The Eagle in the Dovecote Page 13

  ‘Yes, he will die.’

  ‘Soon?’

  ‘The doctor seemed to think so.’

  ‘Does Caecilius know?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, my dear. He’s been in and out of consciousness for days. We... we haven’t really been able to talk.’

  Volumnia felt his eyes on her. Was he expecting her to cry? Surely, he knew her better than that? She stepped to the bed and looked down on Caecilius. He looked so much older than when he had left her a month or so before. Her nose wrinkled as she pulled back the blanket and his injured arm was exposed to her view. Had the fool of a doctor waited too long to diagnose gangrene? If she insisted on the arm being amputated, would Caecilius live? But what if he did? she mused. The damaged arm was his left and so he would still be able to hold a sword but his balance would be off, and he would not be able to defend himself with a shield.

  ‘And the war?’ she asked. ‘Is it over?’

  ‘Yes. Tarquin was defeated and fled. But Brutus was killed in the battle.’

  So, the man who had started all this and banished the king was dead himself. Perhaps that was for the best. Brutus’s insistence on the execution of his sons had not gone down well among the plebs. No one could understand how a man could order his own sons to be killed, regardless of their crime, and it seemed to suggest he had a nature every bit as tyrannous as the Tarquins he had exiled. Better he was gone.

  She turned back to Menenius but her eye caught something behind him in the doorway. She smiled, causing Menenius to frown and turn too. ‘Caius, you’re awake. Look, Menenius, hasn’t he grown?’

  ‘Indeed he has, Volumnia,’ Menenius said, forcing a smile onto his face as he looked down at Caius. ‘Caecilius will be proud of him.’

  ‘Is Father sick, Mother?’ Caius asked.

  ‘Your father is very ill, Caius. See that wound there,’ she pointed to Caecilius’s shoulder. ‘That has become infected and is poisoning your father’s blood.’

  Caius looked up at her. ‘Is he going to die?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ she said.

  Caius returned his gaze to his father and studied him for a long moment. Then he looked back up at Volumnia and smiled. ‘Then it will be just you and me, Mother.’

  Part III

  503 BC - 493 BC

  12

  Caius had lost sight of Menenius in the field below; he’d been distracted by the fighting. There was so much of it, and so many of the equites had been unseated that there was no telling who was who. Caius wanted to be there, in among it all, not in the camp, keeping an eye on the baggage carts.

  When the news had come that the Volsci had declared war on Rome and his mother had told him he was going to war, Caius had thought he would be fighting. He hadn’t expected to go to war as Uncle Menenius’s servant. But that had been all his war had been: sharpening swords, repairing wooden saddles and ensuring his horse was fed its daily allowance of barley and keeping its wounds clean. Not that Caius minded looking after Menenius’s horse. He liked horses and looked forward to the day when he had one of his own, but he did so want to fight.

  And he was needed in the battle, Caius could see that. The Volsci were a fearsome enemy. The tales around the campfires, those that Menenius had allowed him to be present at, had been very candid about how well the Volsci fought. Caius had been shocked to hear the Roman soldiers talk of the Volsci almost with awe. He had always believed the Romans to be the best fighters in all the world, that’s what his mother had told him, but here were men who had actually been in battle against the Volsci saying how hard they fought and how they had been lucky to escape with their lives.

  Caius heard hoof beats to his right and turned. Menenius’s horse was galloping back to the camp. Its reins were hanging down and there was foam and blood at its mouth where the bit had dug into the flesh, but there was no rider. He ran towards the horse and grabbed the trailing reins. The horse pulled and jerked away but Caius held tight and spoke softly. The animal calmed and stopped its tugging, and began snorting and stamping the ground. Caius stroked its nose and looked out over the field. Where was Uncle Menenius?

  He shouted to another of the camp boys to take the horse, knowing it was too frightened to take him into the battle. He would have to go on foot, though it was an indignity for someone of his patrician class, boy or no. He ran down the hill, his feet swift as if he flew, his footing sure. He reached the rear of where the battlelines had been and he started to run through fallen men. These were just the infantry, he saw, and besides, Menenius wouldn’t be near the back where the cowards lingered. He’d be up at the front where the fighting was. Caius grabbed a sword from one of the fallen as he ran, a pitiful thing, battered and unbalanced, probably the sword of a farmer or a shepherd, but it would have to do. It had a sharp point, it could still kill, and that was all that mattered.

