The Eagle in the Dovecote Read online

‘No, I didn’t.’ Volumnia stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck. One quick embrace and she let him go. ‘We thought you were still near Tusculum.’ She took hold of his hand and drew him through the domus to the triclinium. She pushed him down onto one of the couches and ordered food and drink from a slave who had come running in from the kitchen at the sound of their voices. Volumnia looked around for Virgilia but she had disappeared. Caius’s slave was standing awkwardly a few feet off.

  ‘Set that down here and then get some food,’ Caius said to him, and the slave set down the small wooden box he had been carrying and then hurried off to the kitchen.

  ‘Well, what news?’ Volumnia asked excitedly.

  Caius grinned. ‘The battle was won, and Lucius Tarquin has given up.’

  ‘The war is over?’

  ‘You sound disappointed, Mother.’

  Volumnia shook her head. ‘I had thought you would be away longer. Though, of course,’ she reached across and touched her hand to his, ‘I am pleased to see you.’ She silently groaned as Virgilia hurried into the triclinium, Little Caius in her arms.

  ‘Here he is,’ Virgilia cooed, forcing the child onto Caius’s lap.

  Caius looked down at the squirming creature with apprehension. It wriggled and threatened to fall, and he grabbed at it clumsily. ‘He’s grown big.’

  ‘He’s almost two years old, Caius,’ Virgilia said, sitting down next to Caius and laying her head on his shoulder. ‘Isn’t he lovely?’

  ‘Here, take him.’ Caius passed the boy back to Virgilia.

  Volumnia saw her face fall at Caius’s reaction to their son and felt a small thrill of pleasure. She had been worried that Caius would find his son of interest and have no time for her. Little Caius started crying and Virgilia pressed him against her breast, whispering that everything was well.

  ‘Virgilia,’ Volumnia said, seeing Caius glare at his son, ‘take him away. Caius doesn’t want to listen to that awful noise.’

  ‘He can’t help crying,’ Virgilia protested, but rose and left to do as she was instructed.

  ‘Has she been good?’ Caius asked, watching her go.

  Volumnia sighed. ‘I can bear her well enough. But I don’t want to talk about her. Tell me of the battles you’ve fought, Caius. I long to hear.’

  ‘Better than that.’ Caius moved to the small box and opened it. ‘I have something for you, Mother.’ He lifted back a hessian cloth.

  ‘What is it?’ Volumnia asked, trying to peer inside.

  Caius held out the oak wreath.

  Volumnia’s mouth dropped open. ‘Is that—?’ she gasped and pressed her hand to her chest.

  ‘A victory wreath, yes.’ He passed it to her and she took it reverently.

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Given to me by Aulus Postumius himself.’ He sat down beside her. ‘Do you like it, Mother?’

  Volumnia looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, Caius,’ she cried and leant towards him, kissing him full on the mouth. ‘This is the most wonderful thing.’

  ‘It’s yours,’ Caius said. ‘I won it for you.’

  ‘I knew you were destined for greatness, Caius.’ She put the wreath on his head and stared at it through misty eyes. What better proof could she have that the Sibyl had prophesied truly?

  16

  495 BC

  Lucius heard the rain tapping against the leather curtain at the window. It was a soothing sound, the perfect sound to die to. He moved his head slightly on the pillow but regretted the movement almost immediately as it wearied him immensely. No strength left, he told himself. Don’t move, don’t do anything. Just lie here and wait until you drift away, never to wake again.

  Lolly would have said he was being maudlin and that he must buck up. He looked out of the corner of his eyes and saw his wife sitting in a chair by his bedside, her head upon her chest. She had been asleep for a while, he knew. He really should wake her up; her neck would ache terribly if she stayed in that position. But that would take effort too and he really didn’t have the energy. Yes, he was being maudlin and feeling sorry for himself, but Lucius couldn’t help feeling he had a right to be so. What had it all been for, in the end? The battle at Lake Regillus, almost three years ago now, had been his last attempt to restore his family’s dignity and he had failed miserably. He had been dragged away from that young man who would have killed him and forced to flee back to Tarquinii. There had been no more battles for Lucius Tarquin, the king who had had his throne stolen by an idiot.

