It had taken some doing, Galronus mused as he waited, lurking in the shadow of one of the command tents. Fronto had truly got the bit between his teeth over this stupid Octavian thing, and had refused to let go of the notion, while Galronus had continued to find the whole idea rather farfetched.
Following his arrival, Octavian had presented himself to Caesar and the pair had enjoyed a heartfelt reunion, the general seeming to have the weight of years lifted from his shoulders at the presence of his great nephew, the young man full of both questions and praise. Galronus had been entirely prepared to ignore Fronto’s suspicions until the banquet that evening to celebrate the young man’s joining them.
Fronto claimed to have nothing to do with it, but it seemed suspiciously timed to Galronus that over the evening’s conversation, Pedius had brought up the subject of the region of Lusitania. It being the one place in Hispania where there were still occasional troubles and where the notion of uprising still seemed to exist, Pedius suggested that the currently-assigned tribunes were handling the place badly, and that Lusitania should have been settled by now. He went on to suggest that perhaps the right officer placed in charge there, with the right combination of political nous and military skill, could settle the place properly.
Galronus had watched Caesar mull the idea over and see the value in it. They had a month left in Hispania at most, and it would be better to return to Rome with a clean record of success. The Remi had seen Caesar’s eyes fall on Fronto for a moment, then move on. Fronto was his military warhorse, but no one had ever suggested he possessed even an ounce of political nous. The general’s gaze had then passed over Octavian without settling and had fallen back on Pedius. He had agreed with the plan, and had assigned Pedius the job on the spot.
Until that moment, Galronus had seen nothing in Octavian that suggested he harboured anything but familial respect for his cousin. But the moment the general dismissed the young man as a possibility with just a glance and assigned the potential for glory to his cousin, the Remi had caught a flash of something that looked startlingly like hatred in the young man’s eyes. It was there for but a moment before it was glossed over with that easy-going smile once more. But in that single moment, Galronus decided that Octavian was, after all, quite capable of everything Fronto suggested. And as to how clever the young man was, he displayed that readily over the next hour. While agreeing with the assignment of Pedius and being impressively self-effacing, the young Octavian managed to talk Caesar into assigning him as Pedius’ second for the campaign.
That was how they’d ended up out here, camped four miles from Lauro where Pompey’s forces had finally been defeated by Didius, vexillations from several legions and a small cavalry contingent given to Pedius and Octavian while Caesar oversaw the final preparations in Hispalis. They had toured the southern reaches of Lusitania, meeting with the ordos of various towns and smoothing over the recent troubles, listening to pleas and agreeing new terms and treaties, bringing the cities back into alignment with the republic. They had identified trouble spots and hit them hard, routing out rebels wherever they were to be found. Fronto had been assigned to the staff, along with Galronus, for the general wanted a steady military hand there to assist the two commanders, but Fronto had been impressed with the way both of Caesar’s great nephews handled the region.
But completely without Fronto needing to interfere further, Galronus had watched a rift growing between the cousins. Each occasion that Pedius achieved success, Octavian congratulated him and celebrated, but now, knowing where to look in the young man’s eyes, Galronus had seen the flinty glares Octavian threw his cousin when he was unaware. And not all of it was Octavian’s doing. As the second in command, over the weeks there had been occasions when Octavian had found himself in prime position, and had been prepared to deal with matters on both military and political levels. And almost every time, Pedius had stepped in and taken control. The situation had been growing more and more tense as they worked. Lusitania was being settled rapidly, but a whole new war looked like breaking out between the two cousins instead.
Fronto and Galronus had been keeping an eye on Octavian and his staff throughout, half expecting another ‘accident’ to occur. Nothing had happened yet, but the army was almost done. Soon they would return to Hispalis and then: home. If anything was going to happen, it would have to happen soon.
It was quite by chance that Galronus was standing out in the darkness some way from the heart of the camp, contentedly urinating into a ditch, when he saw the figure. A shadowy shape had slipped from between two tents across the dark ground and moved out into the countryside. Not only had the simple suspiciousness of it drawn Galronus’ attention, but more importantly, the two tents from between which the figure had emerged were part of Octavian’s gathering. Galronus had finished swiftly, tucked himself away, and stood, silent and still, almost invisible in the darkness, watching that shape.
