(Vienna, on the Rhodanus, 160 miles north of Massilia)
Galronus dropped heavily from his horse and almost staggered with fatigue as he led the beast toward the stable area of the Sweeping Eagle, their first stop within the traditional borders of the republic. Fronto slid down with equal lack of grace from his own mount and grasped the reins to lead the beast on. He’d have felt more confident riding Bucephalus back home, but had decided to leave the magnificent black in the care of Varus, opting for the speed to be gained from a constant change of courier horses on the road south.
‘I’m for an unhealthy quantity of wine tonight’ Fronto said without humour. ‘I need a proper sleep for a change.’
Galronus inclined his head in agreement. ‘Once we stow the gear. A good hot meal is high on my agenda too.’
Nodding, Fronto strode toward the door into the courtyard and stable area. The groom appeared as if from nowhere as the two men neared the entrance and reached up to take the reins, leading the beasts into their stalls for the night.
Leaving the young man to his work, the two officers hoisted their bags over their shoulders. It had only occurred to Fronto almost a hundred miles from Gesoriacum that he’d not arranged the transport of the rest of his gear, but figured that half of it would stay with the Tenth as usual and that Priscus would find a way to ship the more immediate and personal kit to Puteoli for him. For what he had in mind at the moment, all he required was clothes, a horse, a sword and a bad temper.
The interior of the Eagle was heaving with drinkers, diners and gamers intent on their dice and various miscellaneous competitions. Fronto looked around for the familiar figure of the proprietor, Lucius Silvanus, but could not spot the large ex-soldier among the press. Every table appeared to be full, but he felt fairly sure that someone would respectfully make room for them to sit and eat once they were ready.
Gesturing to Galronus, he shoved his way through the throng to the bar, surprised at the lack of shown deference until he remembered that he was wearing only his stained, battle-scarred tunic, breeches and military cloak, a utilitarian gladius at his side. Without digging out his better kit, he looked not unlike any other off-duty soldier.
The bar was being tended by a bulky Gaul with hands like hams and arm-hair like a bear, and by a young woman who would have been stunningly attractive were it not for the pox scars and the missing ear that was just visible occasionally as her hair moved.
‘Innkeep?’
The huge Gaul handed a local his change and shoved a clay cup toward him before sidling down the bar. Fronto thought he caught a hint of recognition in the man’s expression as he suddenly moved from the sullen keeper of drinks to the helpful attendant of the bar.
‘Good evenin’ officers. What can ‘us do fer yer?’
‘Where is Silvanus?’ Fronto enquired quietly. ‘He normally looks after visiting officers himself.’
‘The master’s gone to Nemausus to secure a supply of oil an’ garum from ‘ispania, sirs. Can us ‘elp yer?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘About time Silvanus got some good food in here. The beer and ‘wine’ I’m getting used to, but I was getting sick of roast pig.’
The Gaul grinned. ‘Then y’ain’t gonna like the menu tonight, sir!’
Fronto sighed and pointed at one of the amphorae stacked against the wall behind the bar, still sealed and with the seal facing him.
‘We need a good, quiet room for the night, two full dinners… no, make it three but split it between two plates, and that amphora of Sicilian wine that I don’t even care how you got.’
The Gaul laughed. ‘Find yerself a table, then, master officer, an’ us’ll get things ready fer yer. Citizen officers can settle up in the morn. ‘Tis house rule.’
Fronto smiled gratefully.
‘If it’s all the same, we’ll go to the room first and dump our kit, wash, and then be back down in about half an hour for food?’
‘If’n yer please, sir.’
‘And don’t sell that wine to anyone else while I’m gone!’
Again the Gaul gave a deep belly laugh and collected a good iron key of Roman design from the counter at the rear of the bar, tossing it over to Fronto.
‘Top o’ the stairs, end o’ the corridor on the right. It’s over the stables, so’s the noise is low.’
‘And smells of horse shit. Still an improvement over this lot’ Fronto grinned wearily. ‘Cheers. See you in half an hour or so.’
Galronus frowned as they turned and pushed back across the room to the stairs that led up to the second floor where the rooms were.
‘I don’t think I like Sicilian wine. Too heavy.’
