Gallia Invicta

“That was different. Anyway, I’ve three men in mind, as I said. I’ve not approached any of them, but the position’s likely to appeal to them all and, well… without wanting to blow our own buccina, the Tenth has a good reputation. People are always watching for transfer opportunities. You may have noticed we’re rarely far below full strength. We’ve had almost a hundred inward transfers in the past month. I think it’s starting to piss the other legates off, but it’s good for us.”

Fronto nodded.

“Go on then. Who’ve you got down?”

Carbo counted them off on his fingers.

“Well they’re all from outside the Tenth. Nobody truly fits the bill here. Firstly, there’s Aquilius. He’s the obvious choice, given his experience.”

“Aquilius?“ Fronto’s brow furrowed. ”But he’s already a chief training officer in the Eighth. Why would he change?”

Something unreadable passed across Carbo’s face for a moment; fleeting and then gone, chased away by a smile.

“We can offer him an identical role in the Tenth, with the same rank, position and pay. You see, Aquilius is a perfectionist. Not like the hard bugger Velius was, but a real professional, and I suspect he’d be excited to get a chance to get his teeth into the Tenth. He’s got the Eighth just how he wants them and there’s no challenge there any more. He might not accept, but I’ve a feeling he would.”

Fronto shook his head.

“Perhaps, but I’d rather not strip a good man from Balbus’ legion if I can avoid it. Who else have you got?”

“Well there’s a man called Bassianus in the Eleventh that I’ve been watching for a while too. He’s no experience as a chief training officer, but he’s done more than his fair share of training and drilling, and he’s a long term veteran with a reputation for being hard as a whore’s heart. He actually served with the Ninth in Spain under your command a long time ago.”

Fronto nodded appreciatively.

“Don’t recognise the name, but then it’s been a long time. You think he can do the job?”

“I wouldn’t recommend someone who couldn’t” Carbo grinned.

“Alright. So who’s the third?”

Carbo’s smile widened disturbingly.

“You’ll love this.”

“What?”

“A centurion called Atenos.”

“That’s not even a Roman name?” Fronto frowned.

“No. Atenos is a Gaul from the Thirteenth Legion. He’s my outside chance, just in case, but I can’t help thinking that, even though he appears at first to be the least appropriate, he might just be the best choice.”

Fronto shook his head and waved his arm.

“No, no, no. Any Gaulish centurion in the Thirteenth is a lower ranking one, you know that. All the senior roles were given to Roman veterans. Hell, all the centurions were Roman veterans until they started dying off. That means that this Atenos only has a year behind the eagle. He’s practically still one of the enemy!”

Carbo laughed.

“Bollocks. He’s signed on for the full term, taken the oath and served with distinction for a year. Besides, you’ve not queried his experience.”

Fronto barked a laugh.

“What experience? Ten years of fighting naked and covered in paint and then a year with the legions?”

Carbo’s grin became a little defensive.

“Hardly. Atenos has a long and distinguished military history… as a mercenary, I’ll grant you, but it all counts.”

Fronto blinked.

“A mercenary?”

Yes. When his people were displaced by the Helvetii about fifteen years ago, he went south and signed on with any army that would pay and feed him. He may have fought with the slaves, though he denies it, but he definitely served with Pompey’s fleets against the pirates, then turned and fought with the King of Pontus against Pompey and then joined him again when he marched on Jerusalem. Quite a pedigree.”

Fronto stared at his chief centurion.

“Carbo, the man’s fought against us as often as he’s fought for us. Are you mad?”

The primus pilus shrugged.

“It’s your decision. But think what a man with all that varied experience could bring to the Tenth if he were given the opportunity to train them?”

Fronto shook his head.

“You are mad. But I’ll have a look at them all and give you my opinions in a few days.”

“Good. Gives you something to get your teeth into and stop you moping around.”

Fronto glared at Carbo, but that grin was just too infectious to stay irritated at.

The legate of the Tenth looked up once more at the sulky grey sky. Last night it had delivered yet another torrential downpour, accompanied by crashes, flashes and grumbles and it looked very much like things were gearing up for a repeat performance tonight. He performed a quick calculation on his fingers as he walked.

By his reckoning, they had been campaigning again for just over eighty days, and dredging his memory as deeply as he could, he could only recall eight days that had not involved rain of some kind and those eight had, instead, been filled with high winds and freezing cold. What had happened to this country? Not for the first time this year, he found himself wondering why Rome would actually want this place at all.

Turning his thoughts away from the depressing weather, he instead set his sights on the man standing by the rocks close to the cliff edge. There was the sound of men working nearby, hammering stone with their picks.

Fronto was not sure what he was expecting from centurion Atenos but, whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The centurion stood in a traditional Roman pose, vine staff in hand and the other arm behind his back as he rocked gently back and forth on his heels. Fronto couldn’t see his face, as the man had his back to the approaching legate, but he was an impressive enough sight from the rear. Clearly a head taller than anyone Fronto even knew, the man was a virtual giant, probably six and a half feet tall, or even more, though thin and lithe, rather than bulky. His yellow hair was coarse and longer than tradition held, but lacking the traditional braids of the Gaulish. His concessions to Roman equipment were otherwise total.

A stick cracked under Fronto’s foot and the man turned sharply.

His face was strong and proud, with high cheekbones and a tidy moustache. Fronto was surprised to note, given the man’s short service history, the four phalera and single torc hanging from the man’s harness. He must have had an eventful year.

“Morning” he said, as casually as possible, cursing his dubious talents at duplicity.

The centurion saluted.

“Good morning, Legate Fronto. You’re a long way from the Tenth?”

Fronto nodded, unable to come up with a convincing reason for his presence. Instead, he ignored the comment and nodded toward the five legionaries who repeatedly smashed at a flat, heavy rock perilously close to the edge of the cliff.

“Mind if I ask?”

The centurion nodded.

“Sick of having to cross the camp for a crap, sir. Decided to build a proper latrine here. Got ‘em cutting