The Eagle in the Dovecote Page 16

  And then his breathing slowed and Virgilia knew he was asleep. She turned her head to look at him and saw his handsome face beside her on the pillow. Her tears were drying as the pain faded and she told herself it had not been so bad, though she wished she had been alone with Caius. She stared at her new husband for a long time until her own eyes, weary from crying and from the rigours of the day, closed.

  14

  Caius winced as his leaning over the desk to dip his pen in the ink sent a sharp stabbing through his body. The doctor had told him he had fractured at least two of his ribs on his left side and that there was nothing to be done but give his body time to heal. He supposed he should have been grateful that the fracturing had happened only at the end of the last war. Had he fractured his ribs in an earlier battle, chances are he would not have come home.

  It had been a good war, he thought, plenty of battles, plenty of opportunities to prove himself. And he had done that, killing he didn’t know how many enemies. All except one. He absently fingered the wound on his right shoulder. Like the one on the inside of his right thigh, it was healing well. The skin would be red and puckered when they had healed completely.

  Touching the wounds made him angry for he knew the man who inflicted them still lived. They had fought fiercely when they met on the battlefield, fought so close their breaths intermingled, their eyes met, their flesh touched. But though they had wounded one another, they had neither of them been able to deliver a fatal blow. They were so evenly matched, it was incredible. Tullus Aufidius, Caius thought, you are mine to kill when next we meet, and it will be the greatest honour of my life.

  This last war had taken him from Rome for almost nine months. When he was away, he was occupied and didn’t miss home; now he was back, he realised how much he had missed his mother. She had missed him, too, and had held him tight for many minutes upon his return. But she never complained that he was gone so long. She knew it was his purpose to fight for Rome. Indeed, she had trained him for it.

  It was different with Virgilia. He had left her only a week after their marriage and she had cried at his going. He had been touched that someone he barely knew and who barely knew him could feel pain at the prospect of his leaving, and he had been kind and kissed her and said his mother would look after her. He wondered why Virgilia’s expression had altered when he said that last but then his mother had spoken to him and he had forgotten all about his tearful wife.

  Caius had received a letter from his mother about two months later. Virgilia was pregnant, she told him. The news meant little to him and he did not bother to reply. Volumnia understood his silence and did not berate him in her next letter. She knew he was busy, she wrote, killing Rome’s enemies and making her proud. He must not think of Virgilia or his child until that job was done. There would be time enough for all that when he came home.

  And now, he was home, and he found a baby in his domus, an ugly, squawking thing that Virgilia showed him with tears in her eyes, wanting him to take it in his arms. He had done so and held it awkwardly so that it cried even more, and he had thrust it back at Virgilia, complaining he didn’t want to come home to such noise. Volumnia had told Virgilia to take the baby away and she had done so, crying.

  He hadn’t cared. Volumnia had taken him through to the triclinium where food awaited him, a veritable feast after the rations he had eaten on campaign. He had told Volumnia all about his battles and she had listened, eager for details. He had seen the excitement in her face and had been pleased to gratify her interest. He had told her of the Volsci warrior he had fought, seven or eight times now, and whom he hadn’t been able to beat. She had thought he was ashamed of himself and had sought to console him, but he had told her she need not, that he had been proud to fight such a man, a man as good as himself. She hadn’t understood, he had seen that, and he hadn’t tried to explain.

  Aufidius was his to understand alone.

  His toga was trailing in the dirt as he ran from his domus. Caius had received an urgent message from Menenius to come to the Senate house at once. Caius hadn’t stopped to question Menenius’s slave. He had thrown down his stylus, knocked over his chair and rushed out of the door, it closing upon the alarmed queries of his wife and mother.

  Caius pushed people out of the way in his haste. He ignored their curses and shouts of outrage and hurried up the Senate house steps. He found Menenius and headed towards him.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘What is it?’

  Menenius’s expression was grim. ‘It’s Lucius Tarquin.’ He was about to say more but Mettius Trebonius clapped his hands for attention.

