Never had Fronto’s arms felt so far away from her as now.
PART TWO: BRITANNIA
Chapter 12
(Nemetocenna in the lands of the Belgae)
The legions heaved a collective sigh of relief as they settled in for the night. The journey from the Rhenus had consisted of almost two weeks of interminable marching, scouting, constructing and deconstructing innumerable camps for each night. And so, when the walls of Belgic Nemetocenna — well known to many of the men — hove into view as the sun began its descent, each soldier in the army sagged with gratitude that semi-permanent military ramparts remained here from the past few years of wintering troops, saving them the effort of digging ditches and raising walls.
The huge, sprawling fort, with four separate and individually-ramparted sub-camps, had been fully constructed and thriving within half an hour of arrival. Sentries had been posted, pickets out, officers already in the settlement in deep discussion with the local leaders, negotiating the price for extra supplies to supplement those brought on the huge wagon train that was still arriving as an owl began to hoot. The Fourteenth legion, as usual drawing the short straw, began to file slowly into the camp, escorting the last of the carts and the siege engines.
Fronto stepped gingerly across the open ground, trying to avoid the areas that had been churned into glutinous mud by the endless pairs of nail-shod feet working to put up tents, stack pila and so on. He caught sight of the glittering armour of Plancus, the Fourteenth’s legate, glinting in the orange light of the torches and fires that dotted the enormous camp.
Plancus sat his horse like a statue, his face the image of the traditional Roman officer: proud — if somewhat vacant about the eyes — haughty and confident. The tribunes of his command followed on astride their own steeds, followed by the standards bearers, musicians and the rest. Fronto ignored the rest of the arriving column.
“Legate Fronto?” Plancus narrowed his eyes as though he might be mistaken. “Can we help you?”
“Could you spare me one of your tribunes for a while?”
Plancus shrugged carelessly. “They all have assigned duties. I will send a man over as soon as he has completed his tasks, if you like. Who is it you wish to see?”
Fronto fought the urge to grind his teeth. It was a habit he’d noticed on the increase when dealing with that particular breed of officer that took to military life like a fish to gravel.
“I doubt that’ll be necessary. I would like to see tribune Menenius. He’s not with the medical column that arrived, so I assume he’s back with his legion.”
A trace of irritation passed across Plancus’ eyes and he cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Menenius is travelling with my baggage train, in relative luxury. Despite my insistence, he continues to maintain that he cannot ride a horse.”
Fronto found that, despite his decision, his teeth were grating off one another already. Of course the damn man couldn’t ride a horse. Fronto had visited him in the hospital tent back at the Rhenus as soon as his head had cleared enough and stopped thumping. The Fourteenth’s tribune had taken an arrow wound to the shoulder that had become infected, as well as two sword wounds to the arm and the thigh. Fortunately, both had been light blows, drawing blood and a little muscular nicking, but with no real damage. The fever that came with the infected wound had kept the man on the bank of the Styx for six days and he’d still been in the care of the medical staff until yesterday. He certainly shouldn’t be riding a horse.
You prat.
“So if you can spare him?”
“He claims to be unfit for general duties and for some reason the medicus supports the malingering wastrel, so do as you see fit.”
Grind, grind, grind.
“Thank you for your consideration, Legate Plancus. I’ll just speak to him in the column, then.”
Without waiting for any sort of gesture of acknowledgement — which he felt he was unlikely to receive anyway — Fronto turned and strode slowly along the line toward the small group of wagons that carried Plancus’ mobile palace, with every comfort he could muster.
A jutting tuft of grass turned his step uncomfortably, and a lance of pain shot up from his knee, making him stumble. Though he’d already regained most of his leg strength, it was clear that a certain amount of knee weakness was here to stay. It had taken Carbo very little effort to persuade him to ride these past ten days rather than the march he generally preferred.
“Bollocks!” he snapped at the mauve evening sky, grasping his knee and rubbing it before he straightened.
