(Iunius: temporary camp on the Armorican coast)
Fronto pushed the tent flap open and made his way out into the dusk, shivering against the cold. Grumbling to himself, he traipsed through the wet grass and across the hilltop to the thicker undergrowth near the cliff’s edge. The interim camp prefect, whose name Fronto had now learned was Draco, had planned their camp so well that the nearest latrines for the officers of the Tenth was more than halfway across the length of the fortress. Consequently, those officers had taken to going near the cliff edge for their business, at least when there were no high winds.
Fronto found the spot nice and easily. A helpful centurion had spelled out ‘Draco’ with small stones for the officers to piss on; a nice touch in Fronto’s opinion. Hoisting the front of his breeches down, he began to relieve himself with a sigh, grateful for a rare dry evening, even if everything underfoot was still wet through.
His eyes strayed from the rocky name near his feet, across the thick grass and to the bay below, passing across the white-flecked waves and to the next headland, which had, until this afternoon, been one of the most powerful of the Veneti strongholds. He sighed again.
For a month now the legions had been marching up and down the coast, even inland a way to chase yet more shadows that dissipated as soon as the Roman army got close. A whole month of besieging fortresses and chasing elusive bands of warriors and what did the army have to show for their efforts? Nothing. Not a single captive.
Every time the army came close to trapping the Veneti, the Gauls found new and ever more inventive ways to slip out from under their enemy and make it to safety once again. Five more fortresses had fallen in the few weeks after that smoky tunnel had demonstrated to him just how prepared the enemy were. Five more fortresses, and still not a single solid victory.
The moment that had brought him close to breaking point had been when they realised that the Veneti that had fled from the latest conquest had doubled back on them and made their way down to one of the strongholds the legions had already taken once. It was like… it was like trying to nail the sea to a tree; like trying to catch fog in a net. One thing Fronto knew for certain was that Caesar was close to the end of his tether and, when they finally caught the Veneti, Fronto wouldn’t have been among their number for all the gold and wine in the world. The last time Caesar had had this much trouble, near Numantia in Spain, the general had repaid the locals with genocide.
His gaze rested for a long moment on the shattered remains of the headland stronghold, it’s buildings pulled down, walls dropped into the sea, the thicker areas of vegetation fired and still showing from this distance as columns of smoke, and the grass salted to ruin it for generations to come… if there were to be any future generations, that was.
Fronto sighed again and pulled up the front of his breeches, fastening the drawstring. Before he turned away, he made sure to spit once on Draco’s name, a habit rapidly becoming a tradition in the Tenth. Glancing quickly at the sky, which threatened heavy rain again through the night, he strode back across to Tetricus’ tent. The warm glow and murmur of good-natured conversation from within welcomed him.
Pulling the tent flap back, he entered once more and made his way across to his seat among the cushions on the floor.
“I just don’t see what he expects us to do?”
Brutus gestured irritably with one arm before swigging from the cup in the other.
“I mean…” he paused, rubbing his eyes, ”the simple fact is that our ships can’t go out to sea to follow them in those choppy conditions and they can’t get close enough to land to follow them along the coast. All we can do is keep watch. Even when we do get near them, they’re both faster and higher than us.”
Tetricus shrugged.
“Then you’re going to have to find a way to bring them to your level. To even the odds a little.”
“Easier said than done, my friend.”
Tetricus nodded.
“The time will come. In the meantime, how many of these damn strongholds do we have to take before we can pin them down?”
Fronto sat heavily and reached for his own wine.
“I have to admit I am heartily sick of Armorica. For a few days when I got to Vindunum I was actually glad to get out of Rome and back into the field. For the life of me I cannot fathom why!”
Balventius and Carbo shared a look and then the primus pilus of the Eighth smiled.
“It could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be with one of the other armies.”
Fronto frowned and Balventius spread his hands wide.
“You could be with Labienus suffering the worst of both worlds. He has the climate of Gaul and the boredom of no action. He’s just digging aqueducts and teaching the locals the value of Rome while his boots fill with rain.”
Carbo nodded and leaned across in front of him.
“Or you could be with Crassus… actually, that’s enough on its own. You could be with Crassus!”
Fronto chuckled.
“I wonder how everyone else is getting on?”
He leaned back and took another swig.
