4.Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  Irritated with the general for his shortcomings, himself for his naivety and the Germanic invaders for being stupid enough to cross the Rhenus and push the matter, Fronto clicked his tongue angrily and glared at the bobbing heads.

  “Do you approve?”

  The voice was so close and unexpected that Fronto actually jumped a little in the saddle. Turning, his heart sank at the sight of Labienus, pulling alongside with his dappled grey mare. The staff officer was pointing at the heads.

  “Do you like the new standards the general has raised for the army? Are you proud that the Tenth get to march at the front behind them?”

  “Leave it, Titus.”

  “Do you approve of the execution of men of diplomacy to create a symbol of Roman implacability?”

  “Titus…”snapped Fronto, turning a warning glare on him. Labienus blithely ignored it.

  “Is this the man you came to Gaul to serve with? ‘Cause I know for certain that this is not the man I followed.”

  “Just leave it, Titus.” Fronto’s face darkened further and Labienus searched his companion’s eyes, feeling that he’d scored a point somewhere – touched a nerve; perhaps there was a chance here…

  “Why did you defend the general in the command tent? There was the chance of a peaceful solution. It only took a little more support; a few more of us to stand before Caesar and nudge him to a diplomatic answer. But you defended him. Even though you knew Cicero and I were right. And you did know that, didn’t you?”

  Fronto raised a warning hand.

  “Why?” Labienus pressed. “Why defend him? You’ve always stood up to him and argued when you thought he’d crossed the line. You’re renowned for it. It’s what makes most of the officers respect you. I know that I’ve changed over the past four years, but so have you, Marcus. I may have begun to understand something beyond the simple discharge of duty, but you? You’ve hardened. Half the time now, when the general is crossing a line, you’re crossing it with him! Why?”

  Fronto turned in the saddle and something in his eyes made Labienus shrink back. Perhaps he had misjudged the legate.

  “Don’t stir up things you don’t understand, Titus.”

  “Fronto…”

  “Could it be that there are things you don’t know? Could it be that I feel I have a duty to defend and support the man who saved Faleria and my mother from murder by the mob in Rome? Could it be that without Caesar my entire family might have died when thugs and gladiators set fire to my father’s house and came to carve Faleria to pieces? That Caesar fought side by side and back to back with me to defend my family? That only he and his veterans stood with us?”

  Labienus blinked. He’d been in winter quarters with the legions much of the past two years and the troubles in Rome had reached him as mostly rumour, notes and fragments from people like Cicero. He opened his mouth to speak, but Fronto was almost snarling, spittle at the corner of his mouth.

  “Do you think I serve Caesar because of his patronage? The only thing I ever got from him was my first military post in Hispania all those years ago, and I’ve paid him back for that a hundred times over. Patronage? I’m Caesar’s client because I choose to be, not because I’m beholden to him. Do you think that every sestertius Caesar borrowed to put himself at the top came from Crassus? Of course not, but I’ve written off every last coin that changed hands between us because of what that man has done for my family. It’s nothing to do with money or power or position. You know me well enough, Titus, to know I don’t give a rat’s shit about that. But a man who will stand in front of a blade for my sister’s sake?”

  Labienus shook his head. “I didn’t know, Marcus.”

  “You!” Fronto snapped, jabbing a finger into Labienus’ chest. “You owe him nothing. I know that. You’re no client of Caesar’s. You came on the staff as an equal; a friend and a colleague. You could walk away at any time, so don’t push me to do what you won’t yourself.”

  “Fronto, I have to stay. Someone has to be here to try and temper the worst excesses of this endless war. To gainsay Caesar when he steps across that line. Fair enough if that person cannot be you any more, and I do understand what you say. I can see the point. But someone has to be here. Where else would I be able to make a difference?”

  Fronto withdrew his jabbing finger and fell into a sullen silence. Labienus took a deep breath, dangerously aware that he was about to poke a bear with a sharp stick.

