Palmatus had finished his plate completely and was now supping down the wine with aplomb. Galronus had left half his meal and was toying with a piece of bread, dipping it in his wine cup and letting it soak up the red, then nibbling at it. The rest of his dinner had already made its way across the table to Masgava and had vanished into the empty pit that was his stomach.
‘I notice they still refer to you here as legate of the Tenth,’ Palmatus said quietly. ‘You must have made an impression.’
Fronto smiled wearily and took a sip of his wine. ‘I know Pompey shifts his legates round as the situation demands — in the old way — but Caesar’s tried to keep the same legate with the same legion for as long as possible, unless the need for change arises. Thinks it increases their efficiency. I think he’s right, too. I was legate of the Tenth for a number of years. Thought I always would be.’
He fell silent with a slightly morose expression.
‘You think you’ll be made legate of the Tenth again then?’
Fronto looked across at Palmatus. ‘The way the general is likely to receive me I’ll be lucky to command anything other than a latrine pit. I understand he took my departure sort of personally.’
Galronus shook his head with a smile. ‘You basically called him an amoral power-monger and told him you’d have nothing to do with him. It was personal.’ He leaned back with his soggy bread. ‘But the general is ever the player of the game. He will forgive if you are of value, and Antonius seems to think that is the case.’
Fronto nodded slowly. He would have to play his arrival somewhat carefully. Too familiar or arrogant and Caesar would simply take offence. Too humble and quiet and he might not make enough of an impression to gain the general’s trust again. The answer, of course, was to be himself, as he always had. The general would come around eventually, and he would be given some sort of command.
‘I’m hoping to get a legion, I have to admit. It would be nice if it were the Tenth, but there are good men in the others, too. So long as I don’t get to take over from Plancus. He’ll have ruined his men at best. Or one of the new bunch… can’t see a former Pompeian legion taking to me all that well, and the others will be so green you’d mistake them for a cabbage.’
‘I’m a former Pompeian legionary, and I only find you mildly irritating,’ grinned Palmatus.
‘Funny.’
‘But seriously, Fronto. Any legion is better than nothing. You’re a man of the army and you know it. You’ll not be happy anywhere else.’
Fronto nodded slowly. ‘It will happen. And when it does we’re going to have to sort you two out. Galronus will go back to his Remi cavalry, but you two would make good centurions. Masgava: you should be a chief training officer. Any legion you train will be a nightmare to face.’
‘Piss on that idea,’ smirked Palmatus.
‘What?’
‘I’m no centurion, Fronto. I have no interest in bending over and letting the young tribunes have their way with me. Never yet met a centurion I like, so I’m damn well not going to be one.’
Masgava was nodding. ‘Too restrictive. Too rigid. Not for me either.’
‘Then can I ask,’ Fronto sighed, ‘what you were hoping for when you came north with me?’
‘We signed on to serve you, Fronto. Not the general.’
‘Well don’t look for anything higher than a centurion,’ Fronto said, sipping his wine again. ‘I can’t make tribunes or prefects of you. When I’m given a command again, I’ll be able to push transfers through for centurions, but Caesar will veto any attempt to put you two in higher office.’
‘Don’t worry about us. Arrange a tent for us and meals and leave us to it.’
Fronto shook his head. There was no arguing with them. Theoretically they both worked for him and, although he’d not paid them a wage since Puteoli, he’d sprung for all the food and drink, transport and accommodation on the journey. They were living free.
‘Well just don’t get yourselves into trouble. Or me.’
‘No,’ Palmatus grinned. ‘We’ll leave that up to you.’
The former legionary picked up the eating knife from the table and placed the point down onto the much-scarred wooden surface, twiddling it this way and that with the fingers of his left hand while he drank wine from his right. As he drained the final dregs, he lowered the cup and grinned.
‘Thing is, Fronto, I’ve been thinking.’
‘You should watch that,’ the legate replied acidly. ‘You could strain yourself.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Palmatus repeated ‘about what we’ll do when we get there. I’m assuming Caesar has a Praetorian guard?’
Fronto nodded. ‘A horse regiment led by a professional young soldier called Ingenuus. Why? Surely with your saddle trouble you’re not planning to turn horse-humper?’
Palmatus shook his head, smiling. ‘Back in Pontus I served for a while under Quintus Metellus Celer. He was a legate of Pompey’s and he formed his own guard — his singulares — like a Praetorian guard. Apparently it’s not unknown for a legate to do so?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of it being done, but usually only by those legates who have reason to fear, or those who like their pomp and show. I remember a few years ago young Crassus did it for a few months, and Plancus was going to until Caesar gave him the hard word.’
‘Well I see no reason why you shouldn’t have your own ‘singulares’? As a legate you’d have the right, and certainly you seem to have a habit of getting yourself into trouble. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a few broad-shouldered lads close by when you decide to go off into the fight?’
Fronto shook his head flatly. ‘Not a hope. I have no intention of swanning around with a bodyguard unit in shiny steel and crimson plumes, looking like some ponce from a triumph. Forget it.’
But Palmatus simply turned and looked across at Masgava, whose brow furrowed in thought before he nodded his agreement and then started into the last morsels on his plate.
‘You can plan all you like,’ Fronto shrugged, ‘but I will not sanction a ‘singulares’ unit for myself, and neither will the rest of the officers. Caesar doesn’t like his legates to build themselves up like that. He allowed Crassus, but only because of his father. Start thinking differently. Make other plans. Maybe you could set up an independent training school for legionaries with too much pay who want an extra edge?’
But the two men were sharing a look that Fronto knew well. It was the look his sister and his wife shared when they had plans for him and no intention of letting him interfere with them.
Refilling his wine cup, he tried not to allow his thoughts to wander down the avenue of home, though his mind furnished him with a speculative image of his wife stumbling around the villa in Massilia with a large, pregnant bump.
He drew a deep breath and took a swig of the wine. Time to think more on the present rather than the future or the past. He glanced around the bar surreptitiously. He’d have liked to have sat outside in the tree-shaded yard he remembered so well, but the season was against it. They’d sat at the outside bench for half an hour but as the sun began to disappear behind the hill of Bibracte the temperature plummeted and they soon moved inside.
There were eight other inhabitants of the bar and most of them had been there since the start of the evening, eating or drinking and talking in small groups, playing some sort of dice game that was unknown to him. With only a couple of people leaving or arriving during that time there had been polite acknowledgements of his presence, but mostly locals minding their own business.
Now, as he scanned the place, the other occupants were all busy with their own social lives. He was struck once more how, despite the war and the cultural differences between Gaul and Roman, there was so much they had in common when you got down to the bottom line.