The man nodded and turned to his companions to begin calling out the orders.
Fronto nodded, satisfied with the situation at the rear, and located Lucretius and his standard bearer and cornicen.
“I think we’re probably done here. The rearguard will be here shortly and I doubt there’s any more enemy units lurking around the rear. We should get back to the Tenth.”
The centurion nodded and gestured at the Cornicen, who sounded the recall. Pausing only to dispatch the few surviving fallen Belgae, the Sixth Cohort rallied to the standard and formed into centuries. Lucretius gave further orders and the cohort turned and moved off at a fast march to rejoin the fighting on the left flank, with Fronto running alongside.
As they reached the rear ranks of the Tenth, Fronto was surprised to see Labienus and Brutus in conversation with Caesar. He growled under his breath.
“Lucretius, get to work.”
The centurion saluted and then filtered the Sixth Cohort back into the lines of defenders, bolstering the numbers, while Fronto marched irritably across to the group of officers.
“Problems?”
Caesar turned to him and blinked.
“Not problems, Fronto. All my senior officers are with the legions and I need to be apprised of the situation.”
Fronto growled.
“The situation is that we’re in the shit. Labienus is supposed to be commanding the Tenth while I was away, not reporting to his commander. The situation’s a bit perilous for wandering around the battlefield and passing the time of day.”
Caesar glared at him and ground his teeth but before he could speak, Fronto pointed back in the direction from whence the general had come.
“The Twelfth are seriously outnumbered, hard pressed, and have no support. In that position, morale plays as much a part as strength, numbers, or discipline. How much of a morale boost do you think it gave them to see their commander desert them and wander off across the battlefield to go chat to another legion?”
Caesar’s opening mouth closed again. For a moment he looked astonished, and slowly his anger was replaced by grudging acceptance.
“What do you suggest, Fronto?”
“If you hold any hope of pulling our arses out of the fire today, we need the Twelfth to hold until the relief arrives. It might do them some good if all their officers pitched in and helped. In fact, we’ve got enough officers here, really. I could use Labienus, but Brutus might be of use over there.”
Caesar nodded slowly.
“I agree, yes. A show of bravery and ‘mucking in’ from the officer corps. Come, Brutus.”
With the briefest of nods at Fronto, the general and his young companion strode back across the battlefield towards the beleaguered Twelfth Legion. The legate watched them go and then turned back to Labienus and rolled his eyes.
“Shall we get back to the real work?”
Labienus smiled at him.
“Only you could get away with scolding your commanding officer like a naughty child, Fronto. You do make me laugh sometimes.”
* * * * *
Paetus stared at the man in front of him. He’d known Fronto for years and the legate hadn’t even recognised him. Oh, certainly he was wearing Belgic gear and he’d grown a beard, but surely that couldn’t disguise him that easily.
The plan had failed. That was clear from the moment the two ambushing units of Nervii had left the woods. The wagons had rolled into view and the warriors had charged, but there was no mounted command unit, just the rear end of the Twelfth Legion and then the carts. The bastard had changed the marching order. How did he know?
It hadn’t stopped the Nervii and their allies anyway. They’d missed the opportunity of removing the commanders but, given the amount of preparation that had gone into this attack and the level to which they and their allies had now committed themselves, there was no point in changing plans or calling off the attack. They outnumbered Caesar’s army and had the advantages of surprise and preparation. They could win this anyway, without taking down the staff.
The disappointment to Paetus was crushing. Now he would have to stay through the entire battle to make sure that Caesar did not escape alive. Tricky, though, as it was possible that, even when the Nervii won, they would take issue with Paetus for the failure of his plan. Still, he could worry about that when it happened. Right now, he had other issues…
Fronto.
The legate of the Tenth faced him with gladius and shield like a true soldier of Rome, unstoppable and efficient. Paetus felt the panic rise in his throat. Oh, he’d trained as a soldier, of course, but for many years now his days and nights were a constant flow of comfortable chairs, scrawling figures on wax tablets, and planning from behind a desk. It had been years since he’d even drawn his sword and the recent exercise he’d undergone couldn’t replace the fighting skills and instinct he’d long-since lost.
He dropped into what he hoped was a combative stance. Since Fronto hadn’t recognised him, he might get away with this. Hell, he really didn’t want to kill Fronto, even if he thought for even a minute that he could. Fronto was one of very few people in Caesar’s army who actually seemed to care.
The legate grinned at him and the smile was horrible. Paetus could suddenly understand how Fronto achieved his reputation and respect. It was a wonder the enemy didn’t flee just at his scowl.
In a blur of movement, the legate lunged at him. It was like watching a snake uncoil, he was so damned fast. In a desperate move, Paetus swung his sword at Fronto’s attack and managed by some miracle of luck to knock the blade away. He stared for a moment at the legate and, turning, ran like a cowardly child from a bully, back to the west.
Around him, several other Nervian warriors were now fleeing the scene, though they were doing so with determined looks and there was evidently no fear or cowardice involved as they ran to regroup with their countrymen attacking the legions. Paetus, unnoticed among their number, ran on and, as the warriors turned and joined the Atrebates who were busy swarming over the defences of the Ninth and Tenth, the frightened prefect continued on past them and into the woods from where the attack had been launched.
* * * * *
Crispus pushed his way through the lines of his men, the noise around him deafening as the Eleventh fought for their lives among a press of screaming, bloodthirsty warriors. The legate, educated and bright, thin and well-groomed, was currently a sight that would have sent his mother into fits.
Fronto’s influence was clear to those around him these days. His tone had matured as he deliberately fought to keep his mannerisms military and forthright, where his family had always taught him to hold himself as an orator. He now moved with the deliberate and powerful certainty of a soldier. But mostly, the change was clear in his appearance.
The bronze cuirass, embossed with the head of medusa, now carried more than a dozen dents, one of which had actually punctured the metal. Some of the leather pteruges hanging from his shoulders and belt were missing or cleaved off half-way. His tunic was smeared and dirty and one sleeve hung raggedly down, his sword and shield bore the rents, dents and viscera of a warrior in the fiercest of battles.
And the men around him cheered as he passed; a commander so close to, and beloved of, his men that Crispus could do no wrong. He grinned at a centurion as he pushed past.
“Just like harvest, eh, Publius?”
The centurion laughed.
“Reapin’ time, sir…”
Crispus continued on, his eyes fixed on the crimson plume among the helmets ahead.
“Balbus?” he called, and the heavy-set legate of the Eighth turned toward him as he raised his shield to ward off a blow. The older officer, himself involved in the front line of combat, noted the approach of his peer from the Eleventh and pulled back from the worst of the fighting, allowing the line around him to close up.