Mare Nostrum. Can’t afford to let a top man go because he’s argumentative.”
“And Cicero?”
“Would you want to send him back to Rome in disgrace where he can join his brother and stir up even more trouble? No. Cicero is safer under Caesar’s nose.”
A knock at the wooden frame of the door interrupted the conversation and Fronto made ‘shush’ing motions at the other two.
“Who is it?”
“How many people are you expecting?” barked the irritable voice of Priscus. Fronto relaxed back to the cushion and refilled his cup, adding the slightest dash of water for modesty. “Come on in.”
The door flap swung out to reveal the figures of Priscus, Carbo and Atenos.
“You said there’d be dice” Priscus noted hopefully, “and wine.”
“Help yourself to the wine. Now that you’re here I’ll dig out the dice. We were just discussing the divisions in command. Labienus, Cicero, Caesar, the senate and so on. Any opinions?”
“My opinion is that it’d be a better discussion without me” grumbled Priscus, slumping to a cushion and pouring himself a generous cup of wine, watering it healthily.
“I wonder who’s going to be left in command of the winter quarters once we’ve rounded up the rest of the invaders” mused Carbo, reaching for a dark, earthenware cup.
“Not Labienus, for sure” replied Atenos with a grin.
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself” Fronto said quietly. “This isn’t the end of things. I argued with Balbus back at Massilia, but I’m more and more convinced he was right as the weeks roll on.”
He glanced up at the silence and realised the other five men were frowning at him in incomprehension.
“He feels that Caesar will continue to push even when there’s no reason. For glory and the applause of the mob in Rome. The senate are never going to root for him, so he needs the support of the people, and that means he can’t stop conquering and winning glory for Rome. He won’t waste the campaigning season when he could be drumming up popular support.”
“So you mean the general is going to spend the rest of the season ploughing into the lands across the Rhenus? All to please the poor and the homeless back in Rome?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Any news about the tribune?” Carbo asked quietly, deftly changing the subject.
Fronto sat up a little straighter. “He’s recovering nicely apparently. Not as quick as the invincible horseman over there” he gestured at Varus, who grinned. “Looks like Tetricus was very lucky; the wounds could have been that much worse if just a fraction of an inch different. I think he’s lucky he was moving and there was a big fight on. If the bastards had cornered him in an alley, it would have been a different matter.”
“’Bastards’?” enquired Atenos with a frown, noting the plural.
Fronto shrugged. “I’d wager a fortune on who the culprits were, and there’s two of them.”
“Fabius and Furius of the Seventh” Galronus said quietly. “How sure are you?”
“Pretty convinced. No evidence, though. I can accuse them all I like, but Cicero will back them to the hilt and it’s no secret that those two and I have a mutual dislike. It’ll just look like me being vindictive if I make any kind of accusation without evidence. I had a look at the weapons they used, but they’re bulk legionary issue with no way to distinguish them.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder if the world might be a brighter place if those two wake up dead in their tent one morning.”
“You’d not sink to that level, Marcus. If you were the kind of man who did, the Tenth would have done away with you years ago.” Priscus shook his head. “But it’s a mess, Marcus.” he announced wearily. “This whole thing is a mess. Labienus has been sounding people out, you know? He came to see me; ostensibly it was a perfectly acceptable enquiry for the camp prefect, but he asked me some pretty telling questions.”
Fronto narrowed his eyes at his old friend.
“And you said?”
“I said I was Caesar’s camp prefect. That seemed to shut him up.”
Another knock at the tent door drew their gaze and attention.
“You invited anyone else?”
Fronto shook his head. “Who’s there?”
“Message for the legate of the Tenth, sir.”
Struggling to his feet, Fronto hobbled over to the door and pulled aside the flap. A legionary stood outside, looking nervous.
“Well?”
The soldier held out a cylindrical case; small and made of wood. “This arrived by courier a few minutes ago at the gate, sir, with instructions to be passed to yourself.”
Fronto nodded and waved the soldier away, taking the case and retreating into the tent. Unstoppering the end, he slid out a small roll of expensive parchment. The wax seal that held the scroll tight bore his family’s signet, marking its source as either Faleria or his mother.
“Letter from the missus?” Priscus grinned.
“From home” Fronto said absently, snapping the seal and unrolling the short missive. His eyes strayed back and forth along the lines, his expression undergoing a number of changes as he read, and darkening as he neared the end.
“The bastard!”
The tent’s occupants looked at one another and then at him.
“What?”
The legate thrust the parchment angrily at Priscus, who ran his eyes down the text until he reached the bottom.
“Maybe she’s mistaken?”
“No. No mistake. I should have known when we confronted him in Rome that Caesar would get his talons into the man.”
“What?” Galronus was half-raised from the floor now.
“Caesar’s got Clodius Pulcher working for him now, running gangs of thugs from his niece’s house to frighten those daft old buggers in the senate who chunter about this campaign. After everything Clodius did to us last year! Caesar stood with me and fought the cheap little bastard and his men, and then he hires the prick? Clodius is as treacherous as a snake and as slippery as an eel. The little bastard needs to be filleted and dumped in the Tiber, not employed!”
“Remember what I told you, though, Marcus” muttered Varus, wincing as he carefully tightened the sling around his arm once more. “Caesar’s only maintaining his command and his position because the senate are scared of him. That’s what Clodius is: a cestus. An armoured glove of the general closing on the throat of the senate.”
“Still, if that little prick is swanning about in Rome when I get back, Caesar or no Caesar, I’ll gut him myself.”
Galronus’ brow furrowed. “Why in Rome but not here?”
“What?”
“Why would Caesar have hired men frightening the senate into supporting him — which is extremely dangerous and could land him in court or prison — and yet leave those who disagree with him in important places in his army? I know you say Labienus is worth too much as a commander, but if the general would go so far as to threaten patrician class senators, would he really stop at his officers?”
“Caesar has always been a man of the army. His legions love him because he’s one of them. He’d lose their love and respect pretty damn quick if he started doing away with officers he didn’t like.”
And yet, even as he spoke, in his gut Fronto couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps there was some truth in Galronus’ words. His mind conjured up pictures of Paetus — the former camp prefect whose family Caesar had allowed to die needlessly, turning him against the general. Of Salonius — a tribune who had stirred the legions against Caesar three years ago and who had disappeared without trace. Of the Fourteenth who had spent two years repeatedly being given the more ignominious duties in the army due to their Gallic nature. Of the Seventh, who now contained all the general’s ‘bad eggs’.
