(Nemetocenna in the lands of the Belgae)
The legions heaved a collective sigh of relief as they settled in for the night. The journey from the Rhenus had consisted of almost two weeks of interminable marching, scouting, constructing and deconstructing innumerable camps for each night. And so, when the walls of Belgic Nemetocenna — well known to many of the men — hove into view as the sun began its descent, each soldier in the army sagged with gratitude that semi-permanent military ramparts remained here from the past few years of wintering troops, saving them the effort of digging ditches and raising walls.
The huge, sprawling fort, with four separate and individually-ramparted sub-camps, had been fully constructed and thriving within half an hour of arrival. Sentries had been posted, pickets out, officers already in the settlement in deep discussion with the local leaders, negotiating the price for extra supplies to supplement those brought on the huge wagon train that was still arriving as an owl began to hoot. The Fourteenth legion, as usual drawing the short straw, began to file slowly into the camp, escorting the last of the carts and the siege engines.
Fronto stepped gingerly across the open ground, trying to avoid the areas that had been churned into glutinous mud by the endless pairs of nail-shod feet working to put up tents, stack pila and so on. He caught sight of the glittering armour of Plancus, the Fourteenth’s legate, glinting in the orange light of the torches and fires that dotted the enormous camp.
Plancus sat his horse like a statue, his face the image of the traditional Roman officer: proud — if somewhat vacant about the eyes — haughty and confident. The tribunes of his command followed on astride their own steeds, followed by the standards bearers, musicians and the rest. Fronto ignored the rest of the arriving column.
“Legate Fronto?” Plancus narrowed his eyes as though he might be mistaken. “Can we help you?”
“Could you spare me one of your tribunes for a while?”
Plancus shrugged carelessly. “They all have assigned duties. I will send a man over as soon as he has completed his tasks, if you like. Who is it you wish to see?”
Fronto fought the urge to grind his teeth. It was a habit he’d noticed on the increase when dealing with that particular breed of officer that took to military life like a fish to gravel.
“I doubt that’ll be necessary. I would like to see tribune Menenius. He’s not with the medical column that arrived, so I assume he’s back with his legion.”
A trace of irritation passed across Plancus’ eyes and he cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Menenius is travelling with my baggage train, in relative luxury. Despite my insistence, he continues to maintain that he cannot ride a horse.”
Fronto found that, despite his decision, his teeth were grating off one another already. Of course the damn man couldn’t ride a horse. Fronto had visited him in the hospital tent back at the Rhenus as soon as his head had cleared enough and stopped thumping. The Fourteenth’s tribune had taken an arrow wound to the shoulder that had become infected, as well as two sword wounds to the arm and the thigh. Fortunately, both had been light blows, drawing blood and a little muscular nicking, but with no real damage. The fever that came with the infected wound had kept the man on the bank of the Styx for six days and he’d still been in the care of the medical staff until yesterday. He certainly shouldn’t be riding a horse.
You prat.
“So if you can spare him?”
“He claims to be unfit for general duties and for some reason the medicus supports the malingering wastrel, so do as you see fit.”
Grind, grind, grind.
“Thank you for your consideration, Legate Plancus. I’ll just speak to him in the column, then.”
Without waiting for any sort of gesture of acknowledgement — which he felt he was unlikely to receive anyway — Fronto turned and strode slowly along the line toward the small group of wagons that carried Plancus’ mobile palace, with every comfort he could muster.
A jutting tuft of grass turned his step uncomfortably, and a lance of pain shot up from his knee, making him stumble. Though he’d already regained most of his leg strength, it was clear that a certain amount of knee weakness was here to stay. It had taken Carbo very little effort to persuade him to ride these past ten days rather than the march he generally preferred.
“Bollocks!” he snapped at the mauve evening sky, grasping his knee and rubbing it before he straightened.
Hobbling across to the rolling wagons, he hopped a few steps and then fell into a steady pace, grimacing with every other footfall.
Menenius sat in one of the carts, wedged into place with bundles and sacks. His armour had been stowed, and he travelled in his uniform only, with his cloak spread out beneath and around him, providing a clean surface upon which to recline.
Fronto was surprised at how pale the man still was, but had to remind himself that Menenius had always been fairly white, displaying that particular skin tone found on men who spent almost all of their time surrounded by scrolls and books and oil lamps, who only saw the bounty of nature through windows.
Twelve days had passed since he’d dropped in on the tribune, at which time the man had been in the throes of fever, lashing out and thrashing around, totally oblivious to any visitor. Since that time something had settled into Fronto — something that had killed off any further urge to visit. He’d not known exactly what it was, but something in his gut had continually turned him from visiting, even when Priscus had urged him to do so.
The man had clearly saved his life, but his stomach turned over at the thought of admitting that the fop, who had stated his own dislike of all things martial, had had the courage and wherewithal to step in and fight off three howling barbarians while the strong legate, veteran of a dozen wars, had dozed unconscious with a cracked skull and a trick knee.
It rankled badly.
And yet, on this last day of journeying, he had found his mind wandering and focusing on the events of that impressive and insane foray to the east bank of the Rhenus, and he had gradually come to the conclusion that he was being childish — a fact that needled him even more, given how often Lucilia and Faleria accused him of the same. The tribune may be a fop with a flowery personality and a weak chin, and he may have no desire to serve in an actual military environment, but the man had shown natural, innate talent, both with command and with direct swordplay.
It had soured Fronto all the more to discover that the root cause of his reticence to visit and acknowledge Menenius was plain jealousy. Here was a young man who was destined for high position in Rome, thrust into an environment for which he was hopelessly unprepared, and yet he’d excelled in the position. Meanwhile, Fronto, who had long been the most soldierly and martial of Caesar’s officers, was rapidly being forced to come to terms with the aches, pains and limitations that came with being the oldest of the serving commanders.
“Menenius?”
The tribune sat a little straighter and, Fronto noted, took a sharp intake of pained breath as he focused on the source of the call.
“Legate Fronto? Mayhap you are lost?”
Fronto fought the surge of irritation and jealousy that urged him to turn and leave, and shook his head as he approached the cart.
“No, it’s definitely you I’m here to see.”
“I feared…” Fronto was further irritated to realise that Menenius was blushing, “I thought that perhaps I had angered you or that you were disappointed with me. I would have come to see you, had not the medicus and my own legate been very restrictive with my movements.”
Fronto fell in alongside the wagon, his head level with the tribune’s elbow.
“Of course not!” he snapped, instantly regretting his tone. “Sorry. I should have come to see you sooner. How are you feeling?”