(On the west bank of the Rhine)
Caesar scratched his chin.
‘It truly is one of the greatest rivers in the world, as they say. I have rarely seen its like in width, depth or current. It is a matter of supreme amazement to me that a tribe of backward lunatics managed to cross and even to bring their worldly goods and their cavalry with them.’
Labienus pursed his lips. ‘I suspect it is that very lunacy of which you speak, Caesar, which is the only thing that would lead a man to try to cross it. It will take days to construct the boats and even then I’ll be making a very hefty offering to every god who listens this far north before I go out on those waters.’
‘It may be an impressive one, but it’s still a river’ muttered Fronto sullenly.
‘You’re in good humour, Marcus.’ The general turned back to the group of a dozen or more officers. ‘The Ubii have offered us a score of boats that they use to cross the Rhenus on a regular basis. It is small help, admittedly, but a useful gesture regardless. Fortunately, I do not believe that such use will be necessary.’
Mamurra, the renowned engineer, stepped a little closer to the bank and frowned. ‘The feasibility is still a matter for debate, general.’
‘The chief engineer and surveyor in the Eighth are both experienced in such matters and they inform me that it cannot be done. A ‘matter for debate’ is an advance on impossible. Talk to me.’
The engineer tapped his lips thoughtfully as his eyes roved across the surface, taking in the banks and the whole length of the river visible from this point.
‘No bridge like it has ever been attempted.’
Fronto, his surly mood punctured by a dart of surprise, wheeled on Mamurra.
‘A bridge? Are you mad?’
‘May I point out, Marcus’ the general said quietly ‘that the idea is mine.’
‘I’ve seen near a hundred bridges thrown over a hundred rivers in the past two decades. Some have been simple and small and taken a few hours. Some have been grand affairs across wide flows that have taken days. No idiot in the history of bridge building has ever crossed something like that. It’s the reason boats exist.’
Mamurra gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘It will be difficult. There’s no denying that. But I don’t believe it to be impossible. I wish your engineer was here though. He was very good with bridges.’
The older engineer became aware too late of Caesar making shushing motions. Fronto’s expression darkened once again as the image of Tetricus splayed out bloody on a table smashed aside his thoughts. Despite Caesar’s vehemence that the matter be investigated and resolved immediately, Fronto and his associates had, unsurprisingly, been unable to glean anything beyond the obvious. Another brief conversation with Furius and Fabius had once again turned into a sour slanging match that had left no proof, only a bitter and angry legate. Fronto grunted.
Mamurra turned back to the river and immediately switched to a professional tone.
‘The first thing to do is to tether a couple of boats and get out there with some long poles and a weighted line of knotted cord – and me with my stylus and tablet. We need to know how deep the water is across the whole section, and how malleable or supportive the river bed is. Given the length of the river and the dirt it carries out to the sea, I have the feeling that the bed will be unpleasantly soft and with a very thick layer of mud.’
‘And that would make it impossible?’ Labienus said hopefully.
‘That would make it more difficult. With a good grounding in the sciences and the legions at our sides, impossible is not a word I like to use. Impossibility is a myth; only feasibility matters. The flow is fast on the surface. Given the size of the river, I fear that below the surface, the current will be a great deal stronger.’
His gaze wandered around the bank. ‘These trees will be of little use to us other than for lesser struts and decoration. For all supporting and structural beams we want tougher, taller, thicker and more seasoned wood: oak for preference. There was a forest some eight miles back that had the sort of trees that I would expect to use. We will have to set up a constant transport system from the work gangs there to deliver the cut boles here, where they can be shaped and treated.’
Fronto was shaking his head as he looked out across the flow. ‘I’ve seen bridges built across currents like that. Even across a narrow river, the pressure on the piles will be immense. Given the length of a bridge across this, the whole thing will just disappear like a pile of kindling before you can even get near the far bank.’
‘I had no idea you had such a grasp of engineering, Fronto’ Mamurra smiled.
‘I don’t. I have a fear of bridges folding up underneath me and plunging me into deadly rivers. You surely can’t be considering this? I get seasick, you know.’
Mamurra had already turned his attention back to the water.
‘It will require the piles to be driven in deeper than anything I’ve ever attempted, and they will have to be driven in at an angle to counteract the current. The structure will have to be built in sections, one trunk-length at a time, each section consolidated and completed before moving on to the next. We will slowly edge our way across the river.’
