Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto nodded. “I will, Carbo, but first I want to go find Priscus. Any idea where he might be?”

  Carbo pointed to one of the tents ahead. “That’s his tent there, sir. He’s just finished morning inspection of the camps, so he’ll be there. It’s astounding how many things he can find wrong, legate.”

  Fronto smiled for the first time that day.

  “Giving you a hard time, eh? He has to, Carbo. Having come from the Tenth, he can’t be seen to be showing favouritism.”

  “Don’t I know it, sir? He was never this tough when he was my commander. I shall be at the Tenth’s principia tent when you require me.”

  Fronto nodded as the man strode off toward his own command.

  “See who lurks nearby” Galronus muttered, leaning close. Fronto followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes. Centurion Fabius leaned against a tethering post close to the command section, idly picking his teeth with a splinter from a stick.

  “I think we can afford another minute’s detour.” Fronto smiled unpleasantly, and angled toward the officer. Fabius, a dour-looking man with dark stubble reaching almost from eyes to collar, turned a pale ice-blue, piercing gaze on Fronto and straightened with an almost deliberately insolent slowness, throwing out a salute. He was unarmoured and unarmed apart from his vine staff, his tousled iron-grey hair waving in the gentle breeze.

  “Fabius?”

  “Legate Fronto. I trust you had a good journey?”

  Fronto nodded. He’d seen the attitude before: borderline insolent, full of hidden disdain, with a faint sneer. It was an expression career soldiers, and centurions in particular, reserved for the noble classes who liked to play commander without any real hint of military sense. Fabius could hardly be expected to view Fronto any differently, but it did little to prevent Fronto’s dislike of the dark officer growing to almost boiling point.

  “Been in camp long, Fabius?”

  “Four days, sir. Made good time. Left our luggage to come on later with the supply train and just brought a saddlebag, sir. Like you, apparently.”

  “Did you travel alone then?”

  “Yessir. For speed.”

  “Dangerous, given the unsettled nature of Gaul.” The centurion shrugged as if to suggest that he found more dangerous things than barbarian Gaul in his boot. “And the tribunes you were with at Massilia?”

  Fabius shrugged nonchalantly. “The two junior tribunes got a message at the staging post in Massilia and rushed off ahead even of us. I think they were authorised to use courier horses and change mounts. They’d been here for days when we arrived. I think the senior tribune bloke was going to knock around in Massilia for a bit before he set off. Didn’t seem too inclined to rush.”

  Fronto frowned and wished Priscus was with him. His former chief centurion claimed to be able to identify lies, and the results of dice games with him suggested it was true. Though Fronto would be prepared to put a month’s wage on there being an untruth or half-truth there, he could not confirm it.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Fronto glared at that smug smile, wondering momentarily whether he could legitimately get away with wiping it away with a right hook. The glare sliding into a sullen frown, he folded his arms and straightened.

  “No. If you see Menenius and his ferret-brained friend can you ask them to come and find me.”

  The man’s parting salute carried, if anything, even more insolence and spite than his opening one, but Fronto ignored it and turned back, gesturing to Galronus as the pair strode on to the camp prefect’s tent ahead.

  Two of Aulus Ingenuus’ praetorian cavalry guard stood outside Priscus’ tent, rigid and armed for war, their crimson plumes whipping in the breeze. Their spears crossed as the two men approached, barring the way. Fronto came to a halt and nodded at them.

  “Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth, and Galronus, commander of the allied Gallic horse to see the camp prefect.”

  “The prefect’s left orders he is not to be disturbed, legate, I’m afraid.”

  Fronto glared at the man and cleared his throat.

  “Priscus!” he bellowed. There was a sudden crash and a thud in the tent as of something heavy toppling over.

  “Fronto?” came a slightly muffled voice.

  “Let us in!”

  A moment passed before the tent door was heaved aside and Priscus’ face appeared in the gap. His eyes were underlined with dark circles, his face pale and unhealthy, and his hair knotted and uncombed.

  “You took your bloody time. Get in here.”

