“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. When I do one day get back to Rome, I shall make it a very messy and public divorce and I shall get rid of her and her harpy of a mother in one fell swoop.”
Fronto tried not to laugh as Decius mimed a swoop with his hand, and the effort and momentum caused him to topple over sideways. He failed.
“I think I should have a word with Balbus. You need to be in a more commanding position than this. I imagine he can find room for another tribune.”
“Thanks. Now where’s that beer. I need to drink ‘til I’ve forgotten about Vespilla and her harpy mother again.”
Chapter 7
(Caesar’s camp by the Aisne River.)
“ Laconicum: the steam room or sauna in a Roman bath house.”
A cheer went up among the men of the Tenth as their legate, dirty, limping and dishevelled, plodded through the wooden gate of the enormous camp. Behind him came the various auxiliary units, elated by their victory at Bibrax, but weary and largely suffering on account of bad heads. The linen tunics of the archers and slingers were stained brown and grey, and the Roman prefects who led them marched in traditional fashion, but with a stiffness and tiredness to their gait.
Fronto smiled at the men at the gate and returned their salute. He wondered how these auxiliary missile troops felt about being cheered by professional, well-trained legionaries. It must be odd for them. He smiled again to himself. As far as most of the army would be concerned, Fronto and his officers had pulled off an impossible task.
Standing by an armaments cache on the main via, Priscus, the primus pilus of the Tenth, laughed and folded his arms.
“Fortuna certainly kisses your arse, sir.”
Fronto grinned.
“Priscus, you have no idea. I am Fortuna’s servant. I make her luck!”
He threw up his arm to halt the advance of his column.
“I’m going to take the prefects to headquarters. Can you have somewhere set aside for these units to relax and stand down?” He smiled wearily. “Oh, and send someone to Cita and requisition some good wine for them all. They bloody well deserve it, and it’ll wash the taste of Bibrax’s nasty beer out of their mouths.”
Priscus raised an eyebrow.
“Could cause resentment in the legions, sir, if you show such favour to non-citizens? No one’s giving our lads any wine.”
Fronto shrugged.
“They may not be citizens, but they just fought hard and well for Rome. Get the wine. If anyone complains, I’ll deal with it personally.”
Priscus nodded and beckoned to a couple of legionaries standing at attention nearby. While he relayed the appropriate orders, Fronto turned to look back along his column, formed up four-abreast.
“Decius, Galeo and Pansa. Follow me.”
He stepped out ahead of the column and turned as the three officers made their way from the bulk of their men and converged on the legate.
“Sir?”
Fronto smiled wearily.
“I’m going for debriefing with the general. You three gentlemen were instrumental in our success yesterday and I want to make sure Caesar knows that, so I want you all to accompany me.”
The three men shared surprised glances, but nodded respectfully.
“Shouldn’t we clean up a bit before seeing Caesar?” asked Pansa, indicating his drab and dirty red tunic, torn in several places and with stains that may now be permanent.
Behind him, Priscus laughed.
“Caesar’s used to seeing the legate looking like that. It’ll come as no surprise, I’m sure.”
Fronto shot an irritated glance at his second-in-command and then turned back to the three prefects.
“Right now, you look like you’ve just fought a nasty action. You look like victorious soldiers. If you get smartened up, you’ll not stand out quite so much.”
Without waiting further, he turned and started marching up toward the command block in the centre of the camp. The legions had done a tremendous job in his absence. The bridge across the Aisne was strong and wide enough for two carts; a camp protected the far side with a palisaded annexe that contained all the supplies and supply wagons that constantly rolled across the countryside back and forth to keep the legions fed. Very efficient, but nothing quite as impressive as this fort.
Tetricus had constructed on this hill above the river a camp of traditional rectangular shape, but the dimensions and the fortifications were breathtaking. Once or twice in his career, Fronto had come across a camp big enough to accommodate two, or even three, legions, but this was on another scale entirely. A single camp large enough to hold the bulk of seven legions, plus all their auxiliary units, cavalry and artillery. It was almost mind-blowing to see. The four men had walked fully ten minutes from the gate before they came to the edge of the principia: more than a dozen campaign tents, with Caesar’s great headquarters at the centre.
The general’s guard maintained their perimeter and stepped forward to challenge the four scruffy men approaching.
“State your name and purpose!”
“Gods,” Fronto laughed, “Ingenuus has you lot on form, doesn’t he? Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto of the Tenth Legion, accompanied by three auxiliary prefects, to see the general.”
The two men before him saluted and one turned and ran off into the principia. The other remained at attention.
“If you would just bear with us while we inform the general?”
Fronto nodded and the four men stood, kicking idly at the dried mud and few surviving tufts of grass on the ground. After almost a minute, the guard returned and beckoned, escorting them into the general’s tent.
As they entered, pausing to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, Caesar rose from his seat behind the table.
“It is good to see you alive, Fronto. I was starting to worry. Last night I poured a libation on the altar of Mars and asked him to bring you back unharmed.”
Fronto sighed wearily.
“With respect, general, it wasn’t Mars that did it. It was us; myself, the three officers behind me and their men.”
Caesar blinked.
“Did it? Did what?”
Fronto smiled.
“Brought you the Remi, safe and sound. Bibrax stands firm. In fact yesterday it stood firm amid a sea of Belgae around thirty thousand strong.”
The general was clearly astonished.
“You succeeded? I had assumed you harried the enemy and pulled out? You actually succeeded?”
Fronto nodded.
“Not only that, but you remember those chieftains we met back at Durocorteron? Iccius and Antebogus or something?”
“Antebrogius” corrected the general absently.
“Yes, well it turns out that Bibrax was Iccius’ village. Good job we did go, eh?”
The general’s eyes flashed momentarily at the barely-veiled note of accusation in the legate’s tone.
“Then you gentlemen did me a great service.”
Fronto nodded.
“At the very least I’d say these three need seriously looking at for decoration and promotion.”
Caesar nodded thoughtfully.
“Identify yourselves, gentlemen.”
“Titus Decius Quadratus, auxiliary prefect of the Eighth.”
Decius saluted wearily. As he stepped back into line, the next man stepped forward.
“Servius Galeo, auxiliary prefect of the Eleventh.”
Another step forward.
“Vibius Pansa, auxiliary prefect of the Twelfth.”
Caesar smiled benignly. Fronto knew that smile and how the general had perfected it such that it looked so genuine.
“Well, gentlemen. We’ll have to see what we can do for you all.”
Fronto nodded.
“However, that may have to wait. That’s the other thing. On the way back here, we skirted round the edge of the Belgae. All of them. Judging by the relaxed atmosphere in the camp, I presume you’re not aware of them?”