‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Felix … Once the men are settled I’d like to speak to the soldiers who were on guard duty at the main gate the night the legate died. The camp prefect will have their names and their centuries. No formalities, they can come in their work clothes.’
‘Sir.’
In due course the four men filed in, each looking wary in his own way, darting eyes and chewed lips, fists clenching and unclenching, as if wondering which direction the blow was coming from. Valerius’s frown deepened at the sight. These were legionaries in the habit of being misused. The signs were a symptom of what had gone before and one which he must quickly reverse. Naso stood to one side of Valerius’s campaign desk and the four men formed a rough line in front of them, staring at the tent wall between Valerius and his camp prefect.
‘You can relax,’ Valerius told them. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. All I want to do is talk to you. You’ve eaten?’ An indistinct murmur of assent. ‘Didius,’ he called. Gallus had drawn duty as his servant. ‘Bring these men a cup of wine.’
Wariness was replaced by consternation. They’d learned to fear their former legate. The best they could expect was to be flayed by his tongue, not handed a cup of wine.
‘You’re here because you were on duty the night Legate Fronto died,’ Naso told them when they’d accepted their cups. ‘As the legate said, you have done nothing wrong, but we need to know exactly what happened that night. Choose one man to speak for you, but if any of the others feels a point needs to be made, or something has been missed, do not be afraid to say so. It is your duty to speak out. Is that understood?’
A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’.
‘So who is your spokesman?’ Three pairs of eyes darted to the left at Valerius’s question, and the tallest of the four, a tanned, spare veteran with a long neck and a worried expression, stepped forward.
‘Avidius, front rank, fourth century, Second cohort, sir.’
‘Well, Avidius?’
‘We were called by the duty centurion as usual that night, sir. Antonius, one of our tentmates, looked us over. We filed out of the tent and the centurion inspected us again and had no complaints.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. So, the centurion marched you to your station?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual on the way?’
Avidius looked at the others and licked his lips. ‘Not unusual sir, but there was a commotion in the legate’s quarters.’
‘What kind of commotion?’
‘Just shouting and laughing, sir.’
‘No arguments?’
‘No, sir. It all seemed quite cheerful.’ Avidius gave an ironic snort, but stiffened at a glare from Naso, who Valerius doubted enjoyed being reminded of his part in the revels. ‘We relieved the guard and took our positions. Two inside the gate and two out. It was a quiet night, sir. No late arrivals or leavers. Near the end of our watch I was inside with Pompeius here when we heard shouting from near the west wall. From what I heard I understood the legate was taking somebody to task, sir.’
‘A gentle dressing down?’
‘Well, no sir. He was threatening one of the wall guards with crucifixion.’ He glanced at Naso. ‘With respect to the dead, sir, when Legate Fronto made a threat he was perfectly capable of carrying it out.’
Valerius nodded. ‘So you didn’t think of intervening?’
‘Not our job, sir. Not if we valued our heads.’
‘And you didn’t see Legate Fronto again?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The only thing that happened we didn’t expect,’ Pompeius, the youngest of the group, interjected, ‘was the inspection. That’s right, Avidius?’
‘That’s right, sir. Just after we heard the, er, altercation, one of the tribunes the governor sent to run an eye over the legion came to make a surprise inspection. He got us all together, looked over every inch of our equipment and asked us a lot of questions. Afterwards he was very complimentary, sir, about our turnout and our equipment.’
‘Thank you.’ Avidius’s story confirmed what Aprilis had said two days earlier and Valerius had no doubt he was telling the truth. Which left one question.
‘Do any of you have any idea how Legate Fronto could have left the camp?’
The men looked at each other. ‘We’ve been asking ourselves the same question ever since that night, sir,’ Avidius said. ‘And we reckon the only way he could have done it is if he’d grown wings and flown.’
Valerius smiled. ‘Given where he was found, soldier, I think that’s the one talent the legate was lacking.’
