(Martius: Rome. The house of the Falerii on the Aventine)
Fronto rubbed his head vigorously with the towel. He’d only been outside for less than quarter of an hour, but the rain was so torrential that it felt as though he’d done several lengths of the pool at the baths.
“All this for bloody breakfast!”
Priscus, sitting warm and dry on the small seat by the altar to the lares and penates in the vestibule, laughed.
“Well if you wouldn’t wind your sister up so much, life would be much easier for you.”
Fronto glared at his friend but, in truth, Priscus was absolutely right. He’d been very hung over this morning, and Faleria had rubbed him up the wrong way, causing him to become increasingly unhelpful and childish. In the end, she had thrown up her arms and told him he could sit and simmer until he’d changed his attitude. Fronto had been happy at the time to see her go, but it was almost a quarter of an hour later before he realised that she had accompanied her mother and taken the slaves with her. Fronto was alone in the house with Priscus and Caelius and no amount of exploring the working area of the house had turned up bread, butter, cheese or milk.
Shunning the remains of the unfinished wine and something grey on a stick he’d bought from a street vendor on the way home last night and had not been able to face since, he’d eventually come to the conclusion that if they wanted to eat, he was going to have to brave the rain and go to the bakery two streets down toward the Porta Capena.
Shaking wildly like a dog after a dip in the river, Fronto grunted, picked up his soggy shopping and nodded at the altar on the way past.
“Let’s go get breakf…”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door behind him and for a moment continued walking before realising that nobody would be opening it for him. He grinned. This was more like being back in Gaul: uncomfortably damp, getting hungry and having to do everything for himself. Throwing the wet shopping bag to Priscus, he turned on his heel and walked to the door, flinging it open, trying his best to mimic the humble stance of a house slave.
“Can I ‘elps thee, master?”
The wet and disgruntled face of Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul and of Illyricum, glared down at him, half a dozen togate figures gathered around behind him.
“If this is supposed to be funny, Fronto, you’re far from the mark, as usual.”
Fronto rolled his eyes. Bloody typical.
“You’ve chosen a nice day to visit, Caesar” he said, straightening. “I wondered where all this sudden rain came from. You must have brought it with you from Illyricum.”
“Is there any danger of you inviting us in out of the downpour?” the general asked, his eyes beginning to narrow in irritation.
“By all means, general. I’d invite you all for breakfast, but I have a single loaf of bread, some cheese that may well be out of date, an amphora of wine with things floating in it and something dead and sticky on a stick. You might be better not taking me up on the offer.”
The general glared at Fronto as he strode in past him and removed the crimson cloak, raking fingers through his thinning hair and discarding droplets of water to the marble floor. Behind him, the men in togas shrugged off their own cloaks and used them to rub their heads. They may be dressed as Roman gentlemen, but Fronto knew the bearing of a soldier when he saw it. He did not know these men; Caesar must have brought new blood in from Illyricum. They all looked vaguely Greek. Except.
“I know you from somewhere.”
The man bowed his head, a crown of shiny skin showing through the curly brown hair.
“Appius Coruncanius Mamurra. We’ve met a few times, Fronto. Your sister invites me to her socials. Admittedly I’m often late, and the last time I attended, you and your friends were already in the garden, peeing in the fountain.”
Fronto cast his eyes downward. Damn it. This was why he was more comfortable in the field. He nodded.
“Mamurra. I’ve heard Tetricus talk of you. Famous engineer, right?”
The man bowed again, and Fronto tried not to stare at the shiny pink circle in the middle of the man’s hair.
“I have been known to build the odd thing, yes.”
Fronto grinned at Caesar.
“You’ve something in line for the campaigning season then?”
Caesar, having wrung most of the water from his clothing, pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Not exactly, Fronto. Shall we go and sit down to talk?”
Fronto shrugged.
“By all means, but we should go to the triclinium, there’s a guest in the main room sleeping off the effects of last night. Galronus is around somewhere; possibly in the garden face down. Shall I fetch him?”
Caesar shook his head.
“Not so important. It’s you and Priscus I’m here to see.”
Shivering in the cold, damp air, he turned to follow Fronto into the dining room. The general stopped to nod at Priscus with a measure of respect and familiarity. The Camp-Prefect-in-waiting gave a small bow in return and then followed the group in, limping with a rhythmic grunt.
