The Eagle in the Dovecote Page 20

  ‘Then raise them, and see how you fare, you dog.’

  ‘No, no,’ Menenius cried, stepping to stand in front of Caius and so block him from Sicinius. ‘This is not the way. Caius, please, go home.’

  ‘Yeah, go home back to mummy,’ someone shouted from the crowd.

  ‘Who said that?’ Caius roared, pushing Menenius out of the way, his hand going to his sword. ‘Come forward, you coward.’

  ‘Quiet, all of you,’ Menenius cried desperately. He grabbed hold of Caius’s arm and tugged him around to force him back behind him. Caius resisted at first, but after a glare from Menenius, acquiesced. Menenius turned back to Sicinius to make an offer that had been brewing in his mind for some time but which he had hoped never to make, for he knew his fellow senators would despise it. ‘You shall have representation in the Senate.’

  ‘What did you say, Menenius?’ Sicinius asked, patting the air, asking for quiet.

  ‘I say you will have representation,’ Menenius repeated. ‘Men who will voice your complaints and desires directly to the Senate. They will be elected by you and ruled by you. They will be tribunes of the people. And the Senate will have to listen to them.’

  ‘Menenius, are you mad?’ Caius hissed.

  ‘Not mad, Caius, no, and not foolish either. I know what I am doing.’

  ‘What you are doing is giving away power. The Senate will not like this.’

  ‘The Senate will have to accept it. Times are changing, Caius. We have rid ourselves of one tyrant. We must not let the Senate become another. Now, please, do as I ask and go home.’

  Caius turned his back on the plebs and lowered his voice. ‘Do you think you can send me away, Menenius? I am not a boy to be told to go home.’

  ‘You are endangering me and my mission here. You will stand to one side and say nothing more.’ He didn’t wait for Caius to comply. He turned his attention back to Sicinius.

  ‘These tribunes,’ Sicinius began. ‘We can say who they will be?’

  Menenius nodded. ‘You must choose two among you to be tribunes.’

  ‘One should be you, Sicinius,’ a man cried. ‘You have fought bravely for Rome and have our interests at heart. And you, Junius.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘I name Junius Brutus and Sicinius Vitellus to be our tribunes.’

  I should have know they would be chosen, Menenius thought unhappily. Two troublemakers to speak for the people. Oh well, it can’t be helped now.

  ‘Do you agree to be elected tribunes of the people?’ Menenius asked Sicinius and Junius.

  The latter looked dazed and not at all sure he wanted the honour of being a tribune. His gaze kept sliding towards Caius and his armed friends as if he expected them to attack him for his impudence in being singled out in this way. Sicinius, on the other hand, was unable to hide his delight and answered for them both. ‘We do.’

  ‘Then come with me to the Senate,’ Menenius said, ‘and you shall be named so. The rest of you,’ he called to the crowd, ‘follow and witness this act and know you will have a voice in the Senate.’

  The crowd began to move forward, back towards Rome.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Caius muttered as they watched them go.

  ‘So do I,’ Menenius muttered, wondering if he hadn’t just started something that would be all their undoing.

  19

  493 BC

  The warm little thing was squirming in his hands. Tullus held it out from his body, unsure what to do with it.

  This was his, he realised as he looked down upon his daughter. This small, pink bundle of flesh shared his blood, had part of him, and all his forebears, in her. Why then, did he feel so little? Surely, he should feel something, some tingle of emotion, some stirring of love? He shook his head, unable to locate any such feeling. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he chastised himself under his breath. Yet, despite the absence of feeling, he knew he would defend the small creature to his last breath. As a father, it was his duty to protect his offspring, but that was the only driving emotion and he knew it should not be so. He wondered if it was because his wife had given him a daughter. Would he have felt differently if he was holding a son?