  Fronto shared a look with Galronus as the camp prefect disappeared inside once more and the two guards saluted and straightened, removing the obstacle from their path.

  Priscus had returned to a large desk and was busy trying to gather a pile of wooden writing tablets that had fallen to the floor, though they kept slipping from his grasp in comedic fashion. Fronto and Galronus stood in the tent’s entrance and took in the sight.

  Priscus had the look of a man extremely short on sleep and bothered. Somehow it was extremely odd seeing their old friend dressed in the leather tunic and pteruges of a senior officer, his burnished cuirass and helmet standing on one of a number of wooden cabinets around the tent.

  “You need a hand, Gnaeus?”

  “Just sit down and let me get these put away” Priscus snapped, returning to grumbling under his breath as he replaced the tablets on the table, then rearranged them half a dozen times until he was satisfied that they were in the correct order. His gaze then strayed up from them to his visitors and he slapped his hands down on the oak surface, leaning heavily.

  “Paetus may have been trouble, but the man must have had a mind like a damn librarian. How he kept all this straight, I have no idea. I’d just about got things set over the winter quarters, then we move here and it starts all over again. It’s a never-ending bloody task. The last time I slept we had different Consuls, I’m sure.”

  Fronto smiled benignly. “I suspect you’re taking on more than you need to. I understand you’ve been interfering in the quartermaster’s duties too?”

  “I had to” Priscus snapped irritably. “You have no idea how damn disorganised it all was. Whatever I needed was always ‘on the way’ or ‘snagged up in transport at Massilia’ or ‘not available until next month’. Cita’s organisation is a pissing joke! Caesar’s trying to foist a number of assistants on me to play camp prefect for each legion; says that’s what Pompey always did. But that just means I have eight more disorganised idiots to tidy up after, so I’ve set them all to counting things just to piss off Cita and his assistants.”

  Fronto couldn’t stifle his short laugh and Galronus was starting to smile now.

  “Can you give me a quick rundown on what’s happening before I go see Caesar?”

  Priscus narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t been yet?”

  Fronto shook his head, and Priscus scratched his chin and then slumped into a seat. “You’d best hurry then; he’ll be twitching for you to turn up.”

  “Fine. Just give me a quick list, then. Note form if you need to.”

  Priscus leaned back and scratched his head.

  “Well you’ll see that all eight legions are here, along with the cavalry, though they’re all a bit depleted since Caesar settled his veterans and almost half the Gallic horse have disbanded now that the uprisings have been quashed. Their contract to the general was complete and Caesar thought it politic to let them return to their tribes.”

  “Aye, we’ve seen the forces. And I know there’s some trouble with the Germanic tribes. Go on.”

  “Well, there’s the Seventh. At Caesar’s behest, I’ve spent the entire winter trying to identify any soldier that has any Pompeian connection or uncertain history and transferring them all to the Seventh. Appropriately, most of the veterans and solid men of the Seventh have now been moved out and dispersed among the other legions. It’s been a bureaucratic nightmare.”

  “Who has been given command of this rot
ten legion, then?” asked Galronus quietly.

  “Who else? Cicero. With his ties to the knobs in Rome who’re speaking out against the general, he was an obvious choice.”

  “I thought Cicero was bound for the Eighth since Balbus left?”

  “Young Brutus has managed to secure the Eighth. Spent half the winter badgering the general by letter, I gather, and started in person as soon as Caesar arrived. They seem quite happy with him. The Seventh is a bit restive, mind.”

  “Not surprised. They’ll have plenty of chances to prove their loyalty, I suspect. I’m guessing that two new centurions by the name of Furius and Fabius are now in the Seventh? Anything else? What about the Tenth?”

  Priscus shrugged. “Tenth are as good as they’re ever going to be without me sticking a vine staff up their arse on morning parade. Carbo’s a good man. I’ve got him terrorising the worst layabouts. And yes, there’s two new veteran centurions with the Seventh, as well as a few optios and legionaries. You met them then?”

