The Eagles 2, page 9
part #1 of The Eagles Series
Curious, he fell into step beside Solenus as they walked away from the harbour.
Pompeii was resplendent in the harsh, hot light of the Campanian summer. It was midday, and the streets were mostly deserted, the sun reflecting off walls and roof-tops of brilliant white or pale pastel shades of blue and pink. The heavy scent of oleander hung in the still air, mingling with the cooking smells that wafted from the private houses and the hostelries, where slaves busied themselves around the cooking stoves.
There was a laziness in the air itself, a draining, seductive languor that was augmented by the rhythmic buzzing of the cicadas and the heavy, sleepy odour of the town.
Shading his eyes against the glaring sunlight, Marcus looked up towards the tree-covered slopes of Vesuvius, looming high above the place. His eyes caught the slow movements of three birds drifting on the thermal currents rising from the volcano. Crows, he decided, scanning the slopes for food.
Solenus followed his gaze and smiled.
‘Here in Campania, they say that three crows mean a death. Let’s hope Vesuvius sleeps sound, for when he last awoke the town died. And a shepherd said he saw three crows then.’
‘And you believe such portents?’ Marcus was merely being polite; Pompeii was too graceful, too leisurely a city to be racked by the grumbling of a dormant volcano.
‘Some.’ Solenus was serious. ‘Soothsayers have foretold of battles and the gods must sometimes give us signs of events to come.’ He shook off his growing melancholy and smiled. ‘But let’s speak of pleasanter things. It’s too bright a day to dwell in darkness.’
Marcus allowed the older man to lead him into a tavern, the door surmounted by the carved head of a wolf, the outer wall heavily decorated with graffiti.
Inside, the shuttered windows offered protection from the heat, a welcome cool that not even the smoking cook-fires could overcome. It was fairly crowded, and noisy with the demands of the citizens eating there. Solenus spoke briefly with the owner, and they were shown to a table set away from the main room, in a small alcove.
A flagon of chilled wine was brought, and Solenus began to speak again.
‘I’ll lay the dice, open, on the table.’ His voice was pitched low, talking urgently, as though he were afraid of being overheard. ‘And let you weigh them, for I believe the time has come when we must speak as honest men.’
Marcus sipped his wine in silence, not sure where the conversation was leading, but guessing from the urgency in Solenus’s voice that whatever was on the man’s mind was important to him. Perhaps to them both.
‘You carry a message for Frontinus.’ That much was common knowledge since Massilia. ‘A message to Germanicus.’ Marcus hid his surprise, concentrating on his wine cup as Solenus gestured in the air. ‘Aye, Britannicus, it’s known. Words, rumours, they float like gossamer on the winds of gossip. A message here, a guess there; a letter, a careless word, and always ears pricked ready to catch the whispers.’
Suddenly, he smiled.
Td hazard a fleet of quadremes that Sextus Julius entrusted you to bring word that the British legions stand loyal to Titus.’
Marcus kept his face impassive as his left hand dallied, seemingly casual, with the hilt of his sword. It could not be done here, but it might well prove necessary to kill Solenus.
‘Oh, leave off the sword work.’ The sailor had sharp eyes. ‘There’s no need to fear me, my tongue’s still as the anchor on the sea bottom. And I’m loyal as you, Britannicus.’
‘You know Frontinus?’ Marcus was careful of what he said.
‘Well,’ replied Solenus. ‘We’ve campaigned together and, like you, I’ve carried messages for him.’ He cut the air with his hand, an impatient gesture. ‘Britannicus, let us make an end of this game-playing. I know you for a messenger, bringing word to Germanicus; one hopes you’re in time to lop the head of rebellion before it lifts, but you’ll need allies here.’
He broke off as their food was brought, waiting until the serving-girl had departed before continuing.
‘I serve Titus. I served his father when he took the purple and now I’d see Rome rest peaceful again. These mutterings of revolt need quashing. And I’d fight the hydra with you.’
‘You know a great deal, Solenus.’ Marcus said it slowly, choosing his words as he tried to assess the other’s true position. ‘But why should I trust you? Frontinus gave me no word of you.’
