Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  The cavalry officer grinned at him and tucked into a platter of bread, cheese and pilchards. Fronto fought the urge to stand at the rail and empty his stomach contents again. He’d already done so twice since boarding, and the ship hadn’t even slipped the mooring yet. He’d glared at the men nearby, but the smirks had continued nonetheless, increasing with every colour change his face had undergone.

  “Remember, whatever happens while we’re over there – on the assumption we even make the crossing – not to get yourself in a position where you’re alone and anywhere near those two centurions from the Seventh. They’ve found it easy enough to attack people even with the whole army present. Over there, you could easily find yourself cut off and surrounded by the Seventh. Be alert at all times.”

  “Marcus, stop fussing over us like a mother hen” Galronus grinned. “We’re all grown men and warriors.”

  “Aye” Carbo laughed, looking up from his cup of watered wine. “And stop worritting about the journey, sir. It’s only thirty miles. Two more cups of this and I could piss that far!”

  Again, Fronto looked around the deck of the high-sided Gallic beast in which they would cross. Such was its size that the officers had managed to secure themselves a fairly private area of deck toward the stern some distance from the groups of men sitting cross legged, rolling dice, singing songs and telling ribald jokes. They had even managed to obtain a shelter of leather tent sections that could hold off the rain that Fronto felt sure was coming.

  Even as he glanced across at the steersman and the ship’s captain, the hooded lamp with which they had been signalling the other ships in the fleet caught the wind from the wrong direction and went black with a hiss, plummeting the entire stern of the ship into stygian gloom.

  “Whose genius idea was it to sail at night?”

  “Apparently it was the best choice” Carbo chattered conversationally. “The tide is right, the omens are good, and all the locals are predicting inclement weather in the next day or two. If we don’t go on this tide, we might not go at all.”

  “Sounds just fine to me” grumbled Fronto, feeling another heave of his churning guts on the way.

  “Did you have any of that ginger and mint?” Galronus asked lightly.

  “Like I could keep it down if I did” snapped Fronto.

  “Your sister said it was the only real remedy. You should at least try it.”

  “Piss off. And could you all stop eating stinking fish near me. Can’t you naff off down the bow with the grunts to eat that muck?”

  “This?” enquired Galronus with a grin, waving a lightly-cooked headless fish at Fronto, who immediately leaped to the rail to empty his stomach yet again.

  “Anyway” Carbo said in his light, happy tone, “if I’ve got my timings right, setting off now means we should arrive at dawn. We’ll surprise the goat-humpers and give ‘em no time to prepare.”

  Fronto wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and heaved in half a dozen deep breaths before turning and collapsing to the deck again with his friends. As well as Galronus and Carbo, Petrosidius, the chief standard bearer of the Tenth, and Atenos, the huge training centurion, sat in the small circle, wrapped in their cloaks against the chilling wind.

  Glancing around to make sure they had as much privacy as the ship’s deck allowed, Fronto leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. The rest of the ship’s occupants were native Gauls or members of the trusted Tenth, but some things needed to be kept quiet, regardless of company.

  “I’ve been thinking about our two centurion friends in the Seventh.”

  “You do surprise me” muttered Galronus.

  “No, I mean I think I see a way to bring something good out of this situation.”

  Carbo and Atenos leaned forwards. Petrosidius continued to listen, with his head up, watching the other men nearby. “Go on” Galronus grinned.

  “Well until now I’ve been thinking we need to be wary of Furius and Fabius; to keep ourselves away from them and not get caught where we can find ourselves in trouble. Problem is: if we keep doing that, we’re never going to be able to nail them for anything. Perhaps it would be better to play this entirely the other way.”

  “Draw them out, you mean?”

  “Precisely. With only the Tenth and the Seventh present, they might get bold enough to do something stupid. We should be encouraging that, rather than preventing it.”

  “What have you in mind?” Atenos asked, frowning.

  “We need to goad them… to push them to breaking point so that they snap and go for it.”

  “But how?”

  Galronus grinned. “Just be yourself, Marcus. It appears that your very existence annoys them deeply.”

  The legate shot the cavalry officer a sour look, but he found himself nodding anyway.

  “Irritatingly, you might be right. I am the only one who could maybe wind them up enough to break them; and they already have it in for me anyway. I’m fairly sure they’ll relish the chance to get another crack at me. So the question remains: just how do I wind them up to that extent?”

  “That’s easy” Petrosidius shrugged. The signifer, sitting bareheaded with his wolf-pelt on his knees, had been so quiet that Fronto had almost forgotten he was there.

  “Go on.”

  “Well the Seventh’s eagle bearer, Sepunius, happens to be an old friend of mine, and he tells me that Furius and Fabius have pretty much taken it upon themselves to act as Cicero’s personal guard and escort. Apparently his tribunes are a bit put out that two centurions seem to have more influence than them, but the pair have such a brutal reputation that no one’ll confront them about it.”

  “I’ve noticed this.”

  “Well, Cicero is fairly outspoken against Caesar at times. A clever man shouldn’t find it too hard to start an argument between the two commanders, especially one of Caesar’s top men. And once you have the two commanders at each other, Cicero’s pet centurions will start straining at their leash and snapping. Should be a walk in the park for you.”