Once the party were all seated, Caesar stretched and locked Fronto with a searching gaze.
“I’ve only been back in the city for a few hours and already I hear the most astounding rumours about your activities, Fronto. My niece is very well informed. I look forward to hearing all about it, but first let me give you a ‘heads up’ as they say.”
Fronto nodded. All business; something had unsettled the general.
“A message reached me a few weeks ago at Salona, courtesy of Brutus’ mother Sempronia here in the city. It would appear that young Crassus, busy wintering away in northwestern Gaul, is about to cause a Gallic uprising; or possibly he has already done so.”
Fronto groaned.
“I was really beginning to hope we’d settled things in Gaul. Every year we go there, have to sort some arrogant bastard out and then you announce that Gaul is conquered again… until the next rebel pops up.”
Caesar nodded grimly.
“It is very much as you say and, I have to admit, it’s starting to make me look bad in the eyes of the senate. I cannot keep pronouncing Gaul conquered and then having to go back and sort the damn place out again forever. But it’s a little… delicate. I have a great deal tied up in my alliance with his father; as much as I do with Pompey, if not more. I cannot simply remove the runt and send him running back to daddy. So, sadly, we’re going to have to go and make sure this revolt either doesn’t happen at all, or fails to become noteworthy back home.”
Fronto sighed and reached across to Priscus, motioning for him to pass the bread and cheese. As he did so, Fronto shrugged.
“I’ve sort of been expecting the call to arms, anyway. It’s a few weeks earlier than I expected, but still…”
Caesar shook his head and then reached out speculatively for the loaf of bread that Fronto had finished with and was about to discard.
“May I? Don’t panic over the call, though, as I’m not planning to head out for a few weeks yet. There are things I need to do in Rome: I have to see Crassus and Pompey, and spend a little time with Atia and her family. I have to renew a few acquaintances, and pass on my gratitude to Sempronia. It was she who knew to send the message from her son on to Illyricum. Besides, half the staff officers and legates will need to be informed and gathered. I believe Crispus is here somewhere?”
Priscus nodded.
“He’s returned to staying at his family’s house on the Esquiline, general. I think he’s sick of waking up with a bad head.”
Fronto hurriedly chewed through his mouthful, speaking with a mouth packed with bread and cheese and dropping crumbs onto the floor.
“If Crassus is causing that much shit, shouldn’t we get back as fast as possible?”
Caesar shook his head.
“Gaul may be important, but it’s only one of my worries at the moment. Besides, young Brutus seems to be keeping things in order, with the help of some of the veterans. He’s even gone as far as building a fleet on the Loire to prepare to deal with the coastal tribes.”
Fronto nodded appreciatively.
“He does think ahead, that one. Clever lad.”
“So…” the general said, pulling himself up a little in his seat, “what’s this I hear about you getting involved with half the criminals and politicians of Rome?”
Fronto took another bite of cheese and shrugged.
“Your friend Clodius is messing with things. Him and his sister, anyway. They’ve taken Caelius to court, and Cicero and Crassus are defending him. Well…” he added with a grin, “they’re defending him in court. Me and Priscus and a bunch of lads with stout wooden clubs are defending him everywhere else. It’s him that’s asleep on the couch in the other room.”
“Indeed” Caesar nodded. “I’d heard that he was involved. You do know, I presume, that Caelius Rufus is one of the names on a list I have of people that work for Clodius and cannot be trusted and will need to be dealt with in due course?”
Fronto chuckled mirthlessly.
“I think if he was still in Clodius’ pocket there would be considerably fewer knife-wielding maniacs out to gut him in the street. You might find that Caelius is one of the most useful people you could meet in the near future, so long as Cicero and Crassus can keep him away from execution.”
He looked up at Caesar from beneath lowered brows.
“So long as you do right by him and don’t send him the way you did with Paetus, that is.”
The general’s features hardened.
“Paetus was a fool and a tool; nothing more. Don’t start getting sentimental over people you feel sorry for Fronto. There are too many of them for comfort.”
Fronto glowered for a moment, but let the matter pass.
“You might want to speak to both Crassus and Cicero as soon as possible” he added. “I’m just playing bodyguard, but the pair of them know what’s happening in more detail. They seem quite positive that they can destroy Clodius’ case.”