‘Frontinus knew not where I was,’ replied the sailor, ‘but the strands of this web tangle deeper than you or I, and together we’re better fitted to escape them than in single struggle.’
‘Prove it,’ demanded Marcus simply.
‘Gods, Britannicus,’ Solenus was impatient now, ‘you’re as hard to fathom as the deeps themselves. Frontinus, Germanicus,’ he ticked off the names against stubby fingers, ‘one in Britannia, one here. Here, too, are Lepidus and Crassus…’
He stopped, taken aback by the sudden blaze of anger in Marcus’s eyes.
‘Crassus? You know of Crassus?’ The voice was harsh, insistent, the words breaking almost unbidden from between Marcus’s teeth.
‘Fat Crassus? Yes, I know of him. A bloated pig of a banker who plots to increase his wealth on the corpse of an emperor. Crassus is one of the instigators, together with Lepidus.’
‘That name I know,’ said Marcus slowly, finally deciding that Solenus was to be trusted, ‘I heard it on my journey. An ally of Lepidus, is he not?’
‘An ally, yes. Rich with the gold he brought from Britain. A merchant then, nothing more, but a merchant with powerful friends.’ Solenus quaffed his wine in one gulp, looking suddenly tired. ‘A contract here, a deal there, and the merchant grew fat, like a spider in its web. Crassus wove the strands, and each thread drew in more gold. Gold breeds ambition, Britannicus. Enterprise is all very well, but there was once an order to our world, a man knew where he stood. Now? Why, any upstart with a sack of coin can set himself up as a banker and lend the weight of his gold to tip the scales of the Empire itself. And gold weighs heavy, Britannicus. It’s the gold coin spilling from the fat fist of Crassus that oils the wheels of rebellion’s chariot.’
‘And Lepidus? What part does he play?’ Marcus was anxious to learn as much as he could.
‘Quintus Bracus Lepidus.’ Solenus spat out the words as though they tasted bitter on his lips. ‘An equestrian, claiming descent from divine Venus herself, as though he thought himself great Caesar, though the palsied blood of that fine flows in his veins, a legacy of his kinsman, Caligula’s nephew.’
It was not, in the reign of Titus, a thing to boast of, for mad Caligula had died under the swords of the Praetorian Guard, insane and diseased. If Lepidus vaunted such connections, he must be powerful enough to avoid the Imperial eye, or mad enough not to care.
‘So you stand with Titus.’ Marcus made it a statement, convinced now of Solenus’s loyalty.
‘Truly,’ agreed the older man, ‘I’d see no more fighting divide the empire. And if you’re Frontinus’s man, we stand allied.’
He thrust his weather-beaten hand out over the table and Marcus took it, gladly, pleased to find a friend in this mesh of intrigue.
‘If you agree,’ said Solenus, ‘we’ll go to Germanicus together. Your message needs delivering, and I carry word of the navy’s loyalty.’
Marcus nodded his agreement and together they left the tavern. Horses were obtained and they rode out of Pompeii, following the winding road that curled and twisted out of the city towards the luxurious villas built along the sprawling lower slopes of Vesuvius.
Slaves took their mounts at the gates of the Villa Germanicus, ushering them into the cool shelter of the oecus. They stood only a short time in the small reception room before the tribune appeared.
He was short and grey-haired, the deeply ingrained lines that etched his patrician features suggesting an age belied by the bright sparkle of his eyes. His carefully folded toga betrayed a spreading paunch and as he clasped Solenus’s forearm in the grip of friendship, Marcus noticed a slight trembling in the fingers.
So this, he thought, as the tribune turned towards him, was Flavius Julius Germanicus, the man he had come so far to see. The man he had cuckolded in Palaestina.
If Germanicus was aware of his wife’s infidelity, he showed no sign of it. Rather, he greeted Marcus as a friend and ally, welcoming the young equerry to his house with an invitation to join his family at dinner.
‘But first,’ he suggested, ‘let us talk of the world, and the words you bring me.’