“Remember the last couple of years? Those times we sat in that nice little tavern in Bibracte?” He grinned meaningfully at Balbus. “Or that charming little place in Vesontio where you broke my nose? I can’t remember there being rain. All I remember when I think back is warm sunshine, bees and the smell of wildflowers.”
Carbo snorted.
“That’s because you went to Spain for the winter. You should have seen the conditions at Vesontio in November. It was like camping in the bottom of a latrine.”
Fronto shrugged with a laugh.
“Fair enough. It’s just this constant rain is beginning to wear my patience away, particularly when combined with our inability to nail the Veneti down. It just feels like we’re wasting our time out here while the Gods piss on us for fun. The only time it stops raining is when the bloody thunder clouds need time to gather to give us yet another storm.”
Brutus nodded.
“But that can’t go on forever. At least if the weather clears up the fleet might have more of a chance to prove itself. We’ve been sat pretty much port-bound for the last fortnight.”
Balbus smiled and leaned forward.
“We need a plan. We need to trap the Veneti and their fleet in the same place with no means of escape. If we can do that, we can force a conclusion to all this.”
He reached up and thumped himself a couple of times gently on the chest before wincing and sliding his unfinished cup of wine back onto the low table.
“You alright?” Fronto asked, his brow furrowing.
“Just heartburn. It’s this cheap and nasty wine, and the quantity of it, of course.”
Tetricus raised his eyebrow.
“Cheap and nasty? You have no idea how much I had to pay Cita to get that. It’s some of his special reserve store.”
Balbus grinned at him.
“Still tastes like a gladiator’s sandal!”
“You’re just sore because you haven’t won a game of dice in three days.”
Fronto leaned back with his wine and let the ensuing good-natured argument wash over him like a warm bath, soaking him in comfort. Grimacing for a moment, he shifted his supporting weight to his right arm. His left had made an almost full recovery after the spear wound last year, but prolonged pressure still made it ache painfully.
Funny how many things had changed in just over two years. When they were chasing the Helvetii, the people in this tent would have been so different, with Priscus, Velius, Longinus and others. No Carbo or Brutus in those days, though. The seasons changed and, along with them, so did the people around him, but the central fact never changed: these were the core of people that made Caesar’s army what it was.
He smiled sadly at the recollection of friends gone and currently absent and realised, with surprise, that events had taken such a turn that he’d never had the opportunity to review the situation of promotions within the Tenth’s centurionate. Clearly Carbo had settled into the role of primus pilus comfortably and Fronto was hardly about to put that under review. The permanently happy-looking Carbo had a strange and yet infectious sense of humour and a wicked mind for practical jokes, as Fronto was starting to discover after the third night in a row of waking with a start next to a frog that sat staring silently at him.
But the need for a training officer had slipped his mind, perhaps due to the pain that thoughts of Velius still brought. He frowned and noticed that Carbo was watching him intently across the tent, past the laughing and arguing officers.
“Carbo? Mind if I pick your brain for a moment?”
The centurion smiled and shuffled across the carpeted floor until he sat close to the legate.
“By all means. You’ll have to find it first, of course…”
Fronto laughed quietly.
“Have you thought about how we fill Velius’ place?”
Carbo nodded.
“I assumed this would come up some time, but I didn’t want to push anything. I’ve had the job shared between the three most capable centurions in the Tenth as an interim measure, but I also have a shortlist of three candidates I was going to put to you.”
Fronto shook his head in exasperation.
“You’ve been prepared all this time? Why did you not speak to me, or even just sort it yourself?”
Carbo smiled.
“Velius was your friend. The time wasn’t right yet. Now, it clearly is. And it’s not my place to assign promotions in the centurionate; that has to come from you or a tribune.”
Again, Fronto laughed.
“You promoted yourself!”
“That was different. Anyway, I’ve three men in mind, as I said. I’ve not approached any of them, but the position’s likely to appeal to them all and, well… without wanting to blow our own buccina, the Tenth has a good reputation. People are always watching for transfer opportunities. You may have noticed we’re rarely far below full strength. We’ve had almost a hundred inward transfers in the past month. I think it’s starting to piss the other legates off, but it’s good for us.”
Fronto nodded.
“Go on then. Who’ve you got down?”
Carbo counted them off on his fingers.
