Balbus nodded and continued his way up the slope.
Fronto rode off in the opposite direction, making for the Ninth Legion and the massive cavalry contingent out to one side. Scanning the front ranks of the steaming horsemen, he finally spotted their commander in deep conversation with an auxiliary horseman in Gaulish dress.
“Longinus!”
He made his way across the front of the army, aware that a shouted name was unlikely to be heard over the cumulative noise of six legions and several thousand horse. Longinus smiled as he saw Fronto approaching.
“Fronto, have you met Dumnorix, the head of our auxiliaries?”
Fronto nodded a brief greeting at the Gaul and then turned back to the legate.
“Longinus, I need to have a word with you briefly.”
The tired looking officer glanced briefly at the Gaulish officer and rode forward to join Fronto away from the throng.
”What’s up?”
Fronto tried to think how best to phrase this. Caesar had given him the most perfunctory of orders, and had assumed that he would fill in the necessary blanks. The general had been doing this a lot recently, trying, Fronto supposed, to train him into thinking like a senior staff officer and into taking command decisions at a strategic level.
“You’re going to be moving out ahead of the column again. Not as a scout this time, but with your entire cavalry. The army’s going to stay on the back of the Helvetii throughout their ‘march’ at a distance of a few miles. You get the fun, though. You get to stay less than a mile behind, always in sight and keep an eye on them. Stay just far enough back so as to not get entangled with them, but to still be a constant nag and reminder to the bastards. I’ve no idea why Caesar’s delaying this fight, but we’re not going to be the ones to cock up his plans, eh?”
Longinus nodded and, turning, trotted back toward his cavalry.
* * * * *
Fronto and Balbus walked along the Via Decumana of the temporary camp. For three days now the army had been shadowing the Helvetii, marching at a peculiar three quarter pace so as to stay far enough back from the stragglers of the tribe. Longinus had been having immense trouble manoeuvring his cavalry without either running into the Helvetii or getting in the way of the Roman vanguard. Every night after an exhausting day of what Velius had named ‘midget marching’, the legions had to build a series of fortified temporary camps and set picket lines, scouts and guards.
Whispered complaints had become the norm among the soldiers. Constant campaigning was one thing; being ever watchful and ready though not allowed to actually engage the enemy in battle was another. Also, the quartermasters were beginning to be quite vocal concerning the diminishing corn stores and the increasing distance from the supply line at the Saone. Fronto could quite understand their mood even if he couldn’t condone it. Every day since the meeting of the armies, Fronto had tried to persuade Caesar to bring the barbarians to battle, and always he refused.
Ahead, the command tents of the Tenth stood at the centre of the camp. Fronto had quarters with the staff officers in the camp of the Eighth, but had made sure Priscus had put up his tent with the Tenth as well, and he had spent as much time as possible among his own legion. Priscus had, after the first night, actually followed Fronto’s orders and had a tent erected for himself at the command centre next to the legate’s.
Tonight, Balbus had suggested that they meet at his tent among the Eighth, but Fronto had declined due to the proximity to the general. If they were near the staff officers, Fronto would get given jobs. And so they had made their way across the picket lines, giving the appropriate passwords, and into the camp of the Tenth.
Fronto smiled at the other legate.
“Shall I ask Priscus to join us?”
Balbus smiled.
“Why not? The more you get dragged into high-level strategy, the more he’s having to act as a legate anyway.”
The two officers stepped toward the second command tent and then stopped as Fronto caught his arm.
Sounds of laughter issued from the primus pilus’ tent. As they listened further there was the ‘clonk’ of an amphora tipping against the side of a metal drinking vessel, followed by the gurgle of liquid refreshment. More laughter and the sound of rolling dice.
Fronto grinned at Balbus.
“Looks like the drinks are on him.”
As Fronto made to enter the tent, Balbus held up his hand and stopped him.
“Let’s have some fun.”
