Varus was toying with his bootlace, trying to tie it in an effort to escape the sucking whirlpool of the tent’s atmosphere.
Atmosphere! That in itself was a laugh. Having spent over a year in townhouses and villas and then in a variety of Gallic inns and taverns, he’d forgotten the discomfort of living in a military tent. The smell of slightly wet leather combined with the cloying smoke of the brazier that provided warmth and light, sweat from the occupants and… feet. Most overriding of all odours, that of feet.
He shuffled in his chair.
‘I know I’m sounding repetitive,’ he said, trying to cut through the debate raging in his tent, ‘but before very long the birds will be singing and the camp will be up and about, and I really think it’s time we got our heads down.’
Antonius held up a hand as if to say ‘just bear with me for a moment’ and gestured at Brutus with his cup — a cup that had just been refilled once more, Fronto noted, and with unwatered wine, no less.
‘Decimus, you have to accept that it takes a strong hand to guide any group,’ the new officer said brightly. Alert and shrewd and with a clear voice, which was absolutely unfathomable to Fronto, given the quantity of wine the man had consumed. Even on his best days, had Fronto drunk that much unwatered wine, he would now be lying face down in a puddle somewhere muttering about boobs. And yet the only effect it seemed to have had on Antonius was to bring forth a hard loquaciousness. The man had launched into arguments and debates with relish, like a horse with the bit between its teeth.
‘In the military, I agree, though with reservations,’ Brutus replied wearily and with a slight slur. ‘Discipline is important and without it we’re just a well-armoured rabble. And you and I both know that the grand strategy requires a single mind, though we also both know how misguided that single mind could be without a staff of solid officers to advise. And although the legatus can direct a legion into a battle, his tribunes might as well be garlands hanging round his neck for all the use they are. And moreover,’ he slurred, pointing at Antonius and only missing by a few feet, ‘we all know that when sword hits shield, it’s the centurions that run the show.’
‘Pah!’ Antonius swept the argument aside with his hand. ‘Look back to armies commanded by more than one man. Back to the days of the wars with Carthage or of the last slave revolt. Flaminius and Servilius with half the army each and look what happened to them! Or Gellius and Lentulus against that Thracian gladiator and his thugs! Divisions in command, you see? And in both cases it took a single strong hand at the reins to put things right. Crassus for the latter and Scipio for the former. Quod erat demonstrandum.’
Varus, having given up attempting to lace his boot and leaving the leather thong flapping, waved his arm. ‘In fairness, that was down to Pompey as much as Crassus, and two Scipios — younger and elder.’
Antonius waved the words aside irritably and Varus sensibly fell quiet. Fronto and the others had seen Antonius’ ire beginning to rise several times throughout the evening, and had moved to defuse it as quickly as they could. Though he’d not seen Antonius angry, there was something about him which suggested to Fronto that he might not want to do so.
‘Anyway,’ Brutus cut in, ‘the same cannot be said for the Republic. The last time we had a ‘strong hand on the reins’ as you put it was in the age of kings, and look at what that was like. We are a Republic and proud to be so. All the freedoms and advantages of a government by a concerned group of citizens without the randomness and failings of the Greek model.’
‘Sulla!’ snorted Antonius in reply, as he threw the entire cup of wine down his throat apparently without the need to swallow. Fronto sighed and gave up on the idea of disbanding the gathering for much needed sleep.
‘Sulla was a bump in the road — a tyrant trying to wrestle power from the legitimate government. He was a butcher and a villain. The lesson there has been learned, though, and Rome will not allow something like that to happen again.’
‘You are short-sighted, Decimus, if you think Sulla was the last tyrant Rome will see. And whatever you think of the man, he halted and reversed the chaos gripping the Republic. A strong hand. The damned place could do with another Sulla, if you ask me.’
‘I dearly hope you’re wrong, Antonius.’
‘Will somebody please fasten my bootlace?’ drawled Varus wearily.
‘Pila!’ yelled Priscus, causing everyone’s head to snap round in shock, only to realise that the prefect was still fast asleep, his eyes open and his dreaming fingers twitching around the haft of an imaginary javelin.
Fronto snorted with laughter and, as the debate on the nature of command burst into renewed vigour, interrupted periodically by Varus’ complaints concerning his boot, he hauled himself wearily out of his seat and staggered across to the bed. Taking his lesson from Varus, he didn’t even bother trying to fiddle with the laces and leaving them on, simply collapsed, face down on the cold blankets and buried his head in the pillow allowing the argument to drone on around him.
For perhaps half an hour he lay there, breathing in the linen cover of the pillow and attempting to shut out the conversation that raged over the rebellion of Sertorius and the dangers of breakaway states, trying to picture nothing but blackness in an attempt to let sleep overcome him.
Unfortunately, every time his mind emptied enough to permit sleepiness, his aching gut acted up and his head thumped in a sickening way, between them pushing the welcoming arms of Somnus far beyond reach.
After a time, he gave up, sitting upright in an attempt to fight off the fiery indigestion that coursed through his system. His body was simply not used to this sort of activity these days. A couple of years ago it had been the norm, and he could easily imagine slipping into his old ways, but he was not willing to relinquish his newfound strength and health to the vine.
‘Are you lot settled in for the night?’
Antonius waved at him in answer and Fronto sighed, aware that he’d basically lost his tent and along with it any hope of sleep.
‘Try not to throw up on my cot and don’t let the tent burn down. I’m going out for a walk.’
Leaving them to it, Fronto stepped across the tent, his foot brushing Priscus’ leg and eliciting a muttered ‘testudo’ order given to the dream army that he commanded.
‘If you’ll fasten this pigging bootlace, I’ll join you,’ Varus grumbled.
Pausing near the entrance, Fronto leaned down to Varus. Being charitable, he assumed that Varus’ trouble stemmed from the wounded arm that still gave him trouble in wet weather, and went to help him fasten his lace, only to discover that one end of the lace turned out in fact to be threaded wrong through the eyelets in the boot. With an almost paternal sigh, he spent a few moments re-lacing the boot and then tied it off.
‘Come on, you daft sod.’
With a grunt, he helped lift the cavalry commander from the floor and the two men ambled unsteadily out of the tent door, leaving the sleeping Priscus as silent witness to the heated debate going on within.
The damp pre-dawn air settled onto them, almost immediately chilling them to the bone and leaving a fine layer of dew on their tunics.
‘Why are we not wearing cloaks?’ Varus asked, shivering in the cold.
‘Because you didn’t bring one with you, while mine is underneath Priscus, and if I try to retrieve it, he’ll probably punch me in his sleep.’
‘Fair enough. Bracing, isn’t it?’
‘That’s one word for it.’
The huge encampment spread northwards before them, rolling down the gentle slope to the wide river, with the Gallic oppidum over to the west side. Camp fires and braziers burned here and there providing light and heat for the few men still on duty. A faint glow off to their right, over the crest of the hill, suggested that dawn was not a long way off, and Fronto blinked wearily. There were no stars and the moon was obscured by a thick grey layer, warning of a high likelihood of rain.