“Fair enough” the general nodded. “The trial is set at the start of Aprilis, yes? I think we can delay our departure until after that. I would rather like to be around for the event. Where are your mother and sister, by the way? I was hoping to pay my respects while I was here.”
Fronto leaned back.
“Mother wanted to go shopping this morning, and Faleria felt the pressing need to be a long way away from me. In her defence, I did smell like a dead bear this morning.” He sniffed his tunic and winced. “And the rain hasn’t helped much. Now I smell like a soggy dead bear.”
Two of the new officers exchanged quiet words in Greek.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to do that?” Fronto glared at them.
“I am dreadfully sorry, legatus. I was led to believe that you were not a man to stand on ceremony.”
Fronto glared.
“Not with people I know. You I wouldn’t know from Socrates!”
Priscus grinned uncomfortably through the tension that hung in the air.
“The legate is suffering with a bad head this morning and is quick to anger. I suggest you stick to good honest Latin for now. Fair?”
The toga-clad Illyrian nodded hastily.
“Good.” The former primus pilus of the Tenth turned to Caesar. “I expect I know the answer, general, but does the call up include me on the roster? It’s getting quite dangerous in Rome at the moment. I might just be safer in Gaul.”
Caesar smiled.
“I’ve already appointed a temporary camp prefect for the season to hold the position for you, Priscus. You rest for a few months more yet. I’m sure there will be plenty of action for you to come back to when you’re fully recuperated.”
Fronto smiled as he saw the Greek-speaking fellow with the attitude in the corner go white at the mention of Priscus’ name. He laughed.
“Let me guess? That fellow over there’s your temporary camp prefect?”
Caesar nodded, his face betraying no emotion.
“Ha. No wonder you went pale. Hey Priscus… meet the man who’s covering for you.”
Priscus smiled at the Greek-speaking man.
“You’d better not screw my legions up for me before I’m ready to take over.”
The man gulped and nodded.
“And a word of advice? Speak Latin. If you start to spout your fancy Greek around the legions, someone like Balventius will bury you up to the waist in the latrines… face down!”
Fronto grinned wolfishly, and Caesar gave him a weary smile.
“Well this has all been very pleasant but, in the absence of your family to visit, I fear that’s all that need be said at this time. I’ll be at my home for the next few days when I’m not with friends. Find me there if you need to speak to me, or leave a message.”
Fronto nodded and he and Priscus rose with the visitors, escorting them back into the vestibule and to the front door. As the men adjusted their togas and cloaks, readying for the torrential rain outside, Fronto stepped past them and opened the door. Caesar peered out into the deluge and gestured to his host.
“Are you aware you’re being observed, Fronto?”
Fronto leaned past him and squinted into the rain. On the far side of the street, lurking in the shadows beneath the wall and shrubbery that surrounded the garden opposite, a young woman in ragged clothes crouched, her eyes locked on the house’s door.
Fronto nodded wearily.
“Don’t let the vagrant clothes fool you. She’s one of Clodia’s servants. I’ve seen her shadowing me in the forum. Looks like they’ve started watching the house now. That woman is beginning to become a powerful pain in the arse.”
Caesar frowned.
“You’ll have to do something about her, of course.”
Fronto nodded with a cheeky grin.
“Absolutely. She looks starving. Priscus? Go ask her if she’d like some breakfast.”
As Priscus laughed and threw a cloak over his head, Caesar shook his head in exasperation.
“Should I live a thousand lifetimes, I swear I will never understand you, Fronto.”
Without waiting for a reply, the general, along with his escort, strode out of the door and hunched his shoulders against the rain as they turned and made their way down the street, past the humorous tableau of Priscus offering bread to the bewildered spy.
* * * * *
The first day of the trial of Marcus Caelius Rufus ended without pomp or ceremony, reminding Paetus of the adjournment of a meeting, with the various attendees gathering up their notes and shuffling them before filing out silently to go about their own business for the evening. The public were not admitted to the basilica during this private session, of course, yet Paetus had spent his youth around the forum and knew, like many others raised within its boundaries, how to get a personal view of these private matters.
The eastern end of the top step of the temple of Castor and Pollux, for example, beneath the ornamental colonnade, gave a partial view of the interior of the Basilica Aemilia through one of its high windows. Much of the interior was still hidden from view, and there was no hope of listening in, of course, but to keep an eye on things, the point of view was unrivalled.
