Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4 Read online

  The betrothal arrangements had been made around him and despite of him, largely by Corvinia, Lucilia and Faleria, while Fronto nodded and smiled and made his best attempt at small-talk: a thing he’d never truly got the hang of. Lucilia had noticed that something was different, as had Faleria, despite his smiles, though both had had the sense and tact not to enquire as to the cause.

  The morning he had said goodbye to Lucilia, Faleria and the family had been an unexpected wrench for him, despite the fact that his feet had been itching to hit the trail north as soon as the mood had turned. He was never a man to avoid confrontation in the line of duty, but a confrontation with a good friend was a different proposal.

  He and Galronus had checked over their horses as the slaves of the villa and the solider from the staging post in the agora fussed around their pack animals and the many bags. Fronto had flatly refused a baggage cart due to the interminably slow pace it would set, and had purchased two strong pack beasts for the journey.

  With just a few muted last hugs and kisses, he’d mounted up, tipped a nod at Galronus, and the pair had been on the road while the sun was still young and cool.

  The journey along the valley of the Rhodanus was peaceful and could have been pleasant, had Fronto been in a better mood. Galronus had watched him from time to time with something like concern but, fortunately, the big Gaul seemed to have something else on his mind and did not push the conversation at any point. The worst thing that had risen from his repeated replaying of that conversation in his head was the fact that he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Balbus might be right.

  After six days of almost silent travel, they arrived at the settlement of Vienna; last town on their journey north through the province of Narbonensis, before they entered the less well-trodden paths of newly-conquered Gaul. An overgrown Gallic oppidum with signs of Romanised settlement, Vienna was reckoned by many the last civilized place before further Gaul. The signs of recent settlement by the veterans of Caesar’s legions were everywhere, from the construction style of the new houses to the foundations of a new theatre and a temple to Venus and Roma in the centre.

  Fronto and Galronus made for the mansio off the ‘forum’. The Sweeping Eagle was part local tavern, inn or guest house, and part military staging post. It was owned and operated by a former signaller for the Eighth legion who had retired to the town after the Helvetii campaign three years ago and had opened this business with his severance pay.

  The ‘Eagle’ appeared to be thriving, not only with the traffic directed to it by the Roman officers who used it as a convenient stopping off point, the supply trains that came through here on the way to and from the army and the Roman merchants who used it as a base to ply their wares to the newly-accepting Gauls; but also, apparently, as a watering hole of choice for locals from every sector of society.

  The last time Fronto had seen the place, it had been a sizeable, square, two-storey building with a courtyard surrounded by outhouses and stables behind.

  Silvanus seemed to have done well in this past season. A whole new wing sprouted off from the near wall, and an extension seemed to be underway on the far side, though currently the roof there consisted of a huge leather sheet apparently constructed from old legionary tent sections. Somewhere a quartermaster would be having a fit, and a legionary mule driver would be swinging a heavy purse.

  Dismounting at the entrance to the rear courtyard, Fronto and Galronus enquired as to a room, confirming that there was a double billet available in the new extension so long as they didn’t mind sleeping under a temporary roof — for a discount, of course.

  The groom took their mounts while they removed the bags they would need and hauled them onto their shoulders, making for the tavern door in the failing light.

  Within a few minutes they were ensconced at a heavy oak table, scratched and decorated with the names of passing soldiers and their units, as well as a number of dubious comments about the physical characteristics of their friends and some anatomically unlikely suggestions.

  The man at the bar — a local with a shiny pate and bulging moustaches — caught Fronto’s eye and nodded, bringing over a dusty bottle of wine and two earthenware cups; travellers in Roman garb never asked for the local beer. Fronto and Galronus studiously examined the scratchings as the barman unstoppered the wine and gave the cups a quick wipe with his cloth. The man narrowed his eyes as he spotted the officer’s tunic with the pteruges that Fronto wore beneath his heavy cloak, and scurried away. Fronto rolled his eyes.

