The Eagle in the Dovecote Read online

  ‘Wait,’ Lolly peered up into her son’s face, ‘are you saying Brutus raised no objection to his sons’ execution?’

  Titus laughed hollowly. ‘Objection, Mother? It was Brutus who ordered their execution.’

  Lolly covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide above the fingers. ‘How could he kill his own sons?’

  Titus looked at his father. ‘I’m sorry, Father. We tried.‘

  ‘Lucius,’ Lolly said in a calm voice, noting the grim expression on her husband’s face, ‘it wasn’t Titus’s fault. Rome is full of treachery, we know that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lucius nodded. ‘So, what do you suggest we do? Do we buy a hut here in Tarquinii with the few aes we have, dear wife? Do we beg food and drink from our Tarquinii hosts for the rest of our lives?’

  ‘No,’ she said sternly, jerking her head at Titus to move out of Lucius’s reach. ‘We still fight. We will just have to do it without any help from inside Rome, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Lucius roared, unable to contain his anger any longer.

  ‘Yes,’ Lolly shouted back. ‘We’ve tried diplomacy and failed. Very well, but the Tarquinii have already pledged their support and we know the Veii will be with us too. Rome cannot summon up such an army. With such a force as we will have, Lucius, Rome will be ours again after the very first battle.’

  Lucius took a deep breath, only a little mollified by her confidence. ‘If you say so, Lolly.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, giving him a kiss. ‘I promise, Rome’s going to be very sorry she ever turned on us.’

  Volumnia felt movement behind her in the bed and rolled over to see what Caecilius was doing. It was so unlike him to be restless; he normally got into bed and fell asleep straight away. She opened one bleary eye. ‘Caius!’ she cried in surprise. ‘What are you doing in my bed?’

  ‘Can’t sleep,’ Caius mumbled, trying to burrow closer.

  She lifted her arm over her head and he shifted towards her. His small body crushed her breast but she didn’t mind, didn’t tell him to move. She vaguely wondered where Caecilius was. ‘Did you have a nightmare?’ she asked, stroking his hair.

  ‘No. The banging woke me up.’

  She felt him yawn. ‘What banging?’

  ‘In the room next to me.’

  ‘The storeroom?’

  Caius nodded.

  She sat up, gently pushing him off. ‘Which slave is it? I’ll have them whipped for disturbing you.’

  ‘It’s Father,’ Caius said, tugging at her elbow for her to lie down again.

  ‘What in Hades is he doing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Caius said impatiently, closing his eyes.

  ‘Stay here,’ she said, throwing off the sheet and getting out of the bed. She padded along the corridor, past Caius’s cubiculum to the storeroom at the back of the domus. She could hear the banging now and pushed the door open. ‘Caecilius, what are you doing?’

  Caecilius looked up sharply, startled by her voice. ‘Go back to bed,’ he said crossly.

  ‘You woke Caius with all...,’ Volumnia waved her hand at the disordered room, ‘this.’ She looked behind him at the trunk whose lid was open and propped up against the wall. ‘Why are you looking in there?’

  ‘Because I’m going to war and I need my armour.’

  ‘To war?’

  ‘Oh, now you’re interested.’ He nodded behind her at the doorway. ‘I see you’ve still got your shadow.’

  Volumnia turned. Caius was peering around the doorway. ‘You woke him up. What war?’

  Caecilius looked down into the trunk. ‘Where’s my sword? I can’t find it.’

  ‘It’s not in there,’ Volumnia said impatiently. ‘War with whom?’

  Caecilius slammed the lid down on the trunk. ‘The king. No, that’s my mistake. I should say the former king of Rome. The Senate received a declaration of war from Lucius Tarquin this evening. The Tarquinii and the Veii are with him, maybe more of the tribes are too, it’s not clear. But he has amassed quite a significant army, large enough to worry the Senate. So, all able-bodied men, and I daresay, even those that aren’t, are to arm and present themselves by noon on the Field of Mars.’ He straightened and put his hands on his hips. ‘I suppose you’re thinking how fortunate I am to be going to war.’

