Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  “You look pale” he announced and grasped Faleria’s hair roughly with his left hand, yanking it upwards and lifting her head to see her face. His attention locked on her visage, he noticed all too late the finger coming up that jammed into his eye, her nail sharp from weeks of rough treatment.

  Lucilia stared as the man’s left eye exploded with a popping noise, goo and blood spurting out over Faleria. He screamed, though his reactions were sharp even in his agony, the sword coming free of the sheath with a metallic rasp. Even as Lucilia goggled in horror, Faleria stepped up her vicious attack. As the wounded man let go of her hair, she smashed her forehead into his face. Nothing broke, but she felt the impact with dizzying pain and knew she had dealt him a stunning blow.

  “Run!”

  By the time Lucilia had reached the stairs and was bounding up them, Faleria was at her heel, the wounded captor’s sword in her hand. Back in the gloom of the cell, the howling of pain was now infused with cries of rage and the sounds of scuffling as Sextius struggled to his feet.

  “Come on!”

  The pair ran through the cellar’s door and past the small cubicle that served as a guard chamber with its little table and rickety wooden chair, out along the corridor, around two corners, past two doors, and to the stairs that led to the ground floor, up which they pounded.

  Somewhere behind them issued the most animal shriek of pained rage, and the sound of hobnailed boots on stone echoed through the corridors.

  “Sextius?”

  Lucilia’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of Papirius’ voice ahead. Were they trapped? It mattered not how reasonable the genial ex-soldier had been. If he discovered they had escaped he would be merciless; of this she was certain.

  “Sextius?” the call came again.

  “Faleria!” she shouted in a panic, her courage draining away rapidly.

  “He’s off to the right. We go left at the end. Just run!”

  Obeying the instructions of her forthright friend, the young woman pounded along the corridor, ignoring the doors to the various rooms on either side, nearing the end, where the left turn would take her towards the street and freedom.

  She almost collapsed in panic as she sped round the corner and Papirius’ hand reached out of the shadowed opening to the far side, grasping for her and tearing a rip across the shoulder of her stola as she narrowly evaded his grip.

  And then she was running again. The door to the street was around the next corner and at the end of that corridor. She could see the glow of daylight at the bend. Her heart lurched again and, with a plummeting feeling of dismay, she glanced back over her shoulder as she ran.

  Papirius stood in the corridor, blocking it, his sword dancing in his hand, ready to strike. Beyond him, in the gloomier reaches, Lucilia could see Faleria, an expression of grim determination on her face, raising her stolen blade. She looked up to see Lucilia watching in horror.

  “Run, girl!”

  Her soul crying in anguish, Lucilia turned her back on her friend and ran on, around the corner and down the short passage, bursting out through the half-open door into the bright daylight of the Subura. Behind her, now invisible in the building’s gloom, she heard the faint but distinctive ring of steel striking steel.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, she grasped her filthy, soiled stola around her and ran, barefoot, for the family home on the Cispian hill.

  Clodius would pay for this.

  Chapter 15

  (Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)

  “Returning to Gaul is out of the question.” Caesar’s voice was flat and quiet — that particular flat and quiet that Fronto knew all too well to be a final word on any matter. Whether Cicero was not aware of that or whether he didn’t care, Fronto couldn’t say, but the man slapped a hand angrily down on the table.

  “We have no cavalry. We have only two legions and no idea quite how many of the natives there are out there who will resist us. We have no supplies and not enough intelligence as to where the areas of farmland and settlements are. We can’t even chase down the army that we pushed back due to the lack of cavalry support. It’s a futile gesture, Caesar!”

  Fronto smiled. The commander of the Seventh had begun to rant about the idiocy of the entire campaign the moment he had stepped into Caesar’s tent and the argument had not let up yet, despite the increasingly dangerous edge to the general’s tone. Brutus, Galronus and Volusenus stood quiet, staying clear of the matter. For his part, Fronto couldn’t wait to get started on Cicero, but for the time being it was too much fun just watching Caesar nearing his breaking point.

  All in all, it would work nicely for him. Caesar would, at some point, draw Fronto up for his actions at the beach, but Cicero had nicely diverted the general’s anger onto himself. It would be ever so easy now to fall onto Caesar’s side and launch his own argument at his fellow legate. That, in turn, should nicely incense Furius and Fabius enough to get their blood up. The two centurions were standing not far from the general’s tent, as were Carbo and Atenos, and they would quickly become aware of the division and argument. Especially when Fronto carried the bile right to them.

  “No, Cicero. Push me no further.” The general’s voice sounded like a blade being drawn.

  To his credit, Cicero seemed to realise that he’d walked to the edge of a precipice, and fell silent for a second. Fronto almost laughed when, rather than stopping, the legate of the Seventh simply changed tack.

  “Then I have an alternative suggestion, Caesar.”

  The general’s eyes became flinty, daring the man to continue speaking.

  “Perhaps we can send back the fleet and collect the Ninth legion from Gesoriacum? Possibly even one of the other legions as well, if Cotta and Sabinus are still local enough? Then we could check on the cavalry and find out what happened to them? Four legions with cavalry support and we could take proper control of the island.”

