“Let go of me or I’ll personally tear out your liver!”
A voice by his ear spoke calmly and quietly.
“Let the man go, lad. He’s surrendered and beaten. You keep kicking him and you’re dishonouring that uniform.”
Fronto blinked.
‘Lad’?
It took him a moment to remember that he was dressed only in his nondescript crimson tunic and breeches, with no armour or emblem that could possibly denote his rank and, moreover, he was surrounded mostly by men of the Fourteenth who had little call to recognise him.
He shook his head.
Dishonour the uniform? The very thought of that stopped him in his tracks and he went limp.
The men beside him loosened their grip on his arms as a third legionary helped the fallen enemy to his feet, accepting his surrender. Fronto turned to the men slowly.
“I’m not really sure what just happened.”
He looked up into the faces of two soldiers. Both were clearly of Gallic stock, their hair still braided and moustaches and beards still adorning their faces. Fronto was suddenly acutely aware that his recent outburst had been largely anti-Gallic and likely right in front of these men. The taller man wore the crest and harness of a centurion.
“You snapped” the centurion said. “Happens to the best of us. Pressure gets too much and you snap. But the important thing is to not snap in the middle of a battle. You could have got yourself carved up badly there.”
The smaller man grinned.
“Fights like a friggin’ weasel on heat tho’, dun’t ‘e.”
Fronto smiled.
“I’ve had plenty of experience… er…”
“Cantorix” said the centurion and gestured to his companion with a turned thumb. “Centurion of the Third cohort’s Third century. And this is Dannos. He’s part weasel himself, though for Gods’ sake don’t let him tell you which part, ‘cause that’s a conversation you just don’t want to have!”
Fronto laughed and stretched.
“You’re not one of mine” the centurion said, looking him up and down. “One of the Tenth? You must be due your honesta missio, yes? Ready for retirement.”
Fronto blinked. That was a question he just didn’t know how to answer. Instead he sighed.
“Yup. From the Tenth. Saw you were in the shit, so I joined in.”
Cantorix smiled.
“Shame. I could use you in the Fourteenth. You’d best run along. Sounds like your legion’s putting out the call.”
Fronto laughed.
“I suspect they’ll wait for me.”
“No man’s that useful. Run along, lad.”
Fronto threw a full salute to the centurion and, turning professionally on his heel, jogged back across the grass. All along the forest’s edge the action had ended, the battle clearly over. The survivors had fled into the forest and the legions were calling their men to muster. All around him, small pockets of two or three legionaries wearily dragged their feet back to their units.
Not Fronto.
For some reason he felt almost impossibly good. There was a spring in his step that he just couldn’t subdue and he couldn’t stop smiling. He might have to look up centurion Cantorix of the Fourteenth and buy him a drink some time soon. That would shake the bugger, when he turned up at the centurion’s tent in full dress! He grinned and, casting his eyes around, spotted Carbo and Atenos following a detachment of the Tenth back toward the camping site.
The two men glanced at him and shared unheard words as he jogged across to them. Carbo raised an eyebrow.
“I see our legate managed to slip away from us and get himself covered in blood somehow.”
Atenos nodded.
“I expect he was helping an injured man, Carbo. He would never have deliberately launched himself unarmoured into a fight, ‘specially after you warning him not to. After all, that’d be stupid. No, I’m sure there’s some sensible explanation.”
He turned back to the legate.
“May we ask where you’ve been, sir?”
Fronto grinned at them.
“Therapy.”
Chapter 19
(September: Caesar’s camp, in Menapii territory.)
Fronto rapped quickly on the frame next to the tent’s door and, lifting the flap aside, strode in without ceremony. The general looked up from his desk, where he was making marks on a number of wax tablets.
“Ah, Fronto… good.”
“You called” the legate said and, strolling across to the table, indicated the seat with a question on his face.
“Yes. By all means, sit.”
Fronto sank into the seat and shuffled until he was comfortable. Caesar was looking him up and down with interest.
“Something wrong, general?”
“Not at all. In fact, Brutus was right: you actually appear almost content. It is very disconcerting, particularly after weeks of moping and stomping around.”
Fronto laughed.
“We are almost at the end, Caesar, I think.”
The general nodded, quietly, his face giving nothing away.
“I hope you’re right. I really do hope you are right. I need to return to Rome as much as you do, Marcus, and I need a settled Gaul before I do.”
Fronto shrugged.
“It’s been a week without more than the occasional gnat bite from these tribes. They’ve retreated so deep in the forests it’s pretty clear they have no wish to fight us. Perhaps it’s time we tried to bring things to a conclusion? Perhaps force the issue so that they might accept terms?”
Caesar nodded.
“I had been considering the possibility. Slaves and an example made are good things, but at this point expediency may call for a temperate response to the situation. The deforestation seems to be proceeding apace. I can barely see as far as the tree line now.”
“Yes, we’ve taken the forest back well over a mile now. But to keep doing so will take so long it’ll be winter before we leave here. We need to do something now to try and bring things to a satisfactory end.”