  He was being sarcastic, Volumnia knew, but he was also right; she was thinking exactly that. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

  ‘So, aren’t I lucky?’ Caecilius grinned mockingly at her. ‘Off I go tomorrow to fight our king.’

  ‘He’s not our king any longer, Cae,’ she said, refusing to rise to his bait.

  He shook his head. ‘Time was when you wouldn’t hear a word said against the king. Now, you’re happy to have me fight him.’

  ‘Things change, husband.’

  ‘They do indeed. So, tell me, where is my sword?’

  ‘In the atrium, near the shrine. The gods protect it.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it there.’

  ‘It’s in the floor, beneath the largest tile. It’s wrapped in leather, well protected. In every sense.’

  ‘You think of everything.’

  Volumnia had had enough of his sarcasm. She turned and guided Caius back to her cubiculum. She climbed into the bed and held the sheet up for him to do the same.

  ‘Does Father not want to go to war?’ Caius asked as he tucked himself in.

  ‘He’d rather not, it seems,’ Volumnia said, resting her head on the pillow and laying her arm across him.

  ‘I wish I could go.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said, squeezing and pulling him closer, ‘because you’re a brave little man.’

  ‘Isn’t Father brave?’

  Volumnia sighed. ‘No, not any more.’

  ‘Is the king a bad man, Mother?’

  ‘I don’t know, Caius.’

  ‘If he isn’t, why isn’t he still the king here?’

  ‘Such a lot of questions, my boy.’

  ‘I just want to know.’

  ‘Well, his son did something he shouldn’t, and the people didn’t like it. A man got up on the rostra in the forum and said we should throw the king and his family out of Rome and not let them back in. The people agreed and so now we don’t have a king.’

  ‘Is it better not to have a king, then?’

  ‘I’m really not sure, my love. It’s all so new. I expect you and I will hardly notice the difference. After all, your father had to go off to war before when the king ruled here. I suppose it doesn’t really matter who in Rome tells you to fight, Caius. If Rome needs your sword, you provide it. You remember that when you’re older.’

  ‘I could go to war now,’ Caius declared.

  Volumnia’s mouth puckered in a smile but she did not laugh. It would have suggested she was laughing at him and Caius would be hurt. ‘But if you were to go to war with your father, and Uncle Menenius too, I suppose, I would have no one to keep me company, would I, Caius? You wouldn’t want me to be all alone, would you?’

  Caius sat up in bed and looked down at her, his expression serious. ‘I’ll never let you be alone, Mother. We’ll always be together.’

  Her throat tightened, and she sucked in her bottom lip, letting her teeth press into the soft flesh. ‘I know you mean that now, Caius, but you will go off to fight some day and I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.’

  He frowned. ‘I do want to fight, but...’. His face lit up with a sudden idea. ‘You would have Grandmother and Uncle Menenius to look after you, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, you silly thing,’ she said, taking his face between her hands and kissing his mouth, ‘I was only teasing you. I don’t need looking after, and I won’t have you worrying about me when you’re off fighting. I shall be perfectly well. I only meant that I don’t want to lose you to war just yet. There’ll be other wars for you to fight, there always are, but in a few years’ time, Caius.’

  Caius nodded and lay down, pressing his face into her breast
s. Volumnia felt his breath moisten her skin and closed her eyes. They were both fast asleep when Caecilius returned to the cubiculum, having found his sword and gathered all his armour together. He took one look at the pair of them, then left to spend what remained of the night in Caius’s bed.

  11

  Caecilius could hardly believe how his world had changed. Time was when he would have laughed at the idea of Lucius Iunius Brutus leading a rebellion against the king, let alone being in command of the equites. Now, Caecilius had to take orders from the pretended imbecile and charge into battle to fight against the father of his best friend. He supposed he really had chosen his side; there was no going back now. He had become a republican, despite all his better instincts and finer feelings. And he was sorry for it. Others would scoff, he knew, but he had genuinely liked Prince Titus and, he didn’t think he flattered himself, Titus had liked him in return. Certainly, Caecilius had had hopes of gaining by the friendship when Titus became king, but that hadn’t been all there was to the bond they shared. Titus had been a true friend.

