Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (2 page)

Eighth Legion:

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

Titus Balventius:
Primus pilus & 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.

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 disfigurent 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 th 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 equestrian 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 takehis 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.