Caesar frowned. There was a sparkle in Fronto’s eyes that he recognised.
“What are you planning, Marcus? I know that look: you have an idea.”
“I was talking to the scouts on the way over here. The latest searches along the forest paths have become a little more revealing.”
“Go on…”
“Yesterday they found a clearing only a half mile from the current forest edge. It had clearly held wagons in large numbers until recently.”
The general nodded.
“I debriefed them myself, yes.”
Fronto smiled.
“The tracks that led from the clearing deeper into the woods were fresh; a day or two old at the most.”
“And…”
“And that means that the enemy’s supplies, their entire wagon train, is closer to us than it really should be. It can’t be far inside the forest. I suspect that, while the tribes can easily move deeper and deeper into the woods, they have left the area where their trails and tracks are and moved into inhospitable terrain. They’ll be having to hack and clear a path for their wagons as they move and it’ll be slowing the whole process down. Their wagon train is exposed, general.”
Caesar cracked a slow smile.
“And with no supplies, their resistance would soon falter.”
Fronto grinned in return.
“I see you get my point.”
The general steepled his fingers and sat back.
“I presume this sudden enthusiasm is by way of you volunteering?”
The legate shrugged.
“Can’t really send more than a small vexillation in there. Marching a whole legion into the forest would be asking for trouble and they’d have difficulty manoeuvring. A smaller unit of, say, two or three centuries would have the size and flexibility to work within the woods.”
The general nodded and spread his hands on the table before him.
“Three of your centur
ies will be enough? With a few scouts who know the paths, of course?”
“Actually, I was thinking of taking two of mine and one from the Fourteenth if Plancus is amenable. They’re Gauls themselves and might be useful.”
Caesar nodded.
“Whatever you think best. Plancus will give you the troops. If he is reluctant, feel free to drop my name in the conversation.”
Fronto nodded and stood slowly, pausing with a faint look of surprise.
“I just realised that I never even asked why you called for me in the first place?”
“Nothing that cannot wait, Marcus.”
Fronto grinned and straightened.
“Then if you’ll excuse me, general, I’ll just run out and end the war…”
Still smiling, the legate strode out of the tent and stopped there. Four of Ingenuus’ cavalry guard stood to attention around the tent, and three soldiers, clerks by the look of it, stood waiting to see the general, tablets and scrolls in their arms. With a chuckle, he leaned across to the nearest, pulled the documents from the surprised man’s hands and dropped them on the pile of the man in front.
“There. Now you’re free. Do me a favour and run to the camp of the Fourteenth. There’s a centurion there by the name of…” He stopped and frowned for a moment as he dredged through his memory. “Cantorix, I believe. Tell him that Legate Fronto of the Tenth has requested that he and his century attend in full kit at his earliest convenience. Then find the scouts that came back this morning and send them too.”
The clerk looked confused and a little worried for a moment.
“Run along now. Your figures can wait.”
As the man saluted and ran off in the direction of Plancus’ camp, Fronto strode on, whistling, toward his own men. Making his way along the main thoroughfare between the tents and past the larger quarters of the tribunes, he spotted the primus pilus waving his vine staff at two legionaries.
“Carbo?”
The ruddy-faced centurion turned and saluted.
“Have two centuries fall in. We’re going for a jaunt in the woods.”
The primus pilus gave him a broad grin.
“Nice day for a stroll.”
Turning, he bellowed a command at the two legionaries and, paying them no further attention, strode off into the camp to find his men.
Fronto wandered across to his own tent and ducked inside. Scanning quickly around the interior, he found his helmet, baldric and cuirass and, collecting them, went to sit on his bunk and start strapping things on. Early on in his command, Priscus had tried to persuade him to take a body slave to help with these things, as was the custom with senior officers, but it just felt a little soft having a person dress you. How could a man be expected to hold his head high and command a legion when he couldn’t even dress himself?
It was therefore a minor irritation when he realised that he’d fastened the wrong buckle on his cuirass while thinking and been left with a spare strap.
By the time he had adjusted it and slung the baldric across his shoulder, fastened the ribbon around his middle and tucked the liner into his helmet before jamming it unceremoniously on, he could hear the general hubbub of men assembling on the open ground outside. Standing, he straightened, flexed his knuckles, and strode outside.
Carbo and a centurion he knew by sight, a big man with a flattened nose, stood to attention with their men lined up behind them parade-style.
Fronto nodded in satisfaction and cast his eyes back up toward the centre of the enormous camp, where he could see other legionaries jogging in formation toward them. No one in the ranks spoke as they awaited the arrival of the Fourteenth, who reached the parade ground area and fell into place next to the others. Fronto glanced at them out of the corner of his eye and could see the centurion smiling in realisation.
“Good morning, men.”
A roar answered him from the three centuries.
