Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Good evenin’ officers. What can ‘us do fer yer?”

  “Where is Silvanus?” Fronto enquired quietly. “He normally looks after visiting officers himself.”

  “The master’s gone to Nemausus to secure a supply of oil an’ garum from ‘ispania, sirs. Can us ‘elp yer?”

  Fronto shrugged. “About time Silvanus got some good food in here. The beer and ‘wine’ I’m getting used to, but I was getting sick of roast pig.”

  The Gaul grinned. “Then y’ain’t gonna like the menu tonight, sir!”

  Fronto sighed and pointed at one of the amphorae stacked against the wall behind the bar, still sealed and with the seal facing him.

  “We need a good, quiet room for the night, two full dinners… no, make it three but split it between two plates, and that amphora of Sicilian wine that I don’t even care how you got.”

  The Gaul laughed. “Find yerself a table, then, master officer, an’ us’ll get things ready fer yer. Citizen officers can settle up in the morn. ‘Tis house rule.”

  Fronto smiled gratefully.

  “If it’s all the same, we’ll go to the room first and dump our kit, wash, and then be back down in about half an hour for food?”

  “If’n yer please, sir.”

  “And don’t sell that wine to anyone else while I’m gone!”

  Again the Gaul gave a deep belly laugh and collected a good iron key of Roman design from the counter at the rear of the bar, tossing it over to Fronto.

  “Top o’ the stairs, end o’ the corridor on the right. It’s over the stables, so’s the noise is low.”

  “And smells of horse shit. Still an improvement over this lot” Fronto grinned wearily. “Cheers. See you in half an hour or so.”

  Galronus frowned as they turned and pushed back across the room to the stairs that led up to the second floor where the rooms were.

  “I don’t think I like Sicilian wine. Too heavy.”

  Fronto shook his head in mock disbelief. “For a man whose people brew something that tastes like foot fungus and old boots I’m not sure your viniculture opinion holds much weight. Silvanus has cocked up. There’s no way that amphora should be on public display. He’d normally keep something like that hidden in the cellars in case major dignitaries happen to stop by.”

  “Maybe while he’s away your big barman friend is running the place?”

  They reached the foot of the wooden staircase and Fronto cast a glance across the heaving main room of the inn.

  “If that’s the case, Silvanus has chosen well. The place is packed. He must be raking it in!”

  With tired, straining leg muscles, the two officers climbed the stairs and turned down the corridor, strolling along the length of it until they reached the far end, where a window stood, the shutters open. Fronto glanced out interestedly across the roof of the annexe that had been only half-constructed the last time they were here and which lay just below the window. To the right was the courtyard, the stables below them.

  “It certainly is quieter along here” Fronto muttered. Galronus simply nodded and peered out of the window himself as Fronto reached up with the key and unlocked the door. Shouldering his kit bag again, the legate pushed open the portal and strode into the room.

  Galronus turned back to the doorway and looked into the room, lit by the early evening sunlight shining in through the window.

  His hand went to his sword immediately as his eyes focused on the thing between them and the window.

  The body of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen in the Eighth legion, veteran officer and proprietor of the Sweeping Eagle, swung back and forth, rhythmically blotting out the sunlight, his face contorted, swollen purple tongue extended and neck at an uncomfortable angle with the noose knotted around it. A patch of detritus marred the floorboards below the swinging corpse.

  As Galronus drew his long, Gaulish cavalry blade with a rasp, he shouted the warning to Fronto, who had entered the room without looking ahead, his attention locked on trying to remove the stiff key from the door.

  In the event, he was too late. As his sword came free and his mouth opened, a shadowed figure appeared from behind the door, throwing an arm round Fronto’s neck and yanking him out of sight.

  Fronto squawked in surprise, somewhere unseen behind the door.

  Desperately, Galronus pulled back his heavy-duty blade and, squinting and making an educated guess as to the relative positions of Fronto and his assailant, slammed the blade through the hairline crack between planks in the door, smashing the boards aside as the blade punched easily through.

