Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  The shields had stopped opening and closing to allow strikes now. Not a single living barbarian faced the wall of steel, iron, bronze and flesh moving inexorably across the turf. Indeed, the last few of the enemy were even now being lost to sight among the boles of the trees, going to ground in an attempt to evade death or capture.

  Decius’ voice rang out along the line. “Every second man withdraw to the defences!” Stepping back himself, he saluted Fronto as he took twenty three men back to the fortlet, leaving the remaining twenty four with the legate.

  Without needing a command, those men closed ranks as they moved and, within moments they had reached the edge of the forest. There was no longer any sign of the stragglers, but Fronto knew from horrible experience how dangerous it was to assume all was clear. There would likely be a few barbarians, willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of revenge, who would be hidden in the undergrowth in the hope of taking a number of heads with them when they went to meet their dung-ridden Gods.

  “Be wary now, lads. Stay within sight of one another and move carefully. Watch every bush and every tree for movement. Be aware of your surroundings and every noise. We move in for five minutes only and then turn and withdraw. No chasing any juicy Germanic women, no matter how naked they might be!”

  A few laughs rippled out down the line as the soldiers moved into the woods, spreading out and forming a wide cordon to clear any hidden ambushes. Fronto realised very quickly that he was lagging, his knee was a serious impediment in the troublesome terrain of the forest, and he was grateful when Atenos and one of the other legionaries noticed. The centurion nodded at him and closed the gap, allowing the legate to fall back and leave the line.

  Fronto watched as his men very ably and professionally stalked deeper into the woods, and stumbled over to a fallen tree trunk, onto which he sagged with great relief, examining his swollen knee and worrying about whether it should be turning the shade of mauve that it appeared to be.

  He sighed with happiness and never noticed the heavy, shiny object descending before it smashed him over the head, obliterating all consciousness and driving him into darkness.

  White light brought with it the sort of pain that Fronto usually only associated with heavy drinking bouts, though this was clearly not the result of any such activity. With a groan, he sat up, his hand going to his head to feel where the throbbing was coming from.

  When he regained consciousness the second time, he was lying awkwardly and the smell of relatively fresh vomit assailed his nostrils. He opened an eye a fraction and then squeezed it tight shut against the terribly painful light. The vomit was apparently his and had seeped into his clothing, despite having been peremptorily wiped away with a cloth.

  “He’s awake.”

  “If you can call it that.”

  “Did you bring the wine? Wine always heals Fronto” Even with his eyes closed and the fog of agonising unconsciousness still clinging to his senses, Fronto could almost hear the malicious grin on the face of Priscus, to whom he knew the voice belonged.

  “Piss off.”

  “It speaks!”

  Fronto cracked an eye open again, but held it so narrow that his lashes formed a veil against the light. Above was a white leather roof. Too high to be his own tent, so it was clearly a hospital one. His wandering gaze took in the beaming faces of Priscus and Carbo, with Decius sat next to them, the only one wearing any sort of expression of concern. Fronto noted with interest, his professional eye taking over despite the circumstances, that Carbo sported a recent cut to his cheek that hadn’t been there last time they’d met, just before the river crossing. A suspicion began to form.

  “How long have I been out?”

  Priscus and Carbo exchanged glances and then looked across at Decius. “Not sure. Who are the consuls this year, prefect?”

  Decius gave them a weary smile and focussed on Fronto. “A little over a week.”

  “A week?”

  “You took a bad blow to the head.”

  Priscus laughed out loud. “It was a truly magnificent wound. One of your best yet. The medicus said he thought he could see your brain, but I assured him that was unlikely.”

  The camp prefect burst out laughing and Carbo grinned evilly. “Actually, in all truthfulness, the medicus did say that you’ve got one of the thickest skulls he’s ever seen and that was probably what saved your life.”

  Fronto frowned and the pain the muscle movement caused almost made him vomit again.

  “What happened? I remember stopping because of my knee and then nothing.”

  Decius shrugged. “We’re still not sure. It appears that Menenius saved you.”

  “What?”

  The auxiliary prefect gestured to the bed on the other side of the spacious partitioned room. “When we found you, you were together. You’d been brained and Menenius had two stab wounds and an arrow jutting from his chest. But there were three dead barbarians around you too, and the tribune’s sword was good and bloody.”

  Fronto stared across at the still form of Menenius, whose chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “Is he…”

  “He’s suffering a fever. Not been lucid yet and keeps dropping off for half a day at a time. The medicus said his arrow wound was infected. He should pull through, but nothing’s certain yet.”

  The legate shook his head in disbelief. “I’m going to owe him a few drinks apparently, if he recovers well enough. Any news of Cantorix?”