“I’ve a little job for you all. We’re going to take a wander in woods, with the help of the scouts who went out this morning, and we’re going to lay first eyes, then hands, on the enemy supply wagons. By lunchtime I want those wagons back here and being distributed into the army’s stores. Think you can do that?”
Another roar.
“Good. Stand at ease for a few minutes until the scouts arrive. Get to know one another, since you’ll be working quite closely over the next few hours.”
He grinned.
“Officers to me, please.”
Carbo and the broken-nosed centurion strode out front, closely followed by the officer of the Fourteenth, who was shaking his head, smiling.
“You two? I’d like you to meet Cantorix of the Fourteenth. I have it on good authority his century are good men, and I thought the presence of a staunchly Gallic unit might be advantageous this morning.”
Cantorix grinned.
“You could have told me you were an officer, sir. I’d have given you due deference.”
Carbo glanced across at him.
“A less officer-like officer you never will meet, Cantorix. If he turns up among your lot again, would you be kind enough to send him somewhere safe at the back?”
Cantorix laughed out loud.
“I suspect it’s not that easy!”
“True.” The primus pilus turned back to his commander. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to persuade you that we can do this without you and that a senior officer shouldn’t be putting himself in such a frankly stupid position?”
Fronto shook his head.
“My plan… my unit. Besides, there’s something else I might want to do and that would require someone with staff authority.”
Cantorix shuffled and shrugged his shoulders so that his mail shirt slipped into a more comfortable position.
“Legate Plancus is going to throw a major fit when he hears we’ve been seconded without his say so, sir.”
Fronto brushed that aside.
“Caesar agreed, so Plancus can go piss up a pilum or argue it with the general.”
The braided Gaulish centurion smiled.
“Fair enough, sir. How are you planning to do this?”
“First step is to head to the previous site of their wagons, then to move on to the current location. We’ll split the scouts into three groups, one with each century. Cantorix? You and yours will take the main forest path that the wagons took at a nice slow stroll. Feel free to let your entire century talk in their native tongue. I know the officers usually discourage such a thing, but I’m hoping to try and talk these tribes down from their pedestal and convince them that without supplies to keep them going, they’re better off joining us, and you could go a long way to helping with that.”
He smiled.
“That, of course, means that I’ll be going with you. The other two centuries will make their way as fast as they can by circuitous routes, guided by the scouts, until they can come at the clearing from other directions. That way, if we have to do this the hard way, we’ll have a solid advantage. Hopefully, you’ll get there moving fast before we do at our leisurely pace and be in position before we arrive. When you get there, spread out ready for trouble, but stay back and hidden.”
The other two centurions nodded.
“And then, sir?”
“Then we become heavily reliant on the scouts. I would like to try and repeat the procedure on the current position of the wagons, but that might be more troublesome, depending on what trails the scouts can find and where they lead. Be aware at all times of your bearings, as one century getting horribly lost in those woods with an antagonistic bunch of the enemy wandering around could be a somewhat fatal experience.”
He took a deep breath.
“If all goes well and the three centuries converge on the wagons, we’ll overcome whatever resistance there is and then two centuries can form a line and hold them off if necessary while the third leads the wagons back out of the forest. All clear?”
The three men nodded.
“Good, then y
ou’d best fall back in. The scouts are coming.”
Fronto and Cantorix jogged forward along the trail as quietly as they possibly could; surprisingly so, really, given the mail shirt and phalera harness the centurion was wearing. The scout waved them to the side of the track and the two officers moved quickly off the road and onto the grass verge, beneath the branches, as they approached the point where the Gaulish scout was peering around a bend in the track.
Fronto appeared behind the man and leaned out to look. The clearing was large, perhaps a hundred and fifty or even two hundred feet in diameter, and packed with everything the tribe on the run might need. The wagons, which numbered in the dozens, were arrayed in half of the clearing, carefully manoeuvred and parked between the remaining stumps where the tribe had cut the trees down to widen the clearing and also to form the fence that sealed off the remaining half of the clearing and which held cattle, goats and pigs in tight confines.
Fronto ducked back, irritation plastered across his face. Cantorix shrugged and then peered out himself. Nodding, he pulled his head back in to the side. There were a few ordinary folk of the tribes, going about feeding the animals and gathering items from the wagons.
That wasn’t what was annoying the legate, though.
The wagons had been carefully arranged to fit between the stumps and it must have taken hours to get them in that position. Freeing them and taking them back along the trail to the Roman camp would be near impossible in anything less than half a day.
For some reason, Fronto had expected them to be on the run, prepared to flee at all times, the beasts still hooked up to the vehicles and in a position for a quick escape. He hadn’t planned on them having set up a semi-permanent store.
He slumped and shrugged.
Cantorix frowned and made strange arcane dances with his fingers, miming something incomprehensible. Fronto stared at him and shrugged again. The centurion sighed and repeated the gestures, slowly and elaborately, waggling his eyebrows meaningfully. Fronto sighed.
“I don’t know what you’re saying” he whispered through gritted teeth.
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