(Februarius: Rome. The house of the Falerii on the Aventine)
“Not long now, Gnaeus, and the general will be back.”
Priscus sighed and looked at Fronto over the top of the cup.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend the winter in Illyricum. From what I hear, the whole place is just mountains, goats and toothless women.”
Crispus frowned disapprovingly.
“Ah, now Gnaeus, that’s hardly fair. Illyricum is an ancient region with a rich history and a distinct culture.”
“Bollocks. It’s a vaguely Greek toilet that never achieved anything notable other than becoming Roman. Name me one great person or thing that ever came from Illyricum.”
Crispus fell silent and frowned, his head angling slightly. There was a long moment’s silence.
“See? Goats, mountains and toothless women.”
Crispus shrugged with a laugh.
“I simply cannot find an argument; no fault in your logic.”
Priscus grinned.
“Anyway, I’ll be pleased when Caesar does come back, cause he’ll drag you two off onto the next mad war he’s planned, and I’ll finally be free of people calling me ‘leftie’ and making jokes about me being limp.”
Fronto nodded, his face suddenly sombre. His former primus pilus was putting a brave face on things, and he knew it well. Priscus would be smarting over the situation. His combat career was over and, while he might settle into the role of camp prefect in time, he was on a year’s enforced convalescence and was forbidden from joining the legions until the general’s personal surgeon decided otherwise.
The three men, along with Galronus of the Remi, had returned to Rome before the winter set in. Crispus had been to visit his family for a while, and the other three had descended upon Fronto’s family townhouse, causing his sister to fuss and complain about the lack of warning. Priscus had stayed with them, given that he had no surviving family, and the winter months had been among the most relaxed and interesting that Fronto could remember.
Every day saw something new. The three Romans showed Galronus the delights of the great city and introduced him to expensive wine and racing in the Circus Maximus, following which the Belgic auxiliary officer had begun his descent into the world of gambling, racing and late night tavern visits. Fronto’s sister Faleria had initially taken a fancy to the striking foreigner, but the lustre had soon worn off when she realised that Galronus was more like her brother than she’d originally imagined and she now treated him with the same loving contempt.
Priscus left the house rarely to begin with, unsure of his ability to walk any sustained distance. The first few months, however, had seen a tremendous change as his leg strengthened. He still limped, his foot angled uncomfortably inwards, and occasionally had to stop and rest against something, but Fronto was convinced, with great relief, that by the end of his convalescence, his old friend would be mobile, if uncomfortable. As Priscus put a brave face on his injuries, so did his companions help by turning the horrific wounds of the previous year into a source of endless humorous jibes.
“I’m sort of getting used to being back home and not facing screaming Gauls and biting women and having to take a shit in a bucket while the latrines are being dug. I have to admit I’m starting to dread the call in spring.”
Crispus turned to look at Fronto, frowning.
“You fool nobody Marcus. If I said such a thing, you would believe me. You, however, have a vine staff for a spine. I have watched you many times, and you’re only truly happy when you stand facing a screaming enemy with a sword in your hand.”
Fronto winced.
“Don’t say things like that near Faleria. She already has enough ammunition for making my life difficult without you providing a character reference!”
Priscus slugged down the last of his wine.
“Where is Galronus, anyway? I thought we were going to the Circus Flaminius for the camel racing?”
“I imagine he’s only just now waking up with a thick head in the bed chamber of some delightful young lady in the subura. He’ll be here in plenty of time. He’s never late for the first race, you know that.”
Priscus opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when the door opened with a polite knock. The shiny, wrinkled, olive pate of Posco, the house’s chief slave, poked round the door.
“Master Marcus? There are visitors for you. I have shown them into the atrium.”
Fronto frowned. He and Posco had known one another long enough that he knew the little Greek’s signals; the two were far more friends than master and slave these days and Posco rarely even told Fronto about his visitors, dealing with the various irritating issues himself without bothering his master. The stress he laid on the word ‘visitors’, however, meant that these particular people were out of the ordinary.
“Would you like them shown through or to meet them there?”
Fronto frowned.
“I think you should lead them on in, thank you, Posco.”
With a nod, the little man exited the room and shut the door.
“Visitors?” Priscus raised an eyebrow. “Can’t be the general. He won’t be back here for a few weeks. Who then?”
Fronto shrugged.
