(Sextilis: Darioritum, Caesar’s camp on the Armorican coast.)
Fronto drummed his fingers irritably on the tent frame, half hoping that the noise would distract the general inside enough to open up. The courier had been inside for a while now, while Fronto paced back and forth, grumbling, under the watchful eyes of Brutus, Roscius and Crispus. Sighing, he rapped angrily on the wood and then began to pace once more.
“You’ll wear a rut in the turf, then we’ll all trip over it on our way out.”
Fronto threw a dark look at Brutus and continued to stomp in the springy grass.
“Well we’re clearly not going home, anyway.”
“What makes you think that?”
Fronto pointed at the tent door in an exaggerated gesture.
“Don’t you think that if everything was tidy and neat and dealt with, the general would have bounded out of there like a spring lamb, all smiles and so on? No. Something’s happened.”
Brutus frowned. The messages of Sabinus’ success on the north coast of Armorica and then the remarkable news that Crassus had tamed Aquitania had come in swift succession, a cause for celebration throughout the army, both officers and men alike. It did appear that finally the general’s claim to have conquered Gaul could actually be said to be accurate. The northwest was settled, the south west cowed, the centre and southeast largely allied with the general…
Which left the northeast; the territory of the Belgae and the Germanic tribes, under the watch of Titus Labienus and his small force. The past two weeks had seen the celebratory atmosphere fade once more as the army settled into an uneasy wait for news from the northeast. And this morning, just as Fronto had finished bathing away his bad head and dressed in clean gear, Labienus’ riders had finally arrived and made straight for the general’s tent.
Crispus shook his head dismissively.
“Don’t read anything into it yet, Marcus. Only the Gods and the entrails of goats know the future. You’ve just been on edge ever since Priscus’ last letter.”
Again, Fronto stopped pacing to throw an irritated look at one of his friends, and there was a muted warning in that gaze.
“Oh come on, Fronto. You’ve been so edgy since then, your friends have been walking on egg shells. Your patience seems to have all but vanished. Why won’t you tell anyone what was in the letter.”
“Aulus, you of all people should know when you need to keep that nose out of things. It’s personal, alright?”
Brutus shook his head.
“ It’s not just the letter… I think he’s been like this ever since Balbus left.”
Fronto drew a deep breath. His face was beginning to colour.
“Why don’t you lot piss off and stop trying to analyse my mood? I just want to get home and…” he threw his arms up in the air “I just want to go home, right?”
The others fell silent, unwilling to provoke the older legate again. Fronto had been quick to anger for the last fortnight. He had been involved in three brawls and had blackened the eye of one of the staff officers who'd had the unfortunate luck to remark on men of Balbus’ age being allowed to remain in command while in Fronto’s earshot.
“I just want to go home” Fronto repeated as though to himself, his gaze falling to the floor.
He’d been unaware of the general’s presence until Caesar’s smooth voice spoke nearby.
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid, Fronto.”
He looked up sharply to see the general standing in the tent’s doorway. The man moved with such silence and grace when he wanted to and had made no noise as he lifted the tent flap aside.
“Come in” he addressed the officers.
Fronto was first through the flap and, while the other three walked across and hovered by chairs until the general returned to his desk, the legate of the Tenth simply sank straight into a chair. The general gave him a sharp look, but then seated himself and gestured to the rest to do the same. A cavalry trooper, still dirty and fully equipped from his ride, stood to attention to the side of the table.
“I expect you’re all eager to know the situation?”
“We’re not going home. That means someone else needs a kicking” Fronto said flatly.
Again, Caesar’s sharp gaze passed across the legate. Brutus frowned. Could it be that even the general was treading carefully around him?
“There will be a little delay in our campaign’s conclusion, yes. Labienus has done some sterling work among the Belgae. It appears that Nemetocenna is becoming something of a cultural centre, where the locals are beginning to learn a more civilised tongue and to appreciate the benefits of heated floors, fresh water supplies, and the security afforded by Rome. He believes he has the trust of the local tribes now to the extent that he feels a caretaker garrison will soon be entirely unnecessary.”
The general leaned back.
“He has a number of men due their retirement and has requested that they and any others among our own legions who are amenable be granted funds and lands around the Belgae. He believes that mixing our veterans in the local environment will help lead them toward becoming more Roman.”