  Caius headed for the fighting, having to jump over bodies now, for the piles had grown higher. His quick eyes searched for Menenius on the ground but did not find him there. He kept on, searching, searching. He was so near now to the fighting and he longed to jump into the middle of it, but he felt finding Menenius had to be his only duty. He skirted around the fighting, and drew up short when he spotted Menenius on the ground, one leg bent backwards, an arm flung out.

  ‘Uncle Menenius,’ he gasped, falling to his knees beside him.

  ‘Caius,’ Menenius croaked. One eye was bleeding, the flesh beneath pouchy and purple. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Can you move, Uncle?’ Caius asked.

  ‘Get away,’ Menenius panted. ‘Get back to the camp.’

  Keeping hold of the sword, Caius put his free arm around his back, clamping his hand beneath Menenius’s armpit. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, giving a great heave. But Menenius was too heavy, and he succeeded only in bringing Menenius up to a sitting position.

  Menenius groaned with the effort, then cried, ‘Look out.’

  Instinctively, Caius gripped the sword tighter and shifted around on his knees. He saw a body hurtling towards him and he thrust his sword out, feeling it grow heavier as it entered flesh. The man crumpled and Caius withdrew the sword. A full six inches of blade was covered in blood. His heart beat faster. Another man rushed at him, and letting go of Menenius, he quickly got to his knees and charged, running the man through. Oh, the joy he felt as another body fell to the ground.

  ‘Caius!’ Menenius called feebly.

  Reluctantly, Caius returned to Menenius’s side. He moved behind him, and throwing down his sword, bent and put his arms around Menenius’s chest. He heaved Menenius to his feet and staggered a little under his weight.

  ‘Leave me,’ Menenius gasped.

  ‘I won’t,’ Caius said. ‘I’ll get you back to the camp.’

  ‘Take care, then.’

  ‘I will.’ Caius saw that Menenius still gripped his sword. ‘Give me your sword, Uncle.’ He bent it free from Menenius’s fingers.

  Caius judged the quickest route back to the camp. They moved slowly. Caius hadn’t been able to tell where Menenius had been wounded, but he could see that his left ankle was red and swollen and Menenius seemed unable to put any weight on it. It was hard going, dragging and lifting Menenius over the field littered with bodies, and it was a testament to his strength that Caius, a fourteen-year-old boy, could aid a full grown, injured man.

  They reached the edge of the battlefield and Caius looked back over his shoulder. The battle seemed to be ending, the fighting lessening. Caius could not help but feel a little disappointed not to have been a part of it from the first.

  ‘Nearly there?’ Menenius asked hopefully.

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘I thank the gods for you, my boy,’ Menenius said. He turned his head towards Caius, the beginnings of a smile upon his lips, but then his eyes widened. ‘Caius!’

  Caius whirled around and his heart banged in his chest as he saw a young man running towards him. He let go of Menenius once more, not hearing
Menenius’s grunt as he fell to the ground, and prepared himself for the assault. When it came, it knocked the breath out of him. The young man was strong and determined, and Caius could only fend off his sword, growing frustrated at his inability to land a blow himself.

  There were shouts from the Roman camp. He saw the young man look behind him and he turned to do the same. It was a foolish, unthinking action, for the next moment, Caius felt a sharp pain in the fleshy part of his forearm. He looked down and saw blood oozing from a small wound. Caius looked up, ready to respond in kind, but the young man had seen the danger he was putting himself in, alone and so near the Roman camp. He was retreating back to the Volscian lines, but not in fear, not in a hurry. He almost sauntered and when he got halfway across, he turned full square to the Romans, raised his arms high and wide and cried, ‘Volsci.’

  Caius watched the young man until he disappeared into the distance. He looked down at his wound. It was deep but not dangerous; the young man’s sword had only pierced him. Why, when he could have run him through the guts? Caius wondered. As he bent to pick Menenius up, the answer came to him. It was his youth that had deterred the young man from killing him. There was no honour in killing a boy.

