Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  "Will he send men?"

  "Doubtful. His position is too public. Such an act, if it were uncovered, would ruin his popularity. He is the noble victor and the benefactor of Rome's people with only Caesar to rival him. He will try to ruin things for us, but it will all be by legal means."

  Masgava gave him a meaningful look. "Respectfully, dominus, would you wager your wife and sister's lives on that?"

  Fronto glanced at his companion, wondering how he would be coping with things had he not employed the outspoken, forthright Numidian. It was almost like having Priscus at his side again. He had missed martial companionship more even than he'd realised. But most important of all, the man had raised a vital point. He was sure of Pompey's need to stay clean, but not sure enough to bet Lucilia and Faleria on it.

  "When we get back to the house, I'm going to go speak to the girls. I need to persuade them that now is a good time to go back to the villa in Puteoli and visit mother. If they are out of the city, I don't have to worry about them."

  "Will they be safe there?"

  "Galronus will accompany them and there's some good men at the estate, and plenty of strong arms for hire at the port of Neapolis. A little coin and they could be as safe as a legion in a fortress."

  "And what of you, dominus?"

  Fronto smiled. The big Numidian had been rebellious in his tone when first they met, using the word 'dominus' - in the manner of a weapon, coated with bile - to address Fronto. Since becoming a paid, trusted member of the household, he had been advised that he could be informal with Fronto when they were alone, and yet he had continued with the word, though now infusing it with a surprisingly amount of respect.

  "Me" Fronto replied. "I will continue to train and heal, with your help. I fear I have broken my bridges with this general now, too. First Caesar and then Pompey. I am becoming an island in a sea of dangerous fish, Masgava. I had best learn how to fight them off or how to swim damn fast!"

  "Then perhaps it is time you began to hire a small guard of trustworthy men?"

  Fronto shook his head. "Gangs of thugs never improve the situation, they just exacerbate things. We've done nothing wrong and I intend to go on as though that's the case. We devote this afternoon to seeing the ladies packed and prepared to leave in the morning with Galronus and most of the staff. Then you and I get back to the routine."

  Masgava nodded and the pair picked up their step, falling in alongside the litter as it turned once more, heading for the Forum Boarium that lay between them and home.

  * * * * *

  The early afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, baking the life out of the gardens, wilting the flowers and draining the energy from the two men in the wide peristyle garden.

  "We should train with the wooden swords" Masgava reproached, two of the heavy practice weapons in his hand, eyeing Fronto with a strange, unreadable expression.

  Fronto smiled and drew the blade from the sheath, raising it so that it caught the bright sunlight and sent blinding flashes around the garden as he turned it. The perfect, Noric-steel blade with the straight fuller showed no sign of wear or neglect. The perfect orichalcum hilt with the figures of the Capitoline triad was polished to mirror brightness. The ivory handle was now wrapped with burgundy-coloured felt to negate the slightly mis-sized hand-grip. Fronto had continually toyed with the idea of having the hilt replaced. A new ivory grip that better matched his hand and a new hilt that displayed Fortuna and Nemesis perhaps?

  Masgava pursed his lips.

  "That's not a soldier's weapon."

  "No. But it's perfectly weighted and formed, nonetheless. Its former owner was a master swordsman. It's a special piece of equipment."

  "You will train with the wooden swords now, though."

  "I don't need to build up my arm muscle so much, Masgava, so I don't need the weight. And the added danger of a real cut might improve my reflexes."

  "We start with the wooden swords for a week and more. You think your arm muscles are strong? Bulky? I see what looks like a purse drawstring with a knot in it. There is much more muscle to be had and a lot more strength. If you need the extra edge, we will then move to real swords soon, but not your pretty toy."

  "One gladius is much the same as another, and I want to get used to this one. It's sort of special to me. It has a lot of evil history to make up for."

  "No" Masgava said, stepping forward and knocking aside the raised blade with the practice weapons. "You will begin with wooden swords and then you will move on to whatever blade I place in your hands. It will like as not be a different blade each day. You will train with the Thracian sica and the Gallic broad-blade. You will train with the Dacian falcata and the Arcadian Xiphos and Kopis. You will train with every type of sword I can lay my hands on. And sometimes also with axes, tridents, forks, spears, javelins… the dagger, the cestus, the naked fist. Sometimes you will learn how to down a man with an elbow or a thumb. And when we have exhausted weapons and body parts, you will train with chairs and vases, amphorae and" his eyes roved around the garden. "And anything that comes to hand."

  Without warning, the big Numidian spun, his foot connecting sharply with a small statue of a nymph that stