(Late Octobris: House of the Falerii in Rome.)
Fronto stood in the atrium, gingerly rubbing his aching shoulder and side.
“What’s the upshot?”
Priscus glanced across at Cestus, who straightened from where he leaned against the soot-blackened wall.
“We lost twelve men from the guard, two slaves to the attackers and two to fire. Three men are wounded, and one slave, but they’ll all mend in time. That leaves the household support at six slaves and Posco, and fourteen guards, not including the seven we have out in the city.”
“And the enemy?”
Now Cestus smiled unpleasantly.
“Twenty eight dead.” His smile became yet more vicious. “Well, there were twenty four, but we took the opportunity to finish off four more wounded ones we found when it got light.”
Fronto nodded.
“Not bad, given the circumstances.”
“There is one thing” the former gladiator said with a sigh. “Castor and Pollux, the two assassins, escaped. Don’t know how they got away, but they’re not among the bodies. Too clever, that pair.”
Fronto frowned for a moment and then remembered the two killers that had come to the fore as Cestus sent the defenders inside.
“Nothing we can do about that. Philopater’s body makes it all worthwhile, though.”
Priscus leaned against the wall.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do with it? Going to send the skull to Clodius?”
Fronto shook his head.
“No. That’s beneath us, Gnaeus.” He turned to Cestus. “Get all twenty nine, including Philopater, into a cart, take them down to the end of the street, opposite Bona Dea, and dump them in a pile, weapons and all. Let’s leave a no-nonsense message for Clodius.”
Cestus nodded and turned to leave, pausing for a moment.
“I’ll take six men to help and leave eight here with you. The other lads in the city will be reporting in shortly, so you should be safe.”
As he left, Fronto and Priscus sighed and looked one another up and down.
“Time we hit the baths and got all this soot off, eh?”
Fronto nodded.
“In a moment. Something to do, first. I’ll catch you up.”
Clasping hands, he watched Priscus hobble off toward the baths, before turning to stride wearily through the corridors toward the garden.
Faleria and her mother sat in the tablinum, along with Lucilia and Posco.
“Mother?”
“Marcus. Who does this man think he is to invade our house? If your father were still alive…”
Fronto smiled.
“The years he has been gone have somewhat magnified his legend, mother. I fear he would have fared no better than we. Rome is changing. The city he knew is gone, replaced by a lawless labyrinth of intrigues and criminals.”
He glanced across at Lucilia.
“And I brought you into it. I should not have done that. I should have left you in Massilia, and I’m sorry about that.”
The young woman shrugged.
“You are not to blame for the state of the republic, Marcus.”
He sighed and straightened.
“Rome is no longer safe for good people. It’s no longer safe for the Falerii. You must leave.”
Faleria bridled and glared at him.
“If you think that a gang of cutthroats is going to frighten me out of the city…”
She faltered as Fronto swept his hand across in front of him.
“Don’t be stupid, Faleria. You saw what happened last night. You’ve become targets now, and I simply won’t have that. You are leaving the city; today. Cestus will send a dozen men with you. You need to pack everything you want to keep from here in three carts and prepare to move out. After lunch you will be on the road back to Puteoli. The villa there has many more staff and is a long way from the gangs of Rome. When you get there, Faleria, you will speak to the decurions of the town and hire a large force to ‘work’ the estate. You need a force of at least fifty men at all times to make sure you’re safe.”
Faleria the elder nodded.
“He’s right, daughter. Your father would not have blinked before sending us back to Puteoli.”
Fronto smiled.
“The villa has the added bonus that, being outside the city, you can legally support a large armed force and don’t have to keep your blade sheathed.”
Faleria frowned angrily.
“You and Caesar should just bring the legions back from Gaul and sweep these scum from the streets once and for all.”
Fronto opened his mouth to speak, but the quiet, measured tone of the general cut in from the doorway.
“Be careful what you wish for, my lady. Remember Sulla, the martial law and the proscriptions? Do you really want to see that happen again? Soldiers in the streets, gutters full of blood and fear in the eyes of all? The legions must not enter Rome, or we might as well say farewell to the republic for good.”
She sighed, and the general smiled.
“Things will not always be like this. There are still men who care about Rome and her institutions: myself, Pompey and Crassus to name but three. Tomorrow we will meet and decide what must be done to put the city back in order, but Fronto is absolutely right to send you away in the meantime. Pompey has sent my daughter to his country estate already and my nephew-in-law has sent my niece and the children to his estate at Velitrae, though I am not convinced that will be far enough from the city for safety.”
