Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4 Page 3

  “Who are they?” a quiet voice enquired.

  Fronto turned to see that Faleria had joined them at his other side. He spun back and examined the small group of men on the dock, trying to get a better view of their faces. It quickly became apparent that the five soldiers on the dockside constituted two separate groups, rather than one large one.

  “I don’t know the two centurions, but they’re veterans. You can tell that just from the look of them. I think…”

  Fronto’s knuckles whitened as his grip on the rail tightened.

  “Their shields! They’d do well to keep the covers on” he growled.

  “What is it?” Lucilia asked, her eyes narrowing as she tried in vain to see whatever Fronto had spotted.

  “Their shields are still painted in the designs of the 2nd Italic; one of Lucullus’ legions.”

  “So?”

  Fronto turned to look at Lucilia as if she were an idiot, an expression he couldn’t hide, despite the warning signs it drew in her eyes.

  “That means they served under Pompey in the east against Mithridates. Hell, they might even have been the mutineers that the scheming little prick Clodius paid off, and who nearly screwed up the whole campaign. If they’re waiting to join Caesar’s trireme, I may have to have strong words with the general.”

  “But that campaign was what? Ten years ago? They’ve probably been civilians for years in between.”

  “Once a shitbag, always a shitbag, Lucilia.”

  “Who are the others, then?” Faleria asked, trying to calm her brother.

  Fronto tried not to look at the two veterans; heavy set men with bristly faces and iron grey hair and traitorous shields. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the three more senior officers, clad in burnished cuirasses, crimson cloaks, plumed helms and bronze greaves. Their tunics and pteruges were spotless white. They could have been posing for a heroic statue in the forum. They quite clearly had the military bearing of a huddle of lame ostriches.

  “The two at the far side I vaguely recognize. Menenius, I think. Can’t remember the other’s name. They’ve been on staff since the Belgae revolted two years ago. Tribunes that were attached to the Eleventh or Twelfth. Possibly both.” He shook his head. “Eleventh. Must be. Only one of the tribunes of the Twelfth survived Octodurus last year.”

  The two junior tribunes were chattering away like the mindless, excited youths that so often filled the role. Only one junior tribune in every ten posted to the army had even the faintest idea which end of a sword to grip and which end to poke into the enemy. As he watched, one of the two reared back his head and issued a squawking laugh that grated on Fronto’s nerves and ran right down his spine. His spirits sank at the thought of a three day voyage to Massilia in the company of that laugh. Fops and morons. It said much of their effectiveness and involvement that in two years of service Fronto could not actually remember seeing or hearing of them, except in briefings.

  “They’re about as useful as a parchment shield. And about as welcome as a turd in a bath house.”

  “And the other one?”

  Fronto squinted again.

  “Don’t know him. Tall. Obviously patrician. Could do with a little bit more chin and a lot less forehead. He should get on very well with those other two donkeys. He’s got a broad stripe on his tunic, though. He’s going to be a senior tribune.”

  He spun from the rail.

  “If that ostrich gets assigned to me, I shall take great pleasure in giving him a shield and standing him in the front row when we meet a bunch of screaming Celts.”

  Faleria shook her head with a slight smile.

  “Steady, Marcus.”

  “I’ll have you know that I…” he began angrily, and then lost his footing and slipped in his own outpouring as the ship bounced briefly off the dock before connecting once again and scraping woodenly along the sheer face.

  “I told you to be steady” Faleria said with insufferable smugness.

  “Ladies?”

  Fronto, whose grip on the rail had been the only thing that had prevented him from slamming down to the deck, backside first, twisted to see Galronus standing tall and proud, steady as a rock, and an irritatingly healthy colour for a member of a land-locked tribe.

  The big Gaul gestured for Faleria and she laid her hand on the bulging muscles of his forearm, allowing him to escort her across the slippery deck to where the plank was being slid out to the dock. Two of the sailors nearby chuckled as Fronto mirrored the chivalrous act, reaching out and grasping Lucilia’s forearm to steady himself as he weakly staggered across the deck to the plank, moving like a man twenty years his senior.