  He looked back over his shoulder at his wife asleep in their bed. It had been an exhausting labour, the midwife had told him, and she had fallen asleep long before he returned home. She had not even had the strength to stay awake and hold her child. Best she doesn’t know how I feel, he thought. I shall appear glad, overjoyed, when she wakes. I will not let her know this little thing means nothing to me. Tullus replaced his daughter in her basket. She squealed a little, then fell asleep. He envied her the ease with which she did so.

  Tullus looked up at a sudden noise coming through the small window. It was the sound of running feet, lots of them, accompanied by shouts of encouragement to follow. Something was afoot, Tullus realised, and he rushed out of the cubiculum, startling the nurse his wife had hired who was on her way in with clean cloths for the baby. Shouting an apology, he hurried out of the domus, stopping only one moment on the threshold to stare at the mass of people who were making their way along the street that led to the centre of town before joining them.

  ‘What is it, what’s happening?’ he demanded of the man who became his neighbour in the procession.

  ‘There’s news about the Romans,’ the man answered. ‘An announcement is to be made.’

  It was information enough for Tullus. He fell silent and said not another word until he and his fellows had reached the forum. The square was already full and Tullus found himself at the edge, too far away to hear for himself what the news was. If he stayed there, he would have to rely on it being relayed back to him and he knew from experience that often resulted in untruths and exaggerations. Tullus used his elbows to good effect and pushed his way closer. The speaker had begun by the time he was content with his position in the crowd. Tullus ignored the abuse hissed at him by those he had shoved out of the way, folded his arms and listened.

  The speaker gestured for silence and the crowd fell silent. ‘The Romans are laying siege to the town of Corioli,’ he declared loudly.

  Tullus could hardly believe it. Were the Volsci never to be free of Roman aggression? And Corioli, one of their largest and most valuable towns. For the Romans to seize it would mean disaster for the Volsci. He was more angry than he could say. But there was another part of him, he acknowledged, that was pleased. Here was another battle, another chance to face Caius Marcius and beat him. He hadn’t gotten over being cheated of the chance to kill Marcius the last time they had faced one another in battle. Perhaps if their hero had been killed, the Romans would have thought twice about marching into Volsci territory.

  And what glory there would be in that slaughter for me, Tullus thought. He strained to hear the speaker, who was trying to make himself heard above the din. There was a call to arms, he said. All able men should equip themselves with their finest weapons and meet on the field outside the city gates to march on Corioli and defend her against the Romans.

  Tullus didn’t need to hear any more. He turned and pushed his way out of the crowd. He hurried along the now empty street, back to his domus to grab his sword and spear. He forgot all about his wife and daughter asleep in their cubiculum. He got all his armour, called for his slave, and headed out the door to join the other Volsci assembling to go to war.

  Virgilia pulled Little Caius towards her. He struggled, his small feet digging into the floor, but her pull was too great and his small body folded against her. He had been watching his father as he went down the street, but Caius had turned a corner and there was nothing to see other than street traders and stray dogs.

  ‘Want to go with Father,’ the boy said, turning his face first one way then the other to try and avoid the kisses his mother was planting on his cheeks.

  ‘You can’t go with him,’ Virgilia told him. ‘It’s too dangerous. Come inside now.’ She lifted him up and cradled him in her arms, her own eyes drawn inexorably to the spot where
Caius had last been. She carried Little Caius through to the garden, taking him to her favourite spot, a stone bench shaded by a bay tree. Sitting, she arranged him on her lap.

  She, like her son, was missing Caius already. She had grown used to having him at home, though she knew he had been restive and eager to return to soldiering. She had thought the incident with the plebs striking had put paid to Rome thinking of going to war again for some time but she realised she had underestimated the Senate’s lust for territory.

  ‘Why can’t I go?’ her son demanded.

  ‘I’ve told you why,’ she said. ‘Your father is going to fight our enemies.’

  ‘With his sword?’

  ‘Yes, with his sword.’

  Virgilia hated the sword, that pointed blade that had caused so much blood to spill, but her son had been fascinated by it when Caius had shown it to him. He had stared open-mouthed as Caius had turned the blade to catch the sunlight, and the boy’s face had been illuminated by the reflection, so that he seemed to shine.

