Fronto smiled. There was something vaguely sad about Rufus. He couldn’t define exactly what it was, but even when the young man was smiling and passing on a compliment, it felt like he was delivering cheerless news. There was a permanently haunting look about that young face that made him turn away, back to his drink.
Clearing his throat, he looked back up, this time at Galba.
“Far be it from me to question another commander’s methods…”
He paused for a second as he noticed the scathing look in Labienus’ eyes and ignored it as best he could.
“You should be careful about taking your cue from Crassus. That man’s bad news. For us; for you; but most of all for his own men!”
“Fronto…”
He flicked his eyes across to Labienus, who was giving him a warning look.
“No. I’m right. Crassus is a dangerous man. He’s got the drive, the ambition and the ruthlessness of Caesar…” he ignored Labienus’ frantic motions to shut up. “But he doesn’t have Caesar’s redeeming features. Caesar’s a showman and tactically sound. He knows what to do and when to do it, and he knows how to make his men love him. Crassus is just making his legion resent him, and that’s never a good thing.”
Irritably, he pushed Labienus’ waving hand down to the table.
“Mark my words: Crassus is going to find himself in trouble out there in the west. He’s got one legion. They’re a good legion and he’s had them training like mad, but still, even with his auxiliaries and support, there can’t be more than seven or eight thousand of them.”
He waved his arm in a sweeping motion to indicate the whole of northwest Gaul, knocking Crispus’ mug in the process so that the young legate had to grab it quickly to prevent spillage.
“But there’s hundreds of thousands of Gauls out there.”
He waited for that to sink in during the silence that followed.
“Eight thousand versus more than a hundred thousand. That’s the odds if it comes down to a fight against all the tribes up there. And, let’s face it: Crassus is going to push something until it breaks. He’s as diplomatic as a turd stew.”
Labienus grasped his waving hand and forced it down.
“Fronto, there are soldiers out in the street who can hear all this. For Jupiter’s sake shut the hell up!”
Fronto growled at him.
“Shaln’t!”
He pulled his wrist free.
“And even if he manages to maintain peace, I wouldn’t trust his men not to revolt against their commander. He treats them like slaves.”
“For Gods’ sake Fronto, shut up!”
Fronto pushed Labienus’ arm aside.
“And the worst thing? Absolutely the worst thing that could come of any of this? What if Crassus somehow pulls this round and makes himself look good? You know as well as me that there’s only one possible reason Caesar sent him out to be surrounded by those odds with only one legion? It’s a bloody death sentence; that’s what it is!”
He became aware that Galba and Rufus were staring at him in disbelief and that Crispus had joined in the arm motions encouraging him to calm down. For a moment, he wondered whether he’d had too much to drink, but the drink-fuelled courage told him that was stupid and he had an important point to make. Can’t back down now…
“A waste though, don’t you think? Sacrificing a veteran legion just to get an inconvenience out of the way?”
There was a crunch and Fronto’s world went black.
Balbus rubbed his balled fist and sank back down to his seat as the unconscious form of his best friend slid gracelessly from the bench. Crispus stared, his head snapping back and forth between the equally startled Galba and Rufus, the heap that was Fronto, and finally to the silent crowd in the street who had, to a man, stopped whatever they were doing to stare into the tavern yard. Sighing, Crispus stood and turned to look over the wall.
“I am going to count to three!” he shouted. “And any man I can still see when I get there is on latrine duty until they get pensioned out!”
The street burst into life as men ran this way and that to clear out of the furious young legate’s gaze. Balbus looked up at him.
“Thank you.”
Labienus stared at Balbus and slowly began to smile.
“No, Quintus. Thank you!”
“He’s just had a little too much. No harm done, eh?”
Labienus gave a pointed look to everyone round the table.
“No… no harm done. Just jesting, eh?”
With a sigh, Balbus stood and gestured toward the heap of legate opposite him.
“Crispus? Give me a hand getting him to his quarters would you? I think I may have damaged my fist.”
As the two men collected Fronto and dragged him up, draping him between them, Balbus clenched and released his fist several times. Each time he did, there was an unpleasant crunching sound and he winced with pain.
“Damn, that man has a hard jaw!”
Crispus tried not to laugh.
“I think you must have a pretty hard hand, Quintus. I hope you haven’t broken him. His nose is a funny shape.”
Balbus shrugged.
“You know Fronto. I can’t believe this is the first broken nose he’s ever had.”
Quietly they lifted Fronto and, with a wave of acknowledgement to their companions, left the tavern yard and walked out and down the street toward the bridge and the military compounds beyond.
* * * * *
Fronto was still unconscious as the two legates dumped him unceremoniously on his bed, though whether through his injury or substantial consumption of alcohol was a matter for debate. They had collared a legionary at the entrance to the camp of the Tenth, telling the guards that their legate had had an accident and to call for a medic.
Crispus looked up at Balbus from where he sat on the edge of the cot, his face filled with concern.
“Do you think he’s alright? I thought he would have woken by now.”
Balbus shrugged.
“He’s still breathing. You can hear that from the nasty bubbling sound!”
The younger legate tried, unsuccessfully, not to smirk. They’d had to shut Fronto up, clearly. His mouth had seriously run away with him in a public place, but when it came right down to it, Crispus was convinced the man was right. Moreover he was sure the same was true of Balbus and the others and, indeed, every legionary that had been in the street. Still, casting aspersions about the morals and the ability of some of the highest members of the patrician class was a career breaking move, guaranteed.
And Fronto, while his rank indicated he was from a patrician family, from everything else, it was just as clear that they were one of the less noble and haughty families and even that Fronto held most of his own class in particularly low esteem. That was one of the things that truly fascinated Crispus about the unconscious bloody mess snoring noisily next to him. Until he’d been appointed to the Eleventh, he was ashamed to admit, he’d hardly ever even spared a thought for anyone of a rank lower than equites. And now, a year of friendship with this man had changed him so much that often he found himself considering the results of any potential action on the common people before his own. Such an un-Roman viewpoint, it constantly amazed him.
His attention was brought sharply back into focus by a knocking on the door. Balbus, leaning against the tall cabinet by one wall and wiping his forehead with his scarf, turned and called out.
“Come!”
The door opened. Crispus was surprised to see not a doctor, but a legionary in his armour, without weapon, shield or helmet.
The young capsarius bowed curtly.
“Sirs.”
Balbus smiled benignly at the young man.
“Florus, yes? I remember you. I take it the medicus was otherwise occupied?”
Florus smiled weakly.
“Errr… Sort of, sir.”
A raised eyebrow.
“He said he wasn’t going to treat the legate for another drink-related injury and that I could handle it, sir!”