4.Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  “If you had any idea who it is you’ve just accosted, you’d release us straight away and pray to whatever lowlife deities would have you that we say nothing more about this.”

  Two deep, guttural laughs greeted her statement and she found her arms released as she was pushed from her feet and fell in a heap painfully on a cobbled floor. Stretching her shoulders and making sure there was no serious damage, she reached up and pulled the bag from her head just as Faleria landed by her side. Reaching over gingerly, she helped Faleria remove the sack from her head and they both looked around at their location and captors.

  They were clearly in a cellar, from the construction and the lack of windows. There was the sound of water rushing somewhere beneath them and just beyond one of the walls. The room was dim, lit only by two small oil lamps, though an orange flare added more detail as one of the thugs lit a torch.

  The room was less than five yards across each direction. Square and featureless apart from…

  Lucilia’s heart lurched and she swallowed nervously as her eyes took in the meat hooks on the ceiling and the iron rings in two walls. A meat storage cellar. In fact, now that she knew, she could definitely smell the long-faded iron tang of blood. She was grateful at least that the cellar appeared to have been cleaned at some point since its original use.

  Six men stood between the women and the doorway, beyond which they could see a second room and a flight of stairs rising to the ground floor. The men were all bulky and ugly, with an assortment of misshapen noses and bulbous ears; fighters all. Two men, standing at the edges and with less leery passion in their gazes, had the distinctive look of professional soldiers, something both Lucilia and Faleria could spot a mile away, after years with Fronto and Balbus.

  “I am Faleria, daughter of the senator Lucius Falerius Fronto, a citizen of Rome, and this is Lucilia, daughter of Quintus Lucilius Balbus, former commander of the Eighth legion. If any harm should come to us, I’m sure you can picture the trouble that will befall you?”

  The men remained silent and Lucilia was suddenly aware of the tip-tap of light leather shoes on the flagstones beyond the door. It came as no surprise to either woman when the slender, graceful figure of Publius Clodius Pulcher stepped through the archway, his glossy black hair shining in the torchlight, his pronounced cheekbones and handsome face split in a less than handsome smile.

  “Dear ladies, how remiss of me. I have offered neither of you refreshment.”

  “Clodius, you hog-breath’d son of a Thracian whore!” Faleria spat with such venom that even Lucilia looked around in surprise. The thugs took an involuntary step back from this bile-ridden woman, but Clodius simply smiled and stepped forward, in front of his men.

  “Dearest Faleria, but we are old friends, are we not? Let us not stand on ceremony.”

  Without warning and like a coiled snake striking, Faleria was suddenly up and lunging for their captor. With neat economy of movement, one of the two professional ex-legionaries swept a cavalry long-sword out and rested it on her throat, bringing her to an abrupt halt four feet from Clodius.

  “Tut tut, Faleria. An unwise move in this company, and one that could result in something very unfortunate happening.”

  “What do you intend to do with us?” Lucilia snapped, glaring at the legionary who held Faleria still with his sword.

  “We know you serve Caesar now” Faleria snarled. “He is a friend of my brother and our family and will gut you and string you up for the crows when he finds out about this.”

  Something about Clodius’ smile suddenly unnerved Lucilia and she realised she was less than convinced of that fact.

  “Faleria…”

  But Clodius simply reached out and took the spatha sword from the soldier and slid it back into its sheath. Faleria made no move further forward despite the impediment having gone.

  “I have Caesar’s utmost confidence, my dear ladies, and an open remit to do what I must to prevent anything getting in the way. You see I have very specific goals and a limited timescale and opportunity to carry them out.”

  “Caesar will take exception to…”

  “I suspect not. Things move apace for the general and he has more on his mind than continually bothering himself with the minutiae. However, I will grant you your wish.”

  “You’ll release us?” Lucilia asked in suspicious surprise.

  “Gods, no. Apologies, you charming young lady, but that is quite impossible at this time. I will, however, send word to Caesar and request his instructions on how to proceed with you.”