He was about to let them go when he looked at something he’d written earlier. He exchanged a glance with Naso and addressed Avidius. ‘If you’re from the fourth century of the Second perhaps you can tell me the names of the tentmates of a former legionary named Julius Noricus?’
Four faces froze in the same instant, and it was the young soldier who replied. ‘Beg to report, legate, that we are the tentmates of Julius Noricus.’
The silence seemed to last an eternity before Valerius drew in a long breath. ‘Avidius, please fetch the rest of your contubernium. Don’t stand on ceremony – this is urgent.’
Within a minute they’d been joined by four other men. Three older legionaries, obviously veterans, and one fresh-faced youngster.
‘You are all the former tentmates of Julius Noricus?’
‘All bar Antonius here,’ the oldest of the men replied, automatically taking over the role of spokesman from Avidius. ‘He joined us after …’
‘After what?’
‘After Julius left us,’ the soldier replied. ‘He was a gentle lad. Not really cut out for the legion.’
‘I know what happened to him. What I want you to tell me is why.’
‘I wouldn’t rightly know, sir.’ The words were accompanied by a blank stare as the man’s eyes focussed on a point on the tent behind Valerius’s back. Valerius let his eyes slide over the others, but all he read was the same look and he knew he would get nothing else.
‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘I can understand that, but I command this legion and by the gods if you don’t answer my next question you will no longer be part of it. Your tentmates were on guard duty on the night Legate Fronto died. I want to know exactly where the rest of you were. And do not leave out a single detail.’
‘We did what we always do before guard duty, sir.’ The legionary’s voice quivered with conviction. ‘We played dice, but not for money, on my honour. We slept for a while, and then we were woken to relieve Avidius and the lads.’
Something about this information didn’t fit. He turned to Naso. ‘Is it normal for two watches to be drawn from the same tent on the same night?’
The camp prefect gave him a puzzled look. ‘No, sir.’
‘It puzzled us too,’ the old soldier said. ‘Because none of us was due to go on guard duty for another two days. Right piss—annoyed we were when we heard.’
‘So it was out of the ordinary?’
‘Completely, sir.’
Then why? Valerius’s mind raced. No, not why: who? ‘Which of your officers was responsible for the watch list?’
‘The primus pilus, sir. And that was the other puzzling thing. He usually left it to his deputy.’
Tertius.
Fool that he was, he’d sent the man who could hold the key to Fronto’s murder entirely beyond his reach.
‘What do you think?’ Valerius asked Naso when they were gone.
‘You can’t deny they had the motive and the opportunity to kill Fronto. We only have their word for it that four of them stayed in the tent. It’s not too far from where the legate was last seen. Three to overcome him, one to put a blanket over his head. A neck lock and a quick twist. The gods know the bastard deserved it.’ He shrugged. ‘After the dressing down he’d had the wall guard wasn’t going to react to any strange sounds. Then past their tentmates on the gate who are conveniently looking the other way.
Yes, they could have done it.’
‘But?’
‘A veteran legionary’s face is like a newly plastered wall. It could be hiding anything. I know,’ he gave Valerius a wry smile, ‘I’ve been one of them. If it was just the old soldiers I’d say get them in one at a time and sweat them. Really sweat them. But eight men, including a couple of new recruits? They’re terrified of you, legate. Oh yes,’ he saw Valerius’s look of disbelief, ‘that speech you gave them put the hairs up on the back of their necks, just like it did mine, but it also sent a ballista bolt up their collective arse and that look in your eyes scared them. They know when it comes to it you’ll march them into the jaws of Hades without a thought. One of those men should have blinked, but they didn’t, not even the young ones. Still, it might be worth …’
‘I’d agree with you, but for one thing.’
‘And that is?’
‘If Fronto had done to one of my friends what he did to Julius Noricus I wouldn’t have snapped his neck. I’d have burned the bastard alive.’
Naso nodded, thoughtfully. ‘And then there’s Tertius. A coincidence, surely?’
Valerius met his eyes. ‘The one thing I’ve learned, prefect, is that when you’re looking for a murderer there is no such thing as a coincidence.’ He felt an itch that told him he could be missing something. He went over Avidius’s testimony in his mind. ‘What do you know of Metilius Aprilis, the governor’s aide?’