“And I?” Lucilia said quietly. “What is to become of me? Will you send me to the Caecilii, or back to Massilia?”
Fronto shook his head.
“For now, neither. The journey home is too long and unsafe without an escort, and I cannot spare the men. Equally, it is far too dangerous for you to stay in the city. Unless you have any objection, mother, I will send Lucilia with you to Puteoli?”
His mother smiled and reached out toward the young lady.
“She would be most welcome, of course.”
“Good. It is for the best, Lucilia. Depending on circumstances, I will hopefully come and join you all soon.”
As silence descended, Caesar stirred from where he leaned against the doorway.
“I have sent word to Pompey and Crassus to arrange a meeting tomorrow, out of the city and somewhere safe, in neutral territory. I would like you to be there, Marcus, along with several others. In the meantime I have a great deal to do and am short on time and assistance. Could I borrow Posco for a few hours?”
Fronto glanced across at his mother and Faleria, who shrugged and nodded.
“Very well, Caesar. I fear we will be mostly catching up on sleep until lunchtime anyway, while the staff sort the house.”
Faleria turned to the general.
“Shall we see you again before we leave, Caesar?”
The general smiled.
“I would consider it an insult if you left without my seeing you off. I shall return by lunchtime and add my own arm to your escort from the city.”
Fronto rolled his eyes.
“Silver-tongued old devil.”
Caesar gave him a sly smile and beckoned to Posco.
“Come, my friend. I have several tasks for you. Firstly a visit to the records of the tabularium in the forum. Do you have a stylus and tablet? You’ll need them…”
As the two men left the room, Fronto walked across to help his mother rise from the couch. Every day she seemed a little older to his tired eyes.
“I think I had better rest a little” she sighed. “The slaves will know what to pack, if the fires have left us much to take.”
Her son smiled at her sadly, and Faleria stood and took her mother’s arm as the two walked from the room, leaving him, coated with thick black dust and blood, alone with Lucilia. He looked wearily around at the house with its charred marks, sooty footprints and general disarray. There would be months’ worth of repairs to be done, though it was possible the house would be destroyed entirely this winter while unoccupied. Clearly he would not be staying here now.
“What will you do?”
He glanced round at the young lady who sat on the couch behind him. He had actually forgotten she was there.
“Caesar will arrange somewhere for Priscus, Galronus and myself to stay. Crispus offered us rooms with his family if we needed them.”
“Are you going to kill Clodius?”
Fronto turned and raised an eyebrow.
“I would love nothing more. Caesar is right, though: it cannot be done in the city. The weasel must be forced out of Rome before he can be dealt with. It may be a long job.”
He tapped his lip thoughtfully.
“Though there are other forces abroad that seek his end, and they are not so prey to Rome’s laws and traditions as we. A vengeful spirit follows Clodius, and it is possible the man may meet the sunrise one morning lying next to his own head before I ever have the opportunity. For now it is more important to keep those we care about safe than to launch a dangerous war of revenge.”
Lucilia smiled.
“Your sister is more like you than she would like to admit, I think, Marcus. The pair of you argue and fight, spit and fume, but I believe you are closer than most, despite that.”
He sagged.
“Faleria is infuriating, but she is my sister. She is so much like my mother at times that I could almost scream. But then, in fairness, I am truly my father’s son, and that cannot be easy on either of them.”
A silence fell over the room, and Fronto was surprised at how comfortable it felt. He suddenly wished he were accompanying them to Puteoli that afternoon.
“I have been unrelenting in my disapproval of you, Lucilia. It has made me a bad host and a bad friend. My apologies have been largely hollow and driven by wine.”
She smiled understandingly.
“Do not underestimate those around you, Marcus. I see nothing in you that I did not already know was there, and what you sometimes see as weaknesses, I can see as strengths. Your sister told me…”
She tailed off, uncertain as to how he would react, but Fronto merely sat back heavily on a couch and sighed.
“I know. She has spent years coming to terms with what happened, and I assumed she was still… unhappy about it. She is far stronger than I gave her credit.”
Lucilia smiled sadly.
“What happened to Faleria’s husband was not your fault, Marcus.”
He shook his head vehemently.
“Yes it was. Verginius was killed by my inexperience, lack of ability and reckless attitude. I sent him to his death, and I’ll never entirely forgive myself for that. And it was that which killed Carvalia too.”
