Priscus left the house rarely to begin with, unsure of his ability to walk any sustained distance. The first few months, however, had seen a tremendous change as his leg strengthened. He still limped, his foot angled uncomfortably inwards, and occasionally had to stop and rest against something but Fronto was convinced, with great relief, that by the end of his convalescence, his old friend would be mobile, if uncomfortable. As Priscus put a brave face on his injuries, so did his companions help by turning the horrific wounds of the previous year into a source of endless humorous jibes.
“I’m sort of getting used to being back home and not facing screaming Gauls and biting women and having to take a shit in a bucket while the latrines are being dug. I have to admit I’m starting to dread the call in spring.”
Crispus turned to look at Fronto, frowning.
“You fool nobody Marcus. If I said such a thing, you would believe me. You, however, have a vine staff for a spine. I have watched you many times, and you’re only truly happy when you stand facing a screaming enemy with a sword in your hand.”
Fronto winced.
“Don’t say things like that near Faleria. She already has enough ammunition for making my life difficult without you providing a character reference!”
Priscus slugged down the last of his wine.
“Where is Galronus, anyway? I thought we were going to the Circus Flaminius for the camel racing?”
“I imagine he’s only just now waking up with a thick head in the bed chamber of some delightful young lady in the subura. He’ll be here in plenty of time. He’s never late for the first race, you know that.”
Priscus opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when the door opened with a polite knock. The shiny, wrinkled, olive pate of Posco, the house’s chief slave, poked round the door.
“Master Marcus? There are visitors for you. I have shown them into the atrium.”
Fronto frowned. He and Posco had known one another long enough that he knew the little Greek’s signals; the two were far more friends than master and slave these days and Posco rarely even told Fronto about his visitors, dealing with the various irritating issues himself without bothering his master. The stress he laid on the word ‘visitors’, however, meant that these particular people were out of the ordinary.
“Would you like them shown through or to meet them there?”
Fronto frowned.
“I think you should lead them on in, thank you, Posco.”
With a nod, the little man exited the room and shut the door.
“Visitors?” Priscus raised an eyebrow. “Can’t be the general. He won’t be back here for a few weeks. Who then?”
Fronto shrugged.
“We’re about to find out.”
The three waited a minute, listening intently. A number of voices out in the corridor became gradually louder. Posco and three others. One had a deep and rich voice, one somewhat miscellaneous. The third…
“That’s Cicero!”
Fronto turned to Crispus.
“You sure?”
“I know that voice. Heard it often enough in camp.”
The pair fell silent as the footsteps reached the far side of the door and stopped. Posco swung the portal open and stepped through with a slight bow.
“Masters Marcus Caelius Rufus, Quintus Tullius Cicero, and Marcus Tullius Cicero.”
Fronto stared.
Quintus he was familiar with from the last two years of campaigning, Marcus Caelius Rufus was prominent enough to be a household name as praetor, tribune and public speaker. Marcus Cicero was something of a surprise: the great orator was not the most favourable advocate of Caesar and deigning to visit one of the general’s senior officers seemed out of character.
“Gentlemen? To what do we owe this pleasure?”
The elder Cicero brother shot questioning glances at Crispus and Priscus and then let his gaze fall on Fronto.
“What we have to say, Fronto, is rather private.”
Fronto raised his brow.
“Unless you’re here to tell me you slept with my sister or something, these two can stay. Even them, since they’ve met Faleria…”
Cicero frowned meaningfully at Fronto, but his younger brother tapped his shoulder.
“I know them, Marcus. I’ve fought alongside them. Trust Fronto; he knows what he’s doing.”
Fronto’s stomach began to churn. Politics. This had the stink of politics all over it.
“Come on, then. What brings three such eminent folk to my house?”
He gestured to the various spare couches and seats in the room and the three men filed in and sat. Cicero manoeuvred his toga into a more comfortable position.
“I was, to be frank, rather hoping that Caesar would be here. I hear rumours that he is returning to Rome from Illyricum.”
Fronto shrugged noncommittally and Cicero steepled his fingers, gazing over the tips and addressing his host in that deep and rich tone.
“It seems that a viper has arisen in Rome these years past.”
Fronto laughed.
“A single one? A nest, I would have said.”
The orator glowered at him but otherwise ignored the comment.
“This particular viper has struck time and again and is causing troubles for the more reasonable men in Rome. I fear we have mutual enemies.”
Fronto laughed.
“All my enemies are wild, hairy men that paint their faces and run around naked trying to kill Romans. A bit like the Senate, but with better hygiene.”
Crispus shot him a warning glance, but once more, to his credit, Cicero ignored the comment.
“Publius Clodius Pulcher. The man forced my exile two years ago and it is only through the judicious use of contacts and influence that I secured my recall. My brother here had his house burned down last year by one of Clodius’ gangs, merely, I fear, for being associated with me. Young Caelius here is, however, in slightly more serious trouble. He used to be an associate of Clodius you see but, following a somewhat scandalous affair with the snake’s sister, he finds himself at the sharp end of Clodius’ fangs. I won’t go into the details at this point, but suffice it to say that he stands accused of murder, attempted murder, accepting payment for murder, assault, civil disturbance and wilful damage to property.”