  Lucilia grinned at him as she helped him onto the plank, and watched with glee as he skittered down it and narrowly avoided collapsing onto the quay.

  The four of them recovered their land gait quickly, stamping their feet and walking back and forth, and then made their way along the quay toward the five soldiers in crisp uniform. Fronto couldn’t help but issue a groan as he saw the trireme drawing closer along the Tiber from the direction of Rome.

  “It’s here already!”

  Faleria smiled and patted him on the arm.

  “Don’t worry, dear brother. We stay in Ostia tonight and sail with the morning tide. Save your retching for tomorrow.”

  The five officers had begun to move. Fronto had assumed they were waiting to board a ship, but it appeared that, in fact, they had recently alighted in much the same fashion as his own party and were making for accommodation in the town.

  Both groups converged on the main street leading to the forum and the heart of the town: a narrow thoroughfare compared with the great streets at the centre of Rome. At the entrance of the street, a one-legged veteran stood by the corner, supported on a crude crutch, proffering a wooden bowl for spare coins. Opposite him, a bony, raddled woman with a very visible ribcage touted her wears through a gauzy white garment. Even the poorer classes funnelled into the centre to avoid being accosted by either.

  “What are you doing?” Lucilia frowned as Fronto picked up a sudden burst of speed and made for the street, dragging his companions with him.

  “I’ve stayed in Ostia. There’s only a limited supply of insect-free beds. I’m not losing out to two traitorous centurions, two ostriches and a man who’s left his chin behind. Come on.”

  Unable to hold their friend back, the other three hurried along in Fronto’s wake, converging with the people of Ostia and the small group of soldiers as they made for the street entrance.

  Suddenly, almost as if choreographed, the general population opened up and made a space around the mouth of the street. Men in senior military uniform had a way of opening such spaces, regardless of their true value. The only people who failed to melt out of the way were the crippled soldier, whose uniped nature made it difficult, and the whore, who saw an opportunity and bared her chest at them, grinning with all nine teeth.

  And Fronto.

  Into the sudden open space, Fronto almost dragged Lucilia, with Galronus and Faleria at his heel.

  “Hold!” called a reedy voice high enough to be a woman, but that issued from the mouth above the receding chin. Fronto was so taken aback by the voice that he actually stumbled to a halt, blocking the access to the street, Galronus ambling to a stop next to him.

  The two bristly centurions who had been behind the senior officers came round the side, slapping their vine staves meaningfully against their greaves.

  “In thivilithed thothiety, peathenth and barbarianth thtep out of the way of their theniorth!” snapped chinless in a feminine register.

  Fronto grinned and opened his mouth, a thousand insults fighting for prominence on his tongue, but no sound made it out, thanks to a breath-stealing rabbit-punch to the kidney from Galronus.

  “Ahem…” said a high, calm voice, with a hint of smugness. Fronto recovered quickly, straightening with a glare at Galronus, to see Menenius step forward to address Chinless.

  “With respect, my lord, the
‘barbarian’ is one of your blessed uncle’s senior cavalry commanders and the…” the tribune smiled unpleasantly “… the one that looks like a vagrant would be Marcus Falerius Fronto, staff officer and current commander of the Tenth Equestrian Legion.”

  The junior tribune’s faultless moment was ruined slightly as he finished his words with a girlish titter that he tried to hide behind his hand, failing dismally. Fronto frowned, but noticed with some satisfaction the two centurions straighten, their staves dropping to their sides.

  “His uncle?” Fronto said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Of course, Fronto, you overgrown poppet” said the other junior tribune in a squeaky tone. “This is Publius Pinarius Posca, the son of Julia the elder, nephew of the general. He comes to take a tribunate in Gaul.”

  Fronto sighed as the chinless one opened his mouth again.

