4.Conspiracy of Eagles Read online

  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?”

  “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.”

  This time it was Lucilia who stopped dead and it took Fronto another five flustered steps to realise and draw himself to a halt.

  “You don’t need to serve, if you don’t wish to” she said, quietly, but with a dangerous edge.

  Fronto shook his head.

  “Caesar is our patron. My family and yours, both. And I am one of his senior officers. If he needs me then I shall have to…”

  “Tripe. Drivel. My father supports Caesar and maintains his patronage out of loyalty. He owes nothing to the man. And you? If I understand what your mother tells me, it is Caesar who theoretically owes the Falerii a small sum, and not the other way round. You run at his beckon because you live for the legions. That will change.”

  Fronto thrust an angry finger towards her, but she smiled and walked past him once more on her way to the villa.

  “Come on. We’ll be late for the meal.”

  Fronto stood amid the buzz of bees and the chatter of birds, the hazy blue of the bay providing a strange background to the seething, roiling churn of emotions that held him fast. After a few moments he realised how foolish he must look – standing and angrily gesturing to the open air – checked for any passing observers and, finding none, hurried after the beautiful Lucilia.

  * * * * *

  Two days later, Fronto hurried out into the courtyard before the villa, taking no time to breathe in the joyous warm evening air, with a scent of jasmine and roses. His sandals flapped around him, the straps loose and untied, threatening to trip him with every step.

  “What bloody time do you call this?”

  Galronus, noble of the Remi tribe, beloved of Lug and Taranis, lord among the fierce Belgae, dismounted easily from his roan mare and alighted smoothly, dusting himself down as he released the reins. Fronto looked him up and down with an unabashed grin of happiness.

  A second winter in Rome had wrung even more changes to the rough figure of Galronus the Gaul. Though he still wore the traditional moustaches of his people, his long hair, once wild and untamed, now had that lustrous sheen and smoothness that only comes with regular attention from an expensive barber and was plaited down before one ear and tied back at the nape of his neck. His skin had that clean smooth look of a man
who had managed at least three visits a day to the baths. His sole concessions to his native dress seemed to be the continued wearing of the braccae – the Gallic trousers that bulged at the thigh and reached to the ankles – and a torc around his neck, although even that had an unmistakable look of Roman metalwork.

  “Marcus!” The big Gaul left his reins hanging and ran across the courtyard to enfold the dishevelled Roman in a great bear hug. Fronto issued an involuntary squeak at the pressure, but grinned as Galronus let him go. The Belgic nobleman even smelled of scented bath oils. Good job there’d be no chance for him to attend such grand bathhouses back in Gaul; else his tribe would tear him to pieces for womanliness.

  “You have spent the winter in a comfortable villa with your own baths and slaves and servants?” Galronus enquired with a furrowed brow.

  Fronto nodded as one of those slaves hurried across to take the reins of the visitor’s horse.

  “Why then does your hair stand up like this and why do you smell like old amphorae, and why is your tunic stained and creased?”

  Fronto rolled his eyes.

  “I think I miss the Galronus who had never even heard of a heated bath. Come on.”

  Grasping his shoulder, Fronto guided him towards the door that led into the decorative atrium.

  “What draws you away from the delights of Rome?”

  Galronus shrugged off the leather bag that hung over one arm and stopped in the atrium as it dropped to the marble floor with a thud. Stooping, he rummaged in it for a moment and then straightened, holding out a wooden writing tablet.

  “This.”

  Fronto took the item, frowning, and snapped it open. His brow rose as he recognised the handwriting.

  “Caesar gave you this? It’s not sealed or anything.”

  Galronus shrugged.

  “Perhaps he trusts me.”

  Fronto eyed him askance. “Or perhaps you broke the seal and had a good read before you left Rome.”

  Galronus blinked his innocence, his face devoid of expression, and Fronto shook his head as he snapped it shut.

  “I’ll read it when we’re settled. For now, it’s late. We’ve had an evening repast, but I daresay we can rustle you something up. And I’ve just broken the seal on some nice Sicilian wine. How’s the house?”

  Galronus had taken up residence during autumn in the burned out shell of the townhouse of the Falerii on the Aventine hill, keeping the place occupied as the workmen continued to return it to a liveable state after the fights and fires of the previous year.

  “Less than half complete, I’d say. There was more structural fire damage than originally anticipated, and the winter weather has made it difficult for the workmen. It may be another year before it resembles your home again.”

  Fronto nodded. It came as no surprise to him. At least the family could spend the year in Puteoli and not worry about it yet.

  A sudden flurry of activity announced the arrival of the girls and Fronto glanced over his shoulder before raising his eyes skywards again.

  “Brace yourself.”

  Stepping aside, he watched with some satisfaction as Faleria and Lucilia mobbed the large Gaul, almost knocking him from his feet and chattering their pleasure at his arrival. Turning his attention from the spectacle, Fronto snapped open the wooden tablet again and ran his eyes down the message within.

  Caesar’s handwriting had always been tight, small and economic, though gifted with an almost oratorical turn of phrase even in such short form.

  To M Falerius Fronto from C Iulius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul,

  Felicitations.

  Having received tidings of your joyous situation, it is with regret that I now send news of the opening of the campaigning season.

