“Are you mad? There must be fifty of them.”
Galronus growled angrily, but a voice cut through the early evening air from down by the edge of the marsh beyond the Via Sacra and distracted them.
“Little boys intent on mischief should not be out so late. Your mothers will be worried.”
Priscus sighed.
“Looks like we’re in the shit now, lads. Fight or run?”
Milo shook his head. “Run if we can.”
The situation was worsened with the sound of the brief struggle among the buildings behind them coming to a close. The dozen men they had brought along had hardly bought them enough time to argue their course, let alone pursue it.
Galronus nodded to them.
“I will distract them. You run back.”
Priscus stared at him.
“The only way you have to distract that lot is to let them beat you to a pulp. Come on.”
Without waiting for conversation or argument, Priscus ducked out around the temple and ran down the slope, his lame leg giving him a peculiar and ungainly gait, across the white paving of the Via Sacra, where he disappeared into the shadows around the shrine of Jupiter on the far side.
He stopped, catching his breath, heaving in air, as Galronus and Milo followed suit, pelting down the hill at breakneck speed and across the open ground in between. Priscus looked up, to the left and right, trying to decide what to do, as he rubbed his hip vigorously. His leg felt as though it were on fire. He couldn’t keep this up for long. He couldn’t tell the other two, but there was no hope of him getting back as far as the house of the Falerii.
Philopater’s men were emerging between the buildings on the Velian hill, looking down the slope, trying to spot their prey. Other small groups of men, almost certainly another part of the Egyptian’s force, were slowly stalking down the Via Sacra from the forum, converging on their current location. To the other side, Clodius and his half dozen burly thugs were closing the net. The members of the general public had, to a man, vanished, making themselves conveniently absent in the face of such danger.
“We’re hemmed in on three sides.”
The shrine in whose shadows they lurked unseen was small, nothing more than an ancient altar surrounded by a brick wall as high as a tall man and with an iron gate; hardly a place to hide or defend against a large force.
“We’re going to have to make a break for it and head up the Palatine.”
The others nodded their agreement and, taking a deep breath, Priscus sprang out of the darkness, the other two men hot on his heels, and, ignoring the screaming pain in his hip and thigh, loped in his strange manner as fast as he could up the cobbled street that led up to the heights of the Palatine, closed shops lining it as it ascended into the gloom. Here and there, at the top, lights flickered among the houses of those wealthy enough to afford land on the hill that was the very heart of Rome.
Panting with the ascent, they passed the shattered pylons to either side of the street that marked the ruins of one of the city’s most ancient gates, disused for centuries, and finally crested the top. The road led to a wide open space with an ornamental fountain at the centre, ornate decoration around the edges. From here half a dozen smaller roads led off among the wealthy villas, but Priscus focused on the one straight ahead that would take them across the plateau and which opened into the great stairway that led down toward the end of the Circus and the Porta Capena.
“That way!”
The three men took a desperate breath, becoming aware in the sudden quiet of the noises of close pursuit back down the street. Sharing a quick, desperate glance, they ran on into the open space. Already, the former centurion’s leg was juddering, threatening to collapse under the strain and he was starting to fall behind the others. By the time they crossed the Palatine, he would be flat on his face.
Priscus cursed himself as they ran for underestimating the audacity of the man. They were in the very centre of Rome, just after nightfall. There were fewer people about in the chilly damp air than during the day or on a warmer night, but still there must have been at least twenty people witnessed the attack tonight. The man clearly had no fear of discovery or recrimination. It was said that Clodius ‘owned the streets’, and Priscus was starting to see how the saying had come about.
He was trying to figure out a way to gain distance on their pursuers and keep himself in the game when a squawk from ahead startled him. A thrown rock connected with Galronus’ skull hard enough to knock him from his feet. The Remi nobleman fell with a shout, rolling on the pavement. In former times, Priscus would have leapt lithely over him. Not now. Not with the leg the way it was. He tried to clear the rolling form, but his foot barely left the ground and he came down with a crash, falling over the prone form of Galronus.
Milo skidded to a halt and turned. Priscus waved at him.
“Go on. Get back to the house and tell them what happened.”
Priscus glanced around them in desperation. Only three men had emerged at the top of the slope, one of Philopater’s smaller gangs that had approached from the forum end. If he and Galronus could just stand and take them on…
A shout made him turn back. Milo had stopped. Another force of perhaps a score of men was approaching out of the gloom from the direction of the circus, cresting the slope on the very road they were making for. Milo backed toward his fallen companions.
“We may be in trouble.”
Priscus tried to rise, heaving the stunned Galronus as he did. Neither of them had the strength or stamina to stand. Milo backed up to them and ground his teeth. Clodius appeared over the crest of the hill behind them, followed by Philopater and a large group of murderous men.
Briefly, Priscus considered the other exits from the square. They could perhaps have got to the Velabrum and descended the hill there to get lost among the shops and narrow streets. But there was simply not enough time and, even had there been, he had not the strength. There was nowhere to run as the two forces converged on the three men, trapped between the pincers in a vice of mercenaries. Lights in the nearby houses went out as self-preservation led their occupants to an expedient ignorance of events in the square outside.
