Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  The gate shut. Galronus and Priscus stepped to the side, to a position where they could leap to Fronto’s assistance if needed, but could make sure that gate stayed closed and the other thugs unable to join them.

  “Help me!” Philopater howled, backing away against the wall.

  “No man in his right mind will help you, you Egyptian catamite!”

  “Fronto?”

  “In the flesh.”

  The legate advanced slowly on his quarry, who backed against the whitewashed plaster, left with nowhere to run.

  “I have just done my job, Fronto. Surely you understand that? Would you blame a soldier who attacked you? No; you would blame his commander: the man who sent him against you. Your argument is not with me, but with my master.”

  Fronto smiled. Paetus was impressed at the effect of that feral white grin in the blackened face. It even sent a chill up his hidden spine.

  “I think you do yourself a disservice, Philopater. You are known to enjoy your work. In fact you go above and beyond your orders at times. I think, though, that your end has finally caught up with you.”

  The Egyptian, breathing fast and heavy, swept a sword from his belt; a short weapon with a strange, wavy blade of an Egyptian design.

  “You will find, Fronto, that I do not submit so easily.”

  He swept the blade through the air a couple of times with an expert flick of the wrist, creating pretty silvered patterns in the air.

  Fronto swung the heavy Celtic blade in his right hand with negligent grunt, a prize from his first year in Gaul, severing the Egyptian’s fist and carrying both it and the strange blade off down the street where they bounced and came to rest in a gutter, glinting silver and red.

  Clodius’ henchman stared at the severed wrist and the arc of blood that hung in the air for a moment before spattering the floor.

  “I’m not looking for your submission.”

  Fronto threw the heavy Celtic blade behind him, where Galronus, struggling with two swords already, caught it with difficulty. Paying no heed, Fronto swapped his gladius from his bad hand to the good.

  “You’ll understand if I don’t use my left. I had a little accident recently.”

  Philopater straightened.

  “You are a Roman noblemen. I yield to you. Surely you will not strike down a surrendering enemy?”

  Fronto barked a laugh.

  “Oh surely you don’t believe that? You’re going to die now, Philopater. It just remains to be seen if it’ll be like a man, or like a quivering coward.”

  The Egyptian heaved in a deep breath and looked down at his missing hand. Shock was holding off the agony, but he knew that at any time that shock might wear off and he would start to feel what had happened.

  “You will make it quick? And certain? How a patrician would expect to die?”

  Fronto frowned.

  “Hardly a death you deserve, as I’m sure even you would agree?”

  Philopater sighed.

  “But you are better than me, or so you believe.”

  Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  “A quick, sure death then. On your knees.”

  The Egyptian rolled his eyes upwards, muttering a prayer to one of the deities of his homeland, and Paetus ducked back into the shadows of the bushes on the wall top.

  The legate stepped forward, his two companions approaching to be sure the Egyptian had no last minute deviousness in mind.

  Philopater smiled as he pulled his tunic neckline down to reveal the olive flesh beneath and threw his head back, exposing his neck.

  “Does it bother you that you yourself are now wielding a sword on the streets of Rome in contravention of your most sacred laws?”

  “Shut up before I change my mind.”

  Placing the tip of his gladius at the man’s throat, just above the meeting of the collar bones, Fronto took a deep breath.

  “Nemesis, my guide.”

  As his strength fell behind the blow, driving the gladius down through the man’s neck and windpipe, deep into the cavity of his chest and straight through his heart, Fronto looked up and smiled.

  The Egyptian gave a last sigh as the steel cut through his heart and swept his life away, blood fountaining up from the wound and adding to the grisly appearance of Fronto. The legate withdrew the blade and let the body fall away to the floor, gladius dropping to his side while his face remained raised.

  “You can come down now. We appear to be alone.”

  Paetus dithered for a moment, hanging back in the shadows.

  “I know you’re there. I saw you from across the street, before I struck the blow here. You have my word I will not stand in your way.”

  Paetus shook his head angrily. Even now, trying to remain as uninvolved as he could, he had still failed. Biting his cheek in irritation, he dropped from the wall and landed on the pavement, his knees bent, a few feet from the leaking corpse.

  “You look well, Paetus. Funnily enough, now that you’re a civilian, or a ghost, or whatever it is you purport to be, you’re in better military shape than you ever were as a soldier.”

  The former camp prefect straightened.

  “You, on the other hand, Fronto, are in the same state as ever: filthy and wounded.”

  The other two were approaching across the street.

  “Paetus.”

  He looked up at Priscus and nodded respectfully.

  “Why this strange charade, Paetus? What is it you want? Clodius? Caesar? Me?”

  “Hardly you, Fronto. You must know I could have killed you a hundred times now if I’d wanted.”

  “Indeed. Priscus tells me you’ve been something of a guardian spirit to the Falerii? I suppose I should thank you?”

  Paetus smiled.

  “More happy coincidence, really. My troubles are not with you, yet I did not set out to protect you, but to ruin Clodius. The two goals are happily often in concert, however.”

  He cocked his head.

  “You knew about me, but you’ve never mentioned it to Caesar? It warms me to you, I have to say, but I also have to enquire as to why?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “Not everything is appropriate to report. You should go now. The fight inside will be over soon and then the general will come out here. You don’t want to be here when that happens.”

  Paetus smiled.

  “True. You’ve dealt Clodius a heavy blow tonight. He will seek revenge and it will come like the breath of the draco, fiery and lethal. Get out of Rome as soon as you can. This will seem like a simple brawl compared to what he will do next.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “I will deal with it when it comes. Clodius will fall in time.”

  “Clodius is mine, Fronto. Do not concern yourself with him. Events are even now in motion. His end is coming. Not immediately, but when it does it will be painful and ignominious. Leave him to me.”

  The former prefect smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “It was good to speak to you again, Marcus.”

  Fronto smiled in return.

  “And you, but Clodius is only yours if you beat me to him.”

  The two men stood for a moment in silence, and then the fugitive turned and disappeared down the street, fast and quiet.

  “I feel for him.” Priscus sighed.

  Fronto nodded.

  “He was right about Clodius’ reaction, though. Time for the Falerii to beat a temporary retreat, I fear.”

  Chapter 23

  (Late October: 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, n
ot 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 minute. 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 i
s 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.”