Gallia Invicta

But of everything that had happened, and something that came as a surprise to Fronto, it was the strange hole left by the absence of Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth, that most affected him. By now the ageing officer would be sitting on the veranda of his villa at Massilia, sipping wine and watching the sparkle of the waves on the Mare Nostrum, but the gap he left was surprisingly large. The Eighth were currently without a legate, under Balventius’ able control.

Three years he’d known Balbus; only three years, but it felt like a lifetime. The man had become something of a father-figure in a peculiar way. He had looked after Fronto and reined him in when necessary, preventing the worst of his potential outbursts and joining him in revels and excitement when appropriate. He had been a central character in Fronto’s military life for those three years and…

It had come as something of a shock to Fronto to realise that he was now the oldest serving legate or senior officer in Caesar’s command. He still thought of himself as a young man… hell, only recently passed his fortieth year, so he was hardly a shrivelled old prune, but to be the second oldest officer in Gaul after the general himself was a sudden worry.

Perhaps the most pressing thing that continued to weigh him down was that, despite everything, he could have coped with all of these problems and issues if he only had the opportunity, but the general could not let him go until the Gauls were finally settled. And they just would not stay settled.

What was it with these people? It wasn’t that they were stupid or backward; Galronus and Atenos were Gaulish and they were among the most impressive and intelligent men Fronto knew. He’d met leaders, warriors, innkeepers and more in their three years in Gaul and they were intelligent, quiet, productive people. Why then could they not just accept that Rome was here to stay, reap the benefits of it and settle? Why the annual explosion of revolts and rebellions?

He gritted his teeth angrily and stabbed out at the man before him.

The enemy had thinned out while he had been lost deep in his own thoughts, stabbing and parrying automatically without the need to concentrate too hard. The warrior before him was fighting desperately, the look of violent triumph that had been evident at the start of the attack gone and replaced by a look of panicked failure.

Fronto allowed his eyes to flick up and past the man. The Gauls were fleeing back into the woods all along the line.

The man in front of him lurched backwards, Fronto’s latest blow cutting a jagged rent along his ribs. Somewhere behind Fronto, a centurion yelled out “Melee!” and the line broke, soldiers bellowing and racing off after the fleeing Gauls, trying to kill or capture as many as possible before they melted into the trees and were gone.

The man before Fronto, his eyes wide and fearful, threw his arms up, allowing his sword to fall to the ground. He jabbered something unintelligible, but Fronto snarled.

“Why can’t you lot just bloody accept it?”

The Gaul frowned in incomprehension and Fronto threw down his sword, the blade landing point first and jamming into the turf. Without taking his eyes from the Gaul, the legate let his shield fall away and unfastened his helmet strap, pushing the brim so that it toppled to the ground and rolled away.

“Independent Gaul is gone… don’t you understand?”

The Gaul shook his head and emphasised his surrender with his hands.

“It’s no good just giving up and surrendering yourself, though, is it?”

The Gaul stared, unable to follow the words of this mad Roman.

Fronto cracked the knuckles of his right hand.

“Because when you do surrender, we smile and help you rebuild. We send you engineers and grain and we trade and buy your goods, but then as soon as the legion moves on, you just up and revolt and kill hostages and kill each other and shout for the Germans to come over and help you. But there is no helping you because you just don’t want to be helped!”

Snarling again, Fronto threw a punch at the man’s face so hard that he felt his little finger break as it connected with the jaw. The man hurtled backwards and crashed to the ground, desperately trying to scramble away, but Fronto was already stamping toward him, rubbing his hand, his face red and angry.

“Everything is falling apart here and at home but I don’t have time to try and hold it together or pick up the pieces because you lot can’t just keep yourselves civilised and out of trouble for ten damn minutes!”

The man pulled himself up to an almost seated position, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and Fronto roared, a noise filled with rage, impotence and frustration. His second blow caught the man on the cheek and sent him sprawling on his side.

“I could be going home to help my family, or to check on Balbus and see if he’s even still alive. I could be finding Paetus and trying to console him for what they did to him! I could be doing any bloody thing but stamping around Gaul continually putting out the little fires of rebellion!”

The Gaul had the good sense to stay down, cowering, and Fronto drew back his leg for a brutal kick to the man’s side, but suddenly found that hands were wrapping themselves around his arms and gently hauling him back. His head spun from side to side, but all he could see of the two men that were restraining him was the red tunic of legionaries.

“Let go of me or I’ll personally tear out your liver!”

A voice by his ear spoke calmly and quietly.

“Let the man go, lad. He’s surrendered and beaten. You keep kicking him and you’re dishonouring that uniform.”

Fronto blinked.

‘Lad’?

It took him a moment to remember that he was dressed only in his nondescript crimson tunic and breeches, with no armour or emblem that could possibly denote his rank and, moreover, he was surrounded mostly by men of the Fourteenth who had little call to recognise him.

He shook his head.

Dishonour the uniform? The very thought of that stopped him in his tracks and he went limp.

The men beside him loosened their grip on his arms as a third legionary helped the fallen enemy to his feet, accepting his surrender. Fronto turned to the men slowly.

“I’m not really sure what just happened.”

He looked up into the faces of two soldiers. Both were clearly of Gallic stock, their hair still braided and moustaches and beards still adorning their faces. Fronto was suddenly acutely aware that his recent outburst had been largely anti-Gallic and likely right in front of these men. The taller man wore the crest and harness of a centurion.

“You snapped” the centurion said. “Happens to the best of us. Pressure gets too much and you snap. But the important thing is to not snap in the middle of a battle. You could have got yourself carved up badly there.”

The smaller man grinned.

“Fights like a friggin’ weasel on heat tho’, dun’t ‘e.”

Fronto smiled.

“I’ve had plenty of experience… er…”

“Cantorix” said the centurion and gestured to his companion with a turned thumb. “Centurion of the Third cohort’s Third century. And this is Dannos. He’s part weasel himself, though for Gods’ sake don’t let him tell you which part, ‘cause that’s a conversation you just don’t want to have!”

Fronto laughed and stretched.

“You’re not one of mine” the centurion said, looking him up and down. “One of the Tenth? You must be due your honesta missio, yes? Ready for retirement.”

Fronto blinked. That was a question he just didn’t know how to answer. Instead he sighed.

“Yup. From the Tenth. Saw you were in the shit, so I joined in.”

Cantorix smiled.

“Shame. I could use you in the Fourteenth. You’d best run along. Sounds like your legion’s putting out the call.”

Fronto laughed.