Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4 Read online

  Conspiracy of Eagles

  ( Marius mules - 4 )

  S. J. A. Turney

  S. J. A. Turney

  Conspiracy of Eagles

  Dramatis Personae (List of Principal Characters)

  The Command Staff:

  Gaius Julius Caesar: Politician, general and governor.

  Aulus Ingenuus: Commander of Caesar’s Praetorian Cohort.

  Cita: Chief quartermaster of the army.

  Quintus Atius Varus: Commander of the Cavalry.

  Quintus Titurius Sabinus: Senior lieutenant of Caesar.

  Lucius Aurunculeius Cotta: Lieutenant of Caesar

  Quintus Tullius Cicero: Staff officer and brother of the great orator.

  Titus Labienus: Senior lieutenant of Caesar.

  Mamurra: Famous engineer favoured by Caesar

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus: Former primus pilus of the Tenth, now camp prefect of the army.

  Seventh Legion:

  Quintus Tullius Cicero: Legate and brother of the great orator.

  Titus Terrasidius: Senior Tribune.

  Publius Tertullus: Junior Tribune.

  Gaius Pinarius Rusca: Junior Tribune.

  Lutorius: Primus pilus of the Seventh

  Lucius Fabius: Centurion of the third century, first cohort

  Tullus Furius: Centurion of the second century, first cohort

  Eighth Legion:

  Decimus Brutus: Legate and favourite of Caesar’s family.

  Titus Balventius: Primus pilus amp; veteran of several terms of service.

  Aquilius: Training officer, senior centurion and perfectionist.

  Ninth Legion:

  Publius Sulpicius Rufus: Young Legate of the Ninth.

  Marcus Trebius Gallus: Senior Tribune and veteran soldier.

  Grattius: primus pilus, once in sole command of the Ninth.

  Tenth Legion:

  Marcus Falerius Fronto: Legate and confidante of Caesar.

  Gaius Tetricus: Military Tribune, expert in military defences.

  Crito: Veteran tribune of two years.

  Servius Fabricius Carbo: Primus Pilus.

  Atenos: Centurion and chief training officer, former Gaulish mercenary

  Petrosidius: Chief Signifer of the first cohort.

  Eleventh Legion:

  Aulus Crispus: Legate, former civil servant in Rome.

  Quintus Velanius: Senior Tribune.

  Titus Silius: Junior Tribune.

  ‘Felix’: Primus Pilus, accounted an unlucky man.

  Twelfth Legion:

  Servius Galba: Legate.

  Gaius Volusenus: Junior Tribune.

  Publius Sextius Baculus: Primus pilus. A distinguished veteran.

  Thirteenth Legion:

  Lucius Roscius: Legate and native of Illyricum.

  Fourteenth Legion:

  Lucius Munatius Plancus: Legate and former staff officer.

  Menenius: Junior tribune

  Hortius: Junior tribune

  Cantorix: Centurion in the Third cohort.

  Other characters:

  Quintus Balbus: Former Legate of the Eighth, now retired. Close friend of Fronto.

  Faleria the elder: Mother of Fronto and matriarch of the Falerii.

  Faleria the younger: sister of Fronto.

  Corvinia: Wife of Balbus, legate of the Eighth.

  Lucilia: Elder daughter of Balbus.

  Balbina: Younger daughter of Balbus.

  Galronus: Gaulish officer, commanding auxiliary cavalry under Varus.

  Publius Clodius Pulcher: Powerful man in Rome, enemy of Caesar and conspirator, responsible for multiple crimes.

  Prologue

  Publius Curiatius pulled the cloak tightly about him, trying to wrap himself in nonchalance as he sidled from the door, his business with Caesar’s major domo complete. The general himself remained in Illyricum until nearer the campaigning season’s start, but his household thrummed with activity and intrigue at all times, whether the master was present or not.