Fronto gave a noncommittal shrug.
“So one of Clodius’ friends tries to knock up his sister and falls foul of them. Politicians are always doing things like this and if he’s one of Clodius’ cronies, why in the name of Fortuna should any of us give a shit? Particularly you two. And why come to me anyway?”
Cicero nodded.
“It is a good question. Caelius here has a great deal of inside knowledge of the activities and associates of Clodius and his sister that could be used in the right circumstances to bring the viper down. Can you see the value of that?”
Fronto nodded.
“Fair enough. You save Caelius and you can use him to bring Clodius down. Why me though?”
The orator glanced across at his brother and nodded. The young staff officer leaned forward.
“Quite simply, Fronto, we had nowhere else to turn. We all have a mutual enemy that we share with Caesar. We were hoping he would be here, but I told Caelius and my brother that you were the man we needed. You see, my brother is going to defend Caelius in court and make Clodius and his sister look like fools. The problem is that Clodius has eyes and knives everywhere. Anyone remotely involved in the politics of the city cannot be trusted, and nor can anyone with mercenary tendencies.”
Crispus narrowed his eyes.
“You ask a lot master Cicero. I agree that Fronto is probably the only man in Rome you can say without fear of falsehood is completely free of any possibility of influence from Clodius, but to involve him is to drop him in the centre of what is, to all intents and purposes, a war between gangs and villains. You are asking him to bodyguard a man that, shortly, could become the most wanted man in Rome.”
Fronto gri
nned.
“Now it’s starting to sound more like fun.”
Crispus turned to look in surprise at his friend.
“Well” Fronto said, rubbing his hands, “it was all starting to sound political and boring, but if you’re talking about giving a quick knee in the happy sack to a bunch of villains round the back of the temple of Janus, then count me in.”
Priscus laughed out loud.
“If you’re fighting gangs, you’ll need a gang of your own. We’ll have to gather together a few of the less delicate types we know in the city. Fortunately, I know quite a few.”
Fronto nodded and turned to the visitors, his eyes narrowing.
“For young Cicero, here, who leads a good reserve charge and had our back at Vesontio, I would happily do whatever I can to help. And for you too, master Cicero. But I want to state for the record that I don’t trust anyone who’s ever had anything to do with that Clodius character and from what I see nobody ever gets themselves truly free of him. We’ll help you, but if you turn on us afterwards I’ll see to it that my friend Galronus gets to show us some of the less savoury Belgic practices using you as a subject. Fair?”
Caelius Rufus, his face straight and stony, nodded quietly.
“Right then. How’s this going to work? I presume you’ll need Caelius around a lot to go through trial stuff?”
Cicero pursed his lips.
“Make sure nothing happens to him, keep him either here or in some location you deem safe, and I will visit from time to time as I need to speak with him on the subject of his defence.” He turned back to his brother. “You are sure this is a good idea?”
The younger Cicero nodded.
“There’s nobody in Rome that I’d rely on more for something like this.”
Fronto leaned back in his seat and grinned at Caelius.
“Do you like to gamble?”
Cicero stopped in the middle of rising and arranging his toga.
“The idea is to keep him safe from Clodius. Surely you can’t be thinking of taking him to the games?”
Another answering grin from Fronto.
“I’m most at home in the sweaty armpit of the city and I’ll get a few friends along with us. Clodius seems to have a habit of burning down people’s houses anyway, so I think it might just be a little safer to be out in a public place.”
He turned to Priscus.
“Now about trustworthy thugs, Gnaeus: any names leap to mind?”
* * * * *
A narrowed eye peered through the balustrade and blinked as dust fell across it. Down below and across the roofs, small as ants, the figures of Fronto, Priscus and their small group strode along the paving beside the Circus Maximus.
The past two weeks had been fascinating viewing with all manner of interesting events. Firstly, some very highly influential politicians had visited them at Fronto’s house, including the great lawyer Cicero. Then things had settled into an odd routine. The ex-tribune Caelius had joined Fronto and his cronies, along with this growing gang of what could only be described as ‘heavies’ and the small and very odd party frequented games, drinking pits, gambling houses and more in the seedier districts of the city. Oh that was hardly surprising for Fronto and Priscus, and even for Crispus these days, but for Caelius? And with what appeared to be one of the Belgae nobles hanging around with them too?
Their shadow had observed them almost continually for a fortnight and had seen no less than four close calls where arguments and insults with other groups almost exploded into full street warfare. For the first week, he’d been perplexed. The situation was well and truly baffling. Fronto and his compatriots spending their winter break taking noblemen and foreigners into the most dangerous parts of Rome and starting fights?
