The Eagle in the Dovecote

by Laura Dowers

  It was good to be out of Rome, too; he had begun to feel stifled at home. Virgilia was always trying to get him to take an interest in Little Caius, putting the boy on his lap before dinner or whenever he took a moment to sit down. The boy would just stare and dribble, stick fingers in his mouth or cry for his mother, and Caius would thrust him back at Virgilia, telling her to take him away. Volumnia would remonstrate with Virgilia not to bother Caius with the boy, but Virgilia, obliging when it came to herself, was more insistent when it came to her son, and there had been many quarrels between the two women, arguments Caius simply didn’t want to be a part of. That was the problem when a household contained too many women, he reflected, and looked around the camp, grateful for the male company it afforded.

  He finished cleaning his sword and sheathed it. As he did so, there came shouts and cries, not just the usual clamour of men, but alarms. Caius got quickly to his feet. ‘What is it?’ he cried to one of his fellow patricians who hurried past.

  ‘The Volsci are attacking,’ the man said. ‘Bring your sword, Marcius. We’re going to need it.’

  He didn’t need to hear more. Caius buckled on his sword and dived into his tent to put on his breastplate and grab his spear. He hurried to where the horses were stabled. Taking the reins of his mare from his slave, he almost jumped onto her back, kicking her sides fiercely so that she galloped towards the fight.

  Caius thrust with his spear, wrenching it from the chests of dying men to plunge it into others. One thrust was so deep, it lodged tight, and Caius could not tug it free. He relinquished the spear and drew his sword. His reach was not as great with the sword as with the spear and it meant that he must needs get closer to the men he killed. The right side of his body became covered in blood; the hot stench of it filled his nostrils and drove him on.

  Was he here? he wondered with every sword thrust. Was Tullus Aufidius here? Caius longed to meet him again, to have the chance of killing the man who had matched him thrust for thrust on every occasion they had been in battle together. No one had ever before presented him with such a challenge and he was determined to prove he was up to it.

  More death was caused by his hand and then suddenly, he knew, he just knew, that Aufidius was before him. Beneath the mud and the grime, there was a square jaw and striking eyes, and a scar across the neck Caius remembered, a scar he had put there.

  ‘Marcius!’ Aufidius cried and thrust at Caius.

  Caius knocked the sword away, feeling the strength in the arm that held it. The sword swung at him before he could get in a thrust of his own and he was forced to knock it aside again. He shifted position, drew back a little, tilted and thrust. He got close to Aufidius’s body, but Aufidius was alert to the danger, moving deftly to the side. Again and again this happened, neither man getting the upper hand, neither tiring, neither giving up. How long this went on, Caius had no idea; he just knew he had to stand his ground and fight.

  And then there came a shout, clear and loud in the cold night air. ‘Retreat.’

  There was no knowing where it came from or which side had given the order. Aufidius and Caius fought on.

  ‘Aufidius!’ A cry came, nearer than the other voice. ‘We must retreat.’

  ‘Not now,’ Aufidius shouted back, aiming another blow at Caius.

  ‘You will retreat or I’ll have you whipped for insubordination.’

  Caius felt for Aufidius even as he sidestepped a blow. To be ordered to retreat when he felt sure, as Caius did, that he could win his fight, was disheartening to say the least. But to be threatened with a whipping like a low-born pleb! How would Aufidius bear such a disgrace?

  The decision was taken out of Aufidius’s control. The man, whoever he was, was at his side with two others, and Caius was having to fight four men instead of just one. He had to take the defensive and was forced backwards. He stumbled. He raised his arm to fend off the attack he knew was coming.

  But it didn’t come. Aufidius was being dragged away. Caius had no one to fight. A sudden and immense weariness came over him, the result of his long fight with Aufidius, and he sank into the mud. His breath coming heavily, he watched as what was left of the Roman infantry chased after the retreating Volsci.

  Tullus was furious. How dare he be dragged away from Marcius, just when he felt sure he was going to defeat him?