  “The pair travelled with us a way. I’d trust them about as far as I could reasonably spit a donkey. Pompeians through and through.”

  Priscus nodded. “Pompeians they may be, but those two centurions have a hell of an impressive record. Might be just what the Seventh need if they’re going to prove themselves.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing you won’t hear when the Gauls arrive to speak to the general — I expect he’ll tell you about that. Anyway, I am busy, so you’d best go present yourselves before Caesar starts to get angry. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Fronto glanced at Galronus as Priscus turned back to his bureaucracy, acutely aware that they’d just been summarily dismissed by a theoretically inferior officer. The two men shrugged and, ignored by the camp prefect, strode out of the office and turned to make for the large command tent nearby, guarded by six of Ingenuus’ cavalrymen.

  The men to either side of the door straightened and crossed their spears again as the two men approached and Fronto drew in a deep breath to announce himself just as the familiar, tight and strained voice of the general issued from the tent.

  “Fronto? Get in here.”

  Galronus smiled at him as the two guardsmen straightened and removed the impediment, allowing them to enter the slightly dim, spacious interior. The general was clearly in his element. Always invigorated by the commencement of a military campaign, and animated in his planning of such, Caesar moved energetically to the desk, his eyes bright, and leaned his back against it, crossing his arms. His hair seemed to have receded a little further over the winter, but otherwise he appeared as young and vital as ever he had.

  “I was starting to think about sending out scouts to try and find you, Marcus.” His sole concession to Galronus’ presence was a respectful nod in his direction.

  “We came with good speed, Caesar, barring a two day layover at Massilia to visit Balbus.”

  “And how is Quintus? Well, I hope? In truth I had hoped to pay him a visit myself on my journey north, though events beyond my control required me to reach the army with all speed.” His face took on a sly smile. “But then, I suspect you had a more pressing need to speak to him than I. How is the lovely Lucilia?”

  Fronto felt the colour rise to his face and once more damned his own blood for it.

  “She’s good Caesar. Look, I’m sorry about this, but there’s some bad news we have to deliver before anything else happens.”

  Caesar nodded. “Best get on with it then.”

  Fronto looked at Galronus, who shrugged uncertainly. Turning back to the general, he clenched his fists by his side.

  “It’s about your nephew, Caesar.”

  “Young Pinarius? I’d assumed he’d come with you. Don’t tell me the half-wit’s got himself waylaid.”

  “I’m sorry, Caesar, but it’s worse than that. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” The general never even flinched. His eyebrow arched slightly, but the only other sign that the news was of import was a slight whitening of the knuckles as he gripped his own elbows. “How?”

  “He was found in a tavern cellar in Vienna, general. He had been stabbed deliberately. I saw the body myself. I’d put good money on the murder weapon being a standard issue pugio, the blow delivered by a professional hand, and I have some theories as to the reason. Galronus and I have been mulling it over as we travelled. There’s these two centurions…”

  “It’s damned inconvenient.”

  Fronto blinked. “Caesar?”

  The general unfolded his arms and tapped his chin with two fingers thoughtfully.

  “Very inconvenient. Oh, not for you, of course. I’m sure you’ll be happier without a senior tribune for the Tenth. And Priscus will be happy not to have to deal with him. But I’ll have to write to his mother and his wife. Young Domitia will be beside herself. Pinarius may have been a waste of good skin and bone, but she loved him for some reason, and he gave her a son. Inconvenient.”

  “’Inconvenient’?” Fronto said with a dangerous edge to his tone.

  “Indeed. Oh Fronto, stop looking so offended. You’ve barely met the man. I doubt he’d have lasted very long out here anyway. Julia pushed me into giving him a term in command, and my sister usually gets what she wants in the end. Now perhaps I’ll get no more family members foisted on me.”

  Fronto felt the old familiar anger rising and it was with some difficulty that he forced his abhorrence at the general’s off-hand, casual dismissal of the matter down into his deep, seething soul, where it could fester until the next time he had cause to explode at the Republic’s favourite son. It would only be a matter of time, after all.

