4.Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  Varus turned away.

  They never lived to treasure their grisly prize as moments later the standard bearer, two Roman cavalrymen and half a dozen of Piso’s guards reached the spot and dispatched them. But Varus couldn’t stop staring at the headless figure kneeling on the ground.

  Someone’s hands grasped Varus by the chin and turned his head away.

  “Commander?”

  The Roman officer focused as much as he was able. The pain was so intense that he could hardly focus or think. The only image that he could see, despite having been forcibly turned away, was the headless body of Piso kneeling in the mud, covered in blood, his sword lying discarded beside him.

  “Commander?”

  Better focus. One of the Roman cavalrymen was holding him up and staring into his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Can you ride, sir?”

  Varus shook his head. He could barely stand, let alone ride. The soldier conferred with someone out of Varus’ line of sight.

  “We haven’t got time for a litter. I’ll throw him over the back of my horse and have to hope he survives with his arm intact.”

  “Be quick. We’re in full retreat.”

  The last thing Varus remembered was the heaving nausea as his world spun upside down and the shock of unspeakable pain as his arm swung to and fro from the back of the horse upon which he was unceremoniously draped. The image that burned itself into his retinas as he bounced painfully away from both battlefield and consciousness was the body of his rescuer, Piso, still miraculously kneeling in the mud.

  ROME

  The villa of Atia Balba Prima, like most of the houses of the wealthier families on the Palatine hill had a very austere façade, plain brick walls coated with plaster, with few apertures and even those high up.

  Balbus frowned from the shadow of the apple tree.

  “I still do not like this.”

  Faleria, the sister of Fronto, was proving to Balbus to be every bit as headstrong and troublesome as her brother and probably more so. The well-dressed lady in her lemon-coloured stola and mustard-toned shawl smiled.

  “Quintus, we are quite all right, you know. This is a social call; nothing more. Now run along and we’ll meet you back at the house in a couple of hours.”

  Balbus’ gaze slipped back and forth between Faleria and his daughter Lucilia, bedecked in a midnight blue stola and looking far too adult and mature for his liking.

  “I’d tell you to look after each other, but I do worry you’re each as bad. Be careful.”

  Lucilia smiled and patted him on the cheek as they turned and strode across the square, passing a family of the equestrian class and an apple seller who apparently had not cottoned on to the abundance of the fruit going for free in the square. Balbus watched them until they got to the door and then turned with a nervous swallow and returned to the three litters that had brought them from the Cispian.

  Faleria arched a perfect eyebrow at her companion.

  “Are you really comfortable with this? I’ve met Atia. She’s shrewd and very used to being steeped in the politics of the city.”

  Lucilia smiled.

  “I’m fine, Faleria. Come on.”

  Reaching up, she tugged the bell-pull by the featureless door. A few long moments passed before they heard the muffled flapping of sandals on marble from the far side and, after a couple of clunks and rattles, the door opened.

  A short, bald man with an olive complexion and a neat, short beard squinted at them.

  “Mistresses?”

  Faleria allowed her most imperious expression to fall across her face, her voice matching it perfectly.

  “Please inform your mistress that the ladies Faleria and Lucilia have come to pay their respects to the gracious niece of the great Caesar.”

  The slave gestured to them, inviting them into the atrium, and then shuffled off. A murmur of conversation drifted back from the tablinum nearby, while the two visitors cast their glance around the room.

  Close to the door stood the altar to the household and family gods, with its small statuettes and a mass of flower heads in the dipped surface, soaked in Falernian wine as an offering. A similar sight stood inside most households, though more surprising was the small altar to Venus that stood nearby with a tray of sweetmeats in the offering bowl. It was said that Caesar could trace his family line back to the Goddess herself and Atia clearly bought into the idea.

  The fountain in the impluvium pool, a bronze statue of a dancing nymph, sprayed a jet into the air that tinkled down to the water with a calming splatter.

  “The domina will see you now, ladies. Please follow me.”

  Lucilia and Faleria smiled at the slave who had appeared from around a corner and followed him back and into the tablinum. Atia Balba Prima lounged on a golden couch while two slave girls anointed her feet and tended her toenails. Absently, she plucked a grape from the bowl next to her and popped it into her mouth.

  Lady Atia could hardly look any more different from her uncle. Rather than being tall and lean, she was diminutive and voluptuous, her nose small and button-like, her hair lustrous and coppery, falling in carefully-curled waves to her shoulders. Her face was pale – presumably with white lead – her lips crimson and her eyes kohl-darkened.

  “Noble names. The widow of the Falerii, sister of my uncle’s favourite soldier, and the daughter of the erstwhile commander of one of his legions. And keeping company together in the city. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Faleria nodded – a gesture that suggested an equality between them that surprised Lucilia.

  “A social call only. As clients of your family, it seemed polite to make your acquaintance again. We met a few years ago, of course, but Lucilia is new to the circles of Rome.”

  Atia smiled and a shudder ran through Lucilia. That face suddenly reminded her of nothing so much as a crocodile.

  “Of course; of course. Do come and sit. I will have food and drink brought for you. Wine or fruit juice?”

