Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (62 page)

Cicero
looked around to discern just how alone they might be, but every man in camp was busy making preparations, waiting for the call, or huddling beneath their cloaks against the driving rain. None were paying any attention to the small talk of senior officers.

“Marcus, you have no idea. I am Caesar’s loyal man; always have been. But because I will not distance myself from my brother, and because I advocate a path of calm and sense, I am tarred with the brush of a traitor. And I’m not alone, either. Labienus cannot fall much further from favour without having to look
up
at the turf! Remember that you are not that far behind us, either.”

Fronto turned, ready to proclaim himself Caesar’s man, but a plethora of thoughts battered at him in that fraction of a second. Just how much
was
he Caesar’s man? Certainly his allegiance to his general had waned throughout the campaign. And given the vehemence of
Cicero
’s statement, it was more than possible that his fellow legate had, at a deep level, a more solid and anchored support for Caesar than he himself. Quailing at even the thought, he swallowed and broached a new subject – almost new, anyway.

“What of Menenius and Hortius? Why are they not in the Seventh with you if Caesar’s lumping all his potential dissidents in one legion?” It was blunt. Much blunter than he intended, but the conversation had taken a difficult turn that had hit him unexpectedly, and he felt ill-equipped to attempt subtlety.

“I’m sorry, Marcus?”

“The two tribunes from the Fourteenth. Make no mistake: whether they’re tied to you and Labienus or not – or whether they’re tied to your brother or even Pompey, I
will
deal with them for what they’ve done. But how did they escape the policy of ‘all Caesar’s opposition in one legion’?”

Cicero
actually stopped walking for a moment in surprise, standing in a muddy puddle and apparently not even noticing as his boots started to saturate.

“
Tied to me
? What are you talking about, Fronto? What
have
they done?”

“They’ve been undermining the general, removing those with close links to him. I can appreciate a bit of opposition, such as you and Labienus – that’s healthy and keeps the general grounded, but taking action ad killing officers is tantamount to treason and murder and I won’t have it – especially not with my friends.”

Cicero
frowned as he started walking again. “I thought you landed that blame squarely with my centurions. Hell, you only started speaking to
me
civilly again since we found out we were in danger.”

“Fabius and Furius are innocent – martinets, but innocent. It’s the two tribunes, Menenius and Hortius.”

“You’re mistaken, Fronto.”

The legate of the Tenth glared at his counterpart.

“Don’t protect them, Cicero. I will have my time with them.”

“I’m not protecting them, you idiot.”
Cicero
grasped Fronto by the shoulders. “I’ve avoided every contact with those two. They’re Caesar’s pets.”

“Oh, please…”

“They are, Marcus. I’ve seen them in the general’s tent late at night when most of the army is asleep. They creep around and fawn to the general. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they’re certainly not killing Caesar’s favourites.” He lowered his tone, despite the fact that no one was remotely interested. “Menenius is so far into Caesar’s purse he would clean the general’s arse with his tongue if he asked. The Menenii were once Consuls but they’ve fallen so far, and now they’re living on farms in
Illyricum
. They’re but a spit from being plebs these days, Marcus, and Caesar’s the only thing upholding their ancient noble name. And as for Hortius – well the man may play a noble fop but his mother served in a brothel on the
Esquiline
and his father was… let’s say a regular visitor with solid mercantile wealth. He owes his current high position to the general.”

Fronto shook his head. “It’s them. I know it’s them.”

“I fear you’re mistaken, Marcus. The men would return to relative obscurity without Caesar. They’re his creatures. It’s why they’re assigned to the Fourteenth that’s always on supply train duty and safely out of the danger of combat. Speaking of which…”

Cicero
gestured to Carbo, who stood beside Fronto’s neat little room at the end of a timber building. In the wide space beyond, his men were formed up ready for action.

The legate of the Tenth came to a stop.
Cicero
paused on his way to the Seventh and clasped hands with him. “Now is not the time for such talk or thoughts – we go to fight. Forget about your conspiracies, Fronto, and concentrate on the Britons.”

Fronto nodded and clasped the other legate’s hand. “Mars be your strength and Fortuna your protector. Come back safe,
Cicero
.”

“You too. I’ll meet you half way through the Celt army.”

Turning from his fellow legate, Fronto found the somewhat serious face of Carbo grimacing at him, pink and somewhat unhappy as the torrents poured down his face and soaked his tunic and armour.

“I know that look, sir. What sort of cockeyed insane plan have you cooked up now? With respect, the boys are near breaking point.”

Fronto nodded to him and strode on past to where the legion was assembled.

“Men of the Tenth” he shouted in his most inspiring voice, loud enough to be heard over the incessant roar of the rain battering on armour and helmets. “In order to give us an unfair advantage over the enemy, I am forced to split our legion.”

There was a groan from the men, though from no easily identifiable individual source.

“I and Carbo will be taking the first cohort into the woods to pounce on the enemy’s flanks.
Cicero
and his legion are pulling the same manoeuvre on the other side of the field. The rest of you… “he grinned. “The rest of you will create an impregnable wall. You’ll be serving under the direct command of the general.” He paused to let the fact sink in, during which there was silence, though whether a happy or a troubled one, he couldn’t tell.