  The street in the Subura was remarkably empty for the time of evening, though the sounds of carousing flowed from nearby streets and alleys. Two men stood huddled at a corner, exchanging some shady goods; a prostitute with a bored expression displayed her wares outside one of the lower class establishments and an ex-soldier with a disfigurement sat in the shit of the gutter swigging from a cheap jar of wine.

  The district was usually a lively one, and not for the highest class citizens. Yet Caesar still maintained his house there, where his family had always dwelled, despite his sisters having turned their nose up at the Subura and plumped for better class locales.

  Pulling the hood of the cloak down to help disguise his features, Curiatius shuffled along the street quickly, his fine sandals already ruined by the muck and filth of the street. Not far and he would be able to throw open his own door and hurry inside to the safety and warmth of the triclinium and the meal that would be waiting for him.

  Turning, he moved into an alley just in time to see the tavern shutters slam closed. He shrugged as he hurried on. This was no time to go frequenting cheap bars. Not for the first time tonight, he wondered whether he should have brought guards with him, but the head of the household servants had been explicit that he should come alone.

  “A bad time to explore the Subura” a voice called out from behind. Curiatius turned, his heart lurching, to see a cloaked figure silhouetted at the alley end whence he had entered. The only detail he could make out other than the shape of a cloaked man was the sword that extended from his right hand, gleaming in the reflected light from the street. “The time all the taverns start to get bawdy and dangerous. Gentlemen should be safely in their own homes now.”

  Curiatius felt his bladder weaken and turned back, hurrying on into the gloom of the alley.

  Another cloaked figure stepped out of the next crossing in the alley, again in silhouette, again with a blade extended from his right hand.

  “Tut tut tut. You are a busy boy, aren’t you?” the shadow offered.

  Curiatius skidded to a halt, his bladder close to giving up the ghost. “I’m not worth the trouble. I have no money on me but I will be missed.”

  “I think you overestimate your importance, Publius Curiatius.”

  They knew him by name? This was no random mugging. Curiatius backed against the wall at the alley’s side. “Whatever you want, I can pay you well to leave me alone!”

  “I thought you said you had no money?”

  He was suddenly aware that the two men were now moving forward, converging on him. Panic began to set in as the first warm trickle issued down his thigh, staining his toga. Turning, he moved a few feet along the wall to the recently-closed tavern. It may be shut to new custom, but the night’s visitors were still inside, carousing at full volume.

  “Help me!” he yelled, hammering on the shutter with his fists. “Help!” But the noise inside was immense and no one was paying any attention to him.

  “Hel…” Curiatius’ voice tailed off as he looked down in surprise at the foot of tapering Noric steel projecting from his chest. He gasped, a gobbet of blood bursting from his mouth to spatter the shutter. With a meaty sound the blade withdrew. Surprise somehow overcoming the shocking pain that was already beginning to build to unbearable levels, Curiatius collapsed to the dung-stained pavement and fell, rolling onto his back, blood pumping from the exposed and exploded heart both up and down through the hole, spreading out in rivulets between the cobbles.

  His killer bent low, engaged in light conversation with his partner, and wiped the blade — an exquisite gladius with an ivory grip and orichalcum hilt embossed with divine images — clean on his finest toga.

  The young, ambitious equestria
n felt the life ebb from him and wished with his last few ounces of strength that he’d never even heard the name Caius Julius Caesar.

  PART ONE: GERMANIA

  Chapter 1

  (Puteoli, near Neapolis, on the Campanian coast)

  Marcus Falerius Fronto, confidante of Caesar, legate of the Tenth Equestrian Legion, Roman citizen, Patrician and hero of the Gaulish wars, sulked and dragged his feet.

  “Come on or we’ll be late for the meal.” Lucilia Balba rolled her eyes as she cast a despairing look at her man. There were times when Fronto appeared not to have passed his seventh year of childhood.

  Amid the hum of nature, Fronto gave her a cantankerous frown and glanced over his shoulder as he adjusted the new silken tunic that clung all too tight to his scarred, lean frame and, to his mind, made him look a little too feminine.