Then he’d made a few enquiries, spoken to some people, and learned of the upcoming trial and its connection to Clodius. Piecing that together with Caelius, the Ciceros and Caesar’s men, he could well assume that the solid Fronto had been chosen as an appropriate guardian for the accused.
Close behind, someone cleared their throat meaningfully.
Paetus turned sharply, but the noise was innocently directed at someone else and nobody was paying him any attention. The ordinary folk of Rome passed by along the walkway at the southern edge of the Palatine, beneath the hallowed portico of the great Temple of Apollo Palatinus. Once again Paetus chided himself for lurking like some mischievous child. He was free and in no danger of being recognised.
Standing, he brushed off the dark blue tunic that seemed to have picked up so much dust. Down below, Fronto and his group approached a street salesman and his cart stacked with bread, cheese and other nourishing basics. The games today would be big. The great Sicilian charioteer Fuscus was to run the first and third races today, but Apollodorus of Nikopolis had also drawn the third race and, while the man had nowhere near as many victories under his belt as Fuscus, he was tipped by all the gambling dens as the man to watch. People had come two days’ ride to watch the races today.
And in the midst of this, Paetus moved unseen.
Getting away from the slave train during the winter had been ridiculously easy. It had been mostly a matter of timing. He’d waited until they had almost reached Russellae, only a couple of days from Rome, and had then given himself a deep cut on his leg. Periodically, he would prise the wound open so that it bled profusely and take a mouthful of tinny crimson liquid, waiting until he was near one of the guards to cough it back out. A day and a half of feigning such critical illness almost did for him for real, as the continual reopening of the wound left him feeling dizzy and light headed and stumbling as he walked.
But the ruse had been successful. The morning they rose after their stop at Russellae on the way to the markets of Rome, Paetus repeated the blood-coughing procedure with a great flourish, the illness being made all the more realistic by his now pallid, rubbery features. As he coughed a mouthful of blood over the boot of one of the guards, he collapsed as though in a faint. The guard used his muckied boot a couple of times on Paetus’ ribs and the Roman ‘slave’ felt at least two bones crack, but kept himself as still as death, ignoring the pounding.
“Chalk up another!” the guard shouted to his mate and, as the slaves were roped together once more and began to move, two of the soldiers picked up Paetus by the limbs and flung him unceremoniously into the ditch near the road for the carrion feeders to work on.
Once the slave train had gone, Paetus picked himself up and began the long and painful trip to the city. His ribs still gave him trouble now, over two months later, but he would have taken the punishment tenfold to find himself in the position he was now.
While his family were gone to the Elysian fields, his home still stood, after a fashion. The building had been burgled and ransacked repeatedly since falling empty. It had been claimed by the state upon confirmation of Paetus’ death and would be demolished to make way for something else, but public works were a slow business in Rome and Paetus had found the boarded-up shell of his house standing forlornly, reminding him of what Clodius and Caesar had ripped away from him.
It had taken him less than an hour to locate and retrieve the hidden stash of coins, buried in an amphora beneath the dining room floor for a time when it would be needed. It was hardly wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, but would give him funding for the best part of a year for food and lodging in Rome if he used it carefully.
And so he had become someone new. He’d decided to call himself Plautus, for humour value, but had stayed so alone the past two months that the only person who had asked for his name was the lowlife landlord who rented him his basic room on the Caelian Hill. A shave, a haircut and a trip to the baths had turned him from a Gaulish vagrant into a Roman once more, and a few shrewd purchases in the markets had dressed him like one again.
It had taken him a few weeks to organise everything and then he had begun his task. His room was full of wax tablets that detailed the daily movements and activities of Publius Clodius Pu
lcher and his cronies. It had come as a surprise to learn that Fronto had come back to Rome for the winter, as the legate of the Tenth had a notorious love of provincial dives and tried to avoid prolonged contact with his family. But that knowledge had given him his first chance to learn more of Caesar’s activity, since the general seemed to be wintering in the provinces.
Paetus was a patient man, given to forward planning and care and, although eager to set about righting the wrongs that certain unscrupulous demagogues had perpetrated upon himself and others, he recognised that acting rashly would likely bring his revenge to a brief and very unsatisfactory conclusion. It could take years to do it right.
He leaned back, thinking to himself, pondering the near future. He would have to use some of his finances to arrange an income. Perhaps the buying and selling of goods? He had enough experience in military logistics, after all.
His attention was attracted sharply by the mention of Fronto’s name nearby. He almost spun around to look, but managed to stop himself in time.
“Which one is Fronto?” a deep voice asked.
“See the one that’s dragging his leg and lurching a little and the one with the green tunic? Fronto’s the one between them, but all of them are dangerous, even the Gaul behind them. Try not to get tangled with them. Leave the thugs to get them out of the way. A common street fight, as you see every day the races are on. Fronto will likely be expecting something, but he won’t have time to react to everything. Just make sure you’re quick and not seen.”
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) Page 7