(Late Octobris: House of the Falerii in Rome.)
As the door opened, Caesar stepped back in surprise.
“Nam?” demanded the hulking hairy object that blocked most of the doorway.
The general blinked and turned to look in surprise at the younger Crassus, standing next to him. The officer, now dressed togate and with perfect high-class attire, leaned toward the massive doorman.
“This is Gaius Julius Caesar, governor of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul and Illyricum, you ignorant oaf. Stand aside: we are expected.”
The man rubbed his chin and shrugged.
“Caesar, yes.” He stepped to one side and straightened. The general was impressed to note the crown of the man’s head brushed the ceiling of the hallway. He and Crassus entered and shivered from the cold dampness in the air. With an almost negligent flick of his hand, the general dismissed Ingenuus’ group of unarmed and dismounted cavalry who had escorted them across the city.
As the guard closed and locked the door behind them, a small man with muscular arms and a number of fascinating scars rounded a corner and bowed.
“Mighty Caesar; noble Crassus, if you would follow me?”
The two men, slapping along with their wet boots and leaving murky footprints on the marble, followed the servant through the house and to the large triclinium.
The room was occupied by six men, lounging on couches or sitting on chairs, several tables between them laden with simple food, jars of wine, goblets and jugs of water. Fronto and Priscus sat with Galronus as though they were in some way separate from the rest.
Caesar looked around, taking in the faces of the other men. Marcus Caelius Rufus, the defendant that Fronto had protected, Quintus Tullius Cicero, brother of the great orator, and lastly a man that he vaguely recognised but could not put a name to.
“I see that you have begun raising a legion for yourself, Fronto.”
His host smiled humourlessly from the far end of the room.
“Having a gang seems to be the only way to survive in the city these days, Caesar.”
He gestured to the seats and the general and Crassus made themselves comfortable, reaching for the water and grapes. To the general’s surprise, the man who escorted them to the room also took a seat and helped himself to the food.
“Everyone here is well acquainted I think,” Fronto announced, “apart from Titus Annius Milo over there, and the excellent and very dangerous Cestus who met you outside.”
Fronto noted Caesar’s expression and smiled.
“Cestus is now in charge of the household’s ‘guard’ if you wish to call it that. He’s a veteran of seventeen bouts in the arena, recipient of the rudis and a man to stay on the good side of.”
The small man nodded at Caesar, who returned the gesture, frowning.
“Milo I remember, however” the general said, straightening again. “A tribune of the plebs last year?”
The man bowed curtly.
“Very well.” Fronto sat up. “Everyone in the room either has good reason to hate Clodius, or is bound by ties to those who do. For the first time in months, we are all in Rome and so is he. In our absence, he’s had free rein in the city causing murder and mayhem. The time had come to deal with him. We simply can’t leave a snake like that in a position to do further harm.”
There was a general murmur of agreement around them, but Caesar rubbed his brow and leaned forward.
“I have the feeling you are suggesting direct action and even rather illegal violence, Fronto?”
Their host smiled a feral grin and leaned back.
“You are damn right I’m suggesting illegal violence. If I could have thought of a way to get past his constant array of guards, I’d have kicked the man to death myself before now.”
Caesar shook his head.
“Don’t think in such narrow terms, Fronto. This is too complex an issue to lunge out like a thug and strike him down. That is Clodius’ way, not that of reasonable, intelligent men.”
Fronto leaned forward himself, his face filling with angry colour.
“That is the opinion of a man who has yet to feel the full unpleasantness of Clodius. Wait until your little Octavia comes home one afternoon with a broken face, or that pretty niece of yours, and then tell me it’s too complex an issue.”
The general shook his head.
“I feel for your family, Marcus, but that is still not the way.”
He turned to Milo.
“If I am not mistaken, you are bound to the great Pompey?”
Milo nodded.
“And yet you are here, plotting without him?”
The man shrugged.
“If questioned, I will deny ever visiting this house, but I see no conflict in my behaviour. Pompey charged me with building him a force of very loyal men with low expectations. This I have done and, since Pompey has made no secret of his distaste for Clodius, this could even be seen as a meeting of like minds. As such, I am prompted to enquire as to why the great Pompey himself was not invited to this clandestine meeting.”
