Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  Many of the men’s tents had become rickety and leaky. Normally, these would be patched and repaired, or even replaced from the supply train. Such was not possible with the ocean between them, and a good timber building would keep the inclement weather away from the men and give them the blessed opportunity to dry out and warm up overnight.

  Trying not to swear, Fronto felt yet another spot of rain ‘plip’ onto his forehead. What was it with this island? How could the druids hold this place sacred? Were they part duck? Italia was hardly free from storms, but at least the place had the decency to give its population a break in between, and when the storms came they were often noteworthy.

  But this place? This place was the physical incarnation of a bad mood. Not a single day since they’d struck the beach had passed without at least a short shower to remind them that they were outsiders. Some days it never stopped raining from one dawn watch to the next. Most often it came in fits and starts, just giving the ground enough time to almost dry and deceptively clear away enough clouds to look hopeful. Then, as soon as you stepped outside, the next drizzle would begin. It was as though the Gods of Britannia were urinating on them from a great height. That was it, too: it wasn’t proper rain. Not like the torrents they’d had at the Rhenus, or the thunderstorms of Gaul or Hispania. Most of the time it was just a depressing, gentle, insistent, cloak-soaking drizzle.

  It was the most disheartening climate he’d ever spent time in. For the first day or two, he’d revelled in how green and fresh everything was. But that was before he became truly aware of the price for the lush greenery. What he couldn’t understand is how it didn’t all drown!

  Hopefully this would just be a short shower again and he wouldn’t have to give the order to down tools and get inside. It wasn’t that the men couldn’t work in the rain, but morale was already low enough on this side of the ocean, and making the soldiers plane wood in the pouring rain would hardly give it a welcome boost.

  “Work proceeds apace.”

  Fronto turned in a mixture of surprise and gloom. Caesar’s voice was very familiar and unwelcome; he’d managed to spend many days in a row now without exchanging a single word with the general. Ever since the man had launched into him concerning his perceived insubordination, Fronto had been harbouring a deep-felt grudge and avoiding the risk of pushing the beak-nosed old bastard’s face through the back of his head.

  Fronto forced a smile that barely reached his face.

  “We’ll have the food and cloth stores complete by the end of the day, if we work through twilight. If it’s straight down to the Tenth, two more days will see good timber accommodation for everyone. If the Seventh are done with their forays and can join in tomorrow, we should all be under a solid roof by tomorrow night.”

  “Good.”

  The two men fell silent and Fronto still resisted glancing at his commander. He could feel him though; feel the eyes boring into the side of his head; hear the click of the general’s knuckles as his hands rubbed and gripped one another behind his back. He’d been with Caesar long enough now to know every sign and every mood. The general was uncomfortable. Good. So he should be.

  “Marcus?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let us not stay on such terms. I am aware you’ve been avoiding me. I may have gone beyond the pale in dressing you down the way I did in front of your peers.”

  Fronto’s jawline hardened. “You think I care about it being in front of the others? You know me better than that, Caesar. You shouldn’t have done it at all. I was two minutes late for a non-time sensitive meeting.”

  “I know, and…”

  “And,” Fronto snapped, rounding on him with flashing eyes, “you should bear in mind that for four years in Gaul and before that in Spain and Rome I have supported you when others you relied on turned against you. You know damn well that the only times I have ever stood in opposition to you is when you were wrong, plain and simple. I know the world thinks you’re infallible, but you and I know that no man is infallible. You were in a bad mood, plain and simple, and you took it out on me, because you knew I’d take it, when it might break others.”

  Caesar sighed and smiled weakly.

  “I’d had another episode.”

  “What?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Marcus. I thought I was done with it. I’d not had trouble since Saturnalia, when I’d given a huge offering to Venus to try and stop it for good. All year I’d been clear and happy. And now: twice since we crossed the sea. Twice! The first time, I failed to clamp on the leather in time and took a piece out of the corner of my tongue.”

  Fronto’s brow lowered and his nostrils flared.