‘Not slowly’ Caesar said quietly.
‘Turn of phrase, Caesar. Two weeks should be sufficient.’
‘A week.’
‘With respect, Caesar, remember my stand on feasibility? One week: unfeasible. Two weeks: feasible.’
‘In a week I want to be on that far bank ravaging the enemy and earning the thanks of the Ubii. Bend your will to it and drive the legions as hard as you must.’
‘The first time a drifting tree trunk comes down that flow from upriver and hits one of your piles, the whole damn thing is going to collapse’ Fronto grumbled. ‘I don’t care how much you angle them, it won’t help.’
‘A fair point, Fronto. So we need a separate set of piles a few paces upstream, driven in just as heavily, but only just protruding from the surface. They will be more secure and solid and should stop any drifting debris from striking the piles of the bridge.’
The engineer’s face took on a happy glow.
‘Such a structure will be the envy of the civilised world. I wish we had the time and facilities to add concrete supports. But even in timber, if well-tended, it could stand for several lifetimes.’
‘It will be torn down before winter’ Caesar said quietly. Mamurra stared at him.
‘Caesar?’
‘We are on a punitive mission. I want a safe, secure, and speedy way of transporting the army across the Rhenus and back, and a simple route for resupply while we campaign on the far bank. But this is a temporary advance and I have no intention of leaving behind us a simple method for the enemy to cross the river and repeat their occupation. Once we have given them something to think about we will be tearing down the bridge.’
In other circumstances, Fronto would have laughed at the struggle and conflict in Mamurra’s expression; faced with the opportunity to build something unique and astounding, and the knowledge that it would later be torn down and vanish from history. Tetricus’ face would have been just the same.
‘All things being equal, I think I’ll let a few dozen wagons and an ala of cavalry cross the finished work before I test it with my own weight’ Fronto grunted, seeing the emphatic nods from Labienus.
‘The far bank’ Caesar noted, gesturing with an extended finger, ‘is Ubii land. Theoretically their alliance with us should protect us from aggression by other more dangerous tribes until the army is fully marshalled on the eastern side. Theoretically.’
He turned to Labienus.
‘Titus, I want you to take command of the Seventh and Fourteenth once the final section of the bridge is underway. Despite the Ubii’s alliance, we will take no chances. As soon as the last section is crossable, even before all the boards are in place, you will lead your two legions across, along with two alae of cavalry and two of the auxiliary missile units. You will set up a bridgehead and send out patrols while the rest of the army is marshalled.’
Labienus’ face fell and Fronto could not help but notice how Caesar had saddled him with the ‘bad egg’ Seventh and the disfavoured Fourteenth.
‘We will, of course, have to set up a general guard over the bridge to maintain security for our supply lines while we work on the far side. I think…’
He stopped mid-sentence and the rest of the officers turned to follow his gaze. A rider was cantering down the slope toward them, dust kicking up in clouds behind him.
Fronto watched as the man approached and slowed before reining in his horse. Despite the state of the rider, he looked oddly familiar. The man wore the broad striped tunic of a senior tribune and the leather smock with the pteruges normally seen beneath a cuirass. A career soldier, then, and a senior officer.
‘Pleuratus?’ Caesar said in surprise as the man swung himself down from the beast’s back and stamped his feet for a moment, allowing his circulation to return. Fronto shuffled a few steps to his left to where Priscus was standing gazing out over the water with a thoughtful look.
‘Pleuratus?’ he whispered, leaning close.
Priscus looked round in surprise. ‘Senior tribune of the Ninth last year. Reassigned over the winter outside my jurisdiction.’
Fronto frowned for a moment, his mind furnishing him with a different picture of the dusty, tired looking tribune. Neat and clean, well-shaven and clad in a toga. He was entirely unsurprised when the man spoke and his words carried the twang of a Greek-speaker.
‘Apologies for my appearance, Caesar. I bear a missive from Rome for you.’
Caesar narrowed his eyes as Pleuratus proffered a sealed tablet. Taking it, he snapped the seal and opened the letter, his eyes running down the text as the tribune stood, breathing heavily and shaking slightly from what appeared to have been a long and fast ride.
An expert at reading Caesar’s moods, Fronto saw the tiny flicker of annoyance pass across the general’s eyes, while his countenance remained stony. Without a word, Fronto stepped behind Mamurra and Priscus, out of Caesar’s direct view.
