Fronto stared at the tribune’s body. A horrible suspicion was beginning to form in his gut.
“Do me a favour, centurion, Keep a lid on this as long as you have to. Threaten all the men who were here or bribe them; whatever you have to do to stop this becoming common knowledge. Help me wrap him up in that sacking over there and we’ll take him to the medical section for now.”
“I thought there’d be wine and dice. The ‘loose women’ thing was too much to hope for, but one expects at least wine and dice in the tent of the great Fronto.”
The legate of the Tenth allowed his customary scowl to do its work in quietening Priscus and then sat back on his bunk.
“I thought, given the nature of this conversation it would be worthwhile being as sober as possible, though I have to admit to the temptation to be otherwise.”
He turned to Carbo. “Did you station men like I asked?”
“Not a man within earshot and no one will get near without trouble. They’re all good, honest men — as far as such a man can be found in Rome these days. The three nearest tents have been uprooted and moved just in case. Now, break the spell and tell us all what’s so damn suspicious that we need such privacy?”
Fronto allowed his gaze to wander past Carbo and then Priscus, over the rest of the men he’d called to the tent. They represented every man whom he trusted with his life. Each man in this tent he would willingly leap in front of a pilum for and he was almost certain the same could be said in return. In a way it was an impressive thing to ponder on, but pondering on it too much led to a certain dismay at the diminished number of them, and at the missing faces he would have on that list: Velius and Balbus particularly.
Representing the Tenth: Carbo, Atenos and Petrosidius, the chief signifer and a long-standing colleague. Priscus: the camp prefect. Varus and Galronus of the cavalry. Balventius, the primus pilus of the Eighth. Crispus, the legate of the Eleventh and Galba, that of the Twelfth.
Nine men.
Nine men he felt he could trust beyond reason and word.
Nine men that he would accept the opinions of and who felt at ease speaking to him as though to a friend rather than a superior or colleague.
“It’s about these deaths” he said flatly.
“Deaths?” Crispus sat upright. “You mean Tetricus? I was hoping to share a libation with you to his memory after the funeral, but duty seems to have kept us apart. There are more deaths than Tetricus?”
Galba shuffled in the seat next to him. “Others caused by… by Romans?”
Fronto sighed. Time to fill in all the missing details.
“I realise that we’ve been almost constantly active since we met up in Mediomatrici lands. We haven’t had the customary weeks of reacquainting ourselves and we haven’t had our usual social meet-ups. Let me give you a bit of a rundown.”
Holding up a hand, he extended his forefinger.
“Publius Pinarius Posca. I expect some of you know the name. I didn’t. Nephew of Caesar; son-in-law of his eldest sister. He set off from Ostia on the same trireme as myself, as well as Galronus” he nodded at the Remi chieftain who was nodding grimly, “and also the Pompeian centurions Fabius and Furius from the Seventh, and Menenius and Hortius — those peacocks in the Fourteenth. It would appear that we all separated as groups for our journey north. Whether Pinarius took on local guides and guards I don’t know. I assume so, as he hardly seemed rugged and capable — I suspect he was still breast fed into his twenties. Either way, he only made it as far as Vienna, north of Massilia, where he was dispatched with a single pugio thrust to the heart. Stabbed in the back and buried under firewood.”
The number of surprised looks shared by the occupants of the tent clarified just how little had been said about this.
“Caesar’s nephew?” Balventius sat forward. “Murdered en route to the army? What has the general done about it?”
“Precisely nothing. He seemed to be less than impressed with the poor young moron. In fact, he seemed to think it would make his life easier; it was certainly hardly advertised. I was intending to investigate as much as I could and I made a few enquiries, but the business of war has somewhat impeded any investigation.”
Crispus frowned. “You should have enlisted us all.”
“At the time, I thought it better to keep it as low-key as possible. Things have now changed.”
“So,” Varus said, hissing through his teeth as he moved his slung arm without thinking. “So, you’re convinced that the person who put a Roman knife in Caesar’s nephew stuck the same knife in Tetricus? It does seem rather too much for coincidence.”
Fronto and Galronus were both nodding.
“It gets better, Varus. The head wound I saw the medicus about a few days ago was not, as is generally believed, a drunken fall. I know the rumours my reputation sows, and in this case I’ve fostered the rumour. But in fact, the thing that nearly took the top of my head off was a sling bullet. Someone hidden in the trees tried to send me to Elysium hot on the heels of Tetricus. Less than an hour later, in fact.”
Carbo and Atenos exchanged glances. “Then we need to tighten security in the Tenth. It’s time you formed yourself a bodyguard like legates are supposed to.”
Fronto shook his head in irritation. “Firstly, I can quite do without having half a dozen men accompany me every time I go to the shitter. Secondly, I want to catch these bastard murderers in the act, not make it impossible for them to strike. If they’ve failed to get me once, they’re likely to try again, so I need people to keep their eyes open around me rather than stand with their shields raised.”
The nods around the room were accompanied by the soft burble of low conversation. Fronto waited for a moment and then cracked his knuckles as he took a deep breath.
“There’s more to it yet, though.”
Silence fell, leaving an expectant vacuum.
