Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  The second man turned for a moment, gesturing expansively at the interior of the basilica and Balbus pressed himself against the wall, his heart thumping with recognition. Titus Annius Milo, former tribune, commander of one of the largest private forces in Rome, and loyal client of Pompey. So… Cicero and Pompey. Not unexpected, and also not good for Caesar.

  Nodding to himself and aware that he was unlikely to glean any further information here without his presence becoming known to the two men, Balbus left the doorway, skipping down the steps, and pushed his way into the crowd in the Vicus Iugarius. The chances of him finding the two senators, almost five minutes behind them, were small, but he was not expected back at the house for almost two hours yet and, if all else failed, there was a nice little tavern on the edge of the Forum Holitorium that served a surprisingly good wine.

  Balbus grinned to himself as he moved through the crowd, laughing at how much effect Fronto had had on his life and habits in the three years of their acquaintance.

  Few along the street wore togas, this street leading into a lower-class, more mercantile area, with the markets, the sewer outflow and the dung piles mucked out from the circus maximus, and Balbus found himself peering intently every time he spotted someone wearing the bulky garment of the wealthy and noble citizenry. He himself wore a simple tunic and cloak that could have marked him out as anything from a trader to a dung-shoveller. Sometimes anonymity was preferable to status.

  There were no togate figures moving in pairs and Balbus admitted with some disappointment that there was every chance that the two had now separated. If that were the case, he would only stand a chance of locating the red-haired one. The other would blend in too easily; he was too average for easy recognition.

  With a sigh, as he stood at the crossroads at the entrance to the forum Holitorium, Balbus gave up. A nice wine, well watered, and a nibble at some of the sweet treats in that pleasant little tavern would help pass the time until he was expected back at the house.

  Ducking off to the side, he moved into a less packed street and turned into a side alley that would provide a convenient, short cut-through to the street on which his tavern stood. A woman flapped a rug from a window in an upper floor scattering dust, detritus and dog hair down over him and the narrow empty alley. A few yards ahead, someone had emptied a number of piss-pots from a great height and left a wide, reeking puddle. Stepping gingerly round the edge of the ammonia lake, Balbus happened to glance down a narrow, shady side alley and paused, one foot raised above the golden liquid.

  Squinting and frowning, he stepped back and peered down the shady lane. A pile of something white and red at the far end could have been almost anything from discarded laundry to the carcass of a sheep or goat… but for the shock of bright red hair that glinted in a ray of sunlight that happened to find a way down into the gloom, reflecting off a brass pot in a window. That mop of red curls caught Balbus’ breath and made his heart race. The healthy state of his footwear forgotten, Balbus jumped across the small puddle of stinking yellow, landing in a spatter, and ran down the shadowy alley until he reached the pile.

  His initial fears confirmed, Balbus used his urine-soaked sandal to heave one body off the other, the corpse rolling onto its back, arm flapping limp against the filthy cobbles, denting an expensive gold signet ring. All their gold still intact about their person stated beyond doubt that this was no common robbery, had Balbus suspected for even one second that that was the case.

  No. Both men had been murdered with repeated blows to the chest and gut from a narrow bladed knife of some kind. Blue lips and bruising already flourishing around the mouth suggested that they died of their wounds with a hand clamped over their face to prevent the screaming attracting any unwanted attention.

  More damning than anything, though, was the statement that had been made with their death. These murders were as much a message as they were deliberate assassinations, for both had been mutilated, their foreheads sliced and shredded, blood slicked down across their faces and necks and soaking into the white togas.

  For both men had had the same symbol carved into their forehead, and Balbus was left with no uncertainty as to the reason for their death.

  Turning his back, he walked away, his face sour and angry, leaving the two men bearing the carved ‘Taurus’ bull emblem on their face as a badge on their journey to the underworld.

  Chapter 8

  (Roman camp near the Rhine)

  Galronus nodded. “Lentulus is the obvious choice.”