  “Do you wish an investigation into the matter?” he asked tightly.

  “If you want to, be my guest, Marcus, but don’t let it interfere with more important matters. Great things are afoot. The Germanic tribes are moving and threatening our hard-won peace. I’m interested to see what the Gallic noblemen have to say to me before we consider repeating our chastisement of Ariovistus, however.”

  Fronto’s hard gaze remained on the general. “What is the current situation then, Caesar? Are we to move out shortly? I’ve not seen signs of decamping.”

  The general shook his head and folded his arms again.

  “The Gallic tribes near the Rhenus have a large force of Germanic tribesmen encamped in their lands. Mostly they are bulk infantry of the type we have encountered before, though apparently, these tribes…” he closed his eyes in a moment of recall “the Ubii, the Usipetes and the Tencteri — also have a form of cavalry. I am led to believe that they do not use their horse the same as us, but dismount for the fight. I enquired of my sources as to how effective that could possibly be, but I am given to understand that they are fearsome indeed.”

  Fronto nodded. “So what are the local Gauls doing about them?”

  “Mostly cowering in their huts” Caesar said, surprisingly without a sneer. “These trans-Rhenal tribes have a dangerous reputation, Marcus. They have been preying on the more peaceful tribes for centuries. I understand that their people divide into two groups and alternate annually between breeding horses and feed animals, and raiding and fighting. Essentially, their tribes have not seen a peaceful season in a hundred generations.”

  Galronus, next to Fronto, nodded.

  “The Tencteri I am particularly familiar with, general. They are bred for war. They live for war and pillage. They have learned these ways from the Suevi, a tribe that lives in the wastes beyond, to the east, and whom you should pray to your Gods that you never meet. I have heard tales in Rome that the Germanic tribes are all six feet tall or more, with the bodies of Vulcan, flame red hair, and are weaned on the blood of their enemies. Not so for many tribes, but the Suevi are the source of those tales. Among the Belgae they are the ghouls of childhood tales.”

  Caesar nodded thoughtfully. “Fortunate for us, then, that we face only these other three tribes. What do you think of them, master Galronus?”
>
  “The Tencteri are dangerous and warlike, and the Usipetes almost the same. The Ubii are more civilized. They have traded with the Belgae for many decades, and have often shown restraint. However, if they have crossed the Rhenus, it is because the Suevi forced them, and that will mean they are desperate. And desperate men are unpredictable and dangerous.”

  Fronto tried to take it all in but, as was often the case in briefings such as this, the names battered at his skull, refusing to sink into the brain matter within. His soldier’s brain distilled it for him in the moment’s silence that followed.

  “So you’re telling me that the Suevi are essentially monsters from nightmare, and they have pushed three tribes that are lesser-nightmare-monsters across the river, where they’ve frightened the locals enough that they hide? Is that the upshot?”

  Caesar smiled benevolently.

  “Succinct as ever, Marcus. But furthermore, I received visitors from those tribes on whose lands they settled. Two days ago, men came to seek our help.”

  The general’s smile was the old wolf grin that Fronto recognised instantly. It was that satisfied smile Caesar wore when everything he’d pushed for and hoped for had fallen into place, giving him exactly what he wanted.

  “They asked you to go to war with these Uspi-thingies and their friends?”

  “They had sent their own ambassadors, offering the invaders chattels, food, weapons, warriors, herds and much more just to return across the Rhenus; a cowardly offer, of course. These tribes are unwilling to return to their own lands, as their nightmare enemies from the east await them there. But even should they not be, why would they leave the lands of men so weak as to try and buy their absence? No, the Ubii and their allies simply accepted such weakness for what it was, and expanded the area of land they were depredating to take in more Gallic tribes.”

  “We’ve pacified Gaul and thus left it open to new predators” Fronto said quietly. “We’ve killed off or conscripted so many of their warriors they no longer have the strength to defend themselves from other tribes. It is not weakness that drove them to it, Caesar. It was our conquest that did that.”