“Well they’re all from outside the Tenth. Nobody truly fits the bill here. Firstly, there’s Aquilius. He’s the obvious choice, given his experience.”
“Aquilius?“ Fronto’s brow furrowed. ”But he’s already a chief training officer in the Eighth. Why would he change?”
Something unreadable passed across Carbo’s face for a moment; fleeting and then gone, chased away by a smile.
“We can offer him an identical role in the Tenth, with the same rank, position and pay. You see, Aquilius is a perfectionist. Not like the hard bugger Velius was, but a real professional, and I suspect he’d be excited to get a chance to get his teeth into the Tenth. He’s got the Eighth just how he wants them and there’s no challenge there any more. He might not accept, but I’ve a feeling he would.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Perhaps, but I’d rather not strip a good man from Balbus’ legion if I can avoid it. Who else have you got?”
“Well there’s a man called Bassianus in the Eleventh that I’ve been watching for a while too. He’s no experience as a chief training officer, but he’s done more than his fair share of training and drilling, and he’s a long term veteran with a reputation for being hard as a whore’s heart. He actually served with the Ninth in Spain under your command a long time ago.”
Fronto nodded appreciatively.
“Don’t recognise the name, but then it’s been a long time. You think he can do the job?”
“I wouldn’t recommend someone who couldn’t” Carbo grinned.
“Alright. So who’s the third?”
Carbo’s smile widened disturbingly.
“You’ll love this.”
“What?”
“A centurion called Atenos.”
“That’s not even a Roman name?” Fronto frowned.
“No. Atenos is a Gaul from the Thirteenth Legion. He’s my outside chance, just in case, but I can’t help thinking that, even though he appears at first to be the least appropriate, he might just be the best choice.”
Fronto shook his head and waved his arm.
“No, no, no. Any Gaulish centurion in the Thirteenth is a lower ranking one, you know that. All the senior roles were given to Roman veterans. Hell, all the centurions were Roman veterans until they started dying off. That means that this Atenos only has a year behind the eagle. He’s practically still one of the enemy!”
Carbo laughed.
“Bollocks. He’s signed on for the full term, taken the oath and served with distinction for a year. Besides, you’ve not queried his experience.”
Fronto barked a laugh.
“What experience? Ten years of fighting naked and covered in paint and then a year with the legions?”
Carbo’s grin became a little defensive.
“Hardly. Atenos has a long and distinguished military history… as a mercenary, I’ll grant you, but it all counts.”
Fronto blinked.
“A mercenary?”
Yes. When his people were displaced by the Helvetii about fifteen years ago, he went south and signed on with any army that would pay and feed him. He may have fought with the slaves, though he denies it, but he definitely served with Pompey’s fleets against the pirates, then turned and fought with the King of Pontus against Pompey and then joined him again when he marched on Jerusalem. Quite a pedigree.”
Fronto stared at his chief centurion.
“Carbo, the man’s fought against us as often as he’s fought for us. Are you mad?”
The primus pilus shrugged.
“It’s your decision. But think what a man with all that varied experience could bring to the Tenth if he were given the opportunity to train them?”
Fronto shook his head.
“You are mad. But I’ll have a look at them all and give you my opinions in a few days.”
“Good. Gives you something to get your teeth into and stop you moping around.”
Fronto glared at Carbo, but that grin was just too infectious to stay irritated at.
The legate of the Tenth looked up once more at the sulky grey sky. Last night it had delivered yet another torrential downpour, accompanied by crashes, flashes and grumbles and it looked very much like things were gearing up for a repeat performance tonight. He performed a quick calculation on his fingers as he walked.
By his reckoning, they had been campaigning again for just over eighty days, and dredging his memory as deeply as he could, he could only recall eight days that had not involved rain of some kind and those eight had, instead, been filled with high winds and freezing cold. What had happened to this country? Not for the first time this year, he found himself wondering why Rome would actually want this place at all.
Turning his thoughts away from the depressing weather, he instead set his sights on the man standing by the rocks close to the cliff edge. There was the sound of men working nearby, hammering stone with their picks.
