Fronto glanced across and accidentally caught Labienus’ eye once more. The staff officer was watching him intently, damn him.
Fronto’s eyes strayed to the other figure in the room whose presence offered something of an interesting alternative to the stony-faced Roman officers and wheedling, supposedly-noble Gauls.
Centurion Furius was in position at the rear of the tent, next to the entrance, casting unmoved, superior looks at the gathered chiefs. Fronto had watched him for a lot of the last hour, drinking in every detail about the man. Here was a soldier he would trust as far as he could throw a ballista.
Furius was marginally shorter than Fronto, perhaps five feet four or five, but his body mass was clearly higher. The man had shoulders like Atlas, broad and strong, a dimension betrayed by the fact that his mail shirt showed signs of having been altered to give extra shoulder room, the shinier newer links standing out against the dulled old ones. The lower half of his face was covered with grey bristles that reached from the collar of his armour almost to his eyes, covering his neck and even his cheekbones. It gave him a deeply animalistic appearance that seemed in Fronto’s opinion to suit him. One thing had particularly interested him, though: a shiny white scar on his tanned skin followed the line of his collar bone, and just above it. There were a number of ways a man could receive such a wound, of course, but Fronto couldn’t help remembering stories of the men who had worked for Clodius Pulcher and instigated mutiny in the eastern legions being executed by Lucullus’ officer with a single downward thrust into their hearts.
He shook his head to bat away such fanciful thoughts. No man would survive such a blow.
As he watched, he realized Furius had straightened and come to attention.
His mind focusing once more, Fronto glanced around. Caesar was gesturing at the centurion.
“Bring me the records of our cavalry numbers.”
Furius saluted again and turned. Fronto frowned for a moment as an opportunity struck him to escape this gloomy proceeding. Turning to the general, he cleared his throat.
“If I might be excused, general, I will bring Galronus. He has just completed a full inspection of one of the three cavalry wings and could probably provide useful information for you.”
Caesar frowned for a moment at the breach of protocol, though hardly unexpected, given the perpetrator, and then nodded.
“Be quick.”
Fronto bowed slightly and shuffled out behind the line of officers, making his way around the tent and out of the entrance. The arguing began once more before he’d even made it out of earshot.
He knew exactly where Galronus would be: in Fronto’s tent, helping himself to whatever tasty vittles he could find. Fronto had arranged to meet him after the meeting. Almost certainly Priscus would be there, too, and Priscus would be the man with the cavalry records.
Centurion Furius was busy striding across the command compound toward the camp prefect’s tent. With a tight smile, Fronto jogged off after him. As they approached the large tent, Furius came to a halt outside and barked out a request for entry, his voice deep and gravelly.
Fronto slowed and sauntered up alongside him.
“He won’t be in there, centurion.”
Furius turned and glowered at the legate.
“Sir?”
“Priscus. He won’t be there. He’ll be at my tent.”
The centurion nodded his thanks, showing no sign of real gratitude in the movement. As he turned and strode off toward the Tenth’s ranks, Fronto fell in alongside and walked with him.
“You served with Pompey? Or Lucullus?”
Furius cast him a suspicious look.
“Both, legate.”
“Lucullus was an extraordinary general. Never met him, but I wish I had. My father spoke highly of him.”
The centurion nodded. Fronto waited. Clearly conversation was not one of Furius’ strong points.
“And Pompey, eh?”
Another nod.
“And now you serve with Caesar. You’re making a career of soldiering for some great generals. Did you not think of signing up to go east with Crassus?”
Furius’ step faltered and he slowed, turning to Fronto and casting a withering glance that took the legate by surprise.
“Well, I mean” Fronto said almost defensively, “you’ve served in the east before with Lucullus and Pompey. You know the lands and peoples. You’ll be used to the heat and the dryness, and it’s no secret even in Rome that Crassus is mounting a campaign against Parthia. I imagine at least half of the veterans of Pompey and Lucullus’ legions will be signing on to march with him.”
The withering stare was making him extremely uncomfortable. With the almost bestial features of the man, he couldn’t escape the impression that Furius was eyeing him in much the same way as a bear might eye its next prospective meal.
“I’m just interested in what brings a veteran of the eastern campaigns out to soggy, cold Gaul when he has the option of returning to the east.”
They were approaching the Tenth’s command tents now as Furius turned to face front again. The centurion made a strange nasal noise and cleared his throat.
“Caesar is a great general. Even Pompey thinks so. Crassus is a rich moron with the military expertise of a gutter whore. Those who go east with Crassus are signing on for a parched journey into the jaws of Cerberus. I choose life and glory.”
As they came to a halt at the tent, Furius turned to him again.
“It has been obvious since Ostia that you neither like nor trust me, legate Fronto. And from what I’ve heard of you, I believe you’re a dangerously unpredictable drunkard to have in a position of command; insolent and disobedient. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the centurionate before you were beaten to death for the things you say and do. I think we can both agree that we dislike each other intensely and that we’re both grateful we serve in different legions, and whatever you’re hoping to get out of this conversation, I hope you’ve got it now, because the conversation is over. I will not breach protocol by entering the tent of a senior officer unbidden and I have no desire to lay eyes on the debauchery that I hear goes on. Would you be so kind as to send the camp prefect out to speak to me?”
Fronto stood still for a long moment, staring at the centurion. The man had just insulted him at a very personal level as well as a professional one and, in theory, Fronto could have the man broken for speaking to him like that. And yet he found that no words would spring to his lips for his throat had run as dry as the Parthian sands.
Trying to communicate his anger with only his expression, Fronto turned away and entered his tent.
Priscus sat on his bunk, shaking two dice in a leather cup, while Galronus, Brutus and Varus sat on cushions on the floor with cups of well-watered wine.
“Gnaeus? There’s a self-righteous arsehole of a centurion outside who needs accurate cavalry figures for Caesar.”
Priscus nodded, making to rise.
“Slow down, my friend. I would take it as a very great personal favour if you took your time getting him them. Perhaps you could struggle to find the tablets with the figures on?”
Priscus gave him a half-smile. “I won’t need to fake that. Finding anything in that mess is like trying to find a virgin at the Bacchanalia. Bit childish, though? Making him look bad like that?”
Fronto glared at him. “I’ve already been called insolent, disobedient, drunken and debauched in the last two minutes. I could do without you adding childish to the list.”
Priscus grinned. “But they’re almost all your most endearing traits!”
A ripple of laughter ran through the men on the floor and Fronto shared his glare with them all.
“Just do it, Gnaeus.”
Priscus nodded and made for the tent’s exit. Fronto turned his attention to the rest of them.