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 a leaded 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, smilin
g 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 doctor?”
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 doctor?”
“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 twenty minutes 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’d have loved to have seen that smashed nose, but t
he 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.
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