  Lucilia smiled nervously. “Fruit juice will be fine for me, thank you my lady.” Faleria nodded. “For me too.”

  Lucilia gestured to the spare couches and snapped her fingers.

  “Agorion? Play something sweet for our guests.”

  A thin, ebony-skinned man in a loincloth plucked a lyre from beside a pillar and stepped to the side of the room, beginning to pick out a light melody with seeming ease.

  “So you have decided to spend the summer in Rome while the men are off playing soldier with the barbarian. Very sensible, I should say. Sadly, you missed one of the great social engagements of the spring, when lady Sepunia held her orgy. It was quite a party, I can tell you. Some juicy scandal and some delicious slaves from Tingis.”

  Lucilia sat gingerly on the couch to one side and raised her feet, removing her sandals. Faleria mirrored her opposite with a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Atia. I don’t know about you, but I find litters to be less comfort than walking. The bones are shaken up with every step.”

  “Indeed, though it would not do for ladies to walk so far unescorted, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  The opening pleasantries over, Atia turned to Lucilia with a smile.

  “Your father has a villa near to Massilia, I understand, where the family resides much of the time?”

  “Very true, lady Atia.”

  “Do you not find yourselves overcome with the tedium? Do you not miss the spectacle of Rome?”

  Lucilia shrugged.

  “I have not spent a great deal of my time here, my lady. Much of my youth I lived in the provinces with father and mother. I have only ever spent short stints in the city.”

  “Then we shall have to train you up in the manner of a lady of the city, my darling Lucilia. Why I shall make it my personal task to introduce you to every important face and every delight the city has to offer.”

  Faleria switched off. Lucilia was handling herself well, and something that had attracte
d Faleria’s interest since she’d first entered nagged at her. Over the general hubbub of the house, the chattering of the lady and her slaves in this room, there had been the barely-discernible sound of male voices in deep discussion somewhere in the house. Now, as she concentrated, trying to filter out the lyre music and the inane chat, she could hear them more clearly.

  Because they were becoming louder.

  She realised suddenly that the sources of the noise were approaching.

  With the pretence of sorting an errant coil in her hair, she draped the falling locks like a curtain, hiding her face from the door, while being able to look between the coils and strands.

  Half a dozen men passed the doorway on the way to the front entrance without even a glance in at the lady who owned the building: an unthinkable breech in etiquette that it seemed odd for Atia to ignore.

  Faleria squinted through the hair curtain. The men were rough thugs dressed in dirty tunics and leather, at least one bearing the mark of a former legionary on his upper arm. All were armed with knives or stout sticks.

  She was peering intently when the face of Publius Clodius Pulcher appeared at the end of the small group of men, his sharp gaze snapping around to the room and Atia’s visitors. He was dressed in a toga, yet even he carried a knife. Faleria’s heart raced at the sight of the loathsome man. Here was the villain who had burned down their house and tried to kill her family.

  So casually that it almost pained her, she turned her face to Atia, away from the door, her pulse thudding, hoping that the man had somehow not recognised her.

  “We must away for the afternoon my lady” Clodius said pleasantly. “Business to attend to; you known how it is.”

  Atia waved dismissively at him.

  “Just don’t disturb my guests and I when you return.”

  There was an unpleasant laugh.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Though the lady Faleria and I are old friends, are we not?”

  Faleria winced, but he clearly didn’t expect an answer as he strode out laughing lightly, following his men to the door.

  “Horrible man, but he does have his uses” said Atia, apologetically.

  Faleria murmured platitudes and made a small deal of the matter, turning the conversation back to Lucilia as her mind raced. Clodius leading thugs from the house of Caesar’s niece and following Cicero and other senators. One thing was certain: if Clodius was involved, those senators were far from safe.

  It was time to write to Fronto.

  Chapter 6

  (Border of Treveri & Ubii lands close to the Rhine & Moselle Rivers)

  Caesar’s fist slammed down on the table surface, causing the cup of water and the wooden writing tablets to jump and clatter back to the oak top.

  “How many?”

  “We don’t have full figures yet” Fronto said quietly. “But Varus estimated over a thousand horses and at least five hundred riders.”

  Labienus leaned forward from the line of officers. “How is the commander?”

  “Lucky to be alive. The medicus says he’ll be out of commission for weeks and he may lose the use of his left arm and some movement in his hip. Varus is of a different opinion. He reckons that if his arm’s splinted up properly he’ll be back in his saddle tomorrow. The truth’s probably somewhere in between.”

  The two officers were suddenly aware that Caesar was glaring at them for this change of subject. Fronto cleared his throat.

  “Caesar, we’ve been marching boldly towards these invaders on the assumption we were going to meet them in pitched battle in the field, as usual. The fact is that they’ve taken us by surprise and completely battered the cavalry in the first engagement. We can’t afford to go strutting forward now. We need to be cautious or we could lose half the army to tricky ambushes before we can even bring them to a fight.”

  Caesar narrowed his eyes at Fronto.

  “I have no intention of treading lightly because of a simple setback, Fronto.”

  Another throat was cleared and Labienus stepped from the ranks.

  “Caesar? Might I suggest that now would be a good time to reconsider a diplomatic solution?”