Fronto shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘For a man whose people brew something that tastes like foot fungus and old boots I’m not sure your viniculture opinion holds much weight. Silvanus has cocked up. There’s no way that amphora should be on public display. He’d normally keep something like that hidden in the cellars in case major dignitaries happen to stop by.’
‘Maybe while he’s away your big barman friend is running the place?’
They reached the foot of the wooden staircase and Fronto cast a glance across the heaving main room of the inn.
‘If that’s the case, Silvanus has chosen well. The place is packed. He must be raking it in!’
With tired, straining leg muscles, the two officers climbed the stairs and turned down the corridor, strolling along the length of it until they reached the far end, where a window stood, the shutters open. Fronto glanced out interestedly across the roof of the annexe that had been only half-constructed the last time they were here and which lay just below the window. To the right was the courtyard, the stables below them.
‘It certainly is quieter along here’ Fronto muttered. Galronus simply nodded and peered out of the window himself as Fronto reached up with the key and unlocked the door. Shouldering his kit bag again, the legate pushed open the portal and strode into the room.
Galronus turned back to the doorway and looked into the room, lit by the early evening sunlight shining in through the window.
His hand went to his sword immediately as his eyes focused on the thing between them and the window.
The body of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen in the Eighth Legion, veteran officer and proprietor of the Sweeping Eagle, swung back and forth, rhythmically blotting out the sunlight, his face contorted, swollen purple tongue extended and neck at an uncomfortable angle with the noose knotted around it. A patch of detritus marred the floorboards below the swinging corpse.
As Galronus drew his long, Gaulish cavalry blade with a rasp, he shouted the warning to Fronto, who had entered the room without looking ahead, his attention locked on trying to remove the stiff key from the door.
In the event, he was too late. As his sword came free and his mouth opened, a shadowed figure appeared from behind the door, throwing an arm round Fronto’s neck and yanking him out of sight.
Fronto squawked in surprise, somewhere unseen behind the door.
Desperately, Galronus pulled back his heavy-duty blade and, squinting and making an educated guess as to the relative positions of Fronto and his assailant, slammed the blade through the hairline crack between planks in the door, smashing the boards aside as the blade punched easily through.
He was rewarded with an unearthly scream and, as he withdrew the sword with some difficulty from between the planks, he noted with great satisfaction the dark oily blood coating the blade.
‘Shit!’ shouted a voice from behind the door.
‘The bastard’s killed me!’ added a second voice
‘Shit!’ repeated the first.
Neither was the voice of Fronto, both speaking in a southern Gallic dialect, confirming to Galronus that at least two murderers were waiting for them.
Suddenly, Fronto staggered out into view again, one hand clutching his throat where he’d been momentarily strangled, the other reaching down for his sword as he backed toward the swinging body.
Without waiting for Fronto, Galronus stepped into the room, turning to face the men behind the door. One was clutching his belly, blood pouring between his fingers and down to the floor just as it drained from his face. In his other hand, he held a hunting and skinning knife, clean-bladed and unused. A few feet from him a second man held a similar blade, but was edging away toward the window.
‘No you don’t.’ The Remi officer turned with the man’s movement and sprang like a wildcat, his sword coming back up as he leapt. The would-be assassin made a momentary decision between fleeing for the window and trying to protect himself from this madman. Figuring that he would never reach the window in time, he turned and lashed out with the knife as the cavalryman came down on him, sword descending in time with his body.
Fronto watched in horrified fascination as the world seemed to slow to a crawl.
Galronus hit the assassin feet first, both heels slamming into the man’s knee and smashing his leg beyond hope. At the same time, his blade came down and even as the knee turned backward the heavy blade bit deep into the man’s torso at the angle between neck and shoulder, cleaving a foot deep into him.
Simultaneously, the hopelessly outclassed assassin had struck with the knife. Galronus’ arm had come up protectively to save his face from the blow at the last moment and the knife hammered home into his forearm, neatly slipping between the two bones and driving straight through his arm up to the hilt.
The would-be-murderer was dead before his body settled to the ground. Fronto stared as Galronus stood, gritting his teeth and, wincing, drew the blade out of his arm with a splash of blood.