Paetus, grateful for a break from the incessant rain, had spent his day here quietly and undisturbed, other than having to shoo a couple of children away when he’d returned from purchasing his lunch. His position gave him a clear view of the open space where the advocates and prosecutors strode about, espousing their views. Apart from Crassus and Cicero and Caelius himself, the respected senator Gaius Coponius and Clodius’ pet praetor Quintus Fufius Calenus both took turns to give their own, probably spurious, evidence, along with many less notable noblemen.
And finally, with the outcome still hanging in the balance, the trial had ended for the day, the doors were unlocked, and the basilica began to empty. Paetus watched carefully as the togate figures emerged; a studious man could tell a lot from facial expressions and body language.
Many of the men involved in the case bore the stony, serious gaze of the career lawyer. Such a high profile trial brought most of the legal minds in Rome out of the woodwork, whether they were required or not.
Then Cicero and Crassus appeared, and Paetus sighed with relief. Crassus was known for his stony features anyway, but the chuckle he gave at some unheard comment of the smiling Cicero spoke volumes about the direction the trial was taking. Paetus’ conclusion was confirmed twice more, principally as Caelius appeared at the door to be greeted instantly by Fronto and Priscus who had been sitting on the marble steps outside. Briefly his eyes flicked across to the Gaul – Galronus he was called apparently – and Crispus, each leading a small gang of men and closing on the emerging group protectively.
Caelius’ grin threatened to separate the top of his head from his body. And then Clodius and his sister emerged, followed by a gaggle of family and assorted cronies. The man had a face like thunder and gesticulated wildly as he argued with Clodia, whose own features raged between fury and helpless despair. Paetus nodded to himself. Good. Anything that might go wrong for Clodius was a step toward his own revenge.
The argument between the siblings reached a crescendo when Clodius drew back his hand and gave his sister a ringing slap across the cheek, causing her to stagger, the colour draining from her already porcelain face. Paetus almost chuckled at the sight, particularly given that the pair were still in full view of many of their courtroom opposition.
Turning his back on her, Clodius gestured to his followers and strode off into the city. Clodia stood for a time, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks as the shock turned into low, burning anger. After a brief discussion with the two advocates, Fronto, Priscus and Caelius turned and made their way across the square, past the temple where Paetus stood, and heading toward the circus and home. As they moved out into the open space their hired hands, in two groups led by Crispus and Galronus, appeared from among the crowd where they had been lurking, watching for trouble, and gathered as a protective unit around the defendant. Paetus smiled. Even in the winter months, back in Rome and in civilian clothes, Fronto could not shake the habit or appearance of a soldier. No wonder he’d never made a go of it in politics. The man was like a ballista: direct and to the point and as military as they came.
The silent observer was smiling at the mental picture of Fronto addressing the senate when unexpected movement caught his eye. The temple of Castor was, apart from himself, emptying. Most of the people beneath the colonnade were here for the same reason as he: to get the best possible view of a trial that involved some of Rome’s greatest men. However, now that the basilica was emptying, most of the interested onlookers had descended to try and get close to the parties involved. Indeed, even most of the beggars had also descended, smelling the wealth as it passed.
One figure, however, was moving against the human tide. Clodia, in her finery, cut a graceful figure; hardly subtle in any way, drawing appreciative and hungry glances from the men around her as she climbed the steps to the far side of the temple portico where Paetus stood. The former prefect watched her with interest, his eyes narrowing. She cast her gaze around the temple façade as she reached the top step and he slumped against the column in the manner of a drunk. Her eyes passed across him, barely noting his presence, a testament to how much he had changed in the last year, given that he had met Clodia at social occasions in Rome a number of times in the old days when his wife had been...
Paetus shook away the morbid thoughts. This was no time for a descent into misery. There was something suspicious about Clodia’s stance and the way she checked out her surroundings, and the former prefect tensed.
Reaching into her stola, Clodia withdrew an iron object around half a foot long that must have been very uncomfortable to secrete in such a way. Paetus frowned at the item. He’d seen them before in the supplies of some of the Greek-speaking auxiliary units that fought with him under Valerius at Zela a decade earlier: plumbata – a throwing dart, heavy and deadly.
He was already moving before he’d made his decision. After his potentially disastrous move to prevent Caelius’ assassination weeks ago, he was now committed to the path; besides, it was the right thing to do. Would Caelius ever know of his silent guardian, Paetus wondered as he stepped up behind Clodia, who was testing the weight of the heavy dart while judging the distance to the laughing figure of Caelius, striding across the forum?
