‘Then I will bring you the Aedui if they can be brought.’
‘I know you will, my friend. There is no one else I could trust to do this. Good luck. Teutatus watch over you.’
* * * * *
Marcus Antonius belched long and loud and, with a chuckle, tried to form the name of Bacchus from the deep resonance. The other officers in the tent snorted their humour, apart from Varus, who had been asleep for an hour now.
‘But seriously, Fronto, your man Samognatos is to be congratulated. He saved enough grain to feed a legion for a week. If he were a Roman he’d be up for a decoration. Caesar wants me to find out what we can do for him to show our appreciation.’
Fronto closed an eye in order to see only one Antonius and shrugged. ‘He’s been very modest over the whole affair, but I imagine a few coins wouldn’t go amiss.’
Samognatos had returned to Fronto’s singulares following the fall of Avaricon, bringing with him the details of two Arverni leaders — Cavarinos and Critognatos — who had been sent to the oppidum by Vercingetorix and who had been instrumental in the impressive attempts at holding off the legions. No one knew what had happened to them, but their bodies had not yet turned up among the dead. Remembering the pair from erstwhile encounters, Fronto felt sure the two had safely fled Avaricon before the appalling aftermath. Despite the order to take no prisoners, a few slaves had been roped up and sent northeast, back to Agedincum. They might starve on the journey, of course, but if they reached the Roman stronghold they would fetch a few coins for the men. Perhaps three hundred Bituriges there in total. And an estimated hundred escaped into the swamps. And that out of many thousands of inhabitants. One could hardly count the dead for the piles awaiting burning were so huge.
Also, the Condrusi scout had brought back estimates of the Gallic army’s numbers in terms of cavalry, archers and infantry, which tribes constituted the force, and even rumours that had filtered through the army of Vercingetorix’s long-term plans. The scout had performed so well in his task that Fronto had taken him directly to Caesar for debriefing, and the general had praised and lauded the man. The meeting had only been made funnier when Plancus had stormed in, spluttering with complaints that his personal baggage had been lost along with the latest supply train, only for Caesar to chide him through a sly smile for being careless.
Additionally, the city had delivered up a goodly amount of financial gain for Rome, and to please his tired and hungry men, Caesar had given up every part of the reward to the army in plunder. More importantly it had supplied not only one and a half filled granaries, but also an extra grain store from a merchant’s halls, masses of other foodstuffs, and a sizeable haul of livestock. The army had eaten better in one evening than in weeks previously, stuffing their faces and washing down roasted boar meat and mutton with wine and beer.
And a small, select gathering of the officers had retired to Fronto’s tent to recover from the exertions of the day and from their belt-straining guts following such a grand meal. Now, as Priscus loosened his belt another notch and poured himself a cup of wine without missing too badly, Antonius frowned. ‘Where were we, anyway?’
‘Palmatus, I think.’
Antonius turned a serious face on the singulares officer and Fronto grinned. ‘Beware. He’s good at this.’
Antonius narrowed his eyes.
‘You, Palmatus of the Pompeian Roman slums, are a festering, disease-ridden pus-sack of a filthy whore’s crotch after a bad dose of the clap!’
Priscus choked on his wine and as the man coughed liquid through his nose and snorted in the background, Palmatus fixed Antonius with a steady glare.
‘You, Marcus Antonius, are an inbred, Curio-humping, dissolute and profligate knob-end, with the grace and charm of a sheep’s rear end after a Sicilian farmer’s enjoyed himself too much.’
Priscus, still recovering from his choking, suddenly exploded in red-faced laughter and, as Fronto caught the look on Antonius’ face, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. ‘I warned you,’ he grinned.
‘Curio-humping?’
‘Oh come on,’ Palmatus shrugged, ‘everyone within a thousand miles of Rome heard that rumour!’
Antonius’ eyes bulged. ‘Inbred?’
‘All patricians are inbred,’ Palmatus said flatly, his eyes slipping sideways to Fronto, who simply grinned. ‘Nice if you’re aiming it at me,’ the legate replied, ‘but Antonius’ family are plebs, my friend. Like you, but with more money.’
‘And cleaner,’ laughed Antonius, the slight apparently already forgotten by the unpredictable officer.
‘Alright. That’s one to Palmatus, I suppose. Your turn then, man. Try Priscus.’
‘Too easy.’
Priscus narrowed his eyes, as his body still shook with dissipating coughs. ‘Go on, then.’
‘You, Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus,’ Palmatus began, and then grinned. ‘Inbred patrician,’ a pause for Fronto and Antonius to chuckle, ‘are a stinking hog’s pizzle with…’
He was interrupted by a clatter at the tent’s door.
‘Come,’ called Fronto over the sounds of officers snorting with laughter.
The tent flap was pulled aside to reveal the intimidating shape of Masgava, Fronto’s other singulares commander — a former gladiator of Numidian birth, the man was huge and dangerous.
‘Good,’ Fronto grinned. ‘I told you to join us earlier. You’ve a few rounds to catch up on. Don’t take anything too personally, or it’s going to be a bad night for someone.’
Masgava shook his head. ‘Not here for a social, I’m afraid, sir. Message from the general. He’d like to see you in the command tent. Same goes for commanders Antonius, Varus and Priscus.’
Fronto rolled his eyes. ‘The general never bloody sleeps, does he?’
‘I’m not sure I can stand,’ Priscus said quietly, and Antonius rose to his feet steadily, crossed the tent and reached a hand down to help the prefect from the ground. ‘How can you stand too, Antonius? You’ve put away at least two mugs to my one, and I never saw the water jug pass close to you!’
‘Strong constitution,’ Antonius chuckled. ‘Plebeian, you see? Look at Palmatus over there. He’s sober as a iudex, too.’
Priscus glared at Palmatus, but the bodyguard simply shrugged and rose steadily.
‘Bastard. And I’ve yet to meet a sober judge.’
‘Any idea what this is about?’ Fronto asked Antonius as he wobbled to his feet, throwing out an arm to Palmatus, who grabbed it and held him steady.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ the senior officer replied. ‘Though earlier he was debating our next move. Perhaps he’s decided. He was noting the fact that the frost and the cold seemed to have finally given up and told me that rain was no impediment to a campaign. Maybe he’s planning to march us on the rebel army, or draw them out to us, for preference.’
‘I don’t think we’re ready to take on Vercingetorix yet,’ Fronto replied. ‘The odds are still too uncertain.’
As Palmatus and Masgava roused Varus from sleep as gently, yet quickly, as they could, the other three officers stepped out into the fresh air, which hit Fronto like a cart full of amphorae, filling his head with thumping and thought-strangling fuzziness.
‘I fear I may have to be rather sick,’ he announced.
‘Then try and do it on the way and not in the general’s tent,’ grinned Antonius. The three stood breathing the night air deeply, waiting for Varus. The storm had passed just before sunset, leaving the world breathing a sigh of relief, with fresh, cool air beneath the first clear sky they had seen in weeks.
‘He might be right about the weather,’ Priscus noted. ‘Campaigning in this will be a breeze after the last couple of months.’