  Caecilius looked longingly at the forest to the right of the battle lines. He wished he could ride his mare into those trees and not stop until they came out the other side, far away from the battle, from the politics, from Rome herself. Volumnia would despise me if I did that, he thought, and Volumnia’s disapproval was the last thing he needed. He knew his duty, knew what he had to do, what he had been trained to do from a boy. He had to plunge his sword into as many enemies as he could without dying himself, if he could manage it.

  The order to charge came. Caecilius saw his fellow equites gallop away and kicked his mare’s side to catch up. As soon as he felt the vibrations of hundreds of horses’ hooves through his body, his mind focused and he held his sword out straight, ready to pierce the enemy.

  When the clash came, everything became a blur. He stabbed and withdrew his sword, struggled to keep his seat, stabbed and stabbed again. The mare began to stumble as bodies littered the ground, not only those of his victims but those of his fellow soldiers too. She high-stepped and began to disregard his tugs on the reins. Too many bodies, too much screaming and slashing. She was frightened and he feared she would rear. He dismounted and slapped her rump to encourage her to leave the battlefield. She needed little persuasion and galloped away back to the camp.

  His arm was aching, the muscles burning, and he knew his body was tiring. He fell, his feet slipping in the mud between bodies, and he stayed down, trying to catch his breath as sharp pains constricted his chest. He had had these pains before but not so harsh. His head felt like it would burst, blood pulsing up his neck and flooding his ears. He had to get away from the fighting. He was vulnerable here, down on his knees in the mud, trying to breathe. He crawled to the left, to a clump of bushes, and crouched behind them. After a minute or so, the pains eased away; he took tentative breaths, testing his lungs. He closed his eyes. He would stay here, behind the bushes, out of sight, out of the way, and to Hades with Volumnia’s disdain.

  But then Caecilius heard movement from the other side of the bush and he tightened his grip on his sword, cursing whoever it was for ruining his plan. He pushed himself up to a crouching position, his knees protesting, and waited. The bush shivered as someone pushed against it and Caecilius braced himself. He was about to raise his sword when he saw who it was.

  It was Prince Titus.

  They both stared stupidly at one another for a long moment.

  ‘Titus, I—’, Caecilius croaked, but got no further, for Titus lunged and his sword sliced through Caecilius’s shoulder.

  The skin split and Caecilius felt his own hot blood pour down his left arm. Astonished by Titus’s attack, he froze, giving Titus the chance to lunge again. This time Titus got him in the side, above his left hip where his breastplate had risen up. Reacting instinctively, he thrust his sword arm upwards. He heard the cry of pain and felt the resistance of bone against the blade and knew he had wounded his friend.

  It was enough. Titus was down; he had no desire to kill him. He got to his feet, wincing as his left side protested. He moved away from the bush and saw that the battle was almost over, the field nearly deserted save for bodies. Every step was painful. The edges of his vision began to darken; the way in front of him seemed to turn upside down. And then he was tumbling, and the ground, the muddy, bloody ground, hit him hard in the face.

  Lucius opened his eyes, having to pull hard to break the crust sealing his lids. The light hurt and he closed them again, waiting for the pain to subside before risking opening them again. He bore the light this time and slowly, his vision focused. Fabric billowed above his head, and it took him a moment to realise he was in a tent. He drew on his senses to work out exactly where. He was lying on something hard and high off the ground. Not his campaign bed, then. A table, probably. He heard voices, lots of them: urgent words, groans, screams. Understanding washed over him; he was in the surgeon’s tent. He had been found on the battlefield and brought here to be worked upon. He wondered how badly hurt he was. Everything hurt. His arms throbbed, skin tightened and tugged on his legs. He tried turning his head to the side, wincing as his neck muscles complained, urging him to stop. It was enough; he could see men laid out on tables just like him, bloody and battered.