Clenching his teeth and with a single glance to make sure that no one of consequence was paying attention to them, Paetus grasped the wrist of her throwing arm with one hand while the other came around from behind her head and clamped across her mouth. As she uttered a stifled squawk, Paetus lifted her bodily off her feet with ease and stepped back into the shadows of the colonnade. Without pausing there to give her time to regain her senses and fight back, he retreated into the temple doorway with her. The interior, dim and shady after the overcast but bright light of the forum, was austere and quiet.
Paetus cast his glance around and noted the two figures in the centre of the open space. A junior priest in his white robes was explaining something to a plebeian in a depressing grey tunic. The two looked up in surprise as Paetus and the thrashing woman entered the building and stepped aside from the bright square of the door.
“You two: out!” Paetus barked and, to illustrate his command, he jerked his chin towards the door. The citizen took one look at the tableau and ran from the room. The priest, on the other hand, approached the door and held his hands out in a soothing fashion, turning to face the pair. He opened his mouth to speak just as he noticed the deadly weapon clutched in the woman’s white hand, the circulation cut off by her assailant’s grip. The priest changed his mind hurriedly, closed his mouth and scuttled out of the door, making frightened sounds.
Finally, Clodia seemed to calm down, her breathing settling just as she brought her foot down hard on Paetus’ own, expecting him to screech and release her. His grip on her wrist tightened as he took his other hand from her mouth. She gasped at the pain in her arm, and her spasming fingers lost their grip of the plumbata dart, which fell into her assailant’s outstretched hand. With a grim smile, he let go of her wrist and weighed the dart in his hand.
“That would have been exceptionally unwise, Clodia.”
She glared at him.
“A spoiled girl” he declared, “stamping her feet and throwing things because she is not getting her own way.”
“Who are you?”
Paetus smiled. She really did not recognise him, even face to face and a foot apart.
“I am a child of Mars, watching over the wellbeing of Marcus Caelius Rufus and his companions.” He pursed his lips and then smiled humourlessly. “In time, I will become an agent of Nemesis, but for now, Caelius is in my care. I see that the results of the trial appear to be swinging against you. Your petty and personal accusations against an innocent man for your own vain glory are driving your brother ever further away from you and serve no purpose for either of you. You have lost the case, as tomorrow will make clear to you. Let the matter drop and move on with your corrupt and stained life and forget you ever heard the name Marcus Caelius Rufus.”
Clodia glared at him, and her lip curled into a snarl.
“Nobody tells me what to do, you piece of refuse. Not my brother; not Caelius; not even Mars himself. When I find out who you are, be on your guard, as I shall add your name to the list below his.”
Paetus smiled, though with clenched teeth the effect was far more frightening than it should have been. Clodia drew a nervous breath as her attacker dropped the dart and grasped her at the shoulders, his hands gathering a bunch of her stola as he lifted her from the floor once again and swung her round to press her against the temple wall, knocking the wind out of her.
“You have no idea, girl; simply no idea. I have been through Hades and back, dragging my feet in the fire of the underworld. I have fought armies, been tortured and killed. I am Mars becoming Nemesis! I have endured more than a human can endure and still I survive. Do not presume to threaten me, and mark my words: stay silent and out of the way. Every step you take into the public light brings you one step closer to my grip, and I offer only this one warning.”
To punctuate his point, he shook her so that her head snapped back with a crack against the tufa wall of the temple’s interior. As he stepped back to let her go, she slumped, becoming limp in his grip as she passed out.
Silently, he chided himself. He’d become incensed and had taken things too far, even using part of the speech he was saving for the day he had his hands on her brother. He’d meant to merely warn her off but had ended the encounter by threatening her, claiming a divine duty, and knocking her unconscious against a temple wall. Still, there was little doubt in his mind she would remember this.
Gently, he allowed the woman in his arms to slump to the floor, where he left her propped against the wall. There was no blood on the tufa or her head, so he’d not hit her that hard; she would wake soon enough. Collecting the heavy dart from the floor, he returned to her unconscious form and dropped the weapon in her lap. She might have trouble explaining the possession of a weapon in the forum. He was sure she would talk her way out of it, but the embarrassment would filter back to Clodius too.
