Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  The centurion nodded. Fronto waited. Clearly conversation was not one of Furius’ strong points.

  “And Pompey, eh?”

  Another nod.

  “And now you serve with Caesar. You’re making a career of soldiering for some great generals. Did you not think of signing up to go east with Crassus?”

  Furius’ step faltered and he slowed, turning to Fronto and casting a withering glance that took the legate by surprise.

  “Well, I mean” Fronto said almost defensively, “you’ve served in the east before with Lucullus and Pompey. You know the lands and peoples. You’ll be used to the heat and the dryness, and it’s no secret even in Rome that Crassus is mounting a campaign against Parthia. I imagine at least half of the veterans of Pompey and Lucullus’ legions will be signing on to march with him.”

  The withering stare was making him extremely uncomfortable. With the almost bestial features of the man, he couldn’t escape the impression that Furius was eyeing him in much the same way as a bear might eye its next prospective meal.

  “I’m just interested in what brings a veteran of the eastern campaigns out to soggy, cold Gaul when he has the option of returning to the east.”

  They were approaching the Tenth’s command tents now as Furius turned to face front again. The centurion made a strange nasal noise and cleared his throat.

  “Caesar is a great general. Even Pompey thinks so. Crassus is a rich moron with the military expertise of a gutter whore. Those who go east with Crassus are signing on for a parched journey into the jaws of Cerberus. I choose life and glory.”

  As they came to a halt at the tent, Furius turned to him again.

  “It has been obvious since Ostia that you neither like nor trust me, legate Fronto. And from what I’ve heard of you, I believe you’re a dangerously unpredictable drunkard to have in a position of command; insolent and disobedient. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the centurionate before you were beaten to death for the things you say and do. I think we can both agree that we dislike each other intensely and that we’re both grateful we serve in different legions, and whatever you’re hoping to get out of this conversation, I hope you’ve got it now, because the conversation is over. I will not breach protocol by entering the tent of a senior officer unbidden and I have no desire to lay eyes on the debauchery that I hear goes on. Would you be so kind as to send the camp prefect out to speak to me?”

  Fronto stood still for a long moment, staring at the centurion. The man had just insulted him at a very personal level as well as a professional one and, in theory, Fronto could have the man broken for speaking to him like that. And yet he found that no words would spring to his lips for his throat had run as dry as the Parthian sands.

  Trying to communicate his anger with only his expression, Fronto turned away and entered his tent.

  Priscus sat on his bunk, shaking two dice in a leather cup, while Galronus, Brutus and Varus sat on cushions on the floor with cups of well-watered wine.

  “Gnaeus? There’s a self-righteous arsehole of a centurion outside who needs accurate cavalry figures for Caesar.”

  Priscus nodded, making to rise.

  “Slow down, my friend. I would take it as a very great personal favour if you took your time getting him them. Perhaps you could struggle to find the tablets with the figures on?”

  Priscus gave him a half-smile. “I won’t need to fake that. Finding anything in that mess is like trying to find a virgin at the Bacchanalia. Bit childish, though? Making him look bad like that?”

  Fronto glared at him. “I’ve already been called insolent, disobedient, drunken and debauched in the last two minutes. I could do without you adding childish to the list.”

  Priscus grinned. “But they’re almost all your most endearing traits!”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the men on the floor and Fronto shared his glare with them all.

  “Just do it, Gnaeus.”

  Priscus nodded and made for the tent’s exit. Fronto turned his attention to the rest of them.

  “Varus? Galronus? Just how detailed is your knowledge of your commands?”

  Varus smiled, immediately latching on to Fronto’s point. “Good enough, I’d say. Let’s just stop off and pick up Piso on the way. He’s with the quartermaster.”

  Fronto smiled. It was petty. It was childish in the most pathetic way, to sidetrack Furius and delay him, while he himself supplied Caesar with the information directly from the commanders of the three cavalry units. And yet it gave him a little thrill of happiness to drop the obstinate centurion in the dung heap.

  Two weeks passed in drudgery at the Divoduron camps. Spring began to blossom into early summer with a brief play of storms that cleared the air and brought a fresh blue-skied world to northern Gaul. The cavalry had mounted patrols that ranged over the few miles around the encampment and across the ridge onto the far plain, though the Germanic aggressors remained steadfastly out of reach toward the Rhenus.

  The legions champed at the bit each and every day, feeling the need to move and exercise their sword arms as opposed to sitting in camp digging latrines and carrying out routine guard duties. The men asked of their centurions and optios when the army would move, and those officers in turn asked their legates and tribunes when the march would begin. And inevitably, since few dared question the permanently-busy general, most senior officers asked the same question of the camp prefect.

  Priscus pushed aside the flap of the tent without asking for admittance or preamble of any sort, ignoring the surprised look from Fronto who stood shaving with a specially sharpened knife in front of a bronze disc. As the legate turned at the unexpected and unorthodox interruption, Priscus unfastened his helmet as he crossed the large tent and flung it angrily at the wall, where it hit, bounced, and rolled under the bed.

  “Come in.”

  The prefect turned a glare on Fronto that carried so much raw irritation that the legate accidentally jumped a little and nicked a neat red line above his Adam’s apple.

  “Don’t start with me, Marcus. Your tent was the nearest place I knew I could drown my sorrows.”