‘I could have done with questioning him.’
‘What about the other one’ Galronus asked casually, but realised as he looked across the room that the man had driven his heavy knife deep into his own heart to end the torment of the belly wound that would take perhaps a day to kill him.
‘Now we have no idea why all this.’
Galronus shrugged. ‘It occurs to me that your friend the barman will know; he must have been in on this. Perhaps we should ask him?’
‘I think not’ Fronto said quietly, sheathing his sword and hoisting his kit back onto his shoulder. ‘If he knows, probably half the people down there do. No one looks too concerned with Silvanus’ absence, and he’s only been dangling there less than a day. Half a day, I’d say. Unless we want to find ourselves facing off against every lowlife in Vienna, we’d best make a sharp exit and get somewhere way south of town for the night.’
As they peered down the corridor and confirmed no one was watching, Fronto locked the door once more and started to climb out of the window. Galronus cleaned his blade on a piece of the assassin’s tunic he’d ripped off, and sheathed it.
‘You think it’s your tribune friends?’
‘I can’t really think who else it could be. This was deliberately targeted at us; not just aimed for the first Roman officer that came past. They even put an amphora of expensive Sicilian in plain view just to occupy my thoughts and stop me noticing things out of place or wondering about Silvanus. Of course he wouldn’t have gone to Nemausus for stuff – he’d have sent someone. Come on.’
Fronto padded across the roof of the extension and slid down, dropping to the courtyard.
Galronus followed suit with more dexterity, landing easily as Fronto winced in pain and rubbed his knee.
‘You’ve got to sort that out’ Galronus scolded him.
‘The first chance I get to give it a month’s rest I’ll do just that. Now let’s get the horses and get out of Vienna before we discover that Menenius and Hortius bought every thug in the place.’
* * * * *
Fronto and Galronus slowed their tired mounts and reined in outside Poseidon’s Palace, the most grandiosely named inn in Massilia. The large building with two wings of accommodation had done its Greek owner extremely well since Caesar’s push into Gaul, being selected as the official stopping point for all officers and couriers passing through the independent city and boarding or disembarking ships. In fact, the Roman traffic through the inn, for which the owner was paid a healthy monthly stipend, had all but driven the free trade from its doors as few locals or merchants could afford to rent a room. Even the décor and the food and drink were now thoroughly catered to Roman tastes.
The groom, a young man with one leg slightly longer than the other, lurched from the wide gateway of the stables and greeted the two officers pleasantly, his accent that strange mix only found in the former Greek trading colonies of the west.
The two men nodded and handed their reins over to the servant, patting the steaming flanks of the beasts that had carried them the last leg from Glanum and wishing them well as they ended the horseback segment of their journey. It had been ten days of tense desperation, saddle-sores, constantly changing mounts and rough cots in the small, stockaded way-stations set up by Cita to provide the enormous supply system that flowed from Narbonensis, Massilia and Cisalpine Gaul.
Ten days of trepidation.
The incident at Vienna had pushed them to a new turn of speed, having gained them a night with no rest and therefore a further thirty miles under their belts. Neither man had spoken of the attack after they had left the Vienna area almost three days earlier, hurrying through the night to be free from the danger of assassins. That the two tribunes were prepared to take the risks and spend the money paying off local bandits and even murdering settled veterans spoke eloquently of the lengths to which the men were willing to go in removing Fronto from the picture.
Though neither man voiced it, both Fronto and Galronus had come quickly to the conclusion that the tribunes would have been successful had they themselves sprung the trap, and the fact that they did not and instead entrusted it to the unknown quantity of paid killers suggested that they were otherwise engaged in a task that was too important to delay even for that. Such a task was worrisome indeed.
His bag of personal kit slung over his shoulder, Fronto strode into the ‘Palace’, Galronus at his heel. The main chamber of the inn, mostly given over to tables for eating, with a fire at the more open end that warmed the room, was thriving, though here and there were spaces still available at tables.