Fronto let out a low rumble.
“What was that?”
The legate looked up, his head still lowered so that his eyes shone white, and slightly pink, in the dim tent interior.
“I said: why the hell are we not going home then?”
Caesar’s eyes flashed again momentarily and then he forced a smile, clearly covering his irritation.
“Not all of the north eastern tribes are settling with Labienus’ view of the future. Two tribes…” Caesar unrolled the scroll on the table and scanned down it once more “the Morini and the Menapii, are causing trouble.”
Brutus frowned.
“They’re coastal tribes if I remember my geography correctly? On the north coast, opposite Britannia, yes? Is the fleet to be mobilised?”
Fronto shook his head.
“Screw the fleet. Labienus has a cohort of legionaries, loads of auxiliary units and enough cavalry to flatten a small country. Why can’t he deal with them? Is he too busy teaching Belgic children to read and massaging the feet of their women?”
The general glared at him again.
“Try to act like a commander in the army of Rome, Fronto, and not a petulant child. The bulk of Labienus’ forces are spread out all along the Rhine, making sure that the German tribes don’t decide to cross and get involved. To withdraw them to deal with two rebellious tribes would be to put the entire Belgic region in danger of German raids or even invasion. The tribes across the Rhine have not forgotten the chastisement at Vesontio two years ago.”
He sighed and stood.
“I am allowing the remainder of the day to put the army in order. They have languished here a full month now, but it is time to gather their equipment, to take down the tents and prepare to move. In the morning we march for the coast, collect Sabinus and his forces, and then turn east. I will not return to Rome while any of Gaul is still refusing us. Gaul must be settled before we leave.”
* * * * *
The vanguard reined in on a low hillock, the army stretching out along the plain behind them. Caesar narrowed his eyes at the forests ahead as the senior officers walked their horses forward to join him.
The journey had been long and tedious since Darioritum, despite the camaraderie of the reunion with Sabinus and the tales he had to tell of his Gaulish warriors and their infiltration of the enemy. Sextilis with its welcome glorious sunshine and armour-heating temperatures had given way to September with its earlier nights that drew in with a chill, particularly this close to the roiling northern sea. Often the officers would awake in the morning to find that the night had brought with it a sprinkling of rain that left the morning grass damp.
The change in the season, following such a brief summer, affected the mood of every last man, and there was little joy to be found among the seven legions of Caesar’s army.
The knowledge that they were travelling to put down yet another insurrection by the ever rebellious Gallic tribes also frayed at the edges of Roman nerves across the whole range of rank and file. The officers had initially fallen in line with Caesar’s hope for a brief punitive push before turning south, but the past four days in the territory of the Morini had forced a change of plan.
Like the Veneti before, who had abandoned all their settlements and retreated to their coastal fortresses, the Morini and the Menapii had taken all the goods they could transport, left their oppida and villages, and disappeared into the deep woodland that stretched from the lands of the Belgae to the marshy delta of the Rhine.
The tribes had been short sighted in only one regard. Had they not left tracks, they could have disappeared without trace and the army of Rome might have searched the northern lands for a year without pinning down any number of the enemy to fight. But the Menapii particularly had been unwilling to leave anything behind for the Romans that they might save, and the wreckage done to the landscape by the traversing of thousands of feet and heavily laden carts spoke clearly not only of the directions that the tribes had taken, but also of how recently they had done so.
And now, here at what felt like the end of the world on an afternoon when the weather was threatening to turn inclement, the officers came to a halt with their general on the low rise, watching the tracks in the dirt before them that disappeared into the eaves of the forest in four different places.
“Do we split the legions and send them in, Caesar?”
The general turned to look at Sabinus and shook his head.
“No; it would be suicidally reckless to string out the army in the depths of the forest with the enemy already ensconced. It would be all too easy for them to decimate the legions that way. We need to meet them on open ground, which means forcing them out of there.”
Fronto frowned and gestured expansively at the forest’s edge.
“Easy enough to say, but there’s a hundred miles of woodland there. They could survive there almost indefinitely, especially with all their goods they’ve taken in. We could send in scouts?”
Again the general shook his head.
“These are their woods; they know them well. Our scouts would likely never return.”
“So what do we do?”
“Firstly we make camp, and we make well-defended camp at that.”