He escorted the two men up to the pergola overlooking the central courtyard of the villa, directing them to a quiet corner away from windows, sheltered by tall screens of lacquered wood.
‘What news from Britannia?’ In private, he dropped the pretence of patrician courtesy, the lines of age on his face increasing as he frowned his worries at the two men.
‘The legions stand with the Emperor,’ Marcus said simply, ‘S. Julius Frontinus entrusted me with that message. And this token of Britain’s loyalty.’
He extended his left hand, so that Germanicus could see the heavy ring Frontinus had given him.
The tribune said nothing, just nodded as though lost in deep thought, studying the ring.
‘And the fleet?’ He turned abruptly to Solenus.
‘Firm as the island.’ The mariner spoke as though to an old friend. ‘Pliny stands off the coast, his officers loyal. Give the word and we’ll blockade every port from Rome to Syracuse.’
‘Easy, easy, old friend.’ The smile that lit Germanicus’s face was tired, heavy with care and the burdens of statecraft. ‘It’s that we seek to avoid. This affair calls for the wiles of a courtesan, not the rush of a galley’s ram.’
Solenus looked ashamed of his patriotic outburst, and Marcus wondered if he was the straightforward seaman he appeared, or something more. That he stood so easy with a tribune high in the Imperial favour suggested depths greater than those revealed, a position of more importance than would usually be accorded a loyal galley master.
Germanicus brushed over the moment, engaging them both in talk of their journey to Pompeii, eliciting details of the attacks upon Marcus and the names he had heard.
‘Yes, yes,’ he dipped his proud head with each word, ‘Lepidus, Crassus, they are both known as the instigators of the plot. Posthumus, though, is a surprise. I had thought the rebellion based upon the Spanish legions, not the Gallic cohorts. So the web spreads out farther than we thought. Soon, I think, the time approaches when we must cull this nest of vipers, before the venom drips any farther.’
He paused deep in thought; then, as though reaching some decision, looked up, smiling.
‘But I forget myself, my friends. You’ll both be tired from your journeyings. I’ll have water and fresh robes brought, please make free of my home until dinner.’
He excused himself, leaving Marcus to ponder the tactics of facing the Lady Agrippina across her husband’s table and what, now that his official duties were completed, should be his next move in the hunt for Crassus.
Chapter Five
‘A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE.’ The Lady Agrippina regarded Marcus from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, the lashes thick with kohl ‘I had hardly expected to see you here.’
‘Service brings its own rewards, my lady,’ murmured Marcus, aware of the eyes flirting over his body. ‘To find myself your guest was an additional compensation for my journey. One surely planned by some friendly god.’
He was stretched on a couch in the triclinium of the Villa Germanicus, a borrowed toga replacing his tunic as he dined with the tribune and his wife. In addition to his hosts, Solenus and two others, Pompus Helvetius and Sextus Apronius, lay around the dining-table. Marcus was grateful for their presence, for it meant that conversation revolved around local affairs and the latest news from Rome, with an occasional question about Britain. So far no one had mentioned the awkward subject of Palaestina and bis assignment as escort to Agrippina.
If Germanicus was aware of his wife’s adultery, he let no sign show—which, thought Marcus, could mean either that the tribune was blindly capped with the cuckold’s horns, or that he did not care. Given the licentious nature of Roman society, it could be either one, but so long as no overt comment was made, Marcus was happy to let the matter rest.
But Agrippina seemed to have different ideas, for her eyes moved frequently to the young man’s face, lashes fluttering in scarce-veiled hints that prompted Marcus to concentrate upon the food set before him in deference to his host’s marital rights.
The. banquet continued until near midnight, the triclinium lit by flickering oil lamps and the paling glow of the Campanian moon, and Germanicus protested when Solenus rose to go.
With genuine concern, the tribune asked the galley master to avail himself of a bed, but Solenus demurred. His ship, he explained, must leave come morning to rendezvous with the main fleet, and the loyal captains awaited word from him. The tide would bring the Swan out at dawn, and he wished to be on board earlier to supervise the departure.
Smiling his apologies, he left the room to shed his formal toga before mounting his horse for the ride back to the docks.
