Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (35 page)

“
Keep going. I’m dropping back for a few minutes.”

Without
waiting for a nod or salute, Priscus fell out of line and strode
back past the marching column at a brisk pace. The men moving past
like a sea of tramping feet gave the impression that he was
running, though in truth he maintained only a fast march.

Behind the
First and Second Cohorts, he passed the various mounted tribunes
attached to the Tenth, including Tetricus, who raised an eyebrow at
him. He ignored them and marched on. No time to chat, and the
tribunes had been as busy as him this morning, so they’d be no
help. Besides, he’d seen them several times and, if they’d known
anything about Fronto, they’d have commented.

Back past the
rest of the cohorts, and Priscus continued to ignore the
engineering detail with their artillery on the carts.

“
Aha!”

Up ahead, the
command section of the Eighth Legion marched, with a break of just
fifty yards or so from the rear of the Tenth to allow the dust to
drop below shoulder height. Legate Balbus sat astride a horse,
keeping pace with his men. The tribunes of the Eighth rode just
behind and accompanying their commander, with Balventius behind
them, his face indicating how much he enjoyed staring at the rear
end of a tribune’s horse for eight solid hours.

Priscus came
to a halt and opened his mouth to speak to Balbus, before quickly
remembering the proprieties of addressing a senior officer in front
of his tribunes. Time and circumstance had drawn some of them
closely together across traditional rank divides, but it was not
wise to advertise that.

“
Legatus?”

Balbus looked
down in surprise to see Priscus turning to keep pace with him.

“
Can I help, centurion?”

“
I’m trying to locate legate Fronto, sir. Haven’t seen him
since he… ah… left the meeting last night.”

Balbus
frowned.

“
Really? I just assumed he returned to the Tenth.”

Balbus turned
to a tribune beside him.

“
Adrattus? Take my horse and walk on. I have something to
attend to.”

As he dropped
from his horse with a litheness that belied both his age and his
frame, the tribune took the reins in surprise.

“
So,” Balbus frowned as the two men turned and began to stride
back along the line once again. “Someone will have seen either
Paetus or Fronto this morning.”

He laughed,
though Priscus noted the lack of genuine humour in it. “Knowing how
Fronto can put it away, I expect he and Paetus are grey and
unconscious and draped over a supply cart. Let’s go find out.”

Unconvinced,
Priscus nodded and the two men marched on, past the Ninth, Eleventh
and Twelfth legions. Despite their nature as new and largely
untested legions, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth had been placed as
rear guard, partially for protection, but largely, once again, to
keep them separate from the non-Gallic legions.

Priscus shook
his head as he thought about it. It still pissed him off that
non-citizens with braided hair and yellow beards who spoke a
language that sounded like a sink emptying could march with pride
in the name of Rome and collect the same pay, shares of booty and
benefits as men born in Latium of longstanding Roman families.

And yet, these
men had saved Sabinus and his men by the Aisne. Though he’d not
been there to see it, he’d observed the aftermath, and tales had
passed round about both the ingenuity and bravery of those men. He
growled again. How could he expect the legions to treat them
appropriately when he couldn’t even think about it himself without
his prejudices getting in the way.

And there were
still incidents. Only yesterday, a legionary from the Thirteenth
had been caught in the temporary latrines by an unknown group and
had been beaten within an inch of his life. Priscus had seen the
man making his report. He’d been a mess, his bronze-coloured beard
and hair stained further red by the blood that poured from his
mouth and two or three cuts on his head. His arm had clearly been
broken and his uniform, up to the waist, was a colour that clearly
indicated he’d been thrown in the latrine ditch afterwards. And yet
the man in good Latin, though with a noticeable accent, had claimed
to have not seen any of their faces.

Pride. It was,
more than anything, the backbone of the legions. Pride. And these
Gaulish recruits had enough of it that they were willing to accept
a near-fatal beating to preserve it.

He turned to
Balbus as they passed the rear ranks of the Twelfth and approached
the staff and the wagon train.

“
We’ve got to do something about these legions. Got to get the
Thirteenth and Fourteenth in with our own lads.”

Balbus
nodded.

“
I know. The problem is that they’ve not had a chance to fight
alongside each other yet. I think the other legions resent the fact
that the only action that’s worthy of note among the legions so far
was carried out by the new boys. I’m hoping that, once they all
have a chance to take the field together and watch each other’s
backs, they’ll settle down.”

Priscus
grunted.

“
So long as they do actually watch each other’s back. I
wouldn’t be too sure right now.”

The two of
them slowed as they reached the command section and, while Priscus
saluted the senior officers, Balbus looked up at them. Caesar
raised an eyebrow.

“
Lost your horse, legate?”

There was
chuckling among the officers.

“
Looking for Fronto, Caesar. I presume you haven’t seen
him?”

“
No” the general confirmed, a shadow passing across his eyes.
“Not even when I asked to…”

Without
pressing the subject, Balbus nodded and, stopping, turned to
Priscus.

“
This is pointless. We need to speak to the lower ranks.
They’re more likely to know where Fronto is than the
officers.”

Priscus
nodded.

“
I have an idea.”

With Balbus at
his heels, he strode on to the baggage column and frowned at it.
Pursing his lips, he turned to the legate by his side.

“
Something’s wrong here.”

Balbus
shrugged.

“
Looks normal to me.”

“
No.” Priscus shook his head. “I’ve seen the supply train of an
army a hundred times. This is different. Look:”

He gestured at
the front wagon.

“
This wagon’s full of tent gear. For the camp when we
stop.”

“
Yes?”

“
Front wagon’s always stockade posts and defensive equipment.
In case camp needs to be set up quickly. Need the defensive works
closest to the legions… tents go up after that.”