Their eyes strayed across the occupants – more than ninety per cent of whom were Roman, and rested on the long bar with the innkeeper and his slave working like mad to tend to the custom. They had a more urgent appointment than that, though. Feeling their muscles loosen at the warm and cosy atmosphere, the two officers strode across to the table close to the fire which was stacked with tablets, sheaves of writing wood, styluses and the endless accoutrements of the bureaucracy. The man sitting on the only chair at the desk was the mirror of every mid-level administrator across the republic: well-dressed above his station and full of self-importance. And yet who could deny him deference, given the vital role he played in the support of Caesar’s campaign?
Flavius Fimbria was the man with a stranglehold on all travel and goods in or out of Massilia, a man with a plethora of slaves and functionaries, to whom every Roman who passed through the city must speak if he wished to arrange sea passage, horses, a cart, or supplies.
‘Master Fimbria’ Fronto greeted him formally, approaching the table.
‘Can I help you, soldier?’
Fronto felt Galronus stiffen at his side, bridling at the lack of deference to officers of their rank. The legate himself knew that despite their lofty positions they resembled nothing more than a travel-worn legionary or junior officer and a somewhat Romanised Gaul.
‘Yes. Please arrange for the Glory of Venus to make ready to sail in the morning at the first available opportunity, and arrange suitable space for two officers and their personal kit only. The destination is Ostia and the ship is to make the fastest sailing possible.’
Fimbria narrowed his eyes. ‘You have the authorisation for this?’
Fronto dropped one of Caesar’s tablets to the table in front of him, the others having been well used, but this still fresh and sealed. The administrator examined the seal for a moment, seeming surprised to find it genuine, and then snapped it open and perused the contents.
‘Very well, legate Fronto – I presume – I will send to the ship and have your arrangements made. The first sailing will be just past dawn. Could you arrange to be at the seventh jetty in the port by sun-up?’
The legate nodded and reached for the tablet just as Fimbria swept it away. ‘I’m afraid I shall need to retain this to pass on to trierarch Sura to confirm your authorisation. You understand?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Just have it ready.’
Turning their back on the administrator they strode across the room to the bar and caught the attention of the innkeeper.
‘Officers?’
‘We need two rooms for the night, an evening meal and a morning call an hour before dawn.’
‘You have the relevant documents?’ The man held out a hand expectantly and Fronto handed over the well-worn travel authorisation sealed by Caesar. Every man wishing to partake of the inn’s hospitality would need a stamped pass or would be required to pay upfront. The innkeeper peered at the tablet, an eyebrow raised at the seal of the proconsul of Illyricum and Cisalpine Gaul. He nodded as he snapped it shut and passed it back. ‘Please find yourself a table and I will have food and drink brought to you.’
Fronto rubbed his eyes wearily and gestured to the bag on his shoulder questioningly.
‘Leave your kit here and I’ll have one of the boys take it up to a room for you, sir.’
Galronus glanced uncertainly at Fronto, remembering the troubles at Vienna, but Fronto simply dumped the bag gratefully on the bar and turned to stride away.
‘Will they be safe?’ the Remi officer asked quietly.
‘Here? Nowhere safer. The place is built on Roman coins and too high-profile for anyone to buy trouble in. Come on.’ They made their way to one of the tables near the open space and therefore within the reach of the fire’s welcoming warm glow. The tables on the edge here were busy; legionaries and lesser officers, functionaries of Cita’s supply system, occupying each bench and seat.
‘Any room for two tired officers?’ Fronto asked pointedly, in response to which a number of soldiers shuffled away, shifting their drinks, platters, dice and small piles of cash, leaving two stools at the end of a table, opposite one another.
The two men sank gratefully to the seats nodding their thanks to the men who had moved up to make room.
‘Our pleasure, sir. You just come from the north, sir?’
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. He could really do without chatting to the passing soldiery at this juncture, but politeness cost nothing and the man was simply being hospitable.
‘Hot-foot as it were from the north coast and bound for Rome, soldier. And you?’
‘Escort for a wagon full of furnishings and other goods for the legate of the Fourteenth legion, sir. To ease the hardship of winter quarters, I suspect.’ The man smiled a knowing smile and Fronto could not help but chuckle. He could only imagine what was in the wagon bound for Plancus’ tent.
