Fronto stared.
“No. It’s been… what… just over three weeks? He’d have had to do sixty miles a day. He’d have killed his horse!”
Balventius nodded.
“They rode hard to get there, but sent one man on ahead on the way back. He’s been riding like the wind and changing horses at every mansio or Gaulish village. When he arrived, Varus told him to find me, because you’d be in with Caesar. I, of course, knew better.”
The primus pilus sat heavily in an empty chair and drank down a second mug of wine in one long gulp.
Fronto growled.
“For Dis’ sake, Titus, tell me what happened!”
“The riders delivered your message, and your sister gave them a reply and sent them off as fast as they could to get to you."
He held out a scroll, its wax seal neatly snapped in half.
“You opened a private sealed message from my sister to me?” Fronto stared, astounded.
“In the circumstances, it was likely to be important to me.”
Balventius shrugged.
“For Gods’ sake, Fronto, stop moaning and read it!”
The legate unrolled the scroll and ran his gaze down the message. As he did so, Galronus unfolded his legs and started to climb to his feet.
“This private…”
Fronto grasped the man’s wrist and pulled him back down.
“Oh, Nemesis!”
Balventius nodded and passed the mug of wine over to him.
“What the matter?” Galronus asked.
“Oh, shit.”
As he reached out and took a deep pull of the wine Balventius had handed him, the tent flap was thrown open and light streamed in. Fronto squinted into the bright sunshine.
“This is private…”
His voice tailed off as he recognised the bald, moon face of Balbus silhouetted in the doorway.
“Caesar’s calling the legions to order in a few hours, Marcus, but he wants you at the meeting now.”
Fronto growled.
“The cowardly, lying, shit-heeled bastard can damn well do without me.”
Balbus stared and let the flap drop into place behind him.
“What’s up?”
Fronto threw the scroll at him with some force.
“We were too late. Paetus’ family paid the price for being friends with the great Caesar.”
Balbus’ face fell. He started to unroll the scroll, but instead placed it on the cupboard top.
“What happened?”
“In detail? ‘Cause she’s given me plenty of detail? The kids were drowned in the Tiber, as was the old man. But as for his wife, Calida…”
Balbus held his hand up.
“I think I know all I want to, and I can guess the rest. This’ll destroy Paetus altogether. Do we tell him now?”
Balventius reached out for the wine again from Fronto and shook his head sadly.
“We’ll have to. Fronto’s rider almost killed himself trying to get here fast to give us the news before the official courier arrives to find Paetus. I think we’ll have a day or two at most. It’s not a nice job. Anyone want to take it on?”
The room went silent, the three other Roman officers averting their gaze as Balventius looked back and forth between them. Galronus frowned.
“I not understand. Maybe too private for me, eh?”
Balbus noticed the Remi nobleman for the first time with surprise.
“It’s a little complicated, my friend, but there are people in Rome and even here in the army that would like to see Caesar fail. And a particularly nasty individual in Rome has just killed one of our men’s wife and children.”
Galronus nodded.
“Like Nervii. I was tell Fronto about them. Nasty.”
Fronto sighed.
“I’ll tell him, Balventius.”
The primus pilus shook his head.
“I wasn’t serious, Fronto. This is my job…”
The legate cut him off with a low growl.
“I’m not going to face Caesar right now. If I do, there’s a distinct possibility I might re-enact the death of a King in the hands of the Nervii. I wonder what the general would look like without his skin?”
Balbus grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Fronto. If you’re going to see Paetus, just do that. Tell him everything, but try to keep both of you calm and be sympathetic. And stay the hell away from Caesar for a few days. I’ll tell Caesar about it.”
Fronto nodded unhappily and turned to Priscus.
“You’re in command of the Tenth for the moment. I have other duties. If Caesar wants to see the legate of the Tenth, that’s you. Understand?”
Priscus nodded as he reiterated Balbus’ words.
“Stay calm and don’t do anything stupid, Marcus.”
“I am calm,” Fronto growled as he stood and retrieved his belt and scabbard from the cot. “I am calm like death.”
Without a glance back at them, he strode purposefully out of the tent.
* * * * *
The legions had been on the march again for eight hours and Priscus was starting to worry that Fronto had snapped. While the officers had attended Caesar’s campaign meeting and the legions themselves had prepared to break camp, Fronto had gone off to find the camp prefect. Paetus had been extremely busy and it had taken a great deal of dragging to get him away from his tasks. After that, Fronto and the prefect had disappeared into the man’s tent, where they had remained for the night, the only sign they were still alive being the request for alcohol sent to the quartermaster.
The next morning, Priscus had formed up the Tenth and started them moving with the rest of the legions and still Fronto had been nowhere to be seen. With thousands of men to command and get moving, Priscus had had no time to enquire of his superior. Fronto had put him in temporary command of the Tenth, and the primus pilus knew that meant that Fronto would be absent for a while.
But now? Eight hours travel and no sign of him?
He really was beginning to worry. Priscus knew his commander better than any other man and Fronto, for all his practical, worldly attitude, was actually a lot more soft and emotional than most people realised. Priscus had always suspected that was what lay behind the fact that Fronto was still single and uninvolved in anything political. He was so damn prey to his emotions that he deliberately steered clear of things that he knew would mess him around.