  And all because of Sextus. He cursed his youngest son. He should have had him gelded when he was still a boy. The warnings had been there, if only he had paid attention. The Sibyl’s scrolls had prophesied a child of Rome would bring shame on his father through the virtue of a woman and it had been Sextus’s rape of Lucretia that had prompted the people of Rome to rebel.

  To have lost Rome, after all he and Lolly had done to get the throne. Adultery, the murder of their siblings and parents... all for nothing in the end.

  Lucius was worried for Lolly. When he was dead, how would she cope? She loved him, had always loved him, with a fierceness that had held him up and kept him strong, even in the worst of times. Now, they had little wealth, those bastards in Rome had seen to that. He hoped she would marry again. There was security for a woman in marriage. And he knew who would have her. Vopiscus Cantius was only waiting for Lucius to die to get his sweaty little paws on her. Shame, but Vopiscus Cantius was at least rich. Lolly would have a comfortable life as his wife. Yes, it would be best for her if she married Cantius.

  He wished Lolly would wake up, just for a moment, so he could say goodbye, but she slept on. Lucius held on for as long as he could, but then he felt himself drifting and knew it was too late. He heard the gentle ripple of the river and saw the ferryman floating on his raft towards him. He stepped onto the wooden planks and felt them bob beneath his feet. He reached into his purse for the last of the gold aes he possessed and pushed the nugget into the outstretched palm, the tips of his fingers feeling the chill in the withered skin. He looked back but Lolly was gone. There was only the dark night and the sound of the water.

  ‘To the Volsci!’

  Some good news at last, Tullus thought as he emptied his cup of wine for the toast. Lucius Tarquin was dead. The Roman tyrant who had ground so many peoples beneath the heel of Rome was dead. He had died in his bed, which was not as Tullus would have wished it, but he was dead, all the same. The news made his day.

  Of course, he told himself, that news shouldn’t have made his day. The day should have been significant without the death of a tyrant to make it memorable, for it was his wedding day. But, try as he might, Tullus just couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for being a married man. There was nothing wrong with his new wife, he had to admit. In many ways, she was the perfect choice. Not young, though young enough; not clingy and demanding his attention all the time but still attentive to his needs; and quite content for him to carry on as he had before they were married. At least, that was what Junia had told him the day before. Time would tell as to whether she would keep all her promises.

  Tullus looked around at the guests lying on the couches. There’s one person missing, he thought miserably. His mother, Salonia, had died a few months before. She had suffered much at the end, and the memory of her pain tormented Tullus. She had been so brave, even then. As he picked at the bowl of olives before him, he recalled the last thing she had said to him: ‘Make Rome pay!’ She had never forgiven the Romans for the raid on her village on the night of his birth. Often had she told him the story of what had happened that dreadful night, how she and Gallio had had to run away to the forest to hide while the Romans burned their village and killed all they found. Of how she might have died giving birth to him, how he might have died, had it not been for her friend Atilia, whose own husband was murdered by the Romans. Tullus had heard his mother’s prayers each night and morning beseeching the gods to punish the Romans for their deeds. Sometimes, the god
s listened; sometimes, they didn’t. Most often, it seemed to Tullus, they didn’t. Why else were the Romans having so much success? Almost every month news reached Antium of how the Romans had conquered this or that part of Italy, how they had opened up lucrative new trade routes or agreed treaties that gave them the upper hand. Only the Volsci held out and refused to submit to Rome. Tullus could be proud of that, at least.

  ‘I expect you’ll be off soon,’ Canus Elerius said, rousing Tullus out of his thoughts.

  ‘Off?’ Tullus frowned. ‘Off where?’

  ‘Wherever Rome is these days,’ Canus shrugged. ‘With Tarquin dead, they won’t have him to fight any more. I’ll daresay they’ll be looking elsewhere for their battles.’

  Tullus grunted agreement and shoved a handful of olives in his mouth. ‘I hope they do.’

  Canus grinned. ‘Ever the warrior, eh? You should be proud of this son of yours, Gallio.’

  ‘I am,’ Gallio said. ‘His mother was proud of him too.’

