Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  “It’s Varus. What the hell is he doing here? I thought he was in Britannia with the general.”

  The two officers stood pensively, watching the senior cavalry commander and his entire wing of cavalry approach, filling the open grassland. “Open the gate” Rufus shouted as the force closed on them. The veteran officer was riding out front, the reins of his horse gripped tightly in his good arm, the other still splinted and bound tightly to his torso.

  As the column neared the gate, Varus gave a number of commands and the cavalry split into three groups, heading to the west and east gates, and the last, with the commander himself, slowing as they approached the south.

  “What in the name of Juno’s flabby arse are you doing here?” Priscus demanded as Varus came to a stop and slid awkwardly down from the saddle, his slung arm and wounded hip more than a small hindrance. His men continued to ride past him and into camp.

  “Bit of a change of plan, lads, I’m afraid. Looks like you’ve had reasonable weather here, but it’s been appalling down the coast. Time and again I gave the order to embark and the sailors told me the weather was too dangerous for any attempt at crossing. In their defence, it’s been stormy as all hell down there. But that’s not why we’re here. I think you might have trouble.”

  Rufus felt a knot form in his stomach. “I’ve been suspecting as much. The supply train’s three days late. What else, then?”

  “This morning the weather had cleared and we went down to the harbour in the hope that we might actually be able to board, but all the ships had gone. Rather than try and find out what was going on, I thought it prudent to return here and consolidate the forces.”

  “I’m glad you did. Something is definitely wrong.”

  Varus nodded and patted his horse’s sweaty flank. “Let’s get in the warm and you can tell me what’s happening here.”

  The three men turned and strode back into the camp as a heavy black cloud rolled over from the east, threatening further storms.

  Chapter 16

  (Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)

  “So you’re all pally with the pair of them now?”

  “Don’t make it sound so stupid, Galronus.”

  “But you are on good terms with them?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’d invite them to dine with my family, if that’s what you’re implying, but the simple fact is that I’ve been wrong about them. Gods, when did it become so hard to admit you were wrong about something? I was wrong, alright. They’re maybe a little harsh as centurions go, and I certainly wouldn’t want to serve under them and forget to polish my mail, that’s for sure, but they’re solid centurions. They clearly don’t harbour any anti-Caesarean designs like I thought. And they’re starting to despise the failings in their own legate. They may very well be the only thing currently keeping the Seventh together as a military unit.”

  “So,” Galronus glanced around to make sure they were not in easy earshot of anyone, “I assume that means that you’ve removed them from the picture in respect of the deaths?”

  Fronto’s pace faltered as they strode across the grass for just a moment as he nodded slowly. “To be honest, I’d not given that much thought yet. The dangerous situation we’re in at the moment has sort of pushed it from the front of my mind. Well, it had, anyway.” He took a deep breath and rubbed a tired eye. “I still won’t rule them out until I can prove it either way, but I really can’t see it now. I think I was trying to make it all fit with them because I’d already decided they’d done it. Oh, they had the opportunity, but I have the suspicion that a knife in the dark isn’t really their way.”

  “You know what that means though, Marcus?”

  “That we’re back to square one?”

  Galronus shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It leaves you with an inescapable conclusion.”

  Fronto frowned as they approached their destination. “Hang on.” Caesar’s command tent stood some forty yards ahead, two guards standing by the open flap and checking on the officers as they filed inside. “What conclusion?” he said sharply as they came to a halt still safely out of audible distance.

  Galronus sighed and tapped his temple. “Think, Marcus. Who passed through Massilia?”

  “Us. And the centurions, and Caesar’s nephew. Oh, and…” The frown on the legate’s face creased deeper. “Surely you don’t think…”

  “Barring the discovery that someone else with a grudge was travelling north into the war-zone from Massilia, if you rule out us, and Furius and Fabius, what other conclusion can you draw?”

  Fronto shook his head in disbelief. “But those two tribunes are as wet as a duck’s ringpiece! They could no more…” but his mind was already furnishing him with a mental image of Menenius standing by a farm house, his sword running with blood as he issued orders like a man born to the task. He’d saved a tough centurion’s life!

  “Fast as a bloody snake.”

  “What?”

  “When Menenius saved Cantorix across the Rhenus, he claimed he’d been lucky, but the centurion thought otherwise. And then he saved me from three…” Fronto felt his spine tingle.

  “He didn’t, did he?”

  “Marcus, you’re not finishing sentences. I may sound like a native Latin speaker, but you’re becoming hard for me to follow.”

  “Menenius!” Fronto said quietly. “They found him wounded. He’d beaten off three barbarians and saved me, they said. You were there in the hospital. But that’s not what happened, was it? Bloody Menenius didn’t run and hide like a coward, did he? He lurked like a murderer. And as soon as he saw his opportunity, he tried to do for me, but three barbarians interrupted him.”

  Fronto shook his head in amazement. “Three bloody Germanic thugs saved my life. Saved me from a pissing Roman tribune!”

  Galronus nodded slowly. “Then Menenius has done an exceptional job of making himself appear ineffective and effeminate. The guise fooled everyone.”

  “Even Caesar.”