  ‘The Senate has today received a dispatch from Lucius Tarquin.’ Mettius sighed. ‘I shall be brief. Lucius Tarquin has declared war on Rome. He means to attack us wherever and whenever he can.’

  The senators found their voices and expressed their outrage. Caius bent his head towards Menenius. ‘He can’t think he can win the throne back, can he? After all this time?’

  ‘I think the man is quite mad,’ Menenius said.

  ‘Mad or not, if he has an army—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Menenius snapped, ‘we will be at war.’ He gave Caius a sideways look. ‘How that does please you.’

  Caius laughed and looked around at the senators, who had left their seats to talk with one another. ‘I can’t help it, Menenius, it does. I swear I am getting fat having nothing to do here in Rome.’

  ‘Oh, Caius, don’t exaggerate. Your wounds from the last war have not even healed yet. And you would have plenty to do if only you could set your mind to doing it.’

  ‘Seeing clients, acting as arbitrator in disputes? That’s not for me, Menenius, you know it’s not.’

  ‘I daresay your wife and mother are pleased you’ve been home for a while.’

  Caius made a face. ‘I’m made for war, Menenius. My mother understands that.’

  ‘Your mother saw to it,’ Menenius retorted. ‘Anyway, you will get your wish. You will be sent off to fight for Rome.’

  ‘And so will you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Menenius shook his head, ‘not this time. I am grown too old for battles. My body is no longer fit for service on the battlefield.’

  Caius glanced down at the hand that was smoothing the toga over a rounded belly, the consequence of Menenius’s love of food and wine. ‘What will you do, then?’

  ‘I’ve already had a word with Mettius,’ Menenius said. ‘Administration and organisation, that’s where my talents lie these days.’

  Caius frowned. ‘But then, who will I serve under?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. The commanders will be falling over themselves to have you in their ranks. They know how good a soldier you are. They will all want Caius Marcius. ’

  Caius could feel his mare growing tired beneath him. He looked back to her flank and saw a deep cut in the skin, her blood flowing freely down her legs. She wouldn’t last much longer if the wound wasn’t seen to. He waited for a break in the fighting, then rode her away a little so he could dismount. He smacked her uninjured rump, and she galloped away towards the Roman camp in the valley below. She would get the attention she needed when she arrived.

  Caius didn’t mind being on foot, even though, as a patrician, he should fight on horseback. He found it easier, more pleasurable, to fight with his feet on the ground. He could turn and manoeuvre more easily. On horseback, he often felt distanced from the fighting, just another man wielding a sword, but on the ground, he felt almost as if he himself was a sword, that the piece of metal in his hand was a part of his arm.

  That arm of his had killed many men this day and would kill many more. Caius worked his way through the battlefield, stabbing, hacking, slicing, until his muscles burned and he was covered in blood and gore. He reached a hiatus — there was no one around him left to kill — and he took the moment to catch his breath. He looked around. There was no telling from this point which side was winning. All dead men looked the same.

 
He heard a shout and whirled around. He saw a tall man raising a spear a little way away. The next moment, the man jabbed downward and embedded the tip in the thigh of a Roman soldier writhing on the ground. It was a clumsy attack. Had Caius held the spear and had the Roman been his enemy, he would have pushed the point into the man’s stomach or his heart. But even though the blow had been feeble, it was still damaging. The man with the spear pulled it out of the ripped flesh and raised it above his head to strike again.

  Caius ran to the fallen soldier, and with his sword, knocked the spear away. The force of his blow sent the man falling backwards. He was an old man, Caius saw, his face heavily lined, though bodily, he still appeared robust. His clothing, muddied and bloodied though it was, suggested he was a man of some standing. Perhaps he had been unhorsed and forced to fight on foot and was unaccustomed to fighting so, hence the clumsy attack on the Roman soldier. The knowledge pleased Caius. This was no mere foot soldier, a ploughboy or tanner, he was about to kill. This was a man of substance and to kill him would be an honour.

