behind.
“Come on, sirs” Carbo said loudly and gestured up the main thoroughfare to the gathering of large tents at the centre, dotted about with the general’s horseguard. As soon as they were out of sight of the gate, the centurion wiped his brow. I expect you’ll be wanting to check in with myself after the general, yes, sir?”
Fronto nodded. “I will, Carbo, but first I want to go find Priscus. Any idea where he might be?”
Carbo pointed to one of the tents ahead. “That’s his tent there, sir. He’s just finished morning inspection of the camps, so he’ll be there. It’s astounding how many things he can find wrong, legate.”
Fronto smiled for the first time that day.
“Giving you a hard time, eh? He has to, Carbo. Having come from the Tenth, he can’t be seen to be showing favouritism.”
“Don’t I know it, sir? He was never this tough when he was my commander. I shall be at the Tenth’s principia tent when you require me.”
Fronto nodded as the man strode off toward his own command.
“See who lurks nearby” Galronus muttered, leaning close. Fronto followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes. Centurion Fabius leaned against a tethering post close to the command section, idly picking his teeth with a splinter from a stick.
“I think we can afford another minute’s detour.” Fronto smiled unpleasantly, and angled toward the officer. Fabius, a dour-looking man with dark stubble reaching almost from eyes to collar, turned a pale ice-blue, piercing gaze on Fronto and straightened with an almost deliberately insolent slowness, throwing out a salute. He was unarmoured and unarmed apart from his vine staff, his tousled iron-grey hair waving in the gentle breeze.
“Fabius?”
“Legate Fronto. I trust you had a good journey?”
Fronto nodded. He’d seen the attitude before: borderline insolent, full of hidden disdain, with a faint sneer. It was an expression career soldiers, and centurions in particular, reserved for the noble classes who liked to play commander without any real hint of military sense. Fabius could hardly be expected to view Fronto any differently, but it did little to prevent Fronto’s dislike of the dark officer growing to almost boiling point.
“Been in camp long, Fabius?”
“Four days, sir. Made good time. Left our luggage to come on later with the supply train and just brought a saddlebag, sir. Like you, apparently.”
“Did you travel alone then?”
“Yessir. For speed.”
“Dangerous, given the unsettled nature of Gaul.” The centurion shrugged as if to suggest that he found more dangerous things than barbarian Gaul in his boot. “And the tribunes you were with at Massilia?”
Fabius shrugged nonchalantly. “The two junior tribunes got a message at the staging post in Massilia and rushed off ahead even of us. I think they were authorised to use courier horses and change mounts. They’d been here for days when we arrived. I think the senior tribune bloke was going to knock around in Massilia for a bit before he set off. Didn’t seem too inclined to rush.”
Fronto frowned and wished Priscus was with him. His former chief centurion claimed to be able to identify lies, and the results of dice games with him suggested it was true. Though Fronto would be prepared to put a month’s wage on there being an untruth or half-truth there, he could not confirm it.
“Anything else, sir?”
Fronto glared at that smug smile, wondering momentarily whether he could legitimately get away with wiping it away with a right hook. The glare sliding into a sullen frown, he folded his arms and straightened.
“No. If you see Menenius and his ferret-brained friend can you ask them to come and find me.”
The man’s parting salute carried, if anything, even more insolence and spite than his opening one, but Fronto ignored it and turned back, gesturing to Galronus as the pair strode on to the camp prefect’s tent ahead.
Two of Aulus Ingenuus’ praetorian cavalry guard stood outside Priscus’ tent, rigid and armed for war, their crimson plumes whipping in the breeze. Their spears crossed as the two men approached, barring the way. Fronto came to a halt and nodded at them.
“Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth, and Galronus, commander of the allied Gallic horse to see the camp prefect.”
“The prefect’s left orders he is not to be disturbed, legate, I’m afraid.”
Fronto glared at the man and cleared his throat.
“Priscus!” he bellowed. There was a sudden crash and a thud in the tent as of something heavy toppling over.
“Fronto?” came a slightly muffled voice.
“Let us in!”
A moment passed before the tent door was heaved aside and Priscus’ face appeared in the gap. His eyes were underlined with dark circles, his face pale and unhealthy, and his hair knotted and uncombed.
“You took your bloody time. Get in here.”
Fronto shared a look with Galronus as the camp prefect disappeared inside once more and the two guards saluted and straightened, removing the obstacle from their path.
Priscus had returned to a large desk and was busy trying to gather a pile of wooden writing tablets that had fallen to the floor, though they kept slipping from his grasp in comedic fashion. Fronto and Galronus stood in the tent’s entrance and took in the sight.
Priscus had the look of a man extremely short on sleep and bothered. Somehow it was extremely odd seeing their old friend dressed in the leather tunic and pteruges of a senior officer, his burnished cuirass and helmet standing on one of a number of wooden cabinets around the tent.
“You need a hand, Gnaeus?”
“Just sit down and let me get these put away” Priscus snapped, returning to grumbling under his breath as he replaced the tablets on the table, then rearranged them half a dozen times until he was satisfied that they were in the correct order. His gaze then strayed up from them to his visitors and he slapped his hands down on the oak surface, leaning heavily.
“Paetus may have been trouble, but the man must have had a mind like a damn librarian. How he kept all this straight, I have no idea. I’d just about got things set over the winter quarters, then we move here and it starts all over again. It’s a never-ending bloody task. The last time I slept we had different Consuls, I’m sure.”
Fronto smiled benignly. “I suspect you’re taking on more than you need to. I understand you’ve been interfering in the quartermaster’s duties too?”
“I
Fronto couldn’t stifle his short laugh and Galronus was starting to smile now.
“Can you give me a quick rundown on what’s happening before I go see Caesar?”
Priscus narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t been yet?”
Fronto shook his head, and Priscus scratched his chin and then slumped into a seat. “You’d best hurry then; he’ll be twitching for you to turn up.”
“Fine. Just give me a quick list, then. Note form if you need to.”
Priscus leaned back and scratched his head.
“Well you’ll see that all eight legions are here, along with the cavalry, though they’re all a bit depleted since Caesar settled his veterans and almost half the Gallic horse have disbanded now that the uprisings have been quashed. Their contract to the general was complete and Caesar thought it politic to let them return to their tribes.”
“Aye, we’ve seen the forces. And I know there’s some trouble with the Germanic tribes. Go on.”
“Well, there’s the Seventh. At Caesar’s behest, I’ve spent the entire winter trying to identify any soldier that has any Pompeian connection or uncertain history and transferring them all to the Seventh. Appropriately, most of the veterans and solid men of the Seventh have now been moved out and dispersed among the other legions. It’s
