Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (40 page)

Lucilia grinned. “Perhaps we should head onto the
Aventine
and see how your house is coming on? Most of the roof should have been replaced this week.”

The older of the two shrugged. “If there’s time. The work will go on whether observed or not.”

The pair turned into the side street, the noise of the forum fading a little behind them as the buildings muffled the din. Faleria frowned as she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Where’s that useless Thracian? If he’s gone off on his own your father will have him flogged!”

Lucilia turned to look and her shriek was cut off sharply as a sack fell over her head and tightened around her neck, a pair of strong hands grasping her wrists and yanking them up painfully behind her. She tried desperately to call out to Faleria from the suffocating, blinding confines of the sack, but was instantly aware of the cries of anger and pain from her friend, apparently being similarly manhandled.

More hands grasped her shoulders and elbows and pushed her, almost knocking her from her feet. She was vaguely aware of the distinctive sounds of Faleria struggling and cursing their attackers and bit down on the fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm her, concentrating instead on yanking an elbow free from someone’s grip and then landing it in someone’s stomach. She was rewarded with a rush of air and a groan, but then the hands tightened around her and she found herself totally restricted and all-but carried, her toes brushing the ground as she moved.

The only indications that the pair had been dragged and carried inside a building were the oppressive heat of an unventilated room and the further muffling of the background city noises. The sudden change in environment also allowed Lucilia to pay better attention to the more intimate sounds as they were shuffled along corridors, through rooms and, towards the end, down a short flight of stairs.

She could identify at least five sets of footsteps and there were three voices, not speaking, but grunting or swearing, all in accents local to
Latium
or at least the central regions of Italia. Not pirates, then, and unlikely to be slavers. Thugs. And thugs always answered to a boss.

“If you had any idea who it is you’ve just accosted, you’d release us straight away and pray to whatever lowlife deities would have you that we say nothing more about this.”

Two deep, guttural laughs greeted her statement and she found her arms released as she was pushed from her feet and fell in a heap painfully on a cobbled floor. Stretching her shoulders and making sure there was no serious damage, she reached up and pulled the bag from her head just as Faleria landed by her side. Reaching over gingerly, she helped Faleria remove the sack from her head and they both looked around at their location and captors.

They were clearly in a cellar, from the construction and the lack of windows. There was the sound of water rushing somewhere beneath them and just beyond one of the walls. The room was dim, lit only by two small oil lamps, though an orange flare added more detail as one of the thugs lit a torch.

The room was less than five yards across each direction. Square and featureless apart from…

Lucilia’s heart lurched and she swallowed nervously as her eyes took in the meat hooks on the ceiling and the iron rings in two walls. A meat storage cellar. In fact, now that she knew, she could definitely smell the long-faded iron tang of blood. She was grateful at least that the cellar appeared to have been cleaned at some point since its original use.

Six men stood between the women and the doorway, beyond which they could see a second room and a flight of stairs rising to the ground floor. The men were all bulky and ugly, with an assortment of misshapen noses and bulbous ears; fighters all. Two men, standing at the edges and with less leery passion in their gazes, had the distinctive look of professional soldiers, something both Lucilia and Faleria could spot a mile away, after years with Fronto and Balbus.

“I am Faleria, daughter of the senator Lucius Falerius Fronto, a citizen of
Rome
, and this is Lucilia, daughter of Quintus Lucilius Balbus, former commander of the Eighth legion. If any harm should come to us, I’m sure you can picture the trouble that will befall you?”

The men remained silent and Lucilia was suddenly aware of the tip-tap of light leather shoes on the flagstones beyond the door. It came as no surprise to either woman when the slender, graceful figure of Publius Clodius Pulcher stepped through the archway, his glossy black hair shining in the torchlight, his pronounced cheekbones and handsome face split in a less than handsome smile.

“Dear ladies, how remiss of me. I have offered neither of you refreshment.”

“Clodius, you hog-breath’d son of a Thracian whore!” Faleria spat with such venom that even Lucilia looked around in surprise. The thugs took an involuntary step back from this bile-ridden woman, but Clodius simply smiled and stepped forward, in front of his men.

“Dearest Faleria, but we are old friends, are we not? Let us not stand on ceremony.”

Without warning and like a coiled snake striking, Faleria was suddenly up and lunging for their captor. With neat economy of movement, one of the two professional ex-legionaries swept a cavalry long-sword out and rested it on her throat, bringing her to an abrupt halt four feet from Clodius.

“Tut tut, Faleria. An unwise move in this company, and one that could result in something very unfortunate happening.”

“What do you intend to do with us?” Lucilia snapped, glaring at the legionary who held Faleria still with his sword.

“We know you serve Caesar now” Faleria snarled. “He is a friend of my brother and our family and will gut you and string you up for the crows when he finds out about this.”

Something about Clodius’ smile suddenly unnerved Lucilia and she realised she was less than convinced of that fact.

“Faleria…”

But Clodius simply reached out and took the spatha sword from the soldier and slid it back into its sheath. Faleria made no move further forward despite the impediment having gone.