  “See? Even he doesn’t trust a man of the legions, and this place has been at least nominally Roman since my grandfather was a twinkle in his father’s eye.”

  Galronus looked up and met his gaze. It was the first hint of normal conversation they had shared in days.

  “Of course,” Fronto added, “this far from the sea, I expect they hardly ever saw a citizen until Caesar marched up here.”

  “Fronto…”

  He frowned as he took in the strange expression on Galronus’ face.

  “Are you alright?”

  Galronus smiled.

  “I’m thinking of taking your sister to marriage, Marcus.”

  Fronto’s cup dropped to the table, splashing cheap, vinegary wine across both him and the wooden surface. His lips moved curiously.

  “According to custom, I will need your agreement” the Gaul continued. “I’m not sure how it all works when we cross our customs, but your agreement is a factor in every way as far as I can see. That and gifts, though I’m a little confused as to whether I should be giving you gifts or receiving them; or possibly both.”

  Fronto, his jaw slack, shuffled his chair backwards and used his bare hand to sweep the spilled drink from the side of the table where it dribbled and spattered to the floor. His eyes narrowing, he refilled the cup and drank the contents in one open-gulletted mouthful.

  “You what?”

  “You do not agree?”

  Fronto shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I just… When…? Why hasn’t Faleria mentioned this to me?”

  Galronus shrugged nonchalantly. “I haven’t told her yet.”

  Fronto dropped his cup again, but caught it this time before the worst of the spillage.

  “Listen, Galronus: Faleria might not be interested. She’s had a bit of a… past. She…”

  “I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She’s interested.”

  Fronto shook his head again, not so much in disagreement, as in astonishment. “Well, I don’t know…”

  He suddenly became aware of a shadow falling across the table and looked up sharply.

  “What?” he snapped at the two men standing above him. The Gallic barman looked nervous and apologetic, but that was hardly a surprise. The surprise was that the expression was mirrored in the face of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen of the Eighth legion and proprietor of the establishment. The burly veteran leaned forward.

  “You’re senior officers, right, sir?”

  Fronto frowned and flashed a glance at Galronus. “We’ll pick up on that little problem again later.” Turning back to the innkeeper, he pursed his lips and nodded.

  “I’m the legate of the Tenth, and this is Galronus, commander of the Belgic cavalry contingent. What’s the problem?”

  Silvanus looked around conspiratorially.

  “Can I ask you to come with me for a few minutes, sir?”

  Fronto shared a look with Galronus and the pair shrugged, standing and gathering their packs. Silvanus gave a small, hurried salute and, beckoning, scurried off toward the side door. Curious, the pair followed him out into the courtyard again, where he approached a set of cellar doors in the floor near the inn’s back wall. Crouching, he removed a heavy key and unlocked the doors, revealing a sloping ramp for beer casks, down which he trod carefully.

  Fronto put his hand on the pommel of the gladius at his side as he glanced once at Galronus and then shuffled down into the dark space beneath the inn. The big Gaul followed. With the
deep cerulean sky of late evening behind them, they could see very little within and it came as a surprise when they touched level floor again. A moment later there was a spark and Silvanus lit a small oil lamp, passing it to Fronto before lighting another and holding it high to illuminate the cellar.

  Carefully, picking his way around the goods stored in the room, the innkeeper led them round a corner to where the other half of the cellar was divided into three parts with partition walls. Two doors remained closed, but the left-hand side, with a wide stable-style door, stood open, revealing a log store, the chunks of heavy, seasoned wood casting strange shadows as the lamplight danced across them.

  “We found it yesterday. I didn’t know who to tell until you arrived.”

  Fronto frowned and stepped in through the low door, ducking his head. Galronus was behind him again instantly.

  The legate straightened in shock, cracking his head on the beam above the door and cursing sharply, rubbing his head.

  “You see, sir? Not something to shout about.”