  He was rewarded with an unearthly scream and, as he withdrew the sword with some difficulty from between the planks, he noted with great satisfaction the dark oily blood coating the blade.

  “Shit!” shouted a voice from behind the door.

  “The bastard’s killed me!” added a second voice

  “Shit!” repeated the first.

  Neither was the voice of Fronto, both speaking in a southern Gallic dialect, confirming to Galronus that at least two murderers were waiting for them.

  Suddenly, Fronto staggered out into view again, one hand clutching his throat where he’d been momentarily strangled, the other reaching down for his sword as he backed towards the swinging body.

  Without waiting for Fronto, Galronus stepped into the room, turning to face the men behind the door. One was clutching his belly, blood pouring between his fingers and down to the floor just as it drained from his face. In his other hand, he held a hunting and skinning knife, clean-bladed and unused. A few feet from him a second man held a similar blade, but was edging away towards the window.

  “No you don’t.” The Remi officer turned with the man’s movement and sprang like a wildcat, his sword coming back up as he leapt. The would-be assassin made a split-second decision between fleeing for the window and trying to protect himself from this madman. Figuring that he would never reach the window in time, he turned and lashed out with the knife as the cavalryman came down on him, sword descending in time with his body.

  Fronto watched in horrified fascination as the world seemed to slow to a crawl.

  Galronus hit the assassin feet first, both heels slamming into the man’s knee and smashing his leg beyond hope. At the same time, his blade came down and even as the knee turned backwards the heavy blade bit deep into the man’s torso at the angle between neck and shoulder, cleaving a foot deep into him.

  Simultaneously, the hopelessly outclassed assassin had struck with the knife. Galronus’ arm had come up protectively to save his face from the blow at the last minute and the knife hammered home into his forearm, neatly slipping between the two bones and driving straight through his arm up to the hilt.

  The would-be-murderer was dead before his body settled to the ground. Fronto stared as Galronus stood, gritting his teeth and, wincing, drew the blade out of his arm with a splash of blood.

  “I could have done with questioning him.”

  “What about the other one” Galronus asked casually, but realised as he looked across the room that the man had driven his heavy knife deep into his own heart to end the torment of the belly wound that would take perhaps a day to kill him.

  “Now we have no idea why all this.”

  Galronus shrugged. “It occurs to me that your friend the barman will know; he must have been in on this. Perhaps we should ask him?”

  “I think not” Fronto said quietly, sheathing his sword and hoisting his kit back onto his shoulder. “If he knows, probably half the people down there do. No one looks too concerned with Silvanus’ absence, and he’s only been dangling there less than a day. Half a day, I’d say. Unless we want to find ourselves facing off against every lowlife in Vienna, we’d best make a sharp exit and get somewhere way south of town for the night.”

  As they peered down the corridor and confirmed no one was watching, Fronto locked the door once more and started to climb out of the window. Galronus cleaned his blade on a piece of the assassin’s t
unic he’d ripped off, and sheathed it.

  “You think it’s your tribune friends?”

  “I can’t really think who else it could be. This was deliberately targeted at us; not just aimed for the first Roman officer that came past. They even put an amphora of expensive Sicilian in plain view just to occupy my thoughts and stop me noticing things out of place or wondering about Silvanus. Of course he wouldn’t have gone to Nemausus for stuff – he’d have sent someone. Come on.”

  Fronto padded across the roof of the extension and slid down, dropping to the courtyard.

  Galronus followed suit with more dexterity, landing easily as Fronto winced in pain and rubbed his knee.

  “You’ve got to sort that out” Galronus scolded him.

  “The first chance I get to give it a month’s rest I’ll do just that. Now let’s get the horses and get out of Vienna before we discover that Menenius and Hortius bought every thug in the place.”

