But the need for a training officer had slipped his mind, perhaps due to the pain that thoughts of Velius still brought. He frowned and noticed that Carbo was watching him intently across the tent, past the laughing and arguing officers.
“Carbo? Mind if I pick your brain for a moment?”
The centurion smiled and shuffled across the carpeted floor until he sat close to the legate.
“By all means. You’ll have to find it first, of course…”
Fronto laughed quietly.
“Have you thought about how we fill Velius’ place?”
Carbo nodded.
“I assumed this would come up some time, but I didn’t want to push anything. I’ve had the job shared between the three most capable centurions in the Tenth as an interim measure, but I also have a shortlist of three candidates I was going to put to you.”
Fronto shook his head in exasperation.
“You’ve been prepared all this time? Why did you not speak to me, or even just sort it yourself?”
Carbo smiled.
“Velius was your friend. The time wasn’t right yet. Now, it clearly is. And it’s not my place to assign promotions in the centurionate; that has to come from you or a tribune.”
Again, Fronto laughed.
“You promoted yourself!”
“That was different. Anyway, I’ve three men in mind, as I said. I’ve not approached any of them, but the position’s likely to appeal to them all and, well… without wanting to blow our own buccina, the Tenth has a good reputation. People are always watching for transfer opportunities. You may have noticed we’re rarely far below full strength. We’ve had almost a hundred inward transfers in the past month. I think it’s starting to piss the other legates off, but it’s good for us.”
Fronto nodded.
“Go on then. Who’ve you got down?”
Carbo counted them off on his fingers.
“Well they’re all from outside the Tenth. Nobody truly fits the bill here. Firstly, there’s Aquilius. He’s the obvious choice, given his experience.”
“Aquilius?“ Fronto’s brow furrowed. ”But he’s already a chief training officer in the Eighth. Why would he change?”
Something unreadable passed across Carbo’s face for a moment; fleeting and then gone, chased away by a smile.
“We can offer him an identical role in the Tenth, with the same rank, position and pay. You see, Aquilius is a perfectionist. Not like the hard bugger Velius was, but a real professional, and I suspect he’d be excited to get a chance to get his teeth into the Tenth. He’s got the Eighth just how he wants them and there’s no challenge there any more. He might not accept, but I’ve a feeling he would.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Perhaps, but I’d rather not strip a good man from Balbus’ legion if I can avoid it. Who else have you got?”
“Well there’s a man called Bassianus in the Eleventh that I’ve been watching for a while too. He’s no experience as a chief training officer, but he’s done more than his fair share of training and drilling, and he’s a long term veteran with a reputation for being hard as a whore’s heart. He actually served with the Ninth in Spain under your command a long time ago.”
Fronto nodded appreciatively.
“Don’t recognise the name, but then it’s been a long time. You think he can do the job?”
“I wouldn’t recommend someone who couldn’t” Carbo grinned.
“Alright. So who’s the third?”
Carbo’s smile widened disturbingly.
“You’ll love this.”
“What?”
“A centurion called Atenos.”
“That’s not even a Roman name?” Fronto frowned.
“No. Atenos is a Gaul from the Thirteenth Legion. He’s my outside chance, just in case, but I can’t help thinking that, even though he appears at first to be the least appropriate, he might just be the best choice.”
Fronto shook his head and waved his arm.
“No, no, no. Any Gaulish centurion in the Thirteenth is a lower ranking one, you know that. All the senior roles were given to Roman veterans. Hell, all the centurions were Roman veterans until they started dying off. That means that this Atenos only has a year behind the eagle. He’s practically still one of the enemy!”
Carbo laughed.
“Bollocks. He’s signed on for the full term, taken the oath and served with distinction for a year. Besides, you’ve not queried his experience.”
Fronto barked a laugh.
“What experience? Ten years of fighting naked and covered in paint and then a year with the legions?”
Carbo’s grin became a little defensive.
“Hardly. Atenos has a long and distinguished military history… as a mercenary, I’ll grant you, but it all counts.”
Fronto blinked.
“A mercenary?”
Yes. When his people were displaced by the Helvetii about fifteen years ago, he went south and signed on with any army that would pay and feed him. He may have fought with the slaves, though he denies it, but he definitely served with Pompey’s fleets against the pirates, then turned and fought with the King of Pontus against Pompey and then joined him again when he marched on Jerusalem. Quite a pedigree.”
Fronto stared at his chief centurion.
“Carbo, the man’s fought against us as often as he’s fought for us. Are you mad?”
The primus pilus shrugged.
“It’s your decision. But think what a man with all that varied experience could bring to the Tenth if he were given the opportunity to train them?”
Fronto shook his head.
“You are mad. But I’ll have a look at them all and give you my opinions in a few days.”
“Good. Gives you something to get your teeth into and stop you moping around.”
Fronto glared at Carbo, but that grin was just too infectious to stay irritated at.
The legate of the Tenth looked up once more at the sulky grey sky. Last night it had delivered yet another torrential downpour, accompanied by crashes, flashes and grumbles and it looked very much like things were gearing up for a repeat performance tonight. He performed a quick calculation on his fingers as he walked.