  Fronto nodded, his eyes wide as he crouched over the body of Publius Pinarius Posca, senior tribune and nephew to Julius Caesar. There were contusions everywhere, caused by his hasty burial beneath the heavy, sharp logs, but it was clearly him. Even without the uniform tunic, Fronto would have recognised the high forehead and receded chin. His heart racing, he turned over the body. A dark stain of dried blood bloomed on his back around a wound, half way down the ribcage, slightly left of the spine.

  “Murder. Plain and simple. No accident and not a fair fight.” Handing the lamp to Galronus, he used both hands to tear the crusted, hard tunic and open up a bare patch of pale, almost translucent skin beneath. The wound was neat; narrow and flat, expertly placed and professionally executed. Reaching down to his belt, Fronto slid his military-issue pugio dagger from the sheath and laid it next to the wound for comparison.

  “I’d say that’s pretty convincing. And he’s been dead… three days, I reckon? Two at least, and not more than four.”

  Fronto stood again and shared a look with Galronus.

  “Travelling with the tribunes you think?”

  The big Gaul nodded and Fronto turned to the innkeeper. “Best get him seen to by the priests in town and then arrange for him to be shipped back to Massilia and then Rome. I’ll leave you coin to cover the whole thing. We’re going to go up and have enough wine to float a trireme, but if I were you, I’d have a couple of your slaves dig through that log pile and just make sure there aren’t two effeminate junior tribunes in there too. Pinarius couldn’t have been travelling alone.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “Normally I would remember senior officers passing, but there have just been so many on their way to the army that it’s been a bit of a blur.”

  Fronto glanced once more at the body and then shivered.

  “Come on. I need a drink.”

  Galronus helped him out of the log store and the pair made their way back through the cellar and up the shallow slope to the courtyard above. Before they entered the busy main room again, Galronus grasped Fronto’s shoulder and pulled him up short.

  “You think the same as me, I suspect?”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Two new centurions, eh? Caesar’s not going to be happy at this.”

  Chapter 3

  (Divoduron, in the land of the Mediomatrici)

  Fronto couldn’t help but wonder what it said about him in that he felt profound relief that the brutal murder of a Roman officer had at least changed the subject of their sparse conversations from the subject of marriage and Faleria. Had he become so jaded with his own society that even needless violence was a preferable alternative to the social niceties?

  He felt sure Faleria would say yes.

  But in answer to what?

  Shaking his head in irritation, Fronto glanced across at Galronus, sitting astride his horse with a serene and even happy face. It seemed that he couldn’t even keep off the subject within the seclusion of his own skull.

  His eyes drifted back ahead to the tribal capital of the Mediomatrici that loomed ahead of them. Having spent most of the preceding hours riding across a refreshingly flat plain, Divoduron showed the signs of having been founded by a man with an eye for tactical advantage. Curved like a misshapen horseshoe, the huge oppidum occupied the heights of a small range of high, wooded hills that rose like a barrier, crossing the great plain. The only clear pass in view from left to right marched directly through the huge fortified settlement. The Mediomatrici controlled the gateway to the flat lands on either side; a powerful position.

  The Roman officers who had brought the army here from winter quarters as an assembly point had wisely avoided the crown of hills and settled for the flat land below for their numerous temporary camps. But the presence of eight legions and their endless support units, supply trains, cavalry corrals and suchlike seemed to have sparked this powerful oppidum into a frenzy of mercantile activity. The winding road that snaked up the pass to the Gallic settlement was dotted with small groups of pack animals — trade caravans taking advantage of the demand created by so many thousands of men. Here and there, a glittering, silvery glint betrayed the presence of Roman troops moving up and down the hill. Clearly Caesar had been magnanimous and allowed his men the luxury of utilising the oppidum’s stores, taverns and women of low repute during their off-duty time.

  From above it must look like an ant’s nest.

  Galronus’ face blossomed into a curious smile. Slowly, inexorably, they were drawing closer to the lands of the Remi, his tribe. Fronto wondered if they would even recognise him now.