  “You have my sympathy, Caesar, but only children take it out on other people when they’re sick. And as you’ve pointed out before, you’re hardly a child. Neither of us is.”

  “Can we not draw a line beneath this, Marcus? I’ve admitted I was in error. I offered not an excuse, but an explanation. I need my good officers around me.”

  The legate took a deep breath and fought back every curse and argument that rose to mind, of which there were many. “I would like to think so, but I’m starting to become concerned with your judgement, Caesar.”

  “How so?”

  “Clodius?” Fronto raised an eyebrow in challenge, turning to face the woods again.

  “Clodius is just a tool.”

  “He certainly is. A great big, throbbing one. But I cannot condone you using him for any reason. Were I you, that man would be caught in the eddies and reeds at the side of the Tiber, fat faced and blue. Feeding the fishes, which would be about the most useful and positive thing he’s ever done.”

  “Clodius’ usefulness will come to an end soon, and I’m convinced that so will he soon after. Can you not be satisfied with that?”

  “Not really, no. And your re-formation of the Seventh using only people you don’t trust has shattered what was a veteran legion with pride and ability and turned it into a mess. If they can pull their pride out of the gutter — which will be partially served by shifting Cicero the hell out of there — then they could train back up into a good legion, given time. But it was a waste.”

  “I had to be sure of where my opposition were.”

  “They’re everywhere. And the more you use thugs and villains to further your political goals, the more enemies you’ll create.”

  He frowned. “What was that look about?”

  “I beg your pardon, Fronto?”

  “That look. I know that look. That’s the guilty recollection of something I won’t like and that you’re not telling me. In my book of ‘Caesar’s facial tells’ that’s in my top ten warning signs. What is it?”

  “You read too much into nothing, Marcus.” Caesar gave him an easy smile. You said, that day at the meeting, that your delay was unavoidable. I never asked why, and you don’t usually bother with an excuse, so it must have been important.”

  “It was, but I’m not sure whether discussing it here or now is a good idea.” Fronto narrowed his eyes at the attempt to deflect the subject.

  “If it’s important, Fronto, then it’s important. Tell me.”

  “The murders.”

  “Yes?”

  “All of them. Pinarius, Tetricus, Pleuratus, and an attempt on me. I have reasonable suspicions as to the culprits now.”

  Caesar rolled his shoulders, his cloak falling back down behind him. Several more spots of rain fell.

  “I believe that your suspicions were centred on two centurions from the Seventh?”

  “You’re apparently well informed, Caesar. And yes, for a time, I was sure Furius and Fabius were behind them. But I am now more or less convinced that they’re innocent of the attacks.”

  “Really?” The general tapped his lip, an upward curl of humour twisting one side of his mouth in a manner that really annoyed Fronto.

  “Yes. I haven’t the proof yet, but I suspect the tribunes Menenius and Hortius of the Fourteenth.” />
  Caesar burst into a short, explosive laugh. “I think you must have been eating the strange fungi from the forest. Neither of those men could effectively swat a fly.”

  “Nevertheless, it was them. I’m fairly sure.”

  “And their motive?”

  “Removing your supporters: your courier, your nephew, me and Tetricus — two of your more loyal officers. And Tetricus threatened the pair of them once in a briefing, so there’s an additional motive.”

  “Menenius is a client of mine, who owes me a great deal. He is hardly likely to be troubling me. He would be ‘biting the hand that feeds him’ so to speak. And Hortius? Hortius is in a similar situation. He’s expecting a position as an aedile next year, which he can only get with my support. No, Marcus; the two would have too much to lose by kicking my legs out from under me. You should look elsewhere for your pro-Pompeian traitors.”

  The legate continued to stare ahead, though his eyes flicked to Caesar again and he just caught another flash of that look. There was definitely something going on here that Caesar knew about and was keeping to himself.

  “What on earth is that commotion?”