  The Forum Vulcani loomed almost a mile distant, the ring of jagged rock standing high around a white-yellow crater that jetted and fumed continually with spurts of steam and sprays of hot mud. Despite his almost legendary pragmatism, the Forum Vulcani continued to hold a certain unspoken trepidation for Fronto. He knew the gurgling mud and jets of steam were simply the work of Vulcan’s forge beneath the world but in the stories of his youth, told by the elders and menfolk of coastal Campania, the great bubbling, steaming horseshoe was the entrance to Hades. His childhood best friend Laelius had once sworn he saw a great three-headed dog prowling amid the jets. It was impossible to shake off the dread, despite his adult practicality.

  And this infuriating woman had brought him here to lounge in the steam and slap stinging hot mud on his more scarred and ugly patches of skin in the crazed belief that being thoroughly coated with grey-brown sludge was somehow ‘healing’. It certainly hadn’t made his bones ache less or removed the burgeoning hangover, though the faint scalding sensation that had reddened much of his flesh had at least taken his mind off the left knee that had started to give these days if he walked up and down hills too often.

  “The meal can wait for us. I’m the patriarch of the house, remember?”

  “Yes, dear. You’re a fine patriarch, but you’ll be a fine patriarch with a charred meal and a furious sister if we don’t hurry.”

  Fronto gave the great steaming mountain a suspicious frown — he thought he’d seen it move for a moment — and turned back to face the mass of Puteoli ahead and below, not quite in time to avoid treading in a large pile of dung deposited by one of the numerous trade caravans that had come here from the other great port nearby, at Neapolis.

  “Shit!”

  “Indeed, my love. Horse-shit, I fear.”

  Fronto grumbled and hoisted the leather bag with their wet clothes higher onto his shoulder so that he could concentrate on wiping his rough military-issue sandals on the kerb to remove the worst of the ordure.

  Lucilia gave him an odd smile and then turned away, humming a happy little tune as she picked up the pace a little, strolling down the hill toward the expansion work on the small amphitheatre — pride of the council of Puteoli.

  Briefly, Fronto cast a longing gaze down the slope. Spring had come to Puteoli, bringing a bounteous spray of flora, whose scent almost managed to mask the salt tang of the sea. Bees buzzed and cicadas chirruped, birds sang and unidentified wildlife rustled all along both sides of the road that led from Neapolis to Puteoli via the Forum Vulcani. But it was not the bounty of nature or the sheer joy of spring that drew his hungry gaze.

  Somewhere, down beyond the oval amphitheatre and past the various baths and temples, right down toward the port, looking out over the water to the distant hump of Baia and the mound of Misenum on the far side of the bay, stood the small building that drew his thoughts. The ‘Leaping Dolphin’ was a tavern that served wine of questionable quality, allowed some of the more unsavoury types to abuse its hospitality, hosted theoretically-fair dice games, and showcased some of the cheaper exotic women in the region.

  That tavern had drained his purse every winter since he’d been of age to join the military. And yet this year, he’d not put a foot across its threshold.

  Regretfully, he tore his gaze from the glorious landscape and the lowbrow establishment hidden somewhere at its centre and turned off on the side road, following Lucilia.

  Despite some regret that resided at a deep level and was chiselled into his heart, he had to admit that he’d not really missed the carousing until he’d actually had cause to think on it — not in the company he’d kept over the winter.

  It had been nice. It had been an… adjustment, but it had certainly been nice. He’d found himself a number of times over the colder months wishing that the young lady who had apparently captured him without the use of net or spear could have helped warm his bed rather than sleeping in a resolutely virginal chamber on the far side of the villa, adjacent to Faleria’s room ‘just in case’.

  The nights after his wine intake had been higher and less watered than met Faleria’s approval had been particularly difficult.

