Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  Once more, his gaze passed to Cicero and the two centurions. Could Furius or Fabius have been responsible? They both bore their pugio at their belt, but a replacement would hardly be difficult to obtain had they lost one on the battlefield. A centurion didn’t carry a pilum into battle but, again, it would hardly be difficult to lay hands on one, even at a moment’s notice, in the press of men.

  He wondered where the two weapons used were now. Had the medicus kept them when the wounds were tended? Had Tetricus taken them? It was, of course, possible that one of them had some sort of distinguishing mark that could tie them to their owner.

  The meeting rolled on with discussions of the logistics of moving the army closer to the Rhenus compared with making use of the enemy’s partial fortifications and setting camp in their current location. Priscus stated his case with his usual brusqueness, Cita arguing his corner at every turn, other officers making their feelings known whenever the questions touched their commands.

  Through the next twenty minutes, Fronto stood silent, letting the murmur of complications and disagreements wash over him. His thoughts drifted over the river and past the plain where the enemy cavalry raided somewhere out of scouting distance, past the great oppidum of Vesontio, over the mountains of the Helvetii’s land, past Caesar’s province of Cisalpine Gaul, across mile after mile of tilled and mined land in Italia.

  His mind’s eye focused in like the view of a circling bird. A great mountain by the sea in a bay that looked from above as though a Titan had taken a bite out of the land. Cities in glorious marble and brick. Circling down away from the mountain, past the old Greek port, past the bubbling mud and steaming white crater of the Forum Vulcani, down toward the port where Fronto had spent the blistering summers of his youth.

  The villa on the hillside with its familiar outbuildings. The patio where his father had first taught him how to hold a sword. And finally there she was: Lucilia, standing in a stola of midnight blue, with her back to the glittering waters of the bay far below, leaning on the balustrade and smiling at him.

  “When are we going home?”

  Only as a stunned silence settled around him did Fronto realise that he’d voiced the thought out loud. His mind reeled back across the hundreds of miles, leaving that wondrous figure above the shining sea and refocusing on the tent full of sweating officers. Everyone was staring at him. Priscus was still standing in the centre of the tent, his finger wagging at Cita redundantly.

  “Fronto?” Caesar frowned.

  The legate felt a surge of automatic panic flowing through him.

  “That came out wrong. Sorry. What I mean is, though, that we’re almost done here. You and Varus both said so. Once we can round up the stray cavalry they sent across the river, we’ve completely destroyed the invaders. Very few will have fled back across the river, and they’ll have their own trouble dealing with the Suevi who pushed them here in the first place.”

  Caesar simply raised his eyebrow questioningly. Fronto recognised the warning sign, but he’d accidentally committed himself now.

  “So I imagine that once we’ve smashed that cavalry force, we can report the invasion dealt with to the Gallic council, quarter the troops and then go home?”

  He realised with some distress and annoyance that his voice had taken on an almost whinging tone towards the end, like a petulant child wanting to leave the table half way through a meal.

  “You believe that the situation will be settled then, Marcus?”

  “Well, I see no reason…”

  “And what of those who return across the river, and the other tribes that live nearby? What if the advance of the Suevi is too much for them and they feel compelled once more to cross the river? What if the Suevi themselves decide to cross? How can we report this border of Gallic lands safe from invasion while we allow a threat to remain?”

  Fronto frowned. “You intend to crush the Germanic tribes, Caesar? Now that Gaul is peaceful, we move on east? A dangerous decision I’d say, general.”

  Caesar’s knuckles had whitened where his hands were entwined on the table.

  “A demonstration to the tribes across the Rhenus, Marcus. A little warning of what we are capable of and willing to do. We will cross the Rhenus and punish them to discourage them from ever considering crossing the water again.”

  A number of heads nodded in agreement. Fronto was hardly surprised to see Cicero, Labienus and a few of their cronies begin to argue in hushed tones, quietening only when Caesar threw a glance at them.

  Fronto drew a deep breath. “A punitive strike across the Rhenus, then. Fair enough, general. I can see the sense in the move.”

  The discussions rose once more like a wave of noise and Fronto stood quietly and listened for a few minutes more until Caesar drew the meeting to a close with an irritable sweep of his hand, his flinty gaze passing over Labienus and resting on Fronto. The legate pretended not to notice and waited as the officers began to file out, falling into the line and exiting the tent with some relief.

  So it wasn’t over yet. His mind reached back over the weeks and months to Balbus’ villa above Massilia. “He will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume”, Balbus had said with a faintly challenging tone. Fronto had refused to listen; refused to acknowledge any possible truth in the accusation of Balbus’ words. “Watch what happens” he’d added. “If the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”

  Fronto’s gaze passed across the assembled legions and auxiliary cavalry. He’d not questioned the general about the possibility of settling the veterans here, but it would be a solution; a good one. With a permanently resident force of veteran ex-soldiers, able to take up arms and defend their land, no Germanic tribe would find crossing into Belgic territory so easy in future. But this was clearly not the general’s intention. He wanted a push into their own lands. The senate would have a fit when they heard. The people would celebrate and praise the general, but the tide in the senate would turn against him all the more.

