‘Not my fellows, sir. Never even been this far west. Still…’ he turned a searching gaze on Fronto ‘… if you’re trying to find a subtle way to enquire as to my loyalty, remember that I’m a centurion in the Thirteenth, and my legion is a proud one; bound to be, since most of us are Gauls. I hear that you are a man of the legions; people say you’re one of the men. If that’s the case, could I respectfully ask you to get to the point?’
Fronto nodded quietly.
‘I’m on the lookout for a chief training officer. Your name was one of three that my primus pilus supplied.’
‘I’m quite happy where I am, sir.’
Fronto smiled slyly.
‘I’ve not offered you it, yet. I’ve plenty to think on first.’
Atenos smiled at him.
‘Who are your other choices?’
‘Aquilius from the Eighth and Bassianus from the Eleventh.’
The huge Gaul scratched his chin.
‘Take Bassianus.’
Fronto frowned up at him.
‘I’ve already spoken to both of them. Why not Aquilius? He’s eminently qualified, and my primus pilus thinks he’d accept.’
‘I’m sure he’d accept, but choose Bassianus. I’ve watched Aquilius work while we were in winter quarters. He’s too straight and proper for the Tenth. He’ll end up resenting the chaos your lads live in, and your men will learn to hate him. It’s a problem best avoided from the start.’
‘You think the Tenth are chaotic?’
Again, Atenos laughed.
‘In the best possible sense of the word, but yes; of course they are, sir. Not in battle, mind. I’m not saying they’re not disciplined, and even the general himself acknowledges that the Tenth are the best of his legions. Chaos works for you, and it works well. It wouldn’t work with Aquilius there. Steer clear.’
The big man looked down at Fronto’s scowl.
‘Bassianus is a good man. His men are always tired and dirty but smiling. That means he keeps them working and training hard, but fairly and with appropriate reward. He’s your man.’
Fronto stepped back. His neck was beginning to ache in this conversation.
‘You could be right. I’d certainly rather have someone who works with the lads, rather than just working them.’
Atenos laughed again.
‘Glad to be of help, legate. Feel free to drop by any time you feel like having a death-defying crap.’
Fronto could not help but return the laugh and nodded in a casual fashion as he turned and strode away across the grass, his arms folded.
The big Gaul was right. Bassianus was almost certainly the man for the job but, as he walked back toward the tents of the Tenth Legion, Fronto could not shake off the feeling that passing over the possibility of the hulking Gaul might be a mistake. He was clever enough and clearly brave, but what Fronto had not expected was the man’s matter-of-fact and almost eerily acute assessment of the other centurions on the list. That kind of mind was what made a good training officer.
The legate was still thinking hard on the situation, unsure how to proceed, as he approached his command tent and raised his head in surprise to see two men standing by the door flap.
‘Can I help?’
The two men saluted. One was one of the duty centurions that Fronto vaguely recognised; the other was a nondescript Roman male in plain tunic, breeches and cloak, sweating and steaming from a hard ride.
‘Sir! Courier arrived for you just now.’
Fronto frowned at the men and then nodded.
‘Very well.’ He gestured to the courier. ‘Come on in; thank you centurion.’
As the officer left to return to duty, Fronto pushed aside his tent flap, grateful once again to enter the comfort of his own little world as he heard the first few drops of fresh rain hit the leather.
‘So… a courier?’
The man bowed.
‘Yes, legate Fronto. I bring a missive from Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus in Rome. He tasked me to deliver it into your hands and no other.’
Fronto looked up, surprised.
‘Priscus? Well, well.’
He held out his hand, and the courier reached into his tunic, took out a wax-sealed tube and passed it over.
‘Could I respectfully request a bunk for the night and perhaps some food? It has been a long journey and master Priscus felt sure you would want me to wait and take a return message.’
Fronto nodded and waved a hand vaguely at the door while he examined the tube in his hands.
‘Find an officer somewhere out there and tell him you’ve got my go ahead for whatever it is you need.’
He waited as the man nodded respectfully and left the tent, and then eagerly broke the seal at the end of the tube, sliding the scroll out and flattening it on the table before picking it up to read. He smiled at Priscus’ spiderlike writing. He was hardly a master scribe.
Marcus.
I hope you are well, and everything goes to plan out there. If not I shall want to know why from that Illyrian goat herder that is doing my job. I am sorry that I have not written sooner, but you know how much I hate writing, and the courier costs an arm and a leg – feeble joke there, so ignore it.
Matters in Rome continue to descend into trouble. I have managed to gather a pretty impressive group of spies, thugs and borderline criminals here, and they are starting to produce results. You would be surprised at some of these results, too.
I have had people following Clodius, as well as his sister and that Egyptian catamite. Each has turned up interesting news. Clodius, if you can believe this, has been visiting the house of Pompey, and not during normal visiting hours. We have seen him in disguise in the middle of the night, slipping out of Pompey’s town house. You might want to pass that on to the general.
Clodia is particularly interesting. She was making a nuisance of herself for a few weeks after you left, showing Clodius up and trying to pin wrongdoings on a number of our acquaintances with no luck. Then, suddenly, she vanished. No one has seen or heard from her in well over a month now. I am personally of the opinion that her brother just got sick of her, stuck her in the gut and dropped her in the Tiber, but it is interesting nonetheless.