  ‘Will Father come back?’

  ‘Of course he will. He always comes back.’

  Her son unclasped her hands from around his waist and wriggled off her lap to set his little legs on the paved floor. Reluctantly, she folded her arms across her chest, conscious of her desire to take him up again. She watched him waddle across the path to a lavender bush and bend over it. She thought he was smelling the purple flowers but then he gave a triumphant little shout and turned his face excitedly towards her.

  ‘What have you got there?’ she asked.

  She saw that he had cupped one hand over the other and was holding something. He stepped carefully towards her, his mouth open, his little pink tongue probing the corner of his lips in his concentration. She bent over his hands and he opened them a little. There was a fluttering inside and she peered closer.

  ‘You caught a butterfly, Little Caius.’

  He nodded and drew his hands back, closing the gap and putting his nose to it.

  ‘It’s very lovely, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘But let it go now.’

  Little Caius frowned and shook his head.

  ‘It will be frightened, my love. Come, open your hands.’

  He took a few steps back as Virgilia reached for his hands to open them. He looked at her for a long moment, a look that made Virgilia catch her breath for it was so strange, so unlike her little boy. She watched as the little mouth pouted as she inclined her head and hardened her stare, an instruction to do as he was told. Little Caius clapped his hands together and ground them hard, all the while looking at her.

  Virgilia’s mouth opened, wanting to shriek at the savage thing she had just witnessed, but the deliberate cruelty was too horrible to vocalise. Little Caius scrunched his hands harder and she heard the crush of lighter-than-air wings and soft body. Then he opened his hands, palm downward, and the once beautiful butterfly became an ugly fragment of legs and wings on the ground. She heard a laugh and looked up.

  ‘I remember his father doing the very same thing,’ Volumnia said, smiling at her grandson.

  He grinned at her. ‘Look Grandmother, look what I did.’

  ‘I saw, my little one,’ Volumnia nodded. She looked at Virgilia. ‘Isn’t he a clever boy?’

  Virgilia felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. She didn’t want her son to be cruel, to take pleasure in killing anything. But she knew, with Volumnia encouraging him, her son stood no chance of being anything else.

  Caius stared up at the walls of Corioli. The walls were impressive, but not, in his opinion, impregnable. If only Titus Lartius would listen to him; they would probably have been able to take the town by now. But no, the old man thought he knew best and had dismissed Caius’s suggestion that they undermine the foundations of a small section of the wall with near contempt. And in front of the other commanders too. It had been almost too much to bear. ‘Leave such matters to older, wiser heads,’ Titus told him with a smile at the others. Caius had stormed out of the tent without a word. Oh yes, leave older, so-called wiser heads to work out how to bring Corioli to its knees, but Titus and the others didn’t mind using Caius’s strong arms when it came to the fighting, did they? Fools, all of them. Old men and fools. All he needed, Caius thought, was a few handpicked men, men he could trust and rely to follow wherever he led them, and Corioli would be theirs. He wished now he had gone with his friend Cominius on their scouting party. At least then he wouldn’t have had to kick his heels waiting for an old man to make a decision.

  Caius wiped the rain out of his eyes and rolled his shoulders to ease the ache in his muscles. He and the men had been standing in the rain for more than two hours waiting for an order to attack. His breastplate rubbed uncomfortably against his skin. If Titus didn’t give an order soon, he would retire to his tent and take it off, and to Hades with any attack. His mutinous spirit was minded to leave at once, and Caius half-turned, a wistful eye on the camp, when something caught his attention. He turned back to the town. Narrowing his eyes, he craned his neck, trying to see beyond the descending darkness. Were they...? Yes, they were. The gates of Corioli were opening.

  Caius drew his sword from its sheath. The rain had made the hilt slippery and he tried to dry it and his hand on his tunic. He flexed his fingers and gripped it tight.