He smiled.
“Or even the noble Crassus’ father?”
Crassus shrugged.
“It is well for those in such high position to be seen to be uninvolved with such things. I was in two minds as to whether to attend myself as, I believe, was Governor Caesar here.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps none of you feel comfortable placing your trust in them? Regardless, the fact remains that, yes I am bound to Pompey and yes, I am here. I will not, however, employ my men in any action without the authorisation of my patron. It would be unthinkable to do so, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Fronto swept his hands through the air angrily.
“This waffling is getting us nowhere. Clodius is a plague that needs to be dealt with. I’m sure some of you at least agree with this? Cicero?”
The young officer opened his mouth to speak, but Caesar turned to him.
“Yes, I would be interested to hear the opinion of the noble Cicero, given that he has such a responsible commission in my army and yet his brother, from what I hear, denounces me and my works daily in the senate, supported and urged on by those poisonous dogs Cato and Ahenobarbus.”
He narrowed his eyes at Cicero.
“It has taken me three years to completely pacify Gaul. That is a drop in the ocean of time compared to what it took Rome’s greatest generals to pacify Africa or Greece, and yet now the senate of Rome call me names and consider my campaign a failure and a waste; they say that I am unable to keep the place down. Why? Because of Cicero, Cato and Ahenobarbus. Clodius blocks my moves in the senate by the exercise of subtle bribery and corruption, and therefore he is my enemy. What should I make, then, of those who oppose me openly?”
Cicero rounded on him.
“My brother does not attack you, Caesar. He is a just and good man and attacks laws and acts that he deems unworthy of the republic, whatever their origin. Do not feel singled out.”
Milo laughed.
“I fear you are being a little blinkered by your brotherly love, my friend. Cicero attacks Caesar because he is an easy target at the moment and your brother is still trying to ingratiate himself to the senate after his exile. He is doing nothing more than sacrificing one ally to make several others.”
The conversation stopped as everyone was aware of a low growling noise. All eyes turned to Fronto.
“This is like being at a meeting of the bloody senate! Everyone talking about their own agendas, no one sticking to the matter at hand. Just squabbling like chickens. The point of this whole meeting was Clodius! What are we going to do about the little shit head?”
“If you’ll pardon me throwing in my lot”
All heads turned again to face Cestus.
“You are faced with two options. Either you find a way to put an end to Clodius, and this is my speciality, or you work on a method to remove his power. It seems to me that this is a disparate group. Half of us are committed to, and suitable for, one path and the other half to and for the other. The question is which way to go?”
Caesar shook his head.
“If Clodius turns up dead in a sewer, it will merely raise ugly questions, many of which will be levelled at myself, Pompey and even you, Fronto. Careers could be ruined, exiles considered, or even prosecutions made. The solution is to make Clodius trip himself up.”
Cicero and Rufus nodded.
“The first step” the younger officer said “is to form a faction: a gathering of like-minded people, and to bring all those who waver on to our side. We need to convince my brother to abandon his attacks on Caesar in the senate. I can do this. We need to try and discourage the same with Cato and Ahenobarbus.”
He turned to Fronto.
“We need to make sure of our allegiances. The noble Crassus and the great Pompey should be drawn into the matter and, where their allegiances are shaky, they should be redirected, forcibly if necessary.”
Milo frowned.
“You seem to be edging around saying something about Pompey?”
Fronto leaned toward him.
“Look, it’s not generally known and I’m not even sure whether we should be speaking to you about it, but there is considerable, though circumstantial, evidence that Pompey has been having dealings with Clodius in secret, while condemning him publically.”
Milo shook his head and leaned back.
“I have spoken to the man myself. He would rather bed a snake than throw in his lot with Clodius. Whatever he is doing, you can be sure it is not for the benefit of your enemy.”
Caesar glared at Fronto.
“Was that really necessary? Is this the time to start levelling accusations among the people who supposedly have a mutual enemy?”
He turned to Milo and made conciliatory gestures.
“I would appreciate it, given the nature of rumour and the uncertainty of everything here, if you would do us the honour of not passing on these spurious accusations to Pompey. I will speak to him myself in due course.”
