his soldiering career, of course, but it’s impressive nonetheless.”
A resounding crash made Fronto start and he almost sat bolt upright. “What in Hades was that?”
“That was the bridge coming down” Priscus shrugged. “It’s nearly done now.”
“Down? It’s only been a week!”
“A week’s been enough” the camp prefect shrugged. “Looks like the bridge and your little party on the bank have put the shits up even the hardest bastards out there. We hardly had the legions across the bridge before we started getting ambassadors and tribute, hostages, promises and so on. Most of the tribes have capitulated and agreed terms with the general.”
“And the rest?”
“That’s what took the week.” Carbo leaned forward. “The dangerous tribes — even the Suevi — all abandoned their conquests and territories and melted away into the forests to the east. Doesn’t look like they’ll be coming back in the near future… especially given that we burned all their settlements, harvested their crops, slaughtered their livestock and poisoned the wells. Caesar’s declared the Germanic threat nullified and now we’re consolidating while the bridge comes down.”
Fronto sank back to the comfortable surface.
“Then it’s over. Any word on when we move out? Are the legions wintering here or do they get to come south this year?”
The three officers looked at one another uncomfortably.
“Not south, Marcus” Priscus said with a sigh. “West. To the coast.”
When the legate frowned in confusion, the camp prefect sat back and squared his shoulders. “Caesar has it in mind to do to the tribes of Britain what we’ve done to Germania.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He claims to still be smarting over their support for the Veneti last year, but the general consensus is that he wants to double the glory and tribute we’ve taken so far before returning to Rome. I’m not sure I disagree, mind. Cartloads of gold and a long chain of slaves. Every man in the army’s going to be quite well off this winter.”
Fronto allowed his eyes to close as his mind formed a fantastic and somewhat worrying image of the strange and unknown island full of monsters and evils that lay across the ocean to the north.
Fabulous.
Just wonderful.
An image of a smiling Lucilia that he hadn’t even been aware was in his head until now started to fade, replaced by a screaming horde of yet more Celts.
“Think I’d better rest again.”
ROME
Lucilia smiled. “Father has such old-fashioned tastes. I tried to get him to buy a statue of Priapus or ‘Pan and a goat’ for the atrium, but he refused. So we’re stuck with a bust of my great grandfather who, to be quite honest, does not appear to have been a particularly handsome man. Who wants a party in such surroundings, I ask you?”
Faleria laughed lightly.
“Such statues as you favour might well lead to the kind of party that you’d be well advised to avoid, while your husband-to-be is still absent fighting the enemies of the Republic. Let us concentrate on the important things. The wine is already taken care of, but we need to order the meats, cheeses and fruit at least this afternoon. And before we head back, we should see what musicians are for hire. No offence to your father’s household, but if I have to listen to that wailing cat of a piper again I shall stuff his pipes with his own innards.”
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.”
