What was Faleria thinking? They had to abort and try another day.
“Food!” Sextius announced somewhat unnecessarily as he reached the flagged floor and strode across. Lucilia looked up hungrily. Whatever her friend had planned, she had to keep up the pretence that all was normal. Faleria sat cross-legged, hunched over, her head hanging down.
“What’s wrong with her?” Sextius glanced across at Lucilia as he slowly approached.
“I have no idea” replied the younger of the captive women, with a distinct ring of truth.
Unceremoniously, Sextius slung the two wooden platters on the floor at the foot of their pallets, the bread rolling off onto the dirty, cold stone flags. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, the former legionary crouched in front of Faleria, though Lucilia noted how his fingers curled around the sword hilt at his side, ready to draw at a heartbeat’s notice.
“You look pale” he announced and grasped Faleria’s hair roughly with his left hand, yanking it upwards and lifting her head to see her face. His attention locked on her visage, he noticed all too late the finger coming up that jammed into his eye, her nail sharp from weeks of rough treatment.
Lucilia stared as the man’s left eye exploded with a popping noise, goo and blood spurting out over Faleria. He screamed, though his reactions were sharp even in his agony, the sword coming free of the sheath with a metallic rasp. Even as Lucilia goggled in horror, Faleria stepped up her vicious attack. As the wounded man let go of her hair, she smashed her forehead into his face. Nothing broke, but she felt the impact with dizzying pain and knew she had dealt him a stunning blow.
“Run!”
By the time Lucilia had reached the stairs and was bounding up them, Faleria was at her heel, the wounded captor’s sword in her hand. Back in the gloom of the cell, the howling of pain was now infused with cries of rage and the sounds of scuffling as Sextius struggled to his feet.
“Come on!”
The pair ran through the cellar’s door and past the small cubicle that served as a guard chamber with its little table and rickety wooden chair, out along the corridor, around two corners, past two doors, and to the stairs that led to the ground floor, up which they pounded.
Somewhere behind them issued the most animal shriek of pained rage, and the sound of hobnailed boots on stone echoed through the corridors.
“Sextius?”
Lucilia’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of Papirius’ voice ahead. Were they trapped? It mattered not how reasonable the genial ex-soldier had been. If he discovered they had escaped he would be merciless; of this she was certain.
“Sextius?” the call came again.
“Faleria!” she shouted in a panic, her courage draining away rapidly.
“He’s off to the right. We go left at the end. Just run!”
Obeying the instructions of her forthright friend, the young woman pounded along the corridor, ignoring the doors to the various rooms on either side, nearing the end, where the left turn would take her towards the street and freedom.
She almost collapsed in panic as she sped round the corner and Papirius’ hand reached out of the shadowed opening to the far side, grasping for her and tearing a rip across the shoulder of her stola as she narrowly evaded his grip.
And then she was running again. The door to the street was around the next corner and at the end of that corridor. She could see the glow of daylight at the bend. Her heart lurched again and, with a plummeting feeling of dismay, she glanced back over her shoulder as she ran.
Papirius stood in the corridor, blocking it, his sword dancing in his hand, ready to strike. Beyond him, in the gloomier reaches, Lucilia could see Faleria, an expression of grim determination on her face, raising her stolen blade. She looked up to see Lucilia watching in horror.
“Run, girl!”
Her soul crying in anguish, Lucilia turned her back on her friend and ran on, around the corner and down the short passage, bursting out through the half-open door into the bright daylight of the Subura. Behind her, now invisible in the building’s gloom, she heard the faint but distinctive ring of steel striking steel.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she grasped her filthy, soiled stola around her and ran, barefoot, for the family home on the Cispian hill.
Clodius would pay for this.
Chapter 15
(Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)
“Returning to Gaul is out of the question.” Caesar’s voice was flat and quiet — that particular flat and quiet that Fronto knew all too well to be a final word on any matter. Whether Cicero was not aware of that or whether he didn’t care, Fronto couldn’t say, but the man slapped a hand angrily down on the table.
“We have no cavalry. We have only two legions and no idea quite how many of the natives there are out there who will resist us. We have no supplies and not enough intelligence as to where the areas of farmland and settlements are. We can’t even chase down the army that we pushed back due to the lack of cavalry support. It’s a futile gesture, Caesar!”
Fronto smiled. The commander of the Seventh had begun to rant about the idiocy of the entire campaign the moment he had stepped into Caesar’s tent and the argument had not let up yet, despite the increasingly dangerous edge to the general’s tone. Brutus, Galronus and Volusenus stood quiet, staying clear of the matter. For his part, Fronto couldn’t wait to get started on Cicero, but for the time being it was too much fun just watching Caesar nearing his breaking point.
All in all, it would work nicely for him. Caesar would, at some point, draw Fronto up for his actions at the beach, but Cicero had nicely diverted the general’s anger onto himself. It would be ever so easy now to fall onto Caesar’s side and launch his own argument at his fellow legate. That, in turn, should nicely incense Furius and Fabius enough to get their blood up. The two centurions were standing not far from the general’s tent, as were Carbo and Atenos, and they would quickly become aware of the division and argument. Especially when Fronto carried the bile right to them.
“No, Cicero. Push me no further.” The general’s voice sounded like a blade being drawn.
To his credit, Cicero seemed to realise that he’d walked to the edge of a precipice, and fell silent for a second. Fronto almost laughed when, rather than stopping, the legate of the Seventh simply changed tack.
“Then I have an alternative suggestion, Caesar.”
The general’s eyes became flinty, daring the man to continue speaking.
“Perhaps we can send back the fleet and collect the Ninth legion from Gesoriacum? Possibly even one of the other legions as well, if Cotta and Sabinus are still local enough? Then we could check on the cavalry and find out what happened to them? Four legions with cavalry support and we could take proper control of the island.”
“No.”
“But…”
“No, Cicero.”
The legate of the Seventh subsided into silence, though his face was an interesting puce colour, and he almost vibrated with the urge to go on.
The general turned his withering glare on Fronto and the Tenth’s legate could feel Caesar forcing himself to stay calm as he prepared to deal with his other wayward legate. Fronto took a deep breath.
Now was his chance.
“I am aware that by leading two centuries of the Tenth into the water, I went against the general orders during the landing, Cicero” he said, deliberately avoiding Caesar’s eyes and instead locking his gaze on his fellow legate. “But I have to make it absolutely clear that I wouldn’t have had to take such drastic action had you not flagrantly disobeyed your own orders and kept your legion back. Even those men of the Seventh who wanted to fight wouldn’t do so without an eagle to follow. I hope it burns in your gut that I had to provide that eagle because yours cowered on that trireme.”