command, both legions would have been in the water together instantly. Still, the fool had just made his predicament that much worse by trying to kick the blame downwards. One of the perils of command was that, no matter how the legion acted, its commander took the ultimate brunt of any retribution for troubles caused.
“Don’t bad-mouth your men, Cicero; it’s unprofessional. What do they say? ‘It’s a poor workman who blames his tools for failure’. I fought alongside your ‘cowards, rebels and idiots’ in the water, and they did the eagle proud. And I heard only Caesar’s call committing the Seventh. Not once did I hear your musicians sound the advance until we were already wading ashore.”
“Fronto…”
“Don’t make me laugh. You’re supposed to be a senior officer. Caesar may not agree with my call, but I did what I had to do to take control of the field, and the general will tell you that’s just what any officer worth his salt does in that situation. If my eagle hadn’t dragged your boys into the water, we’d all have died on the ships.”
“So taking control of the army out from under the general — an act of mutiny to my mind — is preferable to taking your chances against a few enemy archers?”
“Don’t be a prick, Cicero.”
The legate of the seventh rolled his eyes. “Ever the gutter snipe, eh Fronto. If you can’t answer the question sensibly, you have to resort to name-calling. You’d do well as a senate back-seater.”
“Stick it up your arse. It doesn’t matter how you dress your actions up, even in a broad striped toga, failure is still failure. You disobeyed your orders, endangering the whole army, and I was forced to disobey mine just to clear up your mess. Doesn’t matter what you say, I know that, and you know that.” He pointed a finger at the general, an act that raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Caesar knows it too, as well as these others.”
Fronto grinned.
“Hell, even your pet apes know it. One of your precious psychopath centurions came with me into the water. How’s that suit you?”
Cicero sank into silent glaring anger.
Got him, Fronto thought with deep satisfaction.
Caesar was looking back and forth between his two legates as though trying to decide who to berate first as Brutus finally stepped forward into the middle of the seething fracas.
“If I may interject, this meeting was intended to decide how best we proceed from here, not as an arena to hurl insults and air our dirty undergarments. I would humbly suggest, Caesar, that we finish for now and reconvene in a few hours when frayed tempers have healed and we are all calmer and more reasonable. I cannot see this turning out any useful conclusions as it is.”
For a moment, Caesar’s gaze fell on the speaker and it looked as though he might unleash his pent-up rage on the young officer. Finally, though, he subsided with a sigh and sank into his chair.
“Agreed. Cicero? Go and think about what you want from your command. Fronto? Just go away. Reconvene here at the dusk watch and we will decide what to do. Commander Galronus? I would appreciate it if you could arrange some scout patrols from your turma of cavalry to see if we can locate farms or settlements within, say, a five mile radius?”
Galronus saluted as Fronto and Cicero continued to glare at one another.
“Very well. Dismissed, gentlemen.”
Fronto stood and glowered for a moment as Cicero tore away his gaze and, saluting briefly to the general, turned and strode from the tent. Preparing himself for the next barrage, Fronto followed on, Brutus, Volusenus and Galronus immediately behind. As they strode out into the fresh, cool air, Fronto turned and made small, subtle gestures to the three behind him to make themselves absent. As they did so, peeling off and going about their business, Fronto sped off to catch up with Cicero, who had paused next to his two veteran centurions, both of whom stood with scowls on their bristly faces. Carbo and Atenos fell in behind Fronto like bodyguards and the six men came together at the bottom of the hill, away from Caesar’s tent and close to the command quarters of the Seventh.
“That was damned unprofessional, Fronto!” Cicero snapped.
“It needed to be said.”
“If you have a personal issue with me, you should take it up with me in private, not in front of the general and fellow officers.”
Fronto only partially had to fake his wide-eyed expression of disbelief.
“You dick! This isn’t personal! I can take a bit of fear or cowardice in a senior officer!” As Cicero went purple in colour, Fronto shrugged. “You’re a politician doing this job as a step on the ladder. It’s nothing new, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re not all cut out to be soldiers.”
Cicero was starting to splutter angrily and Fronto was having a great deal of trouble not bursting out into a wide grin.
“No. Not fear. And it’s not even disobedience. Hell, I’ve had to flaunt the rules a few times as you’re well aware, in order to get the right results. Better to be shouted at by the general for disobeying orders than to be wandering around the broken remnants of a dead army, wondering how it got to this.”
Still, Cicero seemed unable to find voice through his rising fury.
“I never had issue with you over these past years. I’ve never had a reason to shout at you. It’s not personal. That’s why I brought it up in the headquarters in front of everyone. Because what you do personally is of no interest to me. And what you think of me doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is when your actions — or lack of them — directly endanger the entire army, including
Cicero wheezed out a whispered invective — the best his throat seemed able to manage.
“What?” asked Fronto, cupping an ear dramatically.
His fellow legate’s mouth clamped shut and Fronto could hear the teeth grinding even then.
“Well here’s a suggestion. When you can think of something to say that doesn’t just confirm that you’re a dick and a bad officer, come and find me and tell me. I’m going for a walk to cool down.”
Leaving the spluttering Cicero, Fronto turned and marched off toward the west gate in the temporary camp’s ramparts that were still being constructed.
The last thing he noticed, with some satisfaction, was the looks of silent anger on the faces of Fabius and Furius.
By the time he was past the first two rows of legionary tents, Carbo and Atenos were at his shoulders again.
“Jove’s arse, sir. I thought he was going to explode. You might have pushed him a bit
“Knock off the ‘sir’s. No one’s listening.”
“Not while we’re in open camp, sir.”
Fronto shrugged. “Are they following?”
Carbo ‘accidentally’ let slip his vine staff and had to crouch to pick it up. A subtle glance around and he caught up with the other two.
“No, but they’re watching where we’re going.”
“Good. Galronus says there’s a clearing in the wood to the west. Just about every path into the trees leads to it. I’m going there. The ground’s muddy and soft and even a dunce should be able to track me there. You two had best slip off back to the tents. Find Brutus. Tell him I need his help and then wait till those two leave. Follow them and make sure you’re there when they find me.”
Carbo nodded and grinned.
“Let’s nail the bastards, sir.”
“Yup. Now go. They won’t follow if they see you two going with me.”
As Fronto strode on ahead toward the gate, his two centurions dipped to the side, into the ranks of the Tenth’s temporary camp. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he fought the urge to turn and look at Cicero and his men.
Near the command section, Cicero snapped a few commands at his centurions and Furius and Fabius exchanged hurried, urgent words before separating, the former strolling slowly down the road toward the west