  But Caius didn’t get the chance. His opponent regained his balance quickly and was tightening his grip on his spear to thrust it into Caius. Caius braced himself for the blow, but it came not from his opponent, but weakly from the side. He turned and saw that five men had joined them and were moving to stand between him and his opponent. Annoyed, Caius thrust with his sword and felt the satisfying feeling of metal passing through flesh. The man he had pierced fell and Caius turned back to the old man, but he was already being hurried away by the bodyguard. Who was he? Caius wondered as they retreated. He must have been someone very important to be worth saving in that way.

  A trumpet blared and Caius turned towards the sound. It came from the Roman end of the field. He saw and heard men cheering, and realised Rome had been victorious, that they had won yet another battle. He was disappointed; he was not spent yet. But there was no one left to fight, and he began to make his way back to the camp.

  ‘Caius!’

  Caius, who had been looking down at his feet as he picked his way over the bodies that littered the ground, looked up at the shout. It took him a moment to locate the caller, but then he saw Cominius waving to him a little way off. He raised his hand in greeting and Cominius ran up to him.

  ‘You’re alive,’ Cominius cried, the only points of brightness in his face his eyes. His face was streaked with mud and blood and when he grinned at Caius, there was blood staining his teeth. ‘I saw your horse go back to the camp. I thought—’

  ‘That I was dead? You know me better than that.’

  Cominius nodded. ‘Wounded, maybe. How many of these bodies are down to you?’

  Caius looked about them. ‘Ten or twelve.’

  ‘More like twenty or thirty, I’d say. Come on, the commander sent me to find you.’

  ‘Why?’ Caius asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

  Cominius didn’t answer, just strode off towards the camp. Caius followed, hurrying so as not to be left behind. If the commander had sent Cominius to find him, Caius must be in trouble. Had he disobeyed an order?

  He and Cominius reached the camp. The order of before the battle was gone. The tents were still set in rows, but men sprawled everywhere, some waiting to be tended to by the surgeons, others nursing injuries they could mend themselves, and so were washing with boiled water and bandaging one another with linen. Horses were being led from the field, their sides sweaty, some bloody, most foaming at the mouth.

  The commander’s tent was in the middle of the camp. There was no mistaking it for it was larger and far grander than any of the others. A small crowd had formed around the entrance and Caius’s stomach lurched. Was his dressing-down to be made public? How could he bear the shame?

  ‘Wait here,’ Cominius said. He entered the tent and Caius heard him say, ‘He’s here, sir.’

  Caius stood to attention, determined to take his reprimand or punishment like a man. He would not beg for mercy.

  The commander, Aulus Postumius, emerged from his tent, his face grim, a deep cut on his temple causing blood to trickle down to his jaw. He was as dirty as the rest of his army and as weary, it seemed. He saw Caius and moved to stand before him. ‘Caius Marcius, kneel.’

  So, it is to be execution, Caius thought as he bent his legs and lowered himself to the ground, wondering what he had done to deserve it. The ground was hard and damp against his knees. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. And waited.

  The moment seemed long, but it was probably only seconds, he realised later. He had expected to feel the point of the commander’s sword pierce the top of his spine, but the pain didn’t come. Instead, the commander touched Caius’s head. When he removed his hands, Caius, confused, put one hand to his head and felt leaves tickle his fingers. He looked up in surprise.

  ‘A victory wreath,’ Aulus Postumius said with some solemnity, though his eyes were twinkling. ‘Caius Marcius, I commend you,’ and he gestured for Caius to stand.

  Caius got to his feet to the sound of cheering. Astonished, he looked to Cominius for explanation.

  ‘You fought well, Caius, put us all to shame,’ Cominius said happily. ‘And what’s more, you fought the tyrant.’

  ‘I did what?’ Caius said, bewildered.

  ‘Lucius Tarquin,’ Cominius said, frowning at Caius’s confusion. ‘Didn’t you know? You stopped him from killing the consul and we all know you would have killed him had he not been rescued by his bodyguard. It wouldn’t be just a wreath for you if you had. You would have been welcomed back to Rome with a triumph. Better luck next time, eh?’

