Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  “He was a good man, your tribune?” Furius asked, taking another slug.

  “One of the best. A promising career officer, I’d say.”

  “Bad way to go. When you find out who did it, make sure to let us know and we’ll give you a hand peeling the bastard’s skin from his bones, eh?”

  Fronto shook his head, not in rejection, but in confusion at the strange turns life had taken in Britannia.

  “It’d be just my luck if half a dozen druids popped up out the undergrowth now and set fire to me.”

  Furius laughed.

  “Come on, legate. Let’s get back to the safety of camp.”

  * * * * *

  Publius Sulpicius Rufus, de facto commander of Gesoriacum port, rubbed his eyes wearily and looked down at the scattered reports on the desk.

  “What’s holding up the supply train then?”

  Casco, the cavalry prefect of the attached auxiliary unit, shrugged. “Without sending out a proper scout force we can’t be sure, sir. We’re running patrols for a three mile radius around the settlement and there’s no sign of anything. Whatever the hold-up is, it must be further back than that.

  “We’re running out of time, gentlemen. The supplies we have may look impressive, and Cita informs me that the food stores will keep the Ninth for a month, but we need to bear in mind that Caesar will be bringing two hungry legions back from Britannia before winter, and that Cotta and Sabinus will be returning here to resupply at some point. We need to have a full granary and storehouse before they’re needed. Three days late is starting to become worrying.”

  There were murmurs of agreement around the tent. Rufus looked across the faces of the six tribunes, single cavalry prefect, and the primus pilus of the Ninth and felt a nervousness he wasn’t used to. Three years ago he had been appointed to the high position of legate for the first time and he’d retained command of the veteran Ninth throughout Caesar’s campaign. He’d had little experience of war or of command before then, but had very quickly found his feet and carved out a niche for himself in the general’s army.

  He was comfortable in charge of a legion, in or out of a combat situation.

  What he was not used to, or comfortable with, was the awesome responsibility of being given a ‘carte-blanche’ command. Not only did he have responsibility for the Ninth now, but also for the wellbeing and safety of the Morini tribe in and around Gesoriacum, the port – to which Caesar would return, and the supply base upon which the entire army depended…

  It was a mind-boggling nightmare of organisation. Cita, the army’s chief quartermaster, was if anything an impediment to the smooth running of the command and, while Priscus had remained here as camp prefect, he seemed to spend most of his time stomping around and complaining or arguing with Cita.

  “Alright gentlemen. We cannot afford to go on like this. Tribune Acilius: I want you to take the third cohort, along with prefect Casco and half his cavalry. Follow the river road towards Nemetocenna and find that supply train. Caesar is still unconvinced of the absolute loyalty of some of the local tribes. It is possible that they’ve waylaid our supplies, and I’m not willing to risk a small cavalry scout unit out among them without solid infantry support.”

  Taking his eyes from the senior tribune, he regarded the other five junior ones. All of them, unlike the competent Acilius, were hungry young politicians fresh from Rome, hoping to win Caesar’s praise before returning to the city in the winter. Not one of them could be trusted to do much more than tie his boots.

  “Nautius and Rubellius: I want you to take the fourth and fifth cohorts and start constructing some defences around Gesoriacum itself and its harbour. You can link them up with this fort to save time. Something smells wrong to me. The supplies not turning up worries me, so let’s be prepared for any eventuality. When Caesar returns, I want him to be able to land safely in the harbour, even if the whole Belgae nation is hammering at the door.”

  He breathed deeply. The pair would have no clue as to how to set up effective defences, but the legion’s chief engineer was in the fourth cohort and many of the best veterans in the fifth. A placebo command to keep the tribunes busy. He smiled in satisfaction as he pondered the remaining three tribunes and his eyes fell on a young, serious looking man with sandy hair, whose family had risen to prominence through their shrewdness as traders and negotiators.