Balbus
shrugged.

“
So someone changed the order or made a mistake.”

“
No. This is Paetus’ job. He always oversees the wagons. He’s a
bit of a martinet over it. We’ve had words about it before now.
This was organised by someone else.”

Ignoring the
look of impressed surprise on the legate’s face, Priscus strode
over to the first wagon and located a duplicarius legionary in
charge of the cart.

“
Who oversaw the wagons this morning?”

The legionary
saluted hurriedly.

“
Prefect Cita, sir.”

“
And where is Cita now?”

The soldier
looked a little panicky, as though convinced he’d done something
wrong. Balbus had seen that face many times on a subordinate as
they addressed the primus pilus of the Tenth. Priscus had something
of a reputation.

“
Five or six carts back, sir, with the luxuries
wagons.”

Priscus nodded
and, turning, beckoned to Balbus. The two strode on past the loaded
wagons until they saw the familiar hulking figure of Caesar’s chief
quartermaster. Cita was a large man; not fat, but with a bulk
distributed well across his frame. His lantern jaw was always dark,
as though the man needed to shave several times a day. He scratched
his short, curly hair with a stylus in one hand while trying to
concentrate on the figures displayed on the wax tablet in the
other, despite the bouncing of the cart. Priscus waved at him.

“
Prefect?”

Cita looked up
from his figures and frowned.

“
Priscus… legate? What can I do for you?”

Priscus
pointed toward the head of the column.

“
I’m looking for Fronto and Paetus. Have you seen
them?”

Cita nodded
unhappily.

“
You want the medical carts at the rear of the column.” He
noted the sudden alarm in their faces. “Don’t panic, gentlemen.
Fronto’s alright. Very, very, very drunk, and a little light
headed, but alright.”

Balbus turned
to ask a question of Priscus, but the primus pilus was already
striding toward the other end of the long column of carts,
travelling three abreast. It always astounded him when he saw them
just how many wagons were needed to keep an army this size supplied
on the move. The wagon train took almost an hour to pass fully.
Truly, without men like Cita and Paetus, a marching column may well
fall apart.

He caught up
with Priscus and eventually they arrived at the medical wagons:
eight empty carts at the rear that served to carry the non-walking
and non-terminal wounded. He tried not to think about just how
crammed those eight large carts were, and scanned them, trying to
locate Fronto or Paetus.

“
Here!”

Priscus waved
him over to one of the rear carts. A space had been cleared, the
legionaries almost sitting on top of one another to make room for
the senior officer among their number. In many cases, that would be
through fear and obedience. Balbus suspected, given Fronto’s
reputation, that in this case, it was through love and respect.

Fronto lay in
the cleared space with Florus, the young medic from the Tenth,
tending to him. Balbus opened his mouth to enquire, but Priscus
beat him to it.

“
Florus? Talk to me?”

The young man
looked up and frowned.

“
I’m a little concerned about the legate, sir. He’s clearly
still suffering the effects, let alone the after-effects of
whatever he drank last night, but I’m not sure how much of his
barely-conscious condition is the alcohol and how much is the
wound.”

Priscus
growled.

“
What wound?”

“
Well sir,” the young man answered earnestly. “When he was
found this morning, he was completely unconscious and reeked of
wine, but when the legionaries turned him over, they found a wound
on the back of his head. There was blood on the frame of the chair
by the door, and they believe he must have fallen, drunk, and
struck his head on the way down.”

The young,
rosy-faced man leaned closer conspiratorially.

“
But I’m not convinced of that, sir.”

Balbus bent
closer to join the low conversation.

“
What do you mean?”

“
Well,” Florus shrugged, still carefully cradling the legate’s
head against the jarring motion of the wagon, “I can’t show you the
wound right now, but I had a good look at it before I bound it this
morning; before he went in the cart…”

“
And?”

“
And the wound is not consistent with having fallen on a
campaign chair, sirs.”

He lowered his
voice again, so that Balbus had to strain to hear.

“
The wound was inflicted by something rounded and heavy and at
a reasonable force, and I think from the looks of it, it was
inflicted from behind and above.”

“
Paetus!” Priscus growled. “Fronto was found alone?”

“
Yes sir.”

“
But in Paetus’ tent?”

“
Yessir.”

“
And, were I to suggest, would you say the wound could have
been inflicted by this?”

As Balbus and
Florus watched, Priscus lifted his sheathed sword and displayed the
heavy, rounded pommel at the top of the hilt. Balbus stared, but
Florus nodded. “That was my thought already, sir, though I didn’t
want to voice it until after the legate had woken.”

Balbus shook
his head.

“
He will wake then?”

“
Oh yes, sir. He’ll be delicate for a while and have a bad
headache, but some of that’s from his own self-abuse, begging your
pardon, sirs. The wound was enough to render him unconscious, but
no more. I wouldn’t be comfortable releasing him for duty for a few
days, though.”

“
Paetus!” growled Priscus once again.

He turned to
Balbus.

“
I think we’d best inform Caesar that Paetus has attacked
Fronto and fled.” He frowned. “Question is: where’s he fled
to?”

* * * * *

Divitiacus of
the Aedui and several of his nobles rode out ahead of the huge
Gallic force that was milling around on the plain ahead. As he
approached the head of the Roman column, the staff officers arrived
from their position further back along the line while the men
sighed and rested their feet from the four day march along the
river valley into the lands of the Bellovaci.

“
My lord Divitiacus” Caesar greeted the Aedui chief with as
deep and respectful a bow as he could manage on horseback.
Divitiacus gave him a traditional Roman military salute.
“General.”

“
What news of the Bellovaci?”

The Aedui
chieftain pulled his horse alongside the general and shrugged.