  A slow smile spread across Fronto’s face as he pictured the scene. It really wouldn’t be difficult. Hell, he’d already seen it happen several times over the summer.

  “It’ll have to be when we land at the other side, of course.”

  “So you have long enough to argue between hurling over the rail, you mean?” Galronus needled with a grin.

  “Oh piss off.”

  “You’re right though” Carbo said quietly. “But that’s only half the battle, as it were. Once you’ve wound them up far enough to make them want to take you down again, you’ll have to give them the opportunity. But play it carefully. Remember that these two are both veterans with as long a record as you or I; both strong and fearless, and they’ve managed several sneaky attacks so far. How do you plan to play it?”

  Again, Fronto lapsed into silence for a few minutes, before nodding to himself a couple of times.

  “Like what happened across the Rhenus, I think. I can let myself fall behind and get separated – perhaps because of my knee. Everyone knows about that now, so no one will be surprised if I have to stop and tend to it. We’ll be very unlikely to have the chance to prepare any trap in advance, so we’ll just have to be ready to spring it whenever the opportunity occurs. We’ll work out some signal. Then, at some point when I find myself near enough the pair of them, I’ll give the signal and stop to deal with my knee or whatever I need to do to get myself alone. At the signal, you lot need to disappear, but shadow Fabius and Furius wherever they go. As soon as they come at me, you can reveal yourselves and we’ll have them red-handed in the act of attempting to kill a senior officer.”

  “We need an impartial witness” Carbo said quietly.

  “No we don’t. The word of a legate, a signifer, two centurions and a cavalry commander carries enough weight to execute a man on the spot.”

  “Not in the current circumstances” Atenos cautioned. “Bear in mind how well known your enmity toward them is.
Whatever the truth, most of the army will think it was simply a setup by us. Legate Brutus and tribune Volusenus will both be present across the water. If either of them was to witness the attempt there could be no doubt over the truth, and no comeback.”

  “Think we can arrange that?” asked Fronto quietly.

  “I think we’ll manage.”

  “Alright” the legate said, clapping his hands together purposefully and then pulling out his ‘Fortuna’ amulet and rubbing it between his fingers. “Now all we need to do is make it across thirty miles of Styx-water in an unfamiliar ship, at night, in a storm, with only the divine protection of a small Gaulish trout-woman with bandy legs.”

  * * * * *

  The sun had been up for perhaps fifteen minutes when the call issued from the bow of the ship. Fronto heaved himself up from his sodden blankets, crusty salt deposits giving a white sheen to the grey wool. The night had been the worst Fronto could remember. Fortunately, his memories of it were blurred, scant and confused, given the amount of time he’d spent wrapped in his blanket, shivering and trying to shut out the world.

  Despite Carbo and Galronus’ assurance that the conditions, while foul, were not enough to capsize or wreck the ship, the legate had remained unconvinced and had shut himself away from all the horror around him.

  There had been two rainstorms during the crossing, neither of which had apparently been particularly disastrous; not enough to cause concern among the sailors anyway. The officers had their leather shelter to retire to, but to Fronto it merely appeared to funnel the wet, salty wind into a bone-chilling draft that left the blankets almost as wet and cold as those of the troops laying wrapped up on the open deck.

  The weather had seemingly broken sometime after Fronto had collapsed into a worried, exhausted sleep, and the shout of sighted land roused the legate to a world of bright skies, scudding clouds and calm sea, though the chill in the air and the faint aroma of damp belied the image of a summer morning. Gulls whirled overhead, shrieking and crying their welcome to this, the island of the Druids.

  Galronus was already standing at the rail with Carbo and Atenos when Fronto staggered towards them, his legs weak and finding trouble with the rolling of the ship.

  “For the love of Juno!”

  Galronus turned to the approaching legate and nodded. “Impressive isn’t it? My father visited Britannia when I was a young boy and told us of this coast. I always thought he must have embellished a little. It would appear not.”

  Fronto dropped his elbow to the rail in a space between the others and goggled at the white line approaching them. The cliffs must be three hundred feet or more in height for, even at this distance, more than a mile out, they could be seen to tower over the water, rising and falling as small bays opened up along the line. The morning sun caught the white chalky surface straight on, creating a blinding ribbon of white.

  “I think I can see why Volusenus stayed on his ship.”

  The three men around him nodded sagely.

  “I take it we’re at the front of the fleet, then? I would have thought Caesar’s ship would have stayed ahead of us.”

  Carbo pointed off to one side. A trireme rose and fell with the waves some quarter of a mile to their right, its shape distinctive even at that distance. Half a dozen other ships could be seen scattered across the water between and behind them. Dots on the horizon suggested that the rest of the fleet was some way back. The general had chosen to travel in one of the less stable Roman ships, rather than a Gallic trader, as befitted a praetor.

  “The trireme is Caesar’s I can see the red banners.”

  “You’ve got better eyes than mine.”

  Carbo smiled. “I did a rough count of the ships within sight as soon as it was light enough. I could see roughly half the fleet. I’m very much hoping that the two storms separated us and slowed many vessels down. I’d hate to think that an entire legion’s worth of ships ended up turning back or, worse still, at the bottom of the sea.”