As Fronto stepped back, Balbus drew himself up to his full height next to the tent flap and took a deep breath.
“Centurion Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus, this is the camp prefect and the provost. May we come in?”
A clatter within suggested that Balbus’ announcement had had the desired effect. A table was heard overturned and there was the slosh of a spilt drink. At least five voices swore in hushed tones. Balbus and Fronto grinned at each other and then hauled the flap of the tent back. Fronto was first inside.
As Balbus ducked in behind him, he laughed out loud. In much the same way as rats flee into dark corners when suddenly illuminated, eight men were caught mid-flight. A small gaming circle with dice and piles of denarii sat in the centre, surrounded by cushions. Of three tables that had supported oil lamps, drinking vessels and wine jugs, only one remained upright. Two men were already halfway under the leather at the back of the tent. Priscus and Velius stood at attention in the wreckage of a table. The four other men were caught like rabbits in bright light in the act of rescuing fallen wine jugs and putting out the fire on a cushion caused by a falling oil lamp.
“Precious!”
Fronto collapsed onto a small pile of cushions next to the door. Balbus stood in the doorway directing a broad, beaming smile at Priscus.
The primus pilus stayed at attention, as did Velius. The other four officers stood, surreptitiously stamping out the singed cushions with one foot.
“Sir?”
Fronto waved an arm expansively.
“Oh for crying out loud, at ease. Sit down and pass me some of that wine; we’re off duty and looking for somewhere to relax. What stakes are we playing for, lads?”
Velius gratefully sank once more to a cushion, as did a number of other men. Two centurions Fronto recognised from the Second Cohort scrambled back under the wall and into the tent, smiling nervously. Priscus continued to stand, trembling slightly and with a purple hue to his face.
“Permission to speak plainly, sirs?”
Balbus nodded as he unfolded a seat next to the door.
“That was a bloody miserable prank, and not worthy of a shit-ditch digger! If you was a centurion and not an officer, I’d…”
He ground to a halt as he realised that he was starting to look foolish in front of the others in the tent. The high colour slowly draining from his face, he sank into a pile of cushions.
“As it goes, I’ll just have to strip you both of a month’s wages to even up the score, eh? Do you two both know how to play ‘Kill the King’?”
The two legates shook their heads.
“Good. Then we’ll start with that.”
The ten men sat in their circle around the dice pit, Balbus taking the only campaign chair in the tent to ease the pain he occasionally felt in his knee.
The dice game began in earnest. Fronto fished his purse out and emptied the pile of coins onto the floor in front of him. Balbus, likewise, emptied his coins, ready to place his bet. Cominius, the chief centurion of the Second Cohort, took the dice and shook them, blowing on his hands for luck. Raising his eyes heavenward, he muttered a brief prayer to Nemesis, the Goddess of Retribution. Priscus clicked his tongue.
“We’ll have no time to win anything tonight if you don’t hurry up and throw the bloody dice!”
Cominius grinned at Priscus, winking slyly at the others.
“Come on Nemesis, Cominius needs a new pair of boots.”
Raising his cupped hands to his ear, he put on an expression of confused
surprise.
“Did anyone else hear that? They said Priscus is going home broke! Looks like the Gods have already decided for you Gnaeus. Might as well give us your cash now and piss off.”
Priscus gave a throaty cough and nudged Cominius so hard in the arm that the dice left his hand and bounced across the floor and under a cushion.
One of the minor centurions, Fronto couldn’t remember his name, cried “Out of play! Cominius is out this round. Cough up man!”
Cominius leaned toward the junior centurion as though he were going to whisper in his ear. As soon as the younger man leant in, Cominius punched him mid-upper arm, deadening the muscles.
“Now lets see you throw, you prat.”
“Get your hands off him.”
“Get him, Priscus.”
Fronto smiled at Balbus as a small melee developed on the other side of the tent.
“Think we’d best break this up. Caesar’ll have a real go at the Tenth if half the officers turn up with a black eye.”