“I have Caesar’s utmost confidence, my dear ladies, and an open remit to do what I must to prevent anything getting in the way. You see I have very specific goals and a limited timescale and opportunity to carry them out.”

“Caesar will take exception to…”

“I suspect not. Things move apace for the general and he has more on his mind than continually bothering himself with the minutiae. However, I will grant you your wish.”

“You’ll release us?” Lucilia asked in suspicious surprise.

“Gods, no. Apologies, you charming young lady, but that is quite impossible at this time. I will, however, send word to Caesar and request his instructions on how to proceed with you.”

Lucilia blanched. “But that will take months!”

“Yes. Even with fast couriers, it will not be quick. But you see, I am bound to obey the commands of my patron, and to release you without permission would be to countermand Caesar’s own orders.”

Lucilia narrowed her eyes. “And, of course, word will no doubt reach my father that something unpleasant might happen to us unless he loses all interest in your activities?”

“I think not, I’m afraid. Your father shares certain traits with your betrothed, and I suspect that, should he have any confirmation of our involvement, an entire mercenary army would be knocking on my door in a matter of hours. Sit tight ladies. I will have the room made more comfortable for you and make sure you are well looked after until I have word from Caesar.”

Lucilia and Faleria watched with acerbic glares as Clodius and his thugs left the room, the last man placing one of the two lamps on a niche near the door to keep the room lit before closing the door and locking it from without.

The older of the two women waited until all was quiet and then turned to her friend.

“It’s all down to us, Lucilia. Tell me everything you noticed on the way here.”

Lucilia frowned. “Let’s not do anything potentially dangerous, Faleria. Father will look for us anyway and he’ll know who’s to blame. And even if the worst comes to the worst, Caesar will order him to release us.”

“I doubt that word will ever reach Caesar. There is no courier and no message. Clodius gives us that hope to help keep us quiet and malleable. We cannot look to Caesar for help, and your father may well find us, but Clodius would as quickly slit our throats as let him find us alive and able to testify against him.”

She sighed. “No. It is up to us to find our way out of this. I memorised the journey through the building, I think. Find me a loose stone and we’ll scratch a map on the wall before the memories fade.”

Lucilia stared at her friend. Courage, ingenuity and indomitability apparently ran strong in the line of the Falerii. She just hoped it would be enough to save them.

Never had Fronto’s arms felt so far away from her as now.

PART TWO: BRITANNIA

Chapter 12

(Nemetocenna in the lands of the Belgae)

The legions heaved a collective sigh of relief as they settled in for the night. The journey from the Rhenus had consisted of almost two weeks of interminable marching, scouting, constructing and deconstructing innumerable camps for each night. And so, when the walls of Belgic Nemetocenna – well known to many of the men – hove into view as the sun began its descent, each soldier in the army sagged with gratitude that semi-permanent military ramparts remained here from the past few years of wintering troops, saving them the effort of digging ditches and raising walls.

The huge, sprawling fort, with four separate and individually-ramparted sub-camps, had been fully constructed and thriving within half an hour of arrival. Sentries had been posted, pickets out, officers already in the settlement in deep discussion with the local leaders, negotiating the price for extra supplies to supplement those brought on the huge wagon train that was still arriving as an owl began to hoot. The Fourteenth legion, as usual drawing the short straw, began to file slowly into the camp, escorting the last of the carts and the siege engines.

Fronto stepped gingerly across the open ground, trying to avoid the areas that had been churned into glutinous mud by the endless pairs of nail-shod feet working to put up tents, stack pila and so on. He caught sight of the glittering armour of Plancus, the Fourteenth’s legate, glinting in the orange light of the torches and fires that dotted the enormous camp.

Plancus sat his horse like a statue, his face the image of the traditional Roman officer: proud – if somewhat vacant about the eyes – haughty and confident. The tribunes of his command followed on astride their own steeds, followed by the standards bearers, musicians and the rest. Fronto ignored the rest of the arriving column.

“Could you spare me one of your tribunes for a while?”

Plancus shrugged carelessly. “They all have assigned duties. I will send a man over as soon as he has completed his tasks, if you like. Who is it you wish to see?”

Fronto fought the urge to grind his teeth. It was a habit he’d noticed on the increase when dealing with that particular breed of officer that took to military life like a fish to gravel.

“I doubt that’ll be necessary. I would like to see tribune Menenius. He’s not with the medical column that arrived, so I assume he’s back with his legion.”

A trace of irritation passed across Plancus’ eyes and he cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Menenius is travelling with my baggage train, in relative luxury. Despite my insistence, he continues to maintain that he cannot ride a horse.”

Fronto found that, despite his decision, his teeth were grating off one another already. Of course the damn man couldn’t ride a horse. Fronto had visited him in the hospital tent back at the Rhenus as soon as his head had cleared enough and stopped thumping. The Fourteenth’s tribune had taken an arrow wound to the shoulder that had become infected, as well as two sword wounds to the arm and the thigh. Fortunately, both had been light blows, drawing blood and a little muscular nicking, but with no real damage. The fever that came with the infected wound had kept the man on the bank of the
Styx
for six days and he’d still been in the care of the medical staff until yesterday. He certainly
shouldn’t
be riding a horse.