Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (14 page)

He shook his head to bat away such fanciful thoughts. No man would survive such a blow.

As he watched, he realized Furius had straightened and come to attention.

His mind focusing once more, Fronto glanced around. Caesar was gesturing at the centurion.

“Bring me the records of our cavalry numbers.”

Furius saluted again and turned. Fronto frowned for a moment as an opportunity struck him to escape this gloomy proceeding. Turning to the general, he cleared his throat.

“If I might be excused, general, I will bring Galronus. He has just completed a full inspection of one of the three cavalry wings and could probably provide useful information for you.”

Caesar frowned for a moment at the breach of protocol, though hardly unexpected, given the perpetrator, and then nodded.

“Be quick.”

Fronto bowed slightly and shuffled out behind the line of officers, making his way around the tent and out of the entrane. The arguing began once more before he’d even made it out of earshot.

He knew exactly where Galronus would be: in Fronto’s tent, helping himself to whatever tasty vittles he could find. Fronto had arranged to meet him after the meeting. Almost certainly Priscus would be there, too, and Priscus would be the man with the cavalry records.

Centurion Furius was busy striding across the command compound toward the camp prefect’s tent. With a tight smile, Fronto jogged off after him. As they approached the large tent, Furius came to a halt outside and barked out a request for entry, his voice deep and gravelly.

Fronto slowed and sauntered up alongside him.

“He won’t be in there, centurion.”

Furius turned and glowered at the legate.

“Sir?”

“Priscus. He won’t be there. He’ll be at my tent.”

The centurion nodded his thanks, showing no sign of real gratitude in the movement. As he turned and strode off toward the Tenth’s ranks, Fronto fell in alongside and walked with him.

“You served with Pompey? Or Lucullus?”

Furius cast him a suspicious look.

“Both, legate.”

“Lucullus was an extraordinary general. Never met him, but I wish I had. My father spoke highly of him.”

The centurion nodded. Fronto waited. Clearly conversation was not one of Furius’ strong points.

“And Pompey, eh?”

Another nod.

“And now you serve with Caesar. You’re making a career of soldiering for some great generals. Did you not think of signing up to go east with Crassus?”

Furius’ step faltered and he slowed, turning to Fronto and casting a withering glance that took the legate by surprise.

“Well, I mean” Fronto said almost defensively, “you’ve served in the east before with Lucullus and Pompey. You know the lands and peoples. You’ll be used to the heat and the dryness, and it’s no secret even in
Rome
that Crassus is mounting a campaign against
Parthia
. I imagine at least half of the veterans of Pompey and Lucullus’ legions will be signing on to march with him.”

The withering stare was making him extremely uncomfortable. With the almost bestial features of the man, he couldn’t escape the impression that Furius was eyeing him in much the same way as a bear might eye its next prospective meal.

“I’m just interested in what brings a veteran of the eastern campaigns out to soggy, cold
Gaul
when he has the option of returning to the east.”

They were approaching the Tenth’s command tents now as Furius turned to face front again. The centurion made a strange nasal noise and cleared his throat.

“Caesar is a great general. Even Pompey thinks so. Crassus is a rich moron with the military expertise of a gutter whore. Those who go east with Crassus are signing on for a parched journey into the jaws of Cerberus. I choose life and glory.”

As they came to a halt at the tent, Furius turned to him again.

“It has been obvious since
Ostia
that you neither like nor trust me, legate Fronto. And from what I’ve heard of you, I believe you’re a dangerously unpredictable drunkard to have in a position of command; insolent and disobedient. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the centurionate before you were beaten to death for the things you say and do. I think we can both agree that we dislike each other intensely and that we’re both grateful we serve in different legions, and whatever you’re hoping to get out of this conversation, I hope you’ve got it now, because the conversation is over. I will not breach protocol by entering the tent of a senior officer unbidden and I have no desire to lay eyes on the debauchery that I hear goes on. Would you be so kind as to send the camp prefect out to speak to me?”

Fronto stood still for a long moment, staring at the centurion. The man had just insulted him at a very personal level as well as a professional one and, in theory, Fronto could have the man broken for speaking to him like that. And yet he found that no words would spring to his lips for his throat had run as dry as the Parthian sands.

Trying to communicate his anger with only his expression, Fronto turned away and entered his tent.

Priscus sat on his bunk, shaking two dice in a leather cup, while Galronus, Brutus and Varus sat on cushions on the floor with cups of well-watered wine.

“Gnaeus? There’s a self-righteous arsehole of a centurion outside who needs accurate cavalry figures for Caesar.”

Priscus nodded, making to rise.

“Slow down, my friend. I would take it as a very great personal favour if you took your time getting him them. Perhaps you could struggle to find the tablets with the figures on?”

Priscus gave him a half-smile. “I won’t need to fake that. Finding anything in that mess is like trying to find a virgin at the Bacchanalia. Bit childish, though? Making him look bad like that?”

Fronto glared at him. “I’ve already been called insolent, disobedient, drunken and debauched in the last two minutes. I could do without you adding childish to the list.”

Priscus grinned. “But they’re almost all your most nd.aring traits!”

