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 Tenth?”
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.