  “Cilo: I want you to take just a small bodyguard and head into the native settlement. Speak to every merchant you can find and secure us whatever supplies you can for the best price you can, in case our own train never arrives. We don’t have the funds here and now, though, so you’ll have to work it all on promises.”

  The young man nodded, smiling at his assigned task.

  “That leaves Murgus and Purpurio. You’ll be staying in camp with me. Murgus, I want you to get on to the readiness of the men. Make sure their centurions are on task. I want all drill and training doubled. Exercises and marches, though, are to be limited to a one mile radius. I don’t want a whole column of men out there in the wilds right now. Purpurio: Get on to manufacturing. I want the workshops turning out arms and armour, not pots and pans. I want extra scorpions constructed and then positioned on the defences.”

  He leaned back.

  “I think that covers everything.”

  “Sir, do you really expect that much trouble? Isn’t it possible that the wagons have just been delayed by weather?”

  Rufus’ eyes flicked to Murgus. “It is possible, but it’s also worth noting that at no time this year has a supply train been more than twenty four hours late. Three days is therefore a bit of an anomaly, especially given that we’re currently rooted in one very easy-to-find place. I’ll be happier when I hear from Sabinus or Cotta and we know they’ve encountered no trouble, but until we have an indication that everything is normal, we’re on a war footing just in case.”

  He glanced once more around the camp. “Is that it? No more questions?”

  Murgus opened his mouth again, but was interrupted by a respectful rap on the tent’s door frame.

  “Come!”

  One of the praetorian legionaries on guard outside stepped in and saluted. “Sir. Word from the south gate. A huge cavalry force is on the way in.”

  Rufus frowned and, nodding, waved the legionary out.

  “Get to work, gentlemen.”

  The tribunes saluted, filed out of the tent and disappeared into the camp as Rufus fastened his cloak about his shoulders with the Mars Victor brooch his brother had given him last name-day and then strode out into the chilly morning air. Catching sight of Priscus hurrying across the open space before the command quarters, he made a course to intercept, falling in beside him.

  “You heard, then?”

  “Cavalry. Let’s just hope they’re allied ones. It’s bloody hard to tell the difference when they’re all Gauls anyway.”

  Rufus smiled as the pair bore down on the south gate. The portals were firmly closed, a detachment of legionaries on guard above and beside it. The dust cloud and black massed shapes of an exceedingly large cavalry force were plainly visible on the flat grassy land only five or six hundred yards away. Rufus sagged with relief as he spotted a Roman cavalry flag amongst them.

  “It’s Varus. What the hell is he doing here? I thought he was in Britannia with the general.”

  The two officers stood pensively, watching the senior cavalry commander and his entire wing of cavalry approach, filling the open grassland. “Open the gate” Rufus shouted as the force closed on them. The veteran officer was riding out front, the reins of his horse gripped tightly in his good arm, the other still splinted and bound tightly to his torso.

  As the column neared the gate, Varus gave a number of commands and the cavalry split into three groups, heading to the west and east gates, and the last, with the commander himself, slowing as they approached the south.

  “What in the name of Juno’s flabby arse are you doing here?” Priscus demanded as Varus came to a stop and
slid awkwardly down from the saddle, his slung arm and wounded hip more than a small hindrance. His men continued to ride past him and into camp.

  “Bit of a change of plan, lads, I’m afraid. Looks like you’ve had reasonable weather here, but it’s been appalling down the coast. Time and again I gave the order to embark and the sailors told me the weather was too dangerous for any attempt at crossing. In their defence, it’s been stormy as all hell down there. But that’s not why we’re here. I think you might have trouble.”

  Rufus felt a knot form in his stomach. “I’ve been suspecting as much. The supply train’s three days late. What else, then?”

  “This morning the weather had cleared and we went down to the harbour in the hope that we might actually be able to board, but all the ships had gone. Rather than try and find out what was going on, I thought it prudent to return here and consolidate the forces.”

  “I’m glad you did. Something is definitely wrong.”

  Varus nodded and patted his horse’s sweaty flank. “Let’s get in the warm and you can tell me what’s happening here.”