  * * * * *

  Fronto and Galronus slowed their tired mounts and reined in outside Poseidon’s Palace, the most grandiosely named inn in Massilia. The large building with two wings of accommodation had done its Greek owner extremely well since Caesar’s push into Gaul, being selected as the official stopping point for all officers and couriers passing through the independent city and boarding or disembarking ships. In fact, the Roman traffic through the inn, for which the owner was paid a healthy monthly stipend, had all but driven the free trade from its doors as few locals or merchants could afford to rent a room. Even the décor and the food and drink were now thoroughly catered to Roman tastes.

  The groom, a young man with one leg slightly longer than the other, lurched from the wide gateway of the stables and greeted the two officers pleasantly, his accent that strange mix only found in the former Greek trading colonies of the west.

  The two men nodded and handed their reins over to the servant, patting the steaming flanks of the beasts that had carried them the last leg from Glanum and wishing them well as they ended the horseback segment of their journey. It had been ten days of tense desperation, saddle-sores, constantly changing mounts and rough cots in the small, stockaded way-stations set up by Cita to provide the enormous supply system that flowed from Narbonensis, Massilia and Cisalpine Gaul.

  Ten days of trepidation.

  The incident at Vienna had pushed them to a new turn of speed, having gained them a night with no rest and therefore a further thirty miles under their belts. Neither man had spoken of the attack after they had left the Vienna area almost three days earlier, hurrying through the night to be free from the danger of assassins. That the two tribunes were prepared to take the risks and spend the money paying off local bandits and even murdering settled veterans spoke eloquently of the lengths to which the men were willing to go in removing Fronto from the picture.

  Though neither man voiced it, both Fronto and Galronus had come quickly to the conclusion that the tribunes would have been successful had they themselves sprung the trap, and the fact that they did not and instead entrusted it to the unknown quantity of paid killers suggested that they were otherwise engaged in a task that was too important to delay even for that. Such a task was worrisome indeed.

  His bag of personal kit slung over his shoulder, Fronto strode into the ‘Palace’, Galronus at his heel. The main chamber of the inn, mostly given over to tables for eating, with a fire at the more open end that warmed the room, was thriving, though here and there were spaces still available at tables.

  Their eyes strayed across the occupants – more than ninety per cent of whom were Roman, and rested on the long bar with the innkeeper and his slave working like mad to tend to the custom. They had a more urgent appointment than that, though. Feeling their muscles loosen at the warm and cosy atmosphere, the two officers strode across to the table close to the fire which was stacked with tablets, sheaves of writing wood, styluses and the endless accoutrements of the bureaucracy. The man sitting on the only chair at the desk was the mirror of every mid-level administrator across the Republic: well-dressed above his station and full of self-importance. And yet who could deny him deference, given the vital role he played in the support of Caesar’s campaign?

  Flavius Fimbria was the man with a stranglehold on all travel and goods in or out of Massilia, a man with a plethora of slaves and functionaries, to whom every Roman who passed through the city must speak if he wished to arrange sea passage, horses, a cart, or supplies.

  “Master Fimbria” Fronto greeted him formally, approaching the table.

  “Can I help you, soldier?”

  Fronto felt Galronus stiffen at his side, bridling at the lack of deference to officers of their rank. The legate himself knew that despite their lofty positions they resembled nothing more than a travel-worn legionary or junior officer and a somewhat Romanised Gaul.

  “Yes. Please arrange for the Glory of Venus to make ready to sail in the morning at the first available opportunity, and arrange suitable space for two officers and their personal kit only. The destination is Ostia and the ship is to make the fastest sailing possible.”

  Fimbria narrowed his eyes. “You have the authorisation for this?”

  Fronto dropped one of Caesar’s tablets to the table in front of him, the others having been well used, but this still fresh and sealed. The administrator examined the seal for a moment, seeming surprised to find it genuine, and then snapped it open and perused the contents.

  “Very well, legate Fronto – I presume – I will send to the ship and have your arrangements made. The first sailing will be just past dawn. Could you arrange to be at the seventh jetty in the port by sun-up?”