  “Are you thure thath who he ith? He lookth half dead, and dretheth like a… I don’t know. I’ve never theen anyone drethed like that.”

  Menenius smiled. “And the ladies, I fancy, would be the lovely sister of master Fronto, and his paramour?”

  Fronto’s sour look turned on the speaker before returning to Galronus and the girls.

  “Come on. This is making me feel sicker than the ship.”

  Chapter 2

  (Massilia, an allied former-Greek colony on the coast south of Gaul)

  The Glory of Venus bucked once on a particularly violent wave as it passed the mole and entered the harbour, settling almost instantly on the millpond water within.

  Fronto had long since given up any hope of feeling well as long as he lived. During the stop at Vado Sabatia, a helpful wag among the oarsmen had carved a commemorative inscription on the wooden rail where Fronto habitually stood to vomit over the side, since when he had deliberately avoided the spot.

  At last, though, the journey was coming to an end. He’d wondered briefly if his stomach had actually turned inside out the day before. Certainly even the name of foodstuffs was now enough to set him off, let alone the sight or smell of them.

  His gaze briefly left the churning waters that so mirrored his own gut and played across the heads of those aboard who were not bent over the oars.

  Galronus, Faleria and Lucilia stood at the bow, their gaze locked on the great port ahead. Lucilia had gradually become more animated and excited as she neared her family, and the feeling had rubbed off on her companions. Somewhere on the hills a couple of miles back from the city — nominally within the Roman province of Narbonensis but close enough to allied Massilia to spit a peach stone at — stood the villa of Balbus; former legate of the Eighth Legion, future father in law to the grey, shaking figure leaning on the rail.

  The two tribunes, who Fronto had now discovered were named Menenius and Hortius, were apparently being reassigned to serve on the staff of the Fourteenth, which Caesar still treated more as an auxiliary unit than a full legion and which he believed needed bringing up to scratch. Fronto had met a number of the men and centurions of the Fourteenth now and his own opinion was of a powerful legion, strong in body and spirit, carrying both the efficiency of the Roman officers who had trained them and the sheer battle-sense of the Gauls who had supplied the bulk of the manpower. What the great, bluff, hairy monsters of the Fourteenth would make of the two fops who actually called one another ‘darling’ in front of the sailors and hurried off in a panic if their tunic was dirtied, he simply couldn’t imagine.

  Even the clerks would eat those two alive.

  The only person on board who Fronto feared for more was Caesar’s nephew, Pinarius. The man was clearly too weak in both mind and physique to competently direct a music recital, let alone a battle. The elegantly inscribed rail where Fronto had spent much of the journey had been specifically chosen as the place with a flat leaning surface and standing space that was furthest from Pinarius’ grating lisp and nasal laugh as it was possible to be without walking on water. It was no surprise to find that Caesar had granted a commission to his sister’s son, but Fronto could only picture the general trying to deal with this chinless moron. Hopefully he would only be there for one campaigning season and then gone to ruin the economy in Rome.

  Morons like those three almost made him miss Crassus, who was now ensconced in his new position in Rome, regularly attending meetings of the senate and guiding the future of the republic.

  Almost… but not quite.

  Very much the other side of the coin — a coin now probably authorised to mint by the very same Crassus — was the centurions. Furius and Fabius had spoken to their fellow passengers precisely as much as the courtesy due their social highers and military superiors demanded, and no more. The two men claimed to hold Caesar in very high regard both as an officer and as a tactician, and neither made mention of Pompey or their former commissions. Fronto had planned to turn the conversation around enough to pry into their past, but the constant illness and battering of his senses had made it practically impossible, and so Furius and Fabius remained somewhat mysterious.

  One thing was certain: he would trust an oak-bark-sucking druid before he would let one of those two stand behind him with a knife.

  Furius and Fabius had remained quiet and apart for most of the journey, talking among themselves and eying the three fops, Fronto and Galronus with equal distain.

