Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (15 page)

“Sorry, legate… no time.” He gulped in a deep breath. “Need help, sort of urgent-ish!”

Fronto framed his question, but Carbo had already ducked back outside the tent. The legate and the camp prefect shared a confused and concerned frown. Carbo was not a man to rush or be jumpy for paltry things. Grateful he’d already strapped on his boots, Fronto stood, dropping the cup to the table and grasping the hilt of his gladius. If something had made Carbo jumpy, he wanted to be prepared.

Priscus was at his shoulder as he stepped outside to find Carbo waiting impatiently on the main roadway, his usual pink features flushed to an almost beetroot colour.

“What the hell is it?”

Carbo gestured down the road and started to jog with the gait of a man who has just sprinted to his own speed record and needs a breather. As he ran, the two senior officers keeping pace with him, he spoke in brief staccato bursts between heaving breaths.

“Centurion in… the Seventh. He’s… he’s sentenced a man… to death.”

Fronto and Priscus shared a surprised glance again. It was an unpleasant thing, but hardly unknown, and nothing to do with anyone outside the Seventh.

“Carbo, what is the actual problem?”

The centurion realised they’d stopped and pulled up short, heaving in a huge breath.

“Man fell out of step during drill. Now he’s to be beaten to death!”

Fronto’s eyes widened. “That’s insane!”

Carbo, his breath spent, simply nodded and pointed onwards, in the direction of the distant camp of the Seventh.

Priscus narrowed his eyes. “But this is the province of their legte. Where’s
Cicero
. You should have gone to him first.”

Carbo shook his head wildly. “Legate
Cicero
is in with Caesar and not to be disturbed, like most of the seniors. One of their lesser centurions found me and asked me to help. He was one of ours til he got reassigned over winter.”

Fronto and Priscus began to run.

“I have a sinking feeling. The centurion who’s in charge of the punishment. Would it be a certain Furius by any chance?”

Carbo shook his head. “Name’s Fabius.”

“That would have been my second guess, yes.”

Fronto blinked as if realising something for the first time. “You do realise that I have no authority over the Seventh, Carbo? I can strongly advise, but I can’t stop it.”

Carbo looked a little abashed. “Respectfully, sir, it was the
Camp
Prefect
here that I came to get. He can override any centurion’s decision.”

Fronto blinked again as he glanced across at Priscus, who was nodding with a serious and thoughtful look. A position that theoretically had seniority over every centurion in the army. In some very important ways, Priscus now outranked him. For some irritating reason, deep in the darkest part of his heart, that annoyed him, though he was disgusted to realise it. He was only just beginning to understand the responsibility and power that Priscus now commanded.

The three men held their talk, concentrating all their energy into running through the camp, much to the surprise of the men they passed, who struggled to salute before they were past and gone. The guards at the gate, through which Carbo had entered a few minutes earlier, had held it open for him and glanced with interest at the sweating, ruddy-faced trio of senior officers as they passed beneath.

Two minutes later they reached the gate of the Seventh’s camp, jogging across the causeway that traversed the twin ditches and up to the closed wooden portal.

“Open up.”

“What’s the password?”

“I don’t have your legion’s password” Fronto snapped angrily, pointing at the pteruge-fringed tunic that denoted his status as an officer. To his surprise, Priscus, next to him, cleared his throat.

“
Persepolis
. Now open the damn gate.”

The huge timber construction swung ponderously open before them and the three men were through it while the gap was still widening. Without pause they ran along the deanus toward the small parade ground in front of the headquarters and officers’ tents that Priscus had set as a standard camp requirement.

The deathly silence that hung over the camp was almost deafening in itself and Fronto frowned as he ran. Had he been one of the men, he would be vocal right now over the harsh punishment decision.

Within moments, they drew close to the open, gravelled ground, surrounded by the men of the Seventh legion. The crowd, some six deep, blocked all access to the parade ground, from which the sound of hollow hammering issued.

“Move!” bellowed Fronto, startling the men around him so that they quickly melted out of the way of the three breathless officers.

Pushing their way into the open ground at the centre, Fronto took in the scene in a disgusted instant.

Centurion Fabius stood in full uniform, his face bristly and reminding Fronto of the other former Pompeian who had insulted him. His iron grey hair glistened in the sun, as his helm was cradled in his left arm, his right gesturing with his vine staff. Taller than Furius, he was narrower as well, with a wiry look that suggested to Fronto that he was probably fast and dangerous in a fight.

In front of the centurion, two men hammered a stake into the ground, matching one that already stood proud, at just the right distance to string a man between them with his arms outstretched. The accused was easy to identify. A young clearly recent recruit knelt on the floor, his wrists bound behind him, while two legionaries stood over him, javelins pointed at his neck. The man’s entire century were lined up in rows of four, each wielding a wooden practice sword, weighing considerably more than a real gladius and more than capable of breaking bones.

Carbo had stopped. Here, he had no authority at all, and had deferred, falling behind the two senior officers.

Fronto opened his mouth, bursting into a racking cough from the run. Priscus glanced at him. “Jove you’re unfit for a career soldier.” Ignoring the look on Fronto’s face, Priscus turned back to the scene where the hammering had paused at the interruption.