And then there’s Philopater. He has been distributing quite a sum of coinage to several families in Rome, all plebeian. I have done a little prying and was rather surprised to find who some of those families were. Three names I recognised and can identify at this stage are Tarautas, Fulcinius, and Volcatius, all of whom are senior veterans in the Eleventh legion and who you might want to have a little word with.
On the home news, I remain at your mother’s house, with a strong armed guard. Your mother and sister are both well and are planning to send you gifts soon if you are staying in Gaul for the season. I may have dropped myself in it when I enquired as to why your sister still lives at home at her age. Me and my mouth. I am so sorry; I never knew. I have trod carefully around her since then, but you know Faleria. She does not even know what a grudge is. Things will be fine.
I hunger for news of what is happening out there and I told the courier to do a little prying around and find out a few choice titbits for me. Feel free to use him to send a reply.
And that has exhausted both my news and my stylus hand. Now I go to raid your ever-depleting stock of good Campanian wine.
Be safe and Fortuna watch over you.
Gnaeus
Fronto smiled as he dropped the scroll back to the table. Interesting and somewhat worrying news, but just to hear from the man was a joy in itself.
‘Time to stir up the shit again…’
* * * * *
Crispus frowned at Fronto as he buckled the cuirass at his side.
‘Why my legion?’
Fronto exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Balbus by his side and looked a little apologetic as he replied.
‘Well the way we see it is that when they signed on, Caesar probably had six legions. The Seventh, Eighth, Ninth and Tenth were all ve
teran legions with long term experienced commanders. If they had an agenda of their own, they would be trying to lay low. The Eleventh and Twelfth were new and with… untried commanders.’
He shifted uneasily, but Crispus nodded professionally.
‘Don’t feel embarrassed, Marcus. When I took command of the Eleventh, I hardly knew one end of a gladius from the other. I was used to putting stylus to tablet in Rome. I was the obvious choice for them, I have to admit.’
He shrugged the armour into place comfortably and reached for his belt and scabbard.
‘But what are they here for? They must have been with the legion for more than a year now. Are they waiting to carry out some diabolical plan, or is it already in motion, wheels turning unseen beneath our feet?’
Fronto and Balbus made uncertain noises but said nothing.
‘Very well. I think it’s time we went to see the three. I had them taken to the headquarters tent. Until we know what we’re dealing with here, I thought it best to avoid the gossip that would arise inevitably from having them imprisoned in the stockade.’
‘We thought we’d best see your legion’s clerks first. Find out whatever we can of them?’
Crispus smiled at the other legates.
‘Unnecessary. There are few men in my legion of optio rank or above that I can’t detail for you.’
‘How can you have time to get to know all your officers?’ Fronto asked, his brow lowering. ‘I’ve had Carbo serving under me for years, and I’m not even sure I’d met him until Priscus went out of the picture.’
Crispus’ smile widened.
‘That, Marcus, is because you are, despite all appearances, a tremendously private person. I have noticed that you only open up to a few close friends. I make a point of finding out everything I can about my officers.’
Balbus scratched his bald head.
‘So what do you know about them?’
‘Fulcinius is the more senior of the three. He’s the Eleventh’s quartermaster. He’s meticulous, and I would have thought absolutely incorruptible. I have been told before that he has refused to bend the rules even for tribunes, though perhaps that is because he has been hiding something. He has a wife and two children; had a brother too, but lost him in Armenia a few years ago. They served out there together under Pompey.’
Again, Fronto and Balbus shared a look, and the legate of the Tenth formed the name ‘Pompey’ on his lips silently. Balbus nodded.
‘What about the others?’
‘Tarautas is the chief centurion of the Third cohort. First man in his family to go into the military, if I remember correctly. He has a huge family at Rome and in Antium. His uncle is a lanista in Antium with an impressive stable of gladiators. In fact, in his first few months with the Eleventh, we had a small problem with Tarautas, who was running an illicit ring of fighting competitions for money.’
Balbus watched Crispus fasten the cloak to his shoulders and tilted his head, a suspicious look crossing his face.
‘Tarautas? Was he by any chance also a veteran of Pompey’s Syrian legions?’
Crispus stopped as he was reaching for his helmet and frowned.
‘I believe he was. Got his honesta missio around six or seven years ago. You believe there is a link with Pompey?’
Fronto flattened his hands in a suppressing motion and shushed him.
‘That’s not a thing to go saying out loud; not without a whole barrow load of proof, anyway.’
Crispus nodded silently.
‘Volcatius was in Syria too. He’s the signifer for the Second century of the First Cohort. Three men in high position in my legion, and all with loyalties that lie elsewhere. That vexes me rather a lot.’
He slapped his fist into the palm of his hand.
‘A signifer, a chief centurion and a quartermaster.’
Fronto nodded.
‘Could be more too, and in other legions. These are just three names that Priscus recognised from a list of many.’