Lucilia leaned forward.
“Faleria forgave you years ago. When the time comes, and you can forgive yourself, I suspect a world of opportunity and happiness might just open up for you. I know you’re a perceptive man, Marcus, and you know my mind. I will wait for you in Puteoli until the demons stop chasing you.”
Fronto stared at her, a dozen emotions battering him in constant waves, leaving him feeling drained and yet less sure of himself. He watched as she rose, crossed to the door and, with a last, lingering look, walked off to her room, leaving him entirely alone.
Standing slowly, he crossed to the door, but she was already gone. Wearily he stepped across the threshold, around the peristyle, and to the armoury that stored so many memories. With a sigh, he lifted the baldric over his head, uncomfortably, and held the sheathed sword tightly. For a long moment he stared down at the weapon, a quality blade freshly made so many years ago for an eager young tribune heading off to fight with Caesar in Spain.
His finger traced the text picked out on the leather in bronze.
GN VERGINIO
With a last, deep, sigh, he returned the weapon to the rack on the wall before turning and heading for the baths.
* * * * *
Fronto grunted with the release of tension as he lay flat on the bench at the side of the caldarium. He had arrived at the cold bath to find the water a dark grey where first Galronus and then Priscus had dunked themselves. Shaking his head with a smile, he had added his own sooty coating to the slick floating on the surface and then strode through to the hot room to find Priscus standing at the large labrum, washing himself down to remove the last remaining traces of the filth.
The presence of a strigil and towel lying in a pile at the room’s centre announced that Galronus had been and gone. The Belgic officer had taken to bathing after the Roman fashion, but still held a faint and unshakable distrust of the process.
“I see you decided to skip the full experience and just dip and wash?”
Priscus shrugged as he crossed the room and lay down on the bench opposite, the steam in the room billowing up and making Fronto’s face hazy in the cloud of white.
“No slaves around to help scrape, and just too much shit to clean easily.”
Fronto laughed.
“Yes, I saw the cold bath. Looks like a sewer.”
Priscus sighed as he settled back.
“I’ve got rather used to this, you know? Two years of bathing in weed-infested Gaulish rivers makes you appreciate the simple comforts. Though at least a running river would clean us more thoroughly in this state.”
“We’ll be clean enough.” Fronto smiled. “Once we’ve seen the family off, we can drop in at the piscina publica on the way back for a swim. That’ll get the last off.”
“You sound considerably calmer and more content than I’ve seen you since you returned to Rome.”
Fronto nodded, unseen in the mist.
“Strangely, despite all the trouble we’re having, some things long overdue seem to be falling into place and I’m finding that I’m feeling curiously positive.”
It was Priscus’ turn to laugh.
“That has the sound of a woman’s involvement. You been cornered by that little morsel of Balbus’?”
A low rumble was Fronto’s only answer, and Priscus laughed again.
“Thought so. She’s been stalking you like a lion, you know.”
“Oh shut up.”
There was a light metallic clunk and Fronto laughed.
“I thought you were forgoing the scraping.”
“I am.”
Without time to breathe, Fronto rolled off the bench and painfully onto the mosaic floor as the tip of a blade slammed down through the slatted wood precisely where his sternum had been a moment before.
“Gnaeus!” he yelled as he rolled and came up into a crouch, naked but ready. The sounds of desperate movement through the mist and the faint view of shapes moving confirmed that Priscus was also busy.
Ducking back instinctively, Fronto saw the bulk of a large figure loom in the mist and swung his right fist with as much force as he could muster.
His knuckles connected with a helmet and a resounding ‘clong’ echoed through the vaulted room. Fronto cursed as he withdrew his hand, the fingers numb from the impact, and the gladiator’s head became clearer through the clouds.
The helmet, a huge, iron construction, bulkier and far heavier than those used in the army, had a wide brim and a full faceguard, two round holes for the eyes the only elaboration. Two long blue feathers rose up decoratively beside the huge plain iron crest. Fronto’s knuckles had not left a dent, unsurprisingly. The same could not be said in reverse.
He had only a moment to see the wide, battle-crazed eyes of the gladiator flashing white in the deep darkness of those two holes before the huge rectangular shield with its dented and marked bronze boss hit him full in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards against the huge granite labrum, whose contents sloshed for a moment, slopping water onto the hot floor where it quickly burned off to steam.