  “Cicero!”

  Spotting the commander of the Seventh, for once lacking the company of Furius and Fabius, Fronto hurried to catch up.

  “Fronto.”

  “You heard about my tribune?”

  Cicero nodded. “Nasty business. You actually believe he was deliberately targeted by our own people?”

  “It seems the only conclusion I can draw from finding a pilum and a pugio sticking out of him, yes.”

  “Unfortunate. I don’t really know the man, but I gather he’s something of a hero. A clever engineer they say. Wasn’t he involved in the fight at Geneva?”

  “Yes. He’s a good friend, Cicero. I will be… vexed… when I find out who’s behind it.”

  Cicero paused and turned to him, his face darkening.

  “A threat, Fronto?”

  “Not at all. Why would I threaten you, since you had nothing to do with it? No. But a couple of centurions with a grudge against him might want to keep one eye open for the rest of their lives.”

  Cicero sighed and strolled on. “You have to stop letting your personal prejudices against my men inform all your opinions and actions, Fronto. I may not agree with Caesar or even you at times, and Furius and Fabius may have been Pompeian veterans, but they fought like lions yesterday for our cause. Whatever else happens, Fronto, we’re all Romans. Remember that.”

  Fronto came to a halt and watched as Cicero strode off towards the camp of the Seventh.

  Just how far could any man be trusted in the army of Caesar these days?

  ROME

  Balbus ducked behind a pillar of the temple of Saturn, his gaze playing across the small crowd outside the basilica Aemilia. Cicero had emerged ten minutes ago from a public haranguing of Caesar and his ‘needlessly self-glorifying personal crusade to conquer the world’ and behind him had come
half a dozen togate men, clearly of like mind. At least three of them were senators, known to Balbus from his regular visits to the forum to keep an eye on things.

  Since Lucilia and Faleria’s somewhat troublesome and dangerous visit to the lady Atia’s villa and the revelation that Clodius was now running small gangs of thugs from the houses of Caesar’s family — and therefore almost certainly at Caesar’s command — he had been expecting to see trouble in the streets surrounding those who spoke out against Balbus’ former general.

  Cicero and two of the senators shared a private joke, laughing hard, and then clasped hands and separated. Balbus frowned as he watched them move out across the forum square. The pair of senators, still laughing and joking, strode along the Vicus Iugarius towards the meat and flower markets and the river, their togate forms blending into the general tide of humanity that flowed this way and that along the street.

  Balbus’ eyes pulled back from them, aware that, even with the unusual shock of red hair that marked one of the senators out in a crowd, he might well lose them in the press as soon as he shifted his gaze. Instead, he watched Cicero as the man stood for a long moment, tapping his lip as though struggling with a difficult decision. Finally, the great orator nodded in answer to some internal question, and strode across to the dilapidated arcades of the ancient Basilica Sempronia. Balbus frowned again as he watched the man enter the building.

  Once the main venue for matters of law and public and political debate, the Sempronia had been damaged several decades ago by a tremor in the earth and cracks cobwebbed the walls and columns. It was far from unstable, but generally considered poor quality and unlucky so most business had now moved to the basilica Aemilia across the forum. Why Cicero should want to be in there, he couldn’t imagine.

  He felt torn. Watching Cicero could be very interesting, but the Sempronia was rarely frequented by more than half a dozen people these days, and the interior was bright and airy. He would find it difficult to observe the orator without being easily observed himself — at least close enough to overhear any conversation. Perhaps that interesting meeting was a task for another day. Conversely, with the press of people in the streets, it should be easy enough to catch up with the two senators and see what they were up to.

  Plagued by indecision, Balbus finally settled on Cicero, hurrying across the forum to the stained and badly-maintained walls of the basilica Sempronia. Clambering up the steps two at a time, he paused, heaving in heavy breaths. Despite his waistline, Balbus knew he was fitter than many men his age, and probably almost as fit as he’d been most of his military life, but his illness last year had put a strain on his chest and he could feel the labouring of his heart when he did things like this.

  Slowing, carefully, he ducked beneath the columns of the basilica’s facade and scurried along in the shadows to a doorway — one of the numerous in the basilica’s wall, but not the one through which Cicero had entered.

  Pausing, he peered into the interior, his gaze scanning the open hallway until he spotted Cicero standing before a statue of the brothers Gracchus, the great statesmen of the previous century. The man was standing with his back to the entrance and therefore to Balbus, and waited patiently. Two minutes passed, Balbus struggling with the decision of whether to stay and wait too, or to run off after the other senators. Just as he straightened to leave, a second figure strolled out of the shadows and crossed to Cicero, the two men clasping hands in greeting before turning back to the statue and conversing in tones that Balbus would never hear unless he loitered nearby.

  The second man turned for a moment, gesturing expansively at the interior of the basilica and Balbus pressed himself against the wall, his heart thumping with recognition. Titus Annius Milo, former tribune, commander of one of the largest private forces in Rome, and loyal client of Pompey. So… Cicero and Pompey. Not unexpected, and also not good for Caesar.

