every time I go to the shitter. Secondly, I want to catch these bastard murderers in the act, not make it impossible for them to strike. If they’ve failed to get me once, they’re likely to try again, so I need people to keep their eyes open around me rather than stand with their shields raised.”
The nods around the room were accompanied by the soft burble of low conversation. Fronto waited for a moment and then cracked his knuckles as he took a deep breath.
“There’s more to it yet, though.”
Silence fell, leaving an expectant vacuum.
“A couple of hours ago, while on duty at the bridge, the centurion in charge hauled a body out of the Rhenus. He’d been there for around three days by the medicus’ estimate. We’ve kept the lid on this so far, but it’ll get out into the rumour mill soon enough. The man was Caesar’s personal courier, a former senior tribune in the Ninth.”
Priscus unfolded his arms, leaning forward. “Pleuratus?”
“The very same. Tied to a rock and dropped in the river so that we’d never know had the ropes not come away.” He took a deep breath and leaned back, steepling his fingers for a moment until he realised just how much he must look like Caesar in such a pose and quickly unknotted them.
“So that’s the situation. Three men dead: Caesar’s nephew, his private courier, and my senior tribune, along with one attempt on my own life. And things seem to be speeding up. Before anything else happens, I think we need to try and shine a light on the culprits. So what links us all and who might want us all dead?”
Galronus scratched his chin and looked around the group of friends. “Am I stating the obvious when I mention Fabius and Furius? Where have they been on each occasion?”
“They claim, as you know, to have been travelling separately to Pinarius. They were certainly in the thick of it in the Germanic camp when Tetricus was first attacked. Other than that, Tetricus’ murder, the attack on me and the drowning of Pleuratus have all happened in camp. We can enquire about the pair, but the chances of being able to narrow down their exact location are tiny, especially with Cicero hovering protectively round them like a mother hen.”
“But you suspect them” Priscus said quietly — a statement rather than a question.
“I would like to. People keep telling me that it’s my prejudices against Pompeian veterans serving with us, but I hope not.”
“As an outsider — of sorts” Atenos added, alluding to his Gallic origins and his centurion status, “I would have to point out that if the attackers
“Go on.”
“Well. Caesar’s own kin. The man to whom he entrusts his personal letters. Yourself?”
“Me? I argue with the hard-faced old bastard more than anyone in the command.”
“Yes,” Priscus said quietly, “but usually to save him from himself. You’ve been supporting the man all the way through Gaul. You defend him when he’s attacked. Whatever you consider yourself, to an outsider you’re Caesar’s man through and through.”
“And what of Tetricus?” Fronto said calmly. “He’s no Caesarean man.”
“But he’s yours. Perhaps that’s enough.”
“Or” Varus added quietly, “that’s something different entirely.”
All eyes turned to him.
“Well I’m sure I’m not the only person who saw those two centurions cast the evil eye over Tetricus in a briefing a while back. There’s no love lost between the three, I’d say.”
“So is that what we think?” Fronto said quietly. “That two men, possibly even still in the pay of Pompey Magnus are taking opportunities to do away with Caesar’s closest or most important men?”
“It seems feasible at least.”
Fronto nodded as his mind furnished him with a damning image of Furius and Fabius gripping a broken pilum and a bloodied knife. How to get them to reveal themselves without Cicero interfering? Now that was the next problem.
Something was clearly screwed up with the planning, that much was certain. Fronto stood looking at the ramp from his little duty officer’s tent and thought dark thoughts about Priscus, the man who was almost certainly responsible.
He had never been that good a student and mathematics was far from his strong point but, to his mind, they were on the eighth day of bridge construction and there were eight legionary legates present. How he had drawn the duty twice was not a question of mathematics, but one of wicked intent.
Priscus.
He could almost see the camp prefect grinning as he made the marks on the duty roster by the flickering light of the oil lamp in his tent.
An unseasonal shower had woken the legate before dawn, pattering on the leather of the tent roof, and had not let up all morning, finally beginning to penetrate into the parched, cracked, dry ground, softening the turf and dampening the moods of the men in general. The drizzle seemed set in for the day, pattering down from a pale grey, gloomy sky and slowing work on the bridge, making conditions on the slippery timber piles even more dangerous.
Still, it would soon be over.
The great span of Caesar’s — Mamurra’s — masterpiece stretched out across the wide Rhenus towards the far bank, with only three sections remaining to be put in place. The engineer had confirmed that the bridge would be complete by nightfall the next day — a spectacular nine days and almost to the unrealistic schedule that Caesar had set. Of course, the engineer had set his estimate back by a day this morning, given the turn in the weather, but even
And Fronto had to admit that when he’d taken the morning stroll across the completed sections, they now felt as secure as any bridge he’d ever crossed.
He paused in the act of giving himself a shave with his dagger and listened intently, frowning. There had been a change in the general distant murmur of noise. Only a tiny change and only for a fraction of a second, but a change that any experienced officer would spot instantly.
He was already running, pugio sliding back into the scabbard at his belt, when the cornu rang out with the warning call. As Fronto pounded up the ramp and onto the slippery timbers, he could already see men running back across the bridge. Behind him almost a century of armed and armoured legionaries answered the call, running onto the ramp, shields held ready and blades out, preparing to leap into action.
The unarmoured work gang legionaries had dropped their tools and loads, while the eight-man contubernium that was the entire fighting-ready force on the bridge itself could be seen at the far end with the centurion’s crest bobbing around among them.
Slipping a couple of times on the slimy wood, Fronto managed to keep his feet along the length of the structure, the near-eighty men on military duty hammering along behind and gradually catching up.
Fronto, wondering what had caused the warning, found his answer as a legionary ran past him, panting, without even raising a salute or looking at him, clutching his left arm from which the shaft of an arrow protruded, the scraggy grey feathers dirty and unpleasant. Rivulets of dark blood ran down his sweating, dirty arm, joining the grime and diffusing in the rain.
The legate turned his attention back to the group ahead and could now see that the centurion had formed his eight men into a small ‘testudo’ tortoise formation to shelter them from the dozens of falling arrows and to provide a shield to protect those men who were still fleeing the construction area.
Fronto’s practiced and professional eye told him that they were at the very furthest range of the unseen archers. Most of the arrows were plummeting into the grey-brown torrents of the Rhenus, stippled by raindrops. A few had struck the timbers and lodged there, and perhaps one arrow in a dozen was actually making it to the bridge works.
The section that had just been lowered into place was still loose; the ropes, pegs and nails that would secure it lying untended on the deck.
“Get back!” Fronto bellowed at the centurion and his small party. The legionaries behind him finally came alongside as the centurion turned to see the legate pelting towards him.