It did not move too far from camp. There was no military danger here, the ground hard and rocky, and the stop just for the night, and so neither rampart nor ditch had been driven around the camp, but pickets and sentries were positioned at intervals. The figure did not stray far enough from the tents to come close to the cordon of watching soldiers.
The shape stopped by an area of overgrown bushes, and there faffed and fiddled with something, the details of the activity not visible in the darkness at such a distance, but as the figure moved away once more, back the way it had come, it was carrying a small bag.
Galronus watched until the figure slipped back between those tents once more and then hurried over to where the figure had been working. He searched the ground as best he could in the gloom, finding nothing. He turned his attention to searching among the leaves and flowers and it was only as he was becoming frustrated at finding nothing that he realised what he was smelling. A sweet aroma faintly resembling an apricot.
Oleander. He examined the flowers to confirm his suspicions, and then stepped back. He was standing before a wide swathe of flowering oleander. His memory immediately presented him with an image of Caesar’s garden in Rome, almost exactly a year ago. Arriving at the house with Fronto and Caesar to find the household in a minor panic because Caesarion had tried eating oleander in the garden and had almost died. It had been Octavian who had explained it all to them. The connection was simply too worrying to ignore.
Galronus had run off then to Fronto’s tent and found the legate fast asleep. Fronto had risen sharply and dressed as Galronus explained what he had seen. There seemed no other possibility than this nefarious activity be aimed at Pedius, and so they had agreed. Galronus would keep watch on the army’s commander, and Fronto would do the same on the young second in command.
Galronus had arrived at Pedius’ tent to find everything apparently normal. To be certain, he had approached one of the soldiers on guard, a bored-looking legionary who had snapped sharply to attention at the arrival of an officer. Galronus had settled the man at ease and exchanged quiet conversation with him, just checking in, doing ‘the rounds’. As they spoke, he listened carefully and picked out the muffled sounds of snoring from within. Two individuals, which would account for Pedius and his slave. Satisfied that nothing had yet happened, Galronus had slipped behind the tent and waited.
The night was warm, and here in the heart of the camp, the darkness was no longer held back by the campfires that had burned down to embers an hour ago. Thus the figure was already right in front of him when he saw it. While there was no way to confirm that it was the same person he’d seen out by the oleander, it seemed highly unlikely to be anyone else. It was a slave, clearly. The figure wore just a plain dark tunic, belted at the waist, sandals, and a necklace at his throat which should hold the tag naming his owner, but was empty. One of the slave’s hands was gripping something small. The other held a knife. Galronus watched, tense, as the slave approached the back of Pedius’ tent, waited for the guard there to patrol, walking away, and then slipped in behind him. The figure ducked to the bottom of the tent and used the knife to snick one of the ties holding it down, allowing sufficient space for someone to crawl underneath, which he then proceeded to attempt.
Galronus clenched his teeth, wondering what would happen if he was caught breaking into an officer’s tent. It would certainly look odd. He watched the figure slipping beneath the leather and leapt into action. Jumping the few paces between tents, he threw himself on the slave’s legs and began to pull.
There was a muffled curse and the slave lashed out, kicking at him, catching him in the shoulder. Galronus grunted and moved to the side, still pulling. The knife suddenly whispered out under the tent and narrowly missed Galronus’ fingers. Unarmed and desperate, the Remi let go of one leg, lifted his right hand, bunching into a fist, and then slammed it down in a powerful punch behind the slave’s knee. There was a howl from the other side of the leather wall, and then other voices.
Muffled, from inside, he heard ‘Who’s there?’, followed by the guard out front asking if something was wrong. Much to Galronus’ relief, rather than returning to his post, the man who’d wandered away went to join his fellow at the front, assuming something to be happening there. The undamaged leg kicked out once more, this time catching Galronus on the forehead, hard. Dazed and in pain, the Remi let go and rolled away. As he clutched his head, trying to blink away the dizziness, he was vaguely aware of the slave, his chances of entering the tent without discovery blown, slipping back out from the leather and rising, limping away as fast as he could.
Galronus, cursing quietly, rose unsteadily, still shaking his head to clear it. He slipped away between the tents just as the guards appeared, searching around outside Pedius’ quarters. Ignoring what was happening behind him, Galronus staggered away after the faint shape of the slave, the man slowed by the pain in his knee.