The other man frowned for a long moment, but nodded.
“If I were to report every unsavoury rumour I heard to him, I would be running in and out of his house like a courier. If you hold your tongues about this and remain open minded until you are in a position to confirm their truth or falsehood, so will I.”
Fronto grumbled irritably.
“This is getting us no closer to a solution.”
“On the contrary, I feel that this little meeting has been of great importance and use” the general smiled. “I have had certain fears allayed and am satisfied that all here are of a like mind. We all want to see Clodius declawed.”
“Dead” corrected Fronto.
“Declawed… or more if the opportunity arises, yes.”
“Dead” repeated Fronto flatly.
“More important now is to decide how to progress from here. Clearly I will need to arrange a meeting with Crassus and Pompey. Not a great public meeting like the one I attended early in the year, though; a more private affair. In the meantime, Cicero can begin trying to calm things in the senate, though I fear you will have great difficulty with the irrepressible Cato. If you, Milo, will simply keep your own mind open and observe the moves of both Pompey and Clodius, hopefully you will be able to arrive at a definite conclusion as to the truth of any complicity.”
He smiled at Cestus.
“In the meantime, it would be a good idea that no one with a grudge against Clodius go out in public without adequate defensive measures. His enemies do tend to end up bobbing along the Tiber with no head.”
He leaned back.
“Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we can prod Clodius in the direction of tipping his hand and perhaps putting a foot wrong?”
On the far side of the triclinium, Fronto stood, angrily.
“It seems that you all have the situation well under control. I am therefore currently entirely superfluous to this discussion. Please feel free to stay and partake of the food and drink. My mother would be horrified if you left unsatisfied.”
Casting a baleful look around his companions, he strode from the room.
Galronus made to rise, but Priscus put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.
“Leave him to stew. If he has anyone to rant at, he’ll just wind himself up even further.”
The two men settled back into their seats as the conversation resumed in depth.
* * * * *
Fronto stormed down the street angrily, ignoring the fine misty drizzle that had begun to fall. He had not even bothered to stop and wrap a toga about him or throw on a cloak, and tramped down the paving in an increasingly soggy white tunic.
It never ceased to amaze him how the cleverest and most powerful people in the world would talk themselves in ineffectual circles without being able to spot the plain truth of the matter, though it was hanging plainly in the air before them.
“Pointless.”
He ignored the questioning look the old woman threw at him from the side of the street.
They would argue for another hour and the conclusion would inevitably be that they should do nothing and simply wait to see it something miraculous happened, and Clodius fell down a sewer and drowned.
He looked up irritably in the drizzle. Ahead stood the temple of Bona Dea, lonely and surrounded by a peaceful garden. Often there would be stalls or at least beggars in the street close by, hoping for a tossed crust from the citizens descending the streets from the Aventine, but the chilling wet had driven them indoors, possibly even into the temple itself.
On a day like this…
Fronto’s thoughts whirled in panic as everything went black, a bag thrust over his head and muscular arms were suddenly around his elbows and his midriff.
His mind reeled, but his body was already reacting like the soldier he was. He stamped down hard on the foot of a man and then raked his heel down the shin of another, all the while lunging and struggling this way and that.
Had he been able to free his arms, he might have stood a chance, but the grip on his elbows was spectacularly tight and painful, other hands grasping him as he was pulled sharply to his left.
His mind began to calm despite the circumstances and he noted the creak as an outside gate was opened. Waving his fingers as best he could, he felt the edge of a brick and mortar wall and then felt the brush of a large garden plant with waxy leaves.
Then he was being bundled unceremoniously through another door and out of the weather. A doorway, eight paces within, and then a right turn. Twelve paces along the corridor and then a left. Two paces and suddenly he was thrust violently to the floor.
Before he could find his senses and struggle to his knees, however, huge hands clamped themselves around his elbows and shoulders and pushed him down to what felt like a pile of rough sacking. While he struggled in vain, the bag was whipped from his head and he blinked as his eyes adjusted.
