The Eagles 2, page 4
part #1 of The Eagles Series
‘It will go easier.’
Two fingers fell, severed by the gladius, to the turf.
The optio sobbed and snarled in one sound, his wild eyes betraying his fear. Though whether the fear was of Marcus or of revealing his employer, it was impossible to tell. He raised his left hand to wipe blood from his cheek, succeeding only in smearing more across his face from his lost finger stumps.
‘I’ll die first, you Iceni scum spawn,’ he howled, rushing to a fresh attack.
Marcus took the spatha’s downstroke on his own blade, turned it so that the longer sword hacked uselessly at empty air, and brought the gladius down and around in the same movement. The razor-edged sword sank inches deep through the muscles of the optio’s thigh, and Marcus twisted the blade as he withdrew, turning the cut into a gaping hole that spewed crimson over the man’s bracae, painting his right leg a dull red.
Limping horribly, the man turned to strike again, but Marcus shifted, lifting the gladius to a horizontal position, so that the swinging arm was impaled by its own momentum. Again he twisted the blade, causing the spatha to fall from fingers that no longer held any feeling.
He stepped back, watching the bleeding figure of the optio, tattered as any criminal condemned to take the part of Prometheus in the arena, totter towards him.
‘Tell me,’ he said coldly.
The optio shook his head, sending a fine spray of bloody droplets around the clearing.
Marcus swung the gladius, cutting through the auxiliary’s leather jerkin, deep enough to gouge his chest. The man stopped and looked at his ruined hands, lifting them up as though making an offering to whatever god he worshipped. Marcus cut again, carving a second scarlet line across the jerkin.
Abruptly, the auxiliary nodded and fell headlong. Marcus knelt and turned him over onto his back, staring into the pain-racked eyes.
‘Tell me who sent you and I’ll end it,’ he promised.
‘Your word?’ The optio was bleeding to death, but his voice remained surprisingly strong.
‘I give you my word,’ agreed Marcus.
‘A message came from the south.’ The strength was beginning to fade from the voice. ‘Two days ago. Gemellus Castus ordered us to stop you. On pain of death.’ The optio laughed bitterly.
‘Gemellus Castus?’ Marcus recognized the name. It belonged to a tribune of the Gallic shore.
‘Aye. Gemellus Castus, may he feel Libitina’s kiss. He got his message and came looking for me, sharper than old Galba when his bowels were playing up. Find the messenger and kill him, those were the orders. Fail and there’d be three crosses waiting for us.’
The optio was becoming garrulous as death whispered in his remaining ear, and Marcus interrupted him.
‘Who did the message come from? Do you know?’
‘Oh, aye. The rider told me. It came from the tribune’s old friend down in Arelate. Posthumus, he’s called. Suetonius Posthumus.’
‘You earn your death,’ murmured Marcus and slid the gladius into the man’s throat.
It was a clean stroke, killing him instantly, bringing a peace that Marcus’s roiling mind almost longed for.
Suetonius Posthumus was in Arelate! That meant Marcus would have a chance to kill the murderer of his mother before going on to Pompeii and fat Crassus. It also meant that Posthumus, Castus and, presumably, others knew of his mission. And if the message from the south had arrived two days ago, they had known before Marcus himself. The finest horseman in the Empire, given a string of relay horses, could not cross Gaul in less than six days. So there was a spy in the British camp, someone close to Frontinus himself, someone privy to the governor’s most closely guarded thoughts.
Marcus wondered who it might be and at the same time wondered what new ambushes would await him when Castus discovered that his assassins had not returned.
He wiped his blade clean on the optio’s kirtle and went to his horse. He left the bodies where they lay as he kicked the animal into a canter, heading south.
Late on the second day, Marcus came within view of the walls of Lutetia, his horse slowed to a painful walk. The beast was finished, blowing crimsoned froth with every weary step; the rider, in turn, felt the effort of the wild journey in each muscle, each aching joint. He needed a night’s rest, a bath, and food. But above all, he needed a fresh mount.
The little farm he spotted away to the left of the road might offer three of the things he needed, if not a bath. He brought the horse’s head around, steering it towards the cluster of low-built, wooden buildings across the meadow.
Better, he thought, to seek help here than in Lutetia, where fresh conspirators might await him.
