4.Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Trouble, sir?”

  Fronto reached up and gingerly touched the back of his head, concerned that he might find a sizeable hole there leaking brains, but found only an intact skull with a little blood matting the hair.

  “Screw Carbo. Next time I do this, I do it on foot. That bloody horse is more dangerous than a thousand barbarians.”

  Atenos grinned at him again and patted him on the back with enough force to make him stagger a little.

  “We’ve got them on the run anyway, sir. Looks like they’re mounting a bit more of a defence in the other half of the camp, though.”

  “Everything running smoothly?” Fronto asked quietly as he moved his arm in circles, wincing at the muscles pulled during his fall.

  “Mostly. Haven’t seen the other tribunes since the three of you passed us just inside the defences, though.”

  Fronto peered into the chaos around him. Shouts, crashes and the clang of steel on iron rang out from the northeastern end of the camp. The legionaries now swarming through this area bore the standards of the Ninth and Seventh. Of mounted tribunes there was no sign.

  “You’d best get back to your century, Atenos. I’m going to try and find Tetricus and Crito. They were with me a couple of minutes ago, so they can’t be far.”

  Atenos shook his head. “My men are already in the thick of it with the rest. My optio can keep them in line, and you’re in no state to go staggering through an enemy camp alone.”

  As if to prove his point, the towering Gaul let go of Fronto’s shoulder that he’d been clasping for the last few moments and Fronto lurched to the side and almost fell. With a wide smile, Atenos grasped him again and held him steady until the legate nodded.

  “Come on.”

  The baggage area of the enemy camp had seen some of the fiercer combat through the slaughter and, though the barbarians were being constantly pushed back and were offering little in the way of resistance, the bodies here had mounted up to create piles three deep in places.

  The site of the Tribunes’ last position was not hard to spot.

  Tetricus’ white mare lay amid the bodies, a broken spear shaft protruding from her neck. Crito’s bay steed lay still only a few yards further on. Try as he might, with a lump rising in his throat, Fronto couldn’t see a sign of an officer’s armour or uniform among the bodies, and they should be easy enough to spot, given the scarcity of Roman corpses among the dead.

  “Over here” Atenos shouted, beckoning to Fronto. His heart pounding, Fronto stepped through the gore and scattered bodies to where the large Gallic centurion stood pointing down into the murk.

  Amid the churned turf and mud, slick with blood, lay a body face down and splayed out. Fronto reached down gingerly to the figure in the crimson tunic and the burnished cuirass and gently hauled on him, turning him over.

  Crito.

  A powerful blow from an axe had punched through the bronze armour and deep into the chest, leaving a long, jagged rent in the metal through which mangled insides oozed in recent death. The officer’s head lolled at an uncomfortable angle, his neck likely broken as he fell.

  Fronto felt a surge of relief that the body was Crito and not that of Tetricus, and berated himself silently for such an unworthy thought.

  “Fronto?”

  His head snapped round at the mention of his name and it took the legate a long moment to spot the source of the sound.

  Tetricus’ short, curly hair appeared from the shadow beneath a wagon, a face that was paler than it should be beneath the mass of dark curls, looking up at him with obvious relief. Fronto felt a weight fall away from his shoulders as he stepped forward.

  “If I have to tell Caesar that I found you hiding under a cart, he’ll send you home, you know that?” he said with a grin. Next to him, Atenos was frowning and, as Fronto noticed, he squinted into the shadows to see what had caused the centurion such concern.

  Tetricus was hauling himself along the ground out from the shadow of the wagon with the pale, taut face of someone in great pain. Again, Fronto felt his heart lurch as he stepped forward urgently. Atenos joined him and they reached out to help Tetricus from his hiding place.

  As the large centurion helped the man up, Fronto saw the wash of blood that poured down the tribune’s leg from a vicious thigh wound, the hilt of a bloody knife still protruding from it; saw the limp left arm and the jagged, blood-coated shaft that stuck out of the rear shoulder of Tetricus’ cuirass.

  “For the love of Venus, they did a number on you.”

  Atenos, next to him, shook his head. “Look again, sir.”

  Fronto blinked and looked at Tetricus again, wondering what it was he was supposed to be seeing. The man was pale, having lost a great deal of blood, but he would live. The chances were good that both arm and leg would make it through, so long as the medicus did a good job. After all, the armour had prevented…

  Fronto’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer. What he’d taken for a barbarian spear head beneath the thick coating of blood and mud was nothing of the sort. The bent and broken shaft that projected from Tetricus’ shoulder was all that remained of a Roman pilum, the shaft broken off. Already knowing what he was going to see, his eyes dropped to the leg wound. Again, beneath the mud and blood, the shape of a Roman pugio dagger hilt was unmistakable when he looked closer.

  “Who?”

  Tetricus winced as he tried to put weight on his leg, but Atenos reached out and took a firm hold of the tribune.

  “I don’t know. Someone stabbed me in the thigh while I was still on the horse and pulled me off. We were in a thick mass of fighting, and I couldn’t see who it was – there were legionaries and officers all round me. My horse ran forward and I staggered to my feet to go catch her when something hit me in the back and knocked me flat. I must have passed out for a minute or two, ‘cause when I came to the fighting had moved on. I hauled myself under the nearest cart and waited.”