Fronto was not sure what he was expecting from centurion Atenos but, whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The centurion stood in a traditional Roman pose, vine staff in hand and the other arm behind his back as he rocked gently back and forth on his heels. Fronto couldn’t see his face, as the man had his back to the approaching legate, but he was an impressive enough sight from the rear. Clearly a head taller than anyone Fronto even knew, the man was a virtual giant, probably six and a half feet tall, or even more, though thin and lithe, rather than bulky. His yellow hair was coarse and longer than tradition held, but lacking the traditional braids of the Gaulish. His concessions to Roman equipment were otherwise total.
A stick cracked under Fronto’s foot and the man turned sharply.
His face was strong and proud, with high cheekbones and a tidy moustache. Fronto was surprised to note, given the man’s short service history, the four phalera and single torc hanging from the man’s harness. He must have had an eventful year.
“Morning” he said, as casually as possible, cursing his dubious talents at duplicity.
The centurion saluted.
“Good morning, Legate Fronto. You’re a long way from the Tenth?”
Fronto nodded, unable to come up with a convincing reason for his presence. Instead, he ignored the comment and nodded toward the five legionaries who repeatedly smashed at a flat, heavy rock perilously close to the edge of the cliff.
“Mind if I ask?”
The centurion nodded.
“Sick of having to cross the camp for a crap, sir. Decided to build a proper latrine here. Got ‘em cutting bum-holes in the rock.”
Fronto looked confused for a moment.
“Can’t they just crouch over the pit like everyone else?”
The Gaul turned to face him, a strange smile on his face.
“No pit. Going to have it perched over the edge. Sea will take it all away… no smell and no mucking out.”
Fronto stared.
“You’re actually going to sit on a home-made bench, bare-arsed and leaning out over the cliff for a crap?”
The centurion nodded.
“Perfectly safe, sir. Rock solid, you might say. Even had our engineers’ approval. I’ve offered the lads first try, since it’s all their own effort, but they gave me the same look as you did. Looks like I might have my very own latrine.”
There was nothing Fronto could do but continue to stare at the man incredulously, his eyes sliding first to the seat the men were manufacturing, and then to the precipitous drop into the sea. He shuddered.
“Well there’s no denying the bravery of the centurionate. That’s for sure.”
The man laughed.
“So if you’re not here for a crap, sir, mind if I ask why you are here?”
Fronto ground his teeth. He was no good at this subtlety.
“You were pointed out by one of my officers as a man to watch. Frankly, I was intrigued… and I think I still am.”
The centurion raised an eyebrow.
“You on the hunt for transfers, sir?”
Fronto shook his head, not in answer to the question, but in fascination.
“Perhaps. From what I’ve been told, I’d guess you were one of the Aedui? Or the Lingones?”
Atenos shook his head.
“Close, though, sir… for a Roman. One of the Leuci actually originally.”
Fronto nodded thoughtfully. He knew the name, of course, but couldn’t have placed the tribe without a map.
“You speak Latin flawlessly, without even a trace of an accent. But from what I hear of your past, that’s perhaps not a surprise.”
The huge Gaul smiled down at him. The longer Fronto stood next to him, the smaller he felt. It was like being at the bottom of a well.
“My Latin is good, legate. My Greek has a strange twang, I’ve been told, reminiscent of a Galatian. My Persian is barely comprehensible, but I know how to talk to barmen and dancing girls.”
Fronto stared.
“Persian?”
“Spent a year in Commagene when I got my honesta missio after that business in Judea. Strange place over there, though; and all the sand, rock and dust make a man homesick for some good, honest wet grass.”
Fronto laughed.
“Then you’ve done well! I’ve never seen wetter grass than this stupendous Gaulish summer.”
The man nodded and fell silent; a silence that remained for a minute, backed only by the hammering of picks on stone.
“You’ve been a busy man prior to joining the Thirteenth… fighting for all sorts of different people, if I hear correctly?”
Atenos shrugged.
“A man has to make a living, sir. I’d have signed on with the legions a decade ago if it were legal, but I’m not a citizen. Happy now, though, since Caesar found a way around that particular rule.”
The legate’s eyes narrowed.
“Really? Even though we’re here fighting your fellow Gauls?”
Atenos shrugged again.
“Not my fellows, sir. Never even been this far west. Still…” he turned a searching gaze on Fronto “… if you’re trying to find a subtle way to enquire as to my loyalty, remember that I’m a centurion in the Thirteenth, and my legion is a proud one; bound to be, since most of us are Gauls. I hear that you are a man of the legions; people say you’re one of the men. If that’s the case, could I respectfully ask you to get to the point?”