Hobbling across to the rolling wagons, he hopped a few steps and then fell into a steady pace, grimacing with every other footfall.
Menenius sat in one of the carts, wedged into place with bundles and sacks. His armour had been stowed, and he travelled in his uniform only, with his cloak spread out beneath and around him, providing a clean surface upon which to recline.
Fronto was surprised at how pale the man still was, but had to remind himself that Menenius had always been fairly white, displaying that particular skin tone found on men who spent almost all of their time surrounded by scrolls and books and oil lamps, who only saw the bounty of nature through windows.
Twelve days had passed since he’d dropped in on the tribune, at which time the man had been in the throes of fever, lashing out and thrashing around, totally oblivious to any visitor. Since that time something had settled into Fronto — something that had killed off any further urge to visit. He’d not known exactly what it was, but something in his gut had continually turned him from visiting, even when Priscus had urged him to do so.
The man had clearly saved his life, but his stomach turned over at the thought of admitting that the fop, who had stated his own dislike of all things martial, had had the courage and wherewithal to step in and fight off three howling barbarians while the strong legate, veteran of a dozen wars, had dozed unconscious with a cracked skull and a trick knee.
It rankled badly.
And yet, on this last day of journeying, he had found his mind wandering and focusing on the events of that impressive and insane foray to the east bank of the Rhenus, and he had gradually come to the conclusion that he was being childish — a fact that needled him even more, given how often Lucilia and Faleria accused him of the same. The tribune may be a fop with a flowery personality and a weak chin, and he may have no desire to serve in an actual military environment, but the man had shown natural, innate talent, both with command and with direct swordplay.
It had soured Fronto all the more to discover that the root cause of his reticence to visit and acknowledge Menenius was plain jealousy. Here was a young man who was destined for high position in Rome, thrust into an environment for which he was hopelessly unprepared, and yet he’d excelled in the position. Meanwhile, Fronto, who had long been the most soldierly and martial of Caesar’s officers, was rapidly being forced to come to terms with the aches, pains and limitations that came with being the oldest of the serving commanders.
“Menenius?”
The tribune sat a little straighter and, Fronto noted, took a sharp intake of pained breath as he focused on the source of the call.
“Legate Fronto? Mayhap you are lost?”
Fronto fought the surge of irritation and jealousy that urged him to turn and leave, and shook his head as he approached the cart.
“No, it’s definitely you I’m here to see.”
“I feared…” Fronto was further irritated to realise that Menenius was blushing, “I thought that perhaps I had angered you or that you were disappointed with me. I would have come to see you, had not the medicus and my own legate been very restrictive with my movements.”
Fronto fell in alongside the wagon, his head level with the tribune’s elbow.
“Of course not!” he snapped, instantly regretting his tone. “Sorry. I should have come to see you sooner. How are you feeling?”
Menenius winced as he moved. “Somewhat pained. The medicus
tells me that the wounds are not bad, but I have to admit to suffering with them. I have never been wounded before, barring a broken arm as a child. It hurts surprisingly more than I expected.”
Fronto nodded. “As the recipient of a hundred wounds in my time, I can tell you that they all hurt, and you never get used to it. Well, some do. Balventius in the Eighth seems to actually enjoy it.” He scratched his head. “I wanted to ask you what happened. How did you come to be there when… when whatever it was happened? It’s all so vague.”
The tribune’s face took on a surprisingly sheepish look that made Fronto frown.
“What’s up?”
“I… it’s not a tale of bravery, I’m afraid.”
“Results suggest otherwise.”
Menenius gave an embarrassed smile. “Sadly not. When you formed the wedge to attack the archers, my bowels almost gave way. I have never felt so terrified in my life. It is distinctly possible that I actually urinated in my breeches.”
“But you killed three barbarians. How? I mean, we thought you must have died in the assault.”
