THE INVASION OF GAUL (27 page)

It had been a heavy blow, but Fronto was a step ahead. While the Gaul wrenched the sword back, his own arm also ringing with the blow, Fronto sliced out with his gladius. The Gaul’s shield covered the more vital areas of the lower torso and upper thighs. Dropping his sword hand slightly, the pointed tip cut through the calf of the Gaul; not a muscle shearing blow, but one which would cause discomfort and blood loss. Fronto couldn’t allow the man to die too quickly. The legions needed a show, and so did the General. The Gaul gasped, but didn’t scream. If Fronto didn’t hate the bastard so much, he might have admired him.

The barbarian had to pull his arm back a long way to make another swing like that, and Fronto took advantage, using the speed of his short, stabbing sword in close quarters. Another thrust brought a blossom of red in the thigh of the Gaul’s breeches. A third scraped along the man’s ribs with a sound that made Fronto wince. Again, the Gaul gasped. As the legate began to pull himself back to stand up, the tall warrior lashed out with a foot, catching Fronto’s shield and hurling him bodily backwards.

The Gaul grinned as Fronto, stunned by the blow and lying on his back, tried to drag himself to his feet. Domiticus issued a smile of the sort more usually seen on the muzzle of a hunting animal.

“
My turn, Roman.”

Fronto was stunned. Two wounds to the same leg and the man was walking relatively straight and steady, and picking up speed! The blow to the man’s ribs was off-target, but must still be incredibly painful. The blood the man was losing would kill him eventually, but Fronto wondered how long he’d have to hold him off for that to happen.

Struggling up, he came to his feet just in time to raise the large, oval shield and block the overhead swing of the Gaul’s sword. The blow splintered the shield and sheared a whole arc of wood from it, leaving just over two thirds of the shape intact. The bronze edging strip where it had been ripped apart protruded like the lightening bolts painted on the shield’s face. If took Fronto a moment to realise that the sword had actually grazed his arm. Very lucky he’d held it where he did or he’d have been fighting the rest of this with a stump.

He attempted to get his sword into a position for stabbing, but the inevitable swing of that huge sword brought Fronto’s attention back to the shield again. The blow hit the boss at the centre again, severely denting it. The bones in Fronto’s arm felt like they had jumped about and jumbled up. He was sure at least one of the bones in his hand was broken.

He stepped backwards, giving ground to avoid contact with that blade again. He was aware that this would look terrible from the stands, but he was past caring. There was more to worry about than the crowd. He had to avoid those blows long enough to think, and for the feeling to come back into his arm.

Perhaps ten steps back and he stumbled, righting himself quickly, but not quick enough to avoid the Gaul’s next swing. He hurriedly threw the shield into the way, not paying attention to its most correct usage, and the huge sword cleaved a large portion off the top. The tip of the sword scraped along the brow of Fronto’s helmet and he could actually see down the length of the blade. That was too close for comfort. One more blow and his shield would be kindling. Nothing he could do then. He needed to fight for just a little more time. An idea was forming. If only he could just...

Priscus watched from his place at the head of the Tenth, though he was wondering how much longer he could watch. This was getting embarrassing. The Roman tactics had been fine to begin with, but they needed a unit of men following them, not an individual. The inevitable had happened. The Gaul had turned the edge and had discarded his own shield, subsequently pursuing Fronto most of the way across the arena, chopping chunks out of his shield as he went. Now things were looking a little desperate.

Fronto raised his shield and gladius in the face of a huge sweep from the Gaul’s weapon. The broadsword sheared another small shard from the oval and hit the gladius just below the hilt, missing Fronto’s wrist by only a couple of inches. The strength of the blow ripped the sword from Fronto’s grasp and hurled it twenty feet across the dirt. Several of Fronto’s fingers had been broken by the strike, and maybe his wrist. Priscus, from his vantage point that was now quite close to his legate, had heard the bones crack above the silence the crowd now sat in. The Gaul grinned.

Priscus looked up and around to the three vantage points where Caesar had had archers positioned ‘just in case’. Fronto had immediately rescinded those orders, without deferring to Caesar, and there were now no archers in reserve. Priscus now wished fervently he hadn’t done that.

He turned back and looked down, dreading what he would see, but knowing he had to keep calm in front of the men. Fronto had reached the stockade at the edge of the arena and his back rubbed up against the rough timber. His sword was hopelessly out of reach and the remnants of his shield were so shoddy it could hardly be used to stop another sword-blow. His right arm hung limp where it had been broken by the sword.

The Gaul raised the broadsword high above his head, laughing like a hyena, and brought it back over in an arc toward Fronto; a blow that would split the legate in half or at least crush his head. As the sword reached its apex, Fronto delivered a left-handed punch with a force Priscus couldn’t believe he was still capable of. The hand still tight on the grip of the shattered shield, he rammed it into the Gaul’s face, the bronze dome of the boss breaking bones as he drove it home.

The Gauls cheekbones went, along with his jaw and his nose. His eyes were probably a mess, but Priscus couldn’t see through the large quantities of blood that streamed from the man’s forehead across them.

Domiticus faltered, his sword high in the air, as his nerves told his brain that his face was ruined. Priscus doubted the Gaul could hear or see a thing, and had perhaps even lost track of where he was.

As the Gaul staggered this way and that, the sword still held perfectly aloft, Fronto pulled himself upright, using the stockade for support. He tottered three steps forward and reached up with his good hand. Gently, he plucked the heavy sword from the Gaul’s hands, swung it in a wide arc, and drove it through the warrior, falling as he did, knocking the Gaul to the ground, where the sword pinned him to the dirt as the legate collapsed on top of him.

“
Now we’re even, you bastard.”