  “No.”

  “But…”

  “No, Cicero.”

  The legate of the Seventh subsided into silence, though his face was an interesting puce colour, and he almost vibrated with the urge to go on.

  The general turned his withering glare on Fronto and the Tenth’s legate could feel Caesar forcing himself to stay calm as he prepared to deal with his other wayward legate. Fronto took a deep breath.

  Now was his chance.

  “I am aware that by leading two centuries of the Tenth into the water, I went against the general orders during the landing, Cicero” he said, deliberately avoiding Caesar’s eyes and instead locking his gaze on his fellow legate. “But I have to make it absolutely clear that I wouldn’t have had to take such drastic action had you not flagrantly disobeyed your own orders and kept your legion back. Even those men of the Seventh who wanted to fight wouldn’t do so without an eagle to follow. I hope it burns in your gut that I had to provide that eagle because yours cowered on that trireme.”

  His face was coloured with fury, though inside, Fronto couldn’t help but feel a warm glow of satisfaction as the general turned his angry gaze on Cicero once more.

  Nicely deflected, if I say so myself.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Fronto” Cicero snapped in return. “I tried to commit my men, but the Seventh is no longer a proper legion. It’s a joke. Whatever the general asked of him, your old friend Priscus saddled the Seventh with every coward, rebel, idiot and disobedient fool in the army. My legion refused to disembark into the face of Hades without the Tenth being equally committed.”

  Somewhere deep inside, Fronto could see a certain sympathetic logic to that plight. Had he been in command, both legions would have been in the water together instantly. Still, the fool had just made his predicament that much worse by trying to kick the blame downwards. One of the perils of command was that, no matter how the legion acted, its commander took the ultimate brunt of any retribution for troubles caused.

  “Don’t bad-mouth your men, Cicero; it’s unprofessional. W
hat do they say? ‘It’s a poor workman who blames his tools for failure’. I fought alongside your ‘cowards, rebels and idiots’ in the water, and they did the eagle proud. And I heard only Caesar’s call committing the Seventh. Not once did I hear your musicians sound the advance until we were already wading ashore.”

  “Fronto…”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You’re supposed to be a senior officer. Caesar may not agree with my call, but I did what I had to do to take control of the field, and the general will tell you that’s just what any officer worth his salt does in that situation. If my eagle hadn’t dragged your boys into the water, we’d all have died on the ships.”

  “So taking control of the army out from under the general — an act of mutiny to my mind — is preferable to taking your chances against a few enemy archers?”

  “Don’t be a prick, Cicero.”

  The legate of the seventh rolled his eyes. “Ever the gutter snipe, eh Fronto. If you can’t answer the question sensibly, you have to resort to name-calling. You’d do well as a senate back-seater.”

  “Stick it up your arse. It doesn’t matter how you dress your actions up, even in a broad striped toga, failure is still failure. You disobeyed your orders, endangering the whole army, and I was forced to disobey mine just to clear up your mess. Doesn’t matter what you say, I know that, and you know that.” He pointed a finger at the general, an act that raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Caesar knows it too, as well as these others.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Hell, even your pet apes know it. One of your precious psychopath centurions came with me into the water. How’s that suit you?”

  Cicero sank into silent glaring anger.

  Got him, Fronto thought with deep satisfaction. That hit a nerve.

  Caesar was looking back and forth between his two legates as though trying to decide who to berate first as Brutus finally stepped forward into the middle of the seething fracas.

  “If I may interject, this meeting was intended to decide how best we proceed from here, not as an arena to hurl insults and air our dirty undergarments. I would humbly suggest, Caesar, that we finish for now and reconvene in a few hours when frayed tempers have healed and we are all calmer and more reasonable. I cannot see this turning out any useful conclusions as it is.”

  For a moment, Caesar’s gaze fell on the speaker and it looked as though he might unleash his pent-up rage on the young officer. Finally, though, he subsided with a sigh and sank into his chair.

  “Agreed. Cicero? Go and think about what you want from your command. Fronto? Just go away. Reconvene here at the dusk watch and we will decide what to do. Commander Galronus? I would appreciate it if you could arrange some scout patrols from your turma of cavalry to see if we can locate farms or settlements within, say, a five mile radius?”

  Galronus saluted as Fronto and Cicero continued to glare at one another.

  “Very well. Dismissed, gentlemen.”

  Fronto stood and glowered for a moment as Cicero tore away his gaze and, saluting briefly to the general, turned and strode from the tent. Preparing himself for the next barrage, Fronto followed on, Brutus, Volusenus and Galronus immediately behind. As they strode out into the fresh, cool air, Fronto turned and made small, subtle gestures to the three behind him to make themselves absent. As they did so, peeling off and going about their business, Fronto sped off to catch up with Cicero, who had paused next to his two veteran centurions, both of whom stood with scowls on their bristly faces. Carbo and Atenos fell in behind Fronto like bodyguards and the six men came together at the bottom of the hill, away from Caesar’s tent and close to the command quarters of the Seventh.

  “That was damned unprofessional, Fronto!” Cicero snapped.

  “It needed to be said.”

  “If you have a personal issue with me, you should take it up with me in private, not in front of the general and fellow officers.”