“Sod this” he announced to nobody in particular. Turning to the signifer of the First Cohort, he made a sour face.
“Keep going. I’m dropping back for a few minutes.”
Without waiting for a nod or salute, Priscus fell out of line and strode back past the marching column at a brisk pace. The men moving past like a sea of tramping feet gave the impression that he was running, though in truth he maintained only a fast march.
Behind the First and Second Cohorts, he passed the various mounted tribunes attached to the Tenth, including Tetricus, who raised an eyebrow at him. He ignored them and marched on. No time to chat, and the tribunes had been as busy as him this morning, so they’d be no help. Besides, he’d seen them several times and, if they’d known anything about Fronto, they’d have commented.
Back past the rest of the cohorts, and Priscus continued to ignore the engineering detail with their artillery on the carts.
“Aha!”
Up ahead, the command section of the Eighth Legion marched, with a break of just fifty yards or so from the rear of the Tenth to allow the dust to drop below shoulder height. Legate Balbus sat astride a horse, keeping pace with his men. The tribunes of the Eighth rode just behind and accompanying their commander, with Balventius behind them, his face indicating how much he enjoyed staring at the rear end of a tribune’s horse for eight solid hours.
Priscus came to a halt and opened his mouth to speak to Balbus, before quickly remembering the proprieties of addressing a senior officer in front of his tribunes. Time and circumstance had drawn some of them clo
sely together across traditional rank divides, but it was not wise to advertise that.
“Legatus?”
Balbus looked down in surprise to see Priscus turning to keep pace with him.
“Can I help, centurion?”
“I’m trying to locate legate Fronto, sir. Haven’t seen him since he… ah… left the meeting last night.”
Balbus frowned.
“Really? I just assumed he returned to the Tenth.”
Balbus turned to a tribune beside him.
“Adrattus? Take my horse and walk on. I have something to attend to.”
As he dropped from his horse with a litheness that belied both his age and his frame, the tribune took the reins in surprise.
“So,” Balbus frowned as the two men turned and began to stride back along the line once again. “Someone will have seen either Paetus or Fronto this morning.”
He laughed, though Priscus noted the lack of genuine humour in it. “Knowing how Fronto can put it away, I expect he and Paetus are grey and unconscious and draped over a supply cart. Let’s go find out.”
Unconvinced, Priscus nodded and the two men marched on, past the Ninth, Eleventh and Twelfth legions. Despite their nature as new and largely untested legions, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth had been placed as rear guard, partially for protection, but largely, once again, to keep them separate from the non-Gallic legions.
Priscus shook his head as he thought about it. It still pissed him off that non-citizens with braided hair and yellow beards who spoke a language that sounded like a sink emptying could march with pride in the name of Rome and collect the same pay, shares of booty and benefits as men born in Latium of longstanding Roman families.
And yet, these men had saved Sabinus and his men by the Aisne. Though he’d not been there to see it, he’d observed the aftermath, and tales had passed round about both the ingenuity and bravery of those men. He growled again. How could he expect the legions to treat them appropriately when he couldn’t even think about it himself without his prejudices getting in the way.
And there were still incidents. Only yesterday, a legionary from the Thirteenth had been caught in the temporary latrines by an unknown group and had been beaten within an inch of his life. Priscus had seen the man making his report. He’d been a mess, his bronze-coloured beard and hair stained further red by the blood that poured from his mouth and two or three cuts on his head. His arm had clearly been broken and his uniform, up to the waist, was a colour that clearly indicated he’d been thrown in the latrine ditch afterwards. And yet the man in good Latin, though with a noticeable accent, had claimed to have not seen any of their faces.
Pride. It was, more than anything, the backbone of the legions. Pride. And these Gaulish recruits had enough of it that they were willing to accept a near-fatal beating to preserve it.
He turned to Balbus as they passed the rear ranks of the Twelfth and approached the staff and the wagon train.
“We’ve got to do something about these legions. Got to get the Thirteenth and Fourteenth in with our own lads.”
Balbus nodded.
“I know. The problem is that they’ve not had a chance to fight alongside each other yet. I think the other legions resent the fact that the only action that’s worthy of note among the legions so far was carried out by the new boys. I’m hoping that, once they all have a chance to take the field together and watch each other’s backs, they’ll settle down.”
Priscus grunted.
“So long as they do actually watch each other’s back. I wouldn’t be too sure right now.”
The two of them slowed as they reached the command section and, while Priscus saluted the senior officers, Balbus looked up at them. Caesar raised an eyebrow.
“Lost your horse, legate?”
There was chuckling among the officers.
“Looking for Fronto, Caesar. I presume you haven’t seen him?”
“No” the general confirmed, a shadow passing across his eyes. “Not even when I asked to…”
Without pressing the subject, Balbus nodded and, stopping, turned to Priscus.
“This is pointless. We need to speak to the lower ranks. They’re more likely to know where Fronto is than the officers.”
Priscus nodded.
“I have an idea.”