  “No, no, no, no, no” Fronto grumbled, the wine – less watered than anyone else’s in the tent – sloshed over the side of his cup and added a fresh spatter on the legate’s breeches. “Lentulus let his men go berserk chasing down the fleeing tribesmen. Possibly on Caesar’s orders, but a cavalry commander needs to have full control.”

  Varus leaned back against a prop of cushions, his sling undone and resting the rigidly-splinted arm on a padded pillow. Despite the argument and concerns of the medicus, he’d been in the saddle again the morning after the battle, unarmed of course, and wincing with every thud of the horse’s hooves, but where he belonged. Between rides, however, he seemed to be mollycoddling the break. He shared a look with Galronus and pursed his lips.

  “Marcus, Lentulus was in full control. It was a command decision, whether his or Caesar’s, to sacrifice mercy and potential slaves in order to allow that cavalry wing their revenge. I honestly can’t say whether I’d have tried to rein them in myself. You agreed with him in the debrief! What would you do if the Tenth were hacked to pieces and then given the opportunity to take it out on their attackers?”

  “I’d restrain them.”

  “No you damn well wouldn’t, and you know it. What is all this about, Marcus. You’re all over the place at the moment. One minute you’re standing up for Caesar and supporting any amount of bloodshed he might suggest, and the next ranting about him over the deaths of enemy civilians. I realise that you’ve always had your differences with the general, but I can’t figure out what’s going on in your head. Sometimes you’re starting to sound like Labienus.”

  Fronto glared angrily down into his cup.

  “I don’t know, Varus. I’ve never really been able to figure Caesar out. Sometimes he’s the very model of a generous, merciful commander and a good man; other times I see things in him that really worry me; twisted things.”

  “Nobody is simply good or bad, Marcus” Galronus shrugged. “That’s a very simplified way of looking at the world.”

  “If it hadn’t been for what happened in Rome – the gladiators and Clodius and his men – I don’t know whether I’d even be here this summer. Caesar saved my family, and that’s hard to forget and let go. But something Balbus said to me a couple of months back has really stuck in my head. And then there’s all these divisions in command, and new men drafted in that I wouldn’t turn my back on, just in case.”

  Varus shook his head. “I have to admit that the army does seem to be drifting into factions. It’s Caesar’s army, and he pays the men and gives his patronage to the officers. But…” he lowered his voice, “there are clear pockets of men who are plainly anti-Caesarian. It shouldn’t be worrying, but, let’s face it, Caesar wouldn’t be the first praetor to have an army turn against him.”

  “You think Labienus would wrest command from the general? You even think he could?”

  Varus sighed. “I’ve heard how the tide of opinion flows in Rome, Marcus. Caesar’s got the mob in his pocket, but that’s only so much use. Pompey wouldn’t fart to help Caesar if he needed it and Crassus is busy flouncing about in the east trying to emulate Alexander the Great and building up to invade Parthia. The senate are well-stacked against Caesar and only favours and threats are keeping them from hauling on the leash and dragging him back to Rome.”

  Fronto stared at him. “I didn’t realise you were so politically minded, Varus?”

  “I just keep my eyes and ears open, Marcus. The thing is: Caesar is balanced
on a knife edge these days. If things went wrong, we might find the senate rescinding Caesar’s position and command. They could even prosecute him… hell, if Cicero has his way they’ll declare him an enemy of the state. It sounds so ridiculous and unlikely, but it really isn’t that fantastic.”

  Galronus frowned as he thought it through. “And if the senate ends Caesar’s command, Labienus has the authority to turn around and take the army off him; maybe even assume the governorship. Is that really likely?”

  “As I say, it all depends on the amount of support Caesar can maintain in Rome. As long as the senate either supports him or is frightened enough not to cross him, he’ll be fine. He still has enough influence, money and men to assure both, I believe. The people love him for his victories, so he’s never short of loyal muscle to hire, if you get my drift.”

  Galronus scratched his chin. “It’s maybe worth noting that Caesar hasn’t put Labienus in command of a single action so far this summer. I would guess the general has thought this through to the same end. How long do you think it’ll be before Labienus ends up attached to Cicero’s Seventh and all the other untrustworthy dissenters? I just don’t understand why he hasn’t sent Labienus and Cicero home just to be certain.”