Fronto nodded quietly.
“I’m on the lookout for a chief training officer. Your name was one of three that my primus pilus supplied.”
“I’m quite happy where I am, sir.”
Fronto smiled slyly.
“I’ve not offered you it, yet. I’ve plenty to think on first.”
Atenos smiled at him.
“Who are your other choices?”
“Aquilius from the Eighth and Bassianus from the Eleventh.”
The huge Gaul scratched his chin.
“Take Bassianus.”
Fronto frowned up at him.
“I’ve already spoken to both of them. Why not Aquilius? He’s eminently qualified, and my primus pilus thinks he’d accept.”
“I’m sure he’d accept, but choose Bassianus. I’ve watched Aquilius work while we were in winter quarters. He’s too straight and proper for the Tenth. He’ll end up resenting the chaos your lads live in and your men will learn to hate him. It’s a problem best avoided from the start.”
“You think the Tenth are chaotic?”
Again, Atenos laughed.
“In the best possible sense of the word, but yes; of course they are, sir. Not in battle, mind. I’m not saying they’re not disciplined and even the general himself acknowledges that the Tenth are the best of his Legions. Chaos works for you, and it works well. It wouldn’t work with Aquilius there. Steer clear.”
The big man looked down at Fronto’s scowl.
“Bassianus is a good man. His men are always tired and dirty but smiling. That means he keeps them working and training hard, but fairly and with appropriate reward. He’s your man.”
Fronto stepped back. His neck was beginning to ache in this conversation.
“You could be right. I’d certainly rather have someone who works with the lads, rather than just working them.”
Atenos laughed again.
“Glad to be of help, legate. Feel free to drop by any time you feel like having a death-defying crap.”
Fronto couldn’t help but return the laugh and nodded in a casual fashion as he turned and strode away across the grass, his arms folded.
The big Gaul was right. Bassianus was almost certainly the man for the job but, as he walked back toward the tents of the Tenth legion, Fronto couldn’t shake off the feeling that passing over the possibility of the hulking Gaul might be a mistake. He was clever enough and clearly brave, but what Fronto hadn’t expected was the man’s matter-of-fact and almost eerily acute assessment of the other centurions on the list. That kind of mind was what made a good training officer.
The legate was still thinking hard on the situation, unsure how to proceed, as he approached his command tent and raised his head in surprise to see two men standing by the door flap.
“Can I help?”
The two men saluted. One was one of the duty centurions that Fronto vaguely recognised; the other was a nondescript Roman male in plain tunic, breeches and cloak, sweating and steaming from a hard ride.
“Sir! Courier arrived for you not ten minutes ago.”
Fronto frowned at the men and then nodded.
“Very well.” He gestured to the courier. “Come on in; thank you centurion.”
As the officer left to return to duty, Fronto pushed aside his tent flap, grateful once again to enter the comfort of his own little world as he heard the first few drops of fresh rain hit the leather.
“So… a courier?”
The man bowed.
“Yes, legate Fronto. I bring a missive from Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus in Rome. He tasked me to deliver it into your hands and no other.”
Fronto looked up, surprised.
“Priscus? Well, well.”
He held out his hand and the courier reached into his tunic, took out a wax-sealed tube and passed it over.
“Could I respectfully request a bunk for the night and perhaps some food? It has been a long journey and master Priscus felt sure you would want me to wait and take a return message.”
Fronto nodded and waved a hand vaguely at the door while he examined the tube in his hands.
“Find an officer somewhere out there and tell him you’ve got my go-ahead for whatever it is you need.”
He waited as the man nodded respectfully and left the tent, and then eagerly broke the seal at the end of the tube, sliding the scroll out and flattening it on the table before picking it up to read. He smiled at Priscus’ spider-like writing. He was hardly a master scribe.
Marcus.
I hope you are well and everything goes to plan out there. If not I shall want to know why from that Illyrian goat herder that is doing my job. I am sorry that I have not written sooner, but you know how much I hate writing and the courier costs an arm and a leg — feeble joke there, so ignore it.