‘A Taurus emblem?’ Caesar said, quietly and with cold anger. ‘A damn bull? Is the man an idiot? I should employ donkeys instead of men.’
Suddenly aware that his officers were standing in a half circle, silently waiting, Caesar took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Pleuratus. Make your way back into camp and get yourself cleaned up and fed. I will have to ponder on my reply for some time before sending it.’
Pleuratus nodded, saluted, and reached up to the reins of his tired, placid steed that had been calmly munching on the rich grass. Turning the beast, he walked slowly and gratefully away toward the camp. Caesar frowned for a moment and then lowered his gaze and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I fear I have a headache coming on. Gentlemen, we will reconvene when Mamurra has all his measurements and plans. For now: dismissed.’
The officers began to scatter, going about their business, and Fronto watched for a moment before striding up the slope, passing the others and catching up with the tribune and his weary steed.
As he approached, the man looked round at the noise and, spotting Fronto, nodded a greeting. The legate fell in beside him and matched his tired pace.
‘Pleuratus. I remember you. You came to my house last year from Illyricum with Caesar.’
‘Yes. It was not the most friendly of meetings, if memory serves. I fear that we were over-haughty and unused to your ways, while you were not prepared for our uninvited intrusion.’
Fronto shrugged.
‘I was probably having a bad day.’
‘You were hung over. But then, after a year in Gaul, I have to admit to waking with a thumping head more often than used to be the case.’
Fronto paused for a moment, trying to work out whether he should be taking offence at the words. Deciding it was probably a gesture of equality rather than an insult, he smiled.
‘You were assigned to the Ninth last year’ Fronto said. ‘But not this year? Strikes me as a bit demeaning? A tribune on courier duty, I mean.’
Pleuratus nodded, his face slightly sour.
‘It does not sit well with me, I must admit. I agreed to act as a courier for personal missives with the general’s family, not to carry messages for thugs and lowlifes.’
The tribune glanced up at Fronto as if suddenly realising that he had said something he should not. ‘Still, at least I won’t have to traipse into the forests of Germania and share a sponge stick with anyone, and that has to be a bonus.’
Fronto nodded and plastered a smile across his face as, behind it, his mind raced back and forth between the general and his ‘special’ courier, Clodius in Rome following senators around, and his sister, his sort-of-betrothed, and his old friend in the depths of the city’s intrigues. His spine began to itch at the thought.
‘Can you do me a favour, Pleuratus?’
‘What would that be?’
‘When you get back to Rome, find the house of Quintus Lucilius Balbus on the Cispian hill and deliver a message for me?’
‘Of course, Fronto. I’ll come and see you to collect it before I leave. It may be a few days yet, hopefully.’
Fronto nodded absently. Something about the way Caesar had reacted to the letter suggested strongly that Clodius had once again overstepped the mark. The very thought that Faleria, Lucilia and Balbus were caught up in the affair make the hair stand proud on his arms.
* * * * *
Fronto stood on the ramp and took a deep breath.
The earth embankment rose from the downward-sloping turf near the bank to a full height of some ten feet, where it gave onto the first sections of the bridge.
Four days of construction and the beast of a structure now spanned some thirty or forty feet of the water. For four days Fronto had managed to avoid having to set a single foot on the thing. In the selfish corners of his soul he was grateful that Caesar had given the bulk of the construction work to the Seventh and not the trusted Tenth.
No matter the numerous and high quality libations and offerings the officers and men of the legions made to every Roman and native god they could name, progress was slow and dreadfully dangerous.
Each of the last three evenings, the reports had come in with fresh and wearying results: legionaries crushed by falling timbers, tipped into the swift flow and carried away screaming toward the sea, succumbing to a myriad of insane accidents. It was almost as though the construction was cursed.
Fronto eyed the timber with suspicion and nervousness.
What was already built certainly looked solid enough, but the thing still put the shits up him beyond all thought and reason. He had the horrible feeling that something nasty was lined up by the Fates to happen to him today.
The legates were taking turns on duty at the bridge construction site and, fight it all he could, today was Fronto’s turn. He’d woken with a feeling of dread and disgust, only to discover that the thong on which his Fortuna pendant hung had broken and the lucky charm itself had vanished somehow, despite never having left his person outside his tent.
It was a bad omen.
As was being summoned by the centurion of the works, via a tired looking legionary with a bruise on his face the size of his hand – the result of yet another accident.