He was in a bare room, reasonably well lit by an unshuttered window opposite. The room was clearly in the process of decoration or restoration from the workmen’s detritus around him: piles of brick and plaster, sacks of goods and tools strewn here and there. The shape blotting out a large portion of the window slowly resolved itself into the shape of a tall man in a grey cloak and tunic, thin and bordering on dangerously so. It was not until the figure turned to the side and nodded at the men holding Fronto that he saw the pronounced jaw and hook nose silhouetted against the white.
Philopater.
He drew a sharp breath and bit his lip to prevent crying out as a man unseen to his left grasped his middle finger and snapped it to vertical, breaking the knuckle.
“My employer is inclined to be generous, particularly with the benefit of the doubt.”
“Really?” Fronto panted. “Funny way of showing it.”
Philopater leaned closer, and his features became clearer.
“You are clearly Caesar’s creature. And yet” he said as he stepped sideways and put his finger to his lip, “it is well known in some circles that you are a disapprover of the maniac and do rarely see eye to eye with him. This prompts my employer to take an interest in you.”
He leaned closer again.
“Sever your ties with the man and stay well out of the way. Be not involved.”
Fronto laughed.
“Caesar may be less than I would hope, but he’s a paragon of virtue next to you and your master.”
He bit his lips enough to draw plenty of blood as the fourth finger on his left hand joined the middle one with a snap.
“Torture is hardly likely to win me over, you Egyptian faggot” he panted.
Philopater nodded.
“Indeed. You are made of sterner stuff. However, our reach is long. Remember your mother and think about your sister and that lovely little thing you brought back from Gaul. You’re not a medical man, so you probably don’t know that broken skulls can be extremely catching, very contagious.”
Fronto growled.
“In time,” Philopater continued, “my employer may make you an offer that even Croesus would be hard put to refuse, but a show of faith by disassociating yourself with Caesar is required at this juncture. This will be your one and only opportunity to decide which side of the coin looks more favourable to you; be careful not to waste it in bravado.”
Fronto nodded, smiling knowingly.
Philopater frowned at him.
“What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
As the man leaned in, Fronto lashed out with his foot, smashing his boot directly into the man’s face and sending him flailing across the floor.
“I was wondering what you’d look like with a flat nose” Fronto laughed as the grip on his arms tightened.
The gaunt Egyptian stood slowly, unfolding like some Greek war machine. He reached his full height and turned to Fronto, his face covered in blood, his nose broken in several places above a badly split lip.
“Hold him.”
As the grips tightened further and fresh hands clamped themselves on Fronto’s legs, he watched Clodius’ henchman reach down among the workmen’s tools and pull out a large, wooden mallet of the sort used for removing old plaster.
Steadying himself against what was to come, Fronto smiled and spat at the Egyptian’s feet.
“Good night, master Fronto.”
The hammer came round at a dizzying speed, and after the briefest explosion of crimson agony, Fronto’s world went black.
* * * * *
Pain.
Pain and white light.
Fronto closed his eyes again.
“What?”
A hand touched his arm, and he flinched.
“Calm, Marcus. It is I.”
He opened his eyes again, with all the discomfort and pain that brought and slowly focused on the figure of Lucilia by his side. A second shape beyond resolved into that of his sister.
“I…”
He tried to rise but his world exploded with white pain.
“Lie still.” The voice of Faleria. “Lucilia here has treated your wounds with the consummate skill of a professional, aided by Posco, but it will be hours before you should sit up, let alone go about your ordinary business.”
Fronto tried to nod, but settled for a painful smile.
“How did I get here?”
Another voice joined the melee, and he turned to see Priscus and Galronus standing to the other side of the couch.
“You were dumped at the front door in a large grain sack. What in the name of seven stupid Gods were you thinking, leaving the house on your own?”
Fronto winced, and Faleria waved a finger.
“He’s too weak and bleary for recriminations and anger, Gnaeus. Wait until he’s stronger before you beat him with the stupidity stick.”
Lucilia leaned forward.
“What can you feel?”
Fronto laughed sharply.
“Pain.”
“Specifically” the girl said quietly.
“My left hand feels like it’s been under the wheel of a cart. My ribs are aching, as are my shoulders and neck. But my face feels like I fell off the Tarpeian Rock head first.”