Matters in Rome continue to descend into trouble. I have managed to gather a pretty impressive group of spies, thugs and borderline criminals here and they are starting to produce results. You would be surprised at some of these results, too.
I have had people following Clodius, as well as his sister and that Egyptian catamite. Each has turned up interesting news. Clodius, if you can believe this, has been visiting the house of Pompey, and not during normal visiting hours. We have seen him in disguise in the middle of the night, slipping out of Pompey’s town house. You might want to pass that on to the general.
Clodia is particularly interesting. She was making a nuisance of herself for a few weeks after you left, showing Clodius up and trying to pin wrongdoings on a number of our acquaintances with no luck. Then, suddenly, she vanished. No one has seen or heard from her in well over a month now. I am personally of the opinion that her brother just got sick of her, stuck her in the gut and dropped her in the Tiber, but it is interesting nonetheless.
And then there’s Philopater. He has been distributing quite a sum of coinage to several families in Rome, all plebeian. I have done a little prying and was rather surprised to find who some of those families were. Three names I recognised and can identify at this stage are Tarautas, Fulcinius, and Volcatius, all of whom are senior veterans in the Eleventh legion and who you might want to have a little word with.
On the home news, I remain at your mother’s house, with a strong armed guard. Your mother and sister are both well and are planning to send you gifts soon if you are staying in Gaul for the season. I may have dropped myself in it when I enquired as to why your sister still lives at home at her age. Me and my mouth. I am so sorry; I never knew. I have trod carefully around her since then, but you know Faleria. She does not even know what a grudge is. Things will be fine.
I hunger for news of what is happening out there and I told the courier to do a little prying around and find out a few choice titbits for me. Feel free to use him to send a reply.
And that has exhausted both my news and my stylus hand. Now I go to raid your ever-depleting stock of good Campanian wine.
Be safe and Fortuna watch over you.
Gnaeus
Fronto smiled as he dropped the scroll back to the table. Interesting and somewhat worrying news, but just to hear from the man was a joy in itself.
“Time to stir up the shit again…”
Crispus frowned at Fronto as he buckled the cuirass at his side.
“Why my legion?”
Fronto exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Balbus by his side and looked a little apologetic as he replied.
“Well the way we see it is that when they signed on, Caesar probably had six legions. The Seventh, Eighth, Ninth and Tenth were all veteran legions with long-term experienced commanders. If they had an agenda of their own, they would be trying to lay low. The Eleventh and Twelfth were new and with… untried commanders.”
He shifted uneasily, but Crispus nodded professionally.
“Don’t feel embarrassed, Marcus. When I took command of the Eleventh, I hardly knew one end of a gladius from the other. I was used to putting stylus to tablet in Rome. I was the obvious choice for them, I have to admit.”
He shrugged the armour into place comfortably and reached for his belt and scabbard.
“But what are they here for? They must have been with the legion for more than a year now. Are they waiting to carry out some diabolical plan, or is it already in motion, wheels turning unseen beneath our feet?”
Fronto and Balbus made uncertain noises but said nothing.
“Very well. I think it’s time we went to see the three. I had them taken to the headquarters tent. Until we know what we’re dealing with here, I thought it best to avoid the gossip that would arise inevitably from having them imprisoned in the stockade.”
“We thought we’d best see your legion’s clerks first. Find out whatever we can of them?”
Crispus smiled at the other legates.
“Unnecessary. There are few men in my legion of optio rank or above that I can’t detail for you.”
“How can you have time to get to know all your officers?” Fronto asked, his brow lowering. “I’ve had Carbo serving under me for years and I’m not even sure I’d met him until Priscus went out of the picture.”
Crispus’ smile widened.
“That, Marcus, is because you are, despite all appearances, a tremendously private person. I have noticed that you only open up to a few close friends. I make a point of finding out everything I can about my officers.”
Balbus scratched his bald head.
“So what do you know about them?”
“Fulcinius is the more senior of the three. He’s the Eleventh’s quartermaster. He’s meticulous and I would have thought absolutely incorruptible. I have been told before that he has refused to bend the rules even for tribunes, though perhaps that is because he has been hiding something. He has a wife and two children; had a brother too, but lost him in Armenia a few years ago. They served out there together under Pompey.”
Again, Fronto and Balbus shared a look, and the legate of the Tenth formed the name ‘Pompey’ on his lips silently. Balbus nodded.