As his head cleared, the Remi rounded a tent and saw the shadowy figure in the open ground. He broke into a run and then leapt, throwing his arms around the slave and bringing him down to the turf with a grunt and an expellation of air. Winded, the slave struggled for a moment, trying to pull himself free and run once more, but Galronus was recovering fast and he held on to the struggling man. Unable to kick now, the slave flailed with his knife, trying to cut the man holding him but unable to do so effectively, lying face down. Galronus was impressed, though. Few slaves would know how to use a blade in a fight, and this one held it as though he meant it. Indeed, he quickly changed his grip on it, so that he could use it more effectively as he struggled to free himself.
Galronus let go with his left arm and grabbed at the flailing blade, managing to close his fingers around the slave’s wrist. Aware of a huge commotion behind them now, where Pedius’ guards had clearly found the cut tent cord, Galronus slammed the man’s arm against the ground again and again until the knife fell away. The two men struggled again, then, rolling over and over, battering and grabbing, each silent, trying not to draw the attention of the guards.
Finally, Galronus succeeded in getting his hand on the hilt of his own pugio and pulled it from the sheath. The slave managed through sheer desperation to deliver a heavy blow, knocking Galronus back, and the Remi rolled away, cursing. As he recovered and rose to his feet, he saw the slave similarly rising. The man had managed to retrieve his own knife.
‘Stop there,’ snapped an angry voice behind Galronus, and the Remi turned to see the two men who’d been guarding Pedius’ tent, fully armed and armoured, approaching the pair of them. Galronus lowered the knife. He might have some explaining to do, but he was one of the four most senior officers in the camp, and the guards were not about to try anything with him.
The slave’s eyes darted from Galronus to the men behind him and then back. He then looked around, clearly weighing up his chances of flight, but already other armed figures were closing in on them. There was no way out.
Calmly, without a hint of panic or regret, the slave lifted the knife and drew it in a hard line across his throat. Blood spurted in great gouts from the wound as the man hissed, the knife and a small bag dropping from his fingers as he lurched two steps and then crumpled to the ground.
‘Sir?’ one of the guards said.
‘Is Quintus Pedius alright?’
‘Yes sir. A little confused and tired, sir. Who was that?’
‘A criminal. But a dead one.’
‘What should we do with him, sir?’
‘Leave him with me. Back to your posts, all of you.’
* * *
‘Wake Octavian.’
The guard frowned. ‘Sir?’
‘Do as I say.’
With a worried salute, the guard knocked on the tent post, waited for the muffled voice from within, and then slipped inside. A few moments later he reappeared. ‘The tribune is preparing to see you, sir.’
‘Waiting won’t be necessary.’
The guard opened his mouth to disagree, but Fronto pushed past him and stepped into the tent. Octavian was in his night tunic, having just slipped out of bed and risen. He turned in surprise, holding a belt, ready to wrap it around his middle, and frowned.
‘Fronto?’
‘Sit.’
Still with a furrowed brow, Octavian did so, perching on the edge of his bed. ‘This is a strange time to pay a visit, Fronto.’
‘I don’t know how you were planning to explain this one away,’ Fronto said in a flat tone as he sank into the seat near the door.
‘What?’
‘Your slave with the oleander met with an unfortunate accident.’
On cue, Galronus stepped through the tent door, and threw the bloody corpse onto the floor in the middle of the room, folding his arms and standing in front of the tent door.
‘Aristes. My word. What happened to him?’
‘Don’t be coy, Octavian,’ Fronto snapped. ‘I know you’re clever, but like many clever men, you make the mistake of thinking the rest of us are stupid. We’re not. I’m on to you, Octavian.’
‘I have no idea to what you are referring, Fronto. If Aristes has done something you should have brought him to me. I would have had him punished appropriately. I do not suffer insolence or disobedience from my slaves.’
Fronto snorted. ‘Oleander.’ He lifted the pouch taken from the slave and upended it, pouring the fine rain of crushed petals onto the floor. ‘Presumably it was going to be slipped into the foodstuffs the commander would have for breakfast. Or maybe suffused in his wine. Some way in which it would appear that he had some sort of digestive trouble after eating. He would brush it off as a temporary illness, and by the time he realised it was something more, and sent for help, it would be too late for him. Another obstacle out of your way, eh?’
‘Fronto, have you been drinking? Your imagination seems to be running away with you.’
