He turned to Balbus as they passed the rear ranks of the Twelfth and approached the staff and the wagon train.
“We’ve got to do something about these legions. Got to get the Thirteenth and Fourteenth in with our own lads.”
Balbus nodded.
“I know. The problem is that they’ve not had a chance to fight alongside each other yet. I think the other legions resent the fact that the only action that’s worthy of note among the legions so far was carried out by the new boys. I’m hoping that, once they all have a chance to take the field together and watch each other’s backs, they’ll settle down.”
Priscus grunted.
“So long as they do actually watch each other’s back. I wouldn’t be too sure right now.”
The two of them slowed as they reached the command section and, while Priscus saluted the senior officers, Balbus looked up at them. Caesar raised an eyebrow.
“Lost your horse, legate?”
There was chuckling among the officers.
“Looking for Fronto, Caesar. I presume you haven’t seen him?”
“No” the general confirmed, a shadow passing across his eyes. “Not even when I asked to…”
Without pressing the subject, Balbus nodded and, stopping, turned to Priscus.
“This is pointless. We need to speak to the lower ranks. They’re more likely to know where Fronto is than the officers.”
Priscus nodded.
“I have an idea.”
With Balbus at his heels, he strode on to the baggage column and frowned at it. Pursing his lips, he turned to the legate by his side.
“Something’s wrong here.”
Balbus shrugged.
“Looks normal to me.”
“No.” Priscus shook his head. “I’ve seen the supply train of an army a hundred times. This is different. Look:”
He gestured at the front wagon.
“This wagon’s full of tent gear. For the camp when we stop.”
“Yes?”
“Front wagon’s always stockade posts and defensive equipment. In case camp needs to be set up quickly. Need the defensive works closest to the legions… tents go up after that.”
Balbus shrugged.
“So someone changed the order or made a mistake.”
“No. This is Paetus’ job. He always oversees the wagons. He’s a bit of a martinet over it. We’ve had words about it before now. This was organised by someone else.”
Ignoring the look of impressed surprise on the legate’s face, Priscus strode over to the first wagon and located a duplicarius legionary in charge of the cart.
“Who oversaw the wagons this morning?”
The legionary saluted hurriedly.
“Prefect Cita, sir.”
“And where is Cita now?”
The soldier looked a little panicky, as though convinced he’d done something wrong. Balbus had seen that face many times on a subordinate as they addressed the primus pilus of the Tenth. Priscus had something of a reputation.
“Five or six carts back, sir, with the luxuries wagons.”
Priscus nodded and, turning, beckoned to Balbus. The two strode on past the loaded wagons until they saw the familiar hulking figure of Caesar’s chief quartermaster. Cita was a large man; not fat, but with a bulk distributed well across his frame. His lantern jaw was always dark, as though the man needed to shave several times a day. He scratched his short, curly hair with a stylus in one hand while trying to concentrate on the figures displayed on the wax tablet in the other, despite the bouncing of the cart. Priscus waved at him.
“Prefect?”
Cita looked up from his figures and frowned.
“Priscus… legate? What can I do for you?”
Priscus pointed toward the head of the column.
“I’m looking for Fronto and Paetus. Have you seen them?”
Cita nodded unhappily.
“You want the medical carts at the rear of the column.” He noted the sudden alarm in their faces. “Don’t panic, gentlemen. Fronto’s alright. Very, very, very drunk, and a little light headed, but alright.”
Balbus turned to ask a question of Priscus, but the primus pilus was already striding toward the other end of the long column of carts, travelling three abreast. It always astounded him when he saw them just how many wagons were needed to keep an army this size supplied on the move. The wagon train took almost an hour to pass fully. Truly, without men like Cita and Paetus, a marching column may well fall apart.
He caught up with Priscus and eventually they arrived at the medical wagons: eight empty carts at the rear that served to carry the non-walking and non-terminal wounded. He tried not to think about just how crammed those eight large carts were, and scanned them, trying to locate Fronto or Paetus.
“Here!”
Priscus waved him over to one of the rear carts. A space had been cleared, the legionaries almost sitting on top of one another to make room for the senior officer among their number. In many cases, that would be through fear and obedience. Balbus suspected, given Fronto’s reputation, that in this case, it was through love and respect.
Fronto lay in the cleared space with Florus, the young medic from the Tenth, tending to him. Balbus opened his mouth to enquire, but Priscus beat him to it.
“Florus? Talk to me?”
The young man looked up and frowned.
“I’m a little concerned about the legate, sir. He’s clearly still suffering the effects, let alone the after-effects of whatever he drank last night, but I’m not sure how much of his barely-conscious condition is the alcohol and how much is the wound.”
Priscus growled.
“What wound?”
“Well sir,” the young man answered earnestly. “When he was found this morning, he was completely unconscious and reeked of wine, but when the legionaries turned him over, they found a wound on the back of his head. There was blood on the frame of the chair by the door, and they believe he must have fallen, drunk, and struck his head on the way down.”
The young, rosy-faced man leaned closer conspiratorially.
“But I’m not convinced of that, sir.”
Balbus bent closer to join the low conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Florus shrugged, still carefully cradling the legate’s head against the jarring motion of the wagon, “I can’t show you the wound right now, but I had a good look at it before I bound it this morning; before he went in the cart…”
“And?”
“And the wound is not consistent with having fallen on a campaign chair, sirs.”
He lowered his voice again, so that Balbus had to strain to hear.
“The wound was inflicted by something rounded and heavy and at a reasonable force, and I think from the looks of it, it was inflicted from behind and above.”
“Paetus!” Priscus growled. “Fronto was found alone?”
“Yes sir.”
“But in Paetus’ tent?”
“Yessir.”
“And, were I to suggest, would you say the wound could have been inflicted by this?”
As Balbus and Florus watched, Priscus lifted his sheathed sword and displayed the heavy, rounded pommel at the top of the hilt. Balbus stared, but Florus nodded. “That was my thought already, sir, though I didn’t want to voice it until after the legate had woken.”
Balbus shook his head.
“He will wake then?”
“Oh yes, sir. He’ll be delicate for a while and have a bad headache, but some of that’s from his own self-abuse, begging your pardon, sirs. The wound was enough to render him unconscious, but no more. I wouldn’t be comfortable releasing him for duty for a few days, though.”
“Paetus!” growled Priscus once again.
He turned to Balbus.
“I think we’d best inform Caesar that Paetus has attacked Fronto and fled.” He frowned. “Question is: where’s he fled to?”
* * * * *
Divitiacus of the Aedui and several of his nobles rode out ahead of the huge Gallic force that was milling around on the plain ahead. As he approached the head of the Roman column, the staff officers arrived from their position further back along the line while the men sighed and rested their feet from the four day march along the river valley into the lands of the Bellovaci.