Fronto blinked as if realising something for the first time. “You do realise that I have no authority over the Seventh, Carbo? I can strongly advise, but I can’t stop it.”
Carbo looked a little abashed. “Respectfully, sir, it was the Camp Prefect here that I came to get. He can override any centurion’s decision.”
Fronto blinked again as he glanced across at Priscus, who was nodding with a serious and thoughtful look. A position that theoretically had seniority over every centurion in the army. In some very important ways, Priscus now outranked him. For some irritating reason, deep in the darkest part of his heart, that annoyed him, though he was disgusted to realise it. He was only just beginning to understand the responsibility and power that Priscus now commanded.
The three men held their talk, concentrating all their energy into running through the camp, much to the surprise of the men they passed, who struggled to salute before they were past and gone. The guards at the gate, through which Carbo had entered a few minutes earlier, had held it open for him and glanced with interest at the sweating, ruddy-faced trio of senior officers as they passed beneath.
Two minutes later they reached the gate of the Seventh’s camp, jogging across the causeway that traversed the twin ditches and up to the closed wooden portal.
“Open up.”
“What’s the password?”
“I don’t have your legion’s password” Fronto snapped angrily, pointing at the pteruge-fringed tunic that denoted his status as an officer. To his surprise, Priscus, next to him, cleared his throat.
“Persepolis. Now open the damn gate.”
The huge timber construction swung ponderously open before them and the three men were through it while the gap was still widening. Without pause they ran along the decumanus toward the small parade ground in front of the headquarters and officers’ tents that Priscus had set as a standard camp requirement.
The deathly silence that hung over the camp was almost deafening in itself and Fronto frowned as he ran. Had he been one of the men, he would be vocal right now over the harsh punishment decision.
Within moments, they drew close to the open, gravelled ground, surrounded by the men of the Seventh legion. The crowd, some six deep, blocked all access to the parade ground, from which the sound of hollow hammering issued.
“Move!” bellowed Fronto, startling the men around him so that they quickly melted out of the way of the three breathless officers.
Pushing their way into the open ground at the centre, Fronto took in the scene in a disgusted instant.
Centurion Fabius stood in full uniform, his face bristly and reminding Fronto of the other former Pompeian who had insulted him. His iron grey hair glistened in the sun, as his helm was cradled in his left arm, his right gesturing with his vine staff. Taller than Furius, he was narrower as well, with a wiry look that suggested to Fronto that he was probably fast and dangerous in a fight.
In front of the centurion, two men hammered a stake into the ground, matching one that already stood proud, at just the right distance to string a man between them with his arms outstretched. The accused was easy to identify. A young clearly recent recruit knelt on the floor, his wrists bound behind him, while two legionaries stood over him, javelins pointed at his neck. The man’s entire century were lined up in rows of four, each wielding a wooden practice sword, weighing considerably more than a real gladius and more than capable of breaking bones.
Carbo had stopped. Here, he had no authority at all, and had deferred, falling behind the two senior officers.
Fronto opened his mouth, bursting into a racking cough from the run. Priscus glanced at him. “Jove you’re unfit for a career soldier.” Ignoring the look on Fronto’s face, Priscus turned back to the scene where the hammering had paused at the interruption.
“Prefect.” Fabius came to attention, making no mention of Fronto at all.
“What is the meaning of this, centurion?” Priscus demanded in a low, dangerous voice.
“Punishment detail, sir. Fustuarium. This man endangered his century and therefore his cohort, his legion and the entire army.”
Priscus shook his head. “I understand he fell out of step in a drill?”
Fabius narrowed his eyes and flicked a quick cold glance at Fronto and Carbo.
“I can’t help what you’re led to understand, sir, but the punishment is in line with current guidelines. The drill was a three sided defensive wall in battle formation and held under battle conditions with real weapons. Standing orders are that under battle conditions, everything is to be treated as if it were live and not a drill. Moreover, the man did not just fall out of step. He slipped and lost control of his javelin.”