Fronto stabbed a finger out at Octavian.
‘You can dissemble all you like, but we know. I can’t actually prove anything on your part, for this, or for Caesarion, or Paetus, or Salvius Cursor, or anyone else, but I know it was you.’
‘Really, Fronto, you’re sounding paranoid.’
The finger wagged. ‘Quiet. And bear in mind that Salvius Cursor is still alive. If he ever wakes up, I wonder what he’ll have to tell us.’
Was there just a flicker of uncertainty in Octavian’s eye, then? Fear even? The young man shrugged it off. ‘You are exploring the realm of fiction, Fronto.’
‘No I’m not. You’ve been streamlining your inheritance, but it stops now.’
‘Fronto…’
‘No. I’m not done talking.’ He leaned forward. ‘I remember you from years back. A clever young bastard, you were. So clearly cut from the same cloth as your great uncle. Even back then he saw you as a successor to everything he’d achieved. Now even more so. All this was so unnecessary. The general would never give his inheritance to anyone else. Oh, I expect he’ll throw a bone to your cousins, and he’ll make sure his Aegyptian boy is set up for life, but it was always going to be you who followed him.’
‘Listen…’
‘No. You listen now. I always liked you. I still do. You’re clever and you have your head on right. You know what you’re doing. Gods, but you might even be more Caesar than Caesar himself. You’ll go on to great things, and because I like you, and because you’re the right one for the job, I’m not going to do anything about this. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been involved in, none of it will ever come to light, because if it did, it would ruin Caesar every bit as much as it would ruin you.’
Finally, Octavian was silent, just looking Fronto in the eye. No fear, no regret, no joy either. Just silent and impassive.
‘So this all goes away. But it stops here. No more. If anyone else falls ill, you’d better hope it’s just a natural malady, because if I ever have even the slightest suspicion that these tricks have begun again, I will come for you, Octavian, and you know me. You don’t want that.’
‘I imagine,’ Octavian said, levelly, ‘these unfortunate accidents will now have ended, for I have prayed at the altars of Fortuna, of Venus and of Jupiter for my cousins’ health and wellbeing.’
‘I’ll bet your have. And while I’m hoping that Salvius Cursor recovers, if he does, I will have to keep him contained, because if you think having me coming for you would be bad, I’ve got nothing on that bad tempered, bloodthirsty lunatic.’
‘Was there anything else, Fronto?’
‘No. Just that. Play along with your cousin for a few more days and then we’ll be back to Hispalis and then Rome. Be good, and keep your slaves in their place.’
Octavian gave a thin-lipped smile as Fronto rose and joined Galronus in the doorway.
‘We’ll be watching you.’
Octavian smiled wider. ‘Would you mind taking that with you?’ he said, pointing at the body on the ground.
‘Your slave, your problem.’
With that the two of them left the tent. As they strolled back towards the command tents of the Tenth, Galronus rubbed his aching head. ‘There’s still no proof, you realise. I’m convinced, now, but trying to convince anyone else would be hard. If he tries again, there’s still really nothing we can do.’
‘I’m hoping the threat makes him see sense. The stupid thing is that Caesar’s driven him to it. Octavian is far too clever to start bumping off the opposition when he’s in the strongest position anyway, but Caesar’s been eroding that position of late. Bringing Cleopatra and his baby son to Rome and to his house represents a threat to Octavian’s future. Then there was assigning Sextus to govern Syria and Pedius to command in Hispania, while not taking Octavian anywhere. And worst of all, having promised a new will that included Octavian some years ago, he’s still not actually done it, and so the question of his inheritance remains unsettled. All he had to do was make a new will last year and Octavian’s future would be secured, and he wouldn’t have been driven to all this.’
‘You know the rumours the rebels spread that Caesar would refuse to lay down his powers, and that he has his eyes set on a crown?’
Fronto nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never quite believed it, but I tell you now, if Caesar doesn’t seek a crown, I think that boy might.’
‘And it might not be out of reach, either.’
Both men shivered.
‘Come on,’ Fronto said. ‘We’ve just a few more days and then we’re off home to see the girls.’ He tried not to think on Galronus’ intention to move north then. Some things were not worth considering yet. He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think sleep is coming my way. Let’s get drunk.’
With a carefree laugh, the two officers strode home through the warm evening air.