‘Everything, sir’ the soldier said as if reading his thoughts. ‘Right down to a marble statue of a dancing satyr and some naked girls. Pride of place, that one.’
Fronto laughed again. ‘Do me a favour and try and damage some of it in your travels.’
‘More than my life’s worth, sir. I’d get my arse kicked right back to Ostia, and with nailed boots, too.’
This time even the recently-dour Galronus smiled. ‘Good luck on the roads north’ the Belgic officer said, stretching. ‘The Rhodanus valley’s safe enough, but the passage across the lands from Bibracte to Nemetocenna will be difficult if the weather turns, and it will do so any day now.’
The soldier nodded gratefully. ‘Thanks, sir. We’re pretty well organised with goods and escort, so we should be fine. There’s nothing happening on the trail upriver then, sir?’
‘No’ Fronto frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Well there’s not been many come back down from the campaign yet, sir, and the ones as passed through yesterday seemed concerned and in a bit of a hurry. Wouldn’t even exchange words with me.’
Fronto looked up sharply. ‘Two tribunes by any chance?’
‘Aye, sir. Proper posh they were, sir. Wouldn’t talk to anyone but Fimbria over there.’
Galronus had turned to the man now.
‘They were here yesterday?’
‘Yes sir. They came in after sunset in a real hurry. Arranged passage on a fast courier ship. I expect they sailed with her this morning, sir.’
Fronto and Galronus exchanged a look.
‘Thanks.’ Fronto pushed a couple of denarii over the table to the soldier. ‘Have a few drinks on us.’
The legionary grinned. ‘Cheers, sir’ he muttered, touching his forehead in salute and scurrying off to the bar to cash in his new coins for wine.
‘So,’ Fronto leaned across the table into an almost conspiratorial huddle, ‘if we needed any confirmation, there it is. Menenius and Hortius are only a day ahead of us and bound for Rome. Mark my words, Galronus, I’m going to find them and deal with them.’
The Remi officer leaned across the table toward him. ‘And I will help you when the time is right, but do not let your thirst for revenge cloud your judgement. The tribunes must pay for what they did to Tetricus and the others, but our first concern has to be Faleria and Clodius.’
Fronto nodded as that cold weight settled in his stomach again. He’d done everything possible on their long journey to keep his mind off the peril his sister was in and Galronus had pointedly avoided the subject, though whether to protect Fronto or for his own comfort was unclear. Suddenly it now felt as though a taboo had been lifted; a taboo that had covered them for eleven days.
‘You realise there’s every possibility that she’s not… that she…’
‘She is alive’ Galronus said flatly. ‘Do not allow yourself to think otherwise. Whether Clodius is working on Caesar’s orders or not, the man would not dare touch Faleria.’
‘He dragged her off the street and imprisoned her.’
‘But without harm as far as we know. Caesar would not harm her; you know that, and so Clodius would not dare. I, however, will harm him when I find him.’
Fronto nodded emphatically.
‘We need to work out a plan of action; before we get to Rome.’
‘Go to Clodius’ house. Kill everyone in the way’ Galronus suggested without a hint of humour.
‘Impossible and you know it. We would be slaughtered. Clodius has a small army at his command and a well defended house. The man is paranoid and for good reason. And if we did somehow get inside, he could simply kill her and dispose of the body before we got close.’
‘Then how can we deal with him?’
‘The same way he deals with everyone else’ Fronto sighed. ‘With fear. The only thing that will make Clodius defer and offer terms is when he knows he’s outclassed, outmanoeuvred and there’s no other option. He has a small army; we have to have a larger one.’
‘You want to hire an army? In Rome? With the legal restrictions on openly bearing arms?’
‘Screw the restrictions’ Fronto snapped. ‘We’re dealing with a cold criminal and we have to do whatever is required. Balbus has a force already assembled and he’s just waiting on my word to go for the man’s throat.’
‘He will not have enough.’
‘No. But it’s a start. When we get to Rome, you make your way to Balbus’ house and let him know what’s happening. Get him to ready his men for a fight. I’ll go to my townhouse. It’s still being repaired, but mother has a small fortune hidden in three different places under the floor. I know where they are, so I’ll go collect the funds and then hire us as many gladiators, thugs and retired veterans as I can find – everyone in the city who knows what end of a sword to hold. Then I’ll send them all to Balbus’ place and follow on. As soon as we have a big enough force we’ll go down to see Clodius and demand the release of Faleria or start to demolish his house with him still in it.’
