“We’re going to get bollocked, sir.”
Carbo smiled at the man who’d spoken.
“I don’t think you need worry, lad. The legate’ll look after us.”
Fronto, high on the promontory above, watched and nodded with satisfaction. Shame they’d had to waste so many damn men before retreating, but at least they could show Caesar how stupid the idea was. Tetricus laughed.
“You were right, Marcus.”
“I know. I’m going to see Caesar. You get that artillery up and running. As soon as I’ve talked some sense into the old man, I’ll get the other legions’ engineers up to join in.”
Tetricus nodded and jogged off towards the makeshift artillery platform while Fronto turned and set his sights on the hastily-erected headquarters tent that held a commanding view of the enemy stronghold. The general emerged from the tent as he watched, waving his arms angrily at three of the staff officers that lurked outside in the torrential rain.
The hawk-nosed general was still laying into the innocent officers several minutes later as Fronto approached, and one of the men meekly raised his finger and pointed at Fronto. Caesar turned to him, his face red and angry, his eye flickering dangerously.
“I want the man who ordered that call to be stripped naked and flung down onto the rocks, and the musician who made it will follow him.”
Fronto shook his head.
“No you don’t.”
“What?” The eye flickered faster.
“With respect, Caesar, those two men just saved you thousands of men. Remember last year? Plancus marching on the walls of Noviodunum? Throwing men away like mad until you relented and let us do it properly? Don’t turn into a Plancus, general.”
“I…”
The flickering in his eye stopped and the general’s face took on a strange and almost frightened look.
“Fronto… the tent…”
The legate frowned and stepped forward, grabbing the general’s arm, just as his legs started to give way. The officers stared at them.
“Don’t read anything into it, lads. He’s exhausted.”
Without sparing them another glance, he steered the general toward the command tent and entered without ceremony. The tent was empty other than a table and seat.
“What’s happened?”
The general was starting to shake slightly, his brow pallid and sweaty.
“I’m fine… Fronto.”
He leaned over the table, his face hidden in the darkness.
“Just… exhausted, like you said.”
Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“You’re ill.”
“No. I’m fine… Get out. You deal with it how… however you feel.”
Fronto’s frown deepened as he watched Caesar slump slightly.
“Get out!”
With a shrug, Fronto turned his back on the general and strode from the tent. The old man had looked like death was closing in on him, and the expression on his face had only added to the impression. The legate had this nagging feeling that he’d deal with the retreat and go back in only to find the great Caesar dead on the floor in a pool of his own bile.
Perhaps the world would breathe a sigh of relief if that happened.
Fronto gritted his teeth as he emerged into the rain and looked at the three officers, their faces full of concern.
“As soon as the legions are back, send the officers to me and have the engineers report to Tetricus.”
One of the officers opened his mouth to object to this clear command from a man who was, in theory, at most a peer, if not a lesser officer, but his throat dried up as he saw Fronto’s face.
“At once, legate.”
“Caesar?”
“Fronto? Come in.”
The legate shrugged, casting a quick look around at the view outside the tent. The rain had died down to an intermittent drizzle that was almost worse than the downpour, but the change had made the work of the engineers easier and visibility was greatly improved. Straightening his shoulders, he ducked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back behind him.
The general sat at his table in the cavernous, largely empty tent, a studious look on his face; no sign of his recent indisposition showing.
“I’d offer you a seat, Fronto, but I only have the one, for now. I’m rather hoping not to have to unpack. What is the news?”
The legate shook his head.
“Oh no. I’ll give you a full report in a minute, but first I want you to level with me. There’s something wrong, and I don’t want to come in to report one morning to find you draped over your table bleeding out. I wouldn’t know how to proceed.”
Caesar gave a knowing smile.
“I rather think you know exactly how you’d proceed. In fact, I’ll be most surprised if you haven’t already planned for the eventuality. But no… I’m in no danger of dropping dead.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Caesar fixed him with a searching glare and sagged in the chair.
“Just an illness, Fronto. I caught something in Illyricum that’s taking a little more shaking off than normal.”
“With respect, Caesar, that’s a pile of crap. I’ve known you a long time and I’ve never seen you do that. You were in the middle of building up a real argument with me, and I know how much we both enjoy that… and then you petered out and almost collapsed. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that you’re trying to hide it, even from those closest to you.”
The general glared at him.
“This subject is not open for discussion, Marcus. Leave it be.”
Fronto gave a vicious grin.
“Well we were headed for an argument about the attack, so let’s just have an argument about this instead.”
He ignored the warning glance again.
“Whatever it is, we’re in wet, boring, north west Gaul, a long way from the jackals in the senate that are always sniffing around you for a weakness. Out here it’s just you and your army. You need to be straight with me, ‘cause it worries me. I’ve not seen you…”
The legate paused and frowned thoughtfully.
“But that’s not true, is it? I have seen you like that before.”
The general still hadn’t spoken and Fronto nodded as his thoughts stretched back.
“Vesontio last year… before we moved against the Belgae. You virtually pushed me away and disappeared on your own, complaining about the smell or something. That was the same thing, wasn’t it?”
“Fronto, you might sometimes be too bright for your own good. How can you have recall like that when you pickle your brain so often?”
Fronto brushed the comment aside, frowning.
“It’s a preservative. Come on… you’ve got to trust me. I know something’s up and you’d be better off giving me the truth than letting me speculate.”
Caesar sighed and sagged again.
“I do have an affliction that strikes from time to time. It’s not lethal; just inconvenient and I would rather like to keep it from the rest of the men. You and I know that it’s men, not strange forces, that control the future of the world, but there are a lot of intelligent men out there who cling to ridiculous superstitions, let alone the average soldier.”
Fronto nodded.
“They could see it as some sort of curse?”
“Exactly. A mark of divine disfavour or some such.
“How many people know about this?”
Caesar shrugged.
“My body slave, some select few of my family… and a merchant in the forum holitorium who will die a very wealthy man so long as he keeps his mouth shut.”
The general smiled.
“But since you now know, I may need your help from time to time in keeping this quiet.”
“Does it happen often?”
Caesar frowned.
“Rarely more than a couple of times a year, really.”
Fronto sighed and leaned against the leather of the tent wall.
“So what is it? Give me the details and I’ll know what to do the next time that happens, rather than making feeble excuses to the men and leaving you on your own in the tent to ride it through.”