Fronto shook his head in a daze and drew sharp breath at both the heat of the floor where he floundered and the pain in his shoulder, ribs and knuckles. Pushing himself up against the granite stand, he reached his full height for only a moment before he had to duck madly to avoid the swung sword that whistled past his ear.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” he shouted, unable to concentrate enough to think of anything more useful, hoping that someone would hear the cry.
Quickly recovering, he danced out of the way of where he could see a vague looming shape and suddenly found himself a mere handwidth from Priscus, who pushed him back, just as a long, narrow and sharp sword swished through the air where he had been. Castor and Pollux had clearly marked their own targets.
As he staggered from Priscus’ shove, Fronto heard the attack coming before he saw it and threw himself forward into a painful roll across the mosaic floor, the blade passing harmlessly over the top of him as he came back up against the bench where he had so recently been relaxing.
“A hundred denarii just to piss off and bother someone else” he yelled.
His answer came in the form of the gladiator’s shield, swung out horizontally so that the dented bronze strip along the edge caught Fronto on the elbow, spinning him bodily and sending him sprawling across the bench.
Across the room he heard a cry of pain and could only hope it was the other gladiator and not Priscus that had issued the sound. There was no time to enquire, though, as, ignoring his throbbing elbow, he jumped up onto the bench, spied the looming shape of the huge man and kicked out as hard as he could.
The gladiator, even suffering such a restricted view, and all but rendered deaf by the huge helmet, pulled back out of the way, and the momentum carried Fronto off the bench and face first onto the floor.
How could the man be this alert and quick in such armour?
He struggled to turn onto his back and once again had to roll out of the way as the gladius slammed point first into the floor where he had been, sending up shards of plaster and half a dozen black and white tesserae.
Fronto scrambled away past the wide granite labrum, desperately trying to plan a useful move, but unable to come up with anything. The forbidding shape of that enormous helmet with its incongruously elaborate feathers appeared out of the enveloping mist, and suddenly the sword lunged across the huge bowl’s flat surface, the water slopping this way and that, splashing Fronto’s chest as he danced back and right, being sure to keep the huge labrum between them.
As the sword pulled back away, Fronto anticipated the next move and ducked down to his left as the huge shield swept horizontally across the water’s surface, smashing the nozzle that fed the fresh water into the bowl and causing the jet to spray out at an angle.
He hardly had time to straighten again before he had to duck back out of the range of that thrusting blade.
And then he saw it coming.
Pollux made his mistake and Fronto, every bit as experienced in combat as the gladiator, recognised the opening for the opportunity it was and leapt on it.
Drawing the shield across, the gladiator repeated the sweeping blow, but this time as a backhand, the shield sweeping across the space as Fronto ducked sharply.
For a moment - no more - the shield was swinging harmlessly out of the way, and the sword was pulling back to the right for another blow.
Tensing, Fronto leapt bodily across the wide bowl, his finger tips wrapping themselves around the brim of the helmet and the feather-holder, his bound left hand scrabbling to maintain a grip on the short nozzle, snapping off the blue barb. His feet dangling as he lay across the bowl, his belly submerged in the cold water, Fronto hauled with every ounce of strength, yelping at the pain in his two broken fingers.
The move took the gladiator by surprise and the white eyes widened in their darkened hollows as he was pulled from his feet and slammed down face first into the bowl. The helmet disappeared into the cold water, the torrent running through all the gaps and holes in the iron construction and filling it in moments.
The huge man tried to shout, but the sound came out as submerged bubbles. The shield flailed and the sword jerked, trying to land a blow, but the man was prone, partially submerged and in desperation, bordering on panic. The gladius blow landed harmlessly on the granite edge of the labrum and the blade skittered away while the shield proved too heavy in the circumstances to lift over the top.
Fronto almost lost his grip as the huge, powerful killer struggled to free himself, and was forced to pull himself up and over until he was lying on top of the gladiator, both hands on the helmet, holding the face underwater.
Again and again the man bucked, trying to throw off his assailant until, after a lifetime of moments, the spasms slowed and the jerking stopped. Fronto held the head under the water for a count of forty, just to be sure, and then slid backwards until his feet touched the warm floor. The gladiator lay still in the huge, shallow bowl, his heavy helmet keeping him anchored there, bubbles occasionally escaping a join in the helmet.
He stepped back, taking a heavy breath, and suddenly became aware of the continuing grunts and scrapes of fighting across the room in the fog.
