Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (21 page)

“This is
not
a public market! This is
not
an academy for philosophers! This is
not even
the house of the old women we call a senate! This is
MY COMMAND TENT
and I
WILL HAVE ORDER
!”

Fronto and Cicero, the only two men in the tent who had not turned to the general, finally unlocked their baleful gazes from one another and turned.

“This is not a matter for debate. This is
myt
army,
my
province, and
my
command.
I
give the orders and
you
follow them to the best of your ability. That is how things work, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will leave a detachment to guard the baggage train and siege engines as they follow on, while the army will move at the fastest speed we can manage to engage the enemy.”

The general’s gaze flitted to Labienus and Cicero.

“If anyone here is discontented with their role and wishes to resign their commission, lose my patronage and return to
Rome
, then they may do so. But bear in mind that I have a very long reach and an even longer memory.”

Labienus lowered his eyes deferentially, though
Cicero
met the general’s gaze staunchly for a moment before he nodded.

“Apologies Caesar” Labienus said quietly. “We spoke out of place.”

“You did. Let this be an end to it. What do we know or suspect of the enemy camp?”

Fronto, glancing briefly at
Cicero
, turned to the general again.

“Nothing concrete, general. Varus suspects it’s close. When the cavalry were attacked, the enemy horse were fresh, and they had peasants with them who would have travelled by foot. They wouldn’t have spent the night there waiting for us; with that many horses, they most likely came straight from their main camp at dawn. That all suggests that the enemy is encamped not more than, say, twenty miles away, at an educated guess.”

Tetricus cleared his throat.

“With respect, Caesar, I think we will find the enemy encamped close to the Mosella, if not directly on its bank. They will need fresh water and only that river is large enough to supply such a force in this area. Also, they must have some method of crossing the flow. Quite apart from having come from the far side of the Rhenus in the first place, we know that they sent their cavalry out a few days ago to raid south of the Mosella, so they must have rafts at or near their camp in enough size and quantity to transfer a large cavalry force across the river.”

Fronto nodded thoughtfully.

“Also, if they’ve been there long enough to send out long-range raiding parties, then that camp is at least semi-permanent. I’m guessing it could be fortified.”

Caesar leaned on the table again, his decorative, sharp blade still standing proud from it as a reminder to the more argumentative in the room.

“We must hit them hard enough to break their will, and it would be to our advantage to attack them before their cavalry return from the south. Each legion will leave their Tenth cohort with the baggage train, along with all their standard kit. The army will travel light and fast and equipped only to fight.”

He turned to Fronto.

“I recognise your concerns about the possibilities of them laying traps and ambushes on the route, but we cannot afford to risk their cavalry returning because we are slow and cautious. We will have to rely on scouts out in force to identify any trouble spots before we run into them.”

Standing straight again, Caesar’s gaze passed around the assembled officers.

“Return to your units and prepare to march, gentlemen.”

* * * * *

“You won’t bloody believe it, Gantus!”

The legionary on the far end of the four-hole wooden latrine seat that covered the stinking pit frowned at the man who had just pushed his head round the rough-hewn timber doorway. Another innovation of Priscus as camp prefect was to do away with the latrine tents that some units favoured and to close in the open trenches that others preferred, surrounding each latrine with a simple slat-wood wall that provided a measure of privacy, prevented the wind blowing the smell across the camp at ground level, and yet allowed air to circulate within and keep the gag-inducing stench a little more subdued.

Fronto looked up from his seat at the opposite end, where he had been sitting, casually reading the medicus’ injury and sickness figures for the Tenth. Curiously, despite his popularity that had always made him ‘almost-one-of-the-men’, legionaries still deferentially used the latrine seat furthest away from him.

That, or possibly it was the spiced lamb he’d had last night was having a more powerful effect than he realised. Raising a leg to flatulate more comfortably, he watched the man’s face as he realised there was a senior officer present and saluted.

“At ease. All men are equal in the shitter.”

“What’s up?” Gantus asked from the far end, reaching for the sponge on a stick in its water tub and eyeing it suspiciously. “Wish some people would make more effort to clean the sponge afterwards. I’ll be more shitty after this than I was before.”

Fronto smiled and reached to the small bucket next to him, removing his personal stick-sponge and proffering it along the bench.

“I want it so clean afterwards you’d stir your soup with it. Understand?”

“Thanks sir” Gantus smiled and went to work, arcing a questioning eyebrow at his visitor.

“The barbarians have sent more ambassadors. The gate guard didn’t know what to do with them, but the duty centurion had them disarmed and taken to the stockade.”

Fronto frowned.

“After yesterday, they’d dare try and talk to us again? Caesar’ll be pleased as punch.”

At the far end of the seat, Gantus hurriedly cleaned himself up and then very thoroughly washed out the sponge before returning it to Fronto’s bucket.

“Thanks again, sir.”

Fronto waved a hand dismissively and then stood, snapping shut the tablet and rapidly cleaning himself before pulling up his breeches and following the two legionaries out of the latrine.