“Good.”
“Good?” he enquired in astonishment.
“Yes,” Lucilia replied. “If you can feel the pain then there is no permanent damage to your system. If you couldn’t feel the pain, I would have panicked. And you have only mentioned the wounds we had already located.”
Fronto sighed.
“Philopater and his gladiators. They really went for it.”
He grinned.
“But I broke the bastard’s nose in the process.”
Priscus nodded.
“Well at least that’s something. The gathering are long gone, but Milo has stayed on for a while. We’ve been knocking about a few ideas.”
Fronto clenched his good hand and turned his head painfully to look at them.
“Here’s an idea: get out there with a bunch of men and find Clodius and Philopater. Follow them and see if there’s any hope of getting them alone. If you get the chance, bag ‘em up like they did to me and bring them here.”
Priscus nodded.
“We were planning to do just that, but I didn’t want to go before you woke.”
Fronto smiled at him.
“Thank you, the pair of you. I should listen to you more often and not run off on my own.”
Priscus and Galronus nodded to him and then left the room, their voices fading as they moved through the house.
He turned back to the two women.
“I had no idea you were a medicus?”
Lucilia laughed.
“Hardly, but where we live there is not a great deal of access to a proper medicus and I have grown up taking care of the horses at the villa. The shape may be different, but the principle is the same.”
Fronto blinked.
“You’re a horse healer?”
“After a fashion.”
She leaned closer.
“You had a narrow escape there, Marcus. That blow to your head could very easily have killed you, or at least left you blind, deaf, or a gibbering lunatic. Faleria has told me about what’s happening.”
Fronto sighed.
“Has she indeed. Thank you, Faleria. Balbus will not appreciate us drawing his daughter into all of this.”
Faleria approached and waved her finger admonishingly in his face.
“You cretin. You drew her into this when you agreed to bring her to Rome. I’m just giving her appropriate warnings. She cannot be expected to look out for herself if she is unaware of the dangers. Really, Marcus; there are times when I wonder how you command a legion, when you don’t seem to have even the tiniest fragment of common sense.”
She tapped the finger on his forehead and then stepped back.
“Try and remember that you’re home now, Marcus, and you have friends and family around to help.”
Lucilia gently mopped his temple, and he winced at even the faint, whispery touch of her hand.
“It feels like I’ve been kicked by a horse!”
“It looks a lot like it, too” Lucilia smiled.
“Just try and lie still for a while and be calm.”
Faleria, behind her, straightened.
“I must go and speak to Posco about the arrangements for the evening meal. And before you argue, you’re eating alone in here, where you can rest.”
Lucilia nodded and patted him gently on the chest.
“Absolutely right. I’ll keep you company while you eat.”
The wicked little knowing smile on Faleria’s face was not lost on him as she turned and left the room. Fronto sagged and closed his eyes.
* * * * *
Priscus nudged Milo and nodded to Galronus. The three men ducked back behind the temple of the Penates and Priscus glanced around himself once more. Dusk had descended less than an hour ago, and now the last of the light was threatening to vanish, oil lamps, braziers and torches springing to life all around the forum behind them and up on the Palatine hill to their right. The temple was closed now and no lights flickered in the window.
The dozen men they had brought with them as protection lurked between the buildings back down the slope, ready to rush out and engage if needed, but conveniently out of sight otherwise. The occasional passing figure gave them all a curious glance, but no more; too much interest in gangs of thugs in Rome was an unhealthy thing to have.
“What do you think?”
Milo turned to Priscus and shrugged.
“They appear to be alone. It’s too easy. Everything about this tells me to stay away.”
Priscus nodded.
“It is just a little too convenient.”
The three men, shadowed by their hired help, had located Clodius in the early afternoon outside the entrance to the theatre, a great timber structure in the Velabrum so tall that it almost matched the heights of the Capitol. The man had spent the next few hours visiting a number of houses, spending no longer than a quarter hour in each, most of his large bodyguard remaining outside on each occasion.
His shadowing pursuers had almost given up following him when, beside the house of the Vestals, Clodius and his guards had met up with Philopater and a second gang. Priscus had strained his eyes trying to get a good look at the Egyptian’s face. He would have loved to have seen that smashed nose, but the light was too low and the distance too great.