  Lucilia blanched. “But that will take months!”

  “Yes. Even with fast couriers, it will not be quick. But you see, I am bound to obey the commands of my patron, and to release you without permission would be to countermand Caesar’s own orders.”

  Lucilia narrowed her eyes. “And, of course, word will no doubt reach my father that something unpleasant might happen to us unless he loses all interest in your activities?”

  “I think not, I’m afraid. Your father shares certain traits with your betrothed, and I suspect that, should he have any confirmation of our involvement, an entire mercenary army would be knocking on my door in a matter of hours. Sit tight ladies. I will have the room made more comfortable for you and make sure you are well looked after until I have word from Caesar.”

  Lucilia and Faleria watched with acerbic glares as Clodius and his thugs left the room, the last man placing one of the two lamps on a niche near the door to keep the room lit before closing the door and locking it from without.

  The older of the two women waited until all was quiet and then turned to her friend.

  “It’s all down to us, Lucilia. Tell me everything you noticed on the way here.”

  Lucilia frowned. “Let’s not do anything potentially dangerous, Faleria. Father will look for us anyway and he’ll know who’s to blame. And even if the worst comes to the worst, Caesar will order him to release us.”

  “I doubt that word will ever reach Caesar. There is no courier and no message. Clodius gives us that hope to help keep us quiet and malleable. We cannot look to Caesar for help, and your father may well find us, but Clodius would as quickly slit our throats as let him find us alive and able to testify against him.”

  She sighed. “No. It is up to us to find our way out of this. I memorised the journey through the building, I think. Find me a loose stone and we’ll scratch a map on the wall before the memories fade.”

  Lucilia stared at her friend. Courage, ingenuity and indomitability apparently ran strong in the line of the Falerii. She just hoped it would be enough to save them.

  Never had Fronto’s arms felt so far away from her as now.

  PART TWO: BRITANNIA

  Chapter 12

  (Nemetocenna in the lands of the Belgae)

  The legions heaved a collective sigh of relief as they settled in for the night. The journey from the Rhenus had consisted of almost two weeks of interminable marching, scouting, constructing and deconstructing innumerable camps for each night. And so, when the walls of Belgic Nemetocenna – well known to many of the men – hove into view as the sun began its descent, each soldier in the army sagged with gratitude that semi-permanent military ramparts remained here from the past few years of wintering troops, saving them the effort of digging ditches and raising walls.

  The huge, sprawling fort, with four separate and individually-ramparted sub-camps, had been fully constructed and thriving within half an hour of arrival. Sentries had been posted, pickets out, officers already in the settlement in deep discussion with the local leaders, negotiating the price for extra supplies to supplement those brought on the huge wagon train that was still arriving as an owl began to hoot. The Fourteenth legion, as usual drawing the short straw, began to file slowly into the camp, escorting the last of the carts and the siege engines.

  Fronto stepped gingerly across the open ground, trying to avoid the areas that had been churned into glutinous mud by the endless pairs of nail-s
hod feet working to put up tents, stack pila and so on. He caught sight of the glittering armour of Plancus, the Fourteenth’s legate, glinting in the orange light of the torches and fires that dotted the enormous camp.

  Plancus sat his horse like a statue, his face the image of the traditional Roman officer: proud – if somewhat vacant about the eyes – haughty and confident. The tribunes of his command followed on astride their own steeds, followed by the standards bearers, musicians and the rest. Fronto ignored the rest of the arriving column.

  “Legate Fronto?” Plancus narrowed his eyes as though he might be mistaken. “Can we help you?”

  “Could you spare me one of your tribunes for a while?”

  Plancus shrugged carelessly. “They all have assigned duties. I will send a man over as soon as he has completed his tasks, if you like. Who is it you wish to see?”

  Fronto fought the urge to grind his teeth. It was a habit he’d noticed on the increase when dealing with that particular breed of officer that took to military life like a fish to gravel.

