Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (11 page)

Galronus, next to Fronto, nodded.

“The Tencteri I am particularly familiar with, general. They are bred for war. They live for war and pillage. They have learned these ways from the Suevi, a tribe that lives in the wastes beyond, to the east, and whom you should pray to your Gods that you never meet. I have heard tales in
Rome
that the Germanic tribes are all six feet tall or more, with the bodies of Vulcan, flame red hair, and are weaned on the blood of their enemies. Not so for many tribes, but the Suevi are the source of those tales. Among the Belgae they are the ghouls of childhood tales.”

Caesar nodded thoughtfully. “Fortunate for us, then, that we face only these other three tribes. What do you think of them, master Galronus?”

“The Tencteri are dangerous and warlike, and the Usipetes almost the same. The Ubii are more civilized. They have traded with the Belgae for many decades, and have often shown restraint. However, if they have crossed the Rhenus, it is because the Suevi forced them, and that will mean they are desperate. And desperate men are unpredictable and dangerous.”

Fronto tried to take it all in but, as was often the case in briefings such as this, the names battered at his skull, refusing to sink into the brain matter within. His soldier’s brain distilled it for him in the moment’s silence that followed.

“So you’re telling me that the Suevi are essentially monsters from nightmare, and they have pushed three tribes that are lesser-nightmare-monsters across the river, where they’ve frightened the locals enough that they hide? Is that the upshot?”

Caesar smiled benevolently.

“Succinct as ever, Marcus. But furthermore, I received visitors from those tribes on whose lands they settled. Two days ago, men came to seek our help.”

The general’s smile was the old wolf grin that Fronto recognised instantly. It was that satisfied smile Caesar wore when everything he’d pushed for and hoped for had fallen into place, giving him exactly what he wanted.

“They asked you to go to war with these Uspi-thingies and their friends?”

“They had sent their own ambassadors, offering the invaders chattels, food, weapons, warriors, herds and much more just to return across the Rhenus; a cowardly offer, of course. These tribes are unwilling to return to their own lands, as their nightmare enemies from the east await them there. But even should they not be, why would they leave the lands of men so weak as to try and buy their absence? No, the Ubii and their allies simply accepted such weakness for what it was, and expanded the area of land they were depredating to take in more Gallic tribes.”

“We’ve pacified
Gaul
and thus left it open to new predators” Fronto said quietly. “We’ve killed off or conscripted so many of their warriors they no longer have the strength to defend themselves from other tribes. It is not weakness that drove them to it, Caesar. It was our conquest that did that.”

A tiny flash of flint passed across Caesar’s eyes, but his smile, cold though it was, was quick to come.

“You have a way with words, Fronto. If only you could dress them up a little, what an orator you would make in the senate. But your words I accept as a possibility. I would then urge you to question why, when our conquest was complete and all rebellion had ended, I continued to keep all eight legions wintered in the north of
Gaul
? We must hold on to the peace with a warlike hand, Marcus.”

Fronto nodded wearily. He’d wished he could have thought of that when discussing the motives of the general with Balbus. It made so much sense when the general said it.

“So what’s next, Caesar? We march on them?”

Caesar shook his head. “Not yet, Marcus. I have sent out couriers to summon the Gallic council to Divoduron. Gaul is under Roman protection,” his eyes flicked uncertainly to Galronus for a moment and then back, “but it is still important for the kings and chieftains of
Gaul
to make the decisions about their lands and people. We can help, advise, support and protect, but, within the aegis of the
Roman
Republic
, these people still rule themselves. The Gallic council must decide what to do about the invaders and make a formal request of myself as the Proconsul. Only then can we legitimately move.”

Fronto frowned at the general even as he nodded. Caesar had to satisfy the senate that he was still working within their remit, in order to stem the troubles being stirred constantly in
Rome
, but how much of such courtesy was spoken for the benefit of Galronus as a prince of the Remi? What might Caesar have been inclined to say had the Gallic officer not been present?

Caesar smiled.

“And our army is a little depleted by years of campaigning, settling veterans, and releasing our allied cavalry from their duties. I have had some success with recruitment, despite the limits continually imposed upon me by the senate, but if the council does wish us to go to war for them, I will have to request that they supply me with further cavalry forces. I’m sure Galronus will appreciate a bolstering of his forces?”

The Remi noble nodded silently, and Fronto tried unsuccessfully to look behind those unreadable eyes to see what lay within.

“Very well, Marcus. I suspect you have a few weeks before the council arrive, despite my asking that they come with all speed. I suggest that you reacquaint yourself with your command during that time. And possibly experience the scrape of the razor once again. You are starting to look Germanic.”

* * * * *

Fronto and Galronus stepped out of the command tent into the bright sunshine, blinking, grateful to breathe the relatively fresh air of the camp.

“You coming for a drink?”

The Remi officer shook his head “I’ll return to my cavalry. There will be much to oversee and discuss. Perhaps I shall find you later.”

Fronto watched his friend stroll off toward the south gate once more, marvelling yet again at just how well the man fitted in among the Roman forces. His Latin was now fluent, even with a hint of an Oscan twang that had probably come from hanging around with Fronto so much. He was, admittedly, much neater and cleaner-shaven than Fronto himself.

With a small smile, he turned and strode down toward the camp of the Tenth. The sound of Carbo venting spleen at some misplaced piece of equipment rose from somewhere among the tents, but really the Tenth was as perfectly organised and efficient as ever. Fronto began to wonder, as he moved along the neat lines of tents, whether Priscus was perhaps leaning a little too heavily on the Tenth, even given the situation.