  The legate nodded and reached for the tablet just as Fimbria swept it away. “I’m afraid I shall need to retain this to pass on to trierarch Sura to confirm your authorisation. You understand?”

  Fronto shrugged. “Just have it ready.”

  Turning their back on the administrator they strode across the room to the bar and caught the attention of the innkeeper.

  “Officers?”

  “We need two rooms for the night, an evening meal and a morning call an hour before dawn.”

  “You have the relevant documents?” The man held out a hand expectantly and Fronto handed over the well-worn travel authorisation sealed by Caesar. Every man wishing to partake of the inn’s hospitality would need a stamped pass or would be required to pay upfront. The innkeeper peered at the tablet, an eyebrow raised at the seal of the proconsul of Illyricum and Cisalpine Gaul. He nodded as he snapped it shut and passed it back. “Please find yourself a table and I will have food and drink brought to you.”

  Fronto rubbed his eyes wearily and gestured to the bag on his shoulder questioningly.

  “Leave your kit here and I’ll have one of the boys take it up to a room for you, sir.”

  Galronus glanced uncertainly at Fronto, remembering the troubles at Vienna, but Fronto simply dumped the bag gratefully on the bar and turned to stride away.

  “Will they be safe?” the Remi officer asked quietly.

  “Here? Nowhere safer. The place is built on Roman coins and too high-profile for anyone to buy trouble in. Come on.” They made their way to one of the tables near the open space and therefore within the reach of the fire’s welcoming warm glow. The tables on the edge here were busy; legionaries and lesser officers, functionaries of Cita’s supply system, occupying each bench and seat.

  “Any room for two tired officers?” Fronto asked pointedly, in response to which a number of soldiers shuffled away, shifting their drinks, platters, dice and small piles of cash, leaving two stools at the end of a table, opposite one another.

  The two men sank gratefully to the seats nodding their thanks to the men who had moved up to make room.

  “Our pleasure, sir. You just come from the north, sir?”

  Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. He could really do without chatting to the passing soldiery at this juncture, but politeness cost nothing and the man was simply b
eing hospitable.

  “Hot-foot as it were from the north coast and bound for Rome, soldier. And you?”

  “Escort for a wagon full of furnishings and other goods for the legate of the Fourteenth legion, sir. To ease the hardship of winter quarters, I suspect.” The man smiled a knowing smile and Fronto couldn’t help but chuckle. He could only imagine what was in the wagon bound for Plancus’ tent.

  “Everything, sir” the soldier said as if reading his thoughts. “Right down to a marble statue of a dancing satyr and some naked girls. Pride of place, that one.”

  Fronto laughed again. “Do me a favour and try and damage some of it in your travels.”

  “More than my life’s worth, sir. I’d get my arse kicked right back to Ostia, and with nailed boots, too.”

  This time even the recently-dour Galronus smiled. “Good luck on the roads north” the Belgic officer said, stretching. “The Rhodanus valley’s safe enough, but the passage across the lands from Bibracte to Nemetocenna will be difficult if the weather turns, and it will do so any day now.”

  The soldier nodded gratefully. “Thanks, sir. We’re pretty well organised with goods and escort, so we should be fine. There’s nothing happening on the trail upriver then, sir?”

  “No” Fronto frowned. “Why?”

  “Well there’s not been many come back down from the campaign yet, sir, and the ones as passed through yesterday seemed concerned and in a bit of a hurry. Wouldn’t even exchange words with me.”

  Fronto looked up sharply. “Two tribunes by any chance?”

  “Aye, sir. Proper posh they were, sir. Wouldn’t talk to anyone but Fimbria over there.”

  Galronus had turned to the man now.

  “They were here yesterday?”

  “Yes sir. They came in after sunset in a real hurry. Arranged passage on a fast courier ship. I expect they sailed with her this morning, sir.”

  Fronto and Galronus exchanged a look.

  “Thanks.” Fronto pushed a couple of denarii over the table to the soldier. “Have a few drinks on us.”