He turned to the column of waiting men.
“Passus?”
A legionary limped out of the column and saluted with difficulty, using his javelin to lean on and support a leg that had suffered a vicious calf wound. Blood blossomed on both sides of the dressing, indicating that the weapon had fully impaled him. Fabius turned back and raised his eyebrow challengingly.
“Passus? Do you think the punishment harsh?”
A dark, angry look passed across the man as he shook his head.
“Step back into position.” Turning back to the three officers, Fabius tapped his greave absently with his stick.
“Sir?”
Fronto turned to look at Priscus and was astounded to see a look of uncertainty on his face.
“What are you doing? Stop this!”
Priscus pursed his lips. “He’s right though legate. I set the orders myself. The man’s incompetence caused the grave wounding of a fellow soldier and I would guess upset the entire defensive formation. In a battle, they might have lost the whole cohort because of him. I’m loathe to interfere.”
Fronto glanced angrily between him and Fabius, who wore a look that struck Fronto as far too smug to countenance.
The quiet voice of Carbo piped up behind them, little more than a whisper. “Commute the sentence?”
Priscus glanced once at Fronto’s angry face and nodded, turning back to Fabius.
“In principal I agree with you, centurion. However, the army is about to march, and I think both troop numbers and morale could be better served with a lesser punishment in this case. A non-fatal beating should be enough to make the lad more careful next time.”
Fabius’ face betrayed no sign of irritation. He simply nodded and turned to the century of men.
“Lines two and four, you may retire. Lines one and three, you will continue to administer your punishment, with a single pass.”
Fronto leaned close to Priscus. “That’s still forty blows from practice swords. The lad might just die anyway.”
Priscus nodded. “Then we’d best go pour some more of your wine on that little altar to Fortuna – that I know you carry with you – in the lad’s name eh?”
Fronto glared at him for a moment, and finally nodded unhappily. The three men turned away as the victim was lifted and tied to the posts. Even halfway back down the Decumanus on their way to the gate they heard the screams of the first few blows. Fronto ground his teeth as they left.
“That centurion’s more of a bastard than any Germanic warrior we’re going to meet.”
Carbo looked uncertain, but Priscus shook his head. “I think you’re letting your personal feelings about those two centurions get the better of you. His decision was harsh, but entirely appropriate. I might have done the same thing.”
Fronto glared at him.
“You’ve turning into a hard hearted man, Gnaeus.”
* * * * *
Fronto eyed the column ahead with mixed feelings. He’d always liked Cicero, for all his minor faults and leanings, and it went against the grain of every soldierly fibre in his being to see a legion singled out as dispensable. And yet, with the Seventh legion in the van, at least Fabius and Furius were as far away from Fronto as they could be, and that suited him just fine.
The column stretched out
both ahead and behind and he had a fairly clear view of the whole affair from the back of the glorious ebony-coated Bucephalus – following the customary twenty minute argument with Carbo about the benefits of an officer who marched with his men.
Of course, with advance scouts, the Seventh would theoretically have time to deploy should any aggressors be discovered up ahead, but Caesar had sent Piso with one wing of the Gallic cavalry ahead to scout the lie of the land and, to both Caesar and Fronto, Piso was still something of an unknown. He seemed in every way the perfect man for the job; thoroughly Romanised – as far as an Aquitanian could hope to be, clever, brave, strong, and quick-witted. It seemed that his men had taken an almost instant shine to him too, calling him ‘Camulos’ – apparently the name of a war God from these parts. And yet, while Caesar sent this trusted man forward, Fronto remembered Piso only from his association with Labienus during that conversation upon his arrival at camp. Just how far could any man be trusted these days?
Just like the Republic, the army seemed to be decaying, riddled with tumours and cancers, falling apart and in need of surgery. His attention was suddenly caught by a single rider making to intercept the army.
