The Belgae

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“Where the hell have you been?”

Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus gestured angrily with his vine staff from his position on top of a supply wagon as he ground his teeth irritably.

Fronto looked up at his ‘subordinate’, though the word hardly seemed appropriate. A quick glance around confirmed no one was listening within earshot.

The legate of the Tenth Legion looked tired and haggard. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of late nights and long days. Behind him, Aulus Crispus, legate of the Eleventh shook his head, a faint smile lurking somewhere beneath the dust of travel. Fronto growled gently.

“And hello to you too, Priscus. We’ve come as fast as we could.”

To illustrate, he gestured up and down himself, bringing attention to the dust and wear. There was a low muttering behind him.

“What was that?” he barked, rounding on his younger companion.

Crispus laughed lightly.

“I said: ‘via every bar between the Pyrenees and Vesontio…’”

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