“We’re about to find out.”
The three waited a few moments, listening intently. A number of voices out in the corridor became gradually louder. Posco and three others. One had a deep and rich voice, one somewhat miscellaneous. The third…
“That’s Cicero!”
Fronto turned to Crispus.
“You sure?”
“I know that voice. Heard it often enough in camp.”
The pair fell silent as the footsteps reached the far side of the door and stopped. Posco swung the portal open and stepped through with a slight bow.
“Masters Marcus Caelius Rufus, Quintus Tullius Cicero, and Marcus Tullius Cicero.”
Fronto stared.
Quintus he was familiar with from the last two years of campaigning, Marcus Caelius Rufus was prominent enough to be a household name as praetor, tribune and public speaker. Marcus Cicero was something of a surprise: the great orator was not the most favourable advocate of Caesar and deigning to visit one of the general’s senior officers seemed out of character.
“Gentlemen? To what do we owe this pleasure?”
The elder Cicero brother shot questioning glances at Crispus and Priscus and then let his gaze fall on Fronto.
“What we have to say, Fronto, is rather private.”
Fronto raised his brow.
“Unless you’re here to tell me that you slept with my sister or something, these two can stay. Even then, since they’ve met Faleria…”
Cicero frowned meaningfully at Fronto, but his younger brother tapped his shoulder.
“I know them, Marcus. I’ve fought alongside them. Trust Fronto; he knows what he’s doing.”
Fronto’s stomach began to churn. Politics. This had the stink of politics all over it.
“Come on, then. What brings three such eminent folk to my house?”
He gestured to the various spare couches and seats in the room and the three men filed in and sat. Cicero manoeuvred his toga into a more comfortable position.
“I was, to be frank, rather hoping that Caesar would be here. I hear rumours that he is returning to Rome from Illyricum.”
Fronto shrugged noncommittally and Cicero steepled his fingers, gazing over the tips and addressing his host in that deep and rich tone.
“It seems that a viper has arisen in Rome these years past.”
Fronto laughed.
“A single one? A nest, I would have said.”
The orator glowered at him but otherwise ignored the comment.
“This particular viper has struck time and again and is causing troubles for the more reasonable men in Rome. I fear we have mutual enemies.”
Fronto laughed.
“All my enemies are wild, hairy men that paint their faces and run around naked trying to kill Romans. A bit like the senate, but with better hygiene.”
Crispus shot him a warning glance, but once more, to his credit, Cicero ignored the comment.
“Publius Clodius Pulcher. The man forced my exile two years ago, and it is only through the judicious use of contacts and influence that I secured my recall. My brother here had his house burned down last year by one of Clodius’ gangs, merely, I fear, for being associated with me. Young Caelius here is, however, in slightly more serious trouble. He used to be an associate of Clodius you see but, following a somewhat scandalous affair with the snake’s sister, he finds himself at the sharp end of Clodius’ fangs. I won’t go into the details at this point, but suffice it to say that he stands accused of murder, attempted murder, accepting payment for murder, assault, civil disturbance and wilful damage to property.”
Fronto gave a noncommittal shrug.
“So one of Clodius’ friends tries to knock up his sister and falls foul of them. Politicians are always doing things like this, and if he’s one of Clodius’ cronies, why in the name of Fortuna should any of us give a shit? Particularly you two. And why come to me anyway?”
Cicero nodded.
“It is a good question. Caelius here has a great deal of inside knowledge of the activities and associates of Clodius and his sister that could be used in the right circumstances to bring the viper down. Can you see the value of that?”
Fronto nodded.
“Fair enough. You save Caelius, and you can use him to bring Clodius down. Why me though?”
The orator glanced across at his brother and nodded. The young staff officer leaned forward.
“Quite simply, Fronto, we had nowhere else to turn. We all have a mutual enemy that we share with Caesar. We were hoping he would be here, but I told Caelius and my brother that you were the man we needed. You see, my brother is going to defend Caelius in court and make Clodius and his sister look like fools. The problem is that Clodius has eyes and knives everywhere. Anyone remotely involved in the politics of the city cannot be trusted, and nor can anyone with mercenary tendencies.”
Crispus narrowed his eyes.
