Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  His eyes burning, he was suddenly striding with furious gait towards the command tent, damaged parchment hanging from his hand.

  To Marcus Falerius Fronto

  I hope this finds you in good health and in a position to hand your command to another and return to us with all possible speed. I shall not waste words with too much periphery.

  The villain Clodius has had the audacity to abduct both your sister and my daughter from the streets of Rome in broad daylight. Through the unbelievable bravery and resourcefulness of Faleria, Lucilia managed to escape her imprisonment and has returned to me to deliver the news. I have to admit to having almost broken at the disappearance of my daughter, though my joy at her return was soured by the knowledge that your sister bought Faleria’s freedom with her own return to captivity.

  From her description, it appears that Clodius’ actions were entirely his own. Whether or not he has spoken to Caesar about the matter I cannot confirm, though I doubt it. Despite my opinion of the general’s motives, I do not believe he would order harm to our womenfolk. I have attempted to speak to Clodius, but he is no longer at the house of the Julii woman. I believe him to be secure and walled up inside his veritable fortress of a house with a small army. I too have arranged a private force and would like nothing more than to reduce his residence to rubble and pick over the corpses, but I fear for the safety of Faleria if I try and so I bide my time, fretting about her safety.

  I know that your first thought will be to come to Rome and help, and I pray that you do, but I also urge you to visit Caesar first and secure his aid in bringing the beast Clodius to heel. Only his master’s command will likely speed our cause.

  Know that I continue to watch the house and as soon as anything happens I and my men will be on the bastard’s back.

  Hurry home and do not tarry.

  Good travels.

  Quintus Lucilius Balbus.

  Fronto burst into the headquarters building, the door slamming against the wall and shaking dust from the rafters, two of the cavalry guard of Aulus Ingenuus trying to restrain him.

  “Caesar!”

  Rounding the corner to the main room of the headquarters, the chapel next door glinting with the eagles, flags and standards of eight legions, Fronto came to a halt, the two cavalrymen still grasping his arms.

  “Caesar, call these pricks off!”

  The general, his eyebrow raised in surprise, waved the two guards away nonchalantly. He had removed his cloak, cuirass, helmet and sword, and slouched back gratefully in his chair wearing only his tunic and breeches, a slave unfastening his boots. Brutus and Rufus stood to one side, Cotta and Varus the other, the latter leaning against the wall and rubbing his splinted arm.

  “You seem fraught, Marcus. I realise you’ve had a bad…”

  “What have you got your weasel Clodius doing?” Fronto demanded.

  “I’m sorry?” replied the general, a dangerous edge entering his voice.

  “Clodius. You’ll no doubt be interested to hear that Lucilia Balba escaped and told her father all about it. But not so my sister. Oh, no. Faleria’s still missing. But then you know that, don’t you?”

  “Marcus, calm yourself and breathe. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes you do” snarled Fronto, storming across the room and slamming a blood-stained fist on the table, letting the parchment skitter across the surface to the general, who picked it up with a frown. “I knew when I was talking to you in Britannia that you were holding something back from me; something you knew I wouldn’t like. Were you ever planning to release her? I mean, surely it would have been better to just cut her throat and bury her, so that I never found out about it?”

  “Fronto…”

  “No, no, no, no, no. You delayed didn’t you. Because you hate to waste a commodity that might be of use later. And you waited too long, because Lucilia escaped and now she’s a liability rather than a prize. You cocked up, Caesar, and I heard about it. I found out!”

  Caesar stood slowly and slid the parchment across to him.

  “I will state again, Marcus, and swear to Venus Genetrix herself that I was not aware of her captivity, as your friend seems to suggest in his letter. I hold both your sister and the family of Quintus Balbus in very high esteem. Had I been aware of their abduction, I would have released them and been the one to break the news to you myself.”

  Fronto was shaking his head. “You can’t hide your secrets from me. I knew you were up to something. I can read your expressions, Caesar; I’ve known you a long time.”

  The general gestured to the others to leave, and Varus, Rufus and Brutus filed out of the room, their faces a mix of shock and embarrassment. As soon as the door clicked shut, Caesar sat once more and picked up a tablet and stylus, beginning to write furiously.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m writing you three messages. The first is to Publius Clodius Pulcher ordering him to release your sister and warning him that I will be returning to Rome very soon to deal with him. The second is an authorization that will give you access to every resource in my army’s supply and courier train between here and Massilia, so that you can use as many horses as you need to travel home at speed and have the best accommodation en-route. The last is to the captain of my trireme in the port of Massilia, granting you full use. Get home, Fronto and sort this out.”