  ‘Let go of me,’ he yelled, struggling so fiercely that he fell on his face when those holding him obeyed. He turned over onto his back and glared up at the men. ‘I was winning.’

  The commander spat. ‘What if you were? I gave you an order.’

  ‘I thought our orders were to kill the enemy,’ Tullus said, scrambling to his feet and taking a few steps back towards the field. He stared down at the wide expanse.

  ‘You were winning,’ the commander said, ‘we were losing. Look down there.’ He pointed at the field. ‘It’s carnage.’

  ‘How?’ Tullus cried. ‘The reports all said Rome was in chaos. They didn’t have an army. This battle,’ he waved at the field, ‘was supposed to be easy.’

  ‘Our information was wrong,’ the commander said, shaking his head. ‘The Romans are too strong.’

  ‘Or we are too weak,’ Tullus snarled.

  ‘We will need you, Aufidius,’ the commander said. ‘For our next battle.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to be killed,’ Tullus said, his jaw tight.

  ‘You were fighting Marcius.’

  ‘I know who I was fighting,’ he yelled, then remembered who he was speaking to. ‘I know who,’ he said, more quietly.

  The commander nodded, then turned back to the field. ‘It’s over.’

  Tullus joined him. The field was clearing; both sides, those still alive, were returning to their camps. A thought suddenly occurred. ‘Have you seen my father?’

  The commander looked down at his feet. ‘I saw him being helped off the field. He was injured. I don’t know how badly.’

  Tullus didn’t stop to answer. He ran into the camp. If his father was injured, then he would be in the surgeon’s tent. He headed for it, feeling sick.

  The surgeons’ tent was large, but in the aftermath of battle, it was crowded. Each trestle table had a man upon it, either groaning or screaming, the linen cloth beneath him soiled. There were only two surgeons and too many men. Some would bleed to death on the tables, despite the surgeons’ efforts, while others would be ignored as not worth the saving.

  Tullus hurried from table to table, moving on as soon as he saw the man lying on each one was not his father. He had almost come to the last of the tables when he saw him.

  ‘Father,’ Tullus bent low over Gallio, his hand moving to cradle his father’s head. The thinning grey hair was stiff with mud and it crumbled in his hand.

  Gallio opened his eyes. They took a long moment to focus on Tullus. ‘Thank the gods you are safe,’ he whispered, his lips barely touching one another so the words came out in a hissed slur.

  Tullus looked down the length of his father’s body. There didn’t seem to be one bit of it that wasn’t covered in blood. ‘Are you badly hurt?’ he asked, hoping the blood was that of their enemies, not his father’s.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Gallio said, closing his eyes.

  Not worry? How could he not worry? Tullus sniffed and looked for a surgeon. He found one working on a man three tables away. Tullus hurried to him and grabbed his arm. ‘Here,’ he cried, pointing at his father.

  ‘I already have a patient,’ the surgeon snapped, trying to tug his arm free.

  But Tullus’s grip was tight. ‘You will attend my father.’

  ‘He’ll have to wait his turn.’

  Tullus grabbed the surgeon by his bloodied tunic and tore him away from his patient, dragging him over to his father’s table. He pulled out his sword and held it to the surgeon’s neck. ‘Attend to my father,’ he said, his voice hard, menacing.

  The surgeon gulped and stared at the sword. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘lower your sword, soldier. I will exa
mine your father.’

  Tullus waited a moment, unwilling to relinquish the power he had over the surgeon until he was sure he meant what he said. He read terror in the man’s eyes and lowered his sword. The surgeon took a deep breath, and with trembling hands, began to examine Gallio.

  ‘Will he live?’ Tullus demanded.

  ‘There are no wounds to the stomach or chest, only his limbs,’ the surgeon replied. ‘The wounds are deep and he has lost much blood. I cannot say if he will live or die.’

  ‘If he dies, I swear you will follow him.’

  The surgeon said nothing, but his face paled. Tullus jerked his head at his father, an instruction to the surgeon to begin his work. He took a step back, out of the way, watching as the surgeon threaded a needle to sew up his father’s wounds. He had killed men in battle, had seen their insides spill out and never turned a hair, but to watch his father being sewn together made him sick to his very stomach.