A hunted expression flickered across Naso’s lined features, but eventually he said: ‘I think he would have had me removed, but for your presence.’
‘Possibly,’ Valerius agreed, to the camp prefect’s consternation. ‘I was thinking more of his background. He told me he’d never seen active service, but there was something about him that didn’t seem consistent with what he said.’
‘I know nothing about his soldiering, but I remember he boasted about having friends on the Palatine with the ear of the Emperor’s inner circle. A brother or a cousin.’
Valerius felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the draughty tent. Could it be? It was the eyes that made him wonder. Yes, those eyes. He shook his head, but … There were no coincidences when you were looking for a murderer.
XXXVII
Tiberius Gabinius Tertius lifted his tunic and let out a sigh of contentment as he pissed copiously against the oak tree. When he’d finished he wiped his cock dry on the cloth hem and contemplated his future, which didn’t look too bright. Oh, he had plenty of money stashed away from his little enterprises, but it was in Lindum, and it didn’t look as though he’d be back in Lindum any time soon. An involuntary groan accompanied the thought. Normally he wouldn’t have wandered this far from the camp, but he needed time to think. And then there was the other reason. His hand swooped to his knife hilt at a rustle among the nearby bushes, only to relax at the sight of the familiar face.
‘It’s you.’ He let out a sigh of relief. ‘Good, I hoped you’d happen along. I wanted to speak to you. You said I’d be rewarded if I did what you asked, but what’s happened? I’ve been kicked out.’
The other man’s smile didn’t falter. ‘From what I hear, you might have been dangling at the end of a rope. Maybe you should consider yourself fortunate.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ Tertius spat. ‘I could still end up at the end of a rope. I only have that one-handed bastard’s word for it he’s recommended a posting. What if he’s told the governor what I told him? I’m a dead man.’
‘Don’t worry, Gabinius,’ his companion said. ‘It’s all agreed. Look.’ He showed the former primus pilus a scroll case. ‘I’ve written the orders myself. It’s back to civilization for you, my lad. No more muddy swamps, cold and rain. Rome and a nice comfortable berth at the Castra Praetoria.’
‘The Praetorian Guard.’ Tertius didn’t bother to hide his scepticism. The Praetorians were the Emperor’s personal protection force. If it was true he could look forward to an easy life of guard duty and lording it over the plebs, and get double the pay into the bargain.
‘Take a look,’ the other man grinned as he handed over the case. ‘It’s all there.’
Tertius did as he was urged. He opened the case and took out a single sheet of parchment. His eyes drifted down as he read the words and a broad grin appeared on his face. He lifted his head and the grin froze as a long-bladed knife slid into the base of his throat, piercing flesh and sinew until the needle point scraped against his spine. A soft gurgling noise emerged from his gaping mouth and he stood, shuddering like a stunned ox as he stared into his killer’s emotionless eyes. The knife twisted and the assassin stepped back to avoid the enormous gout of dark blood that arced on to the leaf mould. At last Tertius’s knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground. Surprisingly, a spark of life remained in the disbelieving eyes as the killer wiped the blade on his victim’s tunic.
‘Idiot,’ he addressed the dying man cheerfully. ‘Did you really think we could leave you alive?’
XXXVIII
Valerius walked through the camp accompanied by Shabolz and Crescens, trying to judge the mood of his legion by the sounds he could hear. In the past it had been simple enough. Corbulo’s legions on the way to the Cepha gap had been confident in their ability to win whatever the odds, because their general had always proved that was the case. At Bedriacum men of the First Adiutrix were determined to show that a hastily thrown together mix of sailors and marines was as good as the older legions they marched with. And at Cremona the Seventh marched all the faster because Marcus Antonius Primus had foolishly offered his legions the possibility of endless plunder.
