4.Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  “So,” Fronto leaned across the table into an almost conspiratorial huddle, “if we needed any confirmation, there it is. Menenius and Hortius are only a day ahead of us and bound for Rome. Mark my words, Galronus, I’m going to find them and deal with them.”

  The Remi officer leaned across the table towards him. “And I will help you when the time is right, but do not let your thirst for revenge cloud your judgement. The tribunes must pay for what they did to Tetricus and the others, but our first concern has to be Faleria and Clodius.”

  Fronto nodded as that cold weight settled in his stomach again. He’d done everything possible on their long journey to keep his mind off the peril his sister was in and Galronus had pointedly avoided the subject, though whether to protect Fronto or for his own comfort was unclear. Suddenly it now felt as though a taboo had been lifted; a taboo that had covered them for eleven days.

  “You realise there’s every possibility that she’s not… that she…”

  “She is alive” Galronus said flatly. “Do not allow yourself to think otherwise. Whether Clodius is working on Caesar’s orders or not, the man would not dare touch Faleria.”

  “He dragged her off the street and imprisoned her.”

  “But without harm as far as we know. Caesar would not harm her; you know that, and so Clodius would not dare. I, however, will harm him when I find him.”

  Fronto nodded emphatically.

  “We need to work out a plan of action; before we get to Rome.”

  “Go to Clodius’ house. Kill everyone in the way” Galronus suggested without a hint of humour.

  “Impossible and you know it. We would be slaughtered. Clodius has a small army at his command and a well defended house. The man is paranoid and for good reason. And if we did somehow get inside, he could simply kill her and dispose of the body before we got close.”

  “Then how can we deal with him?”

  “The same way he deals with everyone else” Fronto sighed. “With fear. The only thing that will make Clodius defer and offer terms is when he knows he’s outclassed, outmanoeuvred and there’s no other option. He has a small army; we have to have a larger one.”

  “You want to hire an army? In Rome? With the legal restrictions on openly bearing arms?”

  “Screw the restrictions” Fronto snapped. “We’re dealing with a cold criminal and we have to do whatever is required. Balbus has a force already assembled and he’s just waiting on my word to go for the man’s throat.”

  “He will not have enough.”

  “No. But it’s a start. When we get to Rome, you make your way to Balbus’ house and let him know what’s happening. Get him to ready his men for a fight. I’ll go to my townhouse. It’s still being repaired, but mother has a small fortune hidden in three different places under the floor. I know where they are, so I’ll go collect the funds and then hire us as many gladiators, thugs and retired veterans as I can find – everyone in the city who knows what end of a sword to hold. Then I’ll send them all to Balbus’ place and follow on. As soon as we have a big enough force we’ll go down to see Clodius and demand the release of Faleria or start to demolish his house with him still in it.”

  Galronus nodded. Criminals and bullies were the same in every culture. It only took someone with a bigger stick to force them to back down.

  “You will have to describe the directions to Balbus’ house.”

  “I’ve never been there myself, but I know where it is. He’s described it before. Alright, from the circus maximus, you need to skirt the Palatine hill…”

  * * * * *

  The harbour of Ostia slid implacably towards them and never had Fronto been more desperate to set foot on land. The seasickness had taken a backseat during the journey, the worry over his sister’s captivity continuing to gnaw at him, and worsening with every league they sailed.

  “When Faleria and I are married,” Galronus said suddenly, in an attempt to smash through the oppressive cloud that covered them both, “I would like you to be the auspex.”

  Fronto blinked, his gloomy, negative reverie shattered by the sudden, bizarre request.

  “What?” he said almost incredulously, turning from the rail and its view of the approaching dock.

  “When Faleria and I…”

  “I didn’t mishear you then? You’re really set on this?” For some reason, the campaign season had almost driven his friend’s decision from Fronto’s mind, and now it seemed peculiar to think on it, especially given his sister’s predicament. And yet, he had to admit that, upon receiving the news of her captivity, he hadn’t turned to his old friend Priscus, but had immediately reached for Galronus. Not because the ties that bound them were any stronger than with Priscus, but because at a gut level, Fronto knew how much Faleria meant to the Remi noble.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re that sure she’s interested in you?”