Though the legate had not yet seen the stockade in the latest camp, it was not hard to locate, the roar of jeering soldiers drawing his attention. As he walked swiftly out to the main thoroughfare, he could see Caesar, Labienus, Brutus and Priscus striding toward the scene. Pausing, he fell in alongside.

“You’ve heard the news then?” Priscus asked.

“Yes. I find it somewhat hard to believe, though. Are they crazed?”

“Let us find out” Caesar said with a cold, malicious smile.

The stockade was a simple palisade of twelve foot stakes, with a door held closed by a heavy bar. There was room within to contain a dozen men comfortably or a century in cramped conditions. The eight-man contubernium guarding the stockade stood to attention, as alert as could be, keeping the gathered crowd of soldiers back largely by the force of their challenging glares.

Fronto’s eyes played across the shouting, jeering crowd. It came as little surprise to him that only perhaps a quarter of them were legionaries, the rest being Gallic cavalrymen, many with some small wound marking them as soldiers who had survived the massacre the previous day. Their anger was entirely justified and the joint hatred of these Germanic invaders seemed to have bound the regular legionaries and their auxiliary Gaulish counterparts together in a camaraderie that had not previously been evident.

The duty centurion and a contubernium of his men stood nearby, watching the scene carefully.

“If you really want to take it out on these ambassadors” Fronto muttered to Caesar, “all you have to do is open the doors and let those cavalrymen in. They’ll tear them to shreds by hand.”

Caesar nodded.

“I cannot deny it is tempting. But I want to speak to them first.”

As they arrived, the duty centurion bellowed a command that opened up a path through the crowd. Caesar and his party of officers strode through. Labienus’ face, Fronto noted, showed a personal battle raging within, conflicting emotions fighting for control of him. The man was the army’s greatest advocate for peaceful solutions these days.

Fronto had asked him about it one night in camp and Labienus’ eyes had taken on a haunted look. “Back when we fought the Belgae, Marcus” he had replied. “Women and children. Old men. So many. So needless. Just so that they couldn’t be enslaved. You never saw the piles of babies. It... it changes a man.”

Fronto had tactfully pressed no further, but something that had happened to Labienus two years ago seemed to have knocked from him the will to conquer. In its place it had left a man who Fronto – truth be told – much preferred. The Labienus who served Caesar now was a thoughtful, peaceful and calm man. He would be a man Fronto would value as a friend in Puteoli. But to an army on campaign, all it did was make him less effective and possibly even dangerous to have along. Even now he fought his own demons at every turn.

Labienus seemed to come to some decision and his face took on a stony impassiveness.

At a word from Caesar, the man on each side of the gate set his pilum point-down in the turf and heaved the bar to one side, freeing the gate. Two other men immediately moved in with their javelins, keeping them levelled as the gate ground slowly open. The caution turned out to be somewhat unnecessary, given that the dozen prisoners sat at the far side of the enclosure, their arms encircling their knees.

After the group of low-status warriors and peasants that had masqueraded as ambassadors yesterday to keep the officers busy, these men were clearly the real thing. Their weapons and armour had been stripped by the duty officer and his men upon their arrival, but their clothes were reminiscent of the high quality woollen garments worn by the Belgic nobles, and they were adorned with gold and bronze arm rings, torcs and finger rings.

As Caesar strode first into the enclosure, waving aside the worried protests of the guards, the enemy ambassadors stood and bowed surprisingly deeply and deferentially.

“Great Caesar.”

The general said nothing, merely coming to a halt in the centre of the stockade, with his officers fanning out to either side.

“Caesar, we have come to denounce a traitor in our own tribe and publically distance ourselves from the man who led an unauthorised attack on your army yesterday. If you will agree to hear us out and open talks with us, we are authorised to deliver this man to you for punishment.”

An unpleasant, feral smile curved Caesar’s lip.

“Fronto is right. You are relaxed and vital. You have not been in the saddle more than a few hours. I think your camp is less than twenty miles away; perhaps even ten.”

The ambassadors frowned at the strange turn of conversation.

Caesar turned to the duty centurion who had moved in with his men to join them. “Your sword please, centurion.”

The officer obliged, withdrawing a well-tended and wickedly-sharp gladius with a personalised hilt bearing images of the Dioscuri carved in bone. Caesar reached across and took the handle with an appreciative gaze. “A nice weapon, centurion. I shall be careful not to damage it.”

Everyone in the party accompanying the general had a fair idea of what was about to happen next. Labienus, Fronto noted, turned his face away.

Caesar stepped forward, the sword hanging by his side, coming to a halt an arm’s-length  away from the vocal diplomat. Without preamble or explanation, he lanced out with the blade, driving the point into the man’s stomach. The barbarian’s eyes widened in shock, but Caesar calmly turned the sword slightly and ripped it across to the other side of the man’s stomach, tearing the steel free at the furthest extent and raising it to look at the crimson blade.

“It may, however, need a good clean, centurion.”

The officer shrugged. “I have a man for that, general.”