  Had his father guessed his thoughts? Tullus wondered. Was Gallio missing his mother too?

  ‘What of this Caius Marcius we keep hearing so much about?’ Canus continued. ‘Rumour has it he is so good at killing that he must be a son of Mars.’

  ‘Oh, I think the gods have better things to do than go around impregnating mortals these days,’ Gallio said with a smile. ‘He’s no more a demigod than you, Canus.’

  ‘He’s a fierce warrior,’ Tullus said, too loudly for the guests nearest quietened and stared at him. ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’ his new wife repeated, her eyes wide.

  ‘On the battlefield,’ Tullus said, wondering if that had been admiration he’d heard in his wife’s voice. ‘I’ve fought him many times.’

  ‘Then why is he not dead? I just mean,’ she said, quailing a little beneath his sudden glare, ‘you’re so good at killing, Tullus, everyone knows that. If you had fought him, surely you would have killed him?’

  There was a titter of laughter, embarrassed, awkward.

  ‘You’ve never been on a battlefield, Junia,’ Gallio said quietly, his eyes flicking between her and Tullus. ‘You have no idea what’s it like.’

  Junia opened her mouth to retort, took a quick glance at Tullus and thought better of it, biting down on a fig instead.

  ‘But what is Caius Marcius like?’ Canus’s wife, Pinaria, asked eagerly. ‘Is he handsome?’

  Women, Tullus thought contemptuously, is that all they think about? ‘It’s rather difficult to tell, lady, when a man’s face is covered in blood. And I am not the best man to judge as I don’t know what makes for handsomeness. My face, I think, is very far from handsome.’

  ‘I think you have a very striking face, husband,’ Junia said dutifully, defiantly. ‘I would not want a pretty husband.’

  ‘I didn’t say pretty, my dear,’ Pinaria said with a sly look. ‘I said handsome. I’ve heard tell Caius Marcius is.’

  ‘If ever a Roman could be called handsome,’ Junia shot back. ‘Personally, I think every Roman must be as ugly as Vulcan and the gossip about Caius Marcius greatly exaggerated. Tullus has a much greater reputation than he.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Pinaria said icily, her husband’s warning hand sliding off hers.

  Tullus had had enough. ‘There is no exaggeration. Caius Marcius is a great warrior. We have met upwards of eight times, and each time we have come face to face, we have given one another wounds. But no more than wounds. We are so evenly matched that we cannot seem to kill the other. In truth, were he not a Roman, I would wish him my friend.’

  ‘Oh, Tullus, really,’ Junia laughed, glancing at their guests to see if they took her husband at his foolish word. ‘You cannot love a Roman. It’s impossible.’

  ‘I know it, my love,’ he said, the affectionate words coming more easily than he had thought possible. ‘As he is not a Volsci but the enemy of my people, I hate Caius Marcius and will do my utmost to put my sword through him when next we meet.’

  Gallio raised his cup. ‘I’ll drink to that, and to you putting your sword through many Romans. And you will, Tullus, one day. I know you will. It was your mother’s dearest wish.’

  17

  The man came, limping into the forum. It had taken him five days to reach Rome. Ordinarily, the journey would have taken no more than three but his legs were not what they once were. Gone were the muscles that had enabled him to march for ten hours at a time. His muscles were shrunken now, the result of too little food and too much hard usage, but he had been determined to reach Rome and make his stand. In the past, he had been strong and clean, his clothing in food repair. Now, he was filthy and his clothes were little more than rags. He had let his beard grow, having no money to pay a barber to shave him and hands too tremulous to shave himself safely. His beard covered the bottom half of his face, so it came as a surprise when someone called his name in recognition.

  It was an old army comrade, a fellow soldier who had fared better than he in the few times of peace Rome had enjoyed. The friend wanted to know how he had come to such a pass, and he explained how he had returned from the war against the Sabines to find his farm burned down, his goods looted, his sheep driven off. That was bad enough, he had said with a sad shake of his head, but then the Senate had levied a war tax to pay for the recent campaign, and he had not the funds to cover it. Rather than risk imprisonment for non-payment, he had taken out a loan, but now his creditors were calling in the loan and he simply had nothing with which to pay them. He had told them so, but they had not cared, had not shown any compassion. And here, he slid down the threadbare shoulder of his tunic to show where he had been whipped for his failure to pay.

