Dawn of The Eagle

by Francis Mulhern

  Marcus turned to look to his brother and could no longer hold his stern face.

  “We will win Lucius, I know it” he said confidently looking around to see that nobody was listening. Before he knew it he was speaking again “there was a prophecy, spoken by Antonicus at the battle of the cave” he added in a low whisper, his eyes boring into Lucius to gauge his reaction. “It says we will win, beating the barbarians back to their homes”.

  “What prophecy? How come I have not heard of this?” he asked staring wide eyed at Marcus and sitting up stiffly on his horse, which shifted, unsure if it was to stand or move.

  Marcus fumbled for his words. “After the battle at the cave Antonicus was taken over by the gods and spoke a prophecy to me” he said, nervously checking that they were out of ear-shot of the other riders and soldiers. “I have written it down” he added taking a small scroll from a leather pouch around his waist. “It says the eagle will lead Rome to great victories and that Fortuna will honour him as he leads Rome to great victories against the barbarians” his voice trailed as he saw the look on his brothers face. He handed him the scroll and watched as his brother took a moment to read the full words he had written. Marcus was unsure if he should mention that Postumius knew of the prophecy and decided not to say anything just yet.

  “Antonicus said these words” Lucius said looking up from the scroll, his eyes pinched and lips set tight.

  “Yes, to me”

  “And no-one else was near you when this was said? These words were not for another? How do you know they were for you?” he asked rapidly with a look of wonder on his face.

  “Who else could it be, I was the only person there. I watched the eagle fly over the battle field and then Antonicus came to me and spoke those words. But not in his voice, it seemed as if another was speaking through him.” Marcus suddenly felt angry that his brother didn’t seem to believe him, his jaw set firm and he made to raise his voice when Lucius’s look stopped him in his tracks.

  “What?” he asked, suddenly fearful.

  Lucius handed the scroll to Marcus. “Who else knows of this?” he asked quietly, searching Marcus’s face for signs that he was telling the truth. Marcus hesitated. “No, don’t tell me” waved Lucius as his eyes widened and he thumped his fist into his palm “that bloody fool thinks this prophecy is about him. That’s why he went to Rome. That’s why he was acting so strangely when I last spoke to him, as if he couldn’t be hurt, that whatever he did was divinely ordained. Oh gods” he said looking to the sky. “How does he know of the prophecy?” he rounded suddenly on Marcus in a harsh whisper his eyes narrowed as he leant forwards on his horse and anger flushed in his face.

  Marcus looked at the scroll and back to his brother “I wrote it for him. He asked me to on the day he offered me his sword for saving his life. I don’t know how he got to know that Antonicus had spoken, I swear there was only the two of us present at the time” garbled Marcus as his brother sat looking intently at him.

  Lucius looked as if he wanted to shout at Marcus again and Marcus, glancing around to check again that nobody was near leant forward. “I changed the words though brother” he whispered with a smile growing across his face. “The ones I wrote for Postumius were not the real words. I wrote that a great leader would be favoured by the gods, would be like an eagle soaring over the enemy and would kill the barbarians when they come to our door when Rome was in its darkest hour, tipping the scales with gold. It is the same but different, do you agree?” he questioned, a half-smile on his face.

  Lucius grinned back at his brother and suddenly slapped his shoulder “then you’re not the fool I was thinking you were” he laughed, breaking the sudden cold climate that had grown between them. Marcus half smiled again, unsure if his brother was testing him.

  “Marcus, do you know what this could mean? For you, for the family and for Rome?” he stared at the scroll in Marcus’s hands, “hide it brother, we will talk later” he said suddenly as the sound of riders approaching them drummed into their ears, and with that he laughed out loud and turned his horse to gallop off to find Magnus, his mind racing.

  Chapter 15

  Fasculus switched the blade to his left hand. The blood of his victim dripped from the end of the bone handle as he stabbed it into the wooden bench at his side, creating a small circle of red spots on the table.