  “She is.”

  Fronto felt a smile crack through his tense shell. “You’re certainly not lacking in confidence, my friend. How do you know about the auspex? How do you know about Roman marriage at all?”

  “I’ve made some enquiries over the summer. It sounds as though your ceremonies are not too dissimilar to ours, though they seem to involve a lot more unnecessary complications and a longer period of betrothal.”

  Fronto leaned against the rail and folded his arms. “Do I really strike you as the right man to read the auspices from the guts of a pig? Even my bandy-legged fishwife Goddess seems to have abandoned me.”

  “You know as well as I, Marcus, that no one is expected to actually divine anything. It’s a show. I may have trouble rounding up many of the witnesses, though. Faleria may have to choose all ten.”

  Fronto shook his head and smiled. “Witnesses are the least of your worries.”

  “Then you will do it?”

  “If you can get Faleria to agree to take you on, I’ll do it, yes.”

  “Good. And now to more immediate matters: look over there.”

  Fronto frowned and followed his friend’s pointing finger. Across the harbour, a sleek, low ship was making for a dock at the far side of the port.

  “It’s a liburna, privately owned. Nice looking thing. My best friend’s uncle had one when I was a kid; used it for trade runs between Puteoli and Sardinia. Fast and light, but only useful for small cargo, ‘cause the hold’s not very big.”

  “It was in dock in Massilia when we set off.”

  Fronto shrugged. “We’ve travelled fast for a trireme, but a liburna can travel faster. He probably set off after loading. We came empty.”

  But Galronus’ eyes remained locked on the ship. “I don’t like it.”

  “I personally don’t care. It’s the ship with those two slimy bastards on that I’m bothered about, and that’ll have docked yesterday.”

  Their attention was pulled back to their destination as one of the sailors bellowed a call and men began to run around on the deck, the rowers giving a last pull and then raising their oars as the vessel coasted in towards the dock. Workers in the port ran up and down the dockside, preparing to take ropes and help the boarding ramp settle into place. Boys scurried into position to do some hopeful begging from the passengers on this clearly important ship.

  Fronto gripped the rail hard and waited for the bump, steadying himself. The ship settled to the dock with very little disturbance and the two officers waited for the ramp to be run out as two of the sailors hurried up to them carrying their bags.

  “Thanks. We’ll take them now.”

  Throwing the bags over their shoulders, they hurried down the ramp and onto the dockside. As the begging children crowded towards them, Fronto pulled half a dozen small, cheap coins from his purse and cast them to one side, drawing the gaggle of shouting boys and girls out of their path.

  “Come on. Let’s go find the courier station.”

  Galronus nodded as he moved on through the crowded port. They had decided on the speed afforded by a horse rat
her than taking Caesar’s trireme up the Tiber to the city. Given the river’s current and the traffic upon it, they would gain at least half an hour by horse.

  Polyneikes took a deep breath and concentrated on the wooden crutch beneath his right arm that clattered along the stones of the port in time with his limp.

  It was one of the hardest things to do, he reflected as he peered between the heads of the crowd: to fake such an injury. Many people could affect a limp and heave themselves along on a crutch, but it was too easy to do badly. Most people ended up limping with the wrong leg to the crutch, which was a rookie mistake.

  Five years of training with some of the most dangerous men in Athens had taught him tricks that most people in the business wouldn’t even know could be done. The single raised shoulder was easy enough, particularly with the crutch, but to temporarily disfigure the neck and pull in one’s head so that one appeared to be a malformed half-man was a real talent, and Polyneikes would always be grateful to Crino for his expensive lessons – may the bastard rot in the pits of Hades for all eternity.

