S. Turney: The Belgae

In the side room that had been sealed off from the main tent, the primus pilus of the Tenth lay flat on a table. Once again it struck him just how badly wounded the man really was. Lying there in just a tunic, there was still hardly an inch of flesh visible from the neck down, swaddled as he was in linen, splints, wraps and more. Where the skin was visible, around his neck and hands and one lower leg, it was largely purple and yellow.

“You’ve looked better.”

Fronto forced himself to smile.

Priscus rolled his eyes and then shut them tightly for a moment.

“I… I can’t move. Any of me!”

Fronto nodded.

“Don’t try. You’re being held together with sticks and ropes right now. But the doctors tell me that most of it will heal nicely.”

“ Most ?”

Priscus glared at his commander.

“Your arms should be fine, and your right leg will be alright, so long as your ankle heals properly. Your left leg… well…”

Priscus growled/

“What about it?”

“You’re going to have trouble walking fast. Maybe even walking at all.”

“Shit!”

Fronto nodded.

“They’ve done everything possible, Gnaeus. You know that.”

Priscus growled.

“If I can’t walk, they should have let me die. You know what a crippled soldier has to look forward to. I’m not a rich patrician; I came up through the ranks. When I get thrown out I’ll end up begging in the subura and getting pissed on by people. You know how it goes.”

Fronto shook his head.

“You saved Caesar’s life, so you’ll not be needy. Hell, it’s possible you’ll be able to stay with the legions. Just let it heal and then see.”

Priscus sighed and let his head drop back.

“How are the lads?”

Fronto laughed.

“They’ll be a sight happier when they hear you’re awake. They’ve been moping like grounded children. I don’t know how you do it. They’re frightened to death of you, but they get all soppy about you when you’re not there.”

“Ha.”

Priscus let out a low grumble.

“I can’t even raise my arm to drink anything.”

“Good. The doctors don’t want you to at the moment.”

“So…” Priscus sighed, “you’ve not said anything, but I assume from the general tone and the fact that you’re sat here that we won?”

Fronto nodded.

“The Aduatuci are no more. Aduatuca is no more. There are currently more prisoners in this camp than there are soldiers! The legions are stood down for now and will be going off to winter quarters shortly. Galronus apparently got smashed over the head and is somewhere in here too, but he’s going to be alright.”

The legate stood for a long moment and stared down at his old friend and finally Priscus sighed again.

“Look, I’m still very tired. Perhaps I should try and sleep.”

Fronto nodded, noting with some distress the tear that rolled unbidden down the centurion’s cheek and into his ear. Forcing himself to smile positively, he squared his shoulders.

“I’ve got my arm working a little again. Keep working on your legs, and I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re better rested.”

With a final wave, he turned and, wrapped in sadness, strode from the tent.

Paetus sat in the stockade at the rear of the Nemetocenna fort, dirty and hairy. Every day that passed made him feel less and less human. But he’d heard the guards talking. In a week or so the prisoners would be taken south under guard of a small force of provosts and Gallic auxiliaries. It was a long journey back to Rome, and he had had plenty of time to devise plans.

Getting free would be easy. Even getting away from the guards without being noticed should not be too much trouble. The big problem was going to be getting away without the other prisoners either getting involved and interfering or drawing the attention of the provosts. But he had plenty of time for that. He couldn’t escape until he was safely within reach of Rome, where he could go to ground, anyway.

Rome.

And Caesar and Clodius.

The weather, already on the turn when the legions had arrived at Aduatuca, set in for autumn over the next two weeks. The mornings were misty and cold and invariably gave way to overcast and damp days. Every day, Fronto noted the faces of the men who were looking forward to winter quarters and being settled somewhere. Even when winter quarters were deep in Gallic lands, six months or more of being stationary meant that local traders, bars and brothels would spring up to entertain them.

Even the senior officers generally wore faraway looks as they yearned for family estates in Italia and the south; of the waves of the Mare Nostrum, or sitting on a balcony on the Esquiline hill, looking out over the roofs of Rome with a glass of Falernian in hand. Fronto, unsure of what his plans were for the winter, strode across the ground toward Caesar’s tent.

Despite the gloom, he was feeling unusually cheerful. He had called in this morning for his daily visit to Priscus to find him partially-raised up and practicing lifting things with his left arm. The doctors had been impressed with his progress. Piously, they put it down to the offerings and libations that Fronto habitually poured on the altar of Aescapulus as he entered and left the hospital. Fronto, ever a man of the world, put it down to the sheer indomitable bloody-mindedness of the Tenth’s primus pilus.

Ingenuus’ guards saluted as he passed into the gloom once again. Inside, Sabinus sat with Balbus opposite the general, who smiled.

“Ah, Fronto, good.”

The legate strode across the tent and dropped wearily into a spare seat. Caesar frowned momentarily at the impropriety and then brushed it aside.

“How is your chief centurion today?”

Fronto sat back and began to flex his arm as he habitually did these days.

“He seems to be healing. I think he aims on being able to resume his post next year.”

Caesar raised his eyebrows.

“The doctors told me his military career was over.”

Fronto laughed.

“Priscus? You know the centurionate, Caesar. They’re a hardy breed. Look at Balventius; or Baculus. Baculus suffered over a dozen wounds at the Selle, but refused to go in a cart when he left with Labienus. The man actually marched off. You can’t keep them down.” The smile faded slightly.

“But I think you’re right about Gnaeus; his combat days are over. Can’t have a centurion limping at the front of the lines with a gammy leg.”

Caesar nodded sagely.

“But we must do something for him. The man deserves to be recognised for what he did. He effectively save both the army and my own life.”

Fronto smiled.

“He shouldn’t end up as a beggar in the streets of Rome, certainly. Perhaps a sizeable pension, like you offered Balventius? An estate in Cisalpine Gaul or Illyricum? A villa by the Adriatic?”

Caesar grinned; a cheeky and unexpected look that made Fronto frown suspiciously.

“What?”

“I have a better suggestion, I believe. Priscus, like Balventius, would not take to the life of a country gentleman.”

“Ye-e-e-s” Fronto said slowly and uncertainly. “So?”

“I need a new camp prefect. A primus pilus needs to be fit and active, but I think you’ll agree that previous evidence suggests the camp prefect can be a fairly sedentary person.”

Fronto frowned.

“He won’t like the idea. He’ll hate the idea.”

“More than retirement?”

Slowly, like a sunrise, the smile spread across Fronto’s face.

“D’you know, general? You might be onto something there.”

Caesar nodded.

“There will, of course, have to be a great deal of reorganisation this winter. We may even need to delay our campaigns next year.”