S. Turney: Conspiracy of Eagles

The two junior tribunes were chattering away like the mindless, excited youths that so often filled the role. Only one junior tribune in every ten posted to the army had even the faintest idea which end of a sword to grip and which end to poke into the enemy. As he watched, one of the two reared back his head and issued a squawking laugh that grated on Fronto’s nerves and ran right down his spine. His spirits sank at the thought of a three day voyage to Massilia in the company of that laugh. Fops and morons. It said much of their effectiveness and involvement that in two years of service Fronto could not actually remember seeing or hearing of them, except in briefings.

“They’re about as useful as a parchment shield. And about as welcome as a turd in a bath house.”

“And the other one?”

Fronto squinted again.

“Don’t know him. Tall. Obviously patrician. Could do with a little bit more chin and a lot less forehead. He should get on very well with those other two donkeys. He’s got a broad stripe on his tunic, though. He’s going to be a senior tribune.”

He spun from the rail.

“If that ostrich gets assigned to me, I shall take great pleasure in giving him a shield and standing him in the front row when we meet a bunch of screaming Celts.”

Faleria shook her head with a slight smile.

“Steady, Marcus.”

“I’ll have you know that I…” he began angrily, and then lost his footing and slipped in his own outpouring as the ship bounced briefly off the dock before connecting once again and scraping woodenly along the sheer face.

“I told you to be steady” Faleria said with insufferable smugness.

“Ladies?”

Fronto, whose grip on the rail had been the only thing that had prevented him from slamming down to the deck, backside first, twisted to see Galronus standing tall and proud, steady as a rock, and an irritatingly healthy colour for a member of a land-locked tribe.

The big Gaul gestured for Faleria and she laid her hand on the bulging muscles of his forearm, allowing him to escort her across the slippery deck to where the plank was being slid out to the dock. Two of the sailors nearby chuckled as Fronto mirrored the chivalrous act, reaching out and grasping Lucilia’s forearm to steady himself as he weakly staggered across the deck to the plank, moving like a man twenty years his senior.

Lucilia grinned at him as she helped him onto the plank, and watched with glee as he skittered down it and narrowly avoided collapsing onto the quay.

The four of them recovered their land gait quickly, stamping their feet and walking back and forth, and then made their way along the quay toward the five soldiers in crisp uniform. Fronto couldn’t help but issue a groan as he saw the trireme drawing closer along the Tiber from the direction of Rome.

“It’s here already!”

Faleria smiled and patted him on the arm.

“Don’t worry, dear brother. We stay in Ostia tonight and sail with the morning tide. Save your retching for tomorrow.”

The five officers had begun to move. Fronto had assumed they were waiting to board a ship, but it appeared that, in fact, they had recently alighted in much the same fashion as his own party and were making for accommodation in the town.

Both groups converged on the main street leading to the forum and the heart of the town: a narrow thoroughfare compared with the great streets at the centre of Rome. At the entrance of the street, a one-legged veteran stood by the corner, supported on a crude crutch, proffering a wooden bowl for spare coins. Opposite him, a bony, raddled woman with a very visible ribcage touted her wears through a gauzy white garment. Even the poorer classes funnelled into the centre to avoid being accosted by either.

“What are you doing?” Lucilia frowned as Fronto picked up a sudden burst of speed and made for the street, dragging his companions with him.

“I’ve stayed in Ostia. There’s only a limited supply of insect-free beds. I’m not losing out to two traitorous centurions, two ostriches and a man who’s left his chin behind. Come on.”

Unable to hold their friend back, the other three hurried along in Fronto’s wake, converging with the people of Ostia and the small group of soldiers as they made for the street entrance.

Suddenly, almost as if choreographed, the general population opened up and made a space around the mouth of the street. Men in senior military uniform had a way of opening such spaces, regardless of their true value. The only people who failed to melt out of the way were the crippled soldier, whose uniped nature made it difficult, and the whore, who saw an opportunity and bared her chest at them, grinning with all nine teeth.

And Fronto.

Into the sudden open space, Fronto almost dragged Lucilia, with Galronus and Faleria at his heel.

“Hold!” called a reedy voice high enough to be a woman, but that issued from the mouth above the receding chin. Fronto was so taken aback by the voice that he actually stumbled to a halt, blocking the access to the street, Galronus ambling to a stop next to him.

The two bristly centurions who had been behind the senior officers came round the side, slapping their vine staves meaningfully against their greaves.

“In thivilithed thothiety, peathenth and barbarianth thtep out of the way of their theniorth!” snapped chinless in a feminine register.

Fronto grinned and opened his mouth, a thousand insults fighting for prominence on his tongue, but no sound made it out, thanks to a breath-stealing rabbit-punch to the kidney from Galronus.

“Ahem…” said a high, calm voice, with a hint of smugness. Fronto recovered quickly, straightening with a glare at Galronus, to see Menenius step forward to address Chinless.

“With respect, my lord, the ‘barbarian’ is one of your blessed uncle’s senior cavalry commanders and the…” the tribune smiled unpleasantly “… the one that looks like a vagrant would be Marcus Falerius Fronto, staff officer and current commander of the Tenth Equestrian Legion.”

The junior tribune’s faultless moment was ruined slightly as he finished his words with a girlish titter that he tried to hide behind his hand, failing dismally. Fronto frowned, but noticed with some satisfaction the two centurions straighten, their staves dropping to their sides.

“His uncle?” Fronto said, narrowing his eyes.

“Of course, Fronto, you overgrown poppet” said the other junior tribune in a squeaky tone. “This is Publius Pinarius Posca, the son of Julia the elder, nephew of the general. He comes to take a tribunate in Gaul.”

Fronto sighed as the chinless one opened his mouth again.

“Are you thure thath who he ith? He lookth half dead, and dretheth like a… I don’t know. I’ve never theen anyone drethed like that.”

Menenius smiled. “And the ladies, I fancy, would be the lovely sister of master Fronto, and his paramour?”

Fronto’s sour look turned on the speaker before returning to Galronus and the girls.

“Come on. This is making me feel sicker than the ship.”

(Massilia, an allied former-Greek colony on the coast south of Gaul)

The Glory of Venus bucked once on a particularly violent wave as it passed the mole and entered the harbour, settling almost instantly on the millpond water within.

Fronto had long since given up any hope of feeling well as long as he lived. During the stop at Vado Sabatia, a helpful wag among the oarsmen had carved a commemorative inscription on the wooden rail where Fronto habitually stood to vomit over the side, since when he had deliberately avoided the spot.

At last, though, the journey was coming to an end. He’d wondered briefly if his stomach had actually turned inside out the day before. Certainly even the name of foodstuffs was now enough to set him off, let alone the sight or smell of them.