Fronto nodded.
“If you’d like to follow me sir, down to the waterfront, you’ll find all the prisoners have been put to work.”
Caesar, once they were on their own and out of earshot of the staff officers, leaned closer to Fronto and spoke in low tones.
“The Tigurine are not to be trusted or bargained with. My father-in-law’s grandfather was Lucius Piso, one of Cassius’ chief officers, and he also was murdered by the swine.”
As they arrived at water’s edge, the largest group of prisoners, over a hundred in all, sat cross-legged on the grass, stripping branches of their leaves and shoots. They continued to do so as Caesar and Fronto stood looking down on them, surrounded by legionaries with their swords out.
Caesar cleared his throat. In a deep, loud and clear voice, he spoke to the prisoners.
“You are the Tigurine.” Not a question. A statement.
Mutters of confirmation greeted him from the seated group.
“You were the last to cross, caught unawares by a sizeable Roman army under a great general. Fortunate for your fellow tribesmen that they were on the other side and out of danger. Not for long, though. By the end of today or early in the morning we will be chasing them down like dogs on the hunt. I am a man who does not like to waste men or resources and generally despises unnecessary brutality. Sometimes, however…”
He turned his back on the tribesmen and stepped next to Fronto. In a voice loud enough to be heard by every man present, he spoke.
“Kill them all. Every last one of them, but don’t do it too quickly. I want them to have time to appreciate it.”
As the tribesmen behind him dropped the branches and stood, trying to move toward Caesar, but held at bay by guards with swords and shields, the general raised his voice above the shouting and hollering of the crowd.
“Replace them with proper men drawn from the Seventh, Eighth and the Eleventh. I want the other legions involved, and the current three can stand down for two hours and rest.”
“Yes sir.”
As the General strode away and the legionaries began to carry out his orders, Fronto tried to keep his eyes on Caesar and not watch the gruesome activity taking place over his shoulder. He could keep his eyes away, but he couldn’t shut out the screams or the sounds of carving meat. He was a soldier and could deal with any horror that battle could throw at him, but this simple butchery and torture was not to his taste. Turning his back, he was grateful to follow Caesar away from the scene. Once again he wondered how far the general would be prepared to go for personal ambition.
Balbus found Fronto in the woods, seated on a stump left by one of the workers. He had been looking for his fellow legate for almost an hour. No one had seemed to know where he was, until he eventually tracked down a centurion he recognised, called Velius. Velius had seen his legate disappear into the woods with a large jug and had thought better than to ask.
Fronto hadn’t seen Balbus enter the man-made clearing and gave a start when the older man coughed politely. Looking up, he recognised the shape and movement of his colleague in the dusk.
“Quintus. What’re you doing here? I tried hard to find a place no-one would find me.”
Balbus smiled and sat on a stump opposite.
“I gathered that from how hard you were to find. I brought more wine, though I’m not at all sure you really need it.”
Fronto’s head slipped forward again.
“He had no call to do that. No reason at all. I can appreciate as much as anyone that you can’t always hold prisoners and that death can be the only option on occasion. But not like that. Not carving people up for the sake of bitterness. They were warriors who lost a battle. I doubt that these so-called ‘barbarians’ would treat Roman prisoners that way. As far as I can remember, they put an end to Cassius and his army in a swift, no-nonsense way. Caesar had no call to do it.”
Balbus frowned.
“I agree, but we’re not the ones who have to live with that decision. From what I hear the General’s done as bad or worse before. You must have seen things like that serving with him in Spain. He was tried for crimes after that campaign.”
Fronto shook his head.
“He was more subtle about it in Spain. He knew some of us didn’t approve, so it was always done quietly and while many of us were absent. Spain was too well-known to Rome. Stories get back too easily. I figure he thinks out here no one will ever find out. He’s got a free hand. I just don’t know whether he made it so overt purely to make a point to me, or to demonstrate his resolve and power to the army in general. I don’t think he’s prey to his emotions enough to have done it for revenge. With him there’s always an ulterior motive.”
Balbus shrugged. “And I think you’ve chosen a bad spot to sit and sulk in. It smells like a dead pig here.”
Fronto gestured to the edge of the clearing.
“That’s because their burial pit is just the other side of those trees. Five hundred and seventeen bodies. I counted them. Not to mention the thousands we killed on the field.”
He took a pull at the wine flask, only to discover that it was empty.
“What about Caesar. What’s he doing?”
Balbus smiled a sympathetic smile.
“The general’s a very happy and generous man tonight. He’s sat in his tent with most of the officers, drinking and laughing. He honoured Longinus, Priscus and Galba in front of the other officers, and praised you in your absence.”
Fronto sighed.
“I hate being in a position where I have to smile blandly and celebrate the things I disapprove of. This is what happens when you get mixed up with politicians, Quintus.”
Balbus said nothing; wordlessly passed the jug over to Fronto, who took a swig.
“Nice. From Caesar’s personal baggage I suppose.”
The older legate nodded.
“Most of the troops are across the river now, Marcus. There’s maybe a thousand still here until the general’s ready to move, but that won’t be until the morning, and I can’t believe there would be any trouble tonight. Your man Velius was wandering around down by the bridge, getting involved in everything. I think he’s still a bit confused, and he was ordering the men of the Eleventh around, trying to get them in lines. In the end, I had to get him away myself and order him to stand down and report to the doctor. Head injuries can take months to heal, if they ever do, and that one he took was a fair mess.”
Fronto grinned.
“You underestimate Velius. Sounds like he’s quite rational and normal to me. He’s got a vested interest in the Eleventh. He helped turn them into a legion. I think he feels responsible for them in a way he doesn’t for the Tenth. There’s nothing confused about him. A little manic maybe, but not confused.”
Balbus’ brow creased.
“But he told me to piss off because he was busy. No centurion in his right mind would say that to a senior officer.”
Fronto laughed for the first time in half a day.
“You’d be surprised what he’d do. Problem is: he’s very good at the job, and he knows it. He’s got a great respect for authority and senior officers when he agrees with them, but if he thinks they’re wrong, he’s not shy in telling them. I tend to put up with it, because I’d hate to imagine the Tenth without him, but I do occasionally have to put him in his place. No. Velius is fine, believe you me.”
Balbus watched Fronto take another swig from the jar.
“Your head’s going to hurt worse than his when we move out tomorrow; you know that, don’t you?”
Fronto grinned again.
“I think tonight’s your night for underestimating. I have a capacity for good wine unparalleled among my peers. See, I can still form sentences and use long words and everything.”
Balbus laughed out loud.
“Alright. On your head be it. Literally. Now come on… time we went up to Caesar’s tent so that you can receive your praise like a good boy. Show them all how noble a good general can be, and try not to fall over.”