  Nodding to himself and aware that he was unlikely to glean any further information here without his presence becoming known to the two men, Balbus left the doorway, skipping down the steps, and pushed his way into the crowd in the Vicus Iugarius. The chances of him finding the two senators, almost five minutes behind them, were small, but he was not expected back at the house for almost two hours yet and, if all else failed, there was a nice little tavern on the edge of the Forum Holitorium that served a surprisingly good wine.

  Balbus grinned to himself as he moved through the crowd, laughing at how much effect Fronto had had on his life and habits in the three years of their acquaintance.

  Few along the street wore togas, this street leading into a lower-class, more mercantile area, with the markets, the sewer outflow and the dung piles mucked out from the circus maximus, and Balbus found himself peering intently every time he spotted someone wearing the bulky garment of the wealthy and noble citizenry. He himself wore a simple tunic and cloak that could have marked him out as anything from a trader to a dung-shoveller. Sometimes anonymity was preferable to status.

  There were no togate figures moving in pairs and Balbus admitted with some disappointment that there was every chance that the two had now separated. If that were the case, he would only stand a chance of locating the red-haired one. The other would blend in too easily; he was too average for easy recognition.

  With a sigh, as he stood at the crossroads at the entrance to the forum Holitorium, Balbus gave up. A nice wine, well watered, and a nibble at some of the sweet treats in that pleasant little tavern would help pass the time until he was expected back at the house.

  Ducking off to the side, he moved into a less packed street and turned into a side alley that would provide a convenient, short cut-through to the street on which his tavern stood. A woman flapped a rug from a window in an upper floor scattering dust, detritus and dog hair down over him and the narrow empty alley. A few yards ahead, someone had emptied a number of piss-pots from a great height and left a wide, reeking puddle. Stepping gingerly round the edge of the ammonia lake, Balbus happened to glance down a narrow, shady side alley and paused, one foot raised above the golden liquid.

  Squinting and frowning, he stepped back and peered down the shady lane. A pile of something white and red at the far end could have been almost anything from discarded laundry to the carcass of a sheep or goat… but for the shock of bright red hair that glinted in a ray of sunlight that happened to find a way down into the gloom, reflecting off a brass pot in a window. That mop of red curls caught Balbus’ breath and made his heart race. The healthy state of his footwear forgotten, Balbus jumped across the small puddle of stinking yellow, landing in a spatter, and ran down the shadowy alley until he reached the pile.

  His initial fears confirmed, Balbus used his urine-soaked sandal to heave one body off the other, the corpse rolling onto its back, arm flapping limp against the filthy cobbles, denting an expensive gold signet ring. All their gold still intact about their person stated beyond doubt that this was no common robbery, had Balbus suspected for even one second that that was the case.

  No. Both men had been murdered with repeated blows to the chest and gut from a narrow bladed knife of some kind. Blue lips and bruising already flourishing around the mouth suggested that they died of their wounds with a hand clamped over their face to prevent the screaming attracting any unwanted attention.

  More damning than anything, though, was the statement that had been made with their death. These murders were as much a message as they were deliberate assassinations, for both had been mutilated, their foreheads sliced and shredded, blood slicked down across their faces and necks and soaking into the white togas.

  For both men had had the same symbol carved into their forehead, and Balbus was left with no uncertainty as to the reason for their death.

  Turning his back, he walked away, his face sour and angry, leaving the two men bearing the carved ‘Taurus’ bull emblem on their face as a badge on their journey to the underworld.

  Chapter 8

  (Roman camp near the Rhine)


  Galronus nodded. “Lentulus is the obvious choice.”

  “No, no, no, no, no” Fronto grumbled, the wine — less watered than anyone else’s in the tent — sloshed over the side of his cup and added a fresh spatter on the legate’s breeches. “Lentulus let his men go berserk chasing down the fleeing tribesmen. Possibly on Caesar’s orders, but a cavalry commander needs to have full control.”

  Varus leaned back against a prop of cushions, his sling undone and resting the rigidly-splinted arm on a padded pillow. Despite the argument and concerns of the medicus, he’d been in the saddle again the morning after the battle, unarmed of course, and wincing with every thud of the horse’s hooves, but where he belonged. Between rides, however, he seemed to be mollycoddling the break. He shared a look with Galronus and pursed his lips.

  “Marcus, Lentulus was in full control. It was a command decision, whether his or Caesar’s, to sacrifice mercy and potential slaves in order to allow that cavalry wing their revenge. I honestly can’t say whether I’d have tried to rein them in myself. You agreed with him in the debrief! What would you do if the Tenth were hacked to pieces and then given the opportunity to take it out on their attackers?”

  “I’d restrain them.”

  “No you damn well wouldn’t, and you know it. What is all this about, Marcus. You’re all over the place at the moment. One minute you’re standing up for Caesar and supporting any amount of bloodshed he might suggest, and the next ranting about him over the deaths of enemy civilians. I realise that you’ve always had your differences with the general, but I can’t figure out what’s going on in your head. Sometimes you’re starting to sound like Labienus.”

  Fronto glared angrily down into his cup.