Taking a deep breath, Paetus stood and left the temple. There was no sign of the priest near the steps. Perhaps he had gone to Pontifex Maximus to report the defilement of his temple. Wherever he may be, Paetus was pleased to have the time to leave the podium and head back to his lodgings to ponder on the outcome of the day.
* * * * *
Fronto frowned at Priscus.
“Do you ever see dead people?”
The former primus pilus of the Tenth grinned.
“Have you any idea what a stupid question that is, given our profession.”
Fronto’s frown deepened for a moment in confusion before he realised what his friend was talking about and shook his head irritably.
“Don’t be an idiot. You know exactly what I mean. A long time ago I used to see my father from time to time...” he glanced sidelong at Priscus. “After he died, before you make any more smart remarks. I remember seeing him here and there. I’ve never had much use for Gods and priests…”
He turned his eyes upwards apologetically.
“Apart from Nemesis and Fortuna, of course… But there are times that make me question either my beliefs or my sanity.”
Priscus made a face.
“What the hell are you talking about? I swear the longer we stay out of combat, the weirder you get.”
Fronto sighed.
“The spirits of the departed. Mother always said that the manes and the lemures were real; that the manes appeared to give you advice and support when you needed it, and the lemures stalked those who were responsible for their deaths. She thought she saw my father several times too, so she was pleased that I did, but she always assured me, even when I was young, that the restless dead would have no cause to haunt me, cause I was a good boy.”
Priscus rolled his eyes; it was going to be one of those conversations.
“You can get quite peculiar and depressing sometimes, Marcus.”
Fronto glared at him.
“Don’t you believe in anything?”
“Steel.” Priscus answered flatly. “And cake. And wine, and women, and the inability for dice to ever come up right for me, and that politicians should be automatically denied the right to serve with the military.”
Fronto stared at him for a moment and then laughed.
“Fair enough; particularly to that last. But the thing is that, although I don’t sacrifice or do much in the way of libations or praying, that idea has been at the heart of everything I’ve done since I hit adulthood. Looking back, I can’t think of a single occasion where I’ve deliberately caused harm to someone who didn’t deserve it.”
He paused and grinned.
“Plenty of harm to those who did deserve it, mind you.”
His face became serious again.
“Thing is, Gnaeus, that I keep seeing someone that simply can’t be here, and they’re always watching me. It’s starting to make my spine itch and my scalp crawl. And while I can’t say I’m directly and personally responsible for hurting them, I’m still serving and supporting a certain general who is directly responsible.”
Priscus narrowed his eyes.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Never mind” Fronto sighed, spotting the door of his family home up ahead in the quiet street. “I’m just starting to feel like a man at the circus, watching the quadrigae racing out of the starting gate and realising too late that he’s backed the wrong driver.”
Again, his companion pursed his lips.
“You saying you’re not going to go back with the general?”
Fronto shook his head, but Priscus noted something uncertain about the manner of the legate of the Tenth.
“No; not that. I’m needed with the Tenth, and they deserve a commander who knows them. But the general is starting to wear on my nerves. The more I look at Pompey and Crassus, the more I think that they’re the future that Rome deserves and that Caesar is a new Sulla in the making, ready to march his men into Rome and…”
He shrugged.
“I’m in service with the general, but it’s more through acknowledgement of our history together than anything else; I certainly don’t need his patronage and we don’t owe him money or anything. I will head out when he issues the call, but I think the time of me keeping my mouth shut and playing along is just about at an end.”
Priscus turned to look back at the assorted group behind them: a well known politician with a good history, a Gaulish nobleman, a young legate, and a bunch of hired muscle. Hardly the legion he was used to having at his shoulder.
“At least you get to go back. I’ll be staying here for the duration. Try not to start another civil war when you disagree with him, though. Caesar may be powerful, and a great orator, but try and remember that your opinion carries a lot of weight with the centurionate and the more impressionable officers, so be careful.”
Fronto smiled.
“Aren’t I always careful, Gnaeus?”
“Are you ever?”
* * * * *
Fronto rolled the dice again on the marble step.
“Shit.”
Grumbling, he fished in his pocket and withdrew two more coins, slapping them irritably down on the step in front of Galronus. The Remi chief grinned.
“You get worse at dice when you are tense.”
“And your Latin gets suspiciously better when you’re winning. I constantly fear that you’re hustling me, Galronus.”
