“Thanks again.”
The legate sighed.
“But a bath does sound good. Right, I’ll go bathe sharpish and I’ll see you on the ‘parade ground’ out front in forty minutes.”
The primus pilus nodded and tapped the nearest standard.
“I’m looking forward to it. So is Balventius. We talked last night. To be honest, we’re all a bit sick of watching auxiliaries and Gauls hogging all the glory. Are you sure you remember how to command a legion? You’ve been an auxiliary prefect for the past few weeks, really.”
“Shut up!”
Fronto glowered at his subordinate’s grinning face and, turning, left the legion’s command tent. Watching the upheaval around the camp, he strode down the slope to the river. Finding the shelf by the water’s edge that the legions had flattened and decked out with planks for this purpose, he wandered over to the large wooden chest that lay on one side.
The container was unlocked and opened to reveal jars of olive oil, strigils, and clean sponges. Fronto stretched and began to remove his tunic, breeches and various accoutrements. The early morning chill brought out gooseflesh as he stood, naked, on the wooden platform. Reaching down, he grasped the olive oil container and proceeded to tip it out into his hand and rub it into his cold flesh. In a nice civil bath house within the empire, the process was relaxing and refreshing; often with the help of a slave and, in the better establishments, accompanied by wine, bread and cheese, and music. The experience in the field was a little less relaxed.
He shivered as he hurriedly rubbed the oil into his calf. At least it led to very quick and efficient bathing. Once he was fully oiled, he replaced the oil container in the chest and, picking up the strigil, stepped off the wooden surface and onto the discoloured turf nearby. Slowly, he worked at removing the oil and grime with the curved blade, the gloop falling away in gobbets to the grass. Finally, he finished his routine and stepped forward and down into the water.
As part of the work the engineers had done on this temporary bathing complex, a set of steps had been carved and decked down into the water, and a floor of wooden beams sunk into this side of the river, replacing the reeds and sucking mud that would have greeted him.
Biting his lip, he stepped into the cold water, his toes curling at the sensation. A little further and his shins and calves complained. Then the knees; the thighs; his abdomen and then with one quick splash, he submerged completely, dropping to sit underwater on the wooden floor. He sat for a moment, adjusting to the refreshing cold, and then pushed himself back up.
He crested the water with a splash and stood, chest deep, raking his fingers back through his hair. Rubbing his chin and neck, for a moment he considered whether he should leave it. Beards may not be popular in Rome, but they were fairly common among soldiers on campaign; especially with all these Gallic recruits.
“No. Roman it is!”
He shook his head and wiped the excess water from his eyes, stepping forward to the pile of gear on the wooden shelf. His dagger probably needed work, but it’d be sharp enough for a cursory shave. A closer one could come later, as he was short on time right now.
He reached across and pulled at the coiled belt. The knife was gone.
Instinct made him use bent knees to launch himself back out into the water, just as the figure leapt from the reeds and undergrowth to the side.
Six feet out into the water, almost at the edge of the wooden platform, Fronto stared. It was a girl. Well, more of a woman than a girl, probably in her mid twenties and clearly Celtic. Her long strawberry blonde hair was plaited and braided and she wore a long tunic or dress of pale blue wool, belted in the middle with expensive-looking bronze, though stained with mud and blood.
Her eyes were sharp and clear and she brandished Fronto’s knife and waved it in his direction threateningly.
“What in the name of Venus?”
He eyed her warily. She was pretty, certainly, and clearly strong in both mind and muscle, but that wasn’t always a good combination. His mind flashed briefly back to a pretty looking young German woman who tried to tear his tendon out with her teeth. Frowning and setting his jaw, Fronto wondered how to proceed.
The woman gabbled something off in her tongue. Fronto looked her up and down once again. She was clearly one of the Belgae, but how the hell did she get down here? They didn’t usually bring their women onto the battlefield, as far as he remembered. And she was clearly a noble or a woman of wealth from the bronze and gold belt and jewellery that adorned her. Perhaps she was a chieftainess? One of these warrior women rumour spoke of among the Celts? The barbarian version of an amazon? Taking a step forward, she kept the knife defensively between them and scooped up his clothes, leaving only his boots.
“Dress!”
He was so surprised at the sudden use of Latin that he merely stood and blinked. She had a strong Belgic accent, but there was no doubt about it. She could speak his tongue.
“I said dress! I know how to use this!”
Fronto shrugged and moved toward the river bank, his body still submerged to the chest.
“I really don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve here, but your very best option is to run like Pluto himself is jabbing you in the arse. I expect you’ve heard horror stories about what Roman officers do to captives; I know I have; but, to be honest, I’m not the rape and murder type. I’d rather you took my knife and buggered off, so I can get dressed and go have a bite to eat.”
The woman tipped her head to one side slightly.
“Many of your words are not familiar to me, Roman. Now, dress!”
Fronto emerged from the water, naked and pale. As he had hoped, the sudden appearance of naked masculinity caught her attention for a fraction of a second. It was involuntary and only momentary, but it was enough. As the legate rose from the surface, she failed to notice the stick in his hand; a sturdy pole that had been jammed into the riverbank by some helpful soldier, possibly to hang a cloth from.
The stick came out of the water at a fast swing, whacking the woman on the wrist, and causing her to lose her grip on the knife. In a momentary panic, she dived for the blade, but Fronto was there first. She backed away, edgily, watching his every move.
“Damn it” he grumbled.
He frowned at her. Why did stupid things like this always happen to him?
“Pick up my gear!”
She did so, nervously.
“Now throw me the breeches.”
Carefully, she separated them out. He was expecting her to hurl them at his face, but instead the clothing was tossed gently over to him.
“I’m going to trust you not to do anything stupid while I put these on.”
Keeping a close watch on her and gripping the knife, he let the stick fall to the platform and used his free hand to pull on his breeches. He looked up in surprise to see the girl laughing.
“Something funny?”
“I think the water… it must be very cold, yes?”
She laughed again and Fronto cursed the colour that rose involuntarily in his cheeks.
“Hilarious, I’m sure.”
He fixed her with a steady glance.
“I have no intention of hurting you, young lady, and I can see that you’re intelligent, wealthy, and strong. So I’ll try not to be condescending.”
A deep breath.
“You have a choice. You can run. In fact, that’s probably your best choice. You’ll not catch up with your army, but you can probably make it to one of your allies’ oppida. The Remi, I’ve noted, are particularly friendly and generous.”
He looked up the hill at the fort.
“Actually, that’s not your best option. It’s your only option. You stay here and either one of the men will find you, which I can’t guarantee would be pleasant, or you’ll end up with the officers and Caesar will likely either take you as a hostage or make you a prize to go back to Rome.”