Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  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 veteran 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 yards 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 b
odies. 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 ordered 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.

  “There’s another explanation. Either Priscus is mistaken, or Pompey is doing something for our mutual benefit. Most likely Priscus is mistaken, though. It is common knowledge in Rome just how much Pompey dislikes Clodius. I am much more concerned about the fact that Clodius has managed to slip more men into my legions. The infection continues to spread despite our efforts. Have you had the three apprehended yet?”

  Fronto cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “After a fashion. They went for a stroll in the Elysian Fields this afternoon. Looks like someone didn’t want them to speak to us.”

  Caesar shook his head irritably.

  “Not a great help. Now we are back to square one unless Priscus can unearth the rest of these names for us.”

  Fronto shifted uneasily.

  “What would you say, Caesar, if I were to point out that the three men in question had all served with Pompey in Syria and Armenia in the last decade and had received their honesta missio about six years ago?”

  The general frowned.

  “There are thousands of veterans of Pompey’s army still floating around, Fronto. You know veteran soldiers; many of them sicken quickly of the quiet life and sign up at the next opportunity. I think that reading conspiracy into it is reaching a little. Again, it is circumstantial at best.”

  “With respect, Caesar, while you may be right, ignoring this could be a huge mistake. If there is more to this than you believe, something is festering just below the surface of the army and involves both Clodius and Pompey.”

  The general sat silent for a moment and finally nodded.

  “Agreed. But there is little we can do about it for now. I assume you will be replying to Priscus? Please ask him to send on any further information as and when he tracks it down and continue to do the excellent job he appears to be doing. I will make my gratitude felt when I next see him.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “And” the general gestured with a raised finger, ”I have been thinking on our situation here with the Veneti. I believe there may be a solution. We need to settle this region swiftly and get back to Rome. Pass the word among the officers to attend a staff meeting here at dawn.”

  Fronto smiled and nodded again as he turned and strode toward the doorway.

  “Your help is, as always, immeasurable and gratefully received” the general called after him.

  Smiling to himself grimly, Fronto stepped out into the late afternoon on this, the last day of Iunius, and looked up in surprise to see a patch of blue sky opening up between the clouds.

  “Let that be an end to it…”

  Chapter 9

  (Quintilis: temporary camp on the Armorican coast)

  “Everyone is here, Caesar.”

  The general nodded and rose to stand behind the table, leaning forward, his hands on the surface.

  “Very well, gentlemen. The purpose of this meeting is to find a way to break the Veneti. Our strategy so far has been somewhat inadequate. However, the summer is wearing on and my presence is required elsewhere as soon as things are settled in Gaul, and we need to end this decisively, and soon. So, the first order of the meeting, I would say, is to go through what we have achieved, what resources we have available, and the disposition and likely strategy of the enemy. Then we can decide how to go about dealing with them.”

  Sighing glumly, Brutus gestured and stood.

  “As I’m sure you’re all aware, the fleet has been less than effective during the campaign so far. We have been hampered by our inability to deal with the rocky shores, our inability to make it far out into the sea while racked with bad weather, and our general inferiority to the Gallic fleet in terms of both strength and speed.”

  Galba gestured to him.

  “Is the upshot of this that the fleet are to be effectively reduced to the task of scouting?”

  “Not quite,” Brutus shook his head. “We have various possible solutions, but the problem is that we need to be able to get our hands on their ships to try them. And since they
can outrun us in most conditions, unless it’s completely becalmed, we need to trap them for that.” He smiled wanly.

  “Mind you, it looks like the weather might be breaking, though I’d hate to tempt the fates about that. If the winds and storms would die down, our range of operation would increase tremendously and, conversely, the enemy, who rely solely on the wind in their sails, might be put at a disadvantage.”

  He folded his arms.

  “So, in fact, the upshot is that it all depends on the weather. I’m making a libation every morning with the best wine and fruit I can find to every God I can think of and I suggest everyone else does the same. If things improve, the fleet will finally be able to play its part.”

  Caesar nodded professionally.

  “Very well. Here is my assessment of our achievements:”

  Fronto readied himself for a stormy moment, but the general maintained his composure and his voice was clear and steady.

  “I have thought long and hard on the subject and I am convinced now that we have been far from ineffective. We have continually driven the Veneti to the northwest, reducing the fortresses and settlements as we progress. It has felt as though we are chasing an elusive foe and that they are always a step ahead of us. However, an objective look at the situation allows one to draw an entirely different conclusion.”

  He waved a hand across the map he was leaning upon.

  “We have pushed them into a corner and they are running out of places to flee to. We have removed their control over nine tenths of their entire territory. If the fleet is able to act as a cordon, they can prevent the Veneti from fleeing past us again to the south but, even if they did, they have no defensible fortresses there now. They are almost at the limit of their territory to the northwest, where the Osismii live and, while the Osismii are currently their allies, I suspect the alliance will become rather shaky if that tribe suddenly has to play host to the whole displaced mass of the Veneti.”