“You ask a lot master Cicero. I agree that Fronto is probably the only man in Rome you can say without fear of falsehood is completely free of any possibility of influence from Clodius, but to involve him is to drop him in the centre of what is, to all intents and purposes, a war between gangs and villains. You are asking him to bodyguard a man that, shortly, could become the most wanted man in Rome.”
Fronto grinned.
“Now it’s starting to sound more like fun.”
Crispus turned to look in surprise at his friend.
“Well” Fronto said, rubbing his hands, “it was all starting to sound political and boring, but if you’re talking about giving a quick knee in the happy sack to a bunch of villains round the back of the temple of Janus, then count me in.”
Priscus laughed out loud.
“If you’re fighting gangs, you’ll need a gang of your own. We’ll have to gather together a few of the less delicate types we know in the city. Fortunately, I know quite a few.”
Fronto nodded and turned to the visitors, his eyes narrowing.
“For young Cicero, here, who leads a good reserve charge and had our back at Vesontio, I would happily do whatever I can to help. And for you too, master Cicero. But I want to state for the record that I don’t trust anyone who’s ever had anything to do with that Clodius character and from what I see nobody ever gets themselves truly free of him. We’ll help you, but if you turn on us afterwards I’ll see to it that my friend Galronus gets to show us some of the less savoury Belgic practices using you as a subject. Fair?”
Caelius Rufus, his face straight and stony, nodded quietly.
“Right then. How’s this going to work? I presume you’ll need Caelius around a lot to go through trial stuff?”
Cicero pursed his lips.
“Make sure nothing happens to him, keep him either here or in some location you deem safe, and I will visit from time to time as I need to speak with him on the subject of his defence.” He turned back to his brother. “You are sure this is a good idea?”
The younger Cicero nodded.
“There’s nobody in Rome that I’d rely on more for something like this.”
Fronto leaned back in his seat and grinned at Caelius.
“Do you like to gamble?”
Cicero stopped in the middle of rising and arranging his toga.
“The idea is to keep him safe from Clodius. Surely you can’t be thinking of taking him to the games?”
Another answering grin from Fronto.
“I’m most at home in the sweaty armpit of the city, and I’ll get a few friends along with us. Clodius seems to have a habit of burning down people’s houses anyway, so I think it might just be a little safer to be out in a public place.”
He turned to Priscus.
“Now about trustworthy thugs, Gnaeus: any names leap to mind?”
* * * * *
A narrowed eye peered through the balustrade and blinked as dust fell across it. Down below and across the roofs, small as ants, the figures of Fronto, Priscus and their small group strode along the paving beside the Circus Maximus.
The past two weeks had been fascinating viewing with all manner of interesting events. Firstly, some very highly influential politicians had visited them at Fronto’s house, including the great lawyer Cicero. Then things had settled into an odd routine. The ex-tribune Caelius had joined Fronto and his cronies, along with this growing gang of what could only be described as ‘heavies’ and the small and very odd party frequented games, drinking pits, gambling houses and more in the seedier districts of the city. Oh that was hardly surprising for Fronto and Priscus, and even for Crispus these days, but for Caelius? And with what appeared to be one of the Belgae nobles hanging around with them too?
Their shadow had observed them almost continually for a fortnight and had seen no less than four close calls where arguments and insults with other groups almost exploded into full street warfare. For the first week, he’d been perplexed. The situation was well and truly baffling. Fronto and his compatriots spending their winter break taking noblemen and foreigners into the most dangerous parts of Rome and starting fights?
Then he’d made a few enquiries, spoken to some people, and learned of the upcoming trial and its connection to Clodius. Piecing that together with Caelius, the Ciceros and Caesar’s men, he could well assume that the solid Fronto had been chosen as an appropriate guardian for the accused.
Close behind, someone cleared their throat meaningfully.
Paetus turned sharply, but the noise was innocently directed at someone else and nobody was paying him any attention. The ordinary folk of Rome passed by along the walkway at the southern edge of the Palatine, beneath the hallowed portico of the great Temple of Apollo Palatinus. Once again Paetus chided himself for lurking like some mischievous child. He was free and in no danger of being recognised.
Standing, he brushed off the dark blue tunic that seemed to have picked up so much dust. Down below, Fronto and his group approached a street salesman and his cart stacked with bread, cheese and other nourishing basics. The games today would be big. The great Sicilian charioteer Fuscus was to run the first and third races today, but Apollodorus of Nikopolis had also drawn the third race and, while the man had nowhere near as many victories under his belt as Fuscus, he was tipped by all the gambling dens as the man to watch. People had come two days’ ride to watch the races today.
