Conspiracy of Eagles

Seventh consisted almost entirely of people Fronto did not know or did not like, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them.

“And the Tenth; my equestrian veterans, will accompany them.”

The bottom fell out of Fronto’s world. The very idea of trying to cross that thirty mile stretch of dangerous water brought a small involuntary mouthful of bile that he had to swallow while nodding seriously.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Clearly Caesar was committing the Tenth to babysit the Seventh and make sure they did what they were supposed to. Fronto was in no doubt that he would be called back at the end of the meeting and of what that private conversation would consist. The Seventh were to be committed first to any engagement with the Tenth at their rear to keep them in line — it was plain to him. He wondered whether it was as plain to Cicero. A quick glance at the Seventh’s legate left him in no doubt as to Cicero’s feelings on the matter. The man looked like he’d tasted a little bile himself.

“Gentlemen,” Caesar continued, “study this map carefully. Over the next few days the ships of our Gallic allies will be arriving in port to bolster our fleet. As soon as the ships are judged adequate, we will be sailing with the first good tide. Have your commands on constant alert and ready to move. When the order is given I want those two legions decamped in less than an hour. Varus, I want one wing of the cavalry committed too.”

Caesar leaned forward and turned the map upside down so that the coastline, marked in black smudges and looking, to Fronto, particularly craggy and unforgiving, faced the officers.

“We will be taking only the barest supplies, with rations for the journey and only three days’ extra. No siege equipment and no support train. This will be a fast and extremely mobile assault force. I intend to rely on pillage and forage to support the army in the field. Brutus? You have the most experience in these matters, so I am placing you and Volusenus in charge of preparing the fleet and arranging the crews, route and so on.”

One of the other officers cleared his throat meaningfully, though Fronto now kept his fretful gaze downcast.

“Speak.”

“What of the other legions, Caesar?”

“Rufus and the Ninth will remain in Gesoriacum to control the port and secure our point of return. The remaining five legions will be sent out into the surrounding tribes: just a subtle reminder of our presence. I have noted a certain reluctance in our ‘allies’ desire to supply information and guides. We wouldn’t wish them to start thinking too independently and undervaluing their Roman allies. Sabinus and Cotta? Split the force as you see fit. I will speak to you later about the tribes that I am concerned over.”

Once again, Fronto looked up in surprise. That task was the sort that Caesar traditionally passed on to Labienus. Throughout their time in Gaul, the tall staff officer had been Caesar’s senior lieutenant who took charge of multi-legion forces in the general’s absence. This sudden shift in policy would not have gone unnoticed and cast Labienus in a distinctly unfavourable light.

“Very well, gentlemen; you all have work to do: I suggest you get to it. Standard briefing at first light. Dismissed.”

Fronto sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his knee.

“Is that it, general?”

“I think so, Marcus. You’re fully briefed, and I’ll be with you anyway. Just be aware of the Seventh at all times and make sure you don’t commit the Tenth to dangerous action when the Seventh could do the job for you.”

Fronto nodded, trying not to resent the general’s dismissive attitude to a whole legion of men.

“Then…” he was interrupted by a rapping on the wooden tent frame.

“Come” barked Caesar.

The cavalry trooper on guard ducked in through the tent’s entrance, bearing a wax-sealed scroll case.

“This just arrived from Rome by fast courier for you, general.”

Caesar nodded and the man strode forward and delivered the ivory cylinder. Waving the trooper away, Caesar glanced at the seal, frowning at something he saw, and then broke it, tipping out the parchment sheet and unrolling it, discarding the case on the desk. Fronto watched with interest as Caesar’s expression underwent a number of blink-of-an-eye changes, despite his trying to maintain a straight face. Surprise, annoyance, anger, disappointment, decision, resignation.

“News from home, Caesar?”

The general glanced up in surprise, apparently having entirely forgotten Fronto’s presence in his studious attention to the letter.

“Mmh? Oh. Yes.”

“From your pet slug, Clodius, perchance?”

The veneer completely cracked for a moment, though Fronto was puzzled to see not anger on the general’s face, but almost panic.

“Yes, Fronto” he snapped, “from Clodius.”

“You’d do well to cut that one off, Caesar.”

“Dictating terms to your commander?” There was a dangerous edge to the general’s voice, but Fronto ignored it pointedly.

“We spent half a year cleansing Rome of his infection. The piece of shit tried to kill me and my family. Hell, he tried to kill you! And now you use him? Have you even the faintest idea how dangerous that is?”

Caesar’s gaze had strayed once more to the letter in his hands and he seemed to take control of himself with visible effort, rolling up the parchment and dropping it on the desk in front of him.

“Do not presume to lecture me on dangers, Fronto. Who was it who embraced his capture and then chastised the Cilician pirates? Who marched with Crassus against that slave-filth Spartacus? Who survived Sulla’s proscriptions? Who was hailed ‘Imperator’ in Hispania? I recognise that you will probably serve in the military until you die or are too old and feeble to do so, and will then likely retire to an easy life back in Puteoli. But should you ever dabble in the cess pool and viper pit all-in-one that is Rome, you will come to understand that even the most odious and untrustworthy of people can be a useful tool for some tasks.”

“So what has the sewer rat been up to this time?”

Again, Fronto was somewhat surprised to notice a flash of uncertainty — even panic? — flash across the general’s eyes.

“Nothing of consequence, Marcus. Nothing of consequence.”

An inexplicable shiver ran down Fronto’s spine and he sat silently for a moment until Caesar waved him away in dismissal. Standing, he turned and left the tent, pausing at the doorway to glance back at the general, only to see him tearing the parchment into small pieces and dropping them in one of the braziers.

Something peculiar and dangerous was going on with the evasive, taciturn Caesar, and Fronto had a horrible gut feeling that it somehow involved him.

Chapter 13

(Gesoriacum, on the Gaulish coast, opposite Britannia)

Word of the impending campaign had already spread beyond the Roman forces and the civilian town; of that there could be absolutely no doubt. Only two days after the decision to sail had been confirmed, ambassadors from the tribes of Britannia had begun to appear. Caesar had greeted their arrival with his traditional grave expression, though Fronto couldn’t help noticing a lightening of the general’s mood with each new advocate.

Eight tribes had sent deputations, promising hostages, support, supplies and money to the Romans. Some had even gone so far as to submit themselves to Caesar’s governance. It appeared that the fate of the Belgae in previous years was still fresh in the mind of the tribes of Britannia, many of whom were related to the Belgae by blood and tradition. Rather than face the inevitable iron-shod boot of the Roman republic pressing down on their necks, it seemed that several of the nearer tribes were willing to submit.

Moreover, and much to Caesar’s pleasure, their arrival had supplied him with eight new, heavy Celtic ships