Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (71 page)

“I’m for an unhealthy quantity of wine tonight” Fronto said without humour. “I need a proper sleep for a change.”

Galronus inclined his head in agreement. “Once we stow the gear. A good hot meal is high on my agenda too.”

Nodding, Fronto strode towards the door into the courtyard and stable area. The groom appeared as if from nowhere as the two men neared the entrance and reached up to take the reins, leading the beasts into their stalls for the night.

Leaving the young man to his work, the two officers hoisted their bags over their shoulders. It had only occurred to Fronto almost a hundred miles from Gesoriacum that he’d not arranged the transport of the rest of his gear, but figured that half of it would stay with the Tenth as usual and that Priscus would find a way to ship the more immediate and personal kit to Puteoli for him. For what he had in mind at the moment, all he required was clothes, a horse, a sword and a bad temper.

The interior of the Eagle was heaving with drinkers, diners and gamers intent on their dice and various miscellaneous competitions. Fronto looked around for the familiar figure of the proprietor, Lucius Silvanus, but could not spot the large ex-soldier among the press. Every table appeared to be full, but he felt fairly sure that someone would respectfully make room for them to sit and eat once they were ready.

Gesturing to Galronus, he shoved his way through the throng to the bar, surprised at the lack of shown deference until he remembered that he was wearing only his stained, battle-scarred tunic, breeches and military cloak, a utilitarian gladius at his side. Without digging out his better kit, he looked not unlike any other off-duty soldier.

The bar was being tended by a bulky
Gaul
with hands like hams and arm-hair like a bear, and by a young woman who would have been stunningly attractive were it not for the pox scars and the missing ear that was just visible occasionally as her hair moved.

“Innkeep?”

The huge
Gaul
handed a local his change and shoved a clay cup towards him before sidling down the bar. Fronto thought he caught a hint of recognition in the man’s expression as he suddenly moved from the sullen keeper of drinks to the helpful attendant of the bar.

“Good evenin’ officers. What can ‘us do fer yer?”

“Where is Silvanus?”What cnto enquired quietly. “He normally looks after visiting officers himself.”

“The master’s gone to Nemausus to secure a supply of oil an’ garum from ‘ispania, sirs. Can us ‘elp yer?”

Fronto shrugged. “About time Silvanus got some good food in here. The beer and ‘wine’ I’m getting used to, but I was getting sick of roast pig.”

The
Gaul
grinned. “Then y’ain’t gonna like the menu tonight, sir!”

Fronto sighed and pointed at one of the amphorae stacked against the wall behind the bar, still sealed and with the seal facing him.

“We need a good, quiet room for the night, two full dinners… no, make it three but split it between two plates, and that amphora of Sicilian wine that I don’t even care how you got.”

The
Gaul
laughed. “Find yerself a table, then, master officer, an’ us’ll get things ready fer yer. Citizen officers can settle up in the morn. ‘Tis house rule.”

Fronto smiled gratefully.

“If it’s all the same, we’ll go to the room first and dump our kit, wash, and then be back down in about half an hour for food?”

“If’n yer please, sir.”

“And don’t sell that wine to anyone else while I’m gone!”

Again the Gaul gave a deep belly laugh and collected a good iron key of Roman design from the counter at the rear of the bar, tossing it over to Fronto.

“Top o’ the stairs, end o’ the corridor on the right. It’s over the stables, so’s the noise is low.”

“And smells of horse shit. Still an improvement over this lot” Fronto grinned wearily. “Cheers. See you in half an hour or so.”

Galronus frowned as they turned and pushed back across the room to the stairs that led up to the second floor where the rooms were.

“I don’t think I like Sicilian wine. Too heavy.”

Fronto shook his head in mock disbelief. “For a man whose people brew something that tastes like foot fungus and old boots I’m not sure your viniculture opinion holds much weight. Silvanus has cocked up. There’s no way that amphora should be on public display. He’d normally keep something like that hidden in the cellars in case major dignitaries happen to stop by.”

“Maybe while he’s away your big barman friend is running the place?”

They reached the foot of the wooden staircase and Fronto cast a glance across the heaving main room of the inn.

“If that’s the case, Silvanus has chosen well. The place is packed. He must be raking it in!”

With tired, straining leg muscles, the two officers climbed the stairs and turned down the corridor, strolling along the length of it until they reached the far end, where a window stood, the shutters open. Fronto glanced out interestedly across the roof of the annexe that had been only half-constructed the last time they were here and which lay just below the window. To the right was the courtyard, the stables below them.

“It certainly is quieter along here” Fronto muttered. Galronus simply nodded and peered out of the window himself as Fronto reached up with the key and unlocked the door. Shouldering his kit bag again, the legate pushed open the portal and strode into the room.

Galronus turned back to the doorway and looked into the room, lit by the early evening sunlight shining in through the window.

His hand went to his sword immediately as his eyes focused on the thing between them and the window.

The body of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen in the Eighth legion, veteran officer and proprietor of the Sweeping Eagle, swung back and forth, rhythmically blotting out the sunlight, his face contorted, swollen purple tongue extended and neck at an uncomfortable angle with the noose knotted around it. A patch of detritus marred the floorboards below the swinging corpse.