Galronus nodded. Criminals and bullies were the same in every culture. It only took someone with a bigger stick to force them to back down.
‘You will have to describe the directions to Balbus’ house.’
‘I’ve never been there myself, but I know where it is. He’s described it before. Alright, from the Circus Maximus, you need to skirt the Palatine hill…’
* * * * *
The harbour of Ostia slid implacably toward them and never had Fronto been more desperate to set foot on land. The seasickness had taken a backseat during the journey, the worry over his sister’s captivity continuing to gnaw at him, and worsening with every league they sailed.
‘When Faleria and I are married,’ Galronus said suddenly, in an attempt to smash through the oppressive cloud that covered them both, ‘I would like you to be the auspex.’
Fronto blinked, his gloomy, negative reverie shattered by the sudden, bizarre request.
‘What?’ he said almost incredulously, turning from the rail and its view of the approaching dock.
‘When Faleria and I…’
‘I didn’t mishear you then? You’re really set on this?’ For some reason, the campaign season had almost driven his friend’s decision from Fronto’s mind, and now it seemed peculiar to think on it, especially given his sister’s predicament. And yet, he had to admit that, upon receiving the news of her captivity, he had not turned to his old friend Priscus, but had immediately reached for Galronus. Not because the ties that bound them were any stronger than with Priscus, but because at a gut level, Fronto knew how much Faleria meant to the Remi noble.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’re that sure she’s interested in you?’
‘She is.’
Fronto felt a smile crack through his tense shell. ‘You’re certainly not lacking in confidence, my friend. How do you know about the auspex? How do you know about Roman marriage at all?’
‘I’ve made some enquiries over the summer. It sounds as though your ceremonies are not too dissimilar to ours, though they seem to involve a lot more unnecessary complications and a longer period of betrothal.’
Fronto leaned against the rail and folded his arms. ‘Do I really strike you as the right man to read the auspices from the guts of a pig? Even my bandy-legged fishwife Goddess seems to have abandoned me.’
‘You know as well as I, Marcus, that no one is expected to actually divine anything. It’s a show. I may have trouble rounding up many of the witnesses, though. Faleria may have to choose all ten.’
Fronto shook his head and smiled. ‘Witnesses are the least of your worries.’
‘Then you will do it?’
‘If you can get Faleria to agree to take you on, I’ll do it, yes.’
‘Good. And now to more immediate matters: look over there.’
Fronto frowned and followed his friend’s pointing finger. Across the harbour, a sleek, low ship was making for a dock at the far side of the port.
‘It’s a liburna, privately owned. Nice looking thing. My best friend’s uncle had one when I was a kid; used it for trade runs between Puteoli and Sardinia. Fast and light, but only useful for small cargo, ‘cause the hold’s not very big.’
‘It was in dock in Massilia when we set off.’
Fronto shrugged. ‘We’ve travelled fast for a trireme, but a liburna can travel faster. He probably set off after loading. We came empty.’
But Galronus’ eyes remained locked on the ship. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘I personally don’t care. It’s the ship with those two slimy bastards on that I’m bothered about, and that’ll have docked yesterday.’
Their attention was pulled back to their destination as one of the sailors bellowed a call and men began to run around on the deck, the rowers giving a last pull and then raising their oars as the vessel coasted in toward the dock. Workers in the port ran up and down the dockside, preparing to take ropes and help the boarding ramp settle into place. Boys scurried into position to do some hopeful begging from the passengers on this clearly important ship.
Fronto gripped the rail hard and waited for the bump, steadying himself. The ship settled to the dock with very little disturbance and the two officers waited for the ramp to be run out as two of the sailors hurried up to them carrying their bags.
‘Thanks. We’ll take them now.’
Throwing the bags over their shoulders, they hurried down the ramp and onto the dockside. As the begging children crowded toward them, Fronto pulled half a dozen small, cheap coins from his purse and cast them to one side, drawing the gaggle of shouting boys and girls out of their path.