  “After a fashion. He’s lost his right arm at the shoulder, can’t feel a thing in his left leg, and swears every time anyone touches the right. But, somehow, the big Gaulish bastard seems to be getting stronger. It’s the end of his soldiering career, of course, but it’s impressive nonetheless.”

  A resounding crash made Fronto start and he almost sat bolt upright. “What in Hades was that?”

  “That was the bridge coming down” Priscus shrugged. “It’s nearly done now.”

  “Down? It’s only been a week!”

  “A week’s been enough” the camp prefect shrugged. “Looks like the bridge and your little party on the bank have put the shits up even the hardest bastards out there. We hardly had the legions across the bridge before we started getting ambassadors and tribute, hostages, promises and so on. Most of the tribes have capitulated and agreed terms with the general.”

  “And the rest?”

  “That’s what took the week.” Carbo leaned forward. “The dangerous tribes — even the Suevi — all abandoned their conquests and territories and melted away into the forests to the east. Doesn’t look like they’ll be coming back in the near future… especially given that we burned all their settlements, harvested their crops, slaughtered their livestock and poisoned the wells. Caesar’s declared the Germanic threat nullified and now we’re consolidating while the bridge comes down.”

  Fronto sank back to the comfortable surface.

  “Then it’s over. Any word on when we move out? Are the legions wintering here or do they get to come south this year?”

  The three officers looked at one another uncomfortably.

  “Not south, Marcus” Priscus said with a sigh. “West. To the coast.”

  When the legate frowned in confusion, the camp prefect sat back and squared his shoulders. “Caesar has it in mind to do to the tribes of Britain what we’ve done to Germania.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He claims to still be smarting over their support for the Veneti last year, but the general consensus is that he wants to double the glory and tribute we’ve taken so far before returning to Rome. I’m not sure I disagree, mind. Cartloads of gold and a long chain of slaves. Every man in the army’s going to be quite well off this winter.”

  Fronto allowed his eyes to close as his mind formed a fantastic and somewhat worrying image of the strange and unknown island full of monsters and evils that lay across the ocean to the north.

  Fabulous.

  Just wonderful.

  An image of a smiling Lucilia that
he hadn’t even been aware was in his head until now started to fade, replaced by a screaming horde of yet more Celts.

  “Think I’d better rest again.”

  ROME

  Lucilia smiled. “Father has such old-fashioned tastes. I tried to get him to buy a statue of Priapus or ‘Pan and a goat’ for the atrium, but he refused. So we’re stuck with a bust of my great grandfather who, to be quite honest, does not appear to have been a particularly handsome man. Who wants a party in such surroundings, I ask you?”

  Faleria laughed lightly.

  “Such statues as you favour might well lead to the kind of party that you’d be well advised to avoid, while your husband-to-be is still absent fighting the enemies of the Republic. Let us concentrate on the important things. The wine is already taken care of, but we need to order the meats, cheeses and fruit at least this afternoon. And before we head back, we should see what musicians are for hire. No offence to your father’s household, but if I have to listen to that wailing cat of a piper again I shall stuff his pipes with his own innards.”

  Lucilia grinned. “Perhaps we should head onto the Aventine and see how your house is coming on? Most of the roof should have been replaced this week.”

  The older of the two shrugged. “If there’s time. The work will go on whether observed or not.”

  The pair turned into the side street, the noise of the forum fading a little behind them as the buildings muffled the din. Faleria frowned as she glanced back over her shoulder.

  “Where’s that useless Thracian? If he’s gone off on his own your father will have him flogged!”

  Lucilia turned to look and her shriek was cut off sharply as a sack fell over her head and tightened around her neck, a pair of strong hands grasping her wrists and yanking them up painfully behind her. She tried desperately to call out to Faleria from the suffocating, blinding confines of the sack, but was instantly aware of the cries of anger and pain from her friend, apparently being similarly manhandled.

  More hands grasped her shoulders and elbows and pushed her, almost knocking her from her feet. She was vaguely aware of the distinctive sounds of Faleria struggling and cursing their attackers and bit down on the fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm her, concentrating instead on yanking an elbow free from someone’s grip and then landing it in someone’s stomach. She was rewarded with a rush of air and a groan, but then the hands tightened around her and she found herself totally restricted and all-but carried, her toes brushing the ground as she moved.

  The only indications that the pair had been dragged and carried inside a building were the oppressive heat of an unventilated room and the further muffling of the background city noises. The sudden change in environment also allowed Lucilia to pay better attention to the more intimate sounds as they were shuffled along corridors, through rooms and, towards the end, down a short flight of stairs.

  She could identify at least five sets of footsteps and there were three voices, not speaking, but grunting or swearing, all in accents local to Latium or at least the central regions of Italia. Not pirates, then, and unlikely to be slavers. Thugs. And thugs always answered to a boss.

  “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.