“I never took part in the attack, sir. To my eternal shame, I let our entire force charge the enemy, while I dropped to the ground behind and hid in the undergrowth by a tree.”
Fronto stared at the man. This was starting to sound more like the Menenius he had expected. Instead of the loathing he expected to feel for such cowardly activity, though, what he was surprised to experience was a surge of relief. The tribune wasn’t so damned perfect after all. Fronto still had the edge.
“But why didn’t you follow on when we’d taken the place? We searched for the fallen and couldn’t find you. I wondered whether the bastards had carried you off — there were a few missing men.”
Again, the tribune turned his embarrassed face away. “I’m afraid that I fled. As soon as you’d all gone and the screaming started, I ran deeper into the woods. I was in a blind panic. I don’t even know how long I ran or where to. I only stopped when I almost ran straight into the rest of the barbarians coming the other way.”
Fronto nodded to himself. “You ran into the enemy from the farm ambush?”
“Almost. I stopped short and began to make my way back towards you all as best I could. But I had to move slowly and quietly, and I was not entirely sure of the direction. Eventually, they were almost upon me, and I had to hide. I stayed in that hiding place for a while, shaking and terrified. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I think I slept for a while, but I woke when the barbarians came crashing back past me, running for their lives. I could hardly credit it. It seemed that Fortuna was sheltering me that day.”
Fronto smiled “And me, I suspect.”
“Well I waited until the Germanic thugs had fled, and I saw a few legionaries pass, and I was about to stand when I saw you approach and sit, rubbing your knee.”
The legate reflexively repeated the motion now, noting the gentle throb within.
“I stayed crouched for a moment. To be honest, I was less than sure whether I dared make myself known, after my cowardice. But while I tried to pluck up the courage to stand, I saw a few more of the barbarians rise up out of the undergrowth behind you. They must have been hidden just like me, and less than ten yards distant. Remarkable, really.”
“Very” Fronto nodded. “And one of them smashed me over the head from behind.”
Menenius blanched again. “I could have stopped that. I just do not know how I can apologise enough. Had I stood when I saw them or shouted a warning, you could have moved. But I stayed frozen. You fell heavily and I realised then that they would kill you.”
He lowered his eyes to the rattling boards of the cart beneath him. “Something happened. I’m not sure what. It’s all a bit of a blur, then. I think they spotted me before I stood, but possibly not. I drew my sword and… and… well it’s all a bit confused. Next thing I knew I was being lifted up by legionaries, and my eyes wouldn’t focus.”
Fronto nodded again. “It would appear that your courage comes in fits and starts, tribune. The man who turned the tide back at that farmstead is the same one as the man who saved my life. But that man seems to be locked away inside a gentler, more peaceable man. I can’t say I’m not grateful, mind.” He took a deep breath. “But that dichotomy is no use in command of a legion. I would heartily recommend that when the campaigning season ends, you do not push to retain your commission.”
Menenius smiled weakly. “I never had that intention, legate. I have already spent this summer planning my next step up the cursus honorum. My family wanted me to excel in the military. They pushed for me to repeat my year and try to shine, but it is time to resign. I know that now.”
“And don’t let that knob Plancus assign you to anything like that again. Stick to shouting at people and making lists. In the meantime” he glanced at the wagon’s driving seat, where the Gallic-born legionary was studiously examining the rump of the ox before him, “don’t repeat this story to anyone. Just tell them that you don’t recall what happened. It’ll do you no good in Rome if that story gets out.”
The tribune nodded gratefully. “Thank you, legate.”
“And thank you. It seems that I owe you a life somewhere down the line. Let’s pray to Mars that it’s not necessary to collect on it.”
Leaving a slightly relieved looking tribune, Fronto strode forward again at a faster pace. Slowing briefly, he caught the eye of the legionary driving the cart.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Catumandos, sir. Third century, seventh cohort.”