And in the midst of this, Paetus moved unseen.
Getting away from the slave train during the winter had been ridiculously easy. It had been mostly a matter of timing. He’d waited until they had almost reached Russellae, only a couple of days from Rome, and had then given himself a deep cut on his leg. Periodically, he would prise the wound open so that it bled profusely and take a mouthful of tinny crimson liquid, waiting until he was near one of the guards to cough it back out. A day and a half of feigning such critical illness almost did for him for real, as the continual reopening of the wound left him feeling dizzy and light headed and stumbling as he walked.
But the ruse had been successful. The morning they rose after their stop at Russellae on the way to the markets of Rome, Paetus repeated the blood-coughing procedure with a great flourish, the illness being made all the more realistic by his now pallid, rubbery features. As he coughed a mouthful of blood over the boot of one of the guards, he collapsed as though in a faint. The guard used his muckied boot a couple of times on Paetus’ ribs and the Roman ‘slave’ felt at least two bones crack, but kept himself as still as death, ignoring the pounding.
“Chalk up another!” the guard shouted to his mate and, as the slaves were roped together once more and began to move, two of the soldiers picked up Paetus by the limbs and flung him unceremoniously into the ditch near the road for the carrion feeders to work on.
Once the slave train had gone, Paetus picked himself up and began the long and painful trip to the city. His ribs still gave him trouble now, over two months later, but he would have taken the punishment tenfold to find himself in the position he was now.
While his family were gone to the Elysian fields, his home still stood, after a fashion. The building had been burgled and ransacked repeatedly since falling empty. It had been claimed by the state upon confirmation of Paetus’ death and would be demolished to make way for something else, but public works were a slow business in Rome and Paetus had found the boarded-up shell of his house standing forlornly, reminding him of what Clodius and Caesar had ripped away from him.
It had taken him less than an hour to locate and retrieve the hidden stash of coins, buried in an amphora beneath the dining room floor for a time when it would be needed. It was hardly wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, but would give him funding for the best part of a year for food and lodging in Rome if he used it carefully.
And so he had become someone new. He’d decided to call himself Plautus, for humour value, but had stayed so alone the past two months that the only person who had asked for his name was the lowlife landlord who rented him his basic room on the Caelian Hill. A shave, a haircut and a trip to the baths had turned him from a Gaulish vagrant into a Roman once more, and a few shrewd purchases in the markets had dressed him like one again.
It had taken him a few weeks to organise everything and then he had begun his task. His room was full of wax tablets that detailed the daily movements and activities of Publius Clodius Pulcher and his cronies. It had come as a surprise to learn that Fronto had come back to Rome for the winter, as the legate of the Tenth had a notorious love of provincial dives and tried to avoid prolonged contact with his family. But that knowledge had given him his first chance to learn more of Caesar’s activity, since the general seemed to be wintering in the provinces.
Paetus was a patient man, given to forward planning and care and, although eager to set about righting the wrongs that certain unscrupulous demagogues had perpetrated upon himself and others, he recognised that acting rashly would likely bring his revenge to a brief and very unsatisfactory conclusion. It could take years to do it right.
He leaned back, thinking to himself, pondering the near future. He would have to use some of his finances to arrange an income. Perhaps the buying and selling of goods? He had enough experience in military logistics, after all.
His attention was attracted sharply by the mention of Fronto’s name nearby. He almost spun around to look, but managed to stop himself in time.
“Which one is Fronto?” a deep voice asked.
“See the one that’s dragging his leg and lurching a little and the one with the green tunic? Fronto’s the one between them, but all of them are dangerous, even the Gaul behind them. Try not to get tangled with them. Leave the thugs to get them out of the way. A common street fight, as you see every day the races are on. Fronto will likely be expecting something, but he won’t have time to react to everything. Just make sure you’re quick and not seen.”
Paetus smiled to himself. He appeared to be centre stage in this little production entirely by chance. The two men fell silent, but Paetus, his ears sharp, listened to their footsteps as they strode away along the path. The former prefect gave one last glance down from the rail, to the road by the circus, where Fronto and his companions were busy gnawing their way through a hearty breakfast as they strode along.