As Fronto grabbed Priscus, pinning the primus pilus’ arms to his sides, Balbus, with a speed belying his age, lunged for Cominius. The two legates dragged the principal brawlers apart. Fears that there might be bad feeling were soon assuaged as Priscus and Cominius collapsed onto the cushions laughing.
“You fight like a girl.”
“Yeah? Well you punch like a chicken.”
Fronto stood between them. The two glanced at him apprehensively, aware that this was their senior officer and that he had every right to discipline them. The look on his face, however, told them Fronto had taken the whole thing in good spirits.
“Alright you two. You want to mess around? This is why the camp prefect doesn’t allow gambling on camp. Fights! You lot can’t resist kicking the crap out of each other over a couple of denarii, can you?”
“You.” He pointed at Priscus. “Make it up to everyone. Go and get two jugs of wine out of storage. You’re paying for them too.”
Grins split the faces of the watching officers. Cominius smiled smugly at Priscus.
Fronto wheeled on Cominius.
“And you can go to my tent and get my dice. They haven’t been weighted. And while you’re there you can pick up the folder of paperwork on my desk. Casualty reports for the general that need to be in tomorrow night and you’re running the figures, lad.”
Muttering, Cominius left the tent, hot on the heels of Priscus. Fronto looked around at the self-satisfied faces of the others. “I don’t know what you lot are smiling about. Get this tent cleared up and ready. We’ve some serious dice playing to get on with.”
As the various centurions went about clearing up spilled wine and charred cushions, Fronto and Balbus sat sharing the remaining wine and smiling benignly at their juniors. Balbus leaned forward.
“I sometimes wonder if Caesar hasn’t got more than he bargained for. He could have selected any legates he wanted to control these legions, but he stuck with us. Don’t think he realised how many old-school commanders he was taking on.”
Fronto looked around in surprise.
“Caesar doesn’t like new men. In the political climate of Rome these days, the only people you can trust are old-school. Anyone else has political motives for everything. He should know; he has to be the worst of them.”
Balbus frowned.
“I thought you two were old friends. You’ve campaigned with him before. Why so hostile?”
Fronto took a huge tug straight from the neck of the wine jar.
“He was different back then. Another politician trying to climb the ladder, but he seemed to care more than most. A man the army felt at home with. He’s changed. I don’t know what’s happened in the few years since Spain, but he’s become cold. I don’t know quite how to put it. Nasty, I suppose. He’s still a great general, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure I trust him any more.”
Fronto suddenly became aware that the various centurions had stopped their cleaning and were listening intently to what he was saying.
“I don’t hear much cleaning. And incidentally, if any of you are bootlicking sons of bitches, this conversation is off the record. I will categorically deny anything that has been repeated and anyone I suspect of passing opinions on will be emptying latrines as an excused duty legionary within a day. Do I make myself clear?”
The others all nodded humbly and in silence.
“Remember why you’re here. Anyway, here comes Priscus with the wine.”
The primus pilus threw open the tent flap and staggered in carrying not two, but four jugs of wine.
“Hell with it sir, we’ll be packed and ready to go an hour before the other legions anyway.”
Fronto smiled.
“Dish it out, Gnaeus. Dish it out.”
Balbus nudged Fronto.
“That other centurion of yours has been gone a long time considering he’s only in the next tent.”
A young centurion from the Sixth Cohort stood to attention, a cushion in his hand.
“I’ll fetch him sir!”
Fronto smiled in a friendly manner.
“Sit down son and have a drink. It’s my tent and my orders. I’ll fetch him myself.”
Staggering slightly and rubbing his hip, Fronto stood and made his way out of the tent.
The grass was yielding and light beneath his feet as he crossed between the two tents. He was enjoying the sensation of the springy turf so much that he was tremendously surprised when he slipped and came crashing down on his back. His head hit a flat stone with an unpleasant ‘crack’. Momentarily, his eyes glazed and his mind filled with an explosion of white light and roaring sounds.