  Fronto only partially had to fake his wide-eyed expression of disbelief.

  “You dick! This isn’t personal! I can take a bit of fear or cowardice in a senior officer!” As Cicero went purple in colour, Fronto shrugged. “You’re a politician doing this job as a step on the ladder. It’s nothing new, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re not all cut out to be soldiers.”

  Cicero was starting to splutter angrily and Fronto was having a great deal of trouble not bursting out into a wide grin.

  “No. Not fear. And it’s not even disobedience. Hell, I’ve had to flaunt the rules a few times as you’re well aware, in order to get the right results. Better to be shouted at by the general for disobeying orders than to be wandering around the broken remnants of a dead army, wondering how it got to this.”

  Still, Cicero seemed unable to find voice through his rising fury.

  “I never had issue with you over these past years. I’ve never had a reason to shout at you. It’s not personal. That’s why I brought it up in the headquarters in front of everyone. Because what you do personally is of no interest to me. And what you think of me doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is when your actions — or lack of them — directly endanger the entire army, including my legion. I take very great exception to that. And I will not back down from confrontation over something so serious. When you do things like that it makes you a bad commander and a dangerous one. So you can take your righteous indignation and you can stick it so far up your cushioned, senatorial behind that you can feel it in the back of your throat.”

  Cicero wheezed out a whispered invective — the best his throat seemed able to manage.

  “What?” asked Fronto, cupping an ear dramatically.

  His fellow legate’s mouth clamped shut and Fronto could hear the teeth grinding even then.

  “Well here’s a suggestion. When you can think of something to say that doesn’t just confirm that you’re a dick and a bad officer, come and find me and tell me. I’m going for a walk to cool down.”

  Leaving the spluttering Cicero, Fronto turned and marched off toward the west gate in the temporary camp’s ramparts that were still being constructed.

  The last thing he noticed, with some satisfaction, was the looks of silent anger on the faces of Fabius and Furius.

  By the time he was past the first two rows of legionary tents, Carbo and Atenos were at his shoulders again.

  “Jove’s arse, sir. I thought he was going to explode. You might have pushed him a bit too far there.”

  “Knock off the ‘sir’s. No one’s listening.”

  “Not while we’re in open camp, sir.”

  Fronto shrugged. “Are they following?”

  Carbo ‘accidentally’ let slip his vine staff and had to crouch to pick it up. A subtle glance around and he caught up with the other two.

  “No, but they’re watching where we’re going.”

  “Good. Galronus says there’s a clearing in the wood to the west. Just about every path into the trees leads to it. I’m going there. The ground’s muddy and soft and even a dunce should be able to track me there. You two had best slip off back to the tents. Find Brutus. Tell him I need his help and then wait till those two leave. Follow them and make sure you’re there when they find me.”

  Carbo nodded and grinned.

  “Let’s nail the bastards, sir.”

  “Yup. Now go. They won’t follow if they see you two going with me.”

  As Fronto strode on ahead toward the gate, his two centurions dipped to the side, into the ranks of the Tenth’s temporary camp. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he fought the urge to turn and look at Cicero and his men.

  Near the command section, Cicero snapped a few commands at his centurions and Furius and Fabius exchanged hurried, urgent words before separating, the former strolling slowly down the road toward the west gate, the latter rushing off toward their tents.

  Fronto kept his face forward as he strode into the woods, following a beaten path — presumably a hunter’s trail. Despite the fact that Galronus and his men had bri
efly scouted the immediate surroundings of the Roman camp, they had only had time for a quick scan and it now occurred to Fronto how potentially dangerous it was to stride off into the woodland where native warriors or hunters could be lurking in the bushes, even watching their enemy.

  In the safe knowledge that, if he was being followed as he hoped, the pursuers were far enough behind to be out of earshot, he slowed so as not to blunder into any unfortunate situation. His hand reached down for the gladius at his side and he drew it, just in case, pacing along the path into the heart of the unknown forest.

  Still, a thrill ran through him.

  At last.

  After months of watching friends and acquaintances fall prey to the murderers’ blades, he would have a chance to confront them. And if things went just right there would be no need for protracted trial and interrogation. They would prove their guilt in front of an independent witness. Execution would be guaranteed after that. Knowing that, of course, the pair would probably try and fight. But with Fronto, Carbo, Atenos and Brutus present, he really didn’t fancy their chances, no matter how good they were with a blade.

  With very little warning, Fronto rounded the bole of a birch cluttered about the base with bushes and undergrowth and found himself looking into a clearing some twenty yards wide. All across it, the scattered stumps of trees in varying degrees of decay told of the reason for the clearing’s size. A dark, charred patch marked where the unnecessary foliage and thinner branches had been deposed of.

  Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he began to pick his way among the stumps towards the centre. He couldn’t guarantee that Fabius and Furius would take exactly the same path and there was the possibility they could come across the clearing from any angle, so for safety he would need to be at the centre.

  Finding a particularly large tree stump — a sycamore by the look of the remnants — he took a quick look around and sank gratefully to the time-and-weather-smoothed surface, taking care to fold his cloak beneath him first to keep the dampness away.