S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

“I’m not so desperate to shout at people that I want to watch quartermasters and medics screwing things up.”

Pomponius merely smiled and arched one eyebrow. He may be relatively new to the ranks of the centurionate, and even relatively new to the Tenth, but like all the officers of the legion, he knew the legate very well by now. Fronto saw the raised eyebrow and sighed.

“Alright, I’ll go and see the support. If anything remotely exciting happens, have someone come and get me. At least someone back there’s going to have some wine.”

As Fronto stomped off toward the rear, Pomponius smiled again and contemplated what life could have been like with a commander who didn’t care.

Fronto wandered into the makeshift hospital where the action was already fast and revolting. The battle had been going for less than half an hour and casualties were not in short supply. Probably in the same amount of time the battle would be over, not like that protracted siege with the Helvetii. He cursed again and tapped irritably on his sword hilt. He was surveying the general carnage when his eyes lit on a familiar face.

Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth, sat on a slight hummock in the grass with a distressed capsarius tending to some kind of wound. Fronto grinned and made his way toward the battered old centurion. The man was covered in blood and clearly a lot of it was his, though beneath the crimson stains the man was as pale as a Vestal virgin at an orgy.

“Balventius. Been in the wars?”

He slumped to the grass next to the wounded man.

“Some bastard German got me when I wasn’t looking.”

Fronto smiled again.

“I take it he doesn’t look as well as you.”

The legate glanced over the centurion’s shoulder to examine what the capsarius was doing.

“Sweet Fortuna, that’s deep!”

As Balventius nodded, the capsarius tutted irritably.

“If you keep jerking around like that I’m going to end up sewing your lung to your heart, now will you keep still !”

The centurion glanced up at Fronto from his slightly hunched position.

“Are the Tenth not moving?”

Fronto gave his customary growl.

“Most of them are, but I’m commanding the reserve.”

Balventius turned his head, causing muttering from the medic.

“How long are you going to be? I’ve got a unit out there with no commander.”

The capsarius almost dropped his last stitch.

“You must be bloody joking. You’ve lost enough blood to fill an amphora. You’ll be lucky if you can walk fast without fainting. And there are twenty six stitches across your shoulders with a long, deep wound. The first time you swing or lunge, you’ll rip ‘em all out and I’ll have to start again from scratch. And that’s if you don’t lose enough blood to drop dead on the journey back. You’re out of it centurion, I’m afraid.”

With an exaggerated tug that caused Balventius to wince, the capsarius finished sewing the wound.

“Does that mean you’re done?”

“I’ve just got to bandage you now.”

Fronto leaned forward and spoke to the medic.

“I’ll help and, for the record, this man’s almost certainly had worse wounds.”

Balventius nodded.

“Sorry, doc. There’s no way I’d be staying back here unless I was missing a leg or something. Just get me bound.”

He looked up at Fronto again.

“If you rally want to do something useful, sir, could you find one of these waste-of-good-air quartermasters and get me another mail shirt?”

Fronto nodded and, standing, wandered away from the valetudinarium until he found one of the quartermasters directing several immunes in unloading weapons and armour from a cart. Spotting mail shirts passing around, his eyes lit on a shirt of fish-scale mail.

“What’s the chance of me getting hold of one of those?”

The quartermaster snorted derisively and then turned and realised he was speaking to a senior officer.

“Sorry sir. All the scale’s spoken fer. Very popular with officers sir, and ‘arder to get than chain. I can let yer ‘ave some chain right now though. ‘Ow many d’yer need?”

Fronto grinned.

“How many shirts have you got put aside to make a little packet on, though? Two? Three?”

The quartermaster, a slightly overweight centurion assigned to the Seventh, looked taken aback and wounded for a moment before a brief flash of guilt made it to his face.

“Well, I suppose I could let yer ‘ave one o’ the reserve stock, sir, but I’d ‘ave ter buy another one in ter replace it, and they ain’t cheap.”

Fronto nodded and grinned.

“I think I can probably cover it. You know me, yes?”

“Yer legate Fronto o’ the Tenth. I seen yer sir.”

Fronto smiled again.

“Then put my mark against the shirt. I’ll take it now and drop the money off after the battle.”

The quartermaster ummed and ahhed and dithered for long moments, contemplating being left one shirt down by Fronto, then sighed and reached over. Picking up the shiny scale shirt, he passed it to Fronto.

“Don’t go getting’ yerself killed today, sir. Yer owe me fer a good scale shirt.”

Moments later, leaving the unhappy quartermaster grumbling as his men continued to stockpile gear, Fronto wandered back in to the valetudinarium, the heavy armour, scales of steel sewn over leather and chain, draped over his arm. He wandered around until he found Balventius, fully bandaged, struggling to pull a tunic down over his ruined shoulders.

“I don’t know how you expect to fight when you can even dress.”

The centurion grunted.

“It’s just a bit tight with these bandages on. The bloody capsarius refused to help me. Said he wouldn’t help me hasten my own death. That’s a nice shirt. What do I owe you?”

Fronto grinned.

“I’ve got a fair bit put away at the moment, so call it a gift.”

Balventius glanced out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh yes, the wager money from you and that Gaul. I made a packet myself. Well thanks. Soon as I’m suited up I’m off to the front again. You coming sir?”

Fronto shrugged and winced. It had been months since he’d suffered his wounds to the Gaul in the ring, and they still ached most of the time and hurt like hell some of the time. He couldn’t imagine what Balventius was made of to want to go back in like that.

“I guess so. I hate missing a good fight. You sure you want to go?”

Balventius nodded.

“Gotta show ‘em you’re indestructible when you’re a primus pilus. Otherwise the moment you scratch yourself, all the other centurions start jostling into position for your job!”

Fronto laughed.

“Priscus once said something very similar to me.”

He helped the older man into the scale shirt and began to tighten all the fastenings. The capsarius, unwilling to leave until the primus pilus was definitely no longer his concern, stood close by, frowning and muttering to himself. Balventius looked round at the man and tossed him something. The capsarius looked down in horror at the lump of meat and gristle in his hand. Balventius grinned.

“See if you can put him back together!”

Fronto coughed.

“What is that?”

“It’s a windpipe. Looks funny when it’s not tucked away inside, doesn’t it.”

Fronto swallowed. Balbus had told him that Balventius was a madman on the battlefield and he could quite believe it. A thought crossed his mind.

“You ever given any thought to what to do when you finish your next term?”

Balventius shrugged.

“Frankly I’m always surprised when I finish a campaign year. Never really occurs to me to think beyond that.”

Fronto fastened the last strap.