Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (28 page)

“Any news about the tribune?” Carbo asked quietly, deftly changing the subject.

Fronto sat up a little straighter. “He’s recovering nicely apparently. Not as quick as the invincible horseman over there” he gestured at Varus, who grinned. “Looks like Tetricus was very lucky; the wounds could have been that much worse if just a fraction of an inch different. I think he’s lucky he was moving and there was a big fight on. If the bastards had cornered him in an alley, it would have been a different matter.”

“’Bastards’?” enquired Atenos with a frown, noting the plural.

Fronto shrugged. “I’d wager a fortune on who the culprits were, and there’s two of them.”

“Fabius and Furius of the Seventh” Galronus said quietly. “How sure are you?”

“Pretty convinced. No evidence, though. I can accuse them all I like, but
Cicero
will back them to the hilt and it’s no secret that those two and I have a mutual dislike. It’ll just look like me being vindictive if I make any kind of accusation without evidence. I had a look at the weapons they used, but they’re bulk legionary issue with no way to distinguish them.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder if the world might be a brighter place if those two wake up dead in their tent one morning.”

“You’d not sink to that level, Marcus. If you were the kind of man who did, the Tenth would have done away with you years ago.” Priscus shook his head. “But it’s a mess, Marcus.” he announced wearily. “This whole thing is a mess. Labienus has been sounding people out, you know? He came to see me; ostensibly it was a perfectly acceptable enquiry for the camp prefect, but he asked me some pretty telling questions.”

Fronto narrowed his eyes at his old friend.

“And you said?”

“I said I was Caesar’s camp prefect. That seemed to shut him up.”

Another knock at the tent door drew their gaze and attention.

“You invited anyone else?”

Fronto shook his head. “Who’s there?”

“Message for the legate of the Tenth, sir.”

Struggling to his feet, Fronto hobbled over to the door and pulled aside the flap. A legionary stood outside, looking nervous.

“Well?”

The soldier held out a cylindrical case; small and made of wood. “This arrived by courier a few minutes ago at the gate, sir, with instructions to be passed to yourself.”

Fronto nodded and waved the soldier away, taking the case and retreating into the tent. Unstoppering the end, he slid out a small roll of expensive parchment. The wax seal that held the scroll tight bore his family’s signet, marking its source as either Faleria or his mother.

“Letter from the missus?” Priscus grinned.

“From home” Fronto said absently, snapping the seal and unrolling the short missive. His eyes strayed back and forth along the lines, his expression undergoing a number of changes as he read, and darkening as he neared the end.

“The bastard!”

The tent’s occupants looked at one another and then at him.

“What?”

The legate thrust the parchment angrily at Priscus, who ran his eyes down the text until he reached the bottom.

“Maybe she’s mistaken?”

“No. No mistake. I should have known when we confronted him in
Rome
that Caesar would get his talons into the man.”

“What?” Galronus was half-raised from the floor now.

“Caesar’s got Clodius Pulcher working for him now, running gangs of thugs from his niece’s house to frighten those daft old buggers in the senate who chunter about this campaign. After everything Clodius did to us last year! Caesar stood with me and fought the cheap little bastard and his men, and then he hires the prick? Clodius is as treacherous as a snake and as slippery as an eel. The little bastard needs to be filleted and dumped the
Tiber
, not employed!”

“Remember what I told you, though, Marcus” muttered Varus, wincing as he carefully tightened the sling around his arm once more. “Caesar’s only maintaining his command and his position because the senate are scared of him. That’s what Clodius is: a cestus. An armoured glove of the general closing on the throat of the senate.”

“Still, if that little prick is swanning about in
Rome
when I get back, Caesar or no Caesar, I’ll gut him myself.”

Galronus’ brow furrowed. “Why in
Rome
but not here?”

“What?”

“Why would Caesar have hired men frightening the senate into supporting him – which is extremely dangerous and could land him in court or prison – and yet leave those who disagree with him in important places in his army? I know you say Labienus is worth too much as a commander, but if the general would go so far as to threaten patrician class senators, would he really stop at his officers?”

“Caesar has always been a man of the army. His legions love him because he’s one of them. He’d lose their love and respect pretty damn quick if he started doing away with officers he didn’t like.”

And yet, even as he spoke, in his gut Fronto couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps there was some truth in Galronus’ words. His mind conjured up pictures of Paetus – the former camp prefect whose family Caesar had allowed to die needlessly, turning him against the general. Of Salonius – a tribune who had stirred the legions against Caesar three years ago and who had disappeared without trace. Of the Fourteenth who had spent two years repeatedly being given the more ignominious duties in the army due to their Gallic nature. Of the Seventh, who now contained all the general’s ‘bad eggs’.

Caesar could be a hard man and an unforgiving one. Would he really allow potential enemies to stay in command in his own army?

Fronto reached for the wine again, ignoring the jug of water nearby.

* * * * *

Tetricus winced and lowered his head back to the cold, crisp bed. It never ceased to amaze him how the legion’s medical staff could erect a fully working hospital in the middle of a muddy field. He smiled and allowed his eyes to close.