Allowing enough time for the men to have moved off, Paetus turned to look at the back of the two men who were now making their way down the Scalae Caci toward the circus. The figure on the left was familiar enough to him: Philopater, the gaunt Egyptian with the hook nose who ‘arranged’ things for Clodius. Paetus had met him a number of times, not always in the best of circumstances. The other man he did not know, but he had the bearing of a veteran soldier and, contrary to the law, the shape of a pugio scabbard bulged at the belt beneath his tunic. A killer then, either professional, or at least a well-trained amateur.
As they reached the grand façade of the temple of Cybele, Philopater nodded to his companion and then veered off to the right, past the temple and back toward the forum. The second man continued on down the slope toward the circus, and Paetus was briefly torn between the need to follow the Egyptian and find out what else he was up to, or to see how events played out down below.
The first race was still over an hour away, and the illustrious family names of Marcus Falerius Fronto and Marcus Caelius Rufus would guarantee them a good spot, even if they arrived late. The small group were making for a tavern at the foot of the path, where it met the main road that led down to the Aemilian bridge across the Tiber. The figure ahead picked up speed. The streets down there were crowded enough that a clever man could inflict damage and escape unnoticed; especially when they had a distraction…
Paetus looked behind Fronto’s group and spotted the dozen thugs moving through the crowd behind them, carrying heavy lengths of wood. Fronto, as always, was out ahead with his friends, letting the hired help bumble along behind, largely unprotected.
‘No help this time, Fronto. When Clodius’ thugs leap on your own, you’ll fall foul of a well placed blade.’
Though he was bright enough not to voice his thoughts aloud, Paetus found himself hurrying. He would have to do something. Not only was Fronto just about the only man that had proved to be sympathetic to Paetus’ plight, he was also apparently involved in a plan to cause Clodius trouble. The situation was good for Paetus, so long as this killer did not get his knife in Fronto or Caelius.
Paetus frowned as he descended. Everything he did these days was prepared far in advance, but now he found himself in a corner with no time to plan; just to choose a path and take it. To help Fronto could possibly lead to him being noticed, but to not do so was to likely condemn the man to an assassin’s knife.
The killer was already reaching the stretch where the path levelled out, Paetus still several dozen steps behind him. He watched in anger as the man reached up under his tunic and drew the knife ready to act. The thugs had all but caught up with the back end of the small group. No time left. Decide!
Paetus clenched his teeth and shook his head. He could not attack the man; it would be too ridiculously obvious. Reaching down to the side of the path, he picked up a weighty stone. Was his throw good enough? He used to be good, certainly, but that was a long time ago.
A scream below announced that the action had begun. The group of thugs sent by Clodius had jumped on Fronto’s men and had taken the first two down with the initial blow. Already they had erupted into a confused tussle. The hairy Gaul behind the noblemen turned instantly and leapt into the fray among the hired help. Paetus clearly heard Fronto’s shout, tuned to it as he was from years of campaigning with the man.
“Priscus and Crispus? Get Caelius away to safety!”
Paetus faltered for a moment. Fronto was turning back to join the Gaul in attacking the thugs. Priscus and the legate of the Eleventh grasped Caelius and propelled him from the action, to somewhere presumed safe. Paetus watched as the killer bore down directly on the three approaching men.
With a sigh, he hefted the rock.
“Apollo guide my hand.”
Ignoring the strange looks he received from the various others on the path, he drew back his arm and cast the stone with as much force as he could while maintaining a level of accuracy.
Priscus was looking back at the gang fight going on behind him and Crispus was looking at the nobleman he was helping along the street. The assassin whipped the freed blade from beneath his tunic and, brandishing it, pushed a startled woman out of the way, already lunging with a swipe aimed straight for Caelius’ neck.
It would have been an instant kill, had the thrown rock not connected with the man’s head and thrown him back into the crowd. The knife leapt, glittering, into the air before descending in an arc down to the ground.
Biting his lip, Paetus turned and began to hurry back up the sloping path, trying to appear as unremarkable as possible. Perhaps he still had time to catch up with Philopater before he became lost in the crowd at the forum.