With Balbus at his heels, he strode on to the baggage column and frowned at it. Pursing his lips, he turned to the legate by his side.
“Something’s wrong here.”
Balbus shrugged.
“Looks normal to me.”
“No.” Priscus shook his head. “I’ve seen the supply train of an army a hundred times. This is different. Look:”
He gestured at the front wagon.
“This wagon’s full of tent gear. For the camp when we stop.”
“Yes?”
“Front wagon’s always stockade posts and defensive equipment. In case camp needs to be set up quickly. Need the defensive works closest to the legions… tents go up after that.”
Balbus shrugged.
“So someone changed the order or made a mistake.”
“No. This is Paetus’ job. He always oversees the wagons. He’s a bit of a martinet over it. We’ve had words about it before now. This was organised by someone else.”
Ignoring the look of impressed surprise on the legate’s face, Priscus strode over to the first wagon and located a duplicarius legionary in charge of the cart.
“Who oversaw the wagons this morning?”
The legionary saluted hurriedly.
“Prefect Cita, sir.”
“And where is Cita now?”
The soldier looked a little panicky, as though convinced he’d done something wrong. Balbus had seen that face many times on a subordinate as they addressed the primus pilus of the Tenth. Priscus had something of a reputation.
“Five or six carts back, sir, with the luxuries wagons.”
Priscus nodded and, turning, beckoned to Balbus. The two strode on past the loaded wagons until they saw the familiar hulking figure of Caesar’s chief quartermaster. Cita was a large man; not fat, but with a bulk distributed well across his frame. His lantern jaw was always dark, as though the man needed to shave several times a day. He scratched his short, curly hair with a stylus in one hand while trying to concentrate on the figures displayed on the wax tablet in the other, despite the bouncing of the cart. Priscus waved at him.
“Prefect?”
Cita looked up from his figures and frowned.
“Priscus… legate? What can I do for you?”
Priscus pointed toward the head of the column.
“I’m looking for Fronto and Paetus. Have you seen them?”
Cita nodded unhappily.
“You want the medical carts at the rear of the column.” He noted the sudden alarm in their faces. “Don’t panic, gentlemen. Fronto’s alright. Very, very, very drunk, and a little light headed, but alright.”
Balbus turned to ask a question of Priscus, but the primus pilus was already striding toward the other end of the long column of carts, travelling three abreast. It always astounded him when he saw them just how many wagons were needed to keep an army this size supplied on the move. The wagon train took almost an hour to pass fully. Truly, without men like Cita and Paetus, a marching column may well fall apart.
He caught up with Priscus and eventually they arrived at the medical wagons: eight empty carts at the rear that served to carry the non-walking and non-terminal wounded. He tried not to think about just how crammed those eight large carts were, and scanned them, trying to locate Fronto or Paetus.
“Here!”
Priscus waved him over to one of the rear carts. A space had been cleared, the legionaries almost sitting on top of one another to make room for the senior officer among their number. In many cases, that would be through fear and obedience. Balbus suspected, given Fronto’s reputation, that in this case, it was through love and respect.
Fronto lay in the cleared space with F
lorus, the young medic from the Tenth, tending to him. Balbus opened his mouth to enquire, but Priscus beat him to it.
“Florus? Talk to me?”
The young man looked up and frowned.
“I’m a little concerned about the legate, sir. He’s clearly still suffering the effects, let alone the after-effects of whatever he drank last night, but I’m not sure how much of his barely-conscious condition is the alcohol and how much is the wound.”
Priscus growled.
“What wound?”
“Well sir,” the young man answered earnestly. “When he was found this morning, he was completely unconscious and reeked of wine, but when the legionaries turned him over, they found a wound on the back of his head. There was blood on the frame of the chair by the door, and they believe he must have fallen, drunk, and struck his head on the way down.”
The young, rosy-faced man leaned closer conspiratorially.
“But I’m not convinced of that, sir.”
Balbus bent closer to join the low conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Florus shrugged, still carefully cradling the legate’s head against the jarring motion of the wagon, “I can’t show you the wound right now, but I had a good look at it before I bound it this morning; before he went in the cart…”
“And?”
“And the wound is not consistent with having fallen on a campaign chair, sirs.”
He lowered his voice again, so that Balbus had to strain to hear.
“The wound was inflicted by something rounded and heavy and at a reasonable force, and I think from the looks of it, it was inflicted from behind and above.”
“Paetus!” Priscus growled. “Fronto was found alone?”
“Yes sir.”
“But in Paetus’ tent?”
“Yessir.”
“And, were I to suggest, would you say the wound could have been inflicted by this?”
As Balbus and Florus watched, Priscus lifted his sheathed sword and displayed the heavy, rounded pommel at the top of the hilt. Balbus stared, but Florus nodded. “That was my thought already, sir, though I didn’t want to voice it until after the legate had woken.”
Balbus shook his head.
“He will wake then?”
“Oh yes, sir. He’ll be delicate for a while and have a bad headache, but some of that’s from his own self-abuse, begging your pardon, sirs. The wound was enough to render him unconscious, but no more. I wouldn’t be comfortable releasing him for duty for a few days, though.”
The Belgae Page 25
