Gallia Invicta

Balbus watched Crispus fasten the cloak to his shoulders and tilted his head, a suspicious look crossing his face.

“Tarautas? Was he by any chance also a veteran of Pompey’s Syrian legions?”

Crispus stopped as he was reaching for his helmet and frowned.

“I believe he was. Got his honesta missio around six or seven years ago. You believe there is a link with Pompey?”

Fronto flattened his hands in a suppressing motion and shushed him.

“That’s not a thing to go saying out loud; not without a whole barrow load of proof, anyway.”

Crispus nodded silently.

“Volcatius was in Syria too. He’s the signifer for the second century of the first cohort. Three men in high position in my legion, and all with loyalties that lie elsewhere. That vexes me rather a lot.”

He slapped his fist into the palm of his hand.

“A signifer, a chief centurion and a quartermaster.”

Fronto nodded.

“Could be more too, and in other legions. These are just three names that Priscus recognised from a list of many.”

Crispus sighed as he made final adjustments to his armour before turning and opening the flap of his tent. Water dripped, cold and unpleasant, from every point and edge in the camp, the aftermath of the latest dramatic downpour; more likely the intermission before the next act. The headquarters tent stood only thirty yards away, four duty legionaries on guard at the entrance.

He strode out with a military gait, Fronto and Balbus at his heels, both similarly attired. As the three legates crossed the open space to the command tent, the four legionaries snapped sharply to attention.

“Any trouble?” Crispus asked as they approached.

“Quiet as a mouse, sir” the soldier replied. “Not a peep.”

“Good. Dismissed. Go get some food.”

The legionaries saluted and walked off toward the centre of camp.

“Is that a good idea” Fronto asked quietly.

“You think they might attack us? What could they gain? No, I think this had best be a professional, very private, and reasonable exchange.”

Fronto frowned.

“I hope they think so too.”

Crispus gave a dark half-smile as he reached out for the tent flap and strode into the dim interior, the other two officers close on his heel.

The command tent was the largest in the camp, filled, as anyone who knew Crispus would expect, with tables, chairs, maps, cupboards full of tablets and racks full of scrolls. Two braziers supplied the warmth in the room and, along with two oil lamps, also supplied the light.

The interior was therefore dark and gloomy, even with the flap opened, and it took a moment for their eyes to become accustomed to the change.

“Oh shit.”

Crispus and Balbus could only nod, echoing Fronto’s sentiments.

The bodies of three men in tunics and breeches lay in a heap in the centre of the room close to the table. The floor around them pooled with fresh blood and rivulets of the stuff ran down their alabaster faces and limbs, matching the tunic’s crimson.

Balbus shook his head and pinched his nose.

“That’s just ridiculous! We hadn’t even spoken to them yet. They couldn’t have known what we were going to do!”

“Idiots” Fronto agreed. “No interrogations. Just bodies. That’s just stupid.”

Crispus stepped forward, frowning, and examined the pile.

“I don’t think so, gentlemen.”

“What?”

The young legate shrugged.

“These are all senior officers. If they were going to take the noble route, tradition is to use your sword, and each would do it themselves. At least one of them still has his sword sheathed. This was done with a pugio or some other short dagger. And they are in a pile. Why would they, even as they died, throw themselves on each other in a heap?”

Fronto blinked.

“They didn’t kill themselves?”

“I very much doubt it. This was done by someone else, and it was done recently, quickly, professionally and must have taken them by surprise.”

Balbus nodded.

“If they never even drew their swords.”

“More than that. There must have been at least three of them. One assailant couldn’t have dealt with all three that quickly.”

Fronto slapped his head.

“Did you recognise the legionaries on guard?”

Crispus blinked and stared at Fronto.

“No. I don’t know many of the rank and file, I’m afraid. I never even thought to look.”

Fronto grumbled.

“They said it had been quiet. They would have heard any sort of struggle and, that being the case, I think we just walked straight past the culprits and passed the time of day with them. They must have only just been leaving the tent when we arrived.”

Balbus gestured at Fronto.

“You go and see Caesar about this. I’ll help try and sort this out.”

The legate of the Tenth gave them a quick nod and then, turning, left the tent and hurried through the rows of ordered tents and out of the section of the camp allotted to the Eleventh.

The general’s command tent was a hive of activity as Fronto arrived and nodded suspiciously at the legionaries on guard by the entrance. As he reached for the door, the flap opened and Brutus emerged, looking gaunt and tired, as was so often the case these days.

“What sort of mood is he in?”

“Changeable” the young officer replied. “Step lightly.”

“Not likely, I’m afraid” Fronto sighed.

Patting the other man on the shoulder in a comradely fashion, Fronto stepped through the door into the tent. Cicero and Cita, the chief quartermaster, sat opposite the general in deep discussion.

“Apologies for the rude interruption,” Fronto announced from the entrance “but I need to speak to the general in private on an urgent matter.”

The two officers threw a questioning look at Caesar, who nodded. Fronto waited patiently as they stood, saluted, and turned to leave, before he approached the table and placed his hands on it.

He quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone and the tent flap was lowered.

“How much do you trust Pompey Magnus?”

Caesar leaned forward.

“Strange question. Why should you ask?”

Fronto shrugged. “How much?”

“Beyond any reasonable doubt. We are close allies, along with Crassus. Fronto, he’s been my son-in-law for the past three years. I ask again why you should ask?”

The legate rubbed his eyes.

“Evidence is beginning to point toward something involving Pompey. It’s all circumstantial, I grant you, but it’s pretty compelling, nonetheless.”

“Explain.”

“I just received a letter from Priscus. He’s been following Clodius and… well see for yourself.”