Varus’ cavalry had the task of patrolling alongside the column as outriders, while Galronus and his men kept a rearguard with the wagons and the Fourteenth. The lone rider was one of Varus’ men; one of the few Roman cavalrymen among the hordes of auxiliary Gauls.
Fronto calculated the man’s rough trajectory and, nodding to Carbo to keep the men moving, dropped out of the line and turned Bucephalus to walk back along the line of the Tenth to where the senior commanders rode between Fronto’s legion and the Eighth. The crimson cloak of the general and the glinting cuirasses of the senior commanders rose from the cloud of grey dust that marked the passage of so many thousand feet, and Fronto converged with them just as the general, having spotted the rider, rode out to the side from the line of march with his top men.
The Roman cavalryman came to a halt a few yards away, reining in expertly and throwing a salute.
“Soldier?”
“General, commander Varus begs to report that a small group of what appear to be Germanic riders approached from the northeast. There are only a score or so of them and they’re demanding to speak with you. What are your orders, Caesar?”
The general gave a half smile and raised his eyebrow.
“Shall we see what they have to say, gentlemen?”
As the small party of officers turned their horses and rode off at a tangent from the column, toward the bank of the fast-flowing Mosella River that ran some quarter of a mile to the southeast, Fronto fell in alongside them and Varus’ man, a frown etched into his forehead. He had no doubts at all about Varus or his veteran riders, but having a vanguard out there made up of Piso’s horse and Cicero’s legion made him very nervous.
Regardless of the lack of obvious danger, Fronto’s spine was tingling in the same way as it had a couple of years ago when he’d first had bad feelings about the brutal Belgic campaign. Something about what awaited them to the northeast felt wrong and dangerous.
He suddenly realised he was rubbing between the fingers of his free hand the amulet of Fortuna he’d taken to wearing on a thong around his neck. Irritated, he pulled it away, though apparently not before Caesar saw.
“Something wrong, Marcus? You look nervous.”
Fronto muttered something under his breath.
“Marcus?”
“Nothing. Got a bad feeling about what’s coming.”
Caesar smiled benignly. “It’s rather unusual for you to be jumpy and superstitious.”
“Just a feeling, Caesar. It feels like I’m riding a wolf into combat against a bear. I don’t know which one’s going to snap at me first.”
Something in Fronto’s voice pulled a serious expression across Caesar’s face. “Anything you want to tell me, Marcus?”
Fronto forced himself to look the general in the eye, trying not to note the hard, accusatory glance Labienus was levelling at him from the general’s other side.
“Nothing concrete, general. Just a feeling of danger and unease. Let’s make sure we keep Varus’ men close by.”
“Of course.”
Ten minutes passed for Fronto in a sense of nervous agitation that deepened and sharpened with every passing step. Caesar and the others continued to pass the time in small-talk, but Fronto declined to take part in the light-hearted banter.
Finally, on a small hillock rising from the north bank of the Mosella, the group spotted a small knot of horsemen and, as they closed on them, Fronto was surprised to see that very few of them appeared to have any kind of rich adornment. Indeed, most of them bared their torsos, their only covering the baldrics that hung across them, supporting the heavy Germanic swords, and the long beards that in many cases hung down to below their collar bones, oft braided or tied in a knot. Their hair, almost uniformly wheat-coloured, was wild and tied in a knot atop their heads. Their weapons were, however, sheathed. The men who sat ahorse behind these visible front men appeared to be almost entirely naked apart from their wild hair and a loincloth, their spears pointing at the heavens.
Caesar smiled happily, and the men with whom he’d been chatting seemed to find the appearance of their visitors amusing.
Not so Fronto. The first thought that entered his head was how suicidally brave a score of mostly naked men would have to be to ride up to the Roman cavalry and demand to speak to their commander. After all, word must have spread to them by now of the Gaulish council’s decision and Caesar’ approach.
