“I’m Marcus Mettius. Staff officer of Caesar.”
Varus stared. Everyone knew of Mettius and of Procillus and their capture by Ariovistus, but no one had ever expect to see them alive again.
“What of Procillus?”
Varus dismounted and approached the officer.
“I don’t know whether he lives or not,” the man replied. “We were separated immediately. I must report to Caesar.”
Varus smiled as he reached round and cut the man’s bonds.
“Caesar’s chasing men halfway to the Rhine by now. I think you’d best come back and see the medicus before the general returns. Use my horse. I’ll lead him and we’ll get you some clean gear.”
Mettius smiled a relieved smile.
“Thank you, but I can walk. As we go, you can tell me who you are and what’s happened since I was taken.”
* * * * *
Fronto had left Caesar and ridden round the back of the infantry to the centre where the third line of the Tenth had been massed. By prior arrangement with the other officers and much to Fronto’s personal dislike he had agreed that, since he would be scouting for Caesar’s staff, he would take position with the third line and command the reserves when they went in. As such, he had stood by his horse, holding the reins and talking to young centurion Pomponius throughout the entirety of the assault on the German line. He seriously doubted they would need the reserves. This was it. Almost certainly the last action this campaigning year, and he’d missed out. The legate spat on the floor and grumbled.
Pomponius waited until Fronto was looking away and then rolled his eyes skywards. He was getting sick and tired of the legate complaining. Most soldiers were happy to wait in the reserve. The chances of being skewered or sliced were so much slimmer.
“Sir, if you’re bored why don’t you go and see the support staff. I’m sure they’re at least doing something, so you could get involved.”
Fronto glared at Pomponius.
“I’m not so desperate to shout at people that I want to watch quartermasters and medics screwing things up.”
Pomponius merely smiled and arched one eyebrow. He may be relatively new to the ranks of the centurionate, and even relatively new to the Tenth, but like all the officers of the legion, he knew the legate very well by now. Fronto saw the raised eyebrow and sighed.
“Alright, I’ll go and see the support. If anything remotely exciting happens, have someone come and get me. At least someone back there’s going to have some wine.”
As Fronto stomped off toward the rear, Pomponius smiled again and contemplated what life could have been like with a commander who didn’t care.
Fronto wandered into the makeshift hospital where the action was already fast and revolting. The battle had been going for less than half an hour and casualties were not in short supply. Probably in the same amount of time the battle would be over, not like that protracted siege with the Helvetii. He cursed again and tapped irritably on his sword hilt. He was surveying the general carnage when his eyes lit on a familiar face.
Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth, sat on a slight hummock in the grass with a distressed capsarius tending to some kind of wound. Fronto grinned and made his way toward the battered old centurion. The man was covered in blood and clearly a lot of it was his, though beneath the crimson stains the man was as pale as a Vestal virgin at an orgy.
“Balventius. Been in the wars?”
He slumped to the grass next to the wounded man.
“Some bastard German got me when I wasn’t looking.”
Fronto smiled again.
“I take it he doesn’t look as well as you.”
The legate glanced over the centurion’s shoulder to examine what the capsarius was doing.
“Sweet Fortuna, that’s deep!”
As Balventius nodded, the capsarius tutted irritably.
“If you keep jerking around like that I’m going to end up sewing your lung to your heart, now will you keep still!”
The centurion glanced up at Fronto from his slightly hunched position.
“Are the Tenth not moving?”
Fronto gave his customary growl.
“Most of them are, but I’m commanding the reserve.”
Balventius turned his head, causing muttering from the medic.
“How long are you going to be? I’ve got a unit out there with no commander.”
The capsarius almost dropped his last stitch.
“You must be bloody joking. You’ve lost enough blood to fill an amphora. You’ll be lucky if you can walk fast without fainting. And there are twenty six stitches across your shoulders with a long, deep wound. The first time you swing or lunge, you’ll rip ‘em all out and I’ll have to start again from scratch. And that’s if you don’t lose enough blood to drop dead on the journey back. You’re out of it centurion, I’m afraid.”
With an exaggerated tug that caused Balventius to wince, the capsarius finished sewing the wound.
“Does that mean you’re done?”
“I’ve just got to bandage you now.”
Fronto leaned forward and spoke to the medic.
“I’ll help and, for the record, this man’s almost certainly had worse wounds.”
Balventius nodded.
“Sorry, doc. There’s no way I’d be staying back here unless I was missing a leg or something. Just get me bound.”
He looked up at Fronto again.
“If you rally want to do something useful, sir, could you find one of these waste-of-good-air quartermasters and get me another mail shirt?”
Fronto nodded and, standing, wandered away from the valetudinarium until he found one of the quartermasters directing several immunes in unloading weapons and armour from a cart. Spotting mail shirts passing around, his eyes lit on a shirt of fish-scale mail.
“What’s the chance of me getting hold of one of those?”
The quartermaster snorted derisively and then turned and realised he was speaking to a senior officer.
“Sorry sir. All the scale’s spoken fer. Very popular with officers sir, and ‘arder to get than chain. I can let yer ‘ave some chain right now though. ‘Ow many d’yer need?”
Fronto grinned.
“How many shirts have you got put aside to make a little packet on, though? Two? Three?”
The quartermaster, a slightly overweight centurion assigned to the Seventh, looked taken aback and wounded for a moment before a brief flash of guilt made it to his face.
“Well, I suppose I could let yer ‘ave one o’ the reserve stock, sir, but I’d ‘ave ter buy another one in ter replace it, and they ain’t cheap.”
Fronto nodded and grinned.
“I think I can probably cover it. You know me, yes?”
“Yer legate Fronto o’ the Tenth. I seen yer sir.”
Fronto smiled again.
“Then put my mark against the shirt. I’ll take it now and drop the money off after the battle.”
The quartermaster ummed and ahhed and dithered for long moments, contemplating being left one shirt down by Fronto, then sighed and reached over. Picking up the shiny scale shirt, he passed it to Fronto.
“Don’t go getting’ yerself killed today, sir. Yer owe me fer a good scale shirt.”
Moments later, leaving the unhappy quartermaster grumbling as his men continued to stockpile gear, Fronto wandered back in to the valetudinarium, the heavy armour, scales of steel sewn over leather and chain, draped over his arm. He wandered around until he found Balventius, fully bandaged, struggling to pull a tunic down over his ruined shoulders.
“I don’t know how you expect to fight when you can even dress.”
The centurion grunted.
“It’s just a bit tight with these bandages on. The bloody capsarius refused to help me. Said he wouldn’t help me hasten my own death. That’s a nice shirt. What do I owe you?”
Fronto grinned.
“I’ve got a fair bit put away at the moment, so call it a gift.”