  The three men turned and strode back into the camp as a heavy black cloud rolled over from the east, threatening further storms.

  Chapter 16

  (Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)

  “So you’re all pally with the pair of them now?”

  “Don’t make it sound so stupid, Galronus.”

  “But you are on good terms with them?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’d invite them to dine with my family, if that’s what you’re implying, but the simple fact is that I’ve been wrong about them. Gods, when did it become so hard to admit you were wrong about something? I was wrong, alright. They’re maybe a little harsh as centurions go, and I certainly wouldn’t want to serve under them and forget to polish my mail, that’s for sure, but they’re solid centurions. They clearly don’t harbour any anti-Caesarean designs like I thought. And they’re starting to despise the failings in their own legate. They may very well be the only thing currently keeping the Seventh together as a military unit.”

  “So,” Galronus glanced around to make sure they were not in easy earshot of anyone, “I assume that means that you’ve removed them from the picture in respect of the deaths?”

  Fronto’s pace faltered as they strode across the grass for just a moment as he nodded slowly. “To be honest, I’d not given that much thought yet. The dangerous situation we’re in at the moment has sort of pushed it from the front of my mind. Well, it had, anyway.” He took a deep breath and rubbed a tired eye. “I still won’t rule them out until I can prove it either way, but I really can’t see it now. I think I was trying to make it all fit with them because I’d already decided they’d done it. Oh, they had the opportunity, but I have the suspicion that a knife in the dark isn’t really their way.”

  “You know what that means though, Marcus?”

  “That we’re back to square one?”

  Galronus shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It leaves you with an inescapable conclusion.”

  Fronto frowned as they approached their destination. “Hang on.” Caesar’s command tent stood some forty yards ahead, two guards standing by the open flap and checking on the officers as they filed inside. “What conclusion?” he said sharply as they came to a halt still safely out of audible distance.

  Galronus sighed and tapped his temple. “Think, Marcus. Who passed through Massilia?”

  “Us. And the centurions, and Caesar’s nephew. Oh, and…” The frown on the legate’s face creased deeper. “Surely you don’t think…”

  “Barring the discovery that someone else with a grudge was travelling north into the war-zone from Massilia, if you rule out us, and Furius and Fabius, what other conclusion can you draw?”

  Fronto shook his head in disbelief. “But those two tribunes are as wet as a duck’s ringpiece! They could no more…” but his mind was already furnishing him with a mental image of Menenius standing by a farm house, his sword running with blood as he issued orders like a man born to the task. He’d saved a tough centurion’s life!

  “Fast as a bloody snake.”

  “What?”

  “When Menenius saved Cantorix across the Rhenus, he claimed he’d been lucky, but the centurion thought otherwise. And then he saved me from three…” Fronto felt his spine tingle.

  “He didn’t, did he?”

  “Marcus, you’re not finishing sentences. I may sound like a native Latin speaker, but you’re becoming hard for me to follow.”

  “Menenius!” Fronto said quietly. “They found him wounded. He’d beaten off three barbarians and saved me, they said. You were there in the hospital. But that’s not what happened, was it? Bloody Menenius didn’t run and hide like a coward, did he? He lurked like a murderer. And as soon as he saw his opportunity, he tried to do for me, but three barbarians interrupted him.”

  Fronto shook his head in amazement. “Three bloody Germanic thugs saved my life. Saved me from a pissing Roman tribune!”

  Galronus nodded slowly. “Then Menenius has done an exceptional job of making himself appear ineffective and effeminate. The guise fooled everyone.”

  “Even Caesar.”

  “So he had the opportunity and the ability? He could certainly have been in Vienna when Caesar’s nephew was there. The Fourteenth were in the front lines of the battle in the Germanic camp when Tetricus was attacked. And they were in our camp at the time he was murdered, and when Caesar’s courier was done away with. The opportunity was there.”