  He watched Lucilia’s figure sway alluringly down the gravelled road toward the complex of villa buildings that clung to the hillside, overlooking the azure sea and the ships arriving from every corner of the world. It was almost hypnotic.

  He winced as he remembered that night after the Saturnalia celebrations when the sway of those hips had taunted him just too much and he had found himself, insulated by a thick layer of wine, standing in just his underwear and trying to lift the latch to Lucilia’s room with a paring knife. His hands had slipped repeatedly from the target in a pleasant haze, carving furrows in the surrounding wood and leaving scratches on the iron plate.

  He had spent almost ten minutes trying and had finally drawn a deep breath ready to call to the room’s intoxicating occupant when he had become aware of his sister, standing outside her own door, watching him with an expression that would have split a block of marble or sent a thousand Gallic horse galloping for the hills.

  He had dropped the paring knife in alarm and it had punctured his foot. Just another reminder of how far his influence as patriarch really stretched when Faleria was in residence. His mother had ruled the family with an iron fist after his father’s death, until the death of Verginius in Hispania had left Faleria preparing for a wedding with a deceased man. The girl had hardened that day into a classic Roman matron and had immediately surpassed their mother in her rigid and humourless control of the house for all too many years.

  He shook his head again.

  But Faleria had changed again since he’d been away campaigning in Gaul. She had softened once more to something resembling the Faleria of his youth. Certainly the addition of Lucilia to the household seemed to have had a powerful effect on her.

  ‘Softened’, but not ‘weakened’.

  Fronto sighed. It had taken him only a few weeks to realise that in signing away his soul to this girl, he had simply added a third headstrong female to the list of those who thought they could rule and control him. Sadly, it appeared that they were correct in that assumption. Caesar, Pompey and Crassus could learn a thing or two from the three women commanding the house of the Falerii these days.

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  Lucilia turned slightly to regard him curiously as they closed on the villa.

  “You should watch that, Marcus. Such activity rarely leads to good things.”

  Another deep sigh.

  “I wonder whether it’s time to start edging Faleria toward…” he swallowed nervously. This was like addressing the senate and asking for a favour. “Toward perhaps looking at a new match?”

  Lucilia shook her head.

  “She says she’s too old.”

  “You’ve discussed it with her?” Fronto was seriously taken aback. He’d been trying to work out a way to broach the subject for two years now.

  “At some length. I tried to persuade her that thirty is still an acceptable age and that she has a few years to bear children yet.”

  “You said what?”

&
nbsp; “Faleria is, I think, happy with her station. I think she will never love another like her lost husband, and so she is happy not to try. She knows that at her age, with the lineage and value of the Falerii, she will likely only attract leery old men or greedy young nobodies hungry for power and station. Given that it is now more than possible that you will be able to continue the line, your mother is happy to leave Faleria to her own devices.”

  Fronto stopped in a squelch of horse dung and dropped the sack of wet clothes with a similar noise.

  “You even spoke to mother about this?”

  “Oh calm down. You’ll do yourself an injury. Women talk, Marcus. I’m sure you’re aware of this. What did you think we did while you and your pet servants went down to the races or sat in the cellar playing Latrunculi, draining your father’s carefully stocked wines?”

  Fronto stared at her as something she had said clicked in his head.

  “’Continue the line’?”

  “Children, Marcus” she said, rolling her eyes as she stooped to lift the bag of clothes and throw it over her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Small people who cry a lot and fall over regularly.”

  She set off along the road again, leaving Fronto standing, baffled, until he shook his head and ran after her.

  “Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of things there? We’ve yet to even ask your father if he’ll agree to the match. You may think your mother will persuade him, but I’m not so sure. And then there’s Caesar. The Agonia Martialis is already passed and the legions will be starting to move in Gaul. If I don’t hear from the general by the end of Aprilis I shall have to ride to Rome and prepare for the coming season. I’ll only be around for another month or so. Caesar has a plan, I think, to expand his horizons ever further. I will be gone for the whole campaigning season, probably for years yet.”