“I thought…” Fronto floundered for a moment.
“What?”
“I assumed you two would be…” he frowned. “You’re not pissed at me?”
“What for?”
“I called your legate a coward and a prick.”
“And in a very forthright and timely fashion, I’d say. We’ve done our damn best to keep him on the right path — it’s part of the job of a centurion to keep their senior officers out of trouble — but the man has the leadership skills of an Illyrian goat herd and will not listen to reason. He seems intent on leading his men to the very brink of destruction in his desire to defy Caesar.” Fabius made an exasperated sound, proffering the jar to Fronto as he wiped his mouth with his scarf.
“This is a whole different army from Pompey’s you know, Fronto.”
“Yes, I’m sure” Fronto replied weakly, wondering what in the name of Fortuna was going on.
“In Pompey’s legions there was no argument among the officers. What Pompey said was law and his officers just jumped about trying to please him. Of course, all the work was done by the centurions. The legates and tribunes were really just there to make up the numbers and to look impressive to the natives.”
Furius laughed. “You remember that knob from Antium? What was his name, Lucius?”
“Postumius Albinus. Cocked things up so often that, in the end, he stayed in his tent most of the time and just let us get on with it.”
Fronto couldn’t help but smile at the image. So many of the men who’d served on Caesar’s staff fell into a similar mould. An image of Plancus surfaced in his mind.
“Until the bastard turned on us” Furius added darkly.
Fronto frowned and the two centurions exchanged a look. With a shrug, Furius tugged his scarf aside to show the white scar above his collar bone. Fronto had entirely forgotten about the strange wound, but his curiosity swelled anew.
“Albinus had us up in front of the senior officers for ‘overstepping our authority’ and sentenced us without trial. I’d be under a mound in Anatolia with half a dozen others if Pompey hadn’t ordered the bloody disgrace stopped. I was about two seconds from the blade going through my heart. It’s a reminder never to step too far outside the boundaries when stylus-pushers are watching.”
Fabius nodded. “Pompey always had to keep a tight rein on his men.”
“But the thing is” Furius said, wagging a finger, “this army is different. Caesar’s a brilliant general, but he’s also bright enough to appreciate the opinions of his officers while not giving them enough room to cock it all up. I didn’t see that at first. All I saw was people arguing with him in a way that would have had Pompey calling for the executioner’s sword. But it works here. It actually works. When people like
“At the beach…” repeated Fronto, still trying to wrap his mind around this unexpectedly convivial conversation.
“Caesar was foolish to commit only one legion. I know why he did it, mind: I’m not daft. But in the circumstances it was stupid and short sighted. And then Cicero — who we’ve tried to push into actually commanding his legion — well he compounds things by sitting back and refusing to act. If you and I hadn’t dropped into the water we’d all have been screwed over.”
Fronto nodded slowly.
“That,” Furius grinned, “was the most reckless, insubordinate, and almost unbelievably sensible thing I’ve seen in a long time. You’re an odd bugger as a legate, but you actually do the work, instead of relying on your centurions.”
Fronto’s eyes flicked up to the treeline and he realised that his centurions and Brutus had vanished. Perhaps they’d decided the situation was safe, or perhaps they had moved to better overhear the conversation. He couldn’t help hoping they were still there somewhere, though.
“But your loyalty to Caesar…” Fronto blurted. He’d been thinking it, but had had no intention of actually voicing his thoughts. He bit down on the words, but it was too late.
Furius shook his head sadly. “Is unquestionable. I’m a centurion, legate Fronto. Once I’ve taken the oath, I’m the general’s man. The soldier’s oath is sacred, you know that.” He grinned slyly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for the solution to your problem.”
With a sigh, Fronto sagged. “Half a dozen times these past months people have been telling me I’m letting my prejudices cloud my judgement. Sorry, but Pompey’s been a real arsehole in Rome, right down to putting my family in danger. I never used to have anything against him, but when his men set fire to my house, things changed. When I see a Pompeian shield, it gets my blood up.”
“All I can say is that he’s a good man to serve under in war” Fabius shrugged. “What he’s like in Rome I couldn’t guess, other than to state for the record that I’ve yet to find a straight politician. They’re all bent and dodgy. Comes with the territory.”
Fronto took another swig from the jar and then passed it over to the centurion, scratching his chin reflectively.
“It would appear that I’m back to square one with whoever killed Tetricus and the others, then.”
“He was a good man, your tribune?” Furius asked, taking another slug.
“One of the best. A promising career officer, I’d say.”
“Bad way to go. When you find out who did it, make sure to let us know and we’ll give you a hand peeling the bastard’s skin from his bones, eh?”
Fronto shook his head, not in rejection, but in confusion at the strange turns life had taken in Britannia.
“It’d be just my luck if half a dozen druids popped up out the undergrowth now and set fire to me.”
Furius laughed.
“Come on, legate. Let’s get back to the safety of camp.”
Publius Sulpicius Rufus, de facto commander of Gesoriacum port, rubbed his eyes wearily and looked down at the scattered reports on the desk.
“What’s holding up the supply train then?”
Casco, the cavalry prefect of the attached auxiliary unit, shrugged. “Without sending out a proper scout force we can’t be sure, sir. We’re running patrols for a three mile radius around the settlement and there’s no sign of anything. Whatever the hold-up is, it must be further back than that.
“We’re running out of time, gentlemen. The supplies we have may
There were murmurs of agreement around the tent. Rufus looked across the faces of the six tribunes, single cavalry prefect, and the primus pilus of the Ninth and felt a nervousness he wasn’t used to. Three years ago he had been appointed to the high position of legate for the first time and he’d retained command of the veteran Ninth throughout Caesar’s campaign. He’d had little experience of war or of command before then, but had very quickly found his feet and carved out a niche for himself in the general’s army.
He was comfortable in charge of a legion, in or out of a combat situation.
What he was
It was a mind-boggling nightmare of organisation. Cita, the army’s chief quartermaster, was if anything an impediment to the smooth running of the command and, while Priscus had remained here as camp prefect, he seemed to spend most of his time stomping around and complaining or arguing with Cita.
“Alright gentlemen. We cannot afford to go on like this. Tribune Acilius: I want you to take the third cohort, along with prefect Casco and half his cavalry. Follow the river road towards Nemetocenna and find that supply train. Caesar is still unconvinced of the absolute loyalty of some of the local tribes. It is possible that they’ve waylaid our