  Fronto spun round, as though expecting to be able to find the would-be killer in plain sight, but only the occasional straggler from the Eleventh and Twelfth legions moved through the camp here, crouching to dispatch wounded barbarians and to deliver an occasional mercy strike to a fellow legionary who was beyond help.

  “When I find the bastard responsible for this, I’m going to tear his face off with my teeth” Fronto snarled, as he reached out to take the other side of Tetricus. “Come on. Let’s get you to a capsarius.”

  * * * * *

  The three men, Fronto and Atenos all but carrying the wounded tribune between them, crossed the low embankment and moved slowly up the slope toward the Roman command section on the low rise. Caesar and his lieutenants sat on their horses in a small knot, gesturing at the camp below, deep in discussion. The artillery and the support wagons were still arriving slowly on the scene, and being corralled into groups. The medici and their staff were assembling three large tents to serve as temporary hospitals, while a number of orderlies stacked stretchers ready to run down to the camp and collect any wounded they could find.

  By the time the three men were almost half way, the medical section had spotted them and two legionaries were running down with a stretcher. As they arrived and gently took control of Tetricus, lowering him to the ground ready to carry him back, Fronto caught one of them by the shoulder.

  “Make sure he’s tended first and best.”

  The orderly looked for a moment as though he might counter with a sarcastic remark, but caught sight of Fronto’s face and wisely bit it back, nodding instead. Fronto and Atenos waited for a moment, watching the two men rushing Tetricus toward the only finished tent, and then became aware of someone waving at them from the command section.

  Changing direction, they jogged up the gentle slope to the officers, where Labienus walked his horse forward a few steps to meet them. Fronto saw the strain in the man’s face and the risen colour that spoke eloquently of the arguments the man had been very recently involved in.

  “Fronto? You’ve been i
n the midst of it. Tell me what’s happening.”

  The legate shrugged. “As expected. We caught them completely unawares. They’ve fought a desperate defence across the camp, but it was hardly even an obstacle.”

  “Do you think they’d surrender, given the opportunity?”

  “I don’t think they’re organised and calm enough to surrender. I doubt they’d even listen to you. My guess is they’ll flee the camp and try and get away. They certainly can’t hold it.”

  Labienus sagged, but Caesar, who’d been close by and listening, stepped his own horse forward to join them.

  “It looks like they’re trying to float their rafts out into the river. If they can get across to the far bank, they’ll be safe.”

  Sabinus, nearby, nodded. “There’s a mass of them at the far side now too. You can just see them. They’re running towards the Rhenus. We’ve broken them completely.”

  Fronto glanced across at Caesar, whose expression suggested that the fight was far from over yet. He gestured to one of the mounted messengers who waited nearby. “Get to the cavalry commanders. Tell them to leave the wagons and form up their men. Varus is still in recovery, so speak to his second. I want his wing to skirt the camp as fast as they can and cut off any survivors fleeing to the Rhenus. Galronus needs to take his men to the right of the field, along the river bank and deal with those men trying to get the rafts into the water. This fight ends here.”

  Labienus turned to Caesar, a frown of concern creasing his face. “And once they’re surrounded and with no escape, general?”

  Caesar turned a flat expression on his senior officer.

  “They aren’t just warriors, Caesar. This is three whole tribes who came across the Rhenus. There are women and children, old folk and babies. We need at least to try and behave like civilised soldiers.”

  A flash of anger passed across Caesar’s face at the scarcely concealed accusation of barbarism.

  “Very well, Titus. If you want to save their old folk, go and try. Obtain their surrender.”

  “But Caesar? You need to call off the pursuit first.”

  The general’s cold eyes regarded Labienus with steely dispassion.

  “I will do no such thing. I have to consider the likelihood that you will not even get their attention. I will not give them time to regroup and face me properly.”

  Labienus glared at Caesar for a moment and then turned and rode off down the hill, kicking his horse into speed as he raced toward what had now become a scene of slaughter and mayhem. Fronto turned to Atenos.

  “We’d best get back to the Tenth and try and rein them in a bit” he said quietly, glancing at Caesar and hoping his words had been quiet enough to go unheard. But the general was paying him no attention, his gaze instead was locked on the two wings of cavalry that were now marshalling on the low rise and beginning to move down to their assigned tasks.

  * * * * *

  The camp resembled a mass grave as the two officers picked their way through it. All the wounded barbarians had been dispatched by the second and third waves of assaulting legionaries, and most of the Roman casualties had now been moved off by the capsarii and the medical orderlies, stretchered back up to the three great surgical tents being raised on the hill.

  Fronto and Atenos picked their way through the field of bodies, wondering where the Tenth would be now. The sounds of distant fighting still echoed from the far end of the camp, and the two men made toward the sound as swiftly as they could.

  The bodies that littered the ground were so numerous that it was impossible to not pay a certain amount of attention as they hurried through and Fronto noted with some distaste as he moved just how many of them appeared to be the women and children of whom Labienus had spoken. It seemed that not only had the attacking legionaries been less than selective with their targets, but also the Germanic tribesfolk had done nothing to try and shelter their civilian counterparts, the warriors having run alongside them and many women and children being left to die as the warriors ran.