These were the sort of men who would try and outstare a crocodile.
“Let’s be patient and courteous, gentlemen” Caesar said quietly as they slowed on the approach.
“Good greet Caesar” intoned one of the lead tribesmen as the general reined in and turned his horse to face the visitors with the expert knee control of a cavalryman. Fronto, less sure and practiced, simply hauled on the reins until Bucephalus complied.
“Good day” replied Caesar. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
There was a brief silence, and then a huddle of confused murmuring.
“Who are you” simplified the general.
“We not here to fight Roman.”
“Clearly not, with only twenty men” the general smiled. The visitors frowned in incomprehension. Finally someone seemed to grasp the point.
“We – all tribe – we not cross Renos to fight Roman.”
“I can imagine.”
The man narrowed his eyes, a strange move that, given his wild hair and huge beard, almost entirely removed his face from the picture.
“But if Roman want fight, we not run.”
“How kind. It would certainly save us some energy and legwork.”
A chortle broke out among the officers and again the tribesmen conferred until they reached a consensus about what had actually been said.
“Tribes never turn from war. Ancestors fight; we fight. On to tomorrow. Never we talk ‘stead of fight. Is Roman way, yes?”
“I would invite you to put that to the test” smiled Caesar coldly, causing another confab.
“But this time different. Tribes here because we pushed across Renos.”
“Indeed.”
“So we talk. You leave us land we take, we support Roman. We make many strong horse warrior for you. Is good trade.”
Labienus nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not a bad option, Caesar. I’m sure we could talk the council around.”
Caesar glanced at him once and Fronto couldn’t see the general’s expression, but the staff officer lowered his gaze deferentially. When he turned back to the visitors, Caesar’s face had taken on the hard military look that Fronto knew only too well. Impervious, imperious and immovable.
“I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I have already given my word to the chieftains of Gaul, who we now call ally. There can be no alliance with an aggressor into their territory. There is no land available
for you here. I believe that one of the tribes you represent is the Ubii who straddle both banks of the Rhenus? If that is the case, I urge you to settle in their lands on this side of the river. To this I will turn a blind eye, but to nowhere else.”
There was a long pause as the barbarians conferred again and Fronto watched them, curiously. Something was very odd about all of this. The man’s Latin was not wonderful, for sure, but he knew words like ‘ancestor’ and could form, admittedly broken, sentences. They should not be having so much trouble understanding the general’s words.
Frowning, he wondered why they appeared to be labouring over this more than need be.
“Caesar – you give three day. We deliver term and come with reply. Good, yes?”
Fronto frowned. Three days now too? He wished there were some way to speak to the general alone. Suspicions were forming like dark clouds around his brain and he felt a storm coming. A flash of inspiration struck him and he dug deep into his mind for the words.
“I expect they will have great trouble understanding this” he said loudly to the General, in rusty Greek.
Caesar turned to frown at him and then, seeing the urgent look on his face, turned back to the small group. A new sense of worry and confusion had fallen on them, as though everything that had happened had been their own plan, but this new and incomprehensible development was a serious problem.
“I didn’t even realise you knew the tongue, Marcus,” Caesar replied in fluent Greek with a marked Illyrian accent. “Go on. I think we’re mentally alone.”
“Caesar” Fronto said, again in Greek, “they’re just trying to delay us all. I don’t know what their game is but they’ve been deliberately faffing and now they’re asking for more time.”
Caesar nodded, wrinkling his lip.
“I fear they are trying to buy time to bring home the huge amount of horse I understand they sent raiding to the south a few days ago. Without them, they will be at a disadvantage against us.”
“Would that it were that, Caesar, but I think it’s more important than that. The Ubii at least are supposed to be reasonably civilized, or so Galronus said. They trade with Rome. If they were going to send ambassadors, they would be noblemen with fluent Latin, dressed like rich men and would act like them.”
4.Conspiracy of Eagles Page 10
