that dichotomy is no use in command of a legion. I would heartily recommend that when the campaigning season ends, you do not push to retain your commission.”
Menenius smiled weakly. “I never had that intention, legate. I have already spent this summer planning my next step up the cursus honorum. My family wanted me to excel in the military. They pushed for me to repeat my year and try to shine, but it is time to resign. I know that now.”
“And don’t let that knob Plancus assign you to anything like that again. Stick to shouting at people and making lists. In the meantime” he glanced at the wagon’s driving seat, where the Gallic-born legionary was studiously examining the rump of the ox before him, “don’t repeat this story to anyone. Just tell them that you don’t recall what happened. It’ll do you no good in Rome if that story gets out.”
The tribune nodded gratefully. “Thank you, legate.”
“And thank you. It seems that I owe you a life somewhere down the line. Let’s pray to Mars that it’s not necessary to collect on it.”
Leaving a slightly relieved looking tribune, Fronto strode forward again at a faster pace. Slowing briefly, he caught the eye of the legionary driving the cart.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Catumandos, sir. Third century, seventh cohort.”
“Well, legionary Catumandos, if any hint of that conversation I just had with the tribune ever surfaces again, I will know exactly where to look. It’s not unknown for an unwary legionary to drown in a latrine trench. You get my drift?”
The soldier nodded, stony-faced. Fronto gave him a long moment of glare, just to push home the point, before strolling off back towards the tents of the settled legions.
Good. Cathartic. That was exactly what he’d needed to hear. So long as he never found himself sharing a command with the man again, everything would go swimmingly.
And now to address the other thing that had been filling his thoughts on the journey before dropping in on Cantorix at the medical section.
“Nice dagger.”
Centurion Furius turned to face Fronto, his face betraying no surprise, his eyes flinty and hard. The legate of the Tenth could hardly fail to notice the way Furius’ hand dropped to rest on the pommel of his gladius in an automatic reaction.
“Legate?”
“I said ‘nice dagger’. Shiny. New, is it?”
The centurion’s jaw firmed. “As it happens, yes. Can I help you in some way?
”Costs a couple of coins, doesn’t it. And Cita can be a bit stingy with replacements. Bet you had to shell out over the odds for that. Must irritate you.”
Furius squared his shoulders and looked the legate in the eye. “Is there a reason you’re keeping me from my duties,
“Just admiring the dagger. Lost your old pugio, did you?”
“If it’s of any great interest to you, it broke during the battle at the Germanic camp. I requisitioned a new one the same day. I don’t let any man attend duty with missing kit, let alone doing so myself. Are you quite happy now?”
“Tough luck, that” Fronto replied with a grin. He was starting to enjoy himself, and the more irritated Furius became, the more his own mood improved. “I mean, the pugio’s a strong weapon. Damn hard to break that blade. Tried to prise off a pilum head with it, did you?”
Furius simply glared at him and Fronto ploughed on, smiling.
“I mean, I’ve had my pugio since Caesar was a simple quaestor in Hispania and I was on his staff as a junior officer. Used it for the first time in a riot in Numantia, long before Caesar’s proprietorship and my command in the Ninth. I’d say I’ve used it more than a thousand times since then, and it’s still as strong as a vestal’s underwear and has a wicked edge.”
“If you really must know, legate, my pugio snapped because I punched the bloody thing through a chieftain’s bronze chest plate. I got it stuck in his breastbone and the tip snapped off while I was trying to remove it. I might have been able to free it, given time, but I was sort of busy fighting off two more of the bastards with just a gladius. Some of us fought like soldiers there, rather than poncing about on a horse.”
All the humour drained from Fronto in a breath. His eyes narrowed.
“I know your sort, Furius. You and that friend of yours. When I have proof of what you’re up to, you’ll wish you’d been cut down in battle.”
The centurion simply smiled coldly. “Permission to speak out of turn, man-to-man, sir?”
“Granted by all means.”
“Why don’t you just fuck off, Fronto? You spend all your time swanning around with a vine staff jammed up your arse, half-drunk and half-dazed. You’re just an impediment to proper military organisation. You’re too hard- arsed to support those liberal, girl-like officers who want Caesar to rein his army in and ‘talk it out’, but you’re too weak and disobedient to serve properly and carry out the orders given to you by your superior without questioning every angle and complaining at it all.”
Fronto opened his mouth angrily, but Furius jammed a finger into his chest, almost driving him back a step.
“No. You gave me the right to speak. Your sort makes me sick. You have the skills and the courage to be a bloody good officer and leader of men. You could be a Pompey. Or a Lucullus. Or even a Caesar. But you’re just too indecisive and wishy-washy. You have flashes of brilliance, I’ll admit. Your little stunt across the river was good and I’d have liked to have been there. But in between, you continually sod it all up and drink away your effectiveness.”
There was a pause — a moment’s silence — and yet Fronto, standing there with furrowed, angry brow and mouth open ready to retort, found himself somehow unable to speak, disarmed by words.
“See? You can’t even put me in my place.” Furius took a deep breath. “Now I have duties, like most centurions. I have things that need doing. You don’t like me. I don’t trust you. But we serve in different legions and we’d never even have to cross paths if you didn’t make it your life’s work to pester and accuse me. So why don’t we agree never to speak again, and I’ll just wait patiently until the end of the year when, if rumour in the Seventh is to be believed, you will lose your commission through your constant disobedience, and piss off back to Rome to swagger around the gutters there.”
Without waiting for a reply, which Fronto, almost shocked with anger, appeared totally unable to supply, Furius turned and strode away, vine staff jammed beneath his arm.
The legate stood and watched him go, turning over everything that had been said in his mind.
Rumour was that he was going to be decommissioned? Why?
Somehow, that small unpleasant revelation almost obliterated everything else the man had said. Should he speak to Caesar?
He stood still in the warm night air for a moment, listening to the general murmur of a camp at rest and the distant sounds of the civilian settlement going about its life.
A deep breath totally failed to calm him or settle the twitch he seemed to have suddenly acquired beneath his right eye. Grumbling quietly, he strode off back toward the praetorium.
The cavalry officers of Aulus Ingenuus, Caesar’s bodyguard, were positioned around the command section of the main camp, by the important tents as well as in a general perimeter, their backs ramrod straight, eyes alert. Two of them twitched for a moment as Fronto approached, preparing to block his path but, recognising him as one of the staff officers at the last moment, they saluted.
“Password, legate?”
Fronto had to pause for a moment and dredge his memory. “Artaxata. Why Priscus needs to keep dredging up the names of eastern shitholes for passwords is beyond me. I think he just does it to annoy me because he knows I’m bad with geography.”
The two cavalrymen smiled and thumbed over their shoulder.
“In you go, sir.”
“Is the camp prefect in?”
