There was a crunch and Fronto’s world went black.

  Balbus rubbed his balled fist and sank back down to his seat as the unconscious form of his best friend slid gracelessly from the bench. Crispus stared, his head snapping back and forth between the equally startled Galba and Rufus, the heap that was Fronto, and finally to the silent crowd in the street who had, to a man, stopped whatever they were doing to stare into the tavern yard. Sighing, Crispus stood and turned to look over the wall.

  “I am going to count to three!” he shouted. “And any man I can still see when I get there is on latrine duty until they get pensioned out!”

  The street burst into life as men ran this way and that to clear out of the furious young legate’s gaze. Balbus looked up at him.

  “Thank you.”

  Labienus stared at Balbus and slowly began to smile.

  “No, Quintus. Thank you!”

  “He’s just had a little too much. No harm done, eh?”

  Labienus gave a pointed look to everyone round the table.

  “No… no harm done. Just jesting, eh?”

  With a sigh, Balbus stood and gestured toward the heap of legate opposite him.

  “Crispus? Give me a hand getting him to his quarters would you? I think I may have damaged my fist.”

  As the two men collected Fronto and dragged him up, draping him between them, Balbus clenched and released his fist several times. Each time he did, there was an unpleasant crunching sound and he winced with pain.

  “Damn, that man has a hard jaw!”

  Crispus tried not to laugh.

  “I think you must have a pretty hard hand, Quintus. I hope you haven’t broken him. His nose is a funny shape.”

  Balbus shrugged.

  “You know Fronto. I can’t believe this is the first broken nose he’s ever had.”

  Quietly they lifted Fronto and, with a wave of acknowledgement to their companions, left the tavern yard and walked out and down the street toward the bridge and the military compounds beyond.

  * * * * *

  Fronto was still unconscious as the two legates dumped him unceremoniously on his bed, though whether through his injury or substantial consumption of alcohol was a matter for debate. They had collared a legionary at the entrance to the camp of the Tenth, telling the guards that their legate had had an accident and to call for a medic.

  Crispus looked up at Balbus from where he sat on the edge of the cot, his face filled with concern.

  “Do you think he’s alright? I thought he would have woken by now.”

  Balbus shrugged.

  “He’s still breathing. You can hear that from the nasty bubbling sound!”

  The younger legate tried, unsuccessfully, not to smirk. They’d had to shut Fronto up, clearly. His mouth had seriously run away with him in a public place, but when it came right down to it, Crispus was convinced the man was right. Moreover he was sure the same was true of Balbus and the others and, indeed, every legionary that had been in the street. Still, casting aspersions about the morals and the ability of some of the highest members of the patrician class was a career breaking move, guaranteed.

  And Fronto, while his rank indicated he was from a patrician family, from everything else, it was just as clear that they were one of the less noble and haughty families and even that Fronto held most of his own class in particularly low esteem. That was one of the things that truly fascinated Crispus about the unconscious bloody mess snoring noisily next to him. Until he’d been appointed to the Eleventh, he was ashamed to admit, he’d hardly ever even spared a thought for anyone of a rank lower than equites. And now, a year of friendship with this man had changed him so much that often he found himself considering the results of any potential action on the common people before his own. Such an un-Roman viewpoint, it constantly amazed him.

  His attention was brought sharply back into focus by a knocking on the door. Balbus, leaning against the tall cabinet by one wall and wiping his forehead with his scarf, turned and called out.

  “Come!”

  The door opened. Crispus was surprised to see not a doctor, but a legionary in his armour, without weapon, shield or helmet.

  The young capsarius bowed curtly.

  “Sirs.”

  Balbus smiled benignly at the young man.

  “Florus, yes? I remember you. I take it the medicus was otherwise occupied?”

  Florus smiled weakly.

  “Errr… Sort of, sir.”

  A raised eyebrow.

  “He said he wasn’t going to treat the legate for another drink-related injury and that I could handle it, sir!”

  Balbus’ grin widened.

  “What does he do to get this kind of reputation with the medical service?”

  Florus gabbled hurriedly “It’s alright though, sir. I’m well trained. I almost certainly can handle it, sir.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  Crispus had been sitting frowning as he looked the young soldier up and down. Young? Ha. There was probably only a couple of years between the two of them. With a flash of memory, he suddenly remembered where they’d met. After the battle against Ariovistus last year, when Fronto’d had that bite wound on his heel. He joined Balbus in the smiling.

  “I suspect your legate has a broken nose. Apart from that, he should be fine, other than a nasty bump from where the bench hit him in the back of the head…”

  Florus wandered over to the cot and knelt to examine his commander. The nose was, indeed, distinctly misaligned.

  His tongue poking gently from the corner of his mouth, Florus reached down to his belt and unfastened his small medical pack, which he dropped to the floor beside him. Professionalism taking over, he looked across to the young legate sitting next to him.

  “Could I ask that you hold the patient very steady?”

  Crispus nodded and reached across, holding Fronto down by the shoulders.