‘Come on. Let’s go find the courier station.’
Galronus nodded as he moved on through the crowded port. They had decided on the speed afforded by a horse rather than taking Caesar’s trireme up the Tiber to the city. Given the river’s current and the traffic upon it, they would gain at least half an hour by horse.
Polyneikes took a deep breath and concentrated on the wooden crutch beneath his right arm that clattered along the stones of the port in time with his limp.
It was one of the hardest things to do, he reflected as he peered between the heads of the crowd: to fake such an injury. Many people could affect a limp and heave themselves along on a crutch, but it was too easy to do badly. Most people ended up limping with the wrong leg to the crutch, which was a rookie mistake.
Five years of training with some of the most dangerous men in Athens had taught him tricks that most people in the business would not even know could be done. The single raised shoulder was easy enough, particularly with the crutch, but to temporarily disfigure the neck and pull in one’s head so that one appeared to be a malformed half-man was a real talent, and Polyneikes would always be grateful to Crino for his expensive lessons – may the bastard rot in the pits of Hades for all eternity.
The only thing that still rankled about affecting such a disguise was the smell. To pull off the guise of a twisted beggar one really had to spend an hour or two carefully urinating oneself and saturating the clothes and even defecating and making sure the smell clung.
Still, for twenty gold aurei and the chance of many future jobs, Polyneikes was willing to live with a little shit.
His reputation was unmatched in Ostia, and even in Rome his services were sought and commanded an above-average fee. But a reputation was never too strong that it was not worth strengthening with ties to wealthy, high class patrons.
His hand reached down the wooden crutch and his fingers caressed the tip of the blade attached to it with easily breakable twine.
He’d been lucky, and he knew it. The patrons had been uncertain as to whether the target would even pass this way. It seemed there was some doubt as to whether they would reach Italia at all. Not that it would have mattered really. He’d been paid up front and if his target had not shown in a week, he would have lost the chance to improve his reputation, but he would still be living like a senator for a week or two.
But then the ship had arrived. The Glory of Venus; Caesar’s own ship. It was hard to miss the arrival in port of such a vessel, given the fact that the entire place quickly rearranged itself to allow a clear passage to dock. And even if the ship had carried half a city’s population, he’d still have been able to identify the pair of them from the description: ‘A dishevelled veteran soldier, probably not dressed as an officer, but with the look of a predator, and a tall, moustachioed Gaul in the kit of an auxiliary cavalryman. They would have stood out in any crowd.
The two men were making their way toward the courier station, where two legionaries lounged by the gate, leaning casually against the wall with the look of men who expected nothing more than to watch the world go by until their shift ended.
As was always the case with crowds in places like Ostia, the currents pulled three ways. Those with legitimate business went about it heedless of the two officers, often getting in their way until asked to move. Those whose business was illegal or underhand in some way scurried away from them, avoiding any possible confrontation with authority. And those whose business it was to accost strangers pushed through the crowd to get to them: traders; whores; beggars…
Polyneikes angled his approach. His very realistic limited mobility slowed any action and made planning that much more essential. Carefully, he swung and weaved, giving the impression of a man trying to keep on his feet despite his terrible afflictions, while in fact threading a speedy and neat passage between the crowds toward the two figures with the bags slung over their shoulders. He could easily earn an extra eight aurei if he could dispatch the big Gaul too, but Polyneikes was no fool. Twenty was plenty, as he was wont to say, and escaping the scene after one perfect, deadly strike was easy enough to a well-trained man. Whereas giving in to greed and attempting a second blow was tempting the Fates, and he was not about to push Atropos into snipping his thread this early in his career.
As he estimated the distance at ten paces and mentally added a count of six for the difficulty of movement, Polyneikes the assassin began to count under his breath.
Twelve.
The Roman had turned to speak to the Gaul. The pair were completely oblivious, It was almost too easy. His fingers closed on the pommel of the knife and gave a gentle tug.
The blade, a wicked thing of Parthian origin that had been sharpened to the point where it could almost cut through sound, came loose from the twine easily, the twin severed loops falling unnoticed to the ground beneath the ‘beggar’. His tattered, filthy wool cloak swung to and fro, concealing the glinting iron blade.