  “I doubt that’ll be necessary. I would like to see tribune Menenius. He’s not with the medical column that arrived, so I assume he’s back with his legion.”

  A trace of irritation passed across Plancus’ eyes and he cleared his throat meaningfully.

  “Menenius is travelling with my baggage train, in relative luxury. Despite my insistence, he continues to maintain that he cannot ride a horse.”

  Fronto found that, despite his decision, his teeth were grating off one another already. Of course the damn man couldn’t ride a horse. Fronto had visited him in the hospital tent back at the Rhenus as soon as his head had cleared enough and stopped thumping. The Fourteenth’s tribune had taken an arrow wound to the shoulder that had become infected, as well as two sword wounds to the arm and the thigh. Fortunately, both had been light blows, drawing blood and a little muscular nicking, but with no real damage. The fever that came with the infected wound had kept the man on the bank of the Styx for six days and he’d still been in the care of the medical staff until yesterday. He certainly shouldn’t be riding a horse.

  You prat.

  “So if you can spare him?”

  “He claims to be unfit for general duties and for some reason the medicus supports the malingering wastrel, so do as you see fit.”

  Grind, grind, grind.

  “Thank you for your consideration, Legate Plancus. I’ll just speak to him in the column, then.”

  Without waiting for any sort of gesture of acknowledgement – which he felt he was unlikely to receive anyway – Fronto turned and strode slowly along the line toward the small group of wagons that carried Plancus’ mobile palace, with every comfort he could muster.

  A jutting tuft of grass turned his step uncomfortably, and a lance of pain shot up from his knee, making him stumble. Though he’d already regained most of his leg strength, it was clear that a certain amount of knee weakness was here to stay. It had taken Carbo very little effort to persuade him to ride these past ten days rather than the march he generally preferred.

  “Bollocks!” he snapped at the mauve evening sky, grasping his knee and rubbing it before he straightened.

  Hobbling across to the rolling wagons, he hopped a few steps and then fell into a steady pace, grimacing with every other footfall.

  Menenius sat in one of the carts, wedged into place with bundles and sacks. His armour had been stowed, and he travelled in his uniform only, with his cloak spread out beneath and around him, providing a clean surface upon which to recline.

  Fronto was surprised at how pale the man still was, but had to remind himself that Menenius had always been fairly white, displaying that particular skin tone found on men who spent almost all of their time surrounded by scrolls and books and oil lamps, who only saw the bounty of nature through windows.

  Twelve days had passed since he’d dropped in on the tribune, at which time the man had been in the throes of fever, lashing out and thrashing around, totally oblivious to any visitor. Since that time something had settled into Fronto – something that had killed off any further urge to visit. He’d not known exactly what it was, but something in his gut had continually turned him from visiting, even when Priscus had urged him to do so.

  The man had clearly saved his life, but his stomach turned over at the thought of admitting that the fop, who had stated his own dislike of all things martial, had had the courage and wherewithal to step in and fight off three howling barbarians while the strong legate, veteran of a dozen wars, had dozed unconscious with a cracked skull and a trick knee.

  It rankled badly.

  And yet, on this last day of journeying, he had found his mind wandering and focusing on the events of that impressive and insane foray to the east bank of the Rhenus, and he had gradually come to the conclusion that he was being childish – a fact that needled him even more, given how often Lucilia and Faleria accused him of the same. The tribune may be a fop with a flowery personality and a weak chin, and he may have no desire to serve in an actual military environment, but the man had shown natural, innate talent, both with command and with direct swordplay.

  It had soured Fronto all the more to discover that the root cause of his reticence to visit and acknowledge Menenius was plain jealousy. Here was a young man who was destined for high position in Rome, thrust into an environment for which he was hopelessly unprepared, and yet he’d excelled in the position. Meanwhile, Fronto, who had long been the most soldierly and martial of Caesar’s officers, was rapidly being forced to come to terms with the aches, pains and limitations that came with being the oldest of the serving commanders.