‘Too much wine already, I must be getting old’ he thought through the mire and blur.
It was at that moment that his groping hand came across something hard and edged. He lifted it into the glow of the guttering torches and saw the finely carved dots staring back at him. Squinting to focus his eyes and to concentrate his swimming head, he glared at the object. The colour of the bone cube was all wrong.
All wrong.
Cube.
Red.
Slipping whilst trying urgently to pull himself up, he lifted his hand to his face and sniffed the sticky liquid he had been lying in. Smelled of tin. Warm. His or someone else’s? Couldn’t be his. He hadn’t been lying there long enough to lose all that. As he swayed, eyes continually focusing and defocusing, he saw the rest of the blood, trickling down the slope from the entrance of his tent.
In a panic now, he staggered forward and wrenched open the flap of his tent. There lay Cominius, a cavalry spear through his chest pinning him to the grass. The slick, tin-scented blood ran in a small rivulet down the grass just inside the tent flaps. Frantically moving, he slipped once more and came down next to the body. He became aware that he was shouting. Shouting wildly. Nothing had prepared him for this.
The next thing he knew, he was being helped into a seated position by Priscus, the cloaked figure of Balbus leaning over the body.
“Should’ve been me. Meant to be me.” It was all he could find to say.
Balbus leaned down over Fronto.
“Did you see anyone?”
Fronto shook his head woozily as visions of imagined assassins swam through it.
Balbus stood once more and addressed the primus pilus.
“Centurion Priscus, call the Tenth to attention.”
He looked around for anyone else he knew.
“You!
Velius staggered where he was crouched over the body, the bandages still wrapped round his head.
“Velius sir!”
“Get to the Eighth. Call them to attention. Then get to Longinus and send him to me. Don’t tell him anything; just tell him Fronto needs him. When you see the Tenth’s camp guards on the way past, send them here too.”
* * * * *
The detachment of camp guards were first to arrive. To avoid embarrassment in front of the rank and file, Balbus had sent Priscus into one of the
rear rooms, supporting the visibly shaken Fronto.
The guards were understandably surprised to see the legate of the Eighth standing in their commander’s tent and two of them had levelled javelins at Balbus before he spoke.
“In the absence of legate Fronto and centurion Priscus, I am temporarily assuming command of this unit. There has been an incident involving your commander and he has been removed to his private rooms for the time being. I want that body searched, and a perimeter set up around this tent. Absolutely no one comes in or goes out without the permission of myself or your commanders.”
The guards slammed their sword-hilts against their chest armour in salute and ran outside to relay orders to the other soldiers. ‘Probably relieved to have something to do and not have to make decisions’, thought Balbus.
A minute later, Fronto stormed out of the back room, red faced and angry, his hair matted at the back with his own blood, and covered with the smears of Cominius’.
“I’m gonna find the bastard!”
Drawing his sword from its sheath on the table, he made for the entrance. Priscus appeared from the back room and ran over, grasping his legate by the shoulder.
Balbus gently plucked the sword from Fronto’s hand and passed it back to Priscus.
“What you are going to do, Marcus, is go to my headquarters under guard. I’m not losing the only other legate in this army that I really trust just because he’s suffering a concussion. Anyway, the culprit will be long gone by now, so we’ll have to identify him somehow.”
Fronto struggled a moment longer against Priscus’ grip.
Balbus smiled reassuringly at the primus pilus.
“I know it’s your legion when he’s not here, but I think you need to go with him. Do your trust me to run things for an hour or so?”
Priscus gave him a hard glance, still maintaining his grip on Fronto.
He nodded.
“Come on sir. It’ll do none of us any good if they get a second try.”
Fronto gave up and allowed Priscus to help him from the tent.
A few minutes later the tent flap opened with no knock. Longinus came in at high speed, Velius hot on his heels. Glancing down as he entered, Longinus gestured to the trickle of blood on the floor.
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