Crispus sighed as he made final adjustments to his armour before turning and opening the flap of his tent. Water dripped, cold and unpleasant, from every point and edge in the camp, the aftermath of the latest dramatic downpour; more likely the intermission before the next act. The headquarters tent stood only thirty paces away, four duty legionaries on guard at the entrance.
He strode out with a military gait, Fronto and Balbus at his heels, both similarly attired. As the three legates crossed the open space to the command tent, the four legionaries snapped sharply to attention.
‘Any trouble?’ Crispus asked as they approached.
‘Quiet as a mouse, sir’ the soldier replied. ‘Not a peep.’
‘Good. Dismissed. Go get some food.’
The legionaries saluted and walked off toward the centre of camp.
‘Is that a good idea’ Fronto asked quietly.
‘You think they might attack us? What could they gain? No, I think this had best be a professional, very private, and reasonable exchange.’
Fronto frowned.
‘I hope they think so too.’
Crispus gave a dark half-smile as he reached out for the tent flap and strode into the dim interior, the other two officers close on his heel.
The command tent was the largest in the camp, filled, as anyone who knew Crispus would expect, with tables, chairs, maps, cupboards full of tablets and racks full of scrolls. Two braziers supplied the warmth in the room and, along with two oil lamps, also supplied the light.
The interior was therefore dark and gloomy, even with the flap opened, and it took a moment for their eyes to become accustomed to the change.
‘Oh shit.’
Crispus and Balbus could only nod, echoing Fronto’s sentiments.
The bodies of three men in tunics and breeches lay in a heap in the centre of the room close to the table. The floor around them pooled with fresh blood and rivulets of the stuff ran down their alabaster faces and limbs, matching the tunic’s crimson.
Balbus shook his head and pinched his nose.
‘That’s just ridiculous! We hadn’t even spoken to them yet. They couldn’t have known what we were going to do!’
‘Idiots’ Fronto agreed. ‘No interrogations. Just bodies. That’s just stupid.’
Crispus stepped forward, frowning, and examined the pile.
‘I don’t think so, gentlemen.’
‘What?’
The young legate shrugged.
‘These are all senior officers. If they were going to take the noble route, tradition is to use your sword, and each would do it themselves. At least one of them still has his sword sheathed. This was done with a pugio or some other short dagger. And they are in a pile. Why would they, even as they died, throw themselves on each other in a heap?’
Fronto blinked.
‘They didn’t kill themselves?’
‘I very much doubt it. This was done by someone else, and it was done recently, quickly, professionally and must have taken them by surprise.’
Balbus nodded.
‘If they never even drew their swords.’
‘More than that. There must have been at least three of them. One assailant couldn’t have dealt with all three that quickly.’
Fronto slapped his head.
‘Did you recognise the legionaries on guard?’
Crispus blinked and stared at Fronto.
‘No. I don’t know many of the rank and file, I’m afraid. I never even thought to look.’
Fronto grumbled.
‘They said it had been quiet. They would have heard any sort of struggle and, that being the case, I think we just walked straight past the culprits and passed the time of day with them. They must have only just been leaving the tent when we arrived.’
Balbus gestured at Fronto.
‘You go and see Caesar about this. I’ll help try and sort this out.’
The legate of the Tenth gave them a quick nod and then, turning, left the tent and hurried through the rows of ordere
d tents and out of the section of the camp allotted to the Eleventh.
The general’s command tent was a hive of activity as Fronto arrived and nodded suspiciously at the legionaries on guard by the entrance. As he reached for the door, the flap opened and Brutus emerged, looking gaunt and tired, as was so often the case these days.
‘What sort of mood is he in?’
‘Changeable’ the young officer replied. ‘Step lightly.’
‘Not likely, I’m afraid’ Fronto sighed.
Patting the other man on the shoulder in a comradely fashion, Fronto stepped through the door into the tent. Cicero and Cita, the chief quartermaster, sat opposite the general in deep discussion.
‘Apologies for the rude interruption,’ Fronto announced from the entrance ‘but I need to speak to the general in private on an urgent matter.’
The two officers threw a questioning look at Caesar, who nodded. Fronto waited patiently as they stood, saluted, and turned to leave, before he approached the table and placed his hands on it.
He quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, and the tent flap was lowered.
‘How much do you trust Pompey Magnus?’
Caesar leaned forward.
‘Strange question. Why should you ask?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘How much?’
‘Beyond any reasonable doubt. We are close allies, along with Crassus. Fronto, he’s been my son-in-law for the past three years. I ask again why you should ask?’
The legate rubbed his eyes.
‘Evidence is beginning to point toward something involving Pompey. It’s all circumstantial, I grant you, but it’s pretty compelling, nonetheless.’
‘Explain.’
‘I just received a letter from Priscus. He’s been following Clodius and… well see for yourself.’
Reaching into his tunic, Fronto withdrew the crumpled parchment and tossed it onto the table before the general. Caesar raised an eyebrow and then unrolled the scroll and began to read. Fronto stood for a moment, watching a series of interesting expressions crossing the general’s face until he sat back and raised his face again, proffering the scroll. Fronto took it.
‘Well?’ he prompted.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 118
