“Very well. Good luck to you both. You had best move now, before they arrive. They must be close.”
With a quick salute, Fronto gestured to Cicero and the pair slipped and clambered down the logs that formed the stairs to the ramparts, leaving Caesar to watch the tree line pensively.
“The old bastard goads me deliberately” Cicero snarled as the two legates strode through the siling rain and sloshed through the muddy pools. It was the first time he’d spoken to Fronto in many days without issuing a threat, an accusation or a curse of some kind. Perhaps it was time to bury the hatchet. If Fabius and Furius could do it for him, surely he could do it for Cicero. The army needed to pull closer together; not to continue fragmenting.
“You have to understand a certain level of uncertainty, though” Fronto said with a sigh. “Your brother is the general’s most outspoken opponent. He denounces Caesar at every turn of the wheel. The general’s bound to level a certain amount of mistrust at you.”
“I have been his loyal legate throughout the campaign!”
“And one of the most forthright in opposition to his decisions” Fronto declared, biting down on a reminder that this ‘loyal legate’ refused Caesar’s orders at the beach. “You do yourself no favours.”
Cicero looked around to discern just how alone they might be, but every man in camp was busy making preparations, waiting for the call, or huddling beneath their cloaks against the driving rain. None were paying any attention to the small talk of senior officers.
“Marcus, you have no idea. I am Caesar’s loyal man; always have been. But because I will not distance myself from my brother, and because I advocate a path of calm and sense, I am tarred with the brush of a traitor. And I’m not alone, either. Labienus cannot fall much further from favour without having to look up at the turf! Remember that you are not that far behind us, either.”
Fronto turned, ready to proclaim himself Caesar’s man, but a plethora of thoughts battered at him in that fraction of a second. Just how much was he Caesar’s man? Certainly his allegiance to his general had waned throughout the campaign. And given the vehemence of Cicero’s statement, it was more than possible that his fellow legate had, at a deep level, a more solid and anchored support for Caesar than he himself. Quailing at even the thought, he swallowed and broached a new subject — almost new, anyway.
“What of Menenius and Hortius? Why are they not in the Seventh with you if Caesar’s lumping all his potential dissidents in one legion?” It was blunt. Much blunter than he intended, but the conversation had taken a difficult turn that had hit him unexpectedly, and he felt ill-equipped to attempt subtlety.
“I’m sorry, Marcus?”
“The two tribunes from the Fourteenth. Make no mistake: whether they’re tied to you and Labienus or not — or whether they’re tied to your brother or even Pompey, I will deal with them for what they’ve done. But how did they escape the policy of ‘all Caesar’s opposition in one legion’?”
Cicero actually stopped walking for a moment in surprise, standing in a muddy puddle and apparently not even noticing as his boots started to saturate.
“Tied to me? What are you talking about, Fronto? What have they done?”
“They’ve been undermining the general, removing those with close links to him. I can appreciate a bit of opposition, such as you and Labienus — that’s healthy and keeps the general grounded, but taking action and killing officers is tantamount to treason and murder and I won’t have it — especially not with my friends.”
Cicero frowned as he started walking again. “I thought you landed that blame squarely with my centurions. Hell, you only started speaking to me civilly again since we found out we were in danger.”
“Fabius and Furius are innocent — martinets, but innocent. It’s the two tribunes, Menenius and Hortius.”
“You’re mistaken, Fronto.”
The legate of the Tenth glared at his counterpart.
“Don’t protect them, Cicero. I will have my time with them.”
“I’m not protecting them, you idiot.” Cicero grasped Fronto by the shoulders. “I’ve avoided every contact with those two. They’re Caesar’s pets.”
“Oh, please…”
“They are, Marcus. I’ve seen them in the general’s tent late at night when most of the army is asleep. They creep around and fawn to the general. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they’re certainly not killing Caesar’s favourites.” He lowered his tone, despite the fact that no one was remotely interested. “Menenius is so far into Caesar’s purse he would clean the general’s arse with his tongue if he asked. The Menenii were once Consuls but they’ve fallen so far, and now they’re living on farms in Illyricum. They’re but a spit from being plebs these days, Marcus, and Caesar’s the only thing upholding their ancient noble name. And as for Hortius — well the man may play a noble fop but his mother served in a brothel on the Esquiline and his father was… let’s say a regular visitor with solid mercantile wealth. He owes his current high position to the general.”
Fronto shook his head. “It’s them. I know it’s them.”
“I fear you’re mistaken, Marcus. The men would return to relative obscurity without Caesar. They’re his creatures. It’s why they’re assigned to the Fourteenth that’s always on supply train duty and safely out of the danger of combat. Speaking of which…”
Cicero gestured to Carbo, who stood beside Fronto’s neat little room at the end of a timber building. In the wide space beyond, his men were formed up ready for action.
The legate of the Tenth came to a stop. Cicero paused on his way to the Seventh and clasped hands with him. “Now is not the time for such talk or thoughts — we go to fight. Forget about your conspiracies, Fronto, and concentrate on the Britons.”
Fronto nodded and clasped the other legate’s hand. “Mars be your strength and Fortuna your protector. Come back safe, Cicero.”
“You too. I’ll meet you half way through the Celt army.”
Turning from his fellow legate, Fronto found the somewhat serious face of Carbo grimacing at him, pink and somewhat unhappy as the torrents poured down his face and soaked his tunic and armour.
“I know that look, sir. What sort of cockeyed insane plan have you cooked up now? With respect, the boys are near breaking point.”
Fronto nodded to him and strode on past to where the legion was assembled.
“Men of the Tenth” he shouted in his most inspiring voice, loud enough to be heard over the incessant roar of the rain battering on armour and helmets. “In order to give us an unfair advantage over the enemy, I am forced to split our legion.”
There was a groan from the men, though from no easily identifiable individual source.
“I and Carbo will be taking the first cohort into the woods to pounce on the enemy’s flanks. Cicero and his legion are pulling the same manoeuvre on the other side of the field. The rest of you… “he grinned. “The rest of you will create an impregnable wall. You’ll be serving under the direct command of the general.” He paused to let the fact sink in, during which there was silence, though whether a happy or a troubled one, he couldn’t tell.
“The general will allow the looting of the tribesmen when the battle is over and all the local settlements will be ours to pick over.” He grinned wickedly. “And despite your Roman origins, I know you’ve all grown quite fond of the native beers of Gaul. Well, guess what? These Celts brew the same stuff, though this beer is apparently strong enough to make the hairs on your chest stand up straight. And it’ll be ours for the taking when we finish. Just make sure you hold the line and stay alive long enough to enjoy it.”
A roar of approval greeted the statement.
“Now let’s get ready to kick them so hard they don’t wake up ‘til three weeks after they’re dead.”