As he approached the farm a man appeared, a hoe resting across his shoulder. Marcus noticed the way it was carried: the way a legionary would carry his pilum. He smiled at that, noting also the fellow’s straight back and self-confident walk. This was no Romanized Gaul, but an ex-soldier, designated a farm when his military service ended, a potential friend.
The man halted, watching Marcus approach.
‘Ho, stator.’ The hoe grounded as Marcus rode up, the farmer coming, through habit, to attention.
‘Ho, friend,’ smiled Marcus wearily, slipping from the saddle, ‘I need food and rest.’
‘There’s plenty in Lutetia,’ murmured the ex-soldier cautiously. ‘Taverns, lupanars, quarters for your men.’
‘I have no men,’ replied Marcus, massaging his aching thighs, ‘I ride alone. Nor do I seek a tavern or a lupanar, simply a meal and sleep.’
‘We’re but poor farmers here,’ countered the other, ‘with few comforts to offer a gentleman.’
‘Man, I have ridden from the coast.’ The patrician blood flowing through his veins began to make Marcus irritable. ‘I am tired and saddle-weary. Would you dispute a fellow-Roman hospitality?’
The farmer mused for a moment, his natural caution struggling with his in-built desire to please an officer. Then training won and he smiled, reaching out to take the horse’s bridle.
‘Enter then, and welcome. It’s simple fare, but there’s enough to go round.’
Gratefully, Marcus allowed the farmer to lead the horse away to a partially covered pen, where several other animals stood eating. When he returned, he ushered Marcus into the main building with a promise of a bath that in itself revitalized the weary messenger.
Entering, he called for hot water to be drawn, leading Marcus through to an outhouse. There, a large wooden tub stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by flickering braziers and attended by two plump girls, who giggled as they watched Marcus from the corners of their eyes. As he slipped his armour from his chest and legs, Marcus was conscious of their frank stares, wondering idly if the night would be as restful as he had anticipated. He decided to let the future look to itself when the girls departed, leaving him alone with the tub.
He stripped and placed his gladius where he could reach it quickly before climbing in. Then, breathing a long sigh of pure pleasure, he relaxed, letting the tension of the journey drain from his limbs.
How long he luxuriated in the bath, he was not sure, but the farmer reappeared too soon, bringing him towels and toilet utensils.
As Marcus dried himself, the man began to speak.
‘I am Tibur,’ he said casually, ‘Gerontius Tibur. How are you called?’
Marcus debated for an instant. He must, in the name of hospitality, make himself known to his host, but he had no wish to reveal his true identity for fear of pursuers. Should Castus have set new hounds on his trail, it would be as well if Tibur knew as little as possible.
‘Gaius Metellus Drusus,’ he said quickly, remembering the name of a centurion long dead with a Brigantine spear through his chest.
‘Well, Drusus,’ smiled Tibur, ‘come break bread with us and tell us, if you will, what prompts you to dine here, rather than in the fleshpots of Lutetia.’
Marcus realized with acute discomfort that an explanation of his sojourn would be necessary under any circumstances; the old soldier was too wise, too well versed in Roman ways to accept his visit as a mere whim. As he had hinted, no young officer would voluntarily choose a tiny homestead in favour of a large city, any more, it seemed, than Tibur would let the matter rest.
Throughout the simple meal Tibur talked around the subject of the visit, while Marcus made small talk with Paulina, his wife, and the two daughters. They were called, Tibur told him, Julia and Attica, and their interest in Marcus was obvious enough that Paulina shepherded them away to the sleeping quarters as soon as was politely possible. When the women had gone, Tibur poured two more mugs of the sharp wine they were drinking and turned serious eyes upon Marcus.
‘I am no prying fishwife to delve into others’ business,’ he apologized, ‘but you have taken bread and salt in this house when the city lies but an hour or two away. There is something about you, Drusus, that speaks of steel and blood. If it is to affect my family, then I’d know what it is.’
Marcus smiled and reached for the amphora, pouring a fresh mug of bitter wine.
‘I carry a message, Tibur, from the northern frontier to Mediolanum, where the Emperor passes the summer months.’