  “So he had the opportunity and the ability? He could certainly have been in Vienna when Caesar’s nephew was there. The Fourteenth were in the front lines of the battle in the Germanic camp when Tetricus was attacked. And they were in our camp at the time he was murdered, and when Caesar’s courier was done away with. The opportunity was there.”

  “And that brings Hortius into the equation too” muttered Fronto. “The pair of them are as thick as thieves. I doubt Menenius could pull any of this off without Hortius knowing about it. Besides, the medicus reckoned it would have taken two people to do what was done in the hospital.”

  “But, the motive?”

  Fronto shrugged. “The same, I guess. What connection Menenius and Hortius could have to Pompey I don’t know, but it still seems likely that they’re trying to remove Caesar’s supporters. At the first opportunity I’m going to have to have a little word with Caesar and, when we get back to Gaul, I’m going to have another quiet word with a pair of tribunes while they’re held down and at the tip of my sword.”

  Galronus gestured towards the tent, where the last of the officers had disappeared. “Best get inside before they begin.”

  “I’m sure Caesar will forgive me later when I explain my reasons to him, but you’re right. It’s starting to rain and I’d rather be under leather when that happens.”

  As the first patter of drizzle scattered into the hard earth and springy grass, the two officers picked up the pace and strode hurriedly across the path and into the general’s tent, the praetorian cavalry guards nodding their recognition and approval as they passed.

  The tent was warm and smelled slightly of the charcoal braziers but mostly of sweat and armour oil. The legates and tribunes of both legions as well as Brutus and Volusenus stood patiently as Caesar ran a finger down a list on a wood sheet on the table before him. Fronto and Galronus fell in by the entrance and the guards closed the tent flap behind them. The dim interior gradually resolved itself in the absence of the damp morning ligh
t.

  “You’re late” Caesar said flatly, his eyes not even rising from the list.

  “Yes, general. Apologies, but the delay was unavoidable.”

  “Is it a matter of urgency?”

  “Not urgency, as such, Caesar.”

  “Then it should not preclude your punctual attendance, Fronto. Or yours, commander. You are learning bad habits from the Tenth’s legate, I fear.”

  Fronto bridled impotently. The general hadn’t even looked at him yet. “I will take the opportunity to explain in due course, Caesar.”

  “You overstep sometimes, Fronto. I fear that I have allowed you to rush to the gate and snap and bark at passers-by too often. Legates and officers serve in this army at my convenience. You have been with me since the early days and I indulge you perhaps more than I should, but if you continue to treat this command as though you were the praetor and I your adjutant I may have to haul on your leash from time to time.”

  Fronto’s angry step forward was rendered impossible as Galronus trod heavily on his foot, the hobnails in the Remi officer’s own boot digging painfully into Fronto’s foot and causing him to take an involuntary sharp breath. Caesar still hadn’t looked up and Fronto glanced angrily at his friend to see a warning glint in Galronus’ eye. Slowly, he let his rage out with a measured breath.

  He glanced around the tent to see every other officer’s gaze lowered carefully except for Cicero. He half expected to see the man grinning, but instead, the legate of the Seventh was giving him a speculative, even slightly sympathetic look. For some reason that angered him almost as much as being spoken to in this way by the general.

  “Good. At least you know when to stay silent” the general said, looking up. Galronus’ hobnails pressed into Fronto’s foot again as he opened his mouth to reply. Wincing at the pain, the legate clamped his lips shut.

  “We have had visitors, gentlemen. A number of the local tribes have sent their ambassadors to offer me hostages and treaties. I have unilaterally accepted their offers, placing the hostages aboard one of the Gallic ships for safekeeping at this time.”

  “Are these the same tribes who tried to stop us landing, general?” Cicero took a step forward. “Because if they are, I’m not really sure how far our hospitality should extend.”

  Caesar nodded. “For once I agree with you, Cicero. We have no confirmation of the identity of those who attacked us. Quite simply our intelligence on the tribes of Britannia is not complete enough for us to make any solid guess as to who we were dealing with. Barring a few coins with unfamiliar names found upon the bodies, they could easily be from any tribe. All those who have entreated me claim to have had nothing to do with the clash at the beach, though it seems unlikely that they are all quite innocent. We have accepted their offerings, but I want this encampment fortified, regardless. I want the army on constant, full alert, and the ships under guard.”

  “They’re probably trying to buy time” Fronto said, trying to keep the anger and resentment from his tone.

  “Possibly” the general acknowledged. “Without a sizeable cavalry force we are effectively blind and relying on the few patrols commander Galronus can manage, and otherwise on the word of potentially treacherous natives and simple hearsay. The entire island of Britannia could be forming into an army over the next hill with a thousand druids for all we know. Thus I want the alert high and maintained.”

  Cicero swallowed and took a deep breath. “Forgive me for reiterating, Caesar, but I can still only advise that we return to Gaul. You said it yourself: we’re effectively blind. We have no idea what’s coming. And while we sit here and wish the cavalry would arrive, the weather is turning inclement. I can appreciate that a chastisement of the tribes that supported the Veneti against us would be a good way to instil a respect for Rome, but we can hardly punish the wayward tribes of Britannia in these conditions. Returning is the only sensible course of action.”

