The medicus shook his head.
“All I can confirm for definite is that they were Roman. I’ve treated enough gladius wounds in my life to recognise such a thing. They entered the tent by slitting the leather in the outer wall of this room, and they must have chosen an opportune moment to affect entry and escape, given the number of soldiers who are always milling about around the tents. I’ve already got an optio interrogating everyone to check whether anything was seen, but I hold very little hope. The attack seems very professional to me, and I cannot imagine the assassins making such an obvious error.”
Fronto nodded, a hollow emptiness starting to settle within him.
First Longinus had gone in a cavalry action. Then Velius in the madness of the Belgic campaign. Then Balbus had retired to civilian life. Now Tetricus had been torn from him. The number of people he felt he could trust or rely upon within the army was dropping every year. But somehow this was worse than any other friend he had lost in this bloody war. Because Tetricus had been dispatched by his own compatriots in cold blood.
Something cold and hard formed in the pit of his stomach.
Revenge for this would come, and it would come with the full force of Nemesis behind it.
Nodding along to the rest of the medicus’ report, he hardly heard a word, his eyes taking in every detail of the body before him, memorising every line and shape such that he would be able to recall his friend in minute detail the day he stood with a sword at the killer’s throat.
Finally, the man finished chatting and Fronto nodded, thanked him, and turned, leaving the hospital tent and striding out into the warm, fresh air. Pausing outside, he took a deep breath and paced away across the grass. Briefly he’d considered visiting Cicero and facing down Fabius and Furius, but he was currently in no state to do so. Right now he would very likely run them through before they could get out a word, and that sort of act would hardly help matters.
Striding from the tent, he made for the encampment of the Tenth and the jug of wine that his remaining friends would have waiting for him.
With irritation, he realised that something was flapping on his foot and he bent forward to examine the length of bloody wadding that had stuck to his boot — a chance manoeuvre that saved his life.
He only realised what had happened as he tumbled forward. The whirring noise that accompanied the missile clearly defined it as a lead sling bullet. Certainly it
For that was clearly the case.
Had he not chanced to duck his head forward, the bullet that had skimmed his crown would now be embedded in his temple, and he would be shuddering out his last breaths as the lead lump lodged in his brain killed him in convulsive seconds.
He lay for a long moment in the warm, springy grass and listened. The optio back by the medical tent had shouted in alarm. Not a warning or command, though. All he’d seen was Fronto pitch forward to the ground, no sign of an attack.
But despite the background sounds of men running to help him, the noise he was half-expecting to hear remained absent. No ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of a sling being spun. No further missile would come. The attacker had lost his opportunity with his first miraculous failure and had almost certainly cut his losses and run.
Fronto’s hand closed on the small figure of Fortuna that hung round his neck on a thong. The Goddess was certainly putting in the hours looking after him today. Shame she hadn’t dropped in on Tetricus.
Slowly, carefully, Fronto rose to his feet, his head throbbing and a pain wracking his scalp. Suddenly half a dozen men were around him, hands reaching out to help steady him. He did nothing to stop them.
“Sir?” queried the optio. “Are you alright?”
“Sling bullet” Fronto said quietly, touching his scalp gingerly and pulling away a hand spotted with blood. The optio blinked in surprise.
“A bullet? But from where?”
Fronto glanced around, his eyes coming to rest on a small copse that had remained within the bounds of the camp, gradually reducing in size as the timber was cut from it.
“There. Only place with a clear view where a man could hide. I suggest you detail men to surround it and search it, but I’m sure beyond doubt that you’ll find no one.”
The optio sent men to the small knot of trees and undergrowth, while he and two men remained by the legate.
“Come on, sir. We’ll escort you back to the hospital, just in case.”
“Bugger the hospital. I’m going back to my tent.”
“But sir? Your head?”
“Will feel much better with half a jar of wine in it. Thanks, optio. Let me know if you find anything.”
As he trudged on up the hill, Fronto couldn’t stop his eyes searching every face in the camp, peering in through tent flaps and checking every shadow. Suddenly it was beginning to feel quite dangerous being an officer in Caesar’s camp.
Fronto was quite clearly very late and, as usual, couldn’t care less. Aulus Ingenuus stood with his men on guard by the entrance to Caesar’s headquarters tent, his horse guard positioned all around, the prefect rubbing the stumps of his missing fingers, as was his habit. The young commander of Caesar’s bodyguard raised an eyebrow questioningly at the dishevelled figure approaching the tent.
Fronto knew what he must look like and pondered for only a moment what it said about his reputation that turning up to Caesar’s briefing in a wine-stained, rumpled tunic and muddy boots and with spatters of blood across his temple and forehead warranted only a raised eyebrow. Once upon a time, not so long ago, he’d taken pains to look his best for command briefings.
But then, with this as with everything else, today he’d likely be given more leeway than most.
Ingenuus gave him a nod and the two guards stepped aside, allowing him entry to the command tent. The briefing and conversation was already in full swing as he slipped in through the tent flap. The speech halted instantly, all eyes turning to the new arrival. All around the edge of the tent burnished, shining armour and neat crimson cloaks did their best to amplify the effect of his dishevelled appearance.
“Fronto?” Caesar didn’t look angry quite so much as confused and concerned.
With a visible lack of effort, Fronto threw out a half salute and slumped into a chair near the door.
“Fronto?” the general repeated, slightly quieter and with… trepidation? “Is something amiss?”
Varus, his arm bound once more in the tight sling, stepped out from the tent’s edge, the wound at his hip making the move jerky and uncomfortable.
“Symptoms of mourning, Caesar.”
Caesar’s brow furrowed.
“Mourning, Marcus?”
Fronto slumped deeper in the chair, but something in the general’s voice drew him out of his shell a little.
“For Tetricus, Caesar.”
“Ah yes. I noticed his name in the medical reports. I have to admit to some surprise, since I was led to believe that his wounds were far from life-threatening.”
It was now Fronto’s turn to frown. “His wounds, Caesar?”
Varus was stepping forward again. “Caesar, the tribune did not pass from his wounds, but from the attack.”
Fronto’s eyes zipped back and forth between Caesar and Varus. Had the medicus assumed that speaking to him, as a senior legate, would suffice for reporting the incident, and not mentioned it to the general?
“An attack?”
Fronto, despite the bleariness of having spent the previous afternoon and the whole night drinking away unhappy hours with a succession of friends and companions as their sleep-patterns and shifts allowed, suddenly perked up.
“Tetricus was murdered, general. Yesterday morning, in the hospital.”
A stony hardness fell across Caesar’s face, but Fronto swore that for just a tiny moment a flash of panic