“The general will allow the looting of the tribesmen when the battle is over and all the local settlements will be ours to pick over.” He grinned wickedly. “And despite your Roman origins, I know you’ve all grown quite fond of the native beers of
Gaul
. Well, guess what? These Celts brew the same stuff, though this beer is apparently strong enough to make the hairs on your chest stand up straight. And it’ll be ours for the taking when we finish. Just make sure you hold the line and stay alive long enough to enjoy it.”

A roar of approval greeted the statement.

“Now let’s get ready to kick them so hard they don’t wake up ‘til three weeks after they’re dead.”

* * * * *

“Shit shit shit shit shit!” Fronto hissed as he collapsed in an awkward heap, trying to remain as quiet as possible despite the agony that tore through his knee, having entangled his foot in a think gnarled tree root and twisted his leg on the way down.

“You alright sir?”

“Fine!” he snapped at Carbo. “Don’t worr about me.”

The primus pilus gave him a look that hovered somewhere between concern and disapproval and wiped the rain from his face. Here in the depths of the woodland, the rain was no longer a hail of watery shards, but a constant battering of heavy, bulbous droplets that formed on leaves and deposited themselves unerringly down the necks of the men.

“You sure you know where we are?” Fronto barked at his senior centurion.

“With respect, legate, finding north in a forest is a very easy task. We’ve already turned back south and we’re heading towards the field.”

“I hope you’re right” Fronto grumbled, using the rough surface of the tree to haul himself to his feet. “I’m remembering now why no famous general has ever led a campaign in a forest.” He glanced around to see the four hundred and twenty seven men who currently comprised the slightly under-strength first cohort, spread out in the woods, glinting in the sunlight between the trees, unable to hold to a formation. “If they anticipate this and come at us in…”

“Shh!” Fronto blinked as Carbo stopped dead and put the finger to his lips. Behind Fronto, the entire cohort came to a halt, the noise of the battering raindrops once more taking the place of the steady movement of soldiers.

“What?” He hissed.

In reply, and frowning at Fronto’s volume, Carbo cupped a hand around his ear. Fronto fell silent, trying to hear over his own laboured breathing and the downpour. As the thumping of his pulse and the wheezing of his lungs died down, he could now just make out the sounds of fighting.

“They’re already engaged!” Fronto hissed in surprise. Carbo nodded and Fronto shook his head in disbelief. The cohort had been ready to move by the time Fronto and Cicero had returned from their wall meeting with Caesar and they had been heading out of camp toward the forest’s edge before the encamped legions had even put out the call for assembly. How long had they been in this damned dripping sylvan nightmare?

“
Fully
engaged, too” whispered Carbo. “That’s not the opening roar of two lines; that’s the sound of ongoing fighting. We’d best move.”

Fronto nodded as his centurion made several hand gestures that began the cohort moving again, as quietly as they could through the woods, trying not to spook wildlife or snap large twigs. Inevitably, the noise level was louder than any officer would wish it – and certainly a different matter entirely to the surprisingly stealthy Celts – but with the din of battle growing louder with every cautious step and the background roar of the rain, there was little chance of the cohort being heard on the battlefield.

Carefully, slowly, Fronto approached the growing white-green ribbon of light that heralded the tree line and the field of battle. It would be overestimating their contribution to things to say that everything rode on their little manoeuvre, but certainly it would make a vast difference to the way the fight went, and might mean the saving of – or the death of – a great many men.to found himself seething that they hadn’t thought of this earlier. He could have been moving through the forest with his men as soon as the scouts had even finished estimating their numbers.
Then
they’d have been ready. Now…

The whole plan had been based on the notion that both his and
Cicero
’s cohorts would be in position at the forest’s edge and ready to pounce when the Britons arrived. Now they were playing ‘catch-up’ and had to commit as soon as they were reasonably able. Would
Cicero
be there? Had he already arrived and committed his men, cursing Fronto for his absence? Was he still wandering around these cursed Britannic forests getting wet and angry and unaware that the fight was already on? Or was he too creeping through the undergrowth worrying about what might happen?

Finally, he began to see the movement of a vast seething army of men, largely naked or dressed in those curious long trousers such as the Gauls wore, painted and adorned with bronze or even gold where their status warranted. Every man seemed to be armed with a different weapon, like an unruly mob hastily dragged from their beds to save their land. Even in the haze of the downpour it was hard not to be chilled at the number of them.

They would be no match for a Roman legion in top fighting condition, even at two-to-one odds. But at the moment it was at best touch-and-go as to which side would gain the advantage and Fronto knew as well as any experienced commander that morale was half the battle. The army that thirsted for blood would push all the harder and an army that broke was lost in that instant. It was sadly a little too obvious which force had all the morale on that field.

The Roman lines, invisible somewhere behind the mass of warriors, were making only the noises of a group of men fighting for their life: grunting, yelling, screaming, occasional horn calls or bellowed commands. There was no roar of defiance; of the might of
Rome
, nor the silence that was sometimes called by a commander to frighten the enemy – a totally noiseless armoured advance was a disturbing sight for anyone.