  “Search the bastard” he said to his two accomplices, standing and kicking the man once more even though his lifeless body would not feel the pain. “How do they get to know things like this” he said to no-one in particular as he sat on the bench next to his knife and started to wipe his hands on a rag. He continued to speak his thoughts aloud as the dead body was stripped and searched. “Only the three of us knew who was invited and those who were were told not to speak to anyone else. Keeping the secret was a part of being in the inner circle” he mused as he watched the dead man’s clothes being systematically ripped apart for clues as to who he was, and more importantly who had sent him to spy on Postumius. Fasculus was just thinking he would have to kill these two men, even though they had been with him in the legions for years and he thought of them as his brothers, but could he trust them?

  “Here, boss. Sewn into his belt” said one of the men and handed him four thick gold coins, each carved with a Greek head on the obverse and a winged horse on the reverse.

  “The Greek” he smiled “good, I never liked the bastard, and this proves his guilt” he smiled as he turned a coin in his blood-soaked fingers. “Get the body into the sewer, but dress him first” he added, looking back at the body as he rose from the bench. “See you lads back at the house” and he flicked them each a gold coin, pocketing the other two himself.

  ---

  Postumius was delighted with the news Fasculus had brought him and had ordered a painful death to the Greek on his way to the party that evening, allowing Fasculus to keep the gold coin he had found on the spy as a reward and adding two more for the deed to be done. It would serve as a warning to the other members of the inner circle if the Greek was suddenly found dead with no trace of who had killed him. He knew fear was a good weapon.

  He sat in his private study in his house on the Aventine Hill and looked out at the city below him through his window. The city was bathed in warm sunlight and the sky was a light blue with wisps of clouds scudding across the vista. The dull orange and browns of the roof tiles below and the low murmur of the cities activity pleased him. He thought of how he might change the city in the future when the prophecy had come true and he was its leader. His eyes became unfocused as he was momentarily mesmerised by the thoughts of fifty-foot-tall statues of himself as the conquering hero, when he suddenly felt a chill of cold wind blow through the window. It started him and shook him back to his senses. He rose and walked to the window to see grey clouds had formed, rolling in from the hills away to the right of his view. “Damned rain” he muttered moving to the writing desk and removing a leather-bound scroll as he walked to the door.

  “Pallas” he called, waiting for a slave to come running to him. When the man arrived Postumius ordered him to take the scroll to his father’s house and to arrange for him to attend there the next day, and he set off for the kitchen. It would be good to have his father on his side he postulated as he arrived in the large, warm, room at the back of the house. He sat and ate from the bowl of grapes on the table and thought to himself that he hardly ever visited the kitchen, but had taken to attending recently since the new slave girl had arrived. He watched as the girl tried to avoid his roving eyes undressing her. He could taste her flesh in every mouthful of the succulent grapes he ate and was feeling aroused when Fasculus and his two henchmen stomped through the door from the alleyway outside, noisily flapping drops of rain from their overcoats.

  “Sorry sir” Fasculus said as he spotted Postumius and immediately looking to the slave girl who had quickly darted from the room when the chance had occurred, “didn’t know you were here. Shall we go? We only wanted some
broth before we went on that job” he added wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking to the stove where a large pan was eminating delicious smells of cooked lamb stew.

  “No, no, help yourselves Fasculus. No problem at all”. He nodded to the three men and absentmindedly rose from the chair and exited the room in a slow walk.

  “Losing his marbles?” said one of the two men, the thick scar across his chin showing white in the face of three-day old stubble.

  “Nah. If that prophecy is right he is our ticket to good times, women and more money than you can carry for the rest of your life, Gatto” said Fasculus scooping a bowlful of the steaming broth from the cooker. “Here, this will warm you up. Get it down your neck” he laughed as he scooped another bowl in the broth. “You lads did well today and we get three bronze coins each for tonight’s job” he added laying the money on the table.

  The two men glanced at each other. They knew Fasculus was holding back money on them, but they had discussed it long ago and agreed that Fasculus was their meal ticket and they would remain loyal until such time as they no longer needed him or he no longer needed them.