“What about the others?”
“Tarautas is the chief centurion of the third cohort. First man in his family to go into the military, if I remember correctly. He has a huge family at Rome and in Antium. His uncle is a lanista in Antium with an impressive stable of Gladiators. In fact, in his first few months with the Eleventh, we had a small problem with Tarautas, who was running an illicit ring of fighting competitions for money.”
Balbus watched Crispus fasten the cloak to his shoulders and tilted his head, a suspicious look crossing his face.
“Tarautas? Was he by any chance also a veteran of Pompey’s Syrian legions?”
Crispus stopped as he was reaching for his helmet and frowned.
“I believe he was. Got his honesta missio around six or seven years ago. You believe there is a link with Pompey?”
Fronto flattened his hands in a suppressing motion and shushed him.
“That’s not a thing to go saying out loud; not without a whole barrow load of proof, anyway.”
Crispus nodded silently.
“Volcatius was in Syria too. He’s the signifer for the second century of the first cohort. Three men in high position in my legion, and all with loyalties that lie elsewhere. That vexes me rather a lot.”
He slapped his fist into the palm of his hand.
“A signifer, a chief centurion and a quartermaster.”
Fronto nodded.
“Could be more too, and in other legions. These are just three names that Priscus recognised from a list of many.”
Crispus sighed as he made final adjustments to his armour before turning and opening the flap of his tent. Water dripped, cold and unpleasant, from every point and edge in the camp, the aftermath of the latest dramatic downpour; more likely the intermission before the next act. The headquarters tent stood only thirty yards away, four duty legionaries on guard at the entrance.
He strode out with a military gait, Fronto and Balbus at his heels, both similarly attired. As the three legates crossed the open space to the command tent, the four legionaries snapped sharply to attention.
“Any trouble?” Crispus asked as they approached.
“Quiet as a mouse, sir” the soldier replied. “Not a peep.”
“Good. Dismissed. Go get some food.”
The legionaries saluted and walked off toward the centre of camp.
“Is that a good idea” Fronto asked quietly.
“You think they might attack us? What could they gain? No, I think this had best be a professional, very private, and reasonable exchange.”
Fronto frowned.
“I hope they think so too.”
Crispus gave a dark half-smile as he reached out for the tent flap and strode into the dim interior, the other two officers close on his heel.
The command tent was the largest in the camp, filled, as anyone who knew Crispus would expect, with tables, chairs, maps, cupboards full of tablets and racks full of scrolls. Two braziers supplied the warmth in the room and, along with two oil lamps, also supplied the light.
The interior was therefore dark and gloomy, even with the flap opened, and it took a moment for their eyes to become accustomed to the change.
“Oh shit.”
Crispus and Balbus could only nod, echoing Fronto’s sentiments.
The bodies of three men in tunics and breeches lay in a heap in the centre of the room close to the table. The floor around them pooled with fresh blood and rivulets of the stuff ran down their alabaster faces and limbs, matching the tunic’s crimson.
Balbus shook his head and pinched his nose.
“That’s just ridiculous! We hadn’t even spoken to them yet. They couldn’t have known what we were going to do!”
“Idiots” Fronto agreed. “No interrogations. Just bodies. That’s just stupid.”
Crispus stepped forward, frowning, and examined the pile.
“I don’t think so, gentlemen.”
“What?”
The young legate shrugged.
“These are all senior officers. If they were going to take the noble route, tradition is to use your sword, and each would do it themselves. At least one of them still has his sword sheathed. This was done with a pugio or some other short dagger. And they are in a pile. Why would they, even as they died, throw themselves on each other in a heap?”
Fronto blinked.
“They didn’t kill themselves?”
“I very much doubt it. This was done by someone else, and it was done recently, quickly, professionally and must have taken them by surprise.”
Balbus nodded.
“If they never even drew their swords.”
“More than that. There must have been at least three of them. One assailant couldn’t have dealt with all three that quickly.”
Fronto slapped his head.
“Did you recognise the legionaries on guard?”
Crispus blinked and stared at Fronto.
“No. I don’t know many of the rank and file, I’m afraid. I never even thought to look.”
Fronto grumbled.