With pulse racing, Fronto stepped the last few paces of the great turf and rubble embankment and placed a foot warily on the timber walkway of the bridge.
Eleven deaths and twenty eight wounds – seven of them crippling – in just four days of work. Fronto had been determined not to add his own name to that grisly list, and had had a small tent erected near the bridge from which he could watch the work in the safety and comfort of the shelter.
And now, despite all his precautions, ill luck and the actions of others had conspired to bring him to this point: standing on the recently cut and shaped timbers, watching the grey-brown torrent rushing past below, visible through the side rail. The bridge wanted him, of that he was beginning to become convinced.
With a deep breath and a nervous swallow, he took a step forward, alarmed at how the beam bowed very slightly beneath his foot. Lifting it urgently, he retreated a pace. The legionary beside him, sweating from his exertions and wiping away blood from a narrow cut on his forehead, frowned.
‘It’s alright, sir. It’s just settling very slightly. There’s going to be a small amount of give until it’s properly bedded-in. Once a few carts have been across it it’ll be solid as a rock.’
‘And in the meantime, I’m supposed to trust my weight to wood that bends?’
‘Look, sir.’ The legionary grinned as he jumped up and down heavily on the plank, his hobnailed boots leaving small indentations, clouds of sawdust billowing out from beneath the walkway. Fronto grasped the rail in horror, holding on for dear life.
‘Stopthatstopthatstopthatdstopthat!’ he rattled out nervously.
‘Safe as houses, sir.’
‘I’ve been in houses that have fallen down. Come on.’
Swallowing his nerves, he took three quick steps before allowing himself a breath. The bridge seemed unnaturally high, and the far bank distant enough that the woodlands covering much of it blurred into a single mass of green.
Tearing his gaze away from the far side and the river rushing beneath him, Fronto fixed his eyes on the centurion standing close to the current work site at the far end of the walkway, a small group of workmen and engineers gathered around him. Avoiding thinking further on the planks beneath him, he concentrated instead on the men.
They stood in a knot around a small mound that was barely recognisable in shape – just a grey-brown lump on the timber surface.
‘Legate?’ the centurion saluted as he approached. Most of the workers turned and followed suit, others unable to do so due to the burdens they bore.
‘Your man tells me we have another fatality to add to the list.’
The centurion gestured to the men around him and, saluting, they scurried off past Fronto toward the landward end of the bridge, their passage shaking the timbers worryingly. Fronto gripped the rail until his knuckles whitened and frowned as he looked down at the dirty lump that lay between the two of them. The last workmen lowered their burdens and moved off out of earshot at the centurion’s gesture. Once they were alone, the centurion crouched by the body.
Fronto could not help but notice with a heart-stopping realisation just how close to the open end of the bridge the man crouched. A strong gust of wind might just blow him back into the water. He resisted the urge to tell the centurion to come away from the edge. Gingerly, he crouched to join the strange conspiratorial tableau.
‘Well?’
‘I tried not to let too much on to the men, sir, but we fished him out from the debris where the next pile was being settled half an hour ago. He’s been in the water a day or two now at least.’
The centurion reached out and rolled the bloated, discoloured thing onto its back so that Fronto could see what he was explaining. The legate felt the bile rise in his throat and had to swallow it and steady himself with his fingertips on the timber floor. The body was barely recognisable as a human, the skin blue-grey and bloated, with a waxy sheen. A green tint of algae had mixed in with the black, curly hair, along with scum and weed. The man’s white tunic had been stained an unpleasant grey-green.
‘Not pretty, is it, sir.’
Fronto shook his head, trying not to breathe too deeply.
‘We’ll have to try and check into missing soldiers – see if we can identify him.’
‘That shouldn’t be hard, sir.’
Fronto frowned in incomprehension. ‘Meaning?’
The centurion reached out with a pointing finger and jabbed the stained tunic. ‘A white tunic, sir. Not a red one. He’s an officer, not a legionary.’
Fronto blinked. How had he missed something so obvious? A white tunic. His eyes ran down from the face, past the shoulder and to the upper arm. Yes. There it was: a broad stripe. A senior tribune.
He rocked back on his heels and nearly fell as he realised he was looking at the days-old, bloated corpse of tribune Pleuratus, Caesar’s personal courier. He’d assumed the man was still mooching around the camp waiting for the general’s summons to ride back to Rome.