As the figure of Paetus disappeared up the slope, the fight was already under control and swinging back in favour of Fronto’s men. Priscus and Crispus had pushed Caelius beneath the arch of the tavern doorway before Priscus lurched back through the crowd, grunting at the pain his crippled leg gave him, only to find the would-be assassin had vanished. He turned to locate Fronto, irritation gnawing at him, only to see the legate staring up at the Scalae Caci leading up to the Palatine with a curious look on his face.
“What’s up with you?”
“I honestly don’t know. Must be seeing things!”
“Well let’s get back to the house. I think we can safely say my appetite for violent sports is sated for the day!”
Fronto nodded and turned to gather his hirelings, finding it hard to tear his gaze away from the slope.
“No. Couldn’t have been.”
* * * * *
Fronto blinked. Cicero he had been expecting, but his companion? The elder Crassus carried with him a gravitas that instinctively made one want to bow. It was no wonder this man had held such pivotal roles in Roman government for the last fifteen years; no wonder that Caesar seemed to be bending over backwards to keep Crassus sweet. The man’s heavy brow and serious gaze turned back from conversation with Cicero and settled on Caelius Rufus and the small group accompanying him at the bottom of the steps.
“The date for the trial has been set” Cicero announced, as he left the staircase of the curia and alighted in the forum once more. “We have been most fortunate, not the least because of the political weight that our friend here carries.”
Caelius, between Fronto and Crispus, nodded with a mix of eagerness and fear. He had succumbed recently to bouts of mad depression, contemplating the seriousness of his situation, and Fronto was starting to worry about the man.
Crassus nodded toward his companion.
“Cicero is too generous with his praise. The Clodii pushed for as early a trial as the senate would allow, since their evidence is vague and tenebrous at best. Far better would it be for them to push the accusations before we have a chance to put together a solid defence.”
“We?” Caelius frowned.
“Yes” Cicero smiled. “Crassus here has agreed to stand as co-advocate for your trial. The good news is that we have persuaded the senate that an early trial would likely lead to misrepresentation and false information. We have managed not only to get the date set back to the beginning of Aprilis, giving us over a month to put your case together, but also to have the proceedings moved to the privacy of the Basilica Aemilia which will be closed for the session, rather than a public trial.”
Fronto frowned and cast his gaze around the square casually, heaving a sigh of relief as he spotted Galronus, arms folded, leaning on the inscribed panel above the lacus Curtius, three of the hired hands close by. Priscus stood on the steps of the temple of Concord, his eyes continually strafing the forum for anything out of the ordinary, a small party of men at his shoulders.
“You’d best make the case tighter than a Greek’s arse” he stated emphatically. “Someone is very definitely out to remove Caelius from the picture. We’ve stopped half a dozen attempts on his life in the past two weeks. Another month? His chances diminish with each week, so make that time count.”
Crassus nodded in a vague recognition to Fronto. The legate could not remember when he’d met the man before, but clearly Crassus recognised him.
“Keep him safe. The continued situation here appears to be driving a wedge between Clodius and his sister, and a disorganised opposition is always to be commended.” The statesman narrowed his eyes at Fronto. “Do you have any idea when Caesar plans to return to Rome or what his plans are?”
Fronto paused for just a moment, contemplating whether it would be prudent to disseminate such information.
“The general should be here in weeks at the latest. I’ve no idea what his plans are from there, but campaigning season’s almost here and knowing the old bas… knowing the general, he’ll have engineered some incursion by ice monsters from the north or some such for us to go and fight for the glory of… Rome.”
Crassus gave him a curious lopsided smile.
“Caesar told me that you were outspoken. He seems to think this is a merit rather than a flaw and perhaps he is correct. Still, the fact remains that it is more than possible you will be off to ravage your ‘ice monsters’ before the trial actually begins. Have you given any thought to continued protection for the defendant here should you have to leave and join your legion?”
Fronto frowned. The thought had not occurred to him. For the first time in years, he’d wintered in Rome and had found that he’d actually enjoyed himself; particularly in the past few weeks with the added entertainment of villains to kick. He’d hardly spared a thought for the Tenth. Beside him, Crispus cleared his throat.
“I daresay that our favourite convalescing camp prefect would be more than adequate for the task. He is to stay in Rome on enforced leave, and I suspect would welcome the distraction.”
Fronto grinned.
“Aye, Priscus knows what he’s doing; Caelius’ll be in good hands.”
Cicero and Crassus shared a glance and nodded.