Rounding a corner and reaching the area of the command section, he was both surprised and pleased as one of the Tribunes’ tent flaps swung open and the young, energetic figure of Tetricus emerged, almost stumbling into his commander.

“Fron… sir!” Tetricus pulled himself up straight into a salute.

“Gaius” Fronto grinned. “Good to see you. You busy?”

Tetricus’ eyes flashed back and forth conspiratorially. “With respect sir, it doesn’t do to be anything
other than
busy. Even for a tribune. Priscus has eyes everywhere and if anyone sits down for a rest, they acquire a new job in minutes.”

Fronto sighed and grinned. “I think I’m going to have to have a word with the new camp prefect. Paetus knew how to do his job without impeding the legates and senior officers of a legion. Priscus seems to be trying to be the primus pilus of all eight legions and the support forces.”

He laughed. “Anyway. Here’s a new job for you: go find the usual reprobates and ask them to come join me for a catch-up and a drink. You too; and Priscus, if he can walk this far with that stick up his arse.”

Tetricus smiled with relief. “Varus and Brutus in particular have been waiting for you to get here, Marcus. I’ll bring everyone along shortly.”

Fronto nodded as Tetricus threw him another quick salute and ran off in search of their various friends. Shaking his head in exasperation at the effect Priscus’ promotion seemed to be having on the army, Fronto turned and strode between the tribunes’ tents to his own, where he was surprised to find four men standing in quiet conversation outside.

Labienus had changed little, though his face was a little more drawn and a haunted shadow seemed to flick around his eyes. His smile as he spotted Fronto was as friendly as ever, though. The man beside him was faintly familiar, though Fronto could not say from where, and his eyes lingered on the man only long enough to realise that, despite his Roman officer’s mode of dress and clean-shaven face, his hair was braided in the Gallic fashion, and the tell-tale bulge of a neck torc showed beneath his tunic. One of the cavalry, most likely, and doubtless an officer if Fronto recognised him.

The bigger surprise for a moment was the presence of the tribunes from the Fourteenth, Menenius and Hortius. They stood in easy conversation, hands on hips as though in friendly banter, and it took a moment for Fronto to remember that he’d asked them to come.

Labienus stepped out of the group, somewhat rudely interrupting Menenius, who appeared to be extolling the virtues of some sculptor or other.

“Marcus. By Mercury’s wings, it’s good to see you. I had word that you’d returned.”

Fronto noticed the way the Gallic officer beside him stepped forward like a shadow imitation of Labienus and wondered whether it was a move informed by desire to stay close to the staff officer whom he obviously knew, or more by the need to stay away from the mindless chatter of the two tribunes who seemed to be quietly discussing something that made the pair of them giggle like girls at a bawdy house.

“Titus” he smiled at the senior officer. “Good to see you too. Would you like to step inside and I’ll join you in a moment. I’ve not been in yet, but if Carbo’s following his standing orders, there’ll be a dozen cups and two amphorae of good Latin wine.”

Labienus raised a questioning eyebrow, his eyes flicking momentarily to the two tribunes, and then he nodded, his gaze searching out the meaning in Fronto’s dour expression and finding none.

“Come, Piso. Let us avail ourselves of Fronto’s wine. He always has an excellent stock. Hopefully he’s got water for it too, though you can never be too sure with Fronto.”

With a smile and a last curious glance, Labienus escorted Piso inside.

Fronto waited until the two tribunes finally noticed he was watching, and then beckoned them with a crooked finger and turned, walking toward Tetricus’ tent nearby. Lifting the flap, he motioned for the two fops to enter and then followed them in, allowing the flap to drop behind them.

Tetricus’ tent was exactly as Fronto would have expected. The engineer’s logical, analytical mind was reflected perfectly in his surroundings: every item in the interior placed with precision and nothing out of place. A wooden cabinet stood to one side with half a dozen drawers. A rack for two dozen scrolls stood on top and it crossed Fronto’s mind for a moment to pry, before he forced the urge away.

The two tribunes stood, looking somewhat befuddled, in the centre of the tent, almost lost in the dim light.

Fronto walked round them in a circle, looking them up and downe urge awasn’t sure exactly what he expected to find, but he needed to be sure that these two men had nothing to do with Pinarius’ death. The two tribunes watched him move like a prospective buyer at the slave market, probably wondering if he was going to open their mouths to examine their teeth.

Both men wore white leather tunics with white pteruges hanging in two rows from both waist and shoulders, each strip edged with gold and ending in a gilded fringe; ostentatious in the extreme. Though they wore no cuirass, helm or greaves, their boots were enclosed, soft leather efforts, a fleece lining poking from the top. Under normal circumstances, they would have attracted the same disparaging mental comments as the tunics in Fronto’s mind, but he was also painfully aware of their similarity to the boots he currently wore, courtesy of Lucilia’s mania for renovating him. Perhaps he could acquire a new pair of boots from Cita and start pissing them into shape over this summer? He made a mental note to do so.

He frowned as he sniffed. Rose petals and camphor? It was a cloying scent. He wondered for a moment why the two men stood together wearing scents that combined to such appalling effect until he realised that, in fact, both men wore the combination individually. His eyes watering, he stepped back and faced them.

“Tell me about your journey.”

The two tribunes exchanged a slightly baffled look, and then Hortius smiled.