Priscus snorted suddenly, coughing as the wine went up his nose. Wiping his face, he sat forward.
“You can’t be serious. I’m fine controlling them in camp and I can march the legion across country, but the Tenth know you’re their legate. They won’t be happy following me into battle.”
Fronto rounded on Priscus.
“Don’t be an idiot, Gnaeus. Who do you think held them together while I was in Geneva? A battle’s easier to control than a hundred mile march! You’re quite capable, and you’ll bloody well do as you’re told. You’re not taking a primus pilus’ pay for sitting on your fat arse.”
For a few moments, Fronto and Priscus locked eyes until, calming down, Fronto smiled again.
“Sorry. Been away for a while and I’m a bit tense.”
“Balbus, you’re going to be the senior man remaining here. You’re going to have to look after all our baggage train and siege engines. We have to move fast and we can’t take all the traditional accoutrements. I’m sorry to dump this administrative nightmare on you, Balbus, but I don’t want young Crassus handling my legion’s gear, so who else could do it?”
He turned then to Galba.
“The Twelfth are going to have the opportunity to distinguish themselves here. This is your first chance, and I want you to look good for Caesar. When we move out, you’re the vanguard. I’m going to have the Ninth and Tenth pulling out to the sides. When we find them, I want to trap them against the river with a horseshoe of troops. The Twelfth will be the centre, and probably the hardest hit. Think your lads can handle it, Galba?”
The newly appointed legate smiled a grim smile.
“Oh, we’ll do you proud sir.”
Fronto stopped for a moment. He had never been called ‘sir’ by a legate before. He was opening his mouth to point out that it was inappropriate between equals when he remembered that he was not only a staff officer, but the effective general in the field and would have overall command.
“Good.” Rather lame, he thought.
He turned to Crispus.
“I’m sorry you won’t be getting the chance here, but there’ll be other battles for your men. In the meantime, you’ll be a third of Caesar’s direct army. You’ll be right under the general’s eye, and this is your chance to impress him with your efficiency. Good luck, man.”
Crispus nodded, his serious face betraying nothing of his disappointment.
“That’s it, I think.” Fronto stood and made to leave.
“Oh,” he said, turning again, “Longinus, I want you to stretch your cavalry out in a wide horseshoe behind the three legions. We need to keep it closed. You’ll have to plug any gaps and prevent anyone from getting away.”
“I want all three legions ready to move within the hour. We’ll form up near that copse on the hill. Balbus, we’ll rejoin you late tomorrow. I know the route Caesar’s taking. If we hit any real trouble, I’ll send a rider to catch up with you.”
Balbus stood, locking forearms with Fronto in an age old gesture of comradeship.
“Good luck Marcus. I think you’re right; he’s being too cautious. Make some history for us.”
Fronto smiled grimly.
“Oh I intend to, Quintus. I intend to.”
As the officers moved off quickly, heading to their commands, Priscus caught up with Fronto.
“Don’t you think it’s a little risky sir? I’d feel better taking six legions against them. I don’t like thinking we’ve come all this way to walk into something unprepared.”
Fronto patted him on the shoulder.
“We sometimes have to take a chance, or we’ll never achieve our goals. Don’t worry. The three legions can handle it, and I’ve studied the maps. We can make the ground work for us.”
“I hope to hell you’re right sir. Are you coming back to the Tenth?”
“No, you’ll have to get them mobilised. I have other fish to fry. When I met with Caesar, Crassus was there. He suggested that one of the staff be assigned to baby-sit the Eleventh while we were away. I’m damned if I’m going to let Crispus suffer the indignity of being constantly overruled by a chinless idiot. He’s a legate, and will be treated as such. I just need to have another quiet word with Caesar once Crassus has gone, that’s all.
Thirty five minutes later Fronto left Caesar’s tent, an air of satisfaction about him, and rode up the hill to where the legions were already assembled. Trotting to the highest ground in the centre, he motioned Priscus, Longinus and Galba to join him. Priscus looked decidedly uncomfortable on a horse and had, after much consideration, left his vine staff and centurion’s crest with his gear. Clearing his throat, Fronto addressed the crowd.
“Gentlemen, we are going to engage the Helvetii. Gods willing, we’ll send the whole lot of them to their barbarian Gods. If not, we want to make them suffer so much they’ll never think of crossing us again. You’re all travelling very light, and I want you all to break speed records on the march tonight. We won’t have the support of artillery or auxiliaries, and we’re attacking at only half our full strength. Still, we are better equipped, better trained, and better in every way than the Helvetii. We should be able to catch them in an uncomfortable situation and cut them to pieces. If we lose here, Caesar will likely have to turn back and head for home, and I know none of you want that. On the other hand, if we are successful, we’ll be the envy of the world, and Caesar will be grateful. I know you know what that means, so give it everything you’ve got tonight. Think of the victor’s wreath.”
A cheer rose up from the crowd. Fronto turned to the other three and lowered his voice a little.
“Longinus, your legion will take the left flank, Galba the centre, Priscus the right. The cavalry will stretch out in a horseshoe behind us all. I want the legions within sight of each other and close enough that they can close up and form a solid line when we sight the enemy. Everyone’s moving at double time tonight. I want to reach the Saone in two hours at most.”
The others saluted and returned to their units.
Gulping in air, aware of the risk and the awesome responsibility he had taken on, Fronto raised his arm and dropped it as his signal.
“Move out.”
* * * * *
Longinus was, as usual, the first to find the enemy, riding out ahead with a scout party of twenty cavalry. He crested the rise at a gallop and reined in alongside Fronto, his horse sweating.
“They’re just ahead, on the other side of that hill. We came in from the side and almost blundered straight into them. Didn’t realise they were so close. They’re crossing at the narrowest point in boats, but they’ve only got a dozen, so it’s taking them a hell of a long time.”
He sighed. “We appear to have arrived a little late. Most of the army’s across, but there’s maybe a quarter of the tribe still on this side. They’re in a dip, so we could turn this into a slaughter. Permission to alert the other legates and get the ball rolling sir?”
Fronto grinned a wicked grin.
“A quarter of the tribe will do nicely Longinus. They should present no real problem, and we’ll thin their army out by a quarter. Caesar will be pleased. By all means let the others know. I don’t want anyone cresting the hill until the horn sounds, so get them in position, but make sure they stay out of sight. Tell them to fan out and form a solid line. We want to trap them, remember?”
Longinus saluted and kicked his horse into movement, taking half his scouts toward the Ninth, while the other half went to inform the Twelfth.
Fronto turned and trotted down the hill to Priscus.
“Legate…”
Priscus bridled.
“I asked you not to call me that.”