It was both vague enough and close enough to the truth to be valid, and Mediolanum, far to the north of Rome, lay a sufficient distance east of Arelate to befuddle any pursuers. Yet still it was a flawed excuse.
‘Forgive me,’ murmured Tibur, ‘but why should that prevent you from riding on to Lutetia?’
Marcus had his reason ready.
‘I was stationed there once,’ he said, looking the old legionary straight in the eye, ‘and enjoyed the favours of a tribune’s wife. Should I return, well…’ He gestured with the mug. ‘The lady’s husband learned of our dalliance. My message might be stopped there. He is a mightily jealous man.’
He affected what he hoped was a convincing leer.
‘Ha!’ Tibur grinned, helping himself to more wine as he leaned closer to Marcus. ‘It was ever thus with you young officers. Why,’ his tone became conspiratorial, and he looked around to be sure his wife was out of earshot, ‘I remember before my twenty years were up and I got this place. There were times then…’
Marcus sat back on the rough couch, letting the old man’s reminiscences flow past his ears, relieved that his explanation had been accepted. Now they were two soldiers talking about the old days, which, thought Marcus, were always better than now; just as now would be better than tomorrow. Such was the way of a man’s mind, to forget the bad things and remember only the good.
He broke from his musings as Tibur thrust a scarred arm beneath his nose.
‘See that? Her husband gave me that.’
Marcus leaned back and laughed, idly wondering what had been the reason for the wound. Tibur laughed with him, then drained his wine and rose to his feet.
‘Come, Drusus, I’ll show you to your bed. You’ll be wanting to start early if you’re on the Emperor’s business.’
Marcus stood up, suddenly aware of how tired he really was. He took an oil lamp from the old man and followed him to the sleeping quarters where a simple, but clean couch awaited, the rough blanket freshly laundered. He bade Tibur good-night and prepared for sleep, setting his sword close to the bed.
Sleep came swiftly as a javelin’s flight, dropping him down into welcome, restful darkness.
Then he felt hands upon his body, pulling him back from dreamless slumber. Instinctively he reached for the gladius, opening his mouth to cry out. But something soft and warm blocked off his cry, pushing hard against his lips, and instead of the sword’s hilt, his hand encountered smooth flesh. Beneath the blanket, a hand insinuated itself between his legs as a voice whispered in his ear.
‘You need no sword, Gaius.’
‘No,’ murmured another voice from somewhere above his head, ‘for surely your own weapon is sufficient.’
With a pleasurable thrill, Marcus realized that the gag in his mouth was a breast, the nipple hardening as he sucked upon it, and the hand fondling him belonged to one of Tibur’s daughters. Which one, he neither knew, nor cared. He was fully awake now, and could feel himself stiffening under the caress.
‘Why,’ he said softly, freeing his mouth for a moment, ‘your hospitality knows no bounds.’
‘You’ve ridden far, my Gaius,’ giggled one of the girls, ‘can you ride a little farther?’
‘I’ll gallop,’ grunted Marcus, pleasantly aware of the lips that closed softly over his member, teasing, stroking, so that he felt his entire energy flood into the object of the kiss.
‘Hurry, Julia,’ whispered Attica, ‘I’d take my turn there.’
Her mouth full, Julia did not reply, instead she applied herself vigorously to her task, blonde head bobbing in the pale moonlight, rousing Marcus to heights of excitement as Attica’s lips settled gently over his.
The kiss turned to a fierce embrace as Marcus approached climax, grinding his mouth hard against hers as his hand slid to the warm wetness between her legs. She writhed, moaning against his lips as he erupted, his head falling back on the pillow as Julia’s lifted, smiling as she drew a hand across her supple mouth.
Attica pouted as Marcus lay back, caressing his neck and chest.
‘Come, Gaius, dawn approaches and we’d both ride farther with you.’
Marcus grinned, feeling fresh vigour swell his loins. Soon, he was ready again and Attica straddled him, riding him as she might a horse, except that when her saddle rose, she thrust down against it, gasping with delight at every stroke. Then, as Marcus felt himself building to an inevitable explosion, she began to shudder, her eyes tight closed. Julia watched her sister, her blue eyes shining bright with excitement, a hand delving between her legs. The tremors grew, communicating to Marcus so that he too began to shake with pent-up tension. And then she bit her lip and cried out softly as his body raised her high off the couch in a great shuddering spasm of pure joy.