  “But even with what you say and your personal bond with the general, surely you can still see the wrongness of that.” He pointed at the bobbing heads. “He broke his word. He murdered them all, or allowed it to happen. Twelve men of peace and diplomacy hacked to bits in interrogation or torn to pieces by angry Gauls, despite the fact that he’d promised clemency to at least four of them. An oathbreaker is a man to watch, and you know it.”

  When Fronto turned back to him, there was a glassy deadness to his stare.

  “It worked. It may not have been the gentlemanly thing to do, and it sure as shit was not the nicest. But look at the results. Three ambushes we might have fallen prey to, and each one dealt with efficiently and quickly by scouts and advance parties just because we knew where to look. Not a man escaped to tell the tale, either. As far as the enemy is concerned, they don’t even know we’re on the way. All because of what happened to those ambassadors. And the very fact that there were such ambushes tells you just how diplomatic those men were planning on being.”

  He gestured with a sweep of his arm. “And look at the army. Look at the Gaulish auxiliaries and the men of the legions. Those heads don’t make them question the general. Those heads have focused the mind of every man here. The cavalry were beaten, angry and humiliated by their defeat. Now, they’re hungry. They strain at the leash. They’re caged lions waiting to be freed and pointed at the enemy.”

  He turned to face the front again.

  “You can call it barbaric or wrong and you may be correct in doing so. But it served a purpose, as Caesar intended. He never does anything without thinking it through.”

  Labienus nodded sadly.

  “I can see that you truly believe that, Marcus. I hope that the day when you realise he’s gone too far is not the day you realise that you’ve gone too far as well. Sooner or later the general’s going to cross the line permanently.”

  But the taciturn legate remained facing resolutely away, his silence a powerful statement about his mood. Labienus rode alongside for another minute or so and finally shrugged, hauling on the reins and drawing his mount out of the column. His eyes narrowed suddenly and he turned back, keeping pace with the column once more as the dusty scout on his fast Gallic horse converged with the column. His eyes rising beyond the man, Labienus could distinctly see half a dozen other scouts pulling back to the column. Another ambush? There shouldn’t be any more according to the information Priscus had torn from the captives.

  “Ho! Over here.”

  The scout, tracking the call, spotted the armour and plume of a senior officer and veered toward him. Moments later, the man came alongside and slowed his sweating horse to match the column’s sedate pace, saluting somewhat half-heartedly, as the irregular scouts were wont to do.

  “Commander. I report finding enemy camp.”

  Labienus nodded seriously, his eyes slipping sideways to see Fronto turn and pay sudden attention.

  “What have you found? Details. Were they prepared? Were you spotted?”

  “Enemy not know we come. Busy with meal. No defences; just picket. Not see us. Caesar get easy fight.”

  Labienus nodded with satisfaction. Fronto couldn’t help his lip curling a little contemptuously. It was all well and good to condemn the general’s tactics in favour of a peaceful solution, yet the senior commander couldn’t help but nod appreciatively at the prospect of taking the enemy unawares, regardless.

  “You’d best get back to the general. He’ll want to pass out the orders.”

  ”What about you, Fronto? You need to be
there too.”

  Fronto, shaking his head, pointed back along the line. “Everyone else has some manoeuvring to do. Not the Tenth. We stay at the front.”

  As Labienus moved off toward the command section, beyond the first three legions where Caesar and his staff rode, Fronto watched the scouts converging on the column.

  Riding quietly, his mood dark, Fronto heard the distinctive and purposeful clearing of the throat behind him only on the third time it happened.

  “What?” he snapped quietly, not even turning.

  “That was a somewhat unprofessional exchange, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.” Carbo murmured quietly from behind.

  “I find it difficult to care right now.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence which, Fronto knew, denoted Carbo taking a mental pause before saying something his commander didn’t want to hear.

  “I fell the men back out of earshot as soon as I realized you weren’t going to stop, sir, but you have to remember not to show divisions between those in command in front of the men, and not to talk about them as though they’re sheep whose attitude can be manipulated with a few stinking barbarian heads.”