“Well, legionary Catumandos, if any hint of that conversation I just had with the tribune ever surfaces again, I will know exactly where to look. It’s not unknown for an unwary legionary to drown in a latrine trench. You get my drift?”
The soldier nodded, stony-faced. Fronto gave him a long moment of glare, just to push home the point, before strolling off back towards the tents of the settled legions.
Good. Cathartic. That was exactly what he’d needed to hear. So long as he never found himself sharing a command with the man again, everything would go swimmingly.
And now to address the other thing that had been filling his thoughts on the journey before dropping in on Cantorix at the medical section.
“Nice dagger.”
Centurion Furius turned to face Fronto, his face betraying no surprise, his eyes flinty and hard. The legate of the Tenth could hardly fail to notice the way Furius’ hand dropped to rest on the pommel of his gladius in an automatic reaction.
“Legate?”
“I said ‘nice dagger’. Shiny. New, is it?”
The centurion’s jaw firmed. “As it happens, yes. Can I help you in some way?
”Costs a couple of coins, doesn’t it. And Cita can be a bit stingy with replacements. Bet you had to shell out over the odds for that. Must irritate you.”
Furius squared his shoulders and looked the legate in the eye. “Is there a reason you’re keeping me from my duties, sir?”
“Just admiring the dagger. Lost your old pugio, did you?”
“If it’s of any great interest to you, it broke during the battle at the Germanic camp. I requisitioned a new one the same day. I don’t let any man attend duty with missing kit, let alone doing so myself. Are you quite happy now?”
“Tough luck, that” Fronto replied with a grin. He was starting to enjoy himself, and the more irritated Furius became, the more his own mood improved. “I mean, the pugio’s a strong weapon. Damn hard to break that blade. Tried to prise off a pilum head with it, did you?”
Furius simply glared at him and Fronto ploughed on, smiling.
“I mean, I’ve had my pugio since Caesar was a simple quaestor in Hispania and I was on his staff as a junior officer. Used it for the first time in a riot in Numantia, long before Caesar’s proprietorship and my command in the Ninth. I’d say I’ve used it more than a thousand times since then, and it’s still as strong as a vestal’s underwear and has a wicked edge.”
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br /> “If you really must know, legate, my pugio snapped because I punched the bloody thing through a chieftain’s bronze chest plate. I got it stuck in his breastbone and the tip snapped off while I was trying to remove it. I might have been able to free it, given time, but I was sort of busy fighting off two more of the bastards with just a gladius. Some of us fought like soldiers there, rather than poncing about on a horse.”
All the humour drained from Fronto in a breath. His eyes narrowed.
“I know your sort, Furius. You and that friend of yours. When I have proof of what you’re up to, you’ll wish you’d been cut down in battle.”
The centurion simply smiled coldly. “Permission to speak out of turn, man-to-man, sir?”
“Granted by all means.”
“Why don’t you just fuck off, Fronto? You spend all your time swanning around with a vine staff jammed up your arse, half-drunk and half-dazed. You’re just an impediment to proper military organisation. You’re too hard-arsed to support those liberal, girl-like officers who want Caesar to rein his army in and ‘talk it out’, but you’re too weak and disobedient to serve properly and carry out the orders given to you by your superior without questioning every angle and complaining at it all.”
Fronto opened his mouth angrily, but Furius jammed a finger into his chest, almost driving him back a step.
“No. You gave me the right to speak. Your sort makes me sick. You have the skills and the courage to be a bloody good officer and leader of men. You could be a Pompey. Or a Lucullus. Or even a Caesar. But you’re just too indecisive and wishy-washy. You have flashes of brilliance, I’ll admit. Your little stunt across the river was good and I’d have liked to have been there. But in between, you continually sod it all up and drink away your effectiveness.”
There was a pause — a moment’s silence — and yet Fronto, standing there with furrowed, angry brow and mouth open ready to retort, found himself somehow unable to speak, disarmed by words.
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