S. Turney: Conspiracy of Eagles

“He never said; just sort of… sounded me out. But I thought long and hard about it, and I seem to remember that his father served as admiral of the Euxine fleet under Pompey in the east, so it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”

Fronto shook his head. “If he had come to me, he’d have left with a broken nose. Quintus, you shouldn’t even be talking to these people!”

Balbus shrugged. “As far as I’m aware this is still a republic and not a kingdom. Dangerous it may be, but I do have the right to at least listen to every side in a debate. It’s what a good Roman does.”

Fronto’s eyes flared. “Quintus, don’t tell me things I really don’t want to hear!”

“Relax, Marcus. I’m still a client of Caesar’s and a friend of yours. But don’t tell me you’ve never even contemplated whether you’re doing the right thing hoisting Caesar’s banner, because I know you have. I know that you’re too bright not to question the general.”

“Quintus” Fronto hissed, “that’s quite enough. You’ve always been Caesar’s man!”

“And I still am… for now. But look at it: Gaul is pacified. He’s pushed his remit beyond breaking point and stretched Rome to the very edge, but he’s managed it. Gaul is tamed and everything can settle again. Now, he should be back in Illyricum or Cisalpine Gaul, making laws and skimming money off the taxes like a good governor. He doesn’t need eight legions to hold on to a peaceful Gaul. He should be settling veterans. And what is he doing?”

Fronto shook his head, vehemently.

“What is he doing, Marcus?” demanded Balbus quietly.

“Preparing for campaign.”

“Against who? For what?”

“Germania. He says they’re threatening the Belgae.”

Balbus nodded.

“Good. Then he will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume.”

“Quintus, I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”

“Only because you know I’m right, Marcus. Watch what happens. What I just suggested is all that’s required, and you know that. But if the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”

Fronto opened his mouth to argue again, but the door opened suddenly and Corvinia entered with a warm smile, followed by a grinning Balbina and a veritable army of slaves bearing steaming platters.

Corvinia greeted him warmly and Fronto cast one last warning glance at Balbus before, pushing his fears and dismay deep down into his chest, he stood and put on a smile that he hoped would look genuine.

Two days at Massilia had passed in strained pleasantry. Despite their longstanding friendship, the conversation Fronto and Balbus had shared alone that first night had soured the visit and nothing seemed able to dislodge the dark cloud from Fronto’s thoughts.

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.”