“Marcus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let us not stay on such terms. I am aware you’ve been avoiding me. I may have gone beyond the pale in dressing you down the way I did in front of your peers.”
Fronto’s jawline hardened. “You think I care about it being in front of the others? You know me better than that, Caesar. You shouldn’t have done it at all. I was two minutes late for a non-time sensitive meeting.”
“I know, and…”
“And,” Fronto snapped, rounding on him with flashing eyes, “you should bear in mind that for four years in Gaul and before that in Spain and Rome I have supported you when others you relied on turned against you. You know damn well that the only times I have ever stood in opposition to you is when you were wrong, plain and simple. I know the world thinks you’re infallible, but you and I know that no man is infallible. You were in a bad mood, plain and simple, and you took it out on me, because you knew I’d take it, when it might break others.”
Caesar sighed and smiled weakly.
“I’d had another episode.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Marcus. I thought I was done with it. I’d not had trouble since Saturnalia, when I’d given a huge offering to Venus to try and stop it for good. All year I’d been clear and happy. And now: twice since we crossed the sea. Twice! The first time, I failed to clamp on the leather in time and took a piece out of the corner of my tongue.”
Fronto’s brow lowered and his nostrils flared.
“You have my sympathy, Caesar, but only children take it out on other people when they’re sick. And as you’ve pointed out before, you’re hardly a child. Neither of us is.”
“Can we not draw a line beneath this, Marcus? I’ve admitted I was in error. I offered not an excuse, but an explanation. I need my good officers around me.”
The legate took a deep breath and fought back every curse and argument that rose to mind, of which there were many. “I would like to think so, but I’m starting to become concerned with your judgement, Caesar.”
“How so?”
“Clodius?” Fronto raised an eyebrow in challenge, turning to face the woods again.
“Clodius is just a tool.”
“He certainly is. A great big, throbbing one. But I cannot condone you using him for any reason. Were I you, that man would be caught in the eddies and reeds at the side of the Tiber, fat faced and blue. Feeding the fishes, which would be about the most useful and positive thing he’s ever done.”
“Clodius’ usefulness will come to an end soon, and I’m convinced that so will he soon after. Can you not be satisfied with that?”
“Not really, no. And your re-formation of the Seventh using only people you don’t trust has shattered what was a veteran legion with pride and ability and turned it into a mess. If they can pull their pride out of the gutter — which will be partially served by shifting Cicero the hell out of there — then they could train back up into a good legion, given time. But it was a waste.”
“I had to be sure of where my opposition were.”
“They’re everywhere. And the more you use thugs and villains to further your political goals, the more enemies you’ll create.”
He frowned. “What was that look about?”
“I beg your pardon, Fronto?”
“That look. I know that look. That’s the guilty recollection of something I won’t like and that you’re not telling me. In my book of ‘Caesar’s facial tells’ that’s in my top ten warning signs. What is it?”
“You read too much into nothing, Marcus.” Caesar gave him an easy smile. You said, that day at the meeting, that your delay was unavoidable. I never asked why, and you don’t usually bother with an excuse, so it must have been important.”
“It was, but I’m not sure whether discussing it here or now is a good idea.” Fronto narrowed his eyes at the attempt to deflect the subject.
“If it’s important, Fronto, then it’s important. Tell me.”
“The murders.”
“Yes?”
“All of them. Pinarius, Tetricus, Pleuratus, and an attempt on me. I have reasonable suspicions as to the culprits now.”
Caesar rolled his shoulders, his cloak falling back down behind him. Several more spots of rain fell.
“I believe that your suspicions were centred on two centurions from the Seventh?”
“You’re apparently well informed, Caesar. And yes, for a time, I was sure Furius and Fabius were behind them. But I am now more or less convinced that they’re innocent of the attacks.”
“Really?” The general tapped his lip, an upward curl of humour twisting one side of his mouth in a manner that really annoyed Fronto.
“Yes. I haven’t the proof yet, but I suspect the tribunes Menenius and Hortius of the Fourteenth.”
Caesar burst into a short, explosive laugh. “I think you must have been eating the strange fungi from the forest. Neither of those men could effectively swat a fly.”
“Nevertheless, it was them. I’m fairly sure.”
“And their motive?”
“Removing your supporters: your courier, your nephew, me and Tetricus — two of your more loyal officers. And Tetricus threatened the pair of them once in a briefing, so there’s an additional motive.”
“Menenius is a client of mine, who owes me a great deal. He is hardly likely to be troubling me. He would be ‘biting the hand that feeds him’ so to speak. And Hortius? Hortius is in a similar situation. He’s expecting a position as an aedile next year, which he can only get with my support. No, Marcus; the two would have too much to lose by kicking my legs out from under me. You should look elsewhere for your pro-Pompeian traitors.”
The legate continued to stare ahead, though his eyes flicked to Caesar again and he just caught another flash of that look. There was definitely something going on here that Caesar knew about and was keeping to himself.
“What on earth is that commotion?”
Fronto glanced across at Caesar’s exclamation and then followed his gaze to see that a number of the men of the Tenth had downed tools and were running towards a cart that was hurtling out from the woodland path to the west.
“Looks like a grain cart. One of Cicero’s I wonder?” the general mused.
“Looks like trouble, more like.”
Without waiting for further information, Fronto turned around and spotted the nearest centurion.
“Have your cornicen call the duty cohorts to order. Get ‘em lined up before the ramparts. We’re about to need them.”
As the centurion ran off, shouting for his musician and standard bearer, Fronto turned back to the approaching cart. It was now bouncing across the short, well-trodden grass beyond the multitude of stumps, only a hundred yards from the camp. Already a number of Caesar’s praetorian cavalry officers had fallen in behind him from where they had been lurking at a respectful distance.
The general stepped down the slope, with Fronto at his shoulder and passed through the gate towards the cart, which slewed to a halt some thirty feet from the rampart. Two men slid down from it. The driver looked harried and panicked, while the man who’d been clinging to the top of the load was clutching a wound in his side and staggered as his feet hit the ground.
“It would appear that you were correct, Fronto. Trouble it is.”
“Sir!” The legionary driver, wearing just his tunic, unarmed and unarmoured apart from the gladius at his waist, came to a sudden halt and saluted, his wounded mate attempting the same a few yards back, but failing as he slumped to the ground.
“Report, man.”
“Natives, sir. Thousands of ‘em. They came out of the trees…”
“Where?” Fronto said, holding his gaze.
“About three miles west. It’s on main paths. I can take you.”
“Are the men still… it wasn’t a massacre?”
“No sir. When we left they was in a circle, holdin’ ‘em back. But they won’t last long, sir. They’re outnumbered.”