  Fronto shuddered. He had trouble imagining a worse fate.

  “We’ll be there in about ten minutes according to the sailor I spoke to” confirmed Galronus. “Caesar’s ship seems to be angling towards us. I suspect we’re heading for that dip there.” Fronto followed Galronus’ pointing finger and spotted a bay, slightly wider than the others, nestled between two particularly high sections of cliff.

  The legate leaned over the rail and smiled faintly. They were almost across. He’d not been sick since the previous evening, but then it was difficult to see how there could be anything left inside to bring up. A quick probe of his torso confirmed his suspicion: that he had eaten so little since arriving at Gesoriacum that his ribs were now quite prominent through his tunic. He resolved to eat like a horse – possibly even to eat a horse – once they were safely on land.

  The calm water raced by along the hull of the strong Gallic ship, the low waves picking up a little in intensity as they neared the cliffs, though nothing compared to those they’d experienced during the night. Looking up and ahead once more, Fronto couldn’t help but be impressed by the wall-like cliffs that protected the Druids’ isle from the clutches of their enemies. Already, while contemplating his weight loss and the intensity of the waves, the ship had covered half the distance toward the sheltered bay and the cliffs that loomed ever higher.

  “Well. Time for me to get to work” muttered Carbo, pushing himself back and smacking his vine staff against his bronze greaves. His face shone almost luminously pink, the morning cold and the sea air accentuating his already ruddy complexion. Turning, he began to bellow out orders to the other centurions, optios, signifers and men of the Tenth, calling the present centuries of the legion to stand to ready for disembarkation.

  Fronto smiled at the efficiency of his men and then turned again, resting his chin on his folded arms upon the rail until the rocking motion threatened to set off his guts again. Caesar’s trireme was closing on them now, keeping pace, as was another Celtic ship to the far side. Those behind were doing their best to put on an extra turn of speed and catch up with the vanguard of the fleet.

  Atenos grinned at him and left to attend to his duties. Galronus, on the other hand, had no duties yet; his cavalry turma was scattered around the fleet wherever there was room.

  The cliffs rose sharply from the bay with a flat landing area not more than five hundred yards across between the slopes. Trees crowded in the dip and a wide expanse of woodland was visible stretching back behind, the forest starting only a few hundred yards from the edge of the water. As he watched, Fronto began to discern the trails of wood smoke from at least a dozen buildings somewhere close within the woodland. Clearly this bay housed a settlement, shrouded by the trees.

  The heights, by comparison, seemed denuded, the white walls topped by a narrow line of green that suggested rolling grass above, dotted with only the occasional struggling, wind-blown tree.

  “Stand to. All hands stand to.”

  Without need for the issuing of commands, the Gallic sailors began to haul on ropes and busy themselves with the sail. Calls were put out in the language of the Gauls, and the ship burst into a bustle of life. Fronto turned back to face their destination, ignoring the activity. He could hardly care less about the details that were required to make a ship work.

  Something ahead drew his attention, though.

  “Did you see that?”

  Galronus frowned at him. “What?”

  “On the cliff. Movement on the top. There it is again.”

  The Belgic officer turned his furrowed brow to the coast and squinted. “I see it. On the right-hand cliff: scattered movement.”

  “And on the left.”

  Now the ships were coming close enough to land that Fronto found his head beginning to crane upwards gradually to see the occasional movement at the cliff tops.

  “Shepherds?” muttered Galronus.

  “Too many. And at this time of the morning, that many people up there can only have something to
do with us. I think Carbo was wrong about us surprising them.”

  As if to confirm his suspicions his attention was drawn back to their immediate surroundings as the water nearby made a ‘plopping’ sound.

  “What was that?”

  His question was answered instantly as an arrow disappeared into the water only twenty yards from the bow with another plop. Glancing up, Fronto could now see dozens of figures standing perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Even as he watched, more arrows began to arc out from the land and plummet toward the advancing ships. His eyes followed one of the shafts down and into the waves just off to the right. A moment later something small and heavy that could only be a sling shot plopped into the water.

  “Back!” he yelled. “Err… reverse! Back! Retreat.”

  Turning from the rail, he began to wave his arms, motioning the ship’s crew to pull the vessel back out of range.

  “Get us out of range of those missiles. They could kill half of us before we land.”

  The sailors were now rushing in a panic, trying to slow the momentum of the vessel, while turning her, ponderously. Fronto watched, his nerves twanging, aware with some irritation that Caesar’s trireme, which had encountered the same reception and had decided on the same course of action, simply reversed their stroke. It was a difficult task and took master sailors to pull it off as smoothly as they were doing, but the effect was to move the trireme out of danger considerably faster than the slow arc taken by this great cow of a ship.

  A scream echoed across the morning water from the left. The other Gallic ship had begun to turn and slow a little later and had already come within range, some poor sod becoming the first casualty of Britannia before even touching its soil.

  As if to remind Fronto of the more immediate danger to himself, another arrow scratched a line across the timber at the prow of the ship as it whizzed past and into the water.