‘For some situations, but we’ve learned over long years in Gaul to tailor the camp to current need. Regardless of tradition, we pitch the centurions’ tents uphill from the rest and the troublesome bastards at the bottom because it rains in Gaul every quarter of an hour and the rain should respect rank. And they’ve taken the tent space of the auxiliary cavalry, which might seem fine to good upstanding no-lip, fat-necked, dung-brained patricians, but might piss off the commanders of the only real cavalry we have. And they’ve dug their latrine by that copse of trees with the big ‘menhir’ stone in the middle. It doesn’t take more than a rudimentary thought process to recognise that as a native shrine. Gods, they have them in the south, in Roman land. When the princes and chieftains in the cavalry see that they’re going to drown a few gleaming, bronzed patricians in that trench!’
Fronto nodded in wonder. He’d missed all three issues and Priscus was absolutely right that they would cause trouble. ‘The new fellas can’t be expected to know these things, Gnaeus.’
‘There was a caretaker garrison here who should have made it clear. Do you see what happens to things when I’m not around to nail a few arses to walls?’
Galronus, next to the prefect, nodded wearily. ‘I’ll talk to the auxilia and try and keep tempers calm until you can sort it out with the general.’
‘Thank you. Fronto? You coming too?’
‘Actually, yes. I’m afraid it looks like I’ll be leaving things in your hands again, Gnaeus. Masgava and Palmatus have planted the seed of an idea in my head and I can’t help but see it growing big and producing a bountiful crop. I need to ask Caesar for a little independence.’
Priscus narrowed his eyes as they turned and made off towards the general’s tent. He was intrigued almost to bursting point, but he knew his old friend well and remained silent as they walked.
Fronto’s gaze played across the newly arrived legions and he frowned.
‘Why are they in white?’
Priscus shrugged. ‘That’s Pompey’s First. I asked Furius and Fabius about it. They said Pompey only paid to have the officers’ gear dyed red. That way he could spend the spare money on more useful things like armour.’
‘He may be a rabid shit-weasel, but he might be onto something there,’ Fronto acceded. ‘Eminently sensible idea. We ought to put it to Caesar.’
Priscus sighed and shook his head. ‘Tried that. Cita and I both spoke to him, but Caesar is adamant that he would rather pay the extra for madder to dye the whole army. He thinks red and silver is a statement that shouts ‘ROME’ at the enemy.’
‘Another good point. He might be right. Seems to me that that’s a pretty good assessment of the two men: Caesar believes that half the battle is image, and he thinks too deeply about everything. Pompey seems to be relaxed and even slightly slovenly, but underneath he has a Spartan warrior’s mind. They’re never going to agree on anything, Gnaeus. You know that? This war is a bloody Gods-send for Rome, ‘cause when it ends those two bastards are going to end up in Rome together, tearing each other to pieces.’
Priscus smiled at the thought. ‘Then we’ll just have to pray to Minerva that Crassus makes a swift job of the east and returns in triumph to keep the pair of them apart.’
‘Yes,’ Fronto agreed with ironic bile, ‘That’s just what the world needs: a bit more Crassus!’
The pair wandered on, heading for the command tent where Caesar would be busy… doing whatever it was the general did when he wasn’t shouting at officers. Aulus Ingenuus himself — commander of the general’s Praetorian guard — stood beside the tent’s entrance, berating an unfortunate soldier for a poorly-polished belt. The young officer’s three-fingered hand waved angrily at the soldier as he unloaded aggression upon him, and then turned as he watched the soldier’s expression shift, to see Fronto and Priscus.
‘Morning.’ The young man gestured to the tent doorway. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s in a worse mood than me.’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Nothing new there with me. And Priscus could out-spite a cat with an itchy arse. Think we’ll cope. How’s things?’
‘Dreadful. Since you seem to have acquired your own bodyguard, we’re getting scrutinised by every officer with a self-importance complex — which seems to be all of them. The general insists on us not only being good at our jobs but looking better than your lot — not that that takes a lot of work, with such a motley collection of homicidal lunatics!’
‘I love you too, Aulus. Can we go in?’
‘Go on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Fronto and Priscus stepped up and rapped on the wooden frame of the general’s tent door. There was a pregnant, heavy pause.
‘Get in here, Priscus!’ a voice barked from within. ‘I can hear you grumbling under your breath even through the tent.’
Fronto raised his eyebrows at Priscus. He had apparently been out of the general’s close council long enough that Priscus seemed to have acquired his former relationship. The prefect gestured for Fronto to go first, but the legate grinned and sketched an elaborate bow, gesturing for Priscus to lead.
The interior was dim, lit by the same guttering braziers that kept the room warm. Seats were folded against the outer edge, soaking up the wetness from the leather skin of the tent, awaiting the next staff meeting. In the meantime, Caesar had the centre clear — in front of his desk and chair and reams of maps and documents. Fronto smiled. The general always needed room to pace.
‘Oh Good,’ Caesar snapped, ‘you brought the prodigal too.’
Priscus sighed and saluted, standing at attention in the room’s centre. Fronto echoed the gesture half-heartedly. If Caesar was hardly bothering to register his presence, he felt unwilling to offer too much respect in return.
‘We need to do something about the new legions, General.’
Caesar pursed his lips angrily.
‘I intend to release them on the Menapii shortly. Is that enough for you, prefect?’
Priscus practically bristled, and Fronto was impressed at the level of equality that seemed to exist between the two men — a thing he had once had himself.
‘Not really, General, with respect. The new boys don’t know how things work here and the garrison we left didn’t explain things to them. They’ve annoyed all the native cavalry commanders. I’ve not had a chance to speak to the three legates in charge yet, but I can guess with some conviction that the garrison tried to direct them to our tried and tested systems and were entirely ignored. We get this with every officer new to Gaul. I need to invoke your authority in order to shift the pillocks and their badly-set camps and put everything right, before there are fistfights and even latrine murders between them all.’
Caesar narrowed his eyes for a moment as though weighing up Priscus’ words and finally nodded. ‘You have it.’ He scribbled something on a scrap of vellum and dripped wax, stamping it with his Taurus seal. ‘Get them organised and keep everyone happy. Are we done now?’
He had not looked at Fronto since they first entered the tent.
Priscus shrugged, with a sidelong glance at his friend, and stepped forward to collect the authorisation. ‘Happy with that, General. I’ll leave you with chief bronze-balls here. If he’s suggesting what I think he is, then he’s got testes of orichalcum.’
With a last raised eyebrow at Fronto, Priscus saluted, turned, and strode from the tent.
‘This had better be good, Fronto. I’m in no mood for your insolence,’ Caesar said, coldly.
‘Were you ever, General? I need to ask for something and to offer something, but before I do, we need to clear the air, you and I.’
The general’s gaze hardened yet further, if such were possible. ‘You and I are colleagues, Fronto. You need the army, and I need your command experience. Do not expect anything more than that relationship!’
Fronto stepped three paces forward and placed his hands on the desk face down. ‘Bullshit. If that were the case you’d be putting me in charge of men right now, where I could be of use to you. Or asking my advice. Instead, you’re excluding me and ignoring me out of spite, because I turned my back on you. Get over it, Caesar.’