The Belgic nobleman laughed and gathered up the dice, raising a questioning eyebrow at Fronto.
“Go on then. One more.”
Beside them, leaning against the column, Crispus sighed and adjusted his toga.
“Have you ever considered stopping playing games before you run out of coin? No one has been on a losing streak like this since the Carthaginians.”
Fronto shot an irritable glance up at his friend.
“I notice you never put your hand in your pocket!”
“And that is why there is still money in it. Can you not see that Galronus is better at this than you; as well as luckier, of course.”
“Shut up.”
Crispus smiled benignly. He had enjoyed his winter in the city. The previous year, Fronto had shown him the delights of Tarraco, but there really was no place like Rome. It would be sad in a way to return to the legions, but then life there was rarely dull either, particularly with Fronto around. He wondered briefly how Felix was doing in his absence.
A few bony clicks and a sigh announced a further emptying of Fronto’s pocket. Galronus stretched.
“Enough. I can hardly walk with all your coins as it is.”
Fronto glowered at him and examined the dice suspiciously before handing them back to the Gaul.
Crispus smiled again. There was something about Fronto. He was a catalyst in the best sense of the word; a force that brought everyone to his level. Last year he had taken Crispus, a serious and fairly naïve young officer, and had taken him under his wing, opening his mind to a number of surprising experiences. The result had been astounding: Crispus had returned to the Eleventh a stronger, more commanding legate with a better understanding of the men who followed him. The life experience Fronto had pushed at him had been invaluable.
And in the same way as Fronto had brought Crispus down to a practical level last year, he had taken Galronus and done something similar with him. The Remi chief was already intelligent and honourable for sure but, in just a few months, Fronto had shown him the very best and the very worst that the city and its people had to offer, and the Gaul had come away with a new view of Rome. He had confided in Crispus a few nights ago after a party, while Fronto lay draped across a couch, drooling, that he had never truly understood why Rome considered itself civilised and everyone else ‘less’ in some way. And yet now, when he returned to the Remi after Caesar’s campaigns were concluded, he would miss the comforts he had discovered…
… if he decided to return to the Remi.
There was a click from the door behind them and the wooden portal swung open. Fronto scrambled to his feet with Galronus and joined Crispus as they backed away behind the columns and out of the way of the basilica’s main exit.
The first person to emerge was Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus, the judge presiding over the trial. Fronto examined the man’s face for any clue, but he was unreadable. Behind him came a number of lawyers and clerks while Fronto tapped his foot impatiently.
It seemed hours as togate men with serious expressions left the basilica before the first face they recognised appeared. Cicero and Crassus stood side by side at the shoulders of Caelius, who wore an ecstatic grin. Fronto sighed with relief. Caelius turned toward them as Crassus and Cicero, deep in conversation, veered off on their own errands.
“Acquitted on all counts” the relieved politician announced with a smile. He grasped Fronto by the arms happily. “Marcus, you should have seen it. Cicero pulled the pair of them to pieces; not just Clodia, but her brother too. They looked like idiots; and not just idiots. They looked like vicious and greedy idiots. The expression on Clodia’s face! I thought she was going to explode.”
Fronto smiled.
“Very good. Now stop jumping around like a six year old with a new toy… you’re far from out of danger. Indeed, if I’m not mistaken, now that they have no legal recourse to taking you down, we should be ever more on the lookout for hidden knives, poisoned mushrooms and perhaps the odd incendiary building.”
Caelius’ face fell.
“I hadn’t thought about that. I’m not going to be safe for a long time, am I?”
“Not while Clodia’s around. It’s just possible that her brother will forget about you; consider dealing with you more trouble than it’s worth. After all, it was his sister that started all this, not him. But he can be a vengeful sack of dog vomit, that man, so I wouldn’t be too sure.”
“Then what do we do?”
Fronto shrugged.
“I’ve had the muster order from the general. Start of next week Crispus, Galronus and I head to Ostia with him and his staff and take ship for Gaul. However, my sister has invited Priscus to stay at our house and he’s got the brains, experience, money and men to keep you safe. Be very nice to him and stay close. We’ll be back here as soon as either the campaigning season ends or Caesar considers the Gauls subdued, whichever happens first.”
Caelius nodded nervously, his eyes darting around the crowd as though assassins were already lurking there which, of course, they very well could be.