  “Because you can’t waste talent on suspicions” Fronto said with a shrug. “Labienus may be arguing a lot and disagreeing with Caesar, but the man has obeyed Caesar’s every command regardless. Disagreement is a long, long way from mutiny, and Labienus is still one of the half-dozen most talented military strategists on this side of the Mare Nostrum. Can’t afford to let a top man go because he’s argumentative.”

  “And Cicero?”

  “Would you want to send him back to Rome in disgrace where he can join his brother and stir up even more trouble? No. Cicero is safer under Caesar’s nose.”

  A knock at the wooden frame of the door interrupted the conversation and Fronto made ‘shush’ing motions at the other two.

  “Who is it?”

  “How many people are you expecting?” barked the irritable voice of Priscus. Fronto relaxed back to the cushion and refilled his cup, adding the slightest dash of water for modesty. “Come on in.”

  The door flap swung out to reveal the figures of Priscus, Carbo and Atenos.

  “You said there’d be dice” Priscus noted hopefully, “and wine.”

  “Help yourself to the wine. Now that you’re here I’ll dig out the dice. We were just discussing the divisions in command. Labienus, Cicero, Caesar, the senate and so on. Any opinions?”

  “My opinion is that it’d be a better discussion without me” grumbled Priscus, slumping to a cushion and pouring himself a generous cup of wine, watering it healthily.

  “I wonder who’s going to be left in command of the winter quarters once we’ve rounded up the rest of the invaders” mused Carbo, reaching for a dark, earthenware cup.

  “Not Labienus, for sure” replied Atenos with a grin.

  “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself” Fronto said quietly. “This isn’t the end of things. I argued with Balbus back at Massilia, but I’m more and more convinced he was right as the weeks roll on.”

  He glanced up at the silence and realised the other five men were frowning at him in incomprehension.

  “He feels that Caesar will continue to push even when there’s no reason. For glory and the applause of the mob in Rome. The senate are never going to root for him, so he needs the support of the people, and that means he can’t stop conquering and winning glory for Rome. He won’t waste the campaigning season when he could be drumming up popular support.”

  “So you mean the general is going to spend the rest of the season ploughing into the lands across the Rhenus? All to please the poor and the homeless back in Rome?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Any news about the tribune?” Carbo asked quietly, deftly changing the subject.

  Fronto sat up a little straighter. “He’s recovering nicely apparently. Not as quick as the invincible horseman over there” he gestured at Varus, who grinned. “Looks like Tetricus was very lucky; the wounds could have been that much worse if just a fraction of an inch different. I think he’s lucky he was moving and there was a big fight on. If the bastards had cornered him in an alley, it would have been a different matter.”

  “’Bastards’?” enquired Atenos with a frown, noting the plural.

  Fronto shrugged. “I’d wager a fortune on who the culprits were, and there’s two of them.”

  “Fabius and Furius of the Seventh” Galronus said quietly. “How sure are you?”

  “Pretty convinced. No evidence, though. I can accuse them all I like, but Cicero will back them to the hilt and it’s no secret that those two and I have a mutual dislike. It’ll just look like me being vindictive if I make any kind of accusation without evidence. I had a look at the weapons they used, but they’re bulk legionary issue with no way to distinguish them.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder if the world might be a brighter place if those two wake up dead in their tent one morning.”

  “You’d not sink to that level, Marcus. If you were the kind of man who did, the Tenth would have done away with you years ago.” Priscus shook his head. “But it’s a mess, Marcus.” he announced wearily. “This whole thing is a mess. Labienus has been sounding people out, you know? He came to see me; ostensibly it was a perfectly acceptable enquiry for the camp prefect, but he asked me some pretty telling questions.”

  Fronto narrowed his eyes at his old friend.

  “And you said?”

  “I said I was Caesar’s camp prefect. That seemed to shut him up.”

  Another knock at the tent door drew their gaze and attention.

  “You invited anyone else?”

