Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  He liked Faleria.

  A quick glance to one side confirmed that Fronto was still beside him, fighting with all the fury and strength of a battle-crazed Remi warrior, with the energy and agility of a man half his age. With the certainty and sureness of a man whose life is panning out exactly as he had planned it.

  With the blessings of Sucellus and Nantosuelta, Galronus would bind hands with Faleria this year and the man fighting furiously by his side would become his brother.

  He grinned and casually beheaded a yelling youth with a sharp spear but absolutely no ability to use it.

  Strange, really. He was suddenly aware for the first time that he appeared to be thinking in Latin, with all its idioms and intricacies. When had that started?

  He was so blood-tied to the inhabitants of this island that he shared not only Gods, names and culture, but even language. Despite the oddities of their regional dialects, if he concentrated, he could follow three quarters of all the shouting going on around him. The swords that were being raised against him bore so much more resemblance to his own than did the short stabbing weapons of the legions. He could very easily discard his Roman-style helmet and slip among the Britons and they would not even know him for an enemy.

  But Rome was the future. Better to embrace the future than to fight it and disappear without trace, such as the Aduatuci, executed or enslaved entire after Caesar’s conquest.

  Again, Galronus shook his head and pushed the thoughts aside. Such reflection was best saved for the dark of the night after battle’s end.

  “Galronus!” yelled an insistent voice.

  Looking around in surprise, the Remi officer realised that the Roman forces had stopped advancing, cornu and buccina calls going out to mass the troops, standards waving, circling and dipping, whistles blowing, centurions’ voices carrying across it all. In his reverie, Galronus had not stopped with the rest and was standing in a strange twenty-yard no-man’s-land between the assembling legions and the expectant Britons who had drawn back up the beach. Fronto was desperately beckoning him.

  “Get back here before one of their archers decides to stick you!”

  With a smile, Galronus nodded and, turning, jogged back to the ranks of his new, uniformed, steel-armoured brothers.

  Fronto took the opportunity to step out of the line and look along the assembled forces with a sense of immense satisfaction. Despite the debacle that had been the landing, the beachhead had been successfully established and the Britons had been forced to withdraw far enough to allow room to form up properly.

  It didn’t do to look back into the surf, as he’d quickly discovered. The swirling red tint from the blood had quickly diffused and disappeared with fresh waves, but the shapes of men and horses still stood proud of the water — ugly mounds that were an equally ugly testament to the brutality of the assault. The men didn’t bother him so much, but the horses…

  He’d half expected the Britons to keep retreating in view of the army now forming up opposite them but, to the credit of their courage, they had merely rearranged their forces, the remaining cavalry formed up at the rear, archers nowhere to be seen, infantry in a huge mass at the centre and the leaders in their chariots off to both sides.

  If Fronto craned his neck, Cicero could just be seen newly-arrived and bustling around at the rear of the formed-up Seventh. That man would get the benefit of Fronto’s personal and celebrated selection of curses later, when the entire army wasn’t listening, though there was also the coming confrontation with Caesar that would likely be much the same, only in the other direction. Although the general could have no proof that it was Fronto who had defied him and ordered the advance and disembarkation, he would suspect, and he knew for a fact that Fronto had been one of the first over the side with two centuries of the Tenth in further contradiction of orders.

  Caesar’s bile was hardly new though, and he knew how to weather that storm easily enough.

  In response to a demand, a shield was being passed through the ranks to the front, where the legionary behind Fronto respectfully handed it over. With satisfaction of the reassuring weight, Fronto hefted the grip, the callouses of his hand fitting harmoniously to the shape of the wood and leather. Cicero, Caesar and the other staff could stand at the back and wave their arms; he would stay here, in the front line. It was common knowledge in the army that a senior officer was as much use in the heat of combat as a knitted shield, and it was the centurionate that commanded the battle. Not so in the Tenth, and Fronto soured to think of what his men would think of him if he stood at the rear picking his nails with his knife like Cicero.

  “Ready!”

  Carbo’s voice cut through the general murmur and din of the assembled centuries and was repeated by the other fifty nine centurions of the Tenth and soon after by the officers of the Seventh. Across the front line, shields clacked against one another and the men planted their front feet, ready for the advance. The rattling, clanging and conversation died away to an expectant silence that was broken a moment later by the ‘musical’ instruments of the Britons, howling and wailing like a cat with its tail trapped in a door. With an exultant roar, the native army charged.

  “I don’t believe it.” Carbo muttered. On the other side of the legate, Galronus grinned behind his borrowed infantry shield. “Believe it. It’s the way they fight. To attack with the blood up is noble. To sit tight and wait for an advancing enemy is cowardly in their eyes.”

  “They must know they’ll never punch through this line” Fronto said quietly.

  “But they will try it anyway. They would rather die hopelessly and nobly than live in the knowledge that they had not tried.”

  “You mean they won’t run at all?”

  “Oh they’ll run, when they’re broken. But they’ll not retreat by design.”

  “Then we’d better break them.”

  Carbo laughed lightly and raised his sword. “Brace!”