  The soldier was outraged and called over his friends to witness what had been done to this good citizen of Rome, a man who had obeyed his government’s call to arms only to find himself betrayed by the very people he had fought to defend. All agreed it was a disgrace, and as the outrage swelled, so did the people’s tempers. Soon, the cry of ‘Death to creditors’ was being shouted all around the forum and beyond into the streets. Creditors, fearing for their lives, hurried home and barred their doors.

  A few senators were less fortunate. They had been in the Senate house when the cry had gone up and had found their way obstructed. They had tried to retreat into the Senate house only to find they were followed. It was demanded of them what they would do to correct this appalling situation this ragged man, and all the others like him, for there were many, had been brought to.

  The current consuls, Publius Servilius and Appius Claudius, were of the party interrogated in the Senate house. They tried to calm the crowd, who were rapidly becoming a mob that threatened violence if they didn’t receive the answer they wanted. Fortunately, there were some in the crowd who wanted reason to prevail and who were vocal enough to demand that the Senate be called to assemble so their complaints could be heard. But the summons the consuls sent to the senators were not answered and there were too few in the Senate for a quorum. No new laws could be passed without them and the crowd’s fury intensified.

  The consuls and the few senators enjoyed a moment’s respite, however, when four horsemen burst into the forum and scattered the crowd as they pushed through to the steps of the Senate house.

  ‘The Volsci are advancing on Rome,’ they cried, flinging their arms towards the hills that flanked the city.

  The consuls appealed to the plebs to stop their complaints so they could see off the troublesome Volsci together, but the plebs had a very different idea. They saw the Volsci as their allies. The gods had arranged for the Volsci to threaten Rome at this exact time so that the patricians could all be massacred, leaving the plebs to take over Rome. The plebs declared they would not fight for Rome again. Let the patricians take up arms and fight alone, the plebs cried.

  Publius Servilius realised he must make a decision. The plebs would quickly pass beyond the Senate’s control unless he acted. He decided to use language to control
the plebs, not calling the crowd a mob but merely a public gathering as if it were a routine, everyday event. His words had a sobering effect on the plebs, and they listened as Publius agreed their grievances against the Senate and the creditors were entirely valid. He raised his arm for the plebs’ complete attention, and into the silence, issued an edict stating no man could hold a Roman citizen prisoner to prevent him from enlisting in the Roman army and that no creditor could seize a debtor’s goods while that man was serving as a soldier in the Roman army.

  It was enough for the plebs. They cheered Publius Servilius, who breathed a deep-felt sigh of relief, hiding his shaking hands in the folds of his toga. He ordered the Senate house scribes to start taking down names as the plebs formed orderly queues to enlist in the Roman army.

  After all, when all was said and done, the Volsci were marching on Rome.

  The Volsci were close. Caius could almost smell them. The Senate had discovered that the Volsci had begun their march on Rome almost as soon as the news of Lucius Tarquin’s death reached them, believing that without Tarquin continuing to threaten them, the Romans would retreat to their city and deal with the problems being created by their discontented populace. The plebs’ discontent was well known outside of Rome and it was believed the Senate would never be able to muster an army. To the Volsci, Rome looked ripe for the plucking.

  More fool them, Caius thought as he ran a cloth along the length of his sword. Even if the plebs had refused to enlist, there were plenty of patricians who were not cowards and who would fight the Volsci. If Caius could have his way, he wouldn’t bother with the plebs at all. They were all mutinous dogs, ungrateful wretches fouling the air with their sour breath and bodies, complaining the Senate didn’t care for them.

  Caius wished he had been there in the Senate house when the plebs had made their complaints. He would have told them what they could go and do with themselves, and threatened to kill the lot of them if they protested. That was what was needed, not all this cowering and compromising. This war with the Volsci had come along at just the right time, in his opinion. It would be good for the plebs to die beneath Volsci swords. Rome needed a cull. If he were in charge, he would make sure the ringleaders of the forum incident were in the front line of the army where they would be sure to be killed.