With the pretence of sorting an errant coil in her hair, she draped the falling locks like a curtain, hiding her face from the door, while being able to look between the coils and strands.
Half a dozen men passed the doorway on the way to the front entrance without even a glance in at the lady who owned the building: an unthinkable breech in etiquette that it seemed odd for Atia to ignore.
Faleria squinted through the hair curtain. The men were rough thugs dressed in dirty tunics and leather, at least one bearing the mark of a former legionary on his upper arm. All were armed with knives or stout sticks.
She was peering intently when the face of Publius Clodius Pulcher appeared at the end of the small group of men, his sharp gaze snapping around to the room and Atia’s visitors. He was dressed in a toga, yet even he carried a knife. Faleria’s heart raced at the sight of the loathsome man. Here was the villain who had burned down their house and tried to kill her family.
So casually that it almost pained her, she turned her face to Atia, away from the door, her pulse thudding, hoping that the man had somehow not recognised her.
“We must away for the afternoon my lady” Clodius said pleasantly. “Business to attend to; you known how it is.”
Atia waved dismissively at him.
“Just don’t disturb my guests and I when you return.”
There was an unpleasant laugh.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Though the lady Faleria and I are old friends, are we not?”
Faleria winced, but he clearly didn’t expect an answer as he strode out laughing lightly, following his men to the door.
“Horrible man, but he does have his uses” said Atia, apologetically.
Faleria murmured platitudes and made a small deal of the matter, turning the conversation back to Lucilia as her mind raced. Clodius leading thugs from the house of Caesar’s niece and following Cicero and other senators. One thing was certain: if Clodius was involved, those senators were far from safe.
It was time to write to Fronto.
Chapter 6
(Border of Treveri and Ubii lands close to the Rhine and Moselle Rivers)
Caesar’s fist slammed down on the table surface, causing the cup of water and the wooden writing tablets to jump and clatter back to the oak top.
“How many?”
“We don’t have full figures yet” Fronto said quietly. “But Varus estimated over a thousand horses and at least five hundred riders.”
Labienus leaned forward from the line of officers. “How is the commander?”
“Lucky to be alive. The medicus says he’ll be out of commission for weeks and he may lose the use of his left arm and some movement in his hip. Varus is of a different opinion. He reckons that if his arm’s splinted up properly he’ll be back in his saddle tomorrow. The truth’s probably somewhere in between.”
The two officers were suddenly aware that Caesar was glaring at them for this change of subject. Fronto cleared his throat.
“Caesar, we’ve been marching boldly towards these invaders on the assumption we were going to meet them in pitched battle in the field, as usual. The fact is that they’ve taken us by surprise and completely battered the cavalry in the first engagement. We can’t afford to go strutting forward now. We need to be cautious or we could lose half the army to tricky ambushes before we can even bring them to a fight.”
Caesar narrowed his eyes at Fronto.
“I have no intention of treading lightly because of a simple setback, Fronto.”
Another throat was cleared and Labienus stepped from the ranks.
“Caesar? Might I suggest that now would be a good time to reconsider a diplomatic solution?”
The general’s head whipped around to turn his withering glare on his most senior officer. “Diplomacy, Labienus?”
“With respect, Caesar, we are endangering the army and costing both the republic and your esteemed person a great deal of money by keeping this large army marching against a foe who seems to have the measure of us and a good idea of how to whittle down our numbers. Those same foes have offered us the hand of peace and even service in your army for a small allotment of land this side of the Rhenus. It could be considered vainglorious and even prideful to continue this push, considering the alternatives available.”
A small chorus of agreement rose from one corner of the tent, where Cicero was nodding emphatically, his face a picture of suspicion. Fronto’s eyes slipped from Cicero to the applauding figures of the two foppish tribunes: Menenius and Hortius. No shock that those two would rather see a negotiation table than a battlefield.
Caesar’s face was a mask of cold composition, expressionless and severe. Fronto knew as well as any other long-serving officer in the tent what that meant. Beneath that cold face, the general’s blood was rising to boiling point. Fury contained in a stony case.
“There will be no negotiation with these animals. Their diplomacy has already been clearly revealed as trickery and deceit. They used the peace table to distract us while they gutted our cavalry. Should they be stupid enough to send any further emissaries, they will be taken in, executed and sent back to their people from the neck-up. Do I make myself clear?”
Cicero stepped out to join Labienus. Fronto was a little taken aback and distinctly unimpressed to see the centurions Furius and Fabius at his shoulders. It appeared that the bad apples were all congregating in a pile.
“Caesar, it is not seemly or tactically sound to launch into further violent activity simply as an angry response to trickery. I implore you to think on the matter before making your decision.”
Caesar’s eyes flashed dangerously and Fronto diplomatically stepped between the two men, obscuring their view of one another.
“You know me, Cicero. You know that I don’t back down from a fight, but you also know that I’m not one to waste the lives of my men in unnecessary battle. Whatever we might have done to begin with, we have given our word to the council of Gaul and our ultimatum to the Germanic tribes who crossed the river. Given their treacherous sneak attack in addition to that, we are no longer in a position to back down. Caesar is not acting impulsively through anger or pride, but through expediency and necessity. We must now beat some sense into the invaders and shove their hairy arses back over the river for good.”
A much louder roar of agreement sounded around the tent. Beneath the tumult, Caesar’s quiet voice caught Fronto’s ear.
“I am not a child that needs defending, Marcus. I can speak for myself.”
Barely moving his lips and without turning his head, Fronto replied “coming from someone else, it diffuses their argument over vainglory, Caesar.”
Labienus folded his arms.
“Marcus, you know I respect you, but can you not see the waste of an opportunity here? Are you yourself so committed to slaughter that you cannot find it in yourself to consider the alternatives?”
As a general hubbub rose, Fronto’s face coloured with irritation and, as he straightened to reply, Menenius and Hortius sniggered and his eyes shot towards them. He’d distinctly heard his name in their whispered conversation alongside the word ‘donkey’.
Before he could turn his invective against the pair, his own senior tribune, Tetricus, leaned close to them from where he stood nearby. Fronto couldn’t hear what he said to them, but they went very pale and stopped smirking.
Cicero smiled unpleasantly.
“I see now that, unable to make your point convincingly, Fronto, you fall back on having your tribune threaten people. How diplomatic.”
A low growl began to rise in Fronto’s throat and he noted with growing ire that Furius and Fabius, still at Cicero’s shoulders, were now glaring at Tetricus with barely-concealed contempt.
“At least I can say I’m here with honour to serve the general!” he snapped angrily.