  A distant call from a buccina identified the location of the Tenth and the two men angled off to the south, towards the river Mosella. A sound like distant thunder told them that Galronus and his cavalry were converging on the very same spot.

  The sounds of fighting became gradually louder and more distinct as they neared the river and finally, pushing their way past a large, partially collapsed tent, Fronto and Atenos laid eyes on the scene at the water’s edge.

  A detachment of legionaries – what looked like roughly half a legion in total – had pinned the barbarians against the waterside. The standards and flags identified the detachment as being composed of men from the Tenth and the Seventh, while Galronus’ green cavalry wing, even as Fronto watched, crashed into the barbarians’ flank along the river, jabbing down with their spears and scything out with swords, their organisation and fighting style still very much Gallic, as yet untempered by too much Roman influence.

  With some dismay, Fronto noted that once again the barbarian force consisted of warriors, but also of women, children and old folk, and yet all of them seemed determined to fight back, women wielding weapons stolen from the dead, children swishing and stabbing with sticks, throwing stones, or hefting other makeshift weapons.

  The reason for their combined and desperate defiance lay beyond, protected from the Roman attackers by a sea of flailing people: two dozen sizeable rafts, each large enough to carry twenty or more people, were being manhandled into the water, still tied to the bank with ropes to prevent them rushing away downstream. Even as Fronto watched, the first raft began to float out into the water. The occupants had no oars but, using heavy poles, they pushed the raft out into the deeper, fast flowing water before throwing the poles to the bank for the next group, then dropping their arms into the water and scooping their way out into mid-river.

  The rafts were just as likely to return to this bank further down or hurtle downriver until they flowed out into the massive channel of the Rhenus as they were actually to cross here, but that seemed of little consequence to the fleeing folk before him.

  Fronto paused.

  “What are you thinking?” murmured Atenos next to him.

  “I’m trying to decide whether Labienus is right. Perhaps we ought to just let them go. Look at them. They’re in a panic and they’re mostly civilians. This lot aren’t going turn round and regroup. They won’t stop running and swimming until they reach the east bank of the Rhenus again.”

  Atenos nodded.

  “It would be breaking the general’s orders, though, sir. And these people are invaders. Don’t forget that.”

  Fronto turned to his centurion friend in surprise, but nodded.

  “You’re right. And, of course, slaves help pay for the campaign too. Come on.”

  Breaking into a jog, Fronto and Atenos made their way to the scene of fighting, shouting at the rear ranks of legionaries to step aside, making for where they could see a group of standards wavering. Slowly, they managed to push through the crowd until they spotted Cicero’s ornate helmet and white plume near the standards. Angling towards him, Fronto hauled men out of the way.

  “Cicero!”

  The man was busy bellowing orders to his men and threats to the barbarians only twenty feet away and roaring their defiance in guttural tongues.

  “Cicero!” Fronto bellowed again as the two men reached the small command group. Two of Cicero’s tribunes finally spotted the mud-spattered legate and his centurion and tugged at Cicero. The Seventh’s commander turned and noticed Fronto.

  “The bastards are getting away, Fronto. We can’t kill them fast enough to get to the rafts.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Galronus’ cavalry are here now and they’re pushing along the water’s edge. They’ll cut the enemy off completely in a few minutes. Maybe three or four rafts will get away. That’s all. Once their escape route’s gone, they should surrender!”

  Cicero smiled grimly and turned back to his men, shouting
orders and encouragement.

  “Had a bit of a fall, legate?”

  Fronto turned to see Fabius standing nearby, a cold smile on his face. The centurion was liberally spattered with blood and wielded a gladius in one hand and his vine staff in the other.

  “Horse threw me in the fight.” His eyes strayed down suspiciously to the man’s waist, expecting an empty scabbard where the man’s pugio should be, but he was a little disappointed to note that the hilt of the dagger rose proud from the sheath.

  Fabius nodded a faint bow and then turned and pushed his way back into the fight. Fronto glared after him until he was lost from sight in the press. He would be willing to put money on the fact that, if he found Furius, the other veteran’s dagger sheath would be empty.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly and he looked round to see Atenos smiling.

  “The cavalry’s behind them now. It’s over, sir.”

  Fronto tried to see across the crowd but, being more than a head shorter than the centurion, he could see little but a sea of milling legionaries.

  “They’re cutting the ropes” Atenos said with satisfaction. “You can see the empty rafts drifting out into the water. Arms are getting raised too. Looks like they’re surrendering.”

  As Fronto listened, he could hear the distinctive sound of hundreds, even thousands, of weapons being cast to the ground in defeat.

  It seemed that it really was over. The invaders had been smashed and beaten, their army destroyed, their camp ravaged. Survivors who made it to safety would be few and far between and there would be a lot of slaves taken. It was not even midsummer and the legions had already achieved their season’s objectives.

  Fronto smiled to himself, despite everything. The image of Lucilia and the memory of the warm waters of the bay below Puteoli sprang unbidden to his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to give her the marriage she sought this year after all.