  Fronto watched with a surly temper as the dockside of Massilia closed on them. Hopefully the other five passengers would be in a hurry to travel north and he wouldn’t be forced to accompany them on the journey. Caesar had apparently already disembarked in Massilia on the previous trip of the Glory of Venus, and most of his officers would now be converging on the army in preparation. Fronto and Galronus wouldn’t be far behind, but there was something that had to be done first.

  Despite the best efforts of the port officials of Massilia, there was simply so much traffic that the great trireme commissioned by Caesar had to sit in the glassy waters of the harbour for almost two hours before enough mercantile traffic had unloaded their wares and cleared the queues and jetties to make room for a warship.

  In a Roman port, the simple appearance of a military vessel and the name of Caesar would be enough to ensure priority and the dispersal of mercantile traffic. But Massilia was still nominally independent and, at this point, Rome still obeyed her harbour rules.

  The sun was already sliding into the western horizon, leaving a fiery shimmer across the water and casting the hills and mountains to the north and east in a deep purple tone when the trireme finally began its approach to the jetty.

  Fronto braced himself for the first bounce and yet still lunged at the rail like a novice when it happened, recovering as quickly as he could and hurrying off down to the boarding ramp that was being run out, converging with the ladies and their Gaulish escort. The other centurions and officers had politely stepped aside to allow the ladies to disembark first, and Fronto took advantage, leaping in front of them and hurrying down after his three companions.

  Alighting on the solid stone of land, Fronto resisted the urge to crouch and kiss it, concentrating instead on stopping the unmanly wobble in his legs. As he and his companions stood in a small knot on the dock in the rapidly emptying port, the others disembarked behind them, setting foot on the pier and moving away.

  Pinarius wore an expression of happy and vacant excitement that immediately annoyed Fronto again.

  “Ith tho much more thivilithed than I ecthpected. Thereth a monument near the agora that commemorateth the great ecthplorer Pytheath, you know? He came from thith plath, and ecthplored ath far north ath a thip can go without freething tholid. Mutht we go north in the morning? Can we not thtay a day to thee the plath?”

  Fronto winced as his brain tried to add a few solid consonants to the question.

  “I think it would be unwise, my dear” replied tribune Hortius with a sad face that resembled one of the theatre masks for Greek tragedies. “Your beloved uncle wants us all with the army as soon as we can be there.”

&nb
sp; Fronto kept his opinion of how desperately Caesar sought the company of his nephew in the privacy of his head. ‘Gods, please don’t let him be assigned to the Tenth!’ He resolved to be extra nice to the general on arrival, just in case.

  Furius and Fabius alighted with the steady gait of men used to the sea, adjusting their stride easily to the dock and marching off into the town without a word to any of their former fellow passengers.

  Fronto watched them go with lowered brows and grunted something under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  He turned to his sister.

  “Pompeian turds” he repeated. “I think they were with Pompey when he led the navy too. Experienced marines, they are. What the hell is Caesar playing at?”

  Galronus patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.

  “You’ve lost a lot of centurions in the past two years, Marcus. The general can’t keep shuffling the ones you have left up each time and bringing in newly-raised officers at the bottom, or there’ll soon be no experienced centurions left. He has to bring in veteran officers if they become available, no matter their past.”

  Fronto muttered something again in inaudible grunts.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Look, the crew can unload the horses and baggage and send them on to the staging post. Let’s get up and see Balbus. My stomach seems to have flipped back over and is demanding wine and meat.”

  “It’s a strenuous walk, Marcus” Lucilia reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for the horses?”

  “My legs need the workout. They feel like knotted string at the moment.”

  Behind them, the men of Caesar’s ship were already unloading the beasts and chests to the dock, where the port workers were consulting their orders, roping chains of beasts together and loading bags and crates onto carts, ready to deliver to their destinations. The cacophony of Latin voices from the ship, Greek tones from the dock, and Gaulish shouts from the immigrant workers rose and fell like the waves of the Mare Nostrum, threatening to make Fronto’s gorge rise again.