  ‘Do you know who that was?’ he asked as he bent to pick Menenius up again.

  Menenius took a deep breath and allowed Caius to drag him forward. ‘We should both be dead.’

  ‘Why so, Uncle?’

  ‘Because that, Caius, was Tullus Aufidius.’

  Back in Rome

  ‘I owe Caius Marcius my life, Gabinia.’

  Menenius took a deep breath and braced himself for his wife’s response. Part of him wished he had not broached the subject, but he could not in all honour ignore the service Caius had done him that awful day on the battlefield.

  There had been other battles after that one — the Sabines had taken advantage of Rome’s war with the Volsci to join in the attack — though none had been so fierce, and Menenius had fought bravely in all of them. His wounds had healed well and his recovery had been swift, and he had Caius to thank for that. Menenius had no doubt he would have died had Caius obeyed his orders that day and remained in the camp, looking after the horses.

  ‘And I am grateful to the boy,’ Gabinia said, ‘but we mustn’t take gratitude too far. The Senate have granted you a triumph. You, my dear, not Caius Marcius.’

  ‘And I can have my triumph, Gabinia, I’m not arguing with you about that. I just think Caius and his mother should be with us, that’s all.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Gabinia said, smiling even as she shook her head. ‘This is your day. I daresay you could thank half a dozen men for their service to you during the war. Are you going to invite all of them to the feast?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Menenius said irritably.

  ‘Of course not. Just Caius and his mother,’ Gabinia said, all pretence at indifference gone. ‘Well, I won’t have them there, Menenius. I will not share a platform with your whore.’

  ‘Gabinia,’ Menenius yelled, outraged. ‘Volumnia is not my whore. She is the widow of a very dear friend to whom I owe a duty of care.’

  ‘Fine words, husband,’ Gabinia snapped. ‘Call her what you will, I do not care. She can see your triumph from the streets with the plebs, and she can stuff her face with her own food afterwards.’ She rose from the table and left the room without another word.

  Relieved she had gone, Menenius finished his breakfast and then headed for his tablinum. He sat down at his desk and dipped his reed pen into the ink.

  My dearest Volumnia,

  I had hopes of having you and Caius with me on the day of my triumph but I fear it cannot be. My wife fails to appreciate the great service your son performed for me while we were away at war, but be assured, I do not. That a boy of fourteen could not only brave the battlefield, a truly fearsome place, but kill two men and see off a third in his rescue of me is remarkable. Volumnia, your son is truly favoured by the gods. I know it is due to your determination to see him a soldier that made him able to defend himself and me. You have much to be proud of, and I know Caecilius would be proud of you both.

  He wasn’t sure of that last, but felt obliged to mention Volumnia’s dead husband. He wrote a final sentence assuring Volumnia he would see her and Caius as soon after the triumph as he could manage and then signed his name.

  Menenius sent his slave to deliver the letter and then retired to his cubiculum to dress for his triumph. It was going to be a great day. It wasn’t every soldier of Rome who was granted a triumph, and during the reign of the last king, no Roman soldier had ever been so honoured, for no man had been allowed to outshine the king.

  Yes, Menenius decided, there was certainly something to be said in favour of a republic.

  Someone was banging on the front doors. Volumnia pulled on her dressing gown and stepped out into the corridor, her eyes taking time to become accustomed to the darkness. She tutted, annoyed the slaves were taking so long to rouse themselves. Must she do everything herself?

  A flickering light appeared in the atrium — so at least one of them had risen — and Volumnia headed towards it. ‘Leave the bar down,’ she called out to the slave who carried the oil lamp, ‘and ask who it is.’

  The slave nodded and moved gingerly to the door. He leant his body towards it. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me. Open up,’ a voice called.

  Volumnia sighed. ‘It’s only Menenius Agrippa. You can let him in.’

  The slave lifted the heavy wooden bar out of its brackets and opened the door. Menenius was leaning against the frame, grinning stupidly.