  The general’s gaze rose slowly to Cicero and came to rest there, carrying the full force of Caesar’s scorn.

  “For the very last time, Cicero, there will be no return to Gaul until I am satisfied that we have achieved what we came to do. If you so much as mention this again, I will consider confining you to the ships with the Briton hostages. Am I understood?”

  Fronto glanced across at his fellow legate to see Cicero’s speculative look being flashed back at him again. Damn it! He’s still sounding me out against the general and… Fronto ground his teeth, horribly aware that he was starting to find Cicero’s stand somewhat seductive.

  “Very well” the general said quietly. “The two legions will set about fortifying the camp. We have rations with us for today and tomorrow only. So tomorrow we will have to examine the situation and look at foraging for more supplies. For now, though, we concentrate on consolidation and defence.”

  Caesar’s eyes passed around the tent and fell upon Galronus.

  “All with the exception of your good self, commander.”

  The Remi officer remained silent as the general leaned over the table before him, unrolling the map that had been amended by Volusenus. Further detail had recently been added, charcoal marks and text scribbled across it. Pinning the rolled edges down with wax tablets, Caesar pointed to a place deep in the heart of the island, almost at the far edge of the map from the marked landing site.

  The officers all took a few steps forward to peer at the map.

  “This chart has been given some extra detail by our hostages. We appear to be largely surrounded by tribes that I consider untrustworthy and that historically have links with the Veneti and other Gallic troublemakers. There are one or two tribes in the island that have long been supporters of Rome, at least since the subjugation of the Belgae.”

  Fronto noticed Galronus’ hands clench irritably at that last phrase and felt sympathy for his friend. Now was not the time for confrontation, however, and Galronus clearly recognised it.

  “With respect, Caesar, I have become very familiar with your language, but I am still a relative novice with your written words.”

  Caesar nodded and tapped his finger on the word ‘ATREBATE’.

  “These are the Atrebates. They are a Belgic tribe within the heart of Britannia, closely tied with their namesake around Nemetocenna. They are one of the very few peoples on this island in whom I have any confidence of support and this is the supposed site of their main oppidum, called Calleva. They will supply us with the cavalry that we are lacking, I am certain.”

  “That’s a hundred miles away, Caesar” Brutus said quietly.

  “Yes. A long way, and through potentially dangerous lands. No Roman would make it there, I’m sure. Perhaps one of the Belgae, though…”

  Galronus nodded slowly.

  “It is possible, Caesar. We would have to travel fast and light.”

  “Agreed. How long do you think it would take?”

  Galronus tapped his lip, glancing across the map. “Four days each way. Plus allow a day for errors. We are entirely unfamiliar with this land and could easily find ourselves off course.”

  “And that is catering for the safety and wellbeing of your horses?”

  “Yes, general. Four days and the horses will be comfortable.”

  “Then push them a little. Make it three days each way. And I will allow the Atrebates two days to assemble their forces for me. That is a week in total. Can you do that?”

  “The horses will be strained, but it is possible, Caesar.”

  “Do it. As soon as we adjourn here, I want you to take most of your turma of cavalry and bring me the Atrebates. Leave us only half a dozen horsemen for scouting duties.”

  Galronus saluted and stepped back. Fronto could see the strain in his friend’s face as the Remi officer had bitten off his argument over the safety of the horses.

  “Alright, gentlemen. Let us get down to the detailed planning.”

  Fronto started awake at the call for the dawn watch, his uncomfortable cot almost folding up beneath him as he
rolled across to sit on the edge and rub his knee, blinking bleary eyes. Four days had passed since Galronus had taken his riders and disappeared to the west to track down the Atrebates. In that time he’d spent most of his free time alone. Carbo and Atenos were almost constantly busy with their duties and, despite recent revelations and attitude changes, he still felt uncomfortable with the idea of inviting Furius and Fabius to socialise with him. Besides, they would likely be as busy as his own centurions. And Brutus was the almost continual companion of the general.

  The next morning he’d geared up to visit Caesar and discuss the matter of the tribunes with him, but had come to the conclusion that he really did not feel well enough disposed toward the general at the moment to visit his on personal terms.

  And so he’d busied himself with the daily routine of a legate, such as it was in a time of tense uncertainty. The Seventh had been given the task of foraging for food in the area and were not making a bad job of it, while the Tenth had been tasked with the cutting and retrieval of timber and the construction of extra defences and a few timber buildings.

  The drumming of heavy rain on the leather roof of the tent soured his mood as it had done each of the past three mornings.

  The weather had gradually worsened since the rains began. There had been but a few hours of dry here and there; not even long enough for the ground to dry out. The sun had hardly shown its face at all and when it had, it had been a pale white watery thing behind a veil of grey.

  Yesterday, though, had seen a turn for the worse. A storm had hit in the late afternoon and had continued to ravage the coast into the night as Fronto had wrapped up tight in his wool blankets and eventually fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, dreaming of warm afternoons in the lush vineyards near the family’s estate at Puteoli.