  “Haha, bring it on” said Gatto grabbing three of the coins and biting them to check that they were bronze and not coloured lead before sliding the remaining coins to his friend. As the men slurped their broth Fasculus explained the plan to them and they listened with death in their eyes.

  ********

  The column had come to halt and the men were resting as the mid-day sun tried vainly to raise the temperature above warm. Marcus sat in the rear of the column playing dice with Mella, something he had never done before but which he had seen Mella and his ‘friends’ play many times. The five bone dice didn’t seem to like him though, he thought as he rolled two three’s, a two, a four and a six. Mella smiled as he pocketed another small bronze coin.

  “Not your lucky day, sir” he grinned. “Shall we do something else? Your heart isn’t in the game, I can tell” he said putting the dice into a small bag in his pack. The column had stopped for a short break as the scouts had sighted enemy skirmishers on the far side of the forest. The march had been exhausting, and whilst Marcus was pleased at the chance to rest he found he was quickly bored waiting to find out what was happening.

  “Why can’t I ride with Decimus?” he asked Mella petulantly, his downcast face showing the depths of boredom he had reached.

  “Haha, laughed Mella. “Well, how can I put it” he said putting his head to one side and looking at Marcus conspiratorially. “You are fifteen years of age, you tricked your way into being here and you are not officially a member of the Roman army. How is that for starters?” he said counting out the list on his thick, calloused fingers.

  Marcus kicked out at him but Mella had moved and was laughing as he strolled to his horse and removed the water pouch from its flank.

  “I’m bored too, sir, but we need to keep active. How about a few minutes sword practice? I brought the trainers” he added, taking two heavy wooden swords from the back of his horses pack as the animal continued to much at the thin vegetation around it. He threw one to Marcus and started to warm up, swinging the training sword in large movements and exaggerated dips and turns. Marcus rolled the sword in his hands and then started his warm-up preparations, following the same routine that Mella had started. After a few minutes they drew level and started their practice session.

  Mella’s voice and the clashing of the wooden swords brought a crowd of soldiers to watch as the two men whirled and slashed at each other. Sword fighting in the legions had been big business for many years for the Centurions who ran gambling dens based on cohort sword fighting competitions. Only forty years previously it had been Marcus’s grandfather who had put a stop to it as his best men had systematically fallen to their opponents in camp competitions rather than skirmishes with their enemies. Some of the men jeered as Marcus caught Mella on the wrist with a stinging blow and he half dropped his sword, stepping back and waving his wrist whilst whistling at the stinging pain.

  “Good hit, sir” he said, winking to the nearest two soldiers, “bet you can’t do it again”. Immediately Marcus stepped forward laughing, caught up in the swordplay and the adulation of the gathered crowd of jeering soldiers. The two legionaries stood and mingled with the crowd as Mella circled Marcus and forced him away from the soldiers. Mella parried two attempts before he saw the signal from one of his friends, two crossed fingers, the sign to let Marcus hit his arm or leg. He stepped lightly forward with a series of quick blows, but missed the final blow allowing Marcus to strike and catch his arm. Feigning pain he stepped back and yelped, looking to his arm to see if blood had been drawn and yelled “Damned good hit, sir, you are really getting good” and then moving to the packs to drink another long slug of water whilst watching, smiling, as the two legionaries collected pockets full of money from their bets.

  “Should we stop?” asked Marcus, looking to the crowd with concern as they seemed to be groaning at his hitting Mella.

  “What? No, we can have a few more minutes, sir” said Mella, nodding lightly to his legionary friends and tapping the hilt of his sword with his index finger whilst pretending to stretch his arms. After another minute of swordplay Mella had given Marcus a lesson in disarming a man when a burly legionary from the crowd called out “You’ll never disarm a man like that, it’s impossible”.

  Mella stopped and looked at the small stocky man who sat in the crowd, his broad shoulders and thick arms clearly showing he was a strong opponent, and said “Want a bet?”

  The man jumped to his feet, “Yeh, but not him. How do we know he isn’t in on some deal with you?”