  “But they can, Carbo.”

  “Yes sir. I know that and you know that, and in all likelihood a lot of them know that, but there are some things you just don’t say in front of the men.”

  Fronto, his anger beginning to boil over, turned to his chief centurion, but the open sincerity and utmost concern in the man’s pink, shiny, bald face was so utterly disarming that he found himself deflating and calming down before he even realized it.

  “You’re absolutely right, of course, Carbo. Thank you as always. For watching my back, I mean.”

  “My pleasure sir. Wait til you get your sword stuck into a few stinking naked tribesmen. It’ll all be alright then.”

  Fronto couldn’t help but smile. It was quite astounding how easily Carbo and Atenos, the new training officer, had managed to fill the gaping hole left by the transfer of Priscus and the death of Velius over a year ago. Already he wasn’t at all sure what he would do without the good natured pink face of Carbo interfering in his affairs.

  By the time his mood had risen enough to pay attention once more to the world around him, Fronto could see the army moving into position as per Caesar’s pre-arranged orders. The bulk of the cavalry had fallen back to protect the baggage train, their tactics being less useful in an assault on a camp than in a pitched field battle. Only the blooded and vengeful cavalry of Piso, currently serving under a promoted prefect, would be given a direct hand in the fight. The Tenth remained in central position at the front, while the Eighth moved into position on their left and the Fourteenth on their right.

  Three columns of legions, with the Seventh, Ninth and Thirteenth following on behind and the Eleventh and Twelfth, along with the vengeful cavalry alae, in the third wave that would seal the trap and prevent escapes.

  Fronto squinted into the distance, wishing he could already see the enemy. But they would be in view soon enough. Wishing he could dismount and send his horse back to the commanders, he plodded forward for a couple more minutes until the command section’s buccinae began to blare out the order to pick up to double speed.

  Time to run.

  Time to fight.

  Chapter 7

  (Camp of the Germanic invaders by the Moselle River)

  The scout had been accurate about the state of the enemy camp – that much was obvious as the Eighth, Tenth and Fourteenth legions crossed the brow of a low hill at a double speed march and caught their first view of the enemy encampment splayed out before them.

  The camp of the invading tribes took the form of a misshapen oval, the shorter arc at the southeast eaten into by the course of the wide, fast Mosella River. The only concession to defence was a low embankment at roughly thigh height, spotted periodically with watchfires that still burned in the daylight, doubling as cooking fires, throwing numerous columns of dark smoke into the sky. Clearly the barbarians had no fear of attack. More fool them.

  As the first ranks crossed the hill, the pace of the attack changed from being set by the command section to the leading officers and, as Fronto bellowed out the order for the charge, relayed by standard bearers and musicians, he could hear the same commands being echoed among the other two legions.

  The pace doubled again, the legions settling into a uniform, organised run. They were already half way down the gentle incline to the barbarian camp when the first cries of alarm went up among the tents, wagons and cooking fires.

  Fronto smiled in grim satisfaction. Even the legions, the most organised and efficient fighting force in the world, would stand no chance of mounting a concerted defence in the time they had. Disorganised barbarians were simply doomed.

  To their credit, a number of bulky, muscular warriors managed to grasp spears or swords from somewhere and clamber up onto the mound in time to meet the advancing legions, but as a defensive force they would be as effective as wheat to the scythe.

  Fronto, his horse keeping pace with the front ranks of the legion, was suddenly aware of the drum of other hooves and glanced round to see that two of the tribunes of the legion had moved forward to accompany him. Tetricus had served with the Tenth since the first days in Gaul – a very unusual choice for a junior tribune, who would usually serve the one season and then return to climb the cursus honorum in Rome. But then Tetricus was, like Fronto, a born soldier and a genius engineer – a fact that had led to Fronto promoting him to the position of senior tribune this spring in the absence of Caesar’s unfortunate nephew. Crito, next to him, had now served two seasons, declining the chance to return home last year. They were two good men to have with you in a fight.