“It may be better for all concerned if I return to Interamna Praetutianorum. We’ve a large estate there, and I could stay out of the city for a while; let things die down?”
Fronto shook his head.
“You’re safer here. Out in the countryside accidents could happen even easier… fewer bystanders too. In the city you have lots of witnesses. Besides, Priscus needs to keep his eye on Clodius. That man has his finger in a lot of pies and sooner or later he’s going to burn it. Stay here, but keep close to Priscus and do whatever he says.”
Caelius nodded and stepped away from the moving crowd of chattering lawyers to stand with Fronto and his friends as Clodius and his sister emerged from the doorway, their faces grim. As the pair reached the top step, close to Fronto, the man stopped, his sister almost running into his back in surprise.
“Fronto? And your pack of dogs too. Where’s the lame one?”
Fronto grinned wolfishly.
“Somewhere close by. Where he can see every move you and your pals make. Had a bad day?”
Clodius shrugged.
“You win some, and you lose some. In spite of what you think, this is not an overwhelmingly important matter to me. I have other, more significant things to think about.”
Fronto’s grin remained in place.
“I can imagine. A few houses to burn down? Some women and kids to knife? The odd kneecap to break? That sort of thing?”
Clodius’ expression flickered for a moment and settled into an ironic smile.
“Something like that, yes. On a grander scale, but yes. If you ever feel the need to abandon that declining has been that can’t keep Gaul quiet, feel free to come and see me. I can always use a few good men.”
Fronto’s teeth clenched, and he spoke through them in a low hiss.
“I shall continue to smile for the look of the thing, since we’re in public. If we ever meet in private, however, I might have to explain to you in great detail just how little I think of you. In the meantime, since I see no sign of your pet Egyptian catamite, I have to assume that he’s busy sharpening some knives, or treating some mushrooms, so I think we will take our leave and go celebrate somewhere where I can’t see your dog’s-arse ugly face.”
Turning his back on the rigidly-fixed smile of Clodius, Fronto grabbed Caelius and Galronus, strolling down the steps to join the small band of hired mercenaries below.
Clodius scratched his chin.
“That man interests me; fascinates me, really. He is part thug and part orator, part vagrant and part patrician, part hero and part villain. I was very seriously thinking of having both Fronto and Caelius killed tonight, but it may just be both more prudent and a great deal more fun to let him be and see how this develops.”
Clodia stared at her brother.
“You can’t just let this end here?”
He turned and regarded her with a sneer.
“I cannot? What has this got to do with me other than a rather imprudent attempt to help my sex-crazed and idiotic sister take her revenge on an ex lover?”
Clodia stared for a moment and then, bringing her arm back, delivered a slap that would have stung Clodius’ cheek had he not raised his own arm to block the blow. His teeth clenched, he grasped her wrist and pulled her around in front of him.
“You stupid bitch. I am up to my neck in plots and plans that have taken years to put in place, with some of the most powerful men in Rome playing roles, some unaware even that they are doing so. I am standing on the top of a rickety tower built of my own machinations, and I leave you to your own devices for a few months and you pull the base of the tower out from under me. I need public exposure and humiliation right now as much as I need a knife in the gut and what do you do? Launch mad accusations at a high profile young politician with powerful friends. Congratulations on making us both figures of public derision!”
He let go of her wrist and pushed her back away from him.
“But you will deal with him? For me?” Clodia’s voice had almost become a whimper. Her brother turned his angry gaze on her.
“You will disappear from view. I don’t want to see your face until the next time I send for you, and if I hear anything about your exploits from an outside source, I may well re-task Philopater with a new target. Do you understand?”
Clodia blinked.
“You’re just going to let him go?”
“You’ve lost, Clodia, and I will expend no further money or effort to try and salvage your tattered reputation. Now get out of my sight.”
Without a parting glance at her, Clodius turned and strode purposefully off down the steps. Behind him, Crispus straightened by the column beside which he lurked and waited for the broken and dejected figure of Clodia to shuffle off across the square. The basilica had emptied, and the last of those involved had descended and disappeared in the forum. Crispus smiled to himself as he stepped out into the open and gazed off after the retreating figure of Clodius, now on the other side of the square.
“And you interest me, Clodius Pulcher. Just what plots and plans are you hatching?”
With a grin, he set off to catch up with the others. Priscus would certainly have something to do this summer other than babysitting, after all.