S. Turney - Conspiracy of Eagles

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 and 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?”

Fronto nodded. “I will, Carbo, but first I want to go find Priscus. Any idea where he might be?”

Carbo pointed to one of the tents ahead. “That’s his tent there, sir. He’s just finished morning inspection of the camps, so he’ll be there. It’s astounding how many things he can find wrong, legate.”

Fronto smiled for the first time that day.

“Giving you a hard time, eh? He has to, Carbo. Having come from the Tenth, he can’t be seen to be showing favouritism.”

“Don’t I know it, sir? He was never this tough when he was my commander. I shall be at the Tenth’s principia tent when you require me.”

Fronto nodded as the man strode off toward his own command.

“See who lurks nearby” Galronus muttered, leaning close. Fronto followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes. Centurion Fabius leaned against a tethering post close to the command section, idly picking his teeth with a splinter from a stick.

“I think we can afford another minute’s detour.” Fronto smiled unpleasantly, and angled toward the officer. Fabius, a dour-looking man with dark stubble reaching almost from eyes to collar, turned a pale ice-blue, piercing gaze on Fronto and straightened with an almost deliberately insolent slowness, throwing out a salute. He was unarmoured and unarmed apart from his vine staff, his tousled iron-grey hair waving in the gentle breeze.

“Fabius?”

“Legate Fronto. I trust you had a good journey?”

Fronto nodded. He’d seen the attitude before: borderline insolent, full of hidden disdain, with a faint sneer. It was an expression career soldiers, and centurions in particular, reserved for the noble classes who liked to play commander without any real hint of military sense. Fabius could hardly be expected to view Fronto any differently, but it did little to prevent Fronto’s dislike of the dark officer growing to almost boiling point.

“Been in camp long, Fabius?”

“Four days, sir. Made good time. Left our luggage to come on later with the supply train and just brought a saddlebag, sir. Like you, apparently.”

“Did you travel alone then?”