  “Bad day again?”

  “I’d never have accepted this commission if I’d known what it involved. Morons, donkey-brains, thieves, wastrels, layabouts and flatheads all badgering me day and night for details I don’t have, supplies I can’t get, tasks that no one will do and shite-knows what else. I swear the next person who asks me when the army marches is going to be visiting the medicus with a gladius hanging out of his arse, only probably hilt-upwards.”

  Fronto grinned. “So when…”

  “Knob off. Get the wine out and don’t bother with the water. I’ll go down your route today.”

  Fronto looked at the patchy bristles on his face in the bronze disc, shrugged and, turning, collected two cups and a wine jug from the table by the bed — a location for keeping wine that had practical benefits of which his sister wholeheartedly disapproved. He’d even joked about digging a personal latrine on the other side, too, so he wouldn’t need to get out of bed until he was called for.

  “So what’s especially troubling you today?”

  Priscus sighed as he gratefully accepted a proffered cup. “The simple answer is that the army will be moving in the next few days, and every hour it gets closer brings more work and more idiots.”

  He gestured expansively with his free arm, sloshing the wine over the edge of his cup onto Fronto’s bed, the legate noted with dismay.

  “We currently have in supply enough grain to keep the entire force in the field for four weeks. Caesar seems to think that the amount is ample and that, if the campaign stretches more than a month, we can start foraging and rely on the supply train reaching us from Vesontio and beyond.”

  “And we can’t?”

  “One thing I’ve learned in this job is that quartermasters are disorganised and lazy and that Cita is the biggest, fattest, laziest blob of grease that ever wore a helmet. We’d probably be better r
elying on buying it from local tribes if it weren’t for the fact that the local tribes won’t have any because of the bloody stinking Germanics!”

  Fronto opened his mouth, but Priscus was in full flow. “And we’ve got several thousand new cavalry coming in later today, which will stretch those supplies slightly thinner too. Plus for some unknown reason it’s become my job to organise the redistribution of the cavalry between Varus, Piso and Galronus. As if they couldn’t do it themselves.”

  Fronto grunted and let his friend barrage on.

  “I’ve decided on the quick answer to that anyway. Galronus’ lot will be split to bolster the other existing units and our Remi friend can have all the new raw cavalry for his own.”

  “That’s hardly fair on Galronus.”

  “Varus will argue against having them and take it to Caesar, and Piso has a good rep, but I don’t know him well enough yet. At least Galronus can mould them into a unit and I don’t have to do any splitting up and moving about.”

  Fronto smiled and took a quick pull of the wine, the last jar of good stuff that he’d brought in his personal baggage. After this it was a matter of relying on whatever Cita had in stock.

  “Well at least you’ll be able to relax once we’re on the move.”

  “It doesn’t bloody work like that, Marcus. When we move, I just have to start working on the next night’s camp.”

  “You’ll just have to train up some of the men Caesar gave you and then…”

  His helpful suggestion tailed off as the door flap swept open once again and Carbo ducked in through the door.

  “Sir?”

  “Does nobody in this camp knock any more?”

  Carbo, the primus pilus of the Tenth, held his helmet beneath his arm, the feathery transverse crest tickling his armpit as he gestured breathlessly with his vine staff.

  “Sorry, legate… no time.” He gulped in a deep breath. “Need help, sort of urgent-ish!”

  Fronto framed his question, but Carbo had already ducked back outside the tent. The legate and the camp prefect shared a confused and concerned frown. Carbo was not a man to rush or be jumpy for paltry things. Grateful he’d already strapped on his boots, Fronto stood, dropping the cup to the table and grasping the hilt of his gladius. If something had made Carbo jumpy, he wanted to be prepared.

  Priscus was at his shoulder as he stepped outside to find Carbo waiting impatiently on the main roadway, his usual pink features flushed to an almost beetroot colour.

  “What the hell is it?”

  Carbo gestured down the road and started to jog with the gait of a man who has just sprinted to his own speed record and needs a breather. As he ran, the two senior officers keeping pace with him, he spoke in brief staccato bursts between heaving breaths.

  “Centurion in… the Seventh. He’s… he’s sentenced a man… to death.”

  Fronto and Priscus shared a surprised glance again. It was an unpleasant thing, but hardly unknown, and nothing to do with anyone outside the Seventh.

  “Carbo, what is the actual problem?”

  The centurion realised they’d stopped and pulled up short, heaving in a huge breath.

  “Man fell out of step during drill. Now he’s to be beaten to death!”

  Fronto’s eyes widened. “That’s insane!”

  Carbo, his breath spent, simply nodded and pointed onwards, in the direction of the distant camp of the Seventh.

  Priscus narrowed his eyes. “But this is the province of their legate. Where’s Cicero. You should have gone to him first.”

  Carbo shook his head wildly. “Legate Cicero is in with Caesar and not to be disturbed, like most of the seniors. One of their lesser centurions found me and asked me to help. He was one of ours til he got reassigned over winter.”

  Fronto and Priscus began to run.

  “I have a sinking feeling. The centurion who’s in charge of the punishment. Would it be a certain Furius by any chance?”

  Carbo shook his head. “Name’s Fabius.”

  “That would have been my second guess, yes.”

  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 CampPrefect 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, centuri
on?” 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.