As Galronus drew his long, Gaulish cavalry blade with a rasp, he shouted the warning to Fronto, who had entered the room without looking ahead, his attention locked on trying to remove the stiff key from the door.

In the event, he was too late. As his sword came free and his mouth opened, a shadowed figure appeared from behind the door, throwing an arm round Fronto’s neck and yanking him out of sight.

Fronto squawked in surprise, somewhere unseen behind the door.

Desperately, Galronus pulled back his heavy-duty blade and, squinting and making an educated guess as to the relative positions of Fronto and his assailant, slammed the blade through the hairline crack between planks in the door, smashing the boards aside as the blade punched easily through.

He was rewarded with an unearthly scream and, as he withdrew the sword with some difficulty from between the planks, he noted with great satisfaction the dark oily blood coating the blade.

“Shit!” shouted a voice from behind the door.

“The bastard’s killed me!” added a second voice

“Shit!” repeated the first.

Neither was the voice of Fronto, both speaking in a southern Gallic dialect, confirming to Galronus that at least two murderers were waiting for them.

Suddenly, Fronto staggered out into view again, one hand clutching his throat where he’d been momentarily strangled, the other reaching down for his sword as he backed towards the swinging body.

Without waiting for Fronto, Galronus stepped into the room, turning to face the men behind the door. One was clutching his belly, blood pouring between his fingers and down to the floor just as it drained from his face. In his other hand, he held a hunting and skinning knife, clean-bladed and unused. A few feet from him a second man held a similar blade, but was edging away towards the window.

“No you don’t.” The Remi officer turned with the man’s movement and sprang like a wildcat, his sword coming back up as he leapt. The would-be assassin made a split-second decision between fleeing for the window and trying to protect himself from this madman. Figuring that he would never reach the window in time, he turned and lashed out with the knife as the cavalryman came down on him, sword descending in time with his body.

Fronto watched in horrified fascination as the world seemed to slow to a crawl.

Galronus hit the assassin feet first, both heels slamming into the man’s knee and smashing his leg beyond hope. At the same time, his blade came down and even as the knee turned backwards the heavy blade bit deep into the man’s torso at the angle between neck and shoulder, cleaving a foot deep into him.

Simultaneously, the hopelessly outclassed assassin had struck with the knife. Galronus’ arm had come up protectively to save his face from the blow at the last minute and the knife hammered home into his forearm, neatly slipping between the two bones and driving straight through his arm up to the hilt.

The would-be-murderer was dead before his body settled to the ground. Fronto stared as Galronus stood, gritting his teeth and, wincing, drew the blade out of his arm with a splash of blood.

“I could have done with questioning him.”

“What about the other one” Galronus asked casually, but realised as he looked across the room that the man had driven his heavy knife deep into his own heart to end the torment of the belly wound that would take perhaps a day to kill him.

“Now we have no idea why all this.”

Galronus shrugged. “It occurs to me that your friend the barman will know; he must have been in on this. Perhaps we should ask him?”

“I think not” Fronto said quietly, sheathing his sword and hoisting his kit back onto his shoulder. “If
he
knows, probably half the people down there do. No one looks too concerned with Silvanus’ absence, and he’s only been dangling there less than a day.
Half
a day, I’d say. Unless we want to find ourselves facing off against every lowlife in
Vienna
, we’d best make a sharp exit and get somewhere way south of town for the night.”

As they peered down the corridor and confirmed no one was watching, Fronto locked the door once more and started to climb out of the window. Galronus cleaned his blade on a piece of the assassin’s tunic he’d ripped off, and sheathed it.

“You think it’s your tribune friends?”

“I can’t really think who else it could be. This was deliberately targeted at us; not just aimed for the first Roman officer that came past. They even put an amphora of expensive Sicilian in plain view just to occupy my thoughts and stop me noticing things out of place or wondering about Silvanus. Of course he wouldn’t have gone to Nemausus for stuff – he’d have
sent
someone. Come on.”

Fronto padded across the roof of the extension and slid down, dropping to the courtyard.

Galronus followed suit with more dexterity, landing easily as Fronto winced in pain and rubbed his knee.

“You’ve got to sort that out” Galronus scolded him.

“The first chance I get to give it a month’s rest I’ll do just that. Now let’s get the horses and get out of
Vienna
before we discover that Menenius and Hortius bought every thug in the place.”

* * * * *

Fronto and Galronus slowed their tired mounts and reined in outside Poseidon’s Palace, the most grandiosely named inn in Massilia. The large building with two wings of accommodation had done its Greek owner extremely well since Caesar’s push into Gaul, being selected as the official stopping point for all officers and couriers passing through the independent city and boarding or disembarking ships. In fact, the Roman traffic through the inn, for which the owner was paid a healthy monthly stipend, had all but driven the free trade from its doors as few locals or merchants could afford to rent a room. Even the décor and the food and drink were now thoroughly catered to Roman tastes.

The groom, a young man with one leg slightly longer than the other, lurched from the wide gateway of the stables and greeted the two officers pleasantly, his accent that strange mix only found in the former Greek trading colonies of the west.