  Fronto shook his head. “Who’s there?”

  “Message for the legate of the Tenth, sir.”

  Struggling to his feet, Fronto hobbled over to the door and pulled aside the flap. A legionary stood outside, looking nervous.

  “Well?”

  The soldier held out a cylindrical case; small and made of wood. “This arrived by courier a few minutes ago at the gate, sir, with instructions to be passed to yourself.”

  Fronto nodded and waved the soldier away, taking the case and retreating into the tent. Unstoppering the end, he slid out a small roll of expensive parchment. The wax seal that held the scroll tight bore his family’s signet, marking its source as either Faleria or his mother.

  “Letter from the missus?” Priscus grinned.

  “From home” Fronto said absently, snapping the seal and unrolling the short missive. His eyes strayed back and forth along the lines, his expression undergoing a number of changes as he read, and darkening as he neared the end.

  “The bastard!”

  The tent’s occupants looked at one another and then at him.

  “What?”

  The legate thrust the parchment angrily at Priscus, who ran his eyes down the text until he reached the bottom.

  “Maybe she’s mistaken?”

  “No. No mistake. I should have known when we confronted him in Rome that Caesar would get his talons into the man.”

  “What?” Galronus was half-raised from the floor now.

  “Caesar’s got Clodius Pulcher working for him now, running gangs of thugs from his niece’s house to frighten those daft old buggers in the senate who chunter about this campaign. After everything Clodius did to us last year! Caesar stood with me and fought the cheap little bastard and his men, and then he hires the prick? Clodius is as treacherous as a snake and as slippery as an eel. The little bastard needs to be filleted and dumped in the Tiber, not employed!”

  “Remember what I told you, though, Marcus” muttered Varus, wincing as he carefully tightened the sling around his arm once more. “Caesar’s only maintaining his command and his position because the senate are scared of him. That’s what Clodius is: a cestus. An armoured glove of the general closing on the throat
of the senate.”

  “Still, if that little prick is swanning about in Rome when I get back, Caesar or no Caesar, I’ll gut him myself.”

  Galronus’ brow furrowed. “Why in Rome but not here?”

  “What?”

  “Why would Caesar have hired men frightening the senate into supporting him – which is extremely dangerous and could land him in court or prison – and yet leave those who disagree with him in important places in his army? I know you say Labienus is worth too much as a commander, but if the general would go so far as to threaten patrician class senators, would he really stop at his officers?”

  “Caesar has always been a man of the army. His legions love him because he’s one of them. He’d lose their love and respect pretty damn quick if he started doing away with officers he didn’t like.”

  And yet, even as he spoke, in his gut Fronto couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps there was some truth in Galronus’ words. His mind conjured up pictures of Paetus – the former camp prefect whose family Caesar had allowed to die needlessly, turning him against the general. Of Salonius – a tribune who had stirred the legions against Caesar three years ago and who had disappeared without trace. Of the Fourteenth who had spent two years repeatedly being given the more ignominious duties in the army due to their Gallic nature. Of the Seventh, who now contained all the general’s ‘bad eggs’.

  Caesar could be a hard man and an unforgiving one. Would he really allow potential enemies to stay in command in his own army?

  Fronto reached for the wine again, ignoring the jug of water nearby.

  * * * * *

  Tetricus winced and lowered his head back to the cold, crisp bed. It never ceased to amaze him how the legion’s medical staff could erect a fully working hospital in the middle of a muddy field. He smiled and allowed his eyes to close.

  The wound in his back sent shock waves through him every time he lifted his head or turned over, meaning that he’d moved remarkably little in the eternity he’d spent lying here. Still, he had to consider himself lucky. Between that wound and the one in his leg that had been brutal, true, but had managed to narrowly avoid completely severing a muscle; he was in discomfort most of the time, even despite the medication the staff had him on that made him weak and filled his head with fluff. But he only had to concentrate to hear the moans and constant shrieks of those who fared worse in other parts of the hospital. Or to imagine that silent tent at the far end where those who were not expected to pull through lay in stupefied and putrefied agony.