“Very well,” Crassus smiled, “you just keep on doing what you’re doing, and we shall begin putting the case together in detail. Cicero here has gathered copious notes, details and depositions over the past fortnight, and we should have everything we need, though we may drop in from time to time when questions arise that only Caelius here can answer.”
Cicero changed hands with the tablets he was carrying and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it sharply, a cloud falling across his face as he looked back up the steps.
Fronto turned to follow his gaze. The prosecution party had appeared at the entrance to the curia and begun to make its way down to the comitium where they stood. The legate spared a moment to take in everything he could of his enemy. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Clodius, but for some reason his mind had padded the man out with a rotund, sweaty form, dripping in jewellery and excess, piggy eyes greedily searching out his next vice. This mental image could hardly have been further from the truth.
Clodius was a handsome man of middle height, with neat black hair and high cheekbones, his form slim and athletic and attire suited to an austere public event. The man was, quite simply, stylish. Behind him stood the tall, olive figure of his ‘facilitator’, Philopater. Fronto had met the man a couple of times and had taken enough of a dislike to him that he had to restrain himself on sight. The other prosecutors had separated from the pair as they emerged and, without any exchange, had veered off to the left away from the gathering. As Clodius and his man approached, however, a new figure appeared at the doorway and stepped light and fast down the stairs to catch up with them.
Clodia was stunning. Her ebony tresses, pinned elegantly and woven around a diadem of silver filigree, surrounded a pale face that would make Venus green with envy. Her small and delicate form, dressed in a stola of midnight blue, seemed lithe and dextrous and almost glided down the steps. Fronto found that he was staring and wrenched his gaze away to glance at Caelius. He could quite see how the man had fallen for her charms.
Caelius’ downcast and miserable features had filled for a moment with a golden light as his eyes fell on her and, in that single moment, Fronto realised just how dangerous this woman could be.
“My dearest Cicero” Clodius announced as he reached the bottom of the steps, his sister catching up with them there. He held out his hands and clasped Cicero’s grudgingly proffered arm. “You spoke well in there; almost destroyed our case before it was even presented. I am, as ever, in awe of your oratory.”
Cicero smiled with a rictus and inclined his head slightly.
“Your prosecutors supply the ammunition. I merely use it.”
Anger flashed for a moment in Clodius’ eyes, but he forced it down and continued to smile.
“And Crassus. To have your illustrious presence gracing the court is always a joy.”
Fronto glowered at the man. Clodius was plainly the kind of man that Fronto hated most in the world: a devious thug, hiding behind a mask of civility. His attention was drawn once more to the figure now standing at the man’s side. Clodia smiled her most devastating smile at him and licked her lips. He tore his gaze quickly away from her and realised that Philopater was also watching him. What was it with these people?
Clodius nodded respectfully at Caelius.
“I am so sorry that events have come to this point. You have been like a brother to me. But then” he smiled sadly “my brother would have known better than to sleep with my sister, wouldn’t he?”
Caelius flinched, and Fronto cleared his throat.
“I‘m a soldier, not a politician, and all this feigned civility is in danger of forcing my breakfast to make a reappearance and my sword arm’s beginning to itch. If we’re all done posturing, could we go our separate ways?”
Clodius laughed.
“You would be this Fronto I keep hearing of. Caesar must be a truly patient and forgiving man. But you are absolutely correct: let’s dispense with the pleasantries. My sister has a habit of involving herself in difficult and sticky situations. I would just as rather this whole affair had not occurred. Rest assured, Caelius, that, despite the best efforts of your two noble advocates, we will win the case and then you will be executed and your family will suffer grave dishonour.”
He smiled at Caelius rather unpleasantly.
“You could, of course, save us all the trouble, and take the honourable way out. I give you my word that no further motion will be made against your name if you remove the need for the trial.”
Clodia glared at her brother, but he ignored her. Fronto tried to ignore the fact that the woman’s gaze kept coming to rest on him, while the burning eyes of the Egyptian continued to bore into his skull.
Something clicked in his head in that moment. He’d been wondering why Clodius should be trying so hard to remove Caelius from the picture when it was he who pushed the trial in the first place, but the answer was obvious now. His sister was the source of the accusation and Clodius would rather have disassociated himself from the whole potentially-destructive matter had he the choice. Clodius was trying to make the problem go away in any way he could. Now Fronto really hated the man.