By his reckoning, they had been campaigning again for just over eighty days, and dredging his memory as deeply as he could, he could only recall eight days that had not involved rain of some kind and those eight had, instead, been filled with high winds and freezing cold. What had happened to this country? Not for the first time this year, he found himself wondering why Rome would actually want this place at all.
Turning his thoughts away from the depressing weather, he instead set his sights on the man standing by the rocks close to the cliff edge. There was the sound of men working nearby, hammering stone with their picks.
Fronto was not sure what he was expecting from centurion Atenos but, whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The centurion stood in a traditional Roman pose, vine staff in hand and the other arm behind his back as he rocked gently back and forth on his heels. Fronto couldn’t see his face, as the man had his back to the approaching legate, but he was an impressive enough sight from the rear. Clearly a head taller than anyone Fronto even knew, the man was a virtual giant, probably six and a half feet tall, or even more, though thin and lithe, rather than bulky. His yellow hair was coarse and longer than tradition held, but lacking the traditional braids of the Gaulish. His concessions to Roman equipment were otherwise total.
A stick cracked under Fronto’s foot and the man turned sharply.
His face was strong and proud, with high cheekbones and a tidy moustache. Fronto was surprised to note, given the man’s short service history, the four phalera and single torc hanging from the man’s harness. He must have had an eventful year.
“Morning” he said, as casually as possible, cursing his dubious talents at duplicity.
The centurion saluted.
“Good morning, Legate Fronto. You’re a long way from the T
enth?”
Fronto nodded, unable to come up with a convincing reason for his presence. Instead, he ignored the comment and nodded toward the five legionaries who repeatedly smashed at a flat, heavy rock perilously close to the edge of the cliff.
“Mind if I ask?”
The centurion nodded.
“Sick of having to cross the camp for a crap, sir. Decided to build a proper latrine here. Got ‘em cutting bum-holes in the rock.”
Fronto looked confused for a moment.
“Can’t they just crouch over the pit like everyone else?”
The Gaul turned to face him, a strange smile on his face.
“No pit. Going to have it perched over the edge. Sea will take it all away… no smell and no mucking out.”
Fronto stared.
“You’re actually going to sit on a home-made bench, bare-arsed and leaning out over the cliff for a crap?”
The centurion nodded.
“Perfectly safe, sir. Rock solid, you might say. Even had our engineers’ approval. I’ve offered the lads first try, since it’s all their own effort, but they gave me the same look as you did. Looks like I might have my very own latrine.”
There was nothing Fronto could do but continue to stare at the man incredulously, his eyes sliding first to the seat the men were manufacturing, and then to the precipitous drop into the sea. He shuddered.
“Well there’s no denying the bravery of the centurionate. That’s for sure.”
The man laughed.
“So if you’re not here for a crap, sir, mind if I ask why you are here?”
Fronto ground his teeth. He was no good at this subtlety.
“You were pointed out by one of my officers as a man to watch. Frankly, I was intrigued… and I think I still am.”
The centurion raised an eyebrow.
“You on the hunt for transfers, sir?”
Fronto shook his head, not in answer to the question, but in fascination.
“Perhaps. From what I’ve been told, I’d guess you were one of the Aedui? Or the Lingones?”
Atenos shook his head.
“Close, though, sir… for a Roman. One of the Leuci actually originally.”
Fronto nodded thoughtfully. He knew the name, of course, but couldn’t have placed the tribe without a map.
“You speak Latin flawlessly, without even a trace of an accent. But from what I hear of your past, that’s perhaps not a surprise.”
The huge Gaul smiled down at him. The longer Fronto stood next to him, the smaller he felt. It was like being at the bottom of a well.
“My Latin is good, legate. My Greek has a strange twang, I’ve been told, reminiscent of a Galatian. My Persian is barely comprehensible, but I know how to talk to barmen and dancing girls.”
Fronto stared.
“Persian?”
“Spent a year in Commagene when I got my honesta missio after that business in Judea. Strange place over there, though; and all the sand, rock and dust make a man homesick for some good, honest wet grass.”
Fronto laughed.
“Then you’ve done well! I’ve never seen wetter grass than this stupendous Gaulish summer.”
The man nodded and fell silent; a silence that remained for a minute, backed only by the hammering of picks on stone.
“You’ve been a busy man prior to joining the Thirteenth… fighting for all sorts of different people, if I hear correctly?”
Atenos shrugged.
“A man has to make a living, sir. I’d have signed on with the legions a decade ago if it were legal, but I’m not a citizen. Happy now, though, since Caesar found a way around that particular rule.”
The legate’s eyes narrowed.
“Really? Even though we’re here fighting your fellow Gauls?”
Atenos shrugged again.
“Not my fellows, sir. Never even been this far west. Still…” he turned a searching gaze on Fronto “… if you’re trying to find a subtle way to enquire as to my loyalty, remember that I’m a centurion in the Thirteenth, and my legion is a proud one; bound to be, since most of us are Gauls. I hear that you are a man of the legions; people say you’re one of the men. If that’s the case, could I respectfully ask you to get to the point?”
Fronto nodded quietly.
“I’m on the lookout for a chief training officer. Your name was one of three that my primus pilus supplied.”
“I’m quite happy where I am, sir.”
Fronto smiled slyly.
“I’ve not offered you it, yet. I’ve plenty to think on first.”
Atenos smiled at him.
“Who are your other choices?”
“Aquilius from the Eighth and Bassianus from the Eleventh.”
The huge Gaul scratched his chin.
“Take Bassianus.”
Fronto frowned up at him.
“I’ve already spoken to both of them. Why not Aquilius? He’s eminently qualified, and my primus pilus thinks he’d accept.”
“I’m sure he’d accept, but choose Bassianus. I’ve watched Aquilius work while we were in winter quarters. He’s too straight and proper for the Tenth. He’ll end up resenting the chaos your lads live in and your men will learn to hate him. It’s a problem best avoided from the start.”
“You think the Tenth are chaotic?”
Again, Atenos laughed.
“In the best possible sense of the word, but yes; of course they are, sir. Not in battle, mind. I’m not saying they’re not disciplined and even the general himself acknowledges that the Tenth are the best of his Legions. Chaos works for you, and it works well. It wouldn’t work with Aquilius there. Steer clear.”
The big man looked down at Fronto’s scowl.
“Bassianus is a good man. His men are always tired and dirty but smiling. That means he keeps them working and training hard, but fairly and with appropriate reward. He’s your man.”
Fronto stepped back. His neck was beginning to ache in this conversation.
“You could be right. I’d certainly rather have someone who works with the lads, rather than just working them.”
Atenos laughed again.
“Glad to be of help, legate. Feel free to drop by any time you feel like having a death-defying crap.”
Fronto couldn’t help but return the laugh and nodded in a casual fashion as he turned and strode away across the grass, his arms folded.
The big Gaul was right. Bassianus was almost certainly the man for the job but, as he walked back toward the tents of the Tenth legion, Fronto couldn’t shake off the feeling that passing over the possibility of the hulking Gaul might be a mistake. He was clever enough and clearly brave, but what Fronto hadn’t expected was the man’s matter-of-fact and almost eerily acute assessment of the other centurions on the list. That kind of mind was what made a good training officer.
The legate was still thinking hard on the situation, unsure how to proceed, as he approached his command tent and raised his head in surprise to see two men standing by the door flap.
“Can I help?”
The two men saluted. One was one of the duty centurions that Fronto vaguely recognised; the other was a nondescript Roman male in plain tunic, breeches and cloak, sweating and steaming from a hard ride.
“Sir! Courier arrived for you not ten minutes ago.”
Fronto frowned at the men and then nodded.
“Very well.” He gestured to the courier. “Come on in; thank you centurion.”
As the officer left to return to duty, Fronto pushed aside his tent flap, grateful once again to enter the comfort of his own little world as he heard the first few drops of fresh rain hit the leather.
“So… a courier?”
The man bowed.
“Yes, legate Fronto. I bring a missive from Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus in Rome. He tasked me to deliver it into your hands and no other.”
Fronto looked up, surprised.
“Priscus? Well, well.”
He held out his hand and the courier reach
ed into his tunic, took out a wax-sealed tube and passed it over.
“Could I respectfully request a bunk for the night and perhaps some food? It has been a long journey and master Priscus felt sure you would want me to wait and take a return message.”
Fronto nodded and waved a hand vaguely at the door while he examined the tube in his hands.
“Find an officer somewhere out there and tell him you’ve got my go-ahead for whatever it is you need.”
He waited as the man nodded respectfully and left the tent, and then eagerly broke the seal at the end of the tube, sliding the scroll out and flattening it on the table before picking it up to read. He smiled at Priscus’ spider-like writing. He was hardly a master scribe.
Marcus.
I hope you are well and everything goes to plan out there. If not I shall want to know why from that Illyrian goat herder that is doing my job. I am sorry that I have not written sooner, but you know how much I hate writing and the courier costs an arm and a leg — feeble joke there, so ignore it.
Matters in Rome continue to descend into trouble. I have managed to gather a pretty impressive group of spies, thugs and borderline criminals here and they are starting to produce results. You would be surprised at some of these results, too.
I have had people following Clodius, as well as his sister and that Egyptian catamite. Each has turned up interesting news. Clodius, if you can believe this, has been visiting the house of Pompey, and not during normal visiting hours. We have seen him in disguise in the middle of the night, slipping out of Pompey’s town house. You might want to pass that on to the general.
Clodia is particularly interesting. She was making a nuisance of herself for a few weeks after you left, showing Clodius up and trying to pin wrongdoings on a number of our acquaintances with no luck. Then, suddenly, she vanished. No one has seen or heard from her in well over a month now. I am personally of the opinion that her brother just got sick of her, stuck her in the gut and dropped her in the Tiber, but it is interesting nonetheless.
Gallia Invicta mm-3 Page 18
