For that was clearly the case.
Had he not chanced to duck his head forward, the bullet that had skimmed his crown would now be embedded in his temple, and he would be shuddering out his last breaths as the lead lump lodged in his brain killed him in convulsive seconds.
He lay for a long moment in the warm, springy grass and listened. The optio back by the medical tent had shouted in alarm. Not a warning or command, though. All he’d seen was Fronto pitch forward to the ground, no sign of an attack.
But despite the background sounds of men running to help him, the noise he was half-expecting to hear remained absent. No ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of a sling being spun. No further missile would come. The attacker had lost his opportunity with his first miraculous failure and had almost certainly cut his losses and run.
Fronto’s hand closed on the small figure of Fortuna that hung round his neck on a thong. The Goddess was certainly putting in the hours looking after him today. Shame she hadn’t dropped in on Tetricus.
Slowly, carefully, Fronto rose to his feet, his head throbbing and a pain wracking his scalp. Suddenly half a dozen men were around him, hands reaching out to help steady him. He did nothing to stop them.
“Sir?” queried the optio. “Are you alright?”
“Sling bullet” Fronto said quietly, touching his scalp gingerly and pulling away a hand spotted with blood. The optio blinked in surprise.
“A bullet? But from where?”
Fronto glanced around, his eyes coming to rest on a small copse that had remained within the bounds of the camp, gradually reducing in size as the timber was cut from it.
“There. Only place with a clear view where a man could hide. I suggest you detail men to surround it and search it, but I’m sure beyond doubt that you’ll find no one.”
The optio sent men to the small knot of trees and undergrowth, while he and two men remained by the legate.
“Come on, sir. We’ll escort you back to the hospital, just in case.”
“Bugger the hospital. I’m going back to my tent.”
“But sir? Your head?”
“Will feel much better with half a jar of wine in it. Thanks, optio. Let me know if you find anything.”
As he trudged on up the hill, Fronto couldn’t stop his eyes searching every face in the camp, peering in through tent flaps and checking every shadow. Suddenly it was beginning to feel quite dangerous being an officer in Caesar’s camp.
Fronto was quite clearly very late and, as usual, couldn’t care less. Aulus Ingenuus stood with his men on guard by the entrance to Caesar’s headquarters tent, his horse guard positioned all around, the prefect rubbing the stumps of his missing fingers, as was his habit. The young commander of Caesar’s bodyguard raised an eyebrow questioningly at the dishevelled figure approaching the tent.
Fronto knew what he must look like and pondered for only a moment what it said about his reputation that turning up to Caesar’s briefing in a wine-stained, rumpled tunic and muddy boots and with spatters of blood across his temple and forehead warranted only a raised eyebrow. Once upon a time, not so long ago, he’d taken pains to look his best for command briefings.
But then, with this as with everything else, today he’d likely be given more leeway than most.
Ingenuus gave him a nod and the two guards stepped aside, allowing him entry to the command tent. The briefing and conversation was already in full swing as he slipped in through the tent flap. The speech halted instantly, all eyes turning to the new arrival. All around the edge of the tent burnished, shining armour and neat crimson cloaks did their best to amplify the effect of his dishevelled appearance.
“Fronto?” Caesar didn’t look angry quite so much as confused and concerned.
With a visible lack of effort, Fronto threw out a half salute and slumped into a chair near the door.
“Fronto?” the general repeated, slightly quieter and with… trepidation? “Is something amiss?”
Varus, his arm bound once more in the tight sling, stepped out from the tent’s edge, the wound at his hip making the move jerky and uncomfortable.
“Symptoms of mourning, Caesar.”
Caesar’s brow furrowed.
“Mourning, Marcus?”
Fronto slumped deeper in the chair, but something in the general’s voice drew him out of his shell a little.
“For Tetricus, Caesar.”
“Ah yes. I noticed his name in the medical reports. I have to admit to some surprise, since I was led to believe that his wounds were far from life-threatening.”
It was now Fronto’s turn to frown. “His wounds, Caesar?”
Varus was stepping forward again. “Caesar, the tribune did not pass from his wounds, but from the attack.”
Fronto’s eyes zipped back and forth between Caesar and Varus. Had the medicus assumed that speaking to him, as a senior legate, would suffice for reporting the incident, and not mentioned it to the general?
“An attack?”
Fronto, despite the bleariness of having spent the previous afternoon and the whole night drinking away unhappy hours with a succession of friends and companions as their sleep-patterns and shifts allowed, suddenly perked up.
“Tetricus was murdered, general. Yesterday morning, in the hospital.”
A stony hardness fell across Caesar’s face, but Fronto swore that for just a tiny moment a flash of panic flitted through the general’s eyes as his gaze flicked to one side. Fronto peered over to the left, in the hope of identifying to what or whom Caesar had turned in that strange, unguarded moment but saw nothing out of place.
“That is entirely unacceptable” Caesar said quietly and angrily. “I will not have valuable officers dispatched in such a manner in my camp.”
Fronto leaned forward, a dozen warning triggers firing in his head at the strange reaction. What was more worrying? That it seemingly applied only to ‘valuable officers’? That just for a fraction of a second, Caesar seemed to have lost his iron control and given way to an element of fear? That he’d cast an intense momentary glance at someone or something that Fronto couldn’t identify? That only the manner of dispatch apparently mattered?
No. What worried — or, more correctly, irked and worried — Fronto the most was this virulent reaction to the death of an officer with whom Caesar had been passingly acquainted at best, while a couple of months ago the information that his own nephew had been brutally murdered in an inn in Vienna had warranted merely the word ‘inconvenient’.
Fronto glared at the general with genuine disgust for a moment before forcing a nondescript expression across his face and nodding.
“I presume, then, that no one has informed you of the attempt on my own life. An added ‘inconvenience’, at the very least, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
He narrowed his eyes, watching for Caesar’s reaction, but the general seemed genuinely shocked.
“This is harrowing news indeed. Ingenuus!” he bellowed.
The commander of his bodyguard pushed open the tent flap.
“Caesar?”
“After this briefing, put yourself and your best men at Fronto’s disposal. It appears we have a traitor in the ranks who is intent on picking off my best officers. I want the matter resolved before we move out to the Rhenus.”
Fronto scratched his head, wincing as he accidentally rubbed off a newly-formed scab.
“We’re moving out already? What of the cavalry across the Mosella?”
Caesar nodded calmly. “I understand why you missed the first part of the meeting, Marcus, and how you may have been out of the loop a little over the past day. Let me give you a quick rundown of what has occurred.”