Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  With a smile, Fronto felt the long scrubby grass brushing his shins and realised that the legions had pushed the enemy all the way across the beach, past the lower, pebbled part, across the sand, and finally to the grass.

  And now they were running.

  And if the cavalry – of whom no sign had been discerned since departure from Gesoriacum – had been here, they could chase down the fleeing warriors and deal with them. But with only thirty or so horsemen under Galronus, and their mounts still aboard the ships, such closure was merely a dream.

  Hardening himself, Fronto took a deep breath. Now to face the wrath of Caesar before he got to break a few heads himself.

  ROME

  Lucilia took a deep breath.

  “I hear him coming.”

  Faleria nodded in the faint light that issued through the grille in the door at the top of the stairs and shuffled back against the wall, the blanket and pallet she had been given for comfort barely keeping away the chill of the cold stone floor.

  “I wish you’d let me help.”

  Faleria smiled wanly at her young friend. “You will be helping, but the first move has to be mine.” She sighed. “We’ll only get one chance at this and, I’m sorry to have to say it, but you’re too delicate and slight for it. I am – in my brother’s words when I’ve stopped him making a fool of himself – a ‘tough old bitch’. And we’ll never be more prepared. Just be ready to move.”

  Lucilia shuffled nervously.

  “Stop fidgeting. The smallest thing could give the whole game away. Act normally.”

  That’s easy for you to say, thought Lucilia, eying the single door to the cellar room as the light disappeared, blotted out by the figure of the guard, Papirius. It would be Papirius. It was always Papirius. In the days they’d languished in this dingy pit – enough of them that she’d now lost count – only two guards had put in an appearance.

  Sextius brought their breakfast in the morning – a luke-warm barley gruel that put her in mind of the muck the legions had eaten when she had lived at the Genava camp with her father. The man was a humourless ex-legionary who appeared to have been dismissed from service with six lashes for his trouble, though she’d not dared to ask why. In the days and weeks of imprisonment she could count on her fingers the number of times he had spoken to them, and even that usually monosyllabic. After breakfast the man disappeared, never to be seen again that day, though his voice occasionally issued in muffled tones from beyond the door, confirming his presence in the building.

  The only other voice they had heard was Papirius. The other ex-legionary was a more genial man, given their circumstances. He it was who had taken away, cleaned and replaced the hellish slop-bucket, while Sextius seemed willing to let them wallow in their own filth. Indeed, Papirius had even cleaned the cell and replaced their bedding three or four times, though he had taken the precaution of chaining them to the wall rings each time.

  Papirius it was who also brought the other two meals each day: a snack of bread, cheese and olives at noon and a warm meat stew in the evening. If it was he who prepared the meals, he could be said to be a more than passable cook.

  She hardened her heart. These were their guards if not their captors. For all she saw in Papirius something familiar from her time living in the proximity of the Eighth legion, the man was still holding her against her will.

  Papirius, it seemed, was overly fond of wine and therefore took the late meal shifts so that in the morning he could sleep off the skinful he inevitably had each night. It seemed likely that the man’s dismissal from the legions was connected to his drinking habits.

  It was partially that habit that had decided on their timing.

  It had to be the noon meal. Papirius would be the least expecting of the pair and very much the least careful. He would still be a little tired and blurred from the alcohol. At noon he was less chatty than in the evening due to his bone-weariness.

  To this end, the two women had deliberately played up to Papirius throughout the long days of captivity. They had been model prisoners, never even breathing out of turn. They had cooperated, even with Sextius leering at them hungrily from time to time.

  And they had waited.

  And they had planned.

  The map they had drawn on the wall with a sharp stone they had rubbed clear only an hour later, having committed it firmly to memory.

  Lucilia had begun to wonder whether Faleria would ever be ready. For the last week she had been needling the older woman, urging her to put the plan into action, but each time the situation had apparently not been quite right.

  And then, last night, Papirius had confided with a wink that he was bound for the Opiconsivia festival with its ritual chariot race and then a celebratory night of feasting and drinking with a cousin who owned a farm not far along the Via Flaminia and who had brought the last of his harvest to the city markets.

  Faleria had smiled as he left and the door closed with a rattle of keys. Papirius would be less alert than usual when he arose the next morning, and their time had come.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened.

  Lucilia bit her lip and drew blood.

  Sextius!

  It hadn’t occurred to her that perhaps Papirius would have been so inebriated that his companion would have to step in and cover his shift. Damn!

  “Faleria!” she hissed quietly.

  “I know.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We go anyway.”

  Sextius, his usual sour face taking on that leer at the sight of the captive women, began to move slowly down the stairs, two wooden plates balanced in his left hand, the right on the pommel of his sword.

  Lucilia shuddered. Sextius was a whole different proposition to Papirius. Faleria had been planning to overwhelm the guard as he brought the food and then pin him to the floor while Lucilia tied his hands with the twine they had unthreaded from the pallet’s edge. Papirius would have tried to fight them off, but Faleria was sure she could cope, especially if he was suffering. Sextius, on the other hand, was bright and alert. He would be tough to simply overwhelm.