“Prefect.” Fabius came to attention, making no mention of Fronto at all.

“What is the meaning of this, centurion?” Priscus demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

“Punishment detail, sir. Fustuarium. This man endangered his century and therefore his cohort, his legion and the entire army.”

Priscus shook his head. “I understand he fell out of step in a drill?”

Fabius narrowed his eyes and flicked a quick cold glance at Fronto and Carbo.

“I can’t help what you’re led to understand, sir, but the punishment is in line with current guidelines. The drill was a three sided defensive wall in battle formation and held under battle conditions with real weapons. Standing orders are that under battle conditions, everything is to be treated as if it were live and not a drill. Moreover, the man did not just fall out of step. He slipped and lost control of his javelin.”

He turned to the column of waiting men.

“Passus?”

A legionary limped out of the column and saluted with difficulty, using his javelin to lean on and support a leg that had suffered a vicious calf wound. Blood blossomed on both sides of the dressing, indicating that the weapon had fully impaled him. Fabius turned back and raised his eyebrow challengingly.

“Passus? Do you think the punishment harsh?”

A dark, angry look passed across the man as he shook his head.

“Step back into position.” Turning back to the three officers, Fabius tapped his greave absently with his stick.

“Sir?”

Fronto turned to look at Priscus and was astounded to see a look of uncertainty on his face.

“What are you doing? Stop this!”

Priscus pursed his lips. “He’s right though legate. I set the orders myself. The man’s incompetence caused the grave wounding of a fellow soldier and I would guess upset the entire defensive formation. In a battle, they might have lost the whole cohort because of him. I’m loathe to interfere.”

Fronto glanced angrily between him and Fabius, who wore a look that struck Fronto as far too smug to countenance.

The quiet voice of Carbo piped up behind them, little more than a whisper. “Commute the sentence?”

Priscus glanced once at Fronto’s angry face and nodded, turning back to Fabius.

“In principal I agree with you, centurion. However, the army is about to march, and I think both troop numbers and morale could be better served with a lesser punishment in this case. A non-fatal beating should be enough to make the lad more careful next time.”

Fabius’ face betrayed no sign of irritation. He simply nodded and turned to the century of men.

“Lines two and four, you may retire. Lines one and three, you will continue to administer your punishment, with a single pass.”

Fronto leaned close to Priscus. “That’s still forty blows from practice swords. The lad might just die anyway.”

Priscus nodded. “Then we’d best go pour some more of your wine on that little altar to Fortuna – that I know you carry with you – in the lad’s name eh?”

Fronto glared at him for a moment, and finally nodded unhappily. The three men turned away as the victim was lifted and tied to the posts. Even halfway back down the Decumanus on their way to the gate they heard the screams of the first few blows. Fronto ground his teeth as they left.

“That centurion’s more of a bastard than any Germanic warrior we’re going to meet.”

Carbo looked uncertain, but Priscus shook his head. “I think you’re letting your personal feelings about those two centurions get the better of you. His decision was harsh, but entirely appropriate. I might have done the same thing.”

Fronto glared at him.

“You’ve turning into a hard hearted man, Gnaeus.”

* * * * *

Fronto eyed the column ahead with mixed feelings. He’d always liked
Cicero
, for all his minor faults and leanings, and it went against the grain of every soldierly fibre in his being to see a legion singled out as dispensable. And yet, with the Seventh legion in the van, at least Fabius and Furius were as far away from Fronto as they could be, and that suited him just fine.

The column stretched out both ahead and behind and he had a fairly clear view of the whole affair from the back of the glorious ebony-coated Bucephalus – following the customary twenty minute argument with Carbo about the benefits of an officer who marched with his men.

Of course, with advance scouts, the Seventh would theoretically have time to deploy should any aggressors be discovered up ahead, but Caesar had sent Piso with one wing of the Gallic cavalry ahead to scout the lie of the land and, to both Caesar and Fronto, Piso was still something of an unknown. He seemed in every way the perfect man for the job; thoroughly Romanised – as far as an Aquitanian could hope to be, clever, brave, strong, and quick-witted. It seemed that his men had taken an almost instant shine to him too, calling him ‘Camulos’ – apparently the name of a war God from these parts. And yet, while Caesar sent this trusted man forward, Fronto remembered Piso only from his association with Labienus during that conversation upon his arrival at camp. Just how far could any man be trusted these days?

Just like the Republic, the army seemed to be decaying, riddled with tumours and cancers, falling apart and in need of surgery. His attention was suddenly caught by a single rider making to intercept the army.

Varus’ cavalry had the task of patrolling alongside the column as outriders, while Galronus and his men kept a rearguard with the wagons and the Fourteenth. The lone rider was one of Varus’ men; one of the few Roman cavalrymen among the hordes of auxiliary Gauls.

Fronto calculated the man’s rough trajectory and, nodding to Carbo to keep the men moving, dropped out of the line and turned Bucephalus to walk back along the line of the Tenth to where the senior commanders rode between Fronto’s legion and the Eighth. The crimson cloak of the general and the glinting cuirasses of the senior commanders rose from the cloud of grey dust that marked the passage of so many thousand feet, and Fronto converged with them just as the general, having spotted the rider, rode out to the side from the line of march with his top men>