“Priscus?”
“Bit busy!” the reply came, sharply.
Fronto squinted into the mist and could just make out two shapes moving in the whiteness. A whirring confirmed which one was the double-bladed Castor.
Grimacing, Fronto stepped back to the slumped figure in the bowl. The sword had gone from the man’s hand sometime during the last throes of the struggle and could be anywhere on the floor in the mist. Narrowing his eyes, the weary legate crossed to the far side and worked the shield straps free from the man’s arm until the huge, rectangular item was in his hands.
Gritting his teeth, he padded quietly, barefoot, across the patterned floor toward the shadowy shape. Priscus had somehow managed to pull a heavy wooden slat from the bench and was using it like a sword to parry the blows of the gladiator, though the state of the wood and the tinny, acrid smell of blood announced that he wasn’t doing very well.
Smiling, Fronto approached the killer and raised the shield above his head.
“Hello” he said warmly.
The man spun round, a sword flicking out, ready to deliver a horrible blow but, as he did so, Fronto brought the huge, heavy shield down hard on the man’s unprotected skull, the rounded bronze boss smashing into his forehead just above the eye. The blow was hard enough to send the gladiator flat to the floor, his swords falling away, unheeded, as he passed from consciousness in an instant.
Priscus looked up at him in surprise as he lowered the wooden slat.
“A shield? Really?”
Fronto shrugged.
“You’d prefer I spent some time scouring around for something better?”
Priscus laughed as he reached down and gingerly touched a deep wound on his forearm.
“Thanks. Your style’s a bit peculiar, but your timing’s excellent as always.”
He paused to deliver a hearty kick, full of feeling, to the unconscious gladiator.
“What do we do? Tie him up and interrogate him?”
“No point” Fronto shrugged. “We know damn well who he was working for and what he was trying to do. Never leave a vengeful enemy behind you.”
Reaching down, he picked up one of the man’s swords and examined it.
“Ever seen one like this before?”
“Nope. Thin and sharp. Some sort of cavalry weapon I suppose. Hurts, though, I can confirm that for you.”
Fronto smiled as his friend fingered another wound on his thigh.
“Get those cleaned up. Lucilia will stitch them for you. If you’re lucky, she might give you a carrot too.”
Priscus frowned at him in incomprehension as Fronto leaned over the prone gladiator and carefully positioned the narrow blade over the heart before leaning on the hilt with his full weight and driving the blade home until he heard the point scraping in the mosaic below. The gladiator gave what sounded like a sigh of relief and shuddered once.
“I always love the games. Gladiators are so exciting” Fronto said with a grin as Priscus reached the labrum, pushed the body out of the way, and started to wash his wounds with the cold water, drawing sharp breaths each time.
“I personally have had about as much excitement as I can take in one day. Can we just have a little boredom for a while, now?”
Fronto laughed as he dropped the blade and sat on the bench.
“I was contemplating bed for a while after this to catch up on my sleep, but now I’m favouring surveying the damage to the wine store. What d’you think?”
* * * * *
Caesar smiled and gave a tug on the straps that held the baggage tightly in the second cart. With a nod of satisfaction, he stepped back.
“It would seem that you are all set, ladies.”
Fronto rolled his eyes as he leaned against the slightly carbon-stained gatepost. Both he and the stable hand had checked the straps more than once, but Caesar had to give his approval and win the smiles of the three women in the front carriage. It was, to Fronto’s mind, born of a pathological need to be lauded for even the smallest things.
Turning to look out into the street, he spied Cestus standing at the far side, looking back and forth.
“Are we good to go?”
The former gladiator had a last check, motioned to a few of his men, and then nodded. Fronto smiled at the three ladies in the wagon.
“Time to go. Once you’re beyond the Porta Naevia, stick to public places and don’t wander out of sight of Cestus and his men. The mansios on your route should be good and secure, but avoid anywhere you suspect might be trouble. Just stay quiet, unobtrusive and safe.”
Faleria leaned over the side of the wagon.
“For the tenth time, Marcus, we know. We’ll be alright. It’s those of you staying in the city I worry about.”
Fronto smiled.
“Let’s move.”
At a wave Posco led the carriage out into the street, the other two wagons grinding and squeaking behind as they began to rumble forward. Fronto accompanied the vehicle with the three ladies, Caesar matching his position at the far side. Priscus sat on the bench of the rear cart, saving his leg as much of the walk as possible. It would be only a count of maybe three hundred to the gate, and then the party would continue to accompany the caravan for the next mile or so until they were clear of the urban area.
