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.
“Legate Fronto?” Plancus narrowed his eyes as though he might be mistaken. “Can we help you?”
“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
“So if you can spare him?”
“He claims to be unfit for general duties and for some reason the medicus supports the malingering wastrel, so do as you see fit.”
“Thank you for your consideration, Legate Plancus. I’ll just speak to him in the column, then.”