  Fronto glanced across at Caesar’s exclamation and then followed his gaze to see that a number of the men of the Tenth had downed tools and were running towards a cart that was hurtling out from the woodland path to the west.

  “Looks like a grain cart. One of Cicero’s I wonder?” the general mused.

  “Looks like trouble, more like.”

  Without waiting for further information, Fronto turned around and spotted the nearest centurion.

  “Have your cornicen call the duty cohorts to order. Get ‘em lined up before the ramparts. We’re about to need them.”

  As the centurion ran off, shouting for his musician and standard bearer, Fronto turned back to the approaching cart. It was now bouncing across the short, well-trodden grass beyond the multitude of stumps, only a hundred yards from the camp. Already a number of Caesar’s praetorian cavalry officers had fallen in behind him from where they had been lurking at a respectful distance.

  The general stepped down the slope, with Fronto at his shoulder and passed through the gate towards the cart, which slewed to a halt some thirty feet from the rampart. Two men slid down from it. The driver looked harried and panicked, while the man who’d been clinging to the top of the load was clutching a wound in his side and staggered as his feet hit the ground.

  “It would appear that you were correct, Fronto. Trouble it is.”

  “Sir!” The legionary driver, wearing just his tunic, unarmed and unarmoured apart from the gladius at his waist, came to a sudden halt and saluted, his wounded mate attempting the same a few yards back, but failing as he slumped to the ground.

  “Report, man.”

  “Natives, sir. Thousands of ‘em. They came out of the trees…”

  “Where?” Fronto said, holding his gaze.

  “About three miles west. It’s on main paths. I can take you.”

  “Are the men still… it wasn’t a massacre?”

  “No sir. When we left they was in a circle, holdin’ ‘em back. But they won’t last long, sir. They’re outnumbered.”

  Fronto glanced across at Caesar, who nodded.

  “Then get ready for a run. You can take me and two cohorts back there, fast as we can.”

  The man saluted wearily and the legate turned to his general.

  “Can you-?” Fronto began, but Caesar was already ‘shoo’ing him. “Go, Marcus. I’ll bring the other cohorts as soon as we can get them armed up.” He turned to one of his cavalrymen. “Have this wounded soldier taken to a medic, and put out the call for the first, the second and the seventh to tenth cohorts to down tools, retrieve their kit and form up. The third and fourth can remain to garrison the camp under Brutus and Volusenus.”

  Turning, the general was about to offer a word of encouragement to Fronto, but the Tenth’s legate was already moving across the grass bellowing commands to the assembling men, pausing only to collect an unattended shield from the ground where its owner had left it and would rue his action later when his centurion found him unequipped.

  The general watched him go and shook his head. While an ambush of the foraging troops was never a good thing, at least it had finally brought the opposition out into the open and provided a timely interruption from Fronto’s probing and uncomfortable questions.

  Fronto blinked away tears of pain and willed the gap in the trees that opened out into the clearing and signalled the end of their journey nearer. He was, he knew, still fitter than most men his age, and many of the soldiers — carrying much the same load and a great deal younger — were struggling at least as much as he. The rushing of the blood pounding in his ears and the hot rasp of the heaving breaths racing in and out of his lungs were not the main issue though, for all their discomfort. Three times in three miles he had been forced to drop out of the run and rub his knee, turning his leg and re-tying the supportive wrap he’d used on the advice of Florus the capsarius. Each time he’d had to put in that much extra effort to regain his place in the force that charged to the relief of the Seventh.

  He tried to guess how many wounds he’d taken in one form or another throughout his life of service, but could only take a stab at two-to-three dozen. And of everything that had happened, it seemed only fitting of Fortuna’s strange sense of humour that the one thing that could trouble him in battle was the result of an unfortunate and purely random twisted knee. Florus had told him that if he rested it properly for a few weeks it would strengthen, which had simply led to an argument in semantics over the meaning of the word ‘rest’.

  The sounds of desperate fighting issuing from the clearing were welcome, for all the horror they indicated. At least they stated clearly that the Seventh were still there and hadn’t been wiped out.