Slowly, the three vehicles, accompanied by almost two dozen men, rolled out into the street and, turning, began the slow descent from the Aventine toward the temple of the Bona Dea at the junction with the Via Ardeatina. Fronto glanced across at the general. It would have been closer and more direct to leave the city by the Porta Capena and straight onto the Via Appia, rather than this roundabout route that required a connecting road a few miles south, but Caesar had been insistent that this path would be the safest, and the ladies fell over one another to agree with the great orator, whatever Fronto’s opinion.
He grumbled irritably as he walked.
Slowly, the group reached the lower end of the street, the edges here lined with beggars, the concentration increasing as they neared the temple. It had not rained now for days, and the streets were beginning to look filthy, coated with animal dung and general detritus. Fronto’s grumbling intensified as he trod in something soft.
Out to the front, Cestus and Lod stepped out into the main road, and the gladiator waved a hand. The carts rolled to a halt, and Fronto and Caesar loped on ahead to meet the small warrior. As they reached the junction, the reason for Cestus’ gesture became clear.
Off to the left, toward the Circus Maximus, the street was lined to either side with busy stalls, interspersed with beggars, drunks and occasional respectable folk. The open street in the centre was, however, devoid of the general citizenry of Rome. A surly gang of several dozen men, a match for their own force at least, stepped slowly and menacingly toward them, hammers, pick handles and lengths of wood in their grasp.
“Shit. Clodius has absolutely no fear, does he?”
Caesar nodded and made a very subtle hand gesture.
“Keep moving on slowly and purposefully. All will be well.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The two men retreated toward the carts and their escort and Cestus returned to his position at the front as the caravan turned away down the street. Lod fell in at the rear, walking backwards as six of the guards fell in beside him, carefully eying the sizeable gang that was following them slowly, stalking like a predator cat.
“Why they no fight?”
Fronto, glancing over his shoulder at the huge Celt, was wondering the same thing, and then shook his head in irritation as the answer popped into his head.
“Because there’s more of them ahead. We’re being herded.”
Caesar nodded.
“That is possible, but here the road is far more defensible than by the Porta Capena should the situation arise. I think we will be fine, Marcus.”
“You keep saying that, but even if that’s fully half their force out here, it still means we’re outnumbered two to one.”
The two men fell silent as the carts rumbled on along the street, the population thinning out here as they moved away from the temple and toward the gate and the slumlike region that clung to the outer wall like some parasitic sea creature. Certainly Caesar had been correct about the more defensible nature of this route. The less affluent neighbourhoods in the area led to the insulae and walled blocks to either side of the street pressing in and narrowing the thoroughfare.
A movement caught Fronto’s attention, and he glanced across at a narrow side street. Three men were moving slowly down it toward them, wooden clubs in hand. Every ten steps or so brought them past another side street, each with its own small group of thugs converging on them.
“There’s going to be a hundred of them by the time we reach the gate” Fronto noted to Caesar, nodding in the direction of the latest arrivals. The gang following them had almost doubled in size as they moved slowly on.
“It’s important we keep moving. The closer we are to the gate, the safer we are.”
Fronto held less certainty about the defensive nature of the area, but there seemed little else to do as they moved slowly on, the tension building constantly.
“Clodius must have an almost infinite supply of thugs. It’s almost as if he breeds them!”
On the cart just above and behind them, Priscus pointed ahead.
“There’s the gate. We’re almost there.”
Fronto glanced past the shoulders of Cestus and his companion. The Porta Naevia with its single arch of heavy travertine blocks crossed the road fifty paces ahead, just coming into view as they rounded a gentle curve in the road.
“We’re going to make it.”
The carts rumbled on, closing the distance with interminable slowness, and the huge arch grew ever more tantalisingly near, the heavy gates standing open to either side.
“Why is there no one around?” Fronto said nervously.
Caesar shrugged. “One armed gang following another? Even the rudest peasant can spot that kind of trouble approaching, Fronto. You expect them to stay around for the show?”
“Crap.”
Cestus stepped into the shadow of the gateway, three more of his men with him, and the lead carriage rolled under the arch. Fronto bit his cheek.
Behind them they could almost sense the tensing of muscles ready to attack. The silence was taught and dangerous.