Marcus bade him farewell and watched with the others as the seaman’s bulky figure clattered away into the darkness.
The rope made no sound as it curled out of the night, settling around the rider’s shoulders, the loop drawing tight as hidden hands pulled in the slack.
The horse stopped for a moment as it felt the reins draw tight, then the weight was gone from its back and the sharp cry that followed the thud of a body hitting the ground frightened it into startled movement. It panicked completely as shadowy figures darted from behind the trees lining the road, and cantered away towards the lights of Pompeii.
The fall knocked the wind from Solenus’s lungs, so that he had no breath with which to shout, even had the second loop given him a chance. As it was, the noose dropped over his head, circling his throat with a band of fire that drew steadily tighter as his unseen assailant pulled him gradually back towards the shadows.
Instinctively, his right hand went to the hilt of the gladius belted to his waist, but a third noose fell neatly around the sword, snatching it from his grasp.
Bright coloured fights danced before bis bulging eyes as he drew his pugio, cutting desperately at the throttling rope. He succeeded in parting the hemp cord as the laquearii closed in, dim figures seen through the haze of suffering that clouded his vision. He slashed at the lasso pinning his arms, and fell backwards as he cut it, aware of the figures coming closer.
Savagely, he cut about him with the broad-bladed dagger, grunting with satisfaction as he felt it grate on bone, heard a gasp of pain.
But then something that was both hot as fire and cold as ice clutched his bowels, freezing his limbs so that he stopped moving, one arm extended in mid-stroke. He knelt like a statue in the Forum until boiling heat erupted through his chest and he felt a salty wetness spread over his lower lip. His head drooped as a great lassitude spread with the fire through his whole body, and he was dimly aware of a sharp pain in the nape of his neck.
Then the stars went out and there was no more fire.
The civic guard, patrolling outside the walls, found the body a little after dawn. Recognizing the uniform, they carried the corpse to the naval commander who identified Solenus. The official records credited his death to footpads, and a nightly patrol was organized to police the roads outside the walls. The Swan was given a new captain and left harbour on the noon tide. Pliny, receiving no message from Germanicus, decided to go about his normal duties and held the fleet in its agreed position off the coast, wondering if there was any further news of the rebellion as he completed the notes he was making on his latest volume of naturalist studies.
As Solenus died, Marcus wondered if he was being throttled. Agrippina, for all the plumpness girding her body, was exceptionally powerful, her fleshy arms encircling his neck in a grip firm as any wrestler’s.
She had come to him shortly after the dinner party had ended, murmuring endearments and vague reminiscences of their previous liaison. Germanicus, she assured him, was sound asleep in his own room, leaving them the night together. Marcus, while feigning delight at this news, was worried: he had no wish to upset the tribune, nor did he relish a fresh bout of amorous struggling with the man’s wife.
He was given, though, little choice. Agrippina was determined and demanding, eager to renew their old relationship, and so, resigning himself to the inevitable, Marcus strove to satisfy the woman.
She was, at least, inventive, introducing contortions he had never dreamed were possible, producing variations on her favourite theme that left him, come dawn, near exhausted.
He was, Marcus realized, in a potentially difficult situation. Agrippina had helped him in the past, granting him her patronage, and the more allies a man had in the tangled web of Roman intrigue, the more likely he was to survive. But Agrippina had her own very definite ideas about how he was to show his gratitude, and that was dangerous. She seemed insatiable in her sexual appetites and careless of discovery. Her husband could now, Marcus felt, be counted on as an even more powerful friend, but would he continue in that role if his wife’s adultery was exposed? It was by no means unusual for Roman women to take a lover—several, if their inclinations ran in that direction—but it was done discreetly, not with the husband sleeping a few doors away.
Discovery could mean disgrace or death, certainly it would make Marcus a powerful enemy.
He lay pondering these problems, wondering how to avoid bedding Agrippina in the future without offending her, as the sky brightened and birds began to sing.
The woman lay, a weight across his chest, nuzzling at his neck as she murmured endearments. Marcus whispered back, glad that she could not see the cynical smile on his face.