  Marcus looked at the legionary and stepped forwards. “I am Marcus Furius of the Furii of Tusculum, Patres and one of the oldest families in Rome. I do not take part in petty betting scams” he said angrily looking at the man and back at Mella with fury in his eyes, his shoulders back and his jaw fixe din a determined grimace.

  “Hey, hey master” said Mella holding his hands up and stepping back. “If the man thinks he can take it then give him your sword and I will disarm him!” he added. Marcus looked at both men and threw his sword to the legionary, “I will have nothing to do with this” he said and stalked away.

  Immediately a flurry of betting took place as each group of soldiers raised odds for their favourites. The stocky man was called Paulus and he took off his marching tunic to reveal rippling bunches of muscles and sinewy tendons bursting from his arms and chest. He moved the sword as if it was as light as a feather and had lightning fast footwork as he warmed up in preparation for the fight. Mella stood and watched, looking the man over as he moved.

  “Marcus” he said moving to where Marcus stood. “Tell me what you see. No, tell me what the opponent will do. How will he move? what actions will his technique provoke from me?” He looked to Marcus with his head to one side and his brown eyes filled with mischief. Marcus returned the smile, understanding the lesson he was now being given and grinning.

  “He is heavier on the right side from overuse of those muscles so he may be off balance to that side”

  “Good. What else?”

  “He has a scar on his right thigh. Maybe that will slow his movement? Again, it is on the right, so he will attack on the left as this is the stronger side?”

  “More obvious than that” said Mella watching Paulus warm up. Marcus watched but could see no flaws in the sword work of the man. He looked at Mella puzzled. “What am I missing?” he asked.

  “See his movements. The arc of the sword does not reach a full swing.”

  “Yes. And what does that mean?” asked Marcus watching the man as he finished his preparations and called that he was ready. “I’ll tell you when I get back” said Mella smiling at Marcus, who rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.

  ---

  The half light of the room was perfect, thought Postumius as he reclined in the central position eating honeyed oatcakes. The room was set out in
the usual fashion, the reclining chairs in a semi-circle around the three central diners. He’d decided to drink watered wine this evening so he could keep his wits about him and his nervous energy had set out a small tick in his left eye, which was annoying him profusely. Only two of his guests had not yet arrived, one was the Greek who would not arrive at all if Fasculus did his job well, the other was his main guest and he smiled to himself as he made small talk with the other Patricians in the room.

  The conversation was light and Postumius was getting concerned that his last guest would not arrive on time when the door opened and a slave introduced Octavius Cornelius Mamillus to the room. At once all the guests rose to their feet and stepped forwards. This was a coup and Postumius knew it. The Mamilla family were the last of the old families to help the Kings of Rome before they were ousted by the Republic. Having Octavius Mamillus in his inner circle would be the key to the success of his plans and he had to hold a gasp of delight as he approached the man, finding it hard to hold his features steady as he did so.

  “Octavius” he crowed as he stepped forwards and bowed “you do me and my family honour by attending our house”. Mamillus was in his forties and had thinning grey hair which was cut short and dressed well with a thin layer of oil. His lean face and large green eyes exaggerated his high forehead under his olive coloured skin. He was dressed in a long blue toga with a thick gold clasp across the shoulder in the shape of a hand and his fingers were dripping in thick gold rings.

  “I have not been invited to a party in Rome for over twenty years” he said in a cold, calculating but surprisingly deep voice for such a thin man, as he nodded to the other guests as they introduced themselves.

  “I tend to be” he said looking across at Postumius as if he were just a fly to be swatted “persona non grata”. Postumius laughed quietly at the joke. Mamillus was known for his love of the old Kings and hatred of the Republic and had spent a vast amount of his family’s fortune paying for riots in the forum, spreading discord amongst the plebeians and ensuring that the Patricians remained the leading class in Rome by buying-out the consuls, and some said even buying out the leading plebeians. It was well known that he advocated a return of a King of Rome, but this had made him many enemies and it was not safe for him to be in the city for long periods in these troubled times.