“Whoa!”
Fronto’s head snapped back to the light at the far side of the gate. Cestus, silhouetted in the arch, was holding up his hand and the wagons were quickly slowed and stopped. The gang behind came on at an even slower pace, closing the gap.
Fronto was about to shout a question ahead to Cestus when he saw the rest of Clodius’ men, spreading from the sides of the street into the gateway, blocking the path ahead.
“Shit. What now?”
Caesar arched his brow and shrugged.
“Now we see what they have to say.”
The two men strode out forward into the shadows until they fell in alongside Cestus. There were perhaps three dozen men in the road ahead. A fight now would be virtual suicide. Some of the men, being outside the city, had taken the opportunity to arm themselves with real weapons. To the rear, a tall man with a scar down his face that permanently closed one eye stepped up. The mob parted before of him.
“You appear to have reached the end of the road. My master sends his regards. He hopes you will allow us to make this quick and painless.”
“Your master can kiss my hairy pink arse!” Fronto barked.
Caesar cast a sidelong glance at Fronto, and there was a genuine smile there.
“What?” Fronto hissed back at him.
“You really must have faith in your general, Marcus.”
He turned to the Falerii’s chief house slave, standing by his shoulder.
“Now, Posco, if you would?”
The slave nodded with a smile and drew a small copper horn from the cart beside him. Taking a deep breath, he blew a series of loud, sharp notes and then lowered it. Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“Where did you learn the muster call, Posco?”
The slave merely gave him an enigmatic smile and pointed.
Ahead, beyond the armed gang that barred their way, more men were appearing from the side of the road, falling in to the street and settling in ordered rows.
Caesar smiled at the tall, scarred thug, who was looking over his shoulder in surprise.
“Would you like to kiss Fronto’s ‘hairy pink arse’, or just get the hell out of our way?”
Fronto blinked.
“Who are they?”
The men were falling into military formation and, though in plain tunics and cloaks, a number of them bore a gladius or pugio or a solid legionary shield on their arm.
Caesar grinned.
“Sound off!” he bellowed.
From the depths of the large unit, still increasing in strength, voices called out.
“Servius Tarcus, centurion of the Ninth Legion… retired.”
“Aulus Octavius, optio of the Seventh Legion… retired.”
Other voices were announcing their origins among the crowd, and Fronto turned to frown at Caesar, whose grin widened.
“You’d be surprised how many veterans of my legions there are within the city’s bounds, Fronto, and most of them hold a loyalty that goes far beyond receiving their honesta mission. Some of them are your men, even.”
Fronto blinked again and turned to look over his shoulder. The advancing mob behind them had stopped. Lod stepped forward and crouched menacingly.
“Boo!” he barked, and some of the men at the front of the gang actually jumped.
Caesar stepped toward the tall, scarred spokesman.
“Disperse immediately or pay the penalty for public disorder. Your choice.”
The man stood silently for a moment, clearly weighing up his options, but the decision had been made for him. The men of his gang melted away at the periphery into the side streets and doorways, and he stood at the centre of a rapidly shrinking force.
“Run, then, and don’t come back” the man said to Caesar defiantly.
The general grinned.
“Oh, we’re not all leaving. Some of us have business yet in Rome.”
The man dithered again, fumbling for another pithy retort but, realising there were now less than a dozen men between him and a century’s worth of veteran soldiers, he threw an angry glance at them, let out an exasperated grunt, and ran off into a side street.
Fronto shook his head.
“You do like to show off, don’t you? Did it not occur to you to let me in on it?”
“And spoil the surprise?” Caesar grinned. “Hardly.”
He looked up at the three women, each heaving sighs of relief.
“Well ladies, it would appear that the way ahead is clear. The veterans of my legions will join Cestus and escort you as far as Albanum and the mansio there. I hope the sea air agrees with you and that we will meet again very soon.”
The ladies of the house of the Falerii smiled gratefully at the general and, waving at Fronto, gestured to Posco to move on. As Priscus slipped down from his seat and wandered across to the officers, Lucilia leaned over the edge and planted a difficult and somewhat unexpected kiss on Fronto’s forehead.
“Hurry back, Marcus.”
Fronto stared at her as the vehicles trundled on, the legionaries falling into escort positions as he rubbed his head and looked at his fingers suspiciously.
Turning, he realised that Priscus and Caesar were both grinning at him.
“Oh, grow up!”