  Fronto frowned. How in the name of the seven whores of Capernum had the general heard of his predicament?

  It had been my intention to travel late to Gaul, perhaps even during Maius, since there have been no signs of renewed insurrection or hostility to the Roman state and the missives from my subordinates have assured me that the process of drawing Gaul into the fold proceeds apace.

  Again, Fronto frowned. The letter had been clearly written carefully in case it should fall into the wrong hands, or perhaps Caesar had even expected Galronus to open it en route? Fronto remembered clearly his last conversation with the general, when the man had avowed his intent to take the Pax Romana and stuff it down the throat of the next Celtic nation he found.

  However, it would appear that a number of Germanic tribes, driven from their own lands by a vast eastern tribe of even more unyielding barbarians, have crossed the Rhenus and settled in the lands of our Belgae subjects, defending their presence with extreme violence. While it has never been the intention of Rome or this proconsulate to bring war to those tribes beyond that great river,

  Fronto rolled his eyes at the line and shook his head.

  it is now clearly necessary to mobilize the legions in northern Gaul to repel these invaders and support our Belgic people. To this end, I am summoning all of my officers to return to their commands at their earliest convenience. A trireme under my command is docked at Ostia, and has begun to make the journey to and from Massilia as required in order to ferry said officers to the nearest port.

  Our Graeco-Gallic allies in Massilia have agreed to provide a place in their agora for a staging post for us. From there, you will be required to travel north along the Rhodanus, past the allied townships of Vienna and Vesontio, with which you will be familiar. The army will be encamped close to the oppidum of Divoduron in the lands of the Mediomatrici some one hundred and fifty miles to the north of Vesontio.

  I trust you will be able to reach your command by the Kalends of Maius.

  In the name of the senate and people of Rome.

  Your friend,

  Caius.

  Fronto looked up from the note to see that the clamorous reunion between his friend and the women of the household seemed to have died down. Galronus was looking at him over the heads of the two women, a question in his eyes. Fronto nodded silently.

  “Come on ladies. Let our guest at least recover a little from his journey before you bombard him with questions. We’ll come and meet you in the triclinium within the hour.”

  Lucilia flashed him a hard look that he prudently ignored, but Faleria caught his eye and must have recognised something, for she nodded and clasped Lucilia’s hand.

  “Come on. Let the boys play for a while. They have such little time to act like children.”

  Lucilia frowned and the two women made for the doorway to the triclinium, while Fronto collected Galronus’ bag and led him off toward the far end of the villa, where he was wont to pass the time.

  “You read the message?”

  “I did. He moves earlier than I expected.”

  From across the room, a sharp female voice snapped out.

  “What?”

  Fronto turned in surprise and realised that the two ladies had not yet fully left the room, pausing instead to chat in the doorway. He cursed inwardly for having spoken openly and too soon.

  “Nothing, Lucilia. We’ll be along shortly.”

  But the dark haired girl had already torn herself from Faleria’s grasp and was storming across the atrium so resolutely Fronto feared she would walk straight through the impluvium pool in the centre without noticing.

  “Lucilia…”

  “No! You’re leaving? It’s too early. You said you wouldn’t go until the end of Aprilis. My father is going to Rome in a few weeks. I was going to take you there to meet him. We need to speak to him.”

  Fronto quailed and stepped back as the whirlwind of furious womanhood approached.

  “It’s just a few more months, Lucilia. I’ll be back before winter, and then…”

  “No. I will not spend a whole extra summer as a guest with no formal ties to the house. You persuaded me not to travel in winter, else we’d have seen father sooner. You’ll not delay our betrothal any further.”

>   “Lucilia, I have to go. I have been summoned to my post by the Proconsul of Gaul. It’s only half a year. I’ve waited this long, after all…” he regretted the words almost before they’d left his tongue and the colour draining from the face of the young lady threatened a violent disagreement and likely some thrown crockery.

  Galronus opened his mouth and took a pace forward, but Lucilia held a hand up, palm facing him.

  “No. You find somewhere to make yourself comfortable. Marcus and I are going to have a talk.”

  Fronto cast one desperate, pleading look at Galronus as Lucilia grabbed his arm and, yanking, turned him back to the door before dragging him through it. The large Gaul carefully avoided meeting his gaze and then turned back to the atrium, wondering whether it would be possible to follow them and ask for his travelling bag. Prudence won out and he decided against it.

  “Galronus, it has been too long.”

  He smiled at Faleria and stepped around the small pool towards her.

  “Have they been like this all winter?”

  Faleria nodded. “I think he missed male company. You should have come earlier.”

  Galronus cast an embarrassed eye down to the floor. ”I had… other pursuits. The games; the racing; I even watched one of your plays, although it lacks the power of the storytellers among my people. The masks are funny, though. And some of the singing made me laugh,”

  Faleria nodded encouragingly. She daren’t ask what play he had attended; she was almost certain it would have been a tragedy. Certainly with Galronus in the audience laughing like a gurgling drain.

  “How long will you be here? Are you taking him straight away?”

  Galronus shrugged. “I think we can squeeze a few days out. The traders in Rome say that the sea is remarkably calm even for the time of year, so we will make good time, especially if we take a ship straight from Neapolis or Puteoli, rather than riding back to Rome.”