Balbus and Longinus nodded wearily. Crispus smiled.
“Perhaps a couple before I turn in.”
Balbus grinned at him.
“I think you earned it, Aulus.”
Galba declined, claiming exhaustion, and Crassus shook his head.
“I have more important matters to attend to. Thank you.”
Balbus stretched and grasped Fronto’s shoulder, noticing the blazing irritation in his eyes as he glared at Crassus.
“If we’re going to do any kind of celebrating, we need to get a few others here. Priscus and Velius, Balventius and Sabinus… and Tetricus?”
Fronto nodded.
“Why not, and there’s someone else, too, but I’ll find him. I’ll see you at the tavern in about half an hour.”
As the others went their own ways Fronto wandered wearily, stretching as he walked, to the camp of the Tenth. Spotting Velius shouting at a couple of legionaries in the praetorium, Fronto stood patiently behind him and waited for the ranting to subside. As the two legionaries went off shamefaced, Velius turned, inhaling, on the man standing behind him, ready for a second outburst until he realised who it was.
“Sir.”
Fronto smiled at him.
“Yes. Sorry to disappoint you but I want you to go and wake Priscus. You’re both going off duty with me, coz there’s drinking to be done.”
Velius beamed at his commander.
“If you say so, sir.”
“I’ll meet you back here in a couple of minutes.”
As Velius headed off toward Priscus’ tent, rubbing his hands gleefully, Fronto wandered up to the signifers who stood in a small knot, talking among themselves.
He motioned to Petrosidius, the senior signifer, and took him to one side.
“You organised the head count after the battle, didn’t you?”
The signifer shrugged.
“I combined and correlated the figures, sir, yes.”
Fronto frowned.
“Can you find out if a young recruit called Florus from the First Cohort is still alive? He might be in the Second Century, but I’m not sure. If he’s still breathing, I owe him a drink.”
Petrosidius smiled.
“Florus? Yes, I know him. He’s still alive. He took a bit of a battering on one shoulder, but he’s been asking the doctor every ten minutes if it’s possible to see you. I think the doc’s about to put him to sleep!”
Fronto returned the smile.
“Thanks. I think I’ll go and rescue him.”
Wandering off in the direction of the medical tents, Fronto’s mood began to darken again. Littering the grass to either side of the path were men clutching an assortment of severed or damaged limbs. In a number of places the grass was slippery and red, and amputated limbs lay in a heap not far from the main surgical tent, awaiting burning. Sickened, Fronto tried to put on a sympathetic face as he passed the wounded, wondering how many would be sent back to Rome pensionless. He was prepared for losses in battle and a variety of horrifying wounds, but had rarely seen anything on this scale, even during the most brutal battles in Spain. Caesar’s lack of strategy had certainly left its mark on the legions.
As Fronto made for the tent flap, a medical orderly barred his way.
“I’m sorry legate, but the medical staff has enough to contend with right now. Please be good enough to call back tomorrow, when the worst cases are dealt with.”
Fronto scowled.
“I just want to find a legionary called Florus.”
The orderly narrowed his eyes.
“Are you legate Fronto?”
Fronto nodded.
“In the name of Fortuna, yes. I know Florus. He’s been asking for you ever since he came in. You’ll find him just up the hill behind the tent, mixing up some poultices for us. We had to put him to some use to shut him up.”
A smile crept back across the legate’s face. This was why he was in the army: the down sides may be horrifying, but the entire army was one big family. Edging round the tent, keeping as far away as he could from the stinking pile of limbs, he made his way up the slope.
Florus wasn’t easy to spot. Fronto had only met him that one night. Asking around the preparation area he was eventually directed to a corner where Florus stood, naked from the waist up, mixing a large tub of something evil-smelling with one hand. His other shoulder was bandaged and a flower of red blossomed in the centre, the result of some wound from the battle. Around the bandage, a huge black and blue bruise was coming slowly to the surface.
Fronto wandered over to him.
“Florus, what’s for lunch?”
Florus turned.
“Lunch? This is…”
Realising who had addressed him, Florus blushed.
“I’m ever so sorry, sir, I…”
Fronto grinned at the young man.
“Knock it off, lad. I’m not in the mood for a great deal of formality. I offered you a drink, and I’m here to collect you. A few of the legates and I are meeting up at a nice little tavern in the town. I presume you’ll join us, since the drinks are on me?”
Florus smiled again.
“Oh yes, sir. Is it right though, sir? I mean, me drinking with the officers?”
Fronto returned the smile.
“Only if you relax a little. If you don’t stop tensing you’ll snap something!”
Florus slumped a little.
“I’d best get my kit, sir.”
Fronto smiled benignly.
“Just sling a tunic on. None of us are particularly bathed or manicured today.”
They reached the praetorium a few minutes later, Florus still trying to pull his tunic over the bandaged shoulder as he walked. Priscus and Velius awaited him. As the two approached, Priscus pointed at Florus.
“He joining us, sir?”
Fronto nodded.
“Yes he’s joining us. Remember? I offered to buy him one a couple of nights ago.”
Priscus smiled.
“Indeed. In fact, I was going to talk to you about this young man later. He’s still on ‘new-boy’ fatigues in the Sixth Century, but I think the way he acted last night, we should put him on immunes status. His centurion lauded his activities to me, and I gather he’s even made himself useful to the medics during his convalescence.”
Fronto nodded.
“Fair enough. On your recommendation, I think we should attach him to the medical section.”
He turned to Florus.
“You’ll be excused normal duties from now on. You’re attached to the Tenth’s medics as an assistant. Who knows, you might make it to being a capsarius one day.”
Florus beamed with pride as Fronto squared his shoulders.
“Anyway, now there’s drinks to be had, and a number of senior officers sat impatiently waiting for me to arrive and buy a round. Shall we go?”
* * * * *
Dumnorix was fat. Fat and ostentatious, no less. He stood at one end of the square, dressed well in high-quality local Gaulish garments and bedecked with gold and silver jewellery. He was being treated, as Fronto had expected, with the deference and respect that would be due a citizen of Rome. The man did not look worried. In fact, he looked arrogantly unconcerned. Fronto took an immediate dislike to him and began to regret having suggested that he would be more use alive.
Fronto sat to one side of the square on a long log seat with a flattened surface that was draped with cloths and padded with cushions. To his left sat Caesar and to his right Sabinus, with Balbus, Crassus, Cita and Labienus seated around and behind them. Along with them sat Decimus Brutus, a young staff officer favoured by Caesar’s wife, the vapid and easily impressed Plancus, and a staff officer Fronto didn’t know well called Pedius who had an air of competency, completing the Roman element of the jury.
On the other side of the square, ten of the Aedui sat facing them. Fronto recognised Liscus and Divitiacus, but the other eight were unknown to him. None of them looked particularly content, but there was a grim and determined appearance to them, in particular to Liscus.