  ‘Menenius Agrippa, what are you doing?’ Volumnia said laughing, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

  ‘I just came to say hello, and to say sorry.’ Menenius stumbled over the threshold and the slave bent to catch him. He chuckled. ‘I may be a little drunk.’

  ‘More than a little, I’d say.’ Volumnia took hold of his arm. She groaned as she pushed him upright.

  Menenius leaned into her, his face a few inches from hers. ‘How lovely you are,’ he said, reaching up to run a finger down her cheek.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Volumnia scolded. She could smell the wine on his breath. ‘It’s too late to be paying a visit.’

  ‘Did you see me today?’ Menenius asked, putting his arm around Volumnia’s shoulder and moving forward, forcing her to do the same, despite her attempt to head him back towards the door.

  ‘Of course I did. You didn’t think I would miss your triumph, did you? I saw you ride into the forum on your chariot, your face painted red like Jove himself. I saw the crowds cheering you—’

  ‘Was I magnificent?’

  ‘You were,’ she nodded at him, noting that there were flecks of red paint around his hairline where he had not quite washed it all off.

  Menenius tried to stand upright unaided, and without thinking, Volumnia reached up to brush the paint away. He seized her hand and kissed it fervently. She was so surprised, she did nothing nor said a word. Her inaction encouraged him. Menenius grabbed her face and pulled her towards him, his wet lips sliding over her mouth.

  ‘Uncle Menenius!’

  They broke apart and stared at Caius standing in the atrium’s doorway.

  ‘Oh, Caius, are you up?’ Volumnia said, her voice shaky with embarrassment. ‘Shame on you, Menenius. You’ve woken the entire household with your foolishness.’

  Caius stepped forward, the oil lamp the slave carried casting deep shadows over his face. But even in the semi-darkness, Volumnia could tell he was angry. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her at Menenius and she followed his gaze. Menenius had one arm outstretched against the wall, trying to stop himself from falling over.

  ‘Menenius is a little intoxicated, Caius,’ she explained with a little unsure laugh.

  ‘I’ve been celebrating, Caius,’ Menenius said cheerily.

  Caius was unmoved. ‘So I see, Uncle.’

  ‘And as I
didn’t get to see you at my triumph, I thought I would come and see you now.’

  ‘You should have waited until tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Menenius agreed, nodding slowly, ‘you’re quite right. I should have come in the morning.’ He stumbled towards the door, then turned and looked at Volumnia. ‘I am sorry you weren’t invited to the feast, at least. It wasn’t my idea.’ He was about to say more but then he glanced at Caius and something in that young man’s expression changed his mind. ‘I’ll go now.’

  The slave hurried to hold the door open and Menenius walked unsteadily through it. He didn’t look back as the slave closed the door and put the bar back in place.

  ‘Why did you let him in, Mother?’ Caius asked.

  ‘He was banging on the door, Caius.’

  ‘That was no reason.’

  ‘Oh, and what should I have done?’ she asked, her voice rising. ‘Let him go on making such a noise? The neighbours would have been roused.’

  ‘Better they be roused and see him making a disturbance than they see him being admitted to my domus in the early hours of the morning.’

  Volumnia’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Why… what do you mean?’

  Caius’s eyes were hard. ‘I won’t have you his mistress.’

  ‘How dare you say so!’ Volumnia cried. ‘As if I would—’

  ‘He was kissing you,’ Caius suddenly roared, his temper no longer kept in check. ‘I saw you.’

  Her breath was coming fast. Caius had never spoken to her like this before. ‘He took a liberty,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘I would have slapped his face had you given me a chance.’

  They stared at one another for a long moment.

  ‘I believe you, Mother,’ Caius said at last. ‘But I must insist that you never allow Uncle Menenius into this house when I am not here.’

  He really is becoming a man, Volumnia thought, trying not to smile, he’s jealous of Menenius. She drew a deep breath. ‘Very well, Caius. I will not allow Menenius Agrippa to enter this domus if you are not in it.’ Holding out her hand, she flicked her fingers at him. He hesitated a moment, long enough, she knew, just to show he followed his own inclination and not hers as he gripped her fingers. ‘There, does that satisfy you?’