Fronto ground his teeth noisily, his jaw clamped shut to hold back the hundred vicious retorts flowing through his mind.
“I will need you in an hour when the representatives of the Aedui arrive. In the meantime, you are dismissed, legate.”
Without a further glance at the officer, Caesar turned and picked up a pile of reports.
Fronto straightened with a stiff manner, gave an exaggerated salute and, turning on his heel, left the tent.
Not far from the headquarters tent Balbus, Longinus and Priscus stood in deep conversation with Crispus and Galba. Still fuming in his ill humour, Fronto stormed down to the group and pointed an accusing finger at Priscus.
“If the entire command system is standing here blabbing, who the hell’s looking after the Tenth?”
Priscus blithely ignored the idiotic remark.
“Things didn’t go according to plan, then?”
Fronto’s brow lowered until it joined at the centre.
“He won’t even listen to anything I say. Bloody politicians! Command of the army should be given to a soldier, not a social climber.”
Balbus and Longinus grabbed Fronto by the shoulders and hustled him down the Via Decumana and away from the Headquarters.
“You can’t go shouting things like that within earshot of the headquarters. You know that man has the senses of a hawk.”
Longinus nodded.
“None of this is our doing, so don’t take it out on your friends. Now are you going to calm down or are we going to have to throw you in the river?”
Fronto stood for long moments, wagging his finger in the air and opening and closing his mouth before he pulled himself away from the grip of the other officers. His shoulders slumped in dejection.
“He did agree to discuss it again in a few days. In the meantime no-one from the Tenth goes near the arsehole except you and me, Priscus.”
The officers tensed as Fronto drew his gladius from its sheath, though in the end he hefted it for but a moment, looking down the blade before upending it and slinging it point first into the turf.
“He threatened the entire Tenth if anything happens to the Gaul. He even uttered the word ‘decimation’, the arrogant bastard. If he tried that, he’d have a general mutiny on his hands, so no-one mentions that, alright?”
He looked around at the solemn faces and waited for the acknowledging nods.
“I’m not having him dealt with by trial. No way. I’m going to gut the son of a bitch myself. I’ll wait ‘til I’m a little fresher and calmer and talk to the general again.”
Balbus held up a restraining hand.
“You damn well won’t, you idiot. You’ll just get angry again, then Caesar will throw the book at you. Hard! I’ll have a quiet word with him this evening.”
Longinus nodded his agreement, but Crispus scratched his head reflectively.
“I think the muse of deviousness is toying with my brain. I have an idea.”
The others looked at him. Crispus rarely spoke in their company. He and Galba were still fairly new to command and tended to treat the other legates with deference and respect, despite Balbus’ regular urging to consider them as equals. Crispus had the look more of one of Rome’s young, educated rhetoricians rather than a soldier.
“I imagine it would be easy for influential, intelligent gentlemen like us to sow seeds of dissent among the men.”
He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Fronto regarded him doubtfully.
“I’m not about to rebel against my general over one man.”
Crispus shook his head quickly.
“You misunderstand me sir.”
“Don’t call me sir, Aulus.”
“Anyway, should Caesar hear soldiers throughout the legions discussing the matter and advocating a fitting punishment for him, he may rethink his position.”
Balbus grinned.
“He could have something, Marcus. Caesar’s regarding this plan as your ravings, no offence intended. He might not realise how far across the army this might ripple. If we nudge things a little, we could make it plain to him. Good idea, Crispus.”
Priscus turned and saluted Fronto, a grin on his face.
“Permission to return to the Tenth and spread malicious and devious gossip, sir?”
Fronto smiled indulgently at his second in command.
“I can think of no better way of spending a lazy afternoon, Priscus. Get Velius in on the matter too. That man’s a born complainer, so everyone’ll take it seriously.”
He turned to the others.
“I’ve got to be back at the headquarters in less than an hour in full dress uniform, but I could spare half an hour to go and hate the prisoner in person. Care to join me, gentlemen?”
Among the shaking heads, Longinus stepped forward and patted Fronto on the shoulder.
“Someone’ll have to go with you, or you’ll end up stringing the man up in his cell.”
The various commanders went their separate ways, leaving Fronto and Longinus walking alone toward the hastily-erected stockade in the camp of the Ninth.
It struck Fronto once more that he was walking among men he had once commanded, and that he and Longinus had antagonised each other for so long that he had never considered the possibility that they could actually get along. The relationship was still nothing like that he already shared with Balbus, but every day he came to respect and like the legate of the Ninth a little more. He hadn’t noticed when he had become comfortable in his company and they had not slung even joke insults at each other for some time now. Perhaps it was the pressure of campaigning. Both of them had much more on their minds these days than the exchanging of petty abuse.
Smiling at Longinus with genuine warmth, he passed through the gate of the Ninth’s temporary camp as the other legate gave the daily password to the guard.
The stockade was a solid affair. Ten feet along each side, formed of sharpened stakes twelve feet high that had been retrieved from storage in the baggage train. Various materials were carried for just such emergencies. The one gate in the stockade was formed of the same stakes, bound together with heavy rope and barred with a six foot branch fed through two rope loops. A guard drawn from the Ninth stood at each corner of the stockade, and two of Caesar’s provosts stood by the gate, stiffly at attention, their eyes straight forward.
Fronto had never much cared for provosts. They were always rules-lawyers with an obsessive nature and no sense of camaraderie toward the rest of the regulars. Velius regularly joked that they stood as though they ‘had a javelin stuck up their arse.’ Fronto looked at the posture of the provost guards and raised his hand to his mouth, coughing to cover a smirk. Velius had an eye for detail, it seemed.
Longinus threw a questioning glance at Fronto and ordered the guard to open the door. Moving with mindless precision, the provost turned and withdrew the heavy beam, his counterpart levelling a pilum at the gate.
Fronto, still trying to stifle a smile, could see how unnecessary the precaution was as the door was pulled open. The prisoner, disarmed and unequipped, stood at the rear of the stockade, clad only in Gaulish breeches, shoeless. He was chained to the wall and could reach no more than five feet toward the gate.
Longinus regarded the prisoner for long moments and then turned and gestured meaningfully at the provost.
“Get this man a tunic and some boots. I don’t care whether he’s comfortable, but if he dies of a chill before he can be brought to trial, you might be punished instead.”
The provost stood still and emotionless, answering with only the curtest of nods.
Longinus and Fronto stepped inside and the legate of the Ninth motioned to the provost to shut the gate.