He turned and cast his gaze left and right along the tree line.
“Sabinus and Crispus? Take the Eleventh to the northwest and make camp within sight of the sea, close to the woodland; that’s about fifteen miles. As you travel, have signal stations set along the route. Rufus? You head east for twenty miles and do the same. Galba? You follow them and go a further twenty. We will create a cordon around these woods and keep them trapped and penned in while we work. Sooner or later they will have to show themselves.”
Fronto grumbled.
“We could be here for a year doing that. And what happens when they just move further and further east and then leave the woodlands and pass round the end of your cordon?”
The general smiled.
“Always so negative and pessimistic, Fronto. The lands to the east of that line are already being patrolled by Labienus’ cavalry and auxiliaries. The chances of the enemy fleeing the forests there are ridiculously small. And as for a timescale, I don’t think you need to worry too much. I have no intention of just sitting by and waiting for them to become bored enough to seek us out.”
He spread his arms to take in the whole forest before him.
“There is nowhere they can take ship across the sea, the Rhine delta is too dangerous to cross, and we hold the south. Once we’re encamped, and the cordon is up, we will begin the task of deforestation. Some of the timber will be used to further fortify our positions around the woodland. As for the rest: I’m certain that Labienus could use the timber to build his ‘new Rome’ among the Belgae, and the rest will fetch a small profit back in Cisalpine Gaul. Let us see how long the Morini and the Menapii can last as the forest disappears around them.”
“Months” Fronto grumbled under his breath as he looked at the gloomy, looming eaves of the woodland.
* * * * *
Fronto mopped his brow and contemplated replacing the helmet on his head, but shrugged and let it hang by his side instead.
“Carbo?”
The primus pilus of the Tenth turned at hearing his name and saluted before striding over, his vine staff jammed beneath his arm.
“Sir?”
“I know this is going to sound petty, Carbo, but I was rather hoping the tents would go up first before you started chopping the forest down?”
The centurion smiled, the sweat running from beneath the brow of his helmet and trickling down his cheek to his chin. Thunder was coming; probably before nightfall, and the lack of air was almost unbearable.
“Camp prefect gave us all orders, legate, supported by the general. Caesar wants the palisade, mound and ditch up before anything else.”
Fronto rolled his eyes.
“I notice that doesn’t apply to him. His tent is up and furnished already.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, sir” Carbo grinned, “it isn’t seemly for a senior officer to be parading round like that in front of the men. If you’re not going to wear your armour, you should be all togate and patrician.”
Fronto stared at him.
“It’s as sweaty as a Numidian’s boot here. I’m having enough trouble breathing in this armpit of a country without slapping on layers of leather and steel too. I don’t know how you can stand it under all that equipment.”
“Practice, sir. Well…” he winked knowingly ”practice and a lack of underwear, anyway.”
“There are some things, Carbo, that you really don’t need to share with me. Are you sure you can’t spare just four men to help me get the command tent up. I could find a nice convincing military reason if you like.”
The centurion laughed.
“If you don’t tell the general, sir, I’ll spare the men.”
He turned to the group of four legionaries who were busy a few feet away, hacking away at the bole of an oak with their axes. He had opened his mouth to speak, but the smile slid from his face.
“To arms!” he bellowed, and, as the men turned to look at him, three arrows thudded into the timber, a fourth passing straight through a legionary’s neck and continuing merrily on its path as the surprised man grasped his throat with both hands, his eyes wide.
Fronto stared.
“Oh shit, shit, shit.”
Around them legionaries across the edge of the woods scrambled back to grab their weapons, helmets and shields that lay in bundles nearby. Here and there a screech announced that another arrow had found its target.
Carbo turned back to Fronto.
“Back to the camp, sir.”
“Sod off.”
The centurion glared at him.
“You’re unarmoured, a clear target, and being stupid, legate. Get back to camp.”
Fronto ignored the man and dived to the ground where a legionary had left his shield lying with his helmet, sword and other gear on it. Picking up the sword, he tipped the rest from the shield and slid his arm into the straps before jamming his helmet firmly back on his head.
“Sir” Carbo said again, his voice admonishing.
“Rally to me!” Fronto called.
As the men of the Tenth, along with a few stray workers from the Eighth and the Fourteenth, ran toward the officer’s call, Carbo glared at him and then collected his own shield.