A ripple of laughter ran through the men on the floor and Fronto shared his glare with them all.

“Just do it, Gnaeus.”

Priscus nodded and made for the tent’s exit. Fronto turned his attention to the rest of them.

“Varus? Galronus? Just how detailed is your knowledge of your commands?”

Varus smiled, immediately latching on to Fronto’s point. “Good enough, I’d say. Let’s just stop off and pick up Piso on the way. He’s with the quartermaster.”

Fronto smiled. It
was
petty. It was childish in the most pathetic way, to sidetrack Furius and delay him, while he himself supplied Caesar with the information directly from the commanders of the three cavalry units. And yet it gave him a little thrill of happiness to drop the obstinate centurion in the dung heap.

* * * * *

Two weeks passed in drudgery at the Divoduron camps. Spring began to blossom into early summer with a brief play of storms that cleared the air and brought a fresh blue-skied world to northern
Gaul
. The cavalry had mounted patrols that ranged over the few miles around the encampment and across the ridge onto the far plain, though the Germanic aggressors remained steadfastly out of reach toward the Rhenus.

The legions champed at the bit each and every day, feeling the need to move and exercise their sword arms as opposed to sitting in camp digging latrines and carrying out routine guard duties. The men asked of their centurions and optios when the army would move, and those officers in turn asked their legates and tribunes when the march would begin. And inevitably, since few dared question the permanently-busy general, most senior officers asked the same question of the camp prefect.

Priscus pushed aside the flap of the tent without asking for admittance or preamble of any sort, ignoring the surprised look from Fronto who stood shaving with a specially sharpened knife in front of a bronze disc. As the legate turned at the unexpected and unorthodox interruption, Priscus unfastened his helmet as he crossed the large tent and flung it angrily at the wall, where it hit, bounced, and rolled under the bed.

“Come in.”

The prefect turned a glare on Fronto that carried so much raw irritation that the legate accidentally jumped a little and nicked a neat red line above his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t start with me, Marcus. Your tent was the nearest place I knew I could drown my sorrows.”

“Bad day again?”

“I’d never have accepted this commission if I’d known what it involved. Morons, donkey-brains, thieves, wastrels, layabouts and flatheads all badgering me day and night for details I don’t have, supplies I can’t get, tasks that no one will do and shite-knows what else. I swear the next person who asks me when the army marches is going to be visiting the medicus with a gladius hanging out of his arse, only probably hilt-upwards.”

Fronto grinned. “So when…”

“Knob off. Get the wine out and don’t bother with the water. I’ll go down your route today.”

Fronto looked at the patchy bristles on his face in the bronze disc, shrugged and, turning, collected two cups and a wine jug from the table by the bed – a location for keeping wine that had practical benefits of which his sister wholeheartedly disapproved. He’d even joked about digging a personal latrine on the other side, too, so he wouldn’t need to get out of bed until he was called for.

“So what’s especially troubling you today?”

Priscus sighed as he gratefully accepted a proffered cup. “The simple answer is that the army will be moving in the next few days, and every hour it gets closer brings more work and more idiots.”

He gestured expansively with his free arm, sloshing the wine over the edge of his cup onto Fronto’s bed, the legate noted with dismay.

“We currently have in supply enough grain to keep the entire force in the field for four weeks. Caesar seems to think that the amount is ample and that, if the campaign stretches more than a month, we can start foraging and rely on the supply train reaching us from Vesontio and beyond.”

“And we can’t?”

“One thing I’ve learned in this job is that quartermasters are disorganised and lazy and that Cita is the biggest, fattest, laziest blob of grease that ever wore a helmet. We’d probably be better relying on buying it from local tribes if it weren’t for the fact that the local tribes won’t have any because of the bloody stinking Germanics!”

Fronto opened his mouth, but Priscus was in full flow. “And we’ve got several thousand new cavalry coming in later today, which will stretch those supplies slightly thinner too. Plus for some unknown reason it’s become my job to organise the redistribution of the cavalry between Varus, Piso and Galronus. As if they couldn’t do it themselves.”

Fronto grunted and let his friend barrage on.

“I’ve decided on the quick answer to that anyway. Galronus’ lot will be split to bolster the other existing units and our Remi friend can have all the new raw cavalry for his own.”

“That’s hardly fair on Galronus.”

“Varus will argue against having them and take it to Caesar, and Piso has a good rep, but I don’t know him well enough yet. At least Galronus can mould them into a unit and I don’t have to do any splitting up and moving about.”

Fronto smiled and took a quick pull of the wine, the last jar of good stuff that he’d brought in his personal baggage. After this it was a matter of relying on whatever Cita had in stock.

“Well at least you’ll be able to relax once we’re on the move.”

“It doesn’t bloody work like that, Marcus. When we move, I just have to start working on the next night’s camp.”

“You’ll just have to train up some of the men Caesar gave you and then…”

His helpful suggestion tailed off as the door flap swept open once again and Carbo ducked in through the door.

“Sir?”

“Does nobody in this camp knock any more?”

Carbo, the primus pilus of the Tenth, held his helmet beneath his arm, the feathery transverse crest tickling his armpit as he gestured breathlessly with his vine staff.