Just as the three men were about to gather their own hirelings and leave, there had been a brief altercation between Clodius and his chief enforcer. The nobleman had sent most of his men with Philopater, who had taken the large force and left toward the subura, heading back to the Clodian residence. The half dozen men that remained with him were the biggest and most disciplined-looking of the bunch, and the group headed off past the slopes of the Velian ridge and away from the forum.
“I’d give good money to know where he’s going. Either Philopater disagreed with him going there, or he doesn’t want that Egyptian scum with him. Either way, it’s an interesting development.”
Milo nodded.
“Then we just follow and observe. No attack.”
Galronus rumbled behind them.
“Fronto wants him dead. There’s seven of them. The three of us could take them down even without your men.”
Again, Milo shrugged.
“Something feels uncomfortable about the situation.”
“Shit!”
The pair turned back to Priscus, who had peered around the corner of the temple at their quarry but had just ducked sharply back.
“What?”
“He’s looking directly up here. How could he have seen us?”
Galronus’ jaw firmed.
“He couldn’t. He must have known we were here already.”
“Oh, shit.”
They became aware that moment of a cacophony of bangs, thuds and shouts back among the buildings on the lower slope of the Velian. Cries of dismay marked the location of Priscus and Milo’s gang as Philopater’s much larger force fell on them from the rear, clearly intent on murder.
“He’s attacking us?” Milo queried in astonishment. “Now, in the centre of the city? But there are witnesses?”
He gestured to the figures moving along the Via Sacra below, but Priscus snarled.
“As if any passing grocer is going to get in the way of this lot!”
Galronus flexed his knuckles and turned back, but Milo put a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you mad? There must be fifty of them.”
Galronus growled angrily, but a voice cut through the early evening air from down by the edge of the marsh beyond the Via Sacra and distracted them.
“Little boys intent on mischief should not be out so late. Your mothers will be worried.”
Priscus sighed.
“Looks like we’re in the shit now, lads. Fight or run?”
Milo shook his head. “Run if we can.”
The situation was worsened with the sound of the brief struggle among the buildings behind them coming to a close. The dozen men they had brought along had hardly bought them enough time to argue their course, let alone pursue it.
Galronus nodded to them.
“I will distract them. You run back.”
Priscus stared at him.
“The only way you have to distract that lot is to let them beat you to a pulp. Come on.”
Without waiting for conversation or argument, Priscus ducked out around the temple and ran down the slope, his lame leg giving him a peculiar and ungainly gait, across the white paving of the Via Sacra, where he disappeared into the shadows around the shrine of Jupiter on the far side.
He stopped, catching his breath, heaving in air, as Galronus and Milo followed suit, pelting down the hill at breakneck speed and across the open ground in between. Priscus looked up, to the left and right, trying to decide what to do, as he rubbed his hip vigorously. His leg felt as though it were on fire. He could not keep this up for long. He could not tell the other two, but there was no hope of him getting back as far as the house of the Falerii.
Philopater’s men were emerging between the buildings on the Velian hill, looking down the slope, trying to spot their prey. Other small groups of men, almost certainly another part of the Egyptian’s force, were slowly stalking down the Via Sacra from the forum, converging on their current location. To the other side, Clodius and his half dozen burly thugs were closing the net. The members of the general public had, to a man, vanished, making themselves conveniently absent in the face of such danger.
“We’re hemmed in on three sides.”
The shrine in whose shadows they lurked unseen was small, nothing more than an ancient altar surrounded by a brick wall as high as a tall man and with an iron gate; hardly a place to hide or defend against a large force.
“We’re going to have to make a break for it and head up the Palatine.”
The others nodded their agreement and, taking a deep breath, Priscus sprang out of the darkness, the other two men hot on his heels, and, ignoring the screaming pain in his hip and thigh, loped in his strange manner as fast as he could up the cobbled street that led up to the heights of the Palatine, closed shops lining it as it ascended into the gloom. Here and there, at the top, lights flickered among the houses of those wealthy enough to afford land on the hill that was the very heart of Rome.