Figures had appeared among the trees.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing?”
Fronto turned to see Atenos, the Tenth’s new training centurion, stomping across the grass toward him.
Carbo shrugged.
“He seems to think he’s invincible even without armour.”
“Form up!” the huge Gaulish centurion bellowed as he fell in to the other side of Fronto, his shoulder at the same height as the legate’s scalp. Soldiers began to form a line around them, raising their shields protectively as arrows continued to whistle out of the woodland.
“Here they come” Fronto pointed.
Among the trees, the figures were clearer, more pronounced, as they neared the edge. The arrows stopped coming, and suddenly warriors were pouring out of the forest, brandishing a variety of weapons and screaming guttural war cries as they bore down on the Romans, many of whom were still unarmoured, gathering their weapons or running to fall in.
“What’s going on?” Fronto barked as he was suddenly squeezed between the two centurions until he found himself pushed out past them and standing behind the defensive line.
“Stay back, sir.”
Fronto glared angrily at the men in front of him. He began to form a diatribe in his mind along the lines of how Priscus and Velius would never have dared to do such a thing, but realised with a strange fondness that this was exactly the sort of thing his old friends would have done. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. But just like those former veterans, these two had underestimated how headstrong their commander was.
Ducking to the side, avoiding the enormous looming bulk of Atenos, he gazed over Carbo’s shoulder. The enemy were almost on them. Legionaries were now falling in to either side of him, nodding respectfully as they took up their position in the second line. Fronto looked past them. Other soldiers had been less prepared or just less fortunate, and disappeared with a scream under the blows of axes and swords before they could reach their gear.
The legate concentrated for a moment, cocking his head and lifting the cheekpiece of his helmet. His fears were confirmed by the distant shouts and buccina calls: this was no small localised attack. The Menapii and their allies had waited just out of sight in the woods until their Roman pursuers had become complacent enough to drop their defensive line and go about the work of constructing the camp.
The surprise had paid off. Roman bodies littered the edge of the wood just within sight of Fronto, around the area the Tenth and Fourteenth worked. This could have been a disaster, but for the fact that the men were disciplined, trained, and prepared for just this sort of circumstance. This very tactic had almost obliterated the Twelfth last year, and these days no work party went about their business without their weapons and armour close to hand.
The enemy rushed on, warriors approaching the rapidly-forming shield wall and slowing to a more cautious pace. Elsewhere the situation was different, the Celts swarming over small pockets of Romans fleeing the trees. Here, though, the centurions were forming a solid defence quickly and efficiently.
As the enemy came on, running through the bracken and high grass, their fur-clad or naked torsos rippling, their muscular arms hefting axes, swords and spears, a man sprang onto a large rock, directly opposite them. His bushy beard and flaxen braids were peppered and tangled with bones and feathers, his arms wrapped in gold bangles, a grey, stained robe hanging limp in the warm, damp air. He bellowed something unintelligible and raised a staff, surmounted by a huge bird’s skull, waving it in encouragement.
“Druid” said Atenos flatly.
“That’s a bloody druid?” Fronto stared. “I thought they were all quiet and grim. That bugger looks like a cannibal madman!”
Atenos crouched for a moment and stood once more as the druid spat out curses and yelled something in a shrill voice, pointing at the officers with his bird-staff.
“Same to you” yelled Atenos and cast the large stone he had collected from the ground with a tremendous force and a surprising accuracy. The boulder caught the druid full in the face with a very unpleasant noise, hurling him from the rock and back into the unseen undergrowth behind. The staff arced up through the air and disappeared into the grass.
Carbo grinned at his subordinate.
“You do a lot for Gallo-Roman relations, you know.”
“He was pissing me off.”
Fronto smiled as the two men continued to banter while the enemy finally reached the line and threw themselves at the shield wall. A sword was thrust toward them and Carbo casually turned it aside before flicking his blade back and driving it forward into the man’s bared chest.
Beside him, Atenos leaned back as a swung axe whistled past his nose before the big man leaned forward again, putting all his not-inconsiderable weight behind his shield and punching the bronzed boss into the man’s face, shattering bones.