“It would appear that the Gods are favouring you tonight, Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus. And your friends.”
Priscus frowned as he regarded the man who effectively controlled the streets of the city. Clodius and Philopater had stopped at the edge of the square, their followers gathering around them.
Glancing over his shoulder he heaved a sigh of relief.
Cestus strode out of the front ranks of the other force, the hulking figure of Lod, the Celtic giant beside him. The former Gladiator bore no blade, according to Roman law, but the wooden stave he carried would be, in his capable hands, better than a sword in most.
The small warrior crouched close to the trio of desperate men.
“It would appear that the lady Faleria is right: master Fronto’s suicidal bravado is infectious.”
Priscus grinned, heaving in air in deep gulps.
“How the hell did you know where to find us?”
Cestus laughed.
“Good grief! I’ve had men shadowing you since you left the house. I’m not about to allow a repeat of what happened to Fronto. I have a reputation to maintain.”
Priscus turned again as Clodius shouted to them.
“Be grateful. You’ve been given a reprieve, but the sky is lowering by the hour and it will fall on you and yours presently.”
The man turned and strode off among his men. Philopater continued to glare at them, lingering for a moment then, grinning, drew a finger across his throat meaningfully and turned to leave.
Milo looked across at Priscus, who had begun to chuckle.
“What’s so bloody funny?”
“Did you see the shape of his nose? Like a strawberry!”
Chapter 22
(Late October: House of the Falerii in Rome.)
Fronto slipped his legs over the side of t
he bed in the large room that had once been his father’s and let his bare feet fall to the marble floor with a cold slap.
“Get back in.”
“Not a chance in Hades, Faleria.”
“You’re in no state to be walking around. Lucilia said at least a day before we were to let you even get up, let alone walk around.”
“It’s just bruising and the odd crack, Faleria. I’ve suffered worse in the stands at the circus. Where are they all?”
Faleria sighed.
“They’re in the summer triclinium discussing what to do next.”
Nodding, Fronto slowly pushed himself upright and, wobbling for a moment, began to stretch his arms and gently test his legs. Certain moves with his left arm sent waves of pain through his shoulder and chest, any sharp movement in his neck was excruciating and there was a constant dull pain in his head but, other than that, he appeared to be in working order. Frowning, he took a tentative step forward. No problem there. They seemed to have left his legs alone nicely.
“I’m fine. A bit of exercise and a couple of cups of good unwatered wine to wash away the headache and I’ll be back to normal.”
“You’re an idiot, my brother.”
He turned and grinned at her.
“Your insults are getting formulaic, Faleria.”
“I worry about you. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He moved toward the door and then stopped, a frown on his face.
“Where is Lucilia, anyway? I haven’t seen her in hours. I thought at one point she was never going to let me out of her sight again.”
Faleria cast her eyes downwards.
“What?”
“We had a little chat, Marcus.”
His eyes narrowed as he turned back toward her.
“About?”
“About Verginius and Carvalia. Don’t be angry with me, Marcus.”
Fronto’s eyes hardened and he began to grind his teeth.
“I specifically forbade her from talking to you about this.”
Faleria nodded.
“It was a long time ago, Marcus. It doesn’t pain me to talk about it like it does you.” She smiled weakly. “And her reasons for enquiring appeal to me.”
Fronto shook his head.
“She’s an impulsive girl with idiotic ideas.”
Faleria fixed him with a strange look.
“She’s been in Rome for over a week and has not yet even asked about the possibility of visiting the house of the Caecilii. Do you really think she has any intention of meeting her proposed match? Are you blind, daft or simply wrapping yourself in clothes of denial, Marcus?”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with this, Faleria. Go see her and try to persuade her to meet the Caecilii. I have more important matters to attend to.”
Faleria watched him leave the room and turn the corner before smiling that weak smile again.
“I’m not convinced about that, my brother.”
Fronto stormed through the house, grumbling. Since waking with a start to hear about Priscus’ near miss in the forum, his mood had slowly slipped from disgruntlement into a deeper anger, but the fresh knowledge that Lucilia was prying into areas that were none of her business and causing Faleria pain, whatever she said, had pushed him into borderline fury. He ground his teeth as he slapped across the marble. Even the very air smelled angry and acrid.
Dithering for a moment, realising that goose pimples were rising on his flesh in the cold of the night and that his bare feet were not helping, he detoured by his room, slipped on his boots and gathered his scarf and a cloak before heading out toward the triclinium.
As he strode in through the door, a heated debate was in progress and the voices tailed off slowly, the occupants looking up at him.
Had his mood been lighter, he would have turned his surprise at the presence of Caesar and young Cicero into a quip. Instead, he continued to issue the low rumble of discontent that had begun back in his room.
“Fronto? I was given to believe you were recovering and would not be joining us?”
He glared at the general.