‘How the hell did he end up in the river?’ Fronto asked quietly, already acknowledging the cold certainty in his belly that it had been no accident.
‘That’s one of the reasons I sent everyone away as soon as I’d had a good look at the body, sir. Rumour will get out, of course, but not for a day or two.’
His pointing finger moved on from the white tunic to the bloated grey-blue flesh of the man’s hands and lower arms. A dark, black ring ran around the wrist. A glance across at the far side confirmed that the mark existed on both wrists.
‘His arms were bound?’
‘Behind his back, I believe. There’s similar marks on his ankles. The rope’s gone somehow. Don’t know whether the knot had come undone, or maybe a fish ate it or something, but whatever the case, the rope’s gone. That means I can’t confirm it, but I’m pretty sure whoever did it tied a big rock behind his back and dropped him in the water. I’d guess they expected it to sink into the mud and disappear, but the rope’s come away and the rock’s sunk, so the body’s floated up to the surface.’
Fronto stared at the tribune’s body. A horrible suspicion was beginning to form in his gut.
‘Do me a favour, centurion, Keep a lid on this as long as you have to. Threaten all the men who were here or bribe them; whatever you have to do to stop this becoming common knowledge. Help me wrap him up in that sacking over there and we’ll take him to the medical section for now.’
* * * * *
‘I thought there’d be wine and dice. The ‘loose women’ thing was too much to hope for, but one expects at least wine and dice in the tent of the great Fronto.’
The legate of the Tenth allowed his customary scowl to do its work in quietening Priscus and then sat back on his bunk.
‘I thought, given the nature of this conversation it would be worthwhile being as sober as possible, though I have to admit to the temptation to be otherwise.’
He turned to Carbo. ‘Did you station men like I asked?’
‘Not a man within earshot and no one will get near without trouble. They’re all good, honest men – as far as such a man can be found in Rome these days. The three nearest tents have been uprooted and moved just in case. Now, break the spell and tell us all what’s so damn suspicious that we need such privacy?’
Fronto allowed his gaze to wander past Carbo and then Priscus, over the rest of the men he’d called to the tent. They represented every man whom he trusted with his life. Each man in this tent he would willingly leap in front of a pilum for and he was almost certain the same could be said in return. In a way it was an impressive thing to ponder on, but pondering on it too much led to a certain dismay at the diminished number of them, and at the missing faces he would have on that list: Velius and Balbus particularly.
Representing the Tenth: Carbo, Atenos and Petrosidius, the chief signifer and a longstanding colleague. Priscus: the camp prefect. Varus and Galronus of the cavalry. Balventius, the primus pilus of the Eighth. Crispus, the legate of the Eleventh and Galba, that of the Twelfth.
Nine men.
Nine men he felt he could trust beyond reason and word.
Nine men that he would accept the opinions of and who felt at ease speaking to him as though to a friend rather than a superior or colleague.
‘It’s about these deaths’ he said flatly.
‘Deaths?’ Crispus sat upright. ‘You mean Tetricus? I was hoping to share a libation with you to his memory after the funeral, but duty seems to have kept us apart. There are more deaths than Tetricus?’
Galba shuffled in the seat next to him. ‘Others caused by… by Romans?’
Fronto sighed. Time to fill in all the missing details.
‘I realise that we’ve been almost constantly active since we met up in Mediomatrici lands. We haven’t had the customary weeks of reacquainting ourselves and we haven’t had our usual social meet-ups. Let me give you a bit of a rundown.’
Holding up a hand, he extended his forefinger.
‘Publius Pinarius Posca. I expect some of you know the name. I didn’t. Nephew of Caesar; son-in-law of his eldest sister. He set off from Ostia on the same trireme as myself, as well as Galronus’ he nodded at the Remi chieftain who was nodding grimly, ‘and also the Pompeian centurions Fabius and Furius from the Seventh, and Menenius and Hortius – those peacocks in the Fourteenth. It would appear that we all separated as groups for our journey north. Whether Pinarius took on local guides and guards I don’t know. I assume so, as he hardly seemed rugged and capable – I suspect he was still breast fed into his twenties. Either way, he only made it as far as Vienna, north of Massilia, where he was dispatched with a single pugio thrust to the heart. Stabbed in the back and buried under firewood.’
The number of surprised looks shared by the occupants of the tent clarified just how little had been said about this.
‘Caesar’s nephew?’ Balventius sat forward. ‘Murdered en route to the army? What has the general done about it?’