  Fronto stood for a moment, wreathed in anger, concern, confusion and gratitude, hardly able to figure which way to turn.

  “But you’re not telling me something!”

  “Marcus, there’s a lot I’m not telling you. Some of it is for your own good, and some of it is for mine. Rest assured though that I am not party to this abhorrent act. Now stop wasting time spitting in my face and go and help your sister. I will be a week behind you at most.”

  Fronto stood staring helplessly at the general for a moment, not quite sure what to believe, and finally nodded, grasping the three tablets carefully as Caesar sealed them one by one, wiped his signet ring clean and then sat back.

  “What the hell was that about?” Brutus said quietly as Fronto emerged from the building. Varus and Rufus had moved off, but the young legate stood with his arms crossed, waiting.

  “I need to get back to Rome. Make sure the Tenth is looked after; they’ve fought hard this autumn.”

  Brutus nodded and turned as his fellow legate strode on past. “Good luck, Marcus.”

  Fronto, barely hearing him, fixed his eyes on the dirty figure of Galronus staggering wearily across the road towards the building that served as a mess hall, a gesticulating Priscus at his side. The cavalryman dragged his feet and looked like he hadn’t slept for several days and was waving away the busy figure of the camp prefect as he walked.

  “Galronus?”

  The two men paused at the sound and sight of Fronto and the Remi noble broke into an exhausted smile.

  “Marcus! I’m so pleased to see you.”

  “No time to rest. Get back to your horse; we need to be in Rome before I even have time to shit.”

  Galronus blinked at him in surprise.

  “Marcus?”

  “Clodius has abducted Faleria. Come on!”

  Instantly, the cavalryman shook off his fatigue, his eyes flashing with the same anger present in Fronto’s. The two men nodded at Priscus and ran off towards the stables of the cavalry as though freshly awoken.

  Priscus stood silent for a moment. Should he go with them? There was nothing he’d prefer, and certainly Marcus would welcome his help. But the camp prefect’s place was here, particularly at this stage of the year’s campaigning.

  Scratching his head irritably, he caught a legionary running past and hauled him to a stop.

  “Sir?” the legionary saluted in a panic.

  “I have a job for you lad. I want you to find someone for me.”

  Chapter 21

  (Vienna, on the Rhodanus, 160 miles north of Massilia)

  Galronus dropped heavily from his
horse and almost staggered with fatigue as he led the beast towards the stable area of the Sweeping Eagle, their first stop within the traditional borders of the Republic. Fronto slid down with equal lack of grace from his own mount and grasped the reins to lead the beast on. He’d have felt more confident riding Bucephalus back home, but had decided to leave the magnificent black in the care of Varus, opting for the speed to be gained from a constant change of courier horses on the road south.

  “I’m for an unhealthy quantity of wine tonight” Fronto said without humour. “I need a proper sleep for a change.”

  Galronus inclined his head in agreement. “Once we stow the gear. A good hot meal is high on my agenda too.”

  Nodding, Fronto strode towards the door into the courtyard and stable area. The groom appeared as if from nowhere as the two men neared the entrance and reached up to take the reins, leading the beasts into their stalls for the night.

  Leaving the young man to his work, the two officers hoisted their bags over their shoulders. It had only occurred to Fronto almost a hundred miles from Gesoriacum that he’d not arranged the transport of the rest of his gear, but figured that half of it would stay with the Tenth as usual and that Priscus would find a way to ship the more immediate and personal kit to Puteoli for him. For what he had in mind at the moment, all he required was clothes, a horse, a sword and a bad temper.

  The interior of the Eagle was heaving with drinkers, diners and gamers intent on their dice and various miscellaneous competitions. Fronto looked around for the familiar figure of the proprietor, Lucius Silvanus, but could not spot the large ex-soldier among the press. Every table appeared to be full, but he felt fairly sure that someone would respectfully make room for them to sit and eat once they were ready.

  Gesturing to Galronus, he shoved his way through the throng to the bar, surprised at the lack of shown deference until he remembered that he was wearing only his stained, battle-scarred tunic, breeches and military cloak, a utilitarian gladius at his side. Without digging out his better kit, he looked not unlike any other off-duty soldier.

  The bar was being tended by a bulky Gaul with hands like hams and arm-hair like a bear, and by a young woman who would have been stunningly attractive were it not for the pox scars and the missing ear that was just visible occasionally as her hair moved.

  “Innkeep?”

  The huge Gaul handed a local his change and shoved a clay cup towards him before sidling down the bar. Fronto thought he caught a hint of recognition in the man’s expression as he suddenly moved from the sullen keeper of drinks to the helpful attendant of the bar.

  “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?”