  “And that brings Hortius into the equation too” muttered Fronto. “The pair of them are as thick as thieves. I doubt Menenius could pull any of this off without Hortius knowing about it. Besides, the medicus reckoned it would have taken two people to do what was done in the hospital.”

  “But, the motive?”

  Fronto shrugged. “The same, I guess. What connection Menenius and Hortius could have to Pompey I don’t know, but it still seems likely that they’re trying to remove Caesar’s supporters. At the first opportunity I’m going to have to have a little word with Caesar and, when we get back to Gaul, I’m going to have another quiet word with a pair of tribunes while they’re held down and at the tip of my sword.”

  Galronus gestured towards the tent, where the last of the officers had disappeared. “Best get inside before they begin.”

  “I’m sure Caesar will forgive me later when I explain my reasons to him, but you’re right. It’s starting to rain and I’d rather be under leather when that happens.”

  As the first patter of drizzle scattered into the hard earth and springy grass, the two officers picked up the pace and strode hurriedly across the path and into the general’s tent, the praetorian cavalry guards nodding their recognition and approval as they passed.

  The tent was warm and smelled slightly of the charcoal braziers but mostly of sweat and armour oil. The legates and tribunes of both legions as well as Brutus and Volusenus stood patiently as Caesar ran a finger down a list on a wood sheet on the table before him. Fronto and Galronus fell in by the entrance and the guards closed the tent flap behind them. The dim interior gradually resolved itself in the absence of the damp morning light.

  “You’re late” Caesar said flatly, his eyes not even rising from the list.

  “Yes, general. Apologies, but the delay was unavoidable.”

  “Is it a matter of urgency?”

  “Not urgency, as such, Caesar.”

  “Then it should not preclude your punctual attendance, Fronto. Or yours, commander. You are learning bad habits from the Tenth’s legate, I fear.”

  Fronto bridled impotently. The general hadn’t even looked at him yet. “I will take the opportunity to explain in due course, Caesar.”

  “You overstep sometimes, Fronto. I fear that I have allowed you to rush to the gate and snap and bark at passers-by too often. Legates and officers serve in this army at my convenience. You have been with me since the early day
s and I indulge you perhaps more than I should, but if you continue to treat this command as though you were the praetor and I your adjutant I may have to haul on your leash from time to time.”

  Fronto’s angry step forward was rendered impossible as Galronus trod heavily on his foot, the hobnails in the Remi officer’s own boot digging painfully into Fronto’s foot and causing him to take an involuntary sharp breath. Caesar still hadn’t looked up and Fronto glanced angrily at his friend to see a warning glint in Galronus’ eye. Slowly, he let his rage out with a measured breath.

  He glanced around the tent to see every other officer’s gaze lowered carefully except for Cicero. He half expected to see the man grinning, but instead, the legate of the Seventh was giving him a speculative, even slightly sympathetic look. For some reason that angered him almost as much as being spoken to in this way by the general.

  “Good. At least you know when to stay silent” the general said, looking up. Galronus’ hobnails pressed into Fronto’s foot again as he opened his mouth to reply. Wincing at the pain, the legate clamped his lips shut.

  “We have had visitors, gentlemen. A number of the local tribes have sent their ambassadors to offer me hostages and treaties. I have unilaterally accepted their offers, placing the hostages aboard one of the Gallic ships for safekeeping at this time.”

  “Are these the same tribes who tried to stop us landing, general?” Cicero took a step forward. “Because if they are, I’m not really sure how far our hospitality should extend.”

  Caesar nodded. “For once I agree with you, Cicero. We have no confirmation of the identity of those who attacked us. Quite simply our intelligence on the tribes of Britannia is not complete enough for us to make any solid guess as to who we were dealing with. Barring a few coins with unfamiliar names found upon the bodies, they could easily be from any tribe. All those who have entreated me claim to have had nothing to do with the clash at the beach, though it seems unlikely that they are all quite innocent. We have accepted their offerings, but I want this encampment fortified, regardless. I want the army on constant, full alert, and the ships under guard.”