“A couple of hours ago, while on duty at the bridge, the centurion in charge hauled a body out of the Rhenus. He’d been there for around three days by the medicus’ estimate. We’ve kept the lid on this so far, but it’ll get out into the rumour mill soon enough. The man was Caesar’s personal courier, a former senior tribune in the Ninth.”
Priscus unfolded his arms, leaning forward. “Pleuratus?”
“The very same. Tied to a rock and dropped in the river so that we’d never know had the ropes not come away.” He took a deep breath and leaned back, steepling his fingers for a moment until he realised just how much he must look like Caesar in such a pose and quickly unknotted them.
“So that’s the situation. Three men dead: Caesar’s nephew, his private courier, and my senior tribune, along with one attempt on my own life. And things seem to be speeding up. Before anything else happens, I think we need to try and shine a light on the culprits. So what links us all and who might want us all dead?”
Galronus scratched his chin and looked around the group of friends. “Am I stating the obvious when I mention Fabius and Furius? Where have they been on each occasion?”
“They claim, as you know, to have been travelling separately to Pinarius. They were certainly in the thick of it in the Germanic camp when Tetricus was first attacked. Other than that, Tetricus’ murder, the attack on me and the drowning of Pleuratus have all happened in camp. We can enquire about the pair, but the chances of being able to narrow down their exact location are tiny, especially with Cicero hovering protectively round them like a mother hen.”
“But you suspect them” Priscus said quietly — a statement rather than a question.
“I would like to. People keep telling me that it’s my prejudices against Pompeian veterans serving with us, but I hope not.”
“As an outsider — of sorts” Atenos added, alluding to his Gallic origins and his centurion status, “I would have to point out that if the attackers were anti-Caesarean, then the link is fairly self-evident.”
“Go on.”
“Well. Caesar’s own kin. The man to whom he entrusts his person
al letters. Yourself?”
“Me? I argue with the hard-faced old bastard more than anyone in the command.”
“Yes,” Priscus said quietly, “but usually to save him from himself. You’ve been supporting the man all the way through Gaul. You defend him when he’s attacked. Whatever you consider yourself, to an outsider you’re Caesar’s man through and through.”
“And what of Tetricus?” Fronto said calmly. “He’s no Caesarean man.”
“But he’s yours. Perhaps that’s enough.”
“Or” Varus added quietly, “that’s something different entirely.”
All eyes turned to him.
“Well I’m sure I’m not the only person who saw those two centurions cast the evil eye over Tetricus in a briefing a while back. There’s no love lost between the three, I’d say.”
“So is that what we think?” Fronto said quietly. “That two men, possibly even still in the pay of Pompey Magnus are taking opportunities to do away with Caesar’s closest or most important men?”
“It seems feasible at least.”
Fronto nodded as his mind furnished him with a damning image of Furius and Fabius gripping a broken pilum and a bloodied knife. How to get them to reveal themselves without Cicero interfering? Now that was the next problem.
Something was clearly screwed up with the planning, that much was certain. Fronto stood looking at the ramp from his little duty officer’s tent and thought dark thoughts about Priscus, the man who was almost certainly responsible.
He had never been that good a student and mathematics was far from his strong point but, to his mind, they were on the eighth day of bridge construction and there were eight legionary legates present. How he had drawn the duty twice was not a question of mathematics, but one of wicked intent.
Priscus.
He could almost see the camp prefect grinning as he made the marks on the duty roster by the flickering light of the oil lamp in his tent.
An unseasonal shower had woken the legate before dawn, pattering on the leather of the tent roof, and had not let up all morning, finally beginning to penetrate into the parched, cracked, dry ground, softening the turf and dampening the moods of the men in general. The drizzle seemed set in for the day, pattering down from a pale grey, gloomy sky and slowing work on the bridge, making conditions on the slippery timber piles even more dangerous.
Still, it would soon be over.
The great span of Caesar’s — Mamurra’s — masterpiece stretched out across the wide Rhenus towards the far bank, with only three sections remaining to be put in place. The engineer had confirmed that the bridge would be complete by nightfall the next day — a spectacular nine days and almost to the unrealistic schedule that Caesar had set. Of course, the engineer had set his estimate back by a day this morning, given the turn in the weather, but even ten days was still an astounding feat.
And Fronto had to admit that when he’d taken the morning stroll across the completed sections, they now felt as secure as any bridge he’d ever crossed.
He paused in the act of giving himself a shave with his dagger and listened intently, frowning. There had been a change in the general distant murmur of noise. Only a tiny change and only for a fraction of a second, but a change that any experienced officer would spot instantly.
He was already running, pugio sliding back into the scabbard at his belt, when the cornu rang out with the warning call. As Fronto pounded up the ramp and onto the slippery timbers, he could already see men running back across the bridge. Behind him almost a century of armed and armoured legionaries answered the call, running onto the ramp, shields held ready and blades out, preparing to leap into action.
The unarmoured work gang legionaries had dropped their tools and loads, while the eight-man contubernium that was the entire fighting-ready force on the bridge itself could be seen at the far end with the centurion’s crest bobbing around among them.