‘Precisely nothing. He seemed to be less than impressed with the poor young moron. In fact, he seemed to think it would make his life easier; it was certainly hardly advertised. I was intending to investigate as much as I could and I made a few enquiries, but the business of war has somewhat impeded any investigation.’
Crispus frowned. ‘You should have enlisted us all.’
‘At the time, I thought it better to keep it as low-key as possible. Things have now changed.’
‘So,’ Varus said, hissing through his teeth as he moved his slung arm without thinking. ‘So, you’re convinced that the person who put a Roman knife in Caesar’s nephew stuck the same knife in Tetricus? It does seem rather too much for coincidence.’
Fronto and Galronus were both nodding.
‘It gets better, Varus. The head wound I saw the medicus about a few days ago was not, as is generally believed, a drunken fall. I know the rumours my reputation sows, and in this case I’ve fostered the rumour. But in fact, the thing that nearly took the top of my head off was a sling bullet. Someone hidden in the trees tried to send me to Elysium hot on the heels of Tetricus. Less than an hour later, in fact.’
Carbo and Atenos exchanged glances. ‘Then we need to tighten security in the Tenth. It’s time you formed yourself a bodyguard like legates are supposed to.’
Fronto shook his head in irritation. ‘Firstly, I can quite do without having half a dozen men accompany me 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 were anti-Caesarean, then the link is fairly self-evident.’
‘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 toward 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 ten days was still an astounding feat.
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 moment, 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 toward him.
‘Not yet, sir!’ His eyes flitting to either side of the legate, he addressed the arriving soldiers. ‘First four contubernia join your mates and form a barrier. The rest of you lash and nail this bastard in place as quick as you can and then we’ll pull back. I’m not having this section wash away on my watch!’
Falling in behind the small testudo of shields, Fronto crouched a little next to the centurion who stood proud as though nothing in the world could harm him. Men fell into place around them, creating a solid shield barrier against the arrows falling all across the bridge’s lip.
Behind, the other men had dropped their shields and swords and were hurriedly securing the latest section of bridge. Despite the shield wall and all the protection it gave, even as they all fell into place and went about their tasks, two men dropped among the ropes and beams with black shafts protruding from head or chest. Another fell from the shieldwall, a man who had kept his shield too high, screeching as an arrow slammed into his shin just above the ankle, almost pinning him to the bridge. As he fell backward, other shields resettled to fill the gap.
‘We have to pull back. There are hundreds of them.’
‘As soon as we have the bridge secured, sir.’
Fronto watched with desperate impatience as the men hurried about the business of nailing and roping the section down.
‘They’d better be bloody quick. We’re going to lose a lot of men if we stay here.’
Even as he spoke another worker shrieked and vanished over the side into the roiling water, an arrow protruding from his neck. A grunt from the shieldwall announced a glancing blow.
‘This is nothing, sir. You wait 'til we start the next section and we come into proper range.’
Fronto shook his head in anger. ‘We can’t have the men work under these conditions. It’s not viable. Can we maybe have a missile troop drawn up here to clear out the far bank?’
Two more screams sounded as men collapsed to the ground, writhing and groaning.
‘No good, sir. We can’t fit an archery unit on here while the men work around them, and if you just put the archers up here and try and clear them out, they’ll just disappear into the woods and wait until an easy target turns up. They’re barbarians, but they’re not daft.’
Fronto reached out and pushed a man’s shield back into place.
‘Stop paying attention to us talking and keep that bloody shield in place!’ he snapped and, turning back to the centurion. ‘Well, we’ll have to do something. We’ve got to clear those archers out if we want to finish the bridge.’
One of the legionaries bellowed from the side that the section was secure and the centurion smiled grimly.
‘Sound the defended retreat. Shields up until we’re at least twenty paves along the bridge. Then you can run!’
Fronto turned, feeling the slight give in the boards underfoot, and fell in with the legionaries as they beat an ordered retreat along the bridge, workers picking up their shields and blades as they moved, joining the defensive lines.
A dozen paces further and the last arrow fell a long way short of the men, the enemy shots ceasing and leaving just the eerie patter of rain on the timber. Fronto looked around the sullen century of men who stomped alongside him, five casualties being helped along and two dead carried by their companions. At least two more had disappeared beneath the surface of the Rhenus.
As the rain spattered his face, Fronto nodded in answer to his own silent question. There was only really one solution to the problem.