“We need a plan. We need to trap the Veneti and their fleet in the same place with no means of escape. If we can do that, we can force a conclusion to all this.”
He reached up and thumped himself a couple of times gently on the chest before wincing and sliding his unfinished cup of wine back onto the low table.
“You alright?” Fronto asked, his brow furrowing.
“Just heartburn. It’s this cheap and nasty wine, and the quantity of it, of course.”
Tetricus raised his eyebrow.
“Cheap and nasty? You have no idea how much I had to pay Cita to get that. It’s some of his special reserve store.”
Balbus grinned at him.
“Still tastes like a gladiator’s sandal!”
“You’re just sore because you haven’t won a game of dice in three days.”
Fronto leaned back with his wine and let the ensuing good-natured argument wash over him like a warm bath, soaking him in comfort. Grimacing for a moment, he shifted his supporting weight to his right arm. His left had made an almost full recovery after the spear wound last year, but prolonged pressure still made it ache painfully.
Funny how many things had changed in just over two years. When they were chasing the Helvetii, the people in this tent would have been so different, with Priscus, Velius, Longinus and others. No Carbo or Brutus in those days, though. The seasons changed and, along with them, so did the people around him, but the central fact never changed: these were the core of people that made Caesar’s army what it was.
He smiled sadly at the recollection of friends gone and currently absent and realised, with surprise, that events had taken such a turn that he’d never had the opportunity to review the situation of promotions within the Tenth’s centurionate. Clearly Carbo had settled into the role of primus pilus comfortably and Fronto was hardly about to put that under review. The permanently happy-looking Carbo had a strange and yet infectious sense of humour and a wicked mind for practical jokes, as Fronto was starting to discover after the third night in a row of waking with a start next to a frog that sat staring silently at him.
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.