  Carbo was bellowing encouraging phrases, each more graphic and belligerent than the last, firing his men’s blood. Atenos, one of the senior centurions and the Tenth’s chief training officer, had his teeth bared like some wild animal moving in for the kill.

  Pride.

  That was what Fronto always felt going into battle with the Tenth. He personally disliked riding into combat while his men marched, but Carbo’s constant badgering about how an officer should act in front of his men had finally begun to take its toll. Besides, Fronto reminded himself as the legions surged across the last few yards to the rampart, he wasn’t getting any younger. Priscus took every opportunity to remind him that he was now the oldest serving officer after Caesar himself.

  Suddenly the time for thought was past.

  The legions reached the camp of the Ubii, the Usipetes and the Tencteri like a swarm of glinting steel locusts, flowing over the feeble defensive embankment with barely a drop in the pace. Fronto hauled on Bucephalus’ reins and kicked, launching the beast into the air and clearing the rampart with the two tribunes at his back.

  The ranks of armoured men poured through the camp, all pretence of formation and order thrown to the wind as they tore along open grass between the multi-hued tents, hacking down fleeing barbarians. Some men pushed their way into the tents as they passed, many finding the occupants still struggling to pull on boots or draw weapons.

  It was slaughter, pure and simple.

  Fronto and his tribunes pushed on toward the centre, occasionally swiping out with their swords and maiming or dispatching a warrior – some of whom struggled to face them while others ran, having clearly abandoned all hope of defending the camp.

  Minutes of battle passed in bloody carnage before Fronto found himself somewhere deep in the heart of the Germanic camp, spying the enemy’s baggage that stood in disordered piles among carts and grazing beasts. Legionaries surged through the camp to his left and right, some bearing the standards of the Tenth, some of the Eighth or Fourteenth, with other legions close behind them.

  The first the legate realised of the trouble he was in was when Bucephalus reared in pain, a neat red line sliced across his shoulder. Fronto, never the most capable horseman, struggled for only a moment before losing his grip on the r
eins. The four-horned saddle held him tight for a moment, bruising his hips and smashing the breath from him as he jerked this way and that.

  Bucephalus was rearing and bucking, smashing out with his powerful hooves at the three men making a concerted effort to put spears into the Roman officer before them. Another spear point jabbed into Bucephalus’ neck – far from a killing blow; more an accidental strike – and the great black horse bucked once more, finally sending Fronto flying from the beast’s back as one of the wood and leather saddle horns gave under the pressure and broke.

  The world blurred blue, green, red and silver in a nauseating and repetitive sequence as Fronto hit the ground hard and managed to curl into a roll at the last minute, his sword thrust out to one side to prevent accidental wounding.

  His head spun as he finally came to rest on his back, the breath knocked from him and a headache that felt like a four-day hangover already slamming at the inside of his skull. Blinking repeatedly to try and clear the painful, dizzying semi-blindness, Fronto just caught sight of the large shadowy shape of Bucephalus hurtling back through the alarmed crowds of legionaries. Even in the depth of battle and the fug of confusion he found time to be grateful to Fortuna that the steed, gifted to him three years ago by Longinus, had fled the scene more or less intact.

  Suddenly a shadow was above him, lunging down with a spear. Desperately, he rolled to his left as the spear slammed into the turf where he had just been. In a panic he brought his sword round to try and deal with the man but, even as he did, a pilum punched through the man’s chest, hurling him back out of sight, flailing and screaming.

  Then legionaries were swarming past and across him, swords out, shield bosses punching into unprotected faces. A familiar huge and muscular figure in a harness of medal discs appeared above him, a grin splitting that wide face beneath the bulky blond moustaches. Atenos reached down with his free hand and grasped Fronto’s wrist, hauling him up from the floor with as little effort as a man lifting a child’s wooden doll.