  Along the line, the men of the Tenth hunched behind their shields, changing their stance so that, rather than preparing to march, they had all their weight ready to push forward into the wood and leather. The entire line of shields dropped slightly to cover exposed shins and heads were pulled down to leave only the eyes exposed between the metal helmet brow and the edge of the shield.

  A Roman shieldwall could withstand most attacks.

  Fronto was surprised as his eyes flicked across the ranks of the enemy to see that not only were the foot warriors of the native army charging forward en-masse with no formation or organisation, but the chariots at the periphery had swept forward only long enough to drop their noble passengers close enough to join the attack.

  He had a mind to enquire of Galronus as to this strange tactic, but now was not the time. He counted off his heartbeats.

  One… Two… Three…

  Four more and the lines would meet.

  Four…

  “Mark your men.”

  Three…

  Shame we didn’t have pila, Fronto thought, imagining all the stacks of the weighted javelins that were stored on board the ships and would have to be brought out later.

  Two…

  A man directly opposite Fronto with a strange bronze plate strapped over his bare chest, designs inked on his arms, his hair spiked and coated with white mud, and what he probably laughingly called his teeth bared, snarled something at Fronto.

  One…

  “I think he likes you” laughed Galronus to his left, as all hell broke loose.

  The power and voracity of the native charge took Fronto by surprise, and all along the shield wall there were curses and shouts in Latin as the legionaries of the Tenth and Seventh fought to maintain their position, their feet driving into the scattering pebbles, teeth grinding as they heaved with all their strength into the shields on their arms.

  Here and there the line buckled a little, but it held.

  “One” yelled Carbo, and the legion’s front line leaned back fractionally to gain a tiny fragment of room,
only to smash forward with their shields half a heartbeat later. All along the line of combat, bronze shield bosses smashed into the poorly-armoured Britons, smashing bones, shattering teeth, pulverising noses and generally wrecking the momentum of their attack.

  “Two” called the primus pilus, and the shields were all angled slightly, opening up gaps half a foot wide all along the front, safe in the knowledge that the shield-barge had knocked the enemy back enough to make it extremely unlikely that any of them would take advantage of the gap. Every legionary’s blade jabbed out of the line, plunging into the enemy, twisting and then withdrawing. The shields clacked back together with a monstrous din.

  The majority of the front men in the Celtic army collapsed to the ground screaming and bleeding, leaving a momentary space before the next set of Britons could move in over their comrades and reach their enemy.

  “Three!” barked Carbo, and the legion took two uniform steps forward over the bodies of the fallen. As the front line settled back into position and made sure their shields were locked, the second rank of men stamped down with their hobnailed boots and smashed their bronze-edged shield rims into the bodies of the wounded and dying Britons, preventing them from causing any damage within the formation.

  Now, the atmosphere across the army of Britons had changed from exultant, angry excitement to desperate, uncertain urging. The men back in the press pushed their comrades forward, dying to reach their enemy, pushing between their fellows where they could. Here and there a richly-armoured noble managed to elbow his way to the front. Before Carbo could repeat the process, several legionaries along the line succumbed to the brutal attacks of the warriors, their swords or axes coming down at just the right angle to miss shields and plunge into faces beneath helmet brows or smash into mailed shoulders. Even as those legionaries collapsed, screaming, from the line, the men in the second rank stepped forward to take their place, locking their shields smoothly. Of the fallen wounded there was no time or opportunity to help. They would just have to hope they weren’t trampled to death by their fellow legionaries in the press.

  Most were.

  “One” Carbo bellowed, and the manoeuvre began again. Shield-barge… shield-turn… gladius blow, twist, withdraw… step forward… lock shields.

  It was simple; mechanical. Bred into the men of the legions through years of training and putting it into practice. Regardless of any selection of favourable ground, of legion formation, of enemy tactics or numbers, any centurion or veteran would stand by the fact that it was the simple three-stage manoeuvre of the front line that won the battle. It was those three stages that allowed Rome to conquer the world.

  Fronto found himself humming a ditty, lost in the almost monotonous regularity of it, and his attention was only focussed back on the real world when someone yelled something about fleeing. Two centurions’ whistles rang out and then the entire beach echoed to shouted commands and the calls of the musicians to draw up in formation.

  Peering over his shield rim, Fronto watched with weary satisfaction as the Britons broke for the treeline behind the beach, the remaining nobles mounting their chariots and hurling incomprehensible abuse at the invaders as their drivers took them away from the fight.

  With a smile, Fronto felt the long scrubby grass brushing his shins and realised that the legions had pushed the enemy all the way across the beach, past the lower, pebbled part, across the sand, and finally to the grass.

  And now they were running.

  And if the cavalry — of whom no sign had been discerned since departure from Gesoriacum — had been here, they could chase down the fleeing warriors and deal with them. But with only thirty or so horsemen under Galronus, and their mounts still aboard the ships, such closure was merely a dream.

  Hardening himself, Fronto took a deep breath. Now to face the wrath of Caesar before he got to break a few heads himself.

  ROME

  Lucilia took a deep breath.

  “I hear him coming.”