  The surgeon worked fast, no doubt spurred on by the memory of Tullus’s sword at his throat. ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he said at last.

  ‘Then you can go,’ Tullus said, and the surgeon scurried away.

  Tullus bent over his father once more, listening to Gallio’s breathing. It was even, if shallow. His forehead touched his father’s cheek, his hands grabbed hold of his shoulders and he began to sob. He couldn’t help it. He had only recently lost his mother. He wasn’t ready to lose his father just yet.

  18

  Volumnia stood in the doorway of Caius’s cubiculum, staring at her son as he slept.

  It had been more than seven months since she had seen him last, seven months of wishing she could have gone with him on campaign to watch him fight. So many battles, she mused, and she not able to partake in any of them because she had been born a woman. It wasn’t fair. If only she had been born a man, she would have shown those Volsci what stuff the Romans were made of. But she had to content herself with knowing that Caius had done that for her, and done it extremely well. Throughout those seven months there had been reports coming back to Rome of his successes against the enemy and Volumnia had accepted with great pleasure the congratulations that had come her way: you must be so very proud; it’s all your doing, my dear; Caius wouldn’t be anything without you. True, all of it true. She had made him the man he was.

  ‘You should leave him alone.’

  Volumnia turned, her eyebrow already arching. ‘Should I, indeed?’ she said to Virgilia, who was standing a few feet away, her hand holding that of Little Caius, who stood staring at his grandmother as if he had never seen her before, mouth open, eyes wide. There were times when Volumnia wondered if he wasn’t simple.

  ‘You might wake him, that’s all.’ Virgilia said. ‘He’s very tired.’

  Volumnia reached into the room and pulled the door shut quietly. ‘I can see that, my dear,’ she said icily.

  Virgilia bit her lip. ‘Menenius Agrippa is here. I... I came to tell you.’

  Volumnia didn’t answer, simply strode past her, making Virgilia pull Little Caius out of her way. She headed for the atrium. ‘You’re very early, Menenius.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Menenius said, ‘but I heard that Caius has returned.’

  She nodded and began to lead him through the domus towards the garden, thinking she would like to have her breakfast in the sunlight. ‘He arrived very late last night. We were already in bed.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Exhausted. He’s fast asleep.’

  ‘Wounded?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh dear. Seriously?’

  Volumnia gave a little laugh. ‘Oh Menenius, when has Caius ever been seriously hurt? No, just a few scratches, some bruises. There really is no one equal to him, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Menenius nodded.

  ‘I don’t think you will see Caius this morning,’ she said, clicking her fingers at the slave to bring her breakfast. ‘And besides, I would have thought you would be busy at the Senate house with the army returning. Don’t you have to add up figures or something?’ She saw the look of irritation cross Menenius’s face and smiled to herself. Her opinion of Menenius had diminished slightly since he had decided not to go on campaign any longer but stay in Rome and concern himself only with provisioning and other such matters. His triumph, she reflected sadly, seemed like such a long time ago.

  ‘No, nothing like that. The truth is I couldn’t bear to sit in the Senate this morning.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asked, pouring him a cup of wine and adding water, knowing that he didn’t particularly care for watered-down wine.

  He took the cup, barely noticing, and gave a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘I must confess to being ashamed of being a senator. Before the war, you may remember, that incident in the forum.’

  ‘When the plebs stormed the Senate house and demanded to be heard? Yes, I remember. I remember too that not a single one of those men was punished.’

  ‘Publius Servilius made promises to the plebs on that day. He promised there would be laws to protect them against their creditors. That is why they agreed to fight.’

  ‘Agreed to fight,’ Volumnia snarled, barely glancing at Virgilia as she came out into the garden and sat down at the table. ‘I don’t know what Publius was thinking, agreeing to such a thing. There was a time, Menenius, when the plebs knew their place. They wouldn’t have dared act so when the Tarquins still ruled in Rome.’

  ‘You cannot wish Rome to have kings again, Mother, surely?’ Virgilia asked.