  Others had seen the gates opening and Caius could hear their murmurings and shuffling feet as they too grew expectant.

  It was a strange sensation to see the huge wooden doors open slowly and to see the dark shapes, outlined by the braziers that burned inside the town’s entrance, move forward. So, they were coming!

  The usual thrill of excitement ran through Caius. He felt his heart hammering in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. He could almost laugh too. Titus had been too slow to act even for the people of Corioli and so they had decided to come out to meet the Romans. No doubt they thought they stood a good chance of beating them. Well, Caius thought with grim satisfaction, they haven’t met me yet.

  He bent his knees slightly and angled his body forward, ready for the attack. The shapes were growing larger as they rushed the Roman lines, and still Caius, his training embedded in his very being, held his ground until the enemy was only a few feet away. Then he roared and surged forward, not caring, not knowing, if his good example was followed by his fellow soldiers. He crashed into the enemy, his sword arm moving fast, slicing, stabbing.

  But there were more of them than he had realised, and though he fought hard, and suffered only the shallowest of cuts to his arms and legs, he felt himself being pushed backwards, he and the men who fought alongside him.

  He gave himself a moment to look around, and saw that the Roman soldiers had turned their backs and were running towards the camp. The Roman soldiers were fleeing!

  ‘Cowards!’ Caius roared at them. Some of them stopped and turned around. A few even hesitantly took a few steps back towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, Caius saw a blade coming towards him and he swept it aside with his sword. He grabbed the bearer and rammed his hilt into his face. Blood spurted over him and he threw the man away.

  The Corioli were running after the retreating Romans. Caius spied his opportunity and ran towards the open gates of the town.

  Titus Lartius was not in a good mood.

  The Corioli had taken him unawares. Who would have thought that the fools would come out of their safe stronghold and expose themselves to an attack? But, as his commanders pointed out, doing so had given them an advantage. See, they pointed, the Corioli were driving their soldiers back. As Titus watched, he was imagining the report he would have to send to Rome, and the Senate’s disgusted reprimand for his failure to seize the town.

  He was going to lose this battle, he could tell. Perhaps he could call it a skirmish in his report, play it down, so that it didn’t seem all that much of a defeat after all, just a temporary setback. The Romans weren’t used to defeats, it was true, but it wasn’t unheard of. They couldn’t win every time, could they?


  ‘What is Marcius doing?’ one of his commanders suddenly cried.

  Titus followed his pointing finger. Caius Marcius was running towards the Corioli gates. The order for retreat had been given; he was disobeying orders.

  ‘Get him back,’ Titus said hurriedly. If Marcius entered the town he would be killed. By Hades, what would the Senate say then, if Titus, through incompetence, had lost them their greatest warrior?

  ‘It’s too late,’ the commander said. ‘Look, sir, the gates have closed upon him. He’s trapped inside.’

  He was in. He was through. He was not alone.

  Caius sensed the Corioli about him, though he could not see them. They were there, crouching behind the carts and barrels that littered the town’s entrance. They were there, in the rooms above, peering down through the windows at him.

  He heard a loud thud and turned to see that the gates had been closed. There was no time to consider a strategy. Caius knew he would only survive by killing every man he could find inside Corioli.

  But no one was coming out to fight. ‘Are you all cowards?’ he shouted. ‘Come and fight me. I am Caius Marcius and I will kill you all.‘

  ‘Sir, should we not go to Marcius’s aid?’ The commander’s face was anguished, like so many of them who had seen the gates shut upon Caius.

  ’And send more men to their deaths?’ Titus replied angrily.

  The Corioli who had stormed the Roman lines had been dealt with, quickly becoming outnumbered as they foolishly ran deeper into the Roman camp, but with the gates shut, it seemed impossible for the Romans to gain access to help Caius. Titus suspected that if he ordered men to the city walls, they would be attacked from above, and what use would they be then?

  ’But to let Marcius fight alone—’

  ’Need I remind you that Marcius disobeyed my orders?’