  Galronus as a brother in law? It wasn’t that he objected at all. And he liked to think of himself as a very accepting and understanding man. And yet, Fronto had found a small but insistent voice deep down in his soul that screamed denial at the idea of Gaulish blood running in a Roman family. Suppress the thought as much as he could, he still could not kill it, and this strangely intolerant deep-seated fear worried him more than anything else.

  He suddenly realised that Galronus was watching him with a questioning brow and wondered what expression he had been wearing in his musings.

  Forcing a thoughtful smile back on to his face, he concentrated on the approaching fortified camps. The nearest palisade held no vexillum, and the few men patrolling the rampart were clearly Gallic. The presence of corrals of hundreds of horses confirmed that the camp belonged to the allied Gallic cavalry. Beyond, the next two nearest bore the crimson standards of the legions, followed along the road by another group of horse pens and palisaded enclosures.

  “This your bunch?” Fronto asked quietly, nodding at the nearest gate. There seemed to be no way to identify which auxiliary unit was which, there being so many allied Gallic horsemen compared to the few Roman cavalry, and it was only when Galronus nodded and pointed out a small group of pole-arms bearing stylised bronze boars that he could see a difference.

  “We present ourselves to Caesar first, though, Marcus. It is fitting for a commander, and we must speak to the general of his nephew.”

  Fronto nodded unhappily. That was a conversation he was hardly looking forward to. They’d stayed in Vienna only long enough to make sure that Pinarius made it onto a proper funeral pyre and that an appropriate urn had been purchased, then had left instructions with the priest of Jupiter as the only official to whom Fronto felt he could entrust the task. The task of placing a coin in the mouth of the deceased had fallen to Fronto and he had carefully selected a nice, shiny denarius for the journey.

  “The general’s waited weeks for us. He can wait an hour longer. I want to find Priscus and Carbo first. I like to go into any briefing fully aware of everything going on first, and Priscus will know everything down to whose cloak the rats are nesting in.”

  Galronus looked doubtful for a moment but then, acquiescing to the will of his friend, they rode on past the cavalry encampment, towards the central fort, larger than the others, and bearing the great gold a
nd red Taurus flag that indicated the presence of the general.

  The central camp bore also the standards of the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth legions — apart from the notable absence of the Seventh, the core of Caesar’s force; the veteran legions. The guards at the gate moved to block the entrance at the approach of two riders, despite the military tunics they wore. Fronto prepared himself and took a deep breath to announce their ranks as the transverse crest of a centurion appeared over the parapet above the gate, the shining bronze of the helmet slightly duller than the shiny pink of the chubby face.

  “Open the gate for Legate Fronto of the Tenth!” he bellowed before descending the turf rampart, disappearing from sight.

  The legionaries at the gate stepped back into position, throwing out a salute to the two officers, and Fronto nodded at them as he passed within, wondering if they were men of the Tenth, given the presence of their primus pilus.

  Carbo, remarkably neat and polished, appeared around the gate side and came to attention with a salute and a half-smile.

  “Legate. All officers are required to attend the general upon arrival.” Turning to the gate guard, he gestured with his vine staff. “It’s a bloody shambles. Get that walkway cleared of crap and clean out oven number two. I shall be having a word with your officer. Any more of this slovenliness and I’ll be reducing pay at such an alarming rate that you’ll be paying me by October!”

  By the time he turned back to Fronto and Galronus, who were dismounting, he wore a happy grin.

  “Gotta keep ‘em on their toes sir, eh?”

  A harassed-looking legionary hurried over and took their reins for them, others grasping for their pack animals behind.

  “Come on, sirs” Carbo said loudly and gestured up the main thoroughfare to the gathering of large tents at the centre, dotted about with the general’s horseguard. As soon as they were out of sight of the gate, the centurion wiped his brow. I expect you’ll be wanting to check in with myself after the general, yes, sir?”