“Frankly, this is my house, Caesar. When plots are being hatched in it, I like to be involved.”
He nodded to Priscus and Galronus, sitting wearily back on a couch next to Milo. The Belgic officer was tending to a patch of bloody, matted hair with a damp cloth.
“I hear Clodius actually had the nerve to attack you in the streets?”
Priscus nodded.
“There were plenty of people about to start with, but I think you’d have trouble finding a witness if you tried. He organised it well: after dark, but during the early lull when most people are indoors eating. I’m afraid we lost some good men tonight.”
Fronto shook his head and then winced at the pain that brought, striding across the room to the flask of wine on the table and taking a swig directly from it.
“I told you we had to deal with him directly.”
Caesar shook his head.
“It’s still not the time. Besides, after tonight every gang and private force the senators can muster will be out in the streets. It looks extremely bad for the government if one man’s force is allowed to effectively control the streets. They will have to do something about it, and that means fielding their own gangs to try and maintain order.”
Milo leaned forward.
“But that’s just asking for trouble; an escalation. Clodius has the edge on the streets. He has the largest gang in Rome and everyone knows it. If other people start trying to muscle him out, there’s going to be trouble.”
Fronto smiled.
“And that gives us the chaos we need to deal with him unnoticed.”
Again, Caesar shook his head.
“He has an army, Fronto. You’ll never get near enough.”
“I’m not having a repeat of the last discussion we had here.”
Caesar sighed.
“The streets are becoming too dangerous for a man to walk alone. The senate cannot keep control, and as soon as there are more gangs out in the night, eruptions will occur. If we sit back out of the way, Clodius is likely to make a slip. With the increase in violence, something will happen and he will be named. Then there will be a trial and he can be dealt with in the correct manner.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Banishment is not good enough. I want his head on a spike, pecked by crows.”
“But once he is tried and banished and out of the city, a great many options open up, Fronto. He will lose his land and his money. Without the money he won’t be able to pay his thugs.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And outside the pomerium, there are no weapon laws and soldiers can be soldiers, if you follow me?”
Fronto blinked.
“You would actually consider open war against him?”
“As I said, there are many options out there, but not within the city. He is just too powerful in Rome. Let things progress naturally and wait until he becomes a viable target, Marcus.”
Fronto sighed.
“I…”
He stopped and frowned.
“What time is it? I assume I slept through the evening meal?”
Priscus nodded.
“Hours ago. So what…”
But by now they were all frowning.
“Smoke!“ shouted Cestus, and rose hurriedly from his couch, rushing to the door. “That’s smoke. Something’s burning!”
As the room burst into activity, Fronto wheeled and ran from the room, stopping in the open peristyle garden outside. Spinning around in panic, he saw smoke rising from the rear rooms of the house, where the wall backed on to another street, a second column from the roof around the bath house, and a third from the atrium area at the front.
He shook his head desperately.
“Priscus? Cestus? Get your men out and check the house over. Get the slaves onto putting out any fires they can find.”
Paying them no further attention, he ran around the corner and into the
main area of the house, his head snapping this way and that. The vestibule was filling with roiling smoke and orange flame licked at the front door and danced along the wall, mocking the altar to the house’s guardian spirits. The room where he had so recently been indisposed was empty; he could see directly through the doorway.
Ignoring the thumping in his head, he turned to his right and ran toward the apartments. As he entered the darker corridor that led to them and to the baths beyond, Faleria appeared from a side door, helping their mother, who was coughing and shaking.
“Marcus! What’s happened?”
Fronto took a deep breath. Without even checking, he knew damn well what had happened.
“The house has been fired, Faleria. The front door’s impassable, so get mother out into the garden where she can catch her breath. The servants and slaves will be coming through there too, and Priscus and Cestus are around.”
Without waiting further, he ducked past them and saw a half dozen of Cestus’ men come racing around the corner from their bunk room near the baths.
“Try to put the fires out” he yelled at them
Pushing past them, he approached the door at the corner, wondering for a moment whether a polite knock was a good idea before settling on his course of action. He started to run and had to make a sudden adjustment as he realised that his left shoulder was a bad choice and turned, just in time to hit the door with his right, sending it smashing inwards with a crack. Lucilia sat bolt upright at the sudden intrusion.
“Come on!” Fronto yelled and grasped her wrist, hauling her out of bed and to her feet. She was, fortunately, merely resting while fully dressed and made panicky noises as he hauled her out of the room and into the smoke that was beginning to fill the corridors.
“What’s happening?”
“Clodius is happening!”
As they raced around the corner toward the garden, Priscus appeared.
“The rear entrance is completely ablaze, Marcus.”
“Front too. We’re going to have to try the outside gate.”
As they pushed on past the garden corridor, slaves and servants were now rushing around in the increasingly smoky house with buckets of water. Pushing open the side door and gulping down precious fresh air, Fronto glanced left and right. The stable and sheds were already catching alight from the rear rooms and he could hear the horses whinnying in fear and crashing around in their pens. To the right, the outer gate stood firm and solid.
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