“They said it had been quiet. They would have heard any sort of struggle and, that being the case, I think we just walked straight past the culprits and passed the time of day with them. They must have only just been leaving the tent when we arrived.”
Balbus gestured at Fronto.
“You go and see Caesar about this. I’ll help try and sort this out.”
The legate of the Tenth gave them a quick nod and then, turning, left the tent and hurried through the rows of ordered tents and out of the section of the camp allotted to the Eleventh.
The general’s command tent was a hive of activity as Fronto arrived and nodded suspiciously at the legionaries on guard by the entrance. As he reached for the door, the flap opened and Brutus emerged, looking gaunt and tired, as was so often the case these days.
“What sort of mood is he in?”
“Changeable” the young officer replied. “Step lightly.”
“Not likely, I’m afraid” Fronto sighed.
Patting the other man on the shoulder in a comradely fashion, Fronto stepped through the door into the tent. Cicero and Cita, the chief quartermaster, sat opposite the general in deep discussion.
“Apologies for the rude interruption,” Fronto announced from the entrance “but I need to speak to the general in private on an urgent matter.”
The two officers threw a questioning look at Caesar, who nodded. Fronto waited patiently as they stood, saluted, and turned to leave, before he approached the table and placed his hands on it.
He quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone and the tent flap was lowered.
“How much do you trust Pompey Magnus?”
Caesar leaned forward.
“Strange question. Why should you ask?”
Fronto shrugged. “How much?”
“Beyond any reasonable doubt. We are close allies, along with Crassus. Fronto, he’s been my son-in-law for the past three years. I ask again why you should ask?”
The legate rubbed his eyes.
“Evidence is beginning to point toward something involving Pompey. It’s all circumstantial, I grant you, but it’s pretty compelling, nonetheless.”
“Explain.”
“I just received a letter from Priscus. He’s been following Clodius and… well see for yourself.”
Reaching into his tunic, Fronto withdrew the crumpled parchment and tossed it onto the table before the general. Caesar raised an eyebrow and then unrolled the scroll and began to read. Fronto stood for a moment, watching a series of interesting expressions crossing the general’s face until he sat back and raised his face again, proffering the scroll. Fronto took it.
“Well?” he prompted.
“There’s another explanation. Either Priscus is mistaken, or Pompey is doing something for our mutual benefit. Most likely Priscus is mistaken, though. It is common knowledge in Rome just how much Pompey dislikes Clodius. I am much more concerned about the fact that Clodius has managed to slip more men into my legions. The infection continues to spread despite our efforts. Have you had the three apprehended yet?”
Fronto cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“After a fashion. They went for a stroll in the Elysian Fields this afternoon. Looks like someone didn’t want them to speak to us.”
Caesar shook his head irritably.
“Not a great help. Now we are back to square one unless Priscus can unearth the rest of these names for us.”
Fronto shifted uneasily.
“What would you say, Caesar, if I were to point out that the three men in question had all served with Pompey in Syria and Armenia in the last decade and had received their honesta missio about six years ago?”
The general frowned.
“There are thousands of veterans of Pompey’s army still floating around, Fronto. You know veteran soldiers; many of them sicken quickly of the quiet life and sign up at the next opportunity. I think that reading conspiracy into it is reaching a little. Again, it is circumstantial at best.”
“With respect, Caesar, while you may be right, ignoring this could be a huge mistake. If there is more to this than you believe, something is festering just below the surface of the army and involves both Clodius and Pompey.”
The general sat silent for a moment and finally nodded.
“Agreed. But there is little we can do about it for now. I assume you will be replying to Priscus? Please ask him to send on any further information as and when he tracks it down and continue to do the excellent job he appears to be doing. I will make my gratitude felt when I next see him.”
Fronto nodded.
“And” the general gestured with a raised finger, ”I have been thinking on our situation here with the Veneti. I believe there may be a solution. We need to settle this region swiftly and get back to Rome. Pass the word among the officers to attend a staff meeting here at dawn.”
Fronto smiled and nodded again as he turned and strode toward the doorway.
“Your help is, as always, immeasurable and gratefully received” the general called after him.
Smiling to himself grimly, Fronto stepped out into the late afternoon on this, the last day of Iunius, and looked up in surprise to see a patch of blue sky opening up between the clouds.
“Let that be an end to it…”