  So, that had been Tarquin, Caius mused as he found his hand wrung by his fellow soldiers. I should have gone after him and stabbed him in the heart. He touched the oak wreath on his head and tried to stop himself from grinning like a fool. He didn’t want the others to see how proud of himself he was.

  Everyone wanted to celebrate the Roman victory. Cominius proposed they drink all the wine the camp held and get themselves a whore each. Caius declined the whore but agreed to the wine, saying he had something to do first.

  Disentangling himself from his fellow soldiers, Caius walked out of the camp and to the edge of the battlefield where camp followers were looting the dead bodies of their goods. They edged away from him as he walked, and he found himself quite alone. He fell to his knees, and leaning forward, kissed the earth. He sank back onto his heels and closed his eyes to pray.

  ‘Mars, I thank you for this victory.’

  15

  Volumnia winced as her grandson gave another of his ear-splitting screams. She touched her fingers to her forehead and pressed, as if pressing against skin and bone could lessen the pain inside her skull. It didn’t, of course, and her arm fell back onto the bed with an exasperated thump. Why couldn’t Virgilia do something with Little Caius and shut him up? All her daughter-in-law seemed to do was cuddle and coo with him. That was the problem; no discipline, always giving in. If the child was hungry, he should be fed and left alone. If tired, put in his cot and left alone. But no, Virgilia would insist on keeping him with her and thereby making him worse. The gods knew Volumnia had been attentive to Caius when he was the same age, but she had never mollycoddled him the way Virgilia did her son. There had been times when Caius had been fractious and demanding of attention but Volumnia had left him to wear himself out with crying. It hadn’t made for pleasant hours in the domus, it was true, but eventually, Caius had learnt he couldn’t get his own way all the time. Volumnia would have to tell Virgilia to do the same, and if she didn’t... well, she would have a word with Caius when he came home and get him to deal with his wife.

  Caius!

  Oh, how she missed him. Now that Aemilia and Kaeso had gone to live on the Sidonius country estate, she had no one of her own around her. She had told her mother she would be fine when Aemilia had broached the idea of her and Kaeso leaving Rome. Aemilia had been concerned for her but Volumnia had waved those concerns away, confident
she had no need of her mother and idiot brother. She had been wrong. She missed her mother, and yes, she even missed her brother, in a way. Whenever she had felt lonely, or just in need of a confidential conversation, she had been able to visit them and unburden herself. Now, there was no one. She could not speak with Virgilia without irritation. She and her daughter-in-law agreed on nothing; not on politics, not on people, not even on what they should have for dinner. Her friend Valeria popped round now and then to gossip, but she had a wide social circle of her own and Volumnia, especially when Caius was away, was low on her visiting list.

  And what of Menenius? Volumnia had hardly seen him of late. She knew he was busy with war work, but she had expected him to visit more often now his wife was dead. She supposed he still thought Caius wouldn’t approve of his visits, but Virgilia was always in the domus, and what better chaperon could Volumnia have than her son’s wife?

  There came an unfamiliar sound. Volumnia strained her ears to hear: murmuring, the front doors opening. Strange, they weren’t expecting visitors. She pushed herself up onto her elbows. Yes, that was Virgilia’s voice she could hear. And then she heard her daughter-in-law give a cry. Volumnia jumped off the bed, wincing as her brain rocked in her skull, and flung open her door. She rushed out into the corridor and hurried towards the atrium.

  ‘Caius!’ she cried.

  Yes, it was him, standing in the atrium, trying to fend off the embraces of his wife. Virgilia was crying and kissing him all at once, while Caius’s personal slave who had accompanied him to war, stood to one side, his arms full of his master’s personal belongings.

  Caius looked up at the sound of his name and grinned. ‘Salve, Mother.’ He pinned Virgilia’s arms to her sides and steered her out of his way. He strode up to Volumnia and kissed her. ‘Didn’t expect me, did you?’