  Faleria nodded in the faint light that issued through the grille in the door at the top of the stairs and shuffled back against the wall, the blanket and pallet she had been given for comfort barely keeping away the chill of the cold stone floor.

  “I wish you’d let me help.”

  Faleria smiled wanly at her young friend. “You will be helping, but the first move has to be mine.” She sighed. “We’ll only get one chance at this and, I’m sorry to have to say it, but you’re too delicate and slight for it. I am — in my brother’s words when I’ve stopped him making a fool of himself — a ‘tough old bitch’. And we’ll never be more prepared. Just be ready to move.”

  Lucilia shuffled nervously.

  “Stop fidgeting. The smallest thing could give the whole game away. Act normally.”

  That’s easy for you to say, thought Lucilia, eying the single door to the cellar room as the light disappeared, blotted out by the figure of the guard, Papirius. It would be Papirius. It was always Papirius. In the days they’d languished in this dingy pit — enough of them that she’d now lost count — only two guards had put in an appearance.

  Sextius brought their breakfast in the morning — a luke-warm barley gruel that put her in mind of the muck the legions had eaten when she had lived at the Genava camp with her father. The man was a humourless ex-legionary who appeared to have been dismissed from service with six lashes for his trouble, though she’d not dared to ask why. In the days and weeks of imprisonment she could count on her fingers the number of times he had spoken to them, and even that usually monosyllabic. After breakfast the man disappeared, never to be seen again that day, though his voice occasionally issued in muffled tones from beyond the door, confirming his presence in the building.

  The only other voice they had heard was Papirius. The other ex-legionary was a more genial man, given their circumstances. He it was who had taken away, cleaned and replaced the hellish slop-bucket, while Sextius seemed willing to let them wallow in their own filth. Indeed, Papirius had even cleaned the cell and replaced their bedding three or four times, though he had taken the precaution of chaining them to the wall rings each time.

  Papirius it was who also brought the other two meals each day: a snack of bread, cheese and olives at noon and a warm meat stew in the evening. If it was he who prepared the meals, he could be said to be a more than passable cook.

  She hardened her heart. These were their guards if not their captors. For all she saw in Papirius something familiar from her time living in the proximity of the Eighth legion, the man was still holding her against her will.

  Papirius, it seemed, was overly fond of wine and therefore took the late meal shifts so that in the morning he could sleep off the skinful he inevitably had each night. It seemed likely that the man’s dismissal from the legions was connected to his drinking habits.

  It was partially that habit that had decided on their timing.

  It had to be the noon meal. Papirius would be the least expecting of the pair and very much the least careful. He would still be a little tired and blurred from the alcohol. At noon he was less chatty than in the evening due to his bone-weariness.

  To this end, the two women had deliberately played up to Papirius throughout the long days of captivity. They had been model prisoners, never even breathing out of turn. They had cooperated, even with Sextius leering at them hungrily from time to time.

  And they had waited.

  And they had planned.

  The map they had drawn on the wall with a sharp stone they had rubbed clear only an hour later, having committed it firmly to memory.

  Lucilia had begun to wonder whether Faleria would ever be ready. For the last week she had been needling the older woman, urging her to put the plan into action, but each time the situation had apparently not been quite right.

  And then, last night, Papirius had confided with a wink that he was bound for the Opiconsivia festival with its ritual chariot race and then a celebratory night of feasting and drinking with a cous
in who owned a farm not far along the Via Flaminia and who had brought the last of his harvest to the city markets.

  Faleria had smiled as he left and the door closed with a rattle of keys. Papirius would be less alert than usual when he arose the next morning, and their time had come.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened.

  Lucilia bit her lip and drew blood.

  Sextius!

  It hadn’t occurred to her that perhaps Papirius would have been so inebriated that his companion would have to step in and cover his shift. Damn!

  “Faleria!” she hissed quietly.

  “I know.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We go anyway.”

  Sextius, his usual sour face taking on that leer at the sight of the captive women, began to move slowly down the stairs, two wooden plates balanced in his left hand, the right on the pommel of his sword.

  Lucilia shuddered. Sextius was a whole different proposition to Papirius. Faleria had been planning to overwhelm the guard as he brought the food and then pin him to the floor while Lucilia tied his hands with the twine they had unthreaded from the pallet’s edge. Papirius would have tried to fight them off, but Faleria was sure she could cope, especially if he was suffering. Sextius, on the other hand, was bright and alert. He would be tough to simply overwhelm.

  What was Faleria thinking? They had to abort and try another day.

  “Food!” Sextius announced somewhat unnecessarily as he reached the flagged floor and strode across. Lucilia looked up hungrily. Whatever her friend had planned, she had to keep up the pretence that all was normal. Faleria sat cross-legged, hunched over, her head hanging down.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Sextius glanced across at Lucilia as he slowly approached.

  “I have no idea” replied the younger of the captive women, with a distinct ring of truth.

  Unceremoniously, Sextius slung the two wooden platters on the floor at the foot of their pallets, the bread rolling off onto the dirty, cold stone flags. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, the former legionary crouched in front of Faleria, though Lucilia noted how his fingers curled around the sword hilt at his side, ready to draw at a heartbeat’s notice.