  What was Faleria thinking? They had to abort and try another day.

  “Food!” Sextius announced somewhat unnecessarily as he reached the flagged floor and strode across. Lucilia looked up hungrily. Whatever her friend had planned, she had to keep up the pretence that all was normal. Faleria sat cross-legged, hunched over, her head hanging down.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Sextius glanced across at Lucilia as he slowly approached.

  “I have no idea” replied the younger of the captive women, with a distinct ring of truth.

  Unceremoniously, Sextius slung the two wooden platters on the floor at the foot of their pallets, the bread rolling off onto the dirty, cold stone flags. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, the former legionary crouched in front of Faleria, though Lucilia noted how his fingers curled around the sword hilt at his side, ready to draw at a heartbeat’s notice.

  “You look pale” he announced and grasped Faleria’s hair roughly with his left hand, yanking it upwards and lifting her head to see her face. His attention locked on her visage, he noticed all too late the finger coming up that jammed into his eye, her nail sharp from weeks of rough treatment.

  Lucilia stared as the man’s left eye exploded with a popping noise, goo and blood spurting out over Faleria. He screamed, though his reactions were sharp even in his agony, the sword coming free of the sheath with a metallic rasp. Even as Lucilia goggled in horror, Faleria stepped up her vicious attack. As the wounded man let go of her hair, she smashed her forehead into his face. Nothing broke, but she felt the impact with dizzying pain and knew she had dealt him a stunning blow.

  “Run!”

  By the time Lucilia had reached the stairs and was bounding up them, Faleria was at her heel, the wounded captor’s sword in her hand. Back in the gloom of the cell, the howling of pain was now infused with cries of rage and the sounds of scuffling as Sextius s
truggled to his feet.

  “Come on!”

  The pair ran through the cellar’s door and past the small cubicle that served as a guard chamber with its little table and rickety wooden chair, out along the corridor, around two corners, past two doors, and to the stairs that led to the ground floor, up which they pounded.

  Somewhere behind them issued the most animal shriek of pained rage, and the sound of hobnailed boots on stone echoed through the corridors.

  “Sextius?”

  Lucilia’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of Papirius’ voice ahead. Were they trapped? It mattered not how reasonable the genial ex-soldier had been. If he discovered they had escaped he would be merciless; of this she was certain.

  “Sextius?” the call came again.

  “Faleria!” she shouted in a panic, her courage draining away rapidly.

  “He’s off to the right. We go left at the end. Just run!”

  Obeying the instructions of her forthright friend, the young woman pounded along the corridor, ignoring the doors to the various rooms on either side, nearing the end, where the left turn would take her towards the street and freedom.

  She almost collapsed in panic as she sped round the corner and Papirius’ hand reached out of the shadowed opening to the far side, grasping for her and tearing a rip across the shoulder of her stola as she narrowly evaded his grip.

  And then she was running again. The door to the street was around the next corner and at the end of that corridor. She could see the glow of daylight at the bend. Her heart lurched again and, with a plummeting feeling of dismay, she glanced back over her shoulder as she ran.

  Papirius stood in the corridor, blocking it, his sword dancing in his hand, ready to strike. Beyond him, in the gloomier reaches, Lucilia could see Faleria, an expression of grim determination on her face, raising her stolen blade. She looked up to see Lucilia watching in horror.

  “Run, girl!”

  Her soul crying in anguish, Lucilia turned her back on her friend and ran on, around the corner and down the short passage, bursting out through the half-open door into the bright daylight of the Subura. Behind her, now invisible in the building’s gloom, she heard the faint but distinctive ring of steel striking steel.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, she grasped her filthy, soiled stola around her and ran, barefoot, for the family home on the Cispian hill.

  Clodius would pay for this.

  Chapter 15

  (Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)

  “Returning to Gaul is out of the question.” Caesar’s voice was flat and quiet – that particular flat and quiet that Fronto knew all too well to be a final word on any matter. Whether Cicero was not aware of that or whether he didn’t care, Fronto couldn’t say, but the man slapped a hand angrily down on the table.

  “We have no cavalry. We have only two legions and no idea quite how many of the natives there are out there who will resist us. We have no supplies and not enough intelligence as to where the areas of farmland and settlements are. We can’t even chase down the army that we pushed back due to the lack of cavalry support. It’s a futile gesture, Caesar!”

  Fronto smiled. The commander of the Seventh had begun to rant about the idiocy of the entire campaign the moment he had stepped into Caesar’s tent and the argument had not let up yet, despite the increasingly dangerous edge to the general’s tone. Brutus, Galronus and Volusenus stood quiet, staying clear of the matter. For his part, Fronto couldn’t wait to get started on Cicero, but for the time being it was too much fun just watching Caesar nearing his breaking point.

  All in all, it would work nicely for him. Caesar would, at some point, draw Fronto up for his actions at the beach, but Cicero had nicely diverted the general’s anger onto himself. It would be ever so easy now to fall onto Caesar’s side and launch his own argument at his fellow legate. That, in turn, should nicely incense Furius and Fabius enough to get their blood up. The two centurions were standing not far from the general’s tent, as were Carbo and Atenos, and they would quickly become aware of the division and argument. Especially when Fronto carried the bile right to them.