Six.
His hand twisted, the thumb releasing the tie carefully crafted to the inside of the cloak to keep it in position and covering the knife. The cloak billowed slightly as the knife began to rise.
‘…at the Porta Trigemina’ the Roman was saying. ‘Then I’ll make my way…’
Polyneikes’ grip changed on the hilt, raising it for the blow.
‘Not so fast, sonny.’
The Greek assassin’s world collapsed around him as a hand clamped round his mouth and dragged him back through the crowd, a blade simultaneously sliding up between his ribs and plunging deep into his black heart. His eyes wide, he watched the dishevelled Roman and the big Gaul disappearing off through the crowd, completely unaware.
They were completely lost from sight when the hand came away from his mouth and he hit the cobbles, no longer able to scream as Atropos of the Fates snipped the thread and his eyes glazed over. By the time his death was noticed by anyone who cared in the press of bodies and the cry went up, both his targets and his assailant were gone.
Fronto and Galronus rode past the multitudinous beggars, traders, whores and bustling city folk outside the Porta Trigemina and slowed only slightly at the gate where two of the private militia raised on the orders of Pompey nominally monitored the traffic in and out of the city. The bored looking men barely glanced up, even at the unusual sight of a trouser-wearing Gaul entering the sacred bounds of Rome.
Once inside, Fronto glanced off toward the slope of the Aventine and then refocused as his mind locked onto something that had reached his ears but had not initially registered. Frowning, he tapped Galronus on the elbow.
‘Go to Balbus’ place. I’ll see you there soon as I can.’
The Remi noble nodded and rode on toward the Forum Boarium at a steady pace, allowing the city’s populace time and room to get out of the way. Watching him go for a moment, Fronto slid from the saddle, hooked the reins over his forearm, and strode over to the stall of the merchant whose cries had caught his attention. Peering up and down the trinkets on display, his eyes fell on exactly what he’d hoped to find. Picking it up, he examined it a little closer and, satisfied, held it up to the stallholder.
‘How much?’
‘To a soldier? Ten denarii, to help you save the republic, eh?’
Without taking his eyes from his new acquisition, Fronto fished in his purse and passed the coins across. The trader blinked in surprise at some mug paying the extremely inflated asking price without haggling down at least a third of the way. Avarice lending speed to his hands, he quickly stashed away the coins and attended to someone else before this visiting officer decided he’d been cheated.
Fronto turned away from the stall and smiled with the first hint of real satisfaction in days. Reaching up, he undid the leather thong hanging around his neck and slid the strange bow-legged Gaulish woman from it. For a long moment, he stared at the amulet in distaste, wondering just how different the season might have been if he had not insulted his patron Goddess with the horrible little image.
Teeth bared, he turned and flung the offending article out across the crowd and into the Tiber, where it disappeared from sight and the world of men. With a deep breath of relief, he slid the new, well-crafted bronze figurine of Fortuna onto the thong and retied it around his neck.
With a sudden flash of inspiration, he returned to the stall.
‘Do you have Nemesis, too?’
The trader, his greed propelling him back to his new gullible best customer, nodded and reached down to the table, collecting a small ivory image of a winged Goddess with a sword in her hand.
‘Just the one. Elephant ivory and good work. Very rare.’ The trader narrowed his eyes. ‘Not cheap.’
Reaching into his purse, Fronto withdrew a gold aureus and dropped it onto the table. The stallholder almost frothed at the mouth. ‘I don’t have much change’ he hazarded.
‘Keep what you think’s fair and donate the rest to the shrine of the Goddess next time you’re passing. I’m not paying you over the odds; I’m paying a healthy value for the favour of Nemesis.’
As the trader almost pounced on the coin, Fronto added the new amulet to the cord round his neck, a grim smile crossing his face. Now he was a little more prepared. The two divine ladies that he worshipped above all and who had always looked after him now dangled together over his heart: Fortuna and Nemesis; luck and vengeance,
Gripping the reins, he hauled himself back up into the saddle and trotted off in the direction of the still-ruinous, part-repaired house of his ancestors