The camp of the Tenth legion was sullen as Fronto left his tent and made his way to the headquarters of the general. It had been three hours since he had accompanied the stretcher-bearers back to the camp. Priscus had gone in to the medicus immediately, and the doctor had taken one look, sucked in air through his teeth in a timeless manner, and closed the door on Fronto. Since then he’d sat in the doorway of his own tent, repeatedly filling and emptying a cup of wine as he watched the columns of smoke rise from the hill opposite, while the onagers were moved into position to flatten the walls. It had seemed wrong sitting there on his own, but for some reason, all he could think of was his primus pilus being opened up in the hospital, and he felt less than social. Galronus was the only other man he was inclined to talk to right now, but the Remi officer had suffered a minor head wound during the scuffle earlier and was in with the medics at the moment.
And now, as he left the lines of the Tenth and two morose-looking guards saluted, he glanced across to his right, behind the lines, where a large stockade contained thousand upon thousand of Aduatuci prisoners. They would have to be taken away before long, as feeding them on a daily basis while so far beyond Cita’s supply lines was a difficult and costly business. But then, Caesar couldn’t move just yet. They would have to stay a week or more to impose their presence on the surrounding tribes, to find the few pockets of Aduatuci who were not in the oppidum, and to deal with the wounded.
He heard the thunder of hooves as he strode toward his meeting with the general and turned to see a small group of riders slowing as they neared the command area. Ingenuus’ men stood at attention by the entrance to the palisaded quarter as both riders and legate converged on the gateway.
Fronto frowned as the men arrived and the leader, a cavalry prefect by his armour, dropped from his saddle and saluted. The half-dozen men looked tired and unshaven and had clearly been riding for days; their horses stamped and steamed.
“You looking for me or the general?”
The prefect wiped his brow.
“I have a message for Caesar, sir.”
Fronto nodded.
“Come with me.”
With the prefect at his heel, sweating and groaning after so long in the saddle, Fronto strode through the gateway to the large tent that was Caesar’s headquarters. Two more of the praetorians stood beside the entrance, alongside the standards and the eagle. As the officers approached, one ducked inside for a moment and then returned.
“The general is ready to see you, legate.”
Fronto nodded and he and his companion strode into the dim interior of the command tent. Caesar sat at his desk, carefully positioned so that a shaft of light fell across the tablets and papers before him. He looked up.
“Ah, Marcus… good. I’ve been wanting to see you.” As the second man entered, the general frowned. “And who is this?”
Fronto shrugged and stepped across to stand behind a chair opposite his commander. The prefect walked to the table and saluted.
“General Caesar… I bring greetings from commander Labienus at Nemetocenna.”
Caesar looked momentarily surprised.
“Indeed? And news, I presume?”
The prefect smiled.
“News, indeed, sir.”
“Well, go on…” the general prompted.
“Firstly, I bear tidings of legate Crassus and the Seventh in Armorica.”
Fronto leaned on the seat back and turned with interest at this. Caesar’s expression hardened, and the legate realised that he couldn’t decide whether he hoped for success or failure on the part of the young nobleman.
“Legate Crassus wishes to inform Caesar that he has brought the seven maritime tribes of Armorica under the eagle, sir, and has settled into quarters in the territory of the Veneti on the north coast.”
The general blinked in surprise as the prefect continued.
“Commander Labienus wishes also to inform you, sir, that he has concluded favourable terms with the Belgic tribes and that, assuming that the Aduatuci are no longer a threat to the pax Romana, all Gaul is now yours.”
Fronto whistled through his teeth.
“That little bugger actually conquered the northwest. With one legion!”
Caesar nodded.
“A reminder from young Crassus, clearly, of his powerful lineage. Good. He has done me a service. Thank you, prefect. Is there anything else?”
The prefect fished a scroll from his tunic and placed it respectfully on the table.
“A full account from the commander, sir, but that’s it.”
Caesar nodded.
“Go and find yourself something to eat and rest for a while. Thank you, prefect.”
As the cavalry officer bowed and exited, the general turned to Fronto.
“Well?”
Fronto sighed.
“Do I speak freely?”
A nod.
“He’s trying to upstage you. Be sure he’s already sent a message back to Rome informing the people that matter of his achievement. You can claim it as your victory, but certain factions will no doubt attribute all your success this year to the work of Crassus. I really don’t have any great suggestion what to do about it, though. If you stamp on his achievement, it’ll make you look petty and ungrateful. You may just have to cheer him on.”
Caesar nodded sourly.
“This, Fronto, is why I sometimes envy your avoidance of politics.”
* * * * *
Labienus smiled at the young chieftain.
“We will be pulling out in a few weeks and taking the army to winter quarters, once Caesar confirms where that will be, but I intend to leave a small garrison at the fort here.”
The chieftain waited for Septimius to translate and then shrugged and said something in his guttural dialect.
The auxiliary officer smiled.
“The lord says that’s not necessary. They have made an oath and they will stand by it.”
Labienus laughed.
“I have no doubt about that, my friend. The people I am leaving behind will be there for your aid and support, not to control you. They will be mostly engineers and scribes. What we have begun here should not be stopped just because we leave for winter quarters.”
The translation seemed to make the chief happy and he reached out and clasped Labienus’ hand before turning and walking away toward the gates of Nemetocenna.
The commander turned to Septimius and Pomponius.
“I think, unless you have any objection, that I will leave one cohort here over winter, and I’d like you two to take command? I realise that you were expecting to return to ‘civilised’ lands, but you have been in at the top here on what I’ve tried to achieve, and I trust you will continue the good work?”
Pomponius nodded.
“Frankly, sir, with all the projects on the horizon here, I’m a happy as a pig in muck.”
Labienus laughed. Engineers never changed.
“I too am happy to stay,” Septimius agreed.
“Good.”
Labienus glanced across the hillside to where teams of engineers were, even now, creating good solid stone flags to pave the roads of the oppidum.
“Not Gaulish; not Roman. Gallo-Roman perhaps?”
* * * * *
Fronto woke with a start. A medical orderly was shaking him as gently and respectfully as possible, and had been doing so for several minutes while Fronto snored like a sick bear.
“Whassup?”
The orderly looked visibly relieved.
“Sir, the primus pilus is awake.”
Fronto, suddenly awake, scrambled madly out of the seat in the hospital that he had spent much of the last three days occupying. Three days of waiting, but he’d been practicing stretching and flexing his left arm to keep himself entertained and the muscle was clearly healing. There was less strength in it than he had ever felt, and he couldn’t pick up even the smallest or lightest thing, but the arm worked, and every day brought some small improvement.