Here, as far as he could tell, there was no single mood. Laughter emanated from some tents, and music from others, but mainly they were quiet, the men sitting in darkness contemplating the days ahead, the possibility of battle, mutilation and violent death. The atmosphere reminded Valerius that Agricola hadn’t deemed the Ninth fit to take part in his campaigns against the Brigantes. The last proper fight the legion took part in had been against an offshoot of Boudicca’s horde and it had ended in slaughter when a detached group of precisely this strength had been massacred in an ambush. Most of these men had never experienced a major conflict. He tried to recall his own first experience of combat. A Celtic hill fort crammed with warriors and refugees. Climbing the slope shoulder to shoulder with sweating, frightened men as boulders and arrows clattered against the overlapping shields that were the only thing between them and a painful, bloody end. The explosion of euphoria and hatred as they’d broken through the gate and the slaughter that followed. He saw Shabolz staring at him and he realized his face had been reliving the experience. He replaced the savage expression with a sheepish grin and the Pannonian smiled.
They were approaching a fire where a group of legionaries had gathered, laughing with two of Agricola’s Celtic scouts and a small boy.
‘Tell us the story again, Arafa.’
‘But you have heard it many times before, Zander.’ Oddly, it was the boy who spoke, and in perfect Latin, but the voice was the throaty growl of a full-grown man. When they were within the light from the flames Valerius saw that the diminutive figure had a full copper beard and the reddened, grizzled features of someone who spent most of his life in the open air.
‘Tell us the story of the Emperor’s elephant,’ another man pleaded.
The scout shrugged and rose to his feet, as one about to deliver a speech. Valerius saw that he was a midget, four feet tall at most, but also that he had the respect of these hardened soldiers. He smiled. Arafa was obviously a nickname. It meant ‘giant’. The little man’s head came up and his face twisted in a scowl of concentration.
‘My father was a great man,’ he began in the sonorous tones of a seasoned orator. ‘He tamed the wild beasts and made them do his bidding.’
Valerius stood in the shadow of a tent, and motioned that Shabolz and Crescens could go. Crescens was reluctant, but the Pannonian pulled him away.
The midget’s story hel
d Valerius spellbound as he waited in the darkness. How a lowly slave became the keeper of the Emperor Caligula’s elephant, befriended Rome’s greatest gladiator and survived plots and conspiracies and the Emperor’s often fatal whims, before being swept up in the convulsions that followed his assassination.
The small man sat down. Valerius suppressed his disappointment and was about to leave when one of the speaker’s companions said: ‘You can’t stop there, Arafa. What about Colonia and Boudicca and the Temple of Claudius?’
For a moment the words froze Valerius to the spot. ‘They’ll keep for another night,’ the midget laughed. ‘My throat is dry and all I see around this fire are jugs of water, which is fit only for my pony.’
The voices faded as Valerius walked off towards the command tent, his thoughts two hundred miles and seventeen years away. He remembered the feeling in the veterans’ banqueting hall that something was missing from one of the frescoes. Now it came to him. Before Boudicca had burned it to the ground there had been one similar in the outbuildings of the temple complex. Only on that depiction the Emperor Claudius wasn’t standing on a dais. He had been seated on a ceremonial elephant.
Crescens and Shabolz stood guard at the doorway and saluted smartly when he approached. ‘Julius,’ Valerius said. ‘Go back to the scouts and tell the small man I’d like to talk to him about tomorrow’s march.’
When he entered, Didius Gallus was waiting with a basin filled with water. Valerius washed his hands and soused his face and dried himself off with a towel the cavalryman handed him. ‘Bring me a jug of our best wine and two cups, please, Didius. That will be all for the night.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’
‘Sure.’ Valerius smiled at the young man’s devotion. ‘And take a jug yourself to share with your tentmates.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Gallus bowed.
Valerius arranged two couches on either side of his campaign desk. By the time Crescens walked in with the tiny Celtic scout he lay back with a cup of wine in his hand. ‘Arafa’ looked around the tented room with obvious interest, but he appeared completely at ease. Valerius waved him to the other couch. ‘You can leave us now, Julius.’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 31