The wound in his back sent shock waves through him every time he lifted his head or turned over, meaning that he’d moved remarkably little in the eternity he’d spent lying here. Still, he had to consider himself lucky. Between that wound and the one in his leg that had been brutal, true, but had managed to narrowly avoid completely severing a muscle; he was in discomfort most of the time, even despite the medication the staff had him on that made him weak and filled his head with fluff. But he only had to concentrate to hear the moans and constant shrieks of those who fared worse in other parts of the hospital. Or to imagine that silent tent at the far end where those who were not expected to pull through lay in stupefied and putrefied agony.

No, he could have been in a far worse position.

And, of course, his rank had afforded him a private ‘room’ – a section of the large ward tent that was partitioned off with internal leather sections. Four such rooms existed and he knew from listening to the activity around him that two centurions and an optio occupied the others. The optio was recovering from a spear wound to the neck that had left him unable to speak, and the centurions had various lost a hand, suffered a head wound, and taken a blade in the gut, though who and in what combination, he had so far been unable to determine.

A sigh escaped his dry lips. Perhaps soon an orderly would come and he could request some water. Or maybe even something a little stronger.

The medicus and his assistants had been extremely non-committal when he’d asked how long he would be bed-ridden. Fronto had come to see him, of course, as had Priscus, Carbo, and the other tribunes of the Tenth as a mark of appropriate respect. And Mamurra, Caesar’s senior staff engineer and a personal hero of Tetricus’.

Mamurra represented the major reason he was twitching to get up and about. The man had intimated that Caesar was considering something big – something that made Mamurra’s eyes glint with that heart-deep excitement an engineer felt when presented with a challenge. The world-famous engineer was almost vibrating with eagerness, and had alluded to the possibility of Tetricus being in on the task if he was returned to duty in time.

And so he must be.

Somewhere beyond the leather walls of his small world there was a tearing sound, like a medical dressing being ripped open, though louder. Tetricus frowned in his strange and sterile compartment. Sounds had been his main companions these many past hours, and he’d become used to every sound the hospital had to offer.

This was new.

Tetricus’ world went white.

Panic gripped him as he jerked his head to one side, causing a fresh wave of pain to shoot through his back and shoulder. The curtain of white – linen apparently – slipped away from one eye and he had a momentary glimpse of a muscular arm coated in fine brown hairs, the wrist enclosed in a bronze vambrace embossed with a protective image of the medusa head. Even as the white veil slipped over his eyes again, he felt his arms thrust down against the bed by powerful hands while another pushed a vinegar-soaked rag, likely gathered from the hospital floor, into his mouth, stifling his cry before he could even issue it.

At least two people; his arms held down and his mouth gagged and eyes covered. Panic rose to a crescendo. He tried to kick out, but the agony in his wounded leg caused him to slump back, his breathing horribly restricted by the linen and the rag that covered his face.

Surely such a thing couldn’t happen in a hospital? Where were the orderlies? Where was the medicus? Was he not due another dose of the drug?

No amount of struggling would free his arms; he was simply too weak. His chest heaved with the difficulty of breathing through the white cloth. Was this what they were trying to do? Smother him? Why?

Officers of Caesar’s army killing other officers? What was happening to the world?

Despite the gag, he did manage a sharp squeak and a whimper as a long, tapering blade crunched down through his breastbone and slid deep into his chest, severing blood vessels and piercing organs before grating between ribs at the back and punching into the bed itself.

Tetricus gasped at the killing blow. Despite the wounds he’d taken from the dagger and the pilum and the half dozen other injuries he’d suffered these past three years since Geneva, nothing could have prepared him for this white-hot agony.

He could feel the grey closing in around him almost instantly. His voice wouldn’t respond. He could do little but shudder and shed a silent tear. His last breath issued as a simple wheeze with a crackle and a rattle. He barely recognised the feeling as the blade ripped back out of his chest, grating on the bone and releasing the flow of blood. His heart had already stopped, two inches of steel driven through the centre with professional accuracy.

Tetricus passed from the world of men precisely half a minute before the orderly arrived with a small vial of henbane and mandragora solution, finding only the body of a tribune in a lake of blood and a large slit in the tent wall.

* * * * *

Fronto stomped across the grass, his eyes burning with a fire so hot that legionaries and officers alike scrambled to get out of his way. There was that something about his appearance which challenged anyone to stand in his way.

The hospital tent stood gaunt and bleak at the bottom of the slope by the river and at the downstream end of the camp for the sake of hygiene. Two contubernia of legionaries stood guard around its perimeter, as they did at the other two hospital tents and, as the legate approached, the optio by the tent’s doorway stepped aside and saluted.

“Legate Fronto. The medicus is waiting for you.”

Fronto, acknowledging the man’s very existence with only the merest of nods, strode into the tent and fixed his eyes on the man in the white robe, standing deep in conversation with one of his orderlies.

“Ah, legate. Come.”

The man handed his wax tablet to the orderly and stepped through a divide into one of the partition rooms. Fronto, his heart a lead weight in the base of his stomach, followed, steeling himself.

Tetricus had been left as found and,despite his preparations, Fronto found a small volume of bile rising into his mouth, his flesh falling into a cold sweat.