Everything went black but, as consciousness slipped away, he heard the gurgle that announced the passing of the Gaul, and the day suddenly felt like a victory.

* * * * *

“
The doctor tells me he thinks you’ll be able to use your arm again.”

Fronto turned his head painfully and gave Priscus the sourest look he could muster.

“
Eleven fractures and breaks from one bloody hit. It’s a damn good job they’re
not
all like him, or we might as well pack up and go back to Rome. He had a blow like Vulcan’s hammer.”

Priscus smiled at his commander. The man had taken a pounding, but had triumphed, despite the primus pilus’ fears. When Fronto had been carried from the arena, the crowd had gone insane. The legionaries had cheered so loud that Priscus had suffered a headache for hours. The body of the Gaul had been left lying where it had fallen on the dirt. Priscus had stopped by it long enough to wrench the Celtic sword free from the body, but presumed some of the Aedui had come and taken the rest away after the Romans had all left. Frankly, he didn’t much care. Let the murderer rot in the hollow. The sword, on the other hand, was quite a fine one and he had taken it to the best blacksmith in the Tenth, who had given it a sharper edge and cleaned and tidied the blade for him. Now the sword lay next to Fronto’s bed, on the silk sheet in which it had been wrapped; Priscus’ victory gift to his commander.

An orderly entered the tent and placed a fresh bowl of water and a plate of fruit on the side.

Fronto gave another bitter look and called out.

“
This is supposed to be a bloody private tent. You lot walk in and out of here like it’s the Via Appia.”

The orderly’s face retained perfect composure. He looked seriously at Fronto and said, as he turned to leave, “Calm down commander. You need rest.”

The young medic left the tent just as the pottery cup bounced off the door frame.

Priscus smiled. “I see you’ve maintained your charm and good humour throughout this. And your left arm seems good, anyway.”

There was a large dressing along the legate’s left forearm, where the blade had caught him, but the majority of the damage Fronto had suffered had been his right arm. His right was fully wrapped and splinted and bound to his torso. Priscus had watched as they’d done it and had marvelled at the glorious yellow and purple colours that blotched his commander’s arm from fingertips to upper arm.

Fronto sighed.

“
I am actually left-handed Gnaeus. I could probably function just as well now as I did before this.”

He gestured at his dressings with the good arm.

Priscus nodded. He knew a number of people in the legions that were left-handed, but due to the tactics, equipment and rules of the Roman military, the shield was carried with the left and the sword hung from, and was wielded with, the right. Otherwise the shield wall tactic so favoured by the legions would become a shambles. Consequently, many had had to retrain using their off-hand. Priscus had never realised that his commander was one of them.

“
The doctor also said you’d be staying in his care for at least a week before he’d let you go out and about on your own. He wanted me to stress that to you. Everyone knows you have a habit of doing whatever the hell you like.”

Fronto smirked.

“
In that case, he probably expects me to stay cooped up in this mobile septic tank for three or four days in reality.”

“
Anyway,” Priscus continued “we’re all probably staying put at the moment. We’re waiting for the corn deliveries from the Aedui, and Caesar’s not moving on the Helvetii until he’s very sure of the terrain. The information our allies gave him is inadequate. He asked where they were camped, and the Aedui said: a mountain. He asked them to describe the mountain, and the man just said: it’s a mountain. I think the General gave up then and sent his own scouts out to have a look. They should be back any time now.”

Fronto grimaced as he pulled himself further upright. In addition to his two main wounds, his body was a criss-cross of scars and scratches, and the discolouration of bruises left no large expanse of skin clear.

Priscus hurried to help the legate up, but Fronto pushed him away.

“
I’ll stay here until Caesar decides to make a move. I don’t care how infirm I am, I’m not missing that fight. Anyway, it’s more comfortable walking or riding than lying in one of the wounded carts. Rickety bloody things, I’m surprised any of the wounded survive a journey on one.”

Priscus sighed.

“
Don’t go running around causing trouble, sir. I’ll let you know well before anything important happens. In the meantime, the sawbones said you need rest and so, if you don’t rest, I shall have to ask him to recommend that you spend the next month in a wagon.”

Fronto glared at Priscus.

“
Alright. I’ll not make waves, but
you
make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“
Agreed.”

Priscus turned to leave, but stopped as he reached the doorway.

“
The rest of your beloved fans are here to see you. They’re heading this way like a herd of cattle.”

He looked out of the tent again and grinned.

“
Well… like a herd of
drunken
cattle, anyway.”

He stepped out of the tent and to one side as Balbus, Longinus, Crispus, Galba and Sabinus came barrelling through the open doorway. Each of them was laden. Balbus, Longinus and Galba carried jars of wine and bowls of pastries, Crispus carried dice and a game board, and Sabinus a small wooden box.

“
Hail the conquering hero.”

Balbus slumped gratefully into a chair next to the bed.

“
I see Priscus has been keeping the seat warm for me.”

He turned to face the door again.

“
You’re not going are you, centurion? The fun’s only just starting. We’ve food and wine and games to entertain the invalid.”

Priscus looked in through the tent flaps.

“
Much as I’d love to join you, gentlemen, I’ve got to go see the General.”

Balbus shrugged. The others had taken various places around the bed.

“
What’s
he
going to see Caesar about?”

Galba prodded Fronto in the leg from his seated position on a cushion on the floor.

“
Never mind. Time for you to relax.”

Fronto looked around. He was surprised to find Sabinus in the company of the legates. In the short time Fronto had been serving with the general staff, Sabinus had rarely exchanged a word with Fronto, and hadn’t spoken at all to the other legates.

“
Sabinus. What brings
you
here with this motley bunch? Doesn’t Caesar need you at headquarters?”

The staff officer smiled at him.

“
Just making a delivery and renewing an acquaintance Fronto.”