  The general’s head whipped around to turn his withering glare on his most senior officer. “Diplomacy, Labienus?”

  “With respect, Caesar, we are endangering the army and costing both the republic and your esteemed person a great deal of money by keeping this large army marching against a foe who seems to have the measure of us and a good idea of how to whittle down our numbers. Those same foes have offered us the hand of peace and even service in your army for a small allotment of land this side of the Rhenus. It could be considered vainglorious and even prideful to continue this push, considering the alternatives available.”

  A small chorus of agreement rose from one corner of the tent, where Cicero was nodding emphatically, his face a picture of suspicion. Fronto’s eyes slipped from Cicero to the applauding figures of the two foppish tribunes: Menenius and Hortius. No shock that those two would rather see a negotiation table than a battlefield.

  Caesar’s face was a mask of cold composition, expressionless and severe. Fronto knew as well as any other long-serving officer in the tent what that meant. Beneath that cold face, the general’s blood was rising to boiling point. Fury contained in a stony case.

  “There will be no negotiation with these animals. Their diplomacy has already been clearly revealed as trickery and deceit. They used the peace table to distract us while they gutted our cavalry. Should they be stupid enough to send any further emissaries, they will be taken in, executed and sent back to their people from the neck-up. Do I make myself clear?”

  Cicero stepped out to join Labienus. Fronto was a little taken aback and distinctly unimpressed to see the centurions Furius and Fabius at his shoulders. It appeared that the bad apples were all congregating in a pile.

  “Caesar, it is not seemly or tactically sound to launch into further violent activity simply as an angry response to trickery. I implore you to think on the matter before making your decision.”

  Caesar’s eyes flashed dangerously and Fronto diplomatically stepped between the two men, obscuring their view of one another.

  “You know me, Cicero. You know that I don’t back down from a fight, but you also know that I’m not one to waste the lives of my men in unnecessary battle. Whatever we might have done to begin with, we have given our word to the council of Gaul and our ultimatum to the Germanic tribes who crossed the river. Given their treacherous sneak attack in addition to that, we are no longer in a position to back down. Caesar is not acting impulsively through anger or pride, but through expediency and necessity. We must now beat some sense into the invaders and shove their hairy arses back over the river for good.”

  A much louder roar of agreement sounded around the tent. Beneath the tumult, Caesar’s quiet voice caught Fronto’s ear.

  “I am not a child that needs defending, Marcus. I can speak for myself.”

  Barely moving his lips and without turning his head, Fronto replied “coming from someone else, it diffuses their argument over vainglory, Caesar.”

  Labienus folded his arms.

  “Marcus, you know I respect you, but can you not see the waste of an opportunity here? Are you yourself so committed to slaughter that you cannot find it in yourself to consider the alternatives?”

  As a general hubbub rose, Fronto’s face coloured with irritation and, as he straightened to reply, Menenius and Hortius sniggered and his eyes shot towards them. He’d distinctly heard his name in their whispered conversation alongside the word ‘donkey’.

  Before he could turn his invective against the pair, his own senior tribune, Tetricus, leaned close to them from where he stood nearby. Fronto couldn’t hear what he said to them, but they went very pale and stopped smirking.

  Cicero smiled unpleasantly.

  “I see now that, unable to make your point convincingly, Fronto, you fall back on having your tribune threaten people. How diplomati
c.”

  A low growl began to rise in Fronto’s throat and he noted with growing ire that Furius and Fabius, still at Cicero’s shoulders, were now glaring at Tetricus with barely-concealed contempt.

  “At least I can say I’m here with honour to serve the general!” he snapped angrily.

  A roar of angry comments rose around the tent. As the noise increased and filled the dim space with deafening malice, Fronto’s eyes locked on Cicero and the two centurions. Labienus was busy arguing with Brutus, both men gesturing angrily with their hands. Menenius and Hortius had retreated to the shadows at the rear, though Tetricus had moved to stand near them again, his expression dangerous.

  Fronto folded his arms amid the chaos, locked in a silent battle of wills with Cicero.

  “Enough!”

  The tent snapped to silent attention at Caesar’s bellowed command. The general had his sword aloft and, as all eyes turned to him, many arms still pointing at one another accusingly, Caesar turned his hand a half circle and brought the gladius down hard, driving it deep, point-first into the table, tearing through a carefully drawn map.

  “This is not a public market! This is not an academy for philosophers! This is not even the house of the old women we call a senate! This is MY COMMAND TENT and I WILL HAVE ORDER!”

  Fronto and Cicero, the only two men in the tent who had not turned to the general, finally unlocked their baleful gazes from one another and turned.

  “This is not a matter for debate. This is my army, my province, and my command. I give the orders and you follow them to the best of your ability. That is how things work, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will leave a detachment to guard the baggage train and siege engines as they follow on, while the army will move at the fastest speed we can manage to engage the enemy.”

  The general’s gaze flitted to Labienus and Cicero.

  “If anyone here is discontented with their role and wishes to resign their commission, lose my patronage and return to Rome, then they may do so. But bear in mind that I have a very long reach and an even longer memory.”