She collapsed alongside him, sighing languorously as Julia ran her lips and tongue over his shoulders, across his chest, moving downwards.
It was a long, delightful night, during which Marcus took the two girls turn and turn about, until even their seemingly insatiable appetites were satisfied, and they crept from his chamber, shaking with pleasant exhaustion.
When Tibur came to wake him just after dawn, Marcus was hollow-eyed and fur-tongued, a tired smile playing on his lips.
‘Gods, Drusus,’ exclaimed the old man as Marcus appeared for the morning meal, ‘you look the worse for a night’s sleep.’
Across the room, Attica and Julia turned, smiling innocently, to catch his eye.
‘I was plagued with dreams,’ explained Marcus. ‘Of goddesses.’
Tibur gave him a fresh horse in exchange for his own cavalry mount and Marcus departed at the sixth hour, when the dew was still sparkling on the grass. Guided by the old legionary’s instructions, he took the straight road for Lugdunum, pushing the horse to the fastest pace he dared risk. It was a good enough mount for a farmer, but lacked the stamina of a well-fed Roman animal, and, in addition, it was unused to carrying an armoured man. For the first few miles Marcus was forced to impose his will upon the skittish beast.
Given the way he felt, it was a struggle he could joyfully have done without.
The road was busy with travellers moving in both directions. Frequently Marcus was required to move aside for some merchant’s baggage train or the fast-moving chariot of a local noble; the farm carts he encountered were easily avoided, not so the two cohorts of legionaries, marching arrow-straight along the centre of the road, their caligae thundering in unison on the packed earth.
The officer in charge of the second cohort hailed Marcus to a stop, enquiring in friendly fashion after his business.
Anxious though he was to get on, Marcus accepted the older man’s invitation to share the noonday meal, not wishing to betray the dire urgency of his mission. He walked his horse beside that of the tribune, who introduced himself as Quintus Varius and spent an hour plying his guest with questions about Britain. Marcus supplied the answers with a civility that belied his impatience, and took his leave as early as he was able.
That night he slept in a wayside hostelry, refusing the landlord’s invitation to choose a girl from amongst the ragged tavern whores in preference for a good night’s sleep and recovery from the excesses of Tibur’s unbeknown hospitality.
He awoke refreshed, starting out again as the sun rose, a solid breakfast beneath his belt and a bag of provisions slung across his saddle.
He rode all day, halting briefly at noon to water the flagging horse, and then again at dusk. As the shadows transformed into solid darkness, he walked the horse off the road, looking for a resting place. The terrain, now, was thickly wooded and rising in craggy jumbles of rock that afforded numerous protected sites. Marcus picked one as the last of the day’s light faded from the sky and a dark velvet blanket fell over the heavens. He hobbled his mount and fed it some grain, purchased that morning, then set about preparing a fire. The place he had chosen rested in a cleft that split the rock as though a Titan’s sword had hacked the stone, a looming boulder overhanging the cut to shut his fire from outside view. He nursed it into life and set the meat he had bought to broil over the flames, then he removed his helmet and stretched out on his cloak.
Like any Roman noble, Marcus preferred to bathe and eat in comfort; but, equally, he was a soldier, and like any legionary, he could put up with discomfort, taking the rigors of a campaign in his stride.
When he had finished eating, he brought his horse in from its grazing to the safety of the rocks, stoking the fire against the possible danger of wolves. He could hear them howling off in the distance and had no intention of finding himself afoot come morning. Then, satisfied that his camp was suitably fortified, he settled down to sleep, his sword beneath his hand.
He awoke cold and wet, shivering as a light drizzle soaked into his cloak, and conscious of a gnawing hunger in his belly. Gusts of chill wind blew across the foothills and the day looked to be unseasonably dreary. He cursed as he blew the smouldering fire into fresh life and set water to boil. After seeing to the horse, he shaved carefully, stripped to the waist despite the cold; if no bathhouse was available, he could, at least, cleanse himself with rainwater. Still shivering, but feeling better for a meal, he pulled on his tunic, buckled his lorica over his chest, and rode down to the Via Lugdunensis.