Panting with the ascent, they passed the shattered pylons to either side of the street that marked the ruins of one of the city’s most ancient gates, disused for centuries, and finally crested the top. The road led to a wide open space with an ornamental fountain at the centre, ornate decoration around the edges. From here half a dozen smaller roads led off among the wealthy villas, but Priscus focused on the one straight ahead that would take them across the plateau and which opened into the great stairway that led down toward the end of the circus and the Porta Capena.
“That way!”
The three men took a desperate breath, becoming aware in the sudden quiet of the noises of close pursuit back down the street. Sharing a quick, desperate glance, they ran on into the open space. Already, the former centurion’s leg was juddering, threatening to collapse under the strain and he was starting to fall behind the others. By the time they crossed the Palatine, he would be flat on his face.
Priscus cursed himself as they ran for underestimating the audacity of the man. They were in the very centre of Rome, just after nightfall. There were fewer people about in the chilly damp air than during the day or on a warmer night, but still there must have been at least twenty people witnessed the attack tonight. The man clearly had no fear of discovery or recrimination. It was said that Clodius ‘owned the streets’, and Priscus was starting to see how the saying had come about.
He was trying to figure out a way to gain distance on their pursuers and keep himself in the game when a squawk from ahead startled him. A thrown rock connected with Galronus’ skull hard enough to knock him from his feet. The Remi nobleman fell with a shout, rolling on the pavement. In former times, Priscus would have leapt lithely over him. Not now. Not with the leg the way it was. He tried to clear the rolling form, but his foot barely left the ground and he came down with a crash, falling over the prone form of Galronus.
Milo skidded to a halt and turned. Priscus waved at him.
“Go on. Get back to the house and tell them what happened.”
Priscus glanced around them in desperation. Only three men had emerged at the top of the slope, one of Philopater’s smaller gangs that had approached from the forum end. If he and Galronus could just stand and take them on…
A shout made him turn back. Milo had stopped. Another force of perhaps a score of men was approaching out of the gloom from the direction of the circus, cresting the slope on the very road they were making for. Milo backed toward his fallen companions.
“We may be in trouble.”
Priscus tried to rise, heaving the stunned Galronus as he did. Neither of them had the strength or stamina to stand. Milo backed up to them and ground his teeth. Clodius appeared over the crest of the hill behind them, followed by Philopater and a large group of murderous men.
Briefly, Priscus considered the other exits from the square. They could perhaps have got to the Velabrum and descended the hill there to get lost among the shops and narrow streets. But there was simply not enough time and, even had there been, he had not the strength. There was nowhere to run as the two forces converged on the three men, trapped between the pincers in a vice of mercenaries. Lights in the nearby houses went out as self preservation led their occupants to an expedient ignorance of events in the square outside.
“It would appear that the Gods are favouring you tonight, Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus. And your friends.”
Priscus frowned as he regarded the man who effectively controlled the streets of the city. Clodius and Philopater had stopped at the edge of the square, their followers gathering around them.
Glancing over his shoulder he heaved a sigh of relief.
Cestus strode out of the front ranks of the other force, the hulking figure of Lod, the Celtic giant beside him. The former gladiator bore no blade, according to Roman law, but the wooden stave he carried would be, in his capable hands, better than a sword in most.
The small warrior crouched close to the trio of desperate men.
“It would appear that the lady Faleria is right: master Fronto’s suicidal bravado is infectious.”
Priscus grinned, heaving in air in deep gulps.
“How the hell did you know where to find us?”
Cestus laughed.
“Good grief! I’ve had men shadowing you since you left the house. I’m not about to allow a repeat of what happened to Fronto. I have a reputation to maintain.”
Priscus turned again as Clodius shouted to them.
“Be grateful. You’ve been given a reprieve, but the sky is lowering by the hour and it will fall on you and yours presently.”
The man turned and strode off among his men. Philopater continued to glare at them, lingering for a moment then, grinning, drew a finger across his throat meaningfully and turned to leave.
Milo looked across at Priscus, who had begun to chuckle.
“What’s so bloody funny?”
“Did you see the shape of his nose? Like a strawberry!”