Slipping a couple of times on the slimy wood, Fronto managed to keep his feet along the length of the structure, the near-eighty men on military duty hammering along behind and gradually catching up.
Fronto, wondering what had caused the warning, found his answer as a legionary ran past him, panting, without even raising a salute or looking at him, clutching his left arm from which the shaft of an arrow protruded, the scraggy grey feathers dirty and unpleasant. Rivulets of dark blood ran down his sweating, dirty arm, joining the grime and diffusing in the rain.
The legate turned his attention back to the group ahead and could now see that the centurion had formed his eight men into a small ‘testudo’ tortoise formation to shelter them from the dozens of falling arrows and to provide a shield to protect those men who were still fleeing the construction area.
Fronto’s practiced and professional eye told him that they were at the very furthest range of the unseen archers. Most of the arrows were plummeting into the grey-brown torrents of the Rhenus, stippled by raindrops. A few had struck the timbers and lodged there, and perhaps one arrow in a dozen was actually making it to the bridge works.
The section that had just been lowered into place was still loose; the ropes, pegs and nails that would secure it lying untended on the deck.
“Get back!” Fronto bellowed at the centurion and his small party. The legionaries behind him finally came alongside as the centurion turned to see the legate pelting towards him.
“Not yet, sir!” His eyes flitting to either side of the legate, he addressed the arriving soldiers. “First four contubernia join your mates and form a barrier. The rest of you lash and nail this bastard in place as quick as you can and then we’ll pull back. I’m not having this section wash away on my watch!”
Falling in behind the small testudo of shields, Fronto crouched a little next to the centurion who stood proud as though nothing in the world could harm him. Men fell into place around them, creating a solid shield barrier against the arrows falling all across the bridge’s lip.
Behind, the other men had dropped their shields and swords and were hurriedly securing the latest section of bridge. Despite the shield wall and all the protection it gave, even as they all fell into place and went about their tasks, two men dropped among the ropes and beams with black shafts protruding from head or chest. Another fell from the shieldwall, a man who’d kept his shield too high, screeching as an arrow slammed into his shin just above the ankle, almost pinning him to the bridge. As he fell backwards, other shields resettled to fill the gap.
“We have to pull back. There are hundreds of them.”
“As soon as we have the bridge secured, sir.”
Fronto watched with desperate impatience as the men hurried about the business of nailing and roping the section down.
“They’d better be bloody quick. We’re going to lose a lot of men if we stay here.”
Even as he spoke another worker shrieked and vanished over the side into the roiling water, an arrow protruding from his neck. A grunt from the shieldwall announced a glancing blow.
“This is nothing, sir. You wait til we start the next section and we come into proper range.”
Fronto shook his head in anger. “We can’t have the men work under these conditions. It’s not viable. Can we maybe have a missile troop drawn up here to clear out the far bank?”
Two more screams sounded as men collapsed to the ground, writhing and groaning.
“No good, sir. We can’t fit an archery unit on here while the men work around them, and if you just put the archers up here and try and clear them out, they’ll just disappear into the woods and wait until an easy target turns up. They’re barbarians, but they’re not daft.”
Fronto reached out and pushed a man’s shield back into place.
“Stop paying attention to us talking and keep that bloody shield in place!” he snapped and, turning back to the centurion. “Well, we’ll have to do something. We’ve got to clear those archers out if we want to finish the bridge.”
One of the legionaries bellowed from the
side that the section was secure and the centurion smiled grimly.
“Sound the defended retreat. Shields up until we’re at least twenty yards along the bridge. Then you can run!”
Fronto turned, feeling the slight give in the boards underfoot, and fell in with the legionaries as they beat an ordered retreat along the bridge, workers picking up their shields and blades as they moved, joining the defensive lines.
A dozen yards further and the last arrow fell a long way short of the men, the enemy fire ceasing and leaving just the eerie patter of rain on the timber. Fronto looked around the sullen century of men who stomped alongside him, five casualties being helped along and two dead carried by their companions. At least two more had disappeared beneath the surface of the Rhenus.
As the rain spattered his face, Fronto nodded in answer to his own silent question. There was only really one solution to the problem.
Chapter 10
(The Rhine)
Fronto held on for dear life as the wood clenched in his whitening fingers bucked and spun.
“Whose stupid shitty idea was this?”
“You really need an answer to that, sir?” Atenos grinned from the front of the low, flat boat where he stood boldly in a pose reminiscent of the great Colossus, seemingly uncaring of the lurching of the vessel with every churning trough or peak of the roiling surface. The rain, now a constant sheet of water, battered their forms, pinging off the metal of their armour and soaking into every inch of clothing.
“I shouldn’t have come, though. You could quite easily have done it without me.”
“I think it’s better that you did, sir, in the end.”
Fronto looked up from the rail and noticed the huge Gaulish centurion’s eyes flicking meaningfully past him to the rear of the boat. Trusting in Fortuna and releasing one claw-like hand from the boat’s hull, Fronto turned, his gaze taking in the dozen other boats in the small, scattered flotilla before coming to rest on the figure at the rear: the object of Atenos’ scornful look.
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