  ‘Sometimes I do, daughter. Say what you want about King Lucius, he kept the plebs under control.’

  ‘Until his wretched family pushed them too far,’ Virgilia cried.

  ‘Oh, what do you know of politics?’ Volumnia scoffed.

  ‘I know enough. More than you give me credit for.’

  Volumnia opened her mouth to retort, but Menenius put out his hands. ‘Ladies, please, I came here to avoid a fight, not start one.’

  The women glared at one another but neither continued the argument.

  ‘What do you mean by avoid a fight, Menenius?’ Virgilia asked quietly.

  Satisfied the women had ceased their quarrel, Menenius took the bread she offered and dipped it into the dish of olive oil. ‘The army is returning and the plebs will expect the Senate to make good on their promises. They will discover that no new laws as promised have been made. Their creditors will be pursuing them as soon as they pass through Rome’s gates.’

  ‘But that’s not right,’ Virgilia said.

  ‘It is right,’ Volumnia asserted. ‘Creditors must eat too. Are they to starve because the plebs overreach themselves?’

  ‘But, my dear,’ Menenius said, ‘their methods are far too severe and should not be allowed. Creditors are permitted to whip their debtors, steal their goods from them. Romans against Romans. Such means of recovering debts should not be allowed to continue.’

  ‘Then should you not say so in the Senate?’ Virgilia asked.

  Menenius sighed again. ‘You’re right, of course. I should speak for the plebs, but in truth, my dear Virgilia, I have not the stomach for it. At least, not today. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the day after.’

  ‘Or perhaps not at all?’ Virgilia suggested sourly.

  ‘I daresay I shall get drawn into it,’ Menenius said unhappily. ‘The Senate likes to use me to speak with the plebs.’

  ‘They think you understand them,’ Volumnia said, her mouth turning up at the corner in amusement as she saw him bristle. ‘It’s a pity Caius isn’t awake. He’d put some heart into you and tell you how to deal with the plebs.’

  Menenius raised the wine cup to his lips. ‘Yes, I expect he would.’

  Virgilia’s words, the implied criticism in them, had wounded Menenius a little. She was right, of course, he was being something of a coward. And he knew too that if he didn’t speak up for the plebs, then no one would.

  Menenius had gone to the Senate house intending to do just that, meaning to declare
the promises made by Publius Servilius before the recent war should be honoured, but before he could open his mouth, Publius announced that the corn ambassadors were back in Rome. Corn was vital to Rome, as it was vital to any large city. Without corn, the citizens would starve, and so, Menenius was content to hold his tongue for the moment while this important matter was discussed.

  Most of Rome’s grain supply came from Sicily, and the ambassadors had been dispatched to negotiate a price, buy the corn and arrange delivery back to Rome. Publius announced that not only had they done this, but they had also accepted a free bounty of grain from Aristodemus. This was an extraordinary turn of events, for like Lucius Tarquin, Aristodemus was known to be a tyrant to his own people. So, why, Publius asked, this sudden generosity?

  Some senators immediately said the ambassadors had been wrong to accept the free grain without orders from the Senate and that it ought now to be refused. To accept, they said, would put Rome under an obligation to Aristodemus. How could they be sure, these senators asked, that this known tyrant wouldn’t make demands on Rome in a few months, or even weeks’ time? And how could the Senate be sure this gift of grain really came from Aristodemus? Wasn’t it to Aristodemus that Lucius Tarquin had once fled? Perhaps, before Lucius died, he and Aristodemus had plotted to somehow entrap Rome with this grain. Perhaps, one senator suggested excitedly, the grain had been poisoned.

  This last idea was quickly dismissed. Poisoning would leave traces upon the individual grains, one senator, a farm owner, said with assurance, and besides, a small portion could always be fed to a dog to see if it died. Most senators, and Menenius found himself agreeing with them, thought it would be foolish to turn away a gift of free grain, whoever it came from and whatever their motives. Rome, they argued, could accept the gift in effectual ignorance. If the giver later demanded a favour in return, Rome could say they were beholden to no one.