  If he was here, did that mean it was all over? Had he lost the battle? How was that even possible? His scouts had reported that the Roman army was far smaller than his, that his army had the best ground. They’d lied to him. Was there no one he could trust? Well, he was done. No more armies, no more fighting, no more hopeless dreams of being king of Rome once more. He would make his home in Tarquinii and live a quiet life, a private person, unambitious, content with his lot.

  He heard a groan and there was something familiar in the sound. He turned his head again and focused on the man lying on the table a few feet away. The face was covered in dried blood but he recognised the profile. It was Titus. Lucius called to his son, reaching out an aching arm towards him but they were too far apart. He couldn’t reach.

  Someone grabbed his arm and forced it back to his side. ‘Be still now, my king,’ a voice said.

  ‘That’s my son,’ Lucius gasped.

  ‘Yes, I know. You must not exert yourself. You will open the stitches.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Lucius cried, unheeding.

  ‘No, the prince is not dead, but he is badly wounded.’

  Lucius couldn’t help himself; he began to cry. His tears were hot on his cheeks. He thought of Lolly, back in Tarquinii and safe. He suddenly longed to be with her, not here on this accursed battlefield, watching his son die. Lolly would never forgive him if Titus died. He would never forgive himself.

  ‘Save him,’ he implored through his tears. ‘Save him and I will give you all my gold.’

  ‘I’m doing what I can,’ the surgeon said. ‘You must pray to the gods to save your son.’

  Lucius, a man who had always resented being told what to do, obeyed and mumbled prayers to Jove, to Bellona, to Mars, to Mercury, to all the gods he could think of, that they would show favour to this most unfortunate man who had lost his country, his fortune and his position, not to make him lose his son too.

  She waved away the smoke stinging her eyes. The sword was heavy in her hand but she tightened her grip, anxious lest it should fall. She had rubbed grit into her palms, determined she wouldn’t sweat and so risk her hold. She felt everything: the ground beneath her feet, the stones pressing into the soles of her sandals, the splatter of mud on her calves, the wind that blew her hair about her face. The enemy was there, on the other side of the smoke. She took a deep breath and began her roar, brewing it in the pit of her stomach, letting it build as it worked its way up her body, until it reached her throat and pressed against the sides. It had to come out, it had to be set free. She opened her mouth wide…

  ‘Domina, domina!’

  Volumnia started awake. ‘Wh… what is it?’

  The slave shook her again. ‘The mas
ter has come home, domina.’

  ‘Now?’ Volumnia was incredulous. She knew it must still be night for the slave held an oil lamp and no light came in through the window. She threw off the bedsheet and held her arms out for her dressing gown.

  ‘The master is injured, domina,’ the slave said as he put it on her. ‘He was brought here on a cart.’

  Volumnia didn’t wait to hear more. She rushed out of the cubiculum, her bare feet making slapping noises on the cold tiles, and ran through to the atrium. The front doors were closing as she arrived and she came to a stop as she stared down at Caecilius lying on a stretcher on the atrium’s floor. A blanket was pulled up to his chin and he was asleep, or unconscious, she couldn’t tell.

  ‘Volumnia!’

  The voice startled her. She hadn’t noticed Menenius in the darkness. ‘Menenius, is he badly wounded?’

  ‘The doctor said so. He’s done all he can.’

  ‘Get him into bed,’ Volumnia instructed the slave she recognised as the man Caecilius had taken with him when he left for war.

  The four household slaves had been roused and arrived en masse in the atrium. Each one took a corner of the stretcher and Caecilius was lifted into the air. As the stretcher passed Volumnia, she smelt a foul, decaying odour and shot a look at Menenius. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gangrene,’ Menenius told her as they followed after the stretcher. ‘The doctor did consider amputation, but the wound is very near the shoulder and he thinks the infection has spread too far for amputation to be of any use.’

  They had reached the door of the cubiculum and they watched as Caecilius was lifted from the stretcher onto the bed. He stirred and mumbled but did not wake.

  ‘He will die, then?’ Volumnia whispered.

  ‘Volumnia—’

  ‘Speak truth, Menenius. You need not use soft words with me.’