  The only thing that still rankled about affecting such a disguise was the smell. To pull off the guise of a twisted beggar one really had to spend an hour or two carefully urinating oneself and saturating the clothes and even defecating and making sure the smell clung.

  Still, for twenty gold aurei and the chance of many future jobs, Polyneikes was willing to live with a little shit.

  His reputation was unmatched in Ostia, and even in Rome his services were sought and commanded an above-average fee. But a reputation was never too strong that it wasn’t worth strengthening with ties to wealthy, high class patrons.

  His hand reached down the wooden crutch and his fingers caressed the tip of the blade attached to it with easily breakable twine.

  He’d been lucky, and he knew it. The patrons had been uncertain as to whether the target would even pass this way. It seemed there was some doubt as to whether they would reach Italia at all. Not that it would have mattered really. He’d been paid up front and if his target hadn’t shown in a week, he’d have lost the chance to improve his reputation, but he’d still be living like a senator for a week or two.

  But then the ship had arrived. The Glory of Venus; Caesar’s own ship. It was hard to miss the arrival in port of such a vessel, given the fact that the entire place quickly rearranged itself to allow a clear passage to dock. And even if the ship had carried half a city’s population, he’d still have been able to identify the pair of them from the description: ‘A dishevelled veteran soldier, probably not dressed as an officer, but with the look of a predator, and a tall, moustachioed Gaul in the kit of an auxiliary cavalryman. They would have stood out in any crowd.

  The two men were making their way towards the courier station, where two legionaries lounged by the gate, leaning casually against the wall with the look of men who expected nothing more than to watch the world go by until their shift ended.

  As was always the case with crowds in places like Ostia, the currents pulled three ways. Those with legitimate business went about it heedless of the two officers, often getting in their way until asked to move. Those whose business was illegal or underhand in some way scurried away from them, avoiding any possible confrontation with authority. And those whose business it was to accost strangers pushed through the crowd to get to them: traders; whores; beggars…

  Polyneikes angled his approach. His very realistic limited mobility slowed any action and made planning that much more essential. Carefully, he swung and weaved, giving the impression of a man trying to keep on his feet despite his terrible afflictions, while in fact threading a speedy and neat passage between the crowds towards the two figures with the bags slung over their shoulders. He could easily earn an extra eight aurei if he could dispatch the big Gaul too, but Polyneikes was no fool. Twenty was plenty, as he was wont to say, and escaping the scene after one perfect, deadly strike was easy enough to a well-trained man. Whereas giving in to greed and attempting a second blow was tempting the Fates, and he was not about to push Atropos into snipping his thread this early in his career.

  As he estimated the distance at ten paces and mentally added a count of six for the difficulty of movement, Polyneikes the assassin began to count under his breath.

  Twelve.

  The Roman had turned to speak to the Gaul. The pair were completely oblivious, It was almost too easy. His fingers closed on the pommel of the knife and gave a gentle tug.

  The blade, a wicked thing of Parthian origin that had been sharpened to the point where it could almost cut through sound, came loose from the twine easily, the twin severed loops falling unnoticed to the ground beneath the ‘beggar’. His tattered, filthy wool cloak swung to and fro, concealing the glinting iron blade.

  Six.

  His hand twisted, the thumb releasing the tie carefully crafted to the inside of the cloak to keep it in position and covering the knife. The cloak billowed slightly as the knife began to rise.

  “…at the Porta Trigemina” the Roman was saying. “Then I’ll make my way…”

  Polyneikes’ grip changed on the hilt, raising it for the blow.

  “Not so fast, sonny.”

  The Greek assassin’s world collapsed around him as a hand clamped round his mouth and dragged him back through the crowd, a blade simultaneously sliding up between his ribs and plunging deep into his black heart. His eyes wide, he watched the dishevelled Roman and the big Gaul disappearing off through the crowd, completely unaware.