  “I think you will find that he’s fairly anaesthetised anyway; in fact, he’s been anaesthetising himself for around five hours now. You could probably amputate his leg without waking him.”

  Florus gave a curious little half-smile.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”

  Crispus glanced sharply at the young man, who smiled widely.

  “Sorry, sir. I just mean that the legate’s nose has actually been misaligned for years. A decade or more probably. Must have had a nasty break some time. I’ve been dying for an excuse to straighten it.”

  Behind him Balbus gave a deep belly-laugh.

  “Most of Fronto’s charm comes from his oddities, doctor.”

  “On three?” said Florus. Crispus nodded.

  “One.” The young man settled over the legate and reached down to his face.

  “Two.” Gritting his teeth, he grasped Fronto’s nose carefully but firmly.

  “Three!”

  As Crispus held Fronto tightly down and Balbus looked on expectantly, the legate’s nose returned to a perfectly straight position with a crack and a small spatter of blood that caught Crispus across the upper arm. Fronto never even flinched, though the pitch of his snore changed instantly.

  “Apologies, sir.”

  Crispus laughed.

  “I’ve been covered in more than that in my time with the Eleventh. And there’s more coming yet, soldier.”

  Florus smile faded slightly.

  “Of course, sir.”

  As silence fell, Florus carefully wiped up the blood from around the break.

  “Is that it?” Crispus asked in surpr
ise.

  “That’s it, sir. Set it back and wait.”

  “But do you not have to apply splints or pack the nose or anything?”

  Florus smiled again.

  “It’ll heal on its own sir, in good time. Tomorrow it’ll swell and the bruising will come. I’ll only start to worry about complications if it’s not back to almost normal in a week. It’ll be tender for a while though. And…” He looked up at the two legates in the room. “And it’ll be obvious that he’s got a broken nose, sirs. No one will believe he had an accident.”

  He frowned as he looked carefully at Balbus.

  “If it’s not an impertinent question, sir…”

  Balbus smiled.

  “Go on…”

  “Is it vaguely possible that during the legate’s… erm… difficulty, he accidentally fell nose-first onto your hand?”

  Behind him it was Crispus’ turn to laugh out loud.

  Balbus frowned.

  “Only,” the capsarius added quickly, “it looks like that was a very heavy blow and if that was the case, I really ought to check your hand over for fractures, sir?”

  Balbus sighed.

  “I’d rather it didn’t go racing round the camps that one of their commanders had to break the nose of another, Florus, if you get my drift?”

  The young man nodded.

  “Of course, sir. I am the very soul of discretion.”

  Before he let go of Fronto, however, he gently rolled him to one side and examined the back of the legate’s head. There was a bloody patch but, as he gently probed the wound, he found no sign of a break or anything more serious than cuts and bruises.

  “Legate Fronto will be fine,” the young man said as he gently lowered his patient back to the bed. “I’ll check on him from time to time, though I suspect he’ll be out for a while yet.”

  He walked over to Balbus and gestured to the campaign chair nearby. The older legate sat with a sigh of relief and held his hand out open, palm down. Florus took it gently and started manipulating it, lifting the fingers gently one by one and folding them back toward the palm. As he reached the middle finger, he heard a gasp from his patient and looked up to see Balbus’ eyes watering.

  “Sorry sir.”

  “Don’t be. I take it that’s broken.”

  Florus nodded.

  “Not badly, though, sir. I could bind and bandage your fingers or your entire hand, but it would be fairly obvious to everyone how the injuries had occurred.”

  As Balbus frowned, Florus smiled.

  “Or you could just be very, very careful sir and let it heal as is. Without binding it to another finger, you run certain risks of later troubles or diminished movement.”

  Balbus grunted unhappily.

  “How long will it take to mend?”

  Florus shrugged.

  “A week or two and it should be strong enough to use for ordinary everyday purposes. There will be a little bruising, sir, but with it being that finger, it shouldn’t be too bad. The medicus has a paste, sir that seriously decreases bruising and dramatically reduces healing time, but he doesn’t dole it out unless it’s critical. It comes from some kind of tree and gets imported through Arabia or Egypt from past the Parthian Empire, so it’s very hard to get hold of and extremely expensive.”

  Balbus’ jaw took on a firm set.

  “I think I can persuade him to part with some of it. We may be back in action in a couple of weeks and both Fronto and I need to be at full fighting fitness before then.”

  Florus stepped back and stood up.

  “I had heard we were marching north, sir. Against someone called the Belgae?”

  Balbus nodded.

  “I think so. Possibly even all of the Belgae.”

  Florus frowned.

  “Are they worse than the other Gaulish tribes, sir? People seem to be frightened of them.”

  Crispus cleared his throat. In his mind he pictured the map of the tribes.

  “Actually, they’re not Gauls at all, Florus. They’re separate, like the Germans. And they’re split into their own tribes like the Gauls and the Germans are. The Geographies I read always refer to the Gauls, the Belgae, the Germans and the Aquitanii as ‘peoples’ and then the subdivisions as ‘tribes’.