  “No, Cicero. Push me no further.” The general’s voice sounded like a blade being drawn.

  To his credit, Cicero seemed to realise that he’d walked to the edge of a precipice, and fell silent for a second. Fronto almost laughed when, rather than stopping, the legate of the Seventh simply changed tack.

  “Then I have an alternative suggestion, Caesar.”

  The general’s eyes became flinty, daring the man to continue speaking.

  “Perhaps we can send back the fleet and collect the Ninth legion from Gesoriacum? Possibly even one of the other legions as well, if Cotta and Sabinus are still local enough? Then we could check on the cavalry and find out what happened to them? Four legions with cavalry support and we could take proper control of the island.”

  “No.”

  “But…”

  “No, Cicero.”

  The legate of the Seventh subsided into silence, though his face was an interesting puce colour, and he almost vibrated with the urge to go on.

  The general turned his withering glare on Fronto and the Tenth’s legate could feel Caesar forcing himself to stay calm as he prepared to deal with his other wayward legate. Fronto took a deep breath.

  Now was his chance.

  “I am aware that by leading two centuries of the Tenth into the water, I went against the general orders during the landing, Cicero” he said, deliberately avoiding Caesar’s eyes and instead locking his gaze on his fellow legate. “But I have to make it absolutely clear that I wouldn’t have had to take such drastic action had you not flagrantly disobeyed your own orders and kept your legion back. Even those men of the Seventh who wanted to fight wouldn’t do so without an eagle to follow. I hope it burns in your gut that I had to provide that eagle because yours cowered on that trireme.”

  His face was coloured with fury, though inside, Fronto couldn’t help but feel a warm glow of satisfaction as the general turned his angry gaze on Cicero once more.

  Nicely deflected, if I say so myself.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Fronto” Cicero snapped in return. “I tried to commit my men, but the Seventh is no longer a proper legion. It’s a joke. Whatever the general asked of him, your old friend Priscus saddled the Seventh with every coward, rebel, idiot and disobedient fool in the army. My legion refused to disembark into the face of Hades without the Tenth being equally committed.”

  Somewhere deep inside, Fronto could see a certain sympathetic logic to that plight. Had he been in command, both legions would have been in the water together instantly. Still, the fool had just made his predicament that much worse by trying to kick the blame downwards. One of the perils of command was that, no matter how the legion acted, its commander took the ultimate brunt of any retribution for troubles caused.

  “Don’t bad-mouth your men, Cicero; it’s unprofessional. What do they say? ‘It’s a poor workman who blames his tools for failure’. I fought alongside your ‘cowards, rebels and idiots’ in the water, and they did the eagle proud. And I heard only Caesar’s call committing the Seventh. Not once did I hear your musicians sound the advance until we were already wading ashore.”

  “Fronto…”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You’re supposed to be a senior officer. Caesar may not agree with my call, but I did what I had to do to take control of the field, and the general will tell you that’s just what any officer worth his salt does in that situation. If my eagle hadn’t dragged your boys into the water, we’d all have died on the ships.”

  “So taking control of the army out from under the general – an act of mutiny to my mind – is preferable to taking your chances against a few enemy archers?”

  “Don’t be a prick, Cicero.”

  The legate of the seventh rolled his eyes. “Ever the gutter snipe, eh Fronto. If you can’t answer the question sensibly, you have to resort t
o name-calling. You’d do well as a senate back-seater.”

  “Stick it up your arse. It doesn’t matter how you dress your actions up, even in a broad striped toga, failure is still failure. You disobeyed your orders, endangering the whole army, and I was forced to disobey mine just to clear up your mess. Doesn’t matter what you say, I know that, and you know that.” He pointed a finger at the general, an act that raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Caesar knows it too, as well as these others.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Hell, even your pet apes know it. One of your precious psychopath centurions came with me into the water. How’s that suit you?”

  Cicero sank into silent glaring anger.

  Got him, Fronto thought with deep satisfaction. That hit a nerve.

  Caesar was looking back and forth between his two legates as though trying to decide who to berate first as Brutus finally stepped forward into the middle of the seething fracas.

  “If I may interject, this meeting was intended to decide how best we proceed from here, not as an arena to hurl insults and air our dirty undergarments. I would humbly suggest, Caesar, that we finish for now and reconvene in a few hours when frayed tempers have healed and we are all calmer and more reasonable. I cannot see this turning out any useful conclusions as it is.”

  For a moment, Caesar’s gaze fell on the speaker and it looked as though he might unleash his pent-up rage on the young officer. Finally, though, he subsided with a sigh and sank into his chair.

  “Agreed. Cicero? Go and think about what you want from your command. Fronto? Just go away. Reconvene here at the dusk watch and we will decide what to do. Commander Galronus? I would appreciate it if you could arrange some scout patrols from your turma of cavalry to see if we can locate farms or settlements within, say, a five mile radius?”

  Galronus saluted as Fronto and Cicero continued to glare at one another.