  “Menenius?”

  The tribune sat a little straighter and, Fronto noted, took a sharp intake of pained breath as he focused on the source of the call.

  “Legate Fronto? Mayhap you are lost?”

  Fronto fought the surge of irritation and jealousy that urged him to turn and leave, and shook his head as he approached the cart.

  “No, it’s definitely you I’m here to see.”

  “I feared…” Fronto was further irritated to realise that Menenius was blushing, “I thought that perhaps I had angered you or that you were disappointed with me. I would have come to see you, had not the medicus and my own legate been very restrictive with my movements.”

  Fronto fell in alongside the wagon, his head level with the tribune’s elbow.

  “Of course not!” he snapped, instantly regretting his tone. “Sorry. I should have come to see you sooner. How are you feeling?”

  Menenius winced as he moved. “Somewhat pained. The medicus tells me that the wounds are not bad, but I have to admit to suffering with them. I have never been wounded before, barring a broken arm as a child. It hurts surprisingly more than I expected.”

  Fronto nodded. “As the recipient of a hundred wounds in my time, I can tell you that they all hurt, and you never get used to it. Well, some do. Balventius in the Eighth seems to actually enjoy it.” He scratched his head. “I wanted to ask you what happened. How did you come to be there when… when whatever it was happened? It’s all so vague.”

  The tribune’s face took on a surprisingly sheepish look that made Fronto frown.

  “What’s up?”

  “I… it’s not a tale of bravery, I’m afraid.”

  “Results suggest otherwise.”

  Menenius gave an embarrassed smile. “Sadly not. When you formed the wedge to attack the archers, my bowels almost gave way. I have never felt so terrified in my life. It is distinctly possible that I actually urinated in my breeches.”

  “But you killed three barbarians. How? I mean, we thought you must have died in the assault.”

  “I never took part in the attack, sir. To my eternal shame, I let our entire force charge the enemy, while I dropped to the ground behind and hid in the undergrowth by a tree.”

  Fronto stared at the man. This was starting to sound more like the Menenius he had expected. Instead of the loathing he e
xpected to feel for such cowardly activity, though, what he was surprised to experience was a surge of relief. The tribune wasn’t so damned perfect after all. Fronto still had the edge.

  “But why didn’t you follow on when we’d taken the place? We searched for the fallen and couldn’t find you. I wondered whether the bastards had carried you off – there were a few missing men.”

  Again, the tribune turned his embarrassed face away. “I’m afraid that I fled. As soon as you’d all gone and the screaming started, I ran deeper into the woods. I was in a blind panic. I don’t even know how long I ran or where to. I only stopped when I almost ran straight into the rest of the barbarians coming the other way.”

  Fronto nodded to himself. “You ran into the enemy from the farm ambush?”

  “Almost. I stopped short and began to make my way back towards you all as best I could. But I had to move slowly and quietly, and I was not entirely sure of the direction. Eventually, they were almost upon me, and I had to hide. I stayed in that hiding place for a while, shaking and terrified. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I think I slept for a while, but I woke when the barbarians came crashing back past me, running for their lives. I could hardly credit it. It seemed that Fortuna was sheltering me that day.”

  Fronto smiled “And me, I suspect.”

  “Well I waited until the Germanic thugs had fled, and I saw a few legionaries pass, and I was about to stand when I saw you approach and sit, rubbing your knee.”

  The legate reflexively repeated the motion now, noting the gentle throb within.

  “I stayed crouched for a moment. To be honest, I was less than sure whether I dared make myself known, after my cowardice. But while I tried to pluck up the courage to stand, I saw a few more of the barbarians rise up out of the undergrowth behind you. They must have been hidden just like me, and less than ten yards distant. Remarkable, really.”

  “Very” Fronto nodded. “And one of them smashed me over the head from behind.”