  He thought for a moment.

  “Though I rather fancy that these are names that were given them by our own geographers many years ago and that they use their own names. The Gauls, for instance, call themselves ‘Celts’. It’s all a little complex and jumbled really.”

  Florus nodded soberly.

  “But they are the worst of all, though, sir?”

  “That’s what they say, soldier. Whether they can withstand the advance of Roman iron remains to be seen, I suppose.”

  The young capsarius nodded again.

  “Then I’d better make sure my kit is well prepared. Is there anything else I can do, sirs?”

  Crispus looked up questioningly at Balbus, who shook his head.

  “I think that’s all, Florus, thank you. Please inform your medicus that the legates of the Eighth and Eleventh will be dropping by shortly to requisition a little of his expensive oriental paste, if you would?”

  Florus nodded with a smile and, bowing, turned and left the building.

  Crispus looked down at the unconscious patient and then up at Balbus with a smile.

  “He’s not going to be able to do much about that but admit to it.”

  Balbus nodded.

  “But the soldiers wouldn’t dare mention it, and those of us that are close enough to do so know him well enough we know exactly what to expect. He’ll just have to come up with some convincing and exciting lie.”

  He sighed and stood.

  “Come on. We need to go get some of that stuff from the doctor before my hand starts to blossom.”

  “What about him?”

  Balbus smiled like an indulgent father.

  “He’ll sleep for hours yet.”

  * * * * *

  “Enter!”

  The three men at the door to Caesar’s office looked at one another. Fronto entered first, followed by Balbus, with Balventius bringing up the rear and closing the door. The general sat behind his desk scribbling on a tablet. Without looking up, he swept his arm, indicating the three seats across the table from him.

  Wordlessly, the men took their seats and waited patiently for Caesar to finish his administrative tasks. After a moment, the tablet snapped shut and the general placed his stylus neatly alongside it, pushed them off to his left and then, in a moment of obsession, lined them up neatly with the edge of the table. After that he sat back, raised his head, took a deep breath, laid his hands on the table before him and tapped rhythmically.

  “Your face is a mess, Fronto.”

  “Yeth, thir.”

  “Any point in me asking?”

  Fronto swallowed noisily.

  “Twipped on a wabbit hole, thir.”

  Caesar stared at him.

  “Stop that. You sound like an idiot.”

  “Thir?”

  “People always resort to slurring and impedimented speech when they have a nasal injury or a heavy cold. It’s all psychosomatic, just like limping. Force yourself to talk properly, man.”

  “Yes, general.”

  The look of startled realization on Fronto’s face threatened to make Balbus laugh. Caesar pulled himself straighter.

  “Alright, gentlemen. Time for action.”

  The three men blinked and Caesar nodded, as if in answer to an internal question.

  “Firstly, tell me about my two new legions.”

  “Well…” Balventius leaned forward. “I think we’re narrowly avoiding serious trouble, particularly with the Fourteenth. It’s ridiculous, general. They’re encamped between all the other legions, but none of them will even exchange a greeting with the new men. Everyone looks down on them. And it’s not helped by the fact that the new legions are staying firmly in their own camp and not even trying to interact. Hel
l, sir… they don’t even speak Latin when they’re amongst their own.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “That’s not good at all. I’ll have to do something about this. Or rather, perhaps I should say ‘I’ll have to have something done about it.’”

  The other officers’ turn to frown.

  “Caesar?”

  “First let me explain the two legions to you. I know you’re aware of their origin. However, you won’t have the details. Neither of them currently has a legate assigned. I was, unfortunately, a little tied with potential recruits. I would have preferred all Latin speaking recruits and to have filled every centurion and optio role with a veteran from Aquileia or Cremona.”

  He sighed.

  “Unfortunately, I couldn't find enough suitable men. So, what I have done is given preference to one of them: the Thirteenth has all Latin-speaking legionaries, and each officer is a Roman veteran. I don't want to assign any of my current staff to them, as most would take the assignment as a demotion, given the Gaulish nature of the Thirteenth.”

  He smiled and shifted his gaze between the two legates.

  “So, for the time being, I want you two, Balbus and Fronto, to maintain command of the Thirteenth between you, as well as your own. You have the patience to work with them. I want them fully Romanised, integrated into my army and proud of their eagle. You two can give them that. Once they're settled and proved, I'll look at assigning them a legate of their own.”

  Fronto and Balbus looked at one another. The older legate raised an eyebrow and Fronto shrugged, immediately wincing at a number of bruises and pulled muscles from his ‘fall’.

  “We can do that, Caesar,” Balbus nodded. “And what of the Fourteenth, then?”

  The general’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

  “Sadly, the Fourteenth will take considerably more effort. Only around a half of them speak Latin with more than a few words. Less than a quarter of the centurionate are Roman veterans; the rest are minor chieftains among the Aedui. In all, while they’re trained as legionaries, they still think and act like Gauls. The chief trainer at Cremona says he’d trust them to keep formation in battle, but that’s about as far as it goes.”