  They were completely lost from sight when the hand came away from his mouth and he hit the cobbles, no longer able to scream as Atropos of the Fates snipped the thread and his eyes glazed over. By the time his death was noticed by anyone who cared in the press of bodies and the cry went up, both his targets and his assailant were gone.

  Fronto and Galronus rode past the multitudinous beggars, traders, whores and bustling city folk outside the Porta Trigemina and slowed only slightly at the gate where two of the private militia raised on the orders of Pompey nominally monitored the traffic in and out of the city. The bored looking men barely glanced up, even at the unusual sight of a trouser-wearing Gaul entering the sacred bounds of Rome.

  Once inside, Fronto glanced off toward the slope of the Aventine and then refocused as his mind locked onto something that had reached his ears but hadn’t initially registered. Frowning, he tapped Galronus on the elbow.

  “Go to Balbus’ place. I’ll see you there soon as I can.”

  The Remi noble nodded and rode on toward the Forum Boarium at a steady pace, allowing the city’s populace time and room to get out of the way. Watching him go for a moment, Fronto slid from the saddle, hooked the reins over his forearm, and strode over to the stall of the merchant whose cries had caught his attention. Peering up and down the trinkets on display, his eyes fell on exactly what he’d hoped to find. Picking it up, he examined it a little closer and, satisfied, held it up to the stallholder.

  “How much?”

  “To a soldier? Ten denarii, to help you save the Republic, eh?”

  Without taking his eyes from his new acquisition, Fronto fished in his purse and passed the coins across. The trader blinked in surprise at some mug paying the extremely inflated asking price without haggling down at least a third of the way. Avarice lending speed to his hands, he quickly stashed away the coins and attended to someone else before this visiting officer decided he’d been cheated.

  Fronto turned away from the stall and smiled with the first hint of real satisfaction in days. Reaching up, he undid the leather thong hanging around his neck and slid the strange bow-legged Gaulish woman from it. For a long moment, he stared at the amulet in distaste, wondering just how different the season might have been if he hadn’t insulted his patron Goddess with the horrible little image.

  Teeth bared, he turned and flung the offending article out across the crowd and into the Tiber, where it disappeared from sight and the world of men. With a deep breath of relie
f, he slid the new, well-crafted bronze figurine of Fortuna onto the thong and retied it around his neck.

  With a sudden flash of inspiration, he returned to the stall.

  “Do you have Nemesis, too?”

  The trader, his greed propelling him back to his new gullible best customer, nodded and reached down to the table, collecting a small ivory image of a winged Goddess with a sword in her hand.

  “Just the one. Elephant ivory and good work. Very rare.” The trader narrowed his eyes. “Not cheap.”

  Reaching into his purse, Fronto withdrew a gold aureus and dropped it onto the table. The stallholder almost frothed at the mouth. “I don’t have much change” he hazarded.

  “Keep what you think’s fair and donate the rest to the shrine of the Goddess next time you’re passing. I’m not paying you over the odds; I’m paying a healthy value for the favour of Nemesis.”

  As the trader almost pounced on the coin, Fronto added the new amulet to the cord round his neck, a grim smile crossing his face. Now he was a little more prepared. The two divine ladies that he worshipped above all and who had always looked after him now dangled together over his heart: Fortuna and Nemesis; luck and vengeance,

  Gripping the reins, he hauled himself back up into the saddle and trotted off in the direction of the still-ruinous, part-repaired house of his ancestors

  Chapter 22

  (Rome: The Aventine Hill)

  The townhouse of the noble Falerii stood heartbreakingly incomplete. It saddened Fronto to see the house in which he’d spent so much of his youth in such a condition, although it was a considerable improvement on the last time he’d seen it. Gone were the protruding charred timbers and the smoke blackened walls around the windows. New doors protected it from the street and the roof of one side was already covered with newly-fired red tiles. The other side was covered with temporary protective sheeting, while the side gate into the yard stood open, revealing a scene that looked more like a workmen’s store than the place where his father had taught him the rudiments of swordplay.