“Go, Fronto. Get to work. Come back tomorrow with the others.”
Fronto stared for a moment longer and then bowed and strode for the door, opened it and, exiting, pulled it shut behind him. As he stood alone in the corridor, staring at the wood, he wondered what the hell had got into the general. After a moment, he shrugged and, turning, made his way from the building.
Out in the courtyard area, the other officers stood in a small knot, arguing in low voices. The sound died out sharply when Crispus drew their attention to the puzzled legate as strode from the headquarters building.
“Marcus? What happened?”
Fronto shook his head.
“I wish I knew.” For a second he stared into nowhere and then realised they were speaking of the argument.
“Politics. Bad moods. He’s alright now.”
Gesturing at Balventius, he smiled.
“He wants you, me and Paetus to come back and see him in the morning, but I think we’re off the hook for the rest of the day.”
He grinned.
“All of a sudden I find myself very thirsty. Anyone care to join me? We have to walk past the taverns on the way out of town, after all…”
Chapter 3
(Tavern on the main street of Vesontio)
“ Mansio and mutatio: stopping places on the Roman road network for officials, military staff and couriers to stay or exchange horses if necessary.”
Balbus grinned unevenly.
“Problem is…”
He sat for a moment, pointing a shaky finger at Fronto as his face went blank.
“Problem is that I can’t remember what the problem is!”
Fronto burst out laughing as the older legate stared down forlornly into his mug. Next to him, Crispus made snorting sounds and on the other side of the table, Labienus grinned.
“I swear the Gauls put something in this wine that rots the brain.”
“It’s what you’re putting the wine into that’s doing that!”
As Balbus turned to stare at Labienus, the other collapsed in fresh waves of laughter.
“So…” Fronto pulled himself upright and rubbed his face with his hand. “The general’s been here two weeks. We’re rushed back from the blue shores of the Mare Nostrum in such an awful hurry because the Belgae are stomping around getting twitchy, and then we sit in camp waiting for something to happen. Come on, Titus. You’ve spent the most time with Caesar. What’s he told you? Why are we still sat here?”
Labienus shrugged.
“He’s waiting on a few things; that I know for certain.”
He tapped his mug on the table rhythmically as he spoke.
“I’ve been told to watch for a report from Crassus on the situation with the tribes up in Armorica. It’s possible Crassus managed to get his legion to Cenabum in a week, since it’s just men and kit with no baggage or artillery, though that’s a tall order in itself, being best part of two hundred miles away. Let’s say he can get a courier back to us in, what… five days? I mean there’s no mansios or staging posts out here in Gaul; nowhere to change horses, so he’d have to let the beast rest. That means that even at breakneck speed, he’d only have had a couple of days to check up on the tribes. I’d say we’ve at the very least another week or two before we look like moving.”
He quickly glanced around to make sure no one else was listening.
“And those riders he sent back to Rome too.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “You know… the Paetus thing? He’s waiting for a reply from them too.”
He sat back, letting his mug sit still long enough for Balbus to refill it.
“And there’s still almost a dozen native scouts out there among the tribes near the Belgae. He’ll be waiting for those to come in with their information.”
Fronto grumbled.
“So basically, he’s waiting for his mail to arrive!”
Balbus laughed.
“What’s up, Marcus? Are you so desperate to get stuck into the Belgae? From what I remember, the last few fights you’ve been in, you’ve ended up wounded and convalescing. You do look a bit too healthy at the moment.”
Fronto glared at him.
“You can go off people really quickly, you know that, Quintus?”
“Ahem…”
The four of them turned at the sound of the throat clearing. The yard was attached to the side of the tavern itself, surrounded by a low stone wall and sheltered by a wooden structure covered with ivy. Apart from the other two tables and the benches that served them, the yard was empty. Over the wall, however, life and business went on as always on the steeply-sloping main street.
Titus Sabinus, senior staff officer and currently one of the general’s busiest aides, stood in the road with folded arms and a false frown. As the four stared up at him like vacant fish, he slipped into a smile.
“Thought I’d find you lot in one of the bars. This is the third one I’ve tried though.”
“Us too!” Balbus grinned.
“I’ve brought some weary travellers to join you” the staff officer announced.
Turning, he beckoned down the street and, moments later, the travel-worn faces of Rufus and Galba, legates of the Ninth and Twelfth Legions, appeared around the corner. Galba, a short, stocky and swarthy man, looked tired to the point of exhaustion. Rufus, younger than Galba by several years, looked equally weary, yet walked with a straight-backed professionalism. The two men looked across at the men in the tavern yard and gave a faint smile.
Sabinus pointed at Fronto while addressing the two latecomers.
“This man knows how to relax. You’ve been training solidly for weeks. Take a rest. You’ll need it, because you won’t be here long.”
He turned to the others.
“Look after them.”
Crispus frowned.
“Caesar’s pulled all the legions back to Vesontio?”
Sabinus nodded.
“All but the Seventh, of course. Things are in motion, Marcus. Won’t be long now. “He gestured at the mug in front of the legate.” Make the most of that. I doubt the Belgae will be as hospitable!”
Fronto mumbled something and then took a deep pull from his mug.
Galba and Rufus entered the yard as Sabinus gave a nod and wandered on up the street to report to the general. After a brief discussion, they collected a table between them and, carrying it over, butted it up against the one at which their companions sat. Retrieving the benches, they sank gratefully to the oak seats. Balbus grinned and banged heavily on the table.
The Gaulish innkeeper came scurrying out of the doorway. As soon as he saw his two new customers, he rushed back inside and returned with two more jars of wine and two more goblets, which he distributed appropriately round the table.
Galba sighed with relief and poured a drink for himself and his companion.
Labienus regarded them with a raised eyebrow.
“You two been overworked? You look exhausted.”
Rufus shrugged lightly.
“Crassus set a pretty heavy training schedule for the forward camps this last month.” He glanced at his companion. “And Galba here is determined not to be outdone, so he’s driven his men to work twice as hard as that!”
Galba nodded.
“We’re still a new legion and when we get into the thick of it this year, I’m determined the Twelfth are going to weather it with the best of them. Most importantly, I’m bloody damned if that humourless dick is going to prove a better legate than me, just because he was born with a golden rod up his arse.”
Rufus gave a tired chuckle.
“And of course, if Crassus is pushing his men to the edge to prove they’re best, and then Galba starts doing the same on the other side, what am I supposed to do in the middle?”
He let out a small laugh.
“Actually, I gave my men an easy run of it compared with these other two, but then the Ninth has always had a good reputation anyway.” He raised his goblet to Fronto. “You’ll remember that, I guess, since you’re responsible for a lot of it.”