  Panting with the effort, the legate pushed out to the front, putting on an extra turn of speed, the energy for which he seemed to pull in out of the very desperation in the air. A moment later, he was running alongside Carbo, who had proved time and again that his strength and fitness really did belie his less than svelte shape. The centurion was more pink faced than usual, but ran with a steady, enduring gait, the breaths coming out measured and rhythmically.

  The forest path was clearly used by local farmers with their carts and oxen, wide enough to admit a wagon with plenty of room to spare on either side. It was enough to permit a column of legionaries eight-men wide without the danger of entanglements, and the two cohorts of the Tenth ran in perfect formation, in the manner drilled into them over the years by first Priscus and then Carbo.

  Ahead, the path opened into the huge clearing and though Fronto could see little for certain, he had the impression of wide, golden fields of grain trampled by screaming men. His view was somewhat impeded by the chariots and the cavalry. It appeared — at least from this angle — as though the Britons had blocked the exits from the clearing with their cavalry and empty chariots while the bulk of their force, on foot, including the chiefs and nobles from the vehicles, had charged the Roman circle, trying to batter them into submission.

  “Chariots” Fronto barked out between heaving breaths.

  “We’ll take them down first” Carbo acknowledged, apparently — and irritatingly — not even short of breath.

  “And… cavalry.”

  “We’ll try, but they’ll be too fast and manoeuvrable for us, I fear. So long as we can cut a path through to the main force we’ll be fine.”

  “Surprise?”

  “Unlikely. Even over the noise, these hairies at the back will hear us coming. The Tenth are a fearsome force, but we’re hardly subtle.”

  Fronto smiled at the wide grin on the centurion’s ruddy face. He knew for a fact that Carbo actively encouraged the making of noise and the use of war cries in the Tenth to put the fear of Hades into whoever they faced. As often as not it worked.

  “I just wish we had time to deploy and surround them. We co
uld wipe them out” Carbo sighed.

  “Carbo… there are several… thousand of them. There’s less… than a thousand of us! Surround them?”

  “You know what I mean, sir. I hate to think of them escaping again.”

  Another couple of spots of rain pattered off the rim of Fronto’s helmet, reminding him that yet another rainstorm was imminent, the clouds darkening by the minute. Reaching up, he fondled the bow-legged fishwife amulet at his neck and hoped it wasn’t insulting to Fortuna, praying that the full extent of the rain held off for another hour or so. A battle in the pouring rain was high up on Fronto’s list of hateful things. Letting go of the figurine, he dropped his hand to his side and drew his gladius, steadying his grip on the heavy shield he’d borrowed.

  A strange, guttural cry went up ahead and the few Briton horsemen they could see at the clearing’s entrance wheeled their mounts. The cohorts had been seen and suddenly all hell broke loose among the enemy.

  “Ready, lads!” Carbo bellowed. “First five centuries punch straight through and make for the back of the infantry. Next four split off to either side and take care of the cavalry and chariots. Centurions mark your position and prepare your signals.”

  Back along the running column, the officers identified their century’s number and prepared to either push forwards or file off to the side. Beyond the first nine, the other centurions would appraise the situation as they reached the clearing and deploy as required.

  The horsemen were now wheeling away from them again, riding off into the clearing, bellowing warnings. Clearly Carbo was right: the cavalry could easily remain out of reach unless they chose to commit — an unlikely option. The chariots were even now turning to move away from the arriving legionaries, trundling along the forest’s edge, their athletic drivers leaping about on the traces and yoke and manoeuvring the horses.

  Fronto had heard enough Celtic shouting in the past four years to begin to separate the meanings by tone alone. The shouts now going up all across the clearing were not the ordered calls of warning or redeployment, but the panicked calls of men wrong-footed and in fear of their lives. Clearly they had not expected reinforcements. The legate grinned — fear was almost as powerful a weapon as the gladius.