In a moment of insight that he would rather not have had, Fronto realised that it was a damn good job that this man and Caesar were enemies. Were they together, they could rule the world within a year with their unscrupulous methods. He flashed his teeth in an almost-smile at Clodius.
“I’d just as rather he didn’t fall on his sword quite yet. He’s staying with me and the mess would be appalling.”
Clodius frowned for a moment and then laughed.
“Very well. I have important matters to attend to. Philopater? Come!”
He bowed and, turning, strode away across the forum. The hook-nosed Egyptian nodded toward Fronto and made a strange sign with three fingers pointing at his own eyes and then at Fronto. The legate’s lip curled.
“See you soon.”
He watched Philopater until the man turned his back and then nodded to Crispus.
“Get Caelius back to the house and gather Galronus and Priscus and come meet me at the Taverna Arabia in an hour or so. We need to step up our routine if Caelius is going to live long enough to be tried. If young Cicero is at the house, bring him too. He said he’d be dropping by.”
Crispus nodded and turned to the small gang of men he currently commanded, gesturing them on and marching them back toward the Aventine. Cicero and Crassus let their gaze rest on Fronto for a while and finally Caesar’s patron pursed his lips.
“I am aware of your reputation, Fronto. With the current evidence, we can walk this trial through the way we want it. Leave matters in the hands of the lawyers and don’t do anything stupid that might give our opponents ammunition to use against us.”
Fronto grinned.
“Trust me!”
Crassus shook his head and muttered something to the elder Cicero that Fronto did not hear before the pair turned and strode away across the forum. Fronto watched them go, silently voicing his opinion of lawyers and politicians alike. Men like these had built the republic, yes, but then it was men like these that would destroy it too.
He almost jumped as he turned to leave and saw the startling green-blue eyes of Clodia locked on him. She had been so silent he’d forgotten she was there again.
“Can I help you?” he asked, with an audible trace of irritation.
“It would appear that my brother has left me to your tender care. It would be unseemly and dangerous for a lady to return home through the streets of the city without an escort.”
There was an unspoken command in the words, masquerading as a request. Fronto gritted his teeth. This woman was far too dangerous to be around, but to refuse her request would be…
He couldn’t actually see any reason why he shouldn’t just turn and leave her here. She was, after all, one of the opposition and probably planning to use him in some wicked way. And yet, as he turned, he realised he was already holding his arm out to her. She took it with a full-lipped, knee-trembling smile. Fronto swallowed nervously as he looked her in the face.
“Where are you headed?”
“Actually, I have no plans. I should be home for the evening meal, but perhaps we should go somewhere to talk? A tavern perhaps?”
Fronto smiled, heaving a sigh of relief. Now he was heading for familiar territory: women that wanted to use him.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea. You see, I’m pretty sure that men usually fall over their tongue when they talk to you and would happily knife their grandmother to spend a night with you but, while you’re very attractive, I’m quite used to dangerous women. I still limp slightly after an encounter with a German woman. I really don’t fancy being the next man to have to defend himself in court because you’ve changed your fickle mind.”
Clodia flashed an angry glance at him.
“I had you measured as a better man than this, Marcus Falerius Fronto. You have an opportunity with me to gain a little advantage over my brother, and I strongly suggest you take it. He and I are siblings; we are not friends.”
Fronto smiled unpleasantly.
“That’s as maybe, but I leave politics in the hands of politicians and if I’m going to spend time with vicious women, I prefer ones that bite to ones that corrupt from within.”
Withdrawing his arm, he nodded at her.
“I suspect you can safely make your own way home, lady Clodia, and I also believe that if I have to spend any more time listening to your lies, I might have to go to the baths on the way home to wash the stink of corruption off me. Good afternoon.”
He turned his back on her furious features and strode off.
“Walk very carefully, Fronto” she shouted after him. “My brother is not the only one with friends in low places.”
Fronto sighed. Why was it that every woman he ever met wanted to either use him, or change him, or both? His sister pictured him as a future consul, Balbus’ wife, Corvinia, had contemplated marrying him off to her daughter, Longinus’ widow had seen him as a replacement for her husband, and that Belgic woman last year…
He suddenly realised he’d never even known her name. Shaking his head, he drew his thoughts back to the immediate situation.
The next month was going to be interesting. Tense… but interesting.