The two men continued to hack, parry, stab and duck, occasionally sparing a moment to sling a snappy and sarcastic comment at each other. Fronto smiled as he backed out of the line, unnoticed by the two centurions. The legionaries shuffled to fill the gap.
Stretching, he tightened his grip on the gladius. Scanning left and right, he watched the fighting carefully.
To the right, sections of the Eighth legion had managed to create a solid shield wall, just like Carbo’s, and were bringing up the rest of their men to plug the gap where the worst of the fighting was going on and join up with the Tenth. The situation was very much under control there.
To the left, however, a group of soldiers from the Tenth and the Fourteenth were forming a small core defence, but were clearly beleaguered and outnumbered.
Fronto glanced over his shoulder to see a soldier, clutching an arm that ran with a river of crimson, jogging back toward the future site of the camp to find a capsarius.
“You!”
The soldier turned and tried to salute, but his arm was unresponsive.
“Sir?”
“Sorry, lad. Go see the physician, but find the reserves of the Tenth and the Eighth back there and tell them to stop digging and get down here.”
The soldier nodded, his teeth clenched against the pain, and ran on.
Fronto turned and took a deep breath. Carbo and Atenos and their growing force were beginning slowly to advance, pushing the desperately fighting Celts back toward the trees.
The combined units of the Tenth and Fourteenth were formed into some sort of mess of a war band, rather than a solid shield wall. Hefting the sword and feeling a faint twang in his arm, the occasional reminder as to how close he’d come to losing it last year, he turned and ran off down the gentle slope toward the mess.
“Who’s in command here?”
The group, resembling a Belgic war band more than a Roman force, was fighting off enemies en masse and, miraculously, given the lack of defensive formation, seemed to be holding their own.
There was no answer, but the constant grunting and crashing and battering noises as the legate stood at the relatively peaceful rear side of the group.
“I said: who’s in command here?”
“You are” a voice bellowed from the centre.
“Good. You’re about to be flanked. On my command, draw back three steps, keeping your shields to the enemy, and form a solid line.”
There was no response but the ongoing sounds of battle.
“Now!” he bellowed, and was gratified to hear a lessening of noise from the front as the soldiers disengaged.
“Now form second, third and fourth ranks.”
Pushing his way in among the men, he heaved his way through the bodies until he was only a few men from the front line, once more under severe pressure by the enemy warriors. Reaching out, he tapped a man on the shoulder.
“You’re the corner. Everyone to the right of you, swing back and form a side wall of shields.” Another man got a tap. “You’re the other corner. That’s it. Now form into a square and seal off the rear with another shield wall.”
He watched as best he could from amid the centre of the mass, wishing he had Atenos’ height advantage. The man must have the clearest view of what was going on around him in a fight. It appeared that the shapeless mob of men had, without having to bare its underbelly to the enemy, managed to reform into a good, defensive square.
He grinned as he hefted his sword again and shifted his grip on his shield.
Better still, he was involved in it, with no irritating underlings that knew him to force him back to dull safety. He leaned closer to the men in the second and first line in front of him.
“Are you lads going to be all good and deferential to a senior officer and make room for me? I’ve got an itch I need to scratch.”
* * * * *
Fronto gave a crazed grin as he lunged forward past the rim of his shield, plunging his sword into the mass of attacking barbarians and connecting with something soft and unseen. A squawk from somewhere among the pile of hairy, bellowing men announced his success. He withdrew the blade and shifted the shield slightly just in time to deflect the point of a spear, thrust from one of the warriors behind the front row.
It wasn’t that he had come to enjoy the killing, or at least he hoped not. It was a mix of two things: partially it was the sheer simplicity of an ‘us against them’ situation that took all the thought, complication and grey areas out of life and presented him with a very straightforward path and goal. But then there was also the incredibly cathartic release of pent up stress and anger.
The past months had brought so much pressure to bear on Fronto that he was almost weighed down to ground level. He had not realised just how tense he’d been until these poor bastards had run out of the woods and directly into his path.
The situation in Rome was becoming worse all the time, with his family living in terror and having to be escorted to the market to buy food for fear that they might be attacked by the thugs of Clodius. Priscus was there, looking after them, but that was Fronto’s job, not his.
And then Priscus’ last letter had come, and Fronto had almost torn himself to pieces, unable to decide how he felt about the knowledge that Paetus was alive, possibly a traitor to the army, certainly for some reason playing guardian spirit for Fronto’s family and friends, murdering noblewomen and likely with plans to deal harshly with Clodius and/or Caesar. He’d not shared that knowledge with anyone, least of all Caesar. If he were abiding by his loyalty to his patron, he should be telling the general about this potential danger, but for some reason he could not bring himself to do so.
And Priscus not being here still felt wrong, same as Velius. Carbo was an admirable man in the job, and clearly Atenos had fallen into place like the piece of a puzzle. They both fitted the Tenth seamlessly, and the legion had moved on from the loss of their two senior centurions without issue, but not having Priscus around was like losing a limb. He’d known the man so long it was like losing family.
But of everything that had happened, and something that came as a surprise to Fronto, it was the strange hole left by the absence of Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth, that most affected him. By now the ageing officer would be sitting on the veranda of his villa at Massilia, sipping wine and watching the sparkle of the waves on the Mare Nostrum, but the gap he left was surprisingly large. The Eighth were currently without a legate, under Balventius’ able control.
Three years he’d known Balbus; only three years, but it felt like a lifetime. The man had become something of a father-figure in a peculiar way. He had looked after Fronto and reined him in when necessary, preventing the worst of his potential outbursts and joining him in revels and excitement when appropriate. He had been a central character in Fronto’s military life for those three years and…
It had come as something of a shock to Fronto to realise that he was now the oldest serving legate or senior officer in Caesar’s command. He still thought of himself as a young man… hell, only recently passed his fortieth year, so he was hardly a shrivelled old prune, but to be the second oldest officer in Gaul after the general himself was a sudden worry.
Perhaps the most pressing thing that continued to weigh him down was that, despite everything, he could have coped with all of these problems and issues if he only had the opportunity, but the general could not let him go until the Gauls were finally settled. And they just would not stay settled.
What was it with these people? It wasn’t that they were stupid or backward; Galronus and Atenos were Gaulish and they were among the most impressive and intelligent men Fronto knew. He’d met leaders, warriors, innkeepers and more in their three years in Gaul, and they were intelligent, quiet, productive people. Why then could they not just accept that Rome was here to stay, reap the benefits of it and settle? Why the annual explosion of revolts and rebellions?
He gritted his teeth angrily and stabbed out at the man before him.
The enemy had thinned out while he had been lost deep in his own thoughts, stabbing and parrying automatically without the need to concentrate too hard. The warrior before him was fighting desperately, the look of violent triumph that had been evident at the start of the attack gone and replaced by a look of panicked failure.
Fronto allowed his eyes to flick up and past the man. The Gauls were fleeing back into the woods all along the line.
The man in front of him lurched backwards, Fronto’s latest blow cutting a jagged rent along his ribs. Somewhere behind Fronto, a centurion yelled out “Melee!” and the line broke, soldiers bellowing and racing off after the fleeing Gauls, trying to kill or capture as many as possible before they melted into the trees and were gone.
The man before Fronto, his eyes wide and fearful, threw his arms up, allowing his sword to fall to the ground. He jabbered something unintelligible, but Fronto snarled.
“Why can’t you lot just bloody accept it?”
The Gaul frowned in incomprehension and Fronto threw down his sword, the blade landing point first and jamming into the turf. Without taking his eyes from the Gaul, the legate let his shield fall away and unfastened his helmet strap, pushing the brim so that it toppled to the ground and rolled away.
“Independent Gaul is gone… don’t you understand?”
The Gaul shook his head and emphasised his surrender with his hands.
“It’s no good just giving up and surrendering yourself, though, is it?”
The Gaul stared, unable to follow the words of this mad Roman.
Fronto cracked the knuckles of his right hand.
“Because when you do surrender, we smile and help you rebuild. We send you engineers and grain and we trade and buy your goods, but then as soon as the legion moves on, you just up and revolt and kill hostages and kill each other and shout for the Germans to come over and help you. But there is no helping you because you just don’t want to be helped!”
Snarling again, Fronto threw a punch at the man’s face so hard that he felt his little finger break as it connected with the jaw. The man hurtled backwards and crashed to the ground, desperately trying to scramble away, but Fronto was already stamping toward him, rubbing his hand, his face red and angry.
“Everything is falling apart here, and at home but I don’t have time to try and hold it together or pick up the pieces because you lot can’t just keep yourselves civilised and out of trouble for half a bloody hour!”
The man pulled himself up to an almost seated position, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and Fronto roared, a noise filled with rage, impotence and frustration. His second blow caught the man on the cheek and sent him sprawling on his side.
“I could be going home to help my family, or to check on Balbus and see if he’s even still alive. I could be finding Paetus and trying to console him for what they did to him! I could be doing any bloody thing but stamping around Gaul continually putting out the little fires of rebellion!”
The Gaul had the good sense to stay down, cowering, and Fronto drew back his leg for a brutal kick to the man’s side, but suddenly found that hands were wrapping themselves around his arms and gently hauling him back. His head spun from side to side, but all he could see of the two men that were restraining him was the red tunic of legionaries.
“Let go of me or I’ll personally tear out your liver!”
A voice by his ear spoke calmly and quietly.
“Let the man go, lad. He’s surrendered and beaten. You keep kicking him, and you’re dishonouring that uniform.”
Fronto blinked.
‘Lad’?
It took him a moment to remember that he was dressed only in his nondescript crimson tunic and breeches, with no armour or emblem that could possibly denote his rank and, moreover, he was surrounded mostly by men of the Fourteenth who had little call to recognise him.
He shook his head.
Dishonour the uniform? The very thought of that stopped him in his tracks, and he went limp.
The men beside him loosened their grip on his arms as a third legionary helped the fallen enemy to his feet, accepting his surrender. Fronto turned to the men slowly.
“I’m not really sure what just happened.”
He looked up into the faces of two soldiers. Both were clearly of Gallic stock, their hair still braided and moustaches and beards still adorning their faces. Fronto was suddenly acutely aware that his recent outburst had been largely anti-Gallic and likely right in front of these men. The taller man wore the crest and harness of a centurion.
“You snapped” the centurion said. “Happens to the best of us. Pressure gets too much, and you snap. But the important thing is to not snap in the middle of a battle. You could have got yourself carved up badly there.”
The smaller man grinned.
“Fights like a friggin’ weasel on heat tho’, dun’t ‘e.”
Fronto smiled.
“I’ve had plenty of experience… er…”
“Cantorix” said the centurion and gestured to his companion with a turned thumb. “Centurion of the Third cohort’s Third century. And this is Dannos. He’s part weasel himself, though for Gods’ sake don’t let him tell you which part, ‘cause that’s a conversation you just don’t want to have!”
Fronto laughed and stretched.
“You’re not one of mine” the centurion said, looking him up and down. “One of the Tenth? You must be due your honesta missio, yes? Ready for retirement.”
Fronto blinked. That was a question he just did not know how to answer. Instead he sighed.
“Yup. From the Tenth. Saw you were in the shit, so I joined in.”
Cantorix smiled.
“Shame. I could use you in the Fourteenth. You’d best run along. Sounds like your legion’s putting out the call.”
Fronto laughed.
“I suspect they’ll wait for me.”
“No man’s that useful. Run along, lad.”
Fronto threw a full salute to the centurion and, turning professionally on his heel, jogged back across the grass. All along the forest’s edge the action had ended, the battle clearly over. The survivors had fled into the forest, and the legions were calling their men to muster. All around him, small pockets of two or three legionaries wearily dragged their feet back to their units.
Not Fronto.
For some reason he felt almost impossibly good. There was a spring in his step that he just could not subdue, and he couldn’t stop smiling. He might have to look up centurion Cantorix of the Fourteenth and buy him a drink some time soon. That would shake the bugger, when he turned up at the centurion’s tent in full dress! He grinned and, casting his eyes around, spotted Carbo and Atenos following a detachment of the Tenth back toward the camping site.
The two men glanced at him and shared unheard words as he jogged across to them. Carbo raised an eyebrow.
“I see our legate managed to slip away from us and get himself covered in blood somehow.”
Atenos nodded.
“I expect he was helping an injured man, Carbo. He would never have deliberately launched himself unarmoured into a fight, ‘specially after you warning him not to. After all, that’d be stupid. No, I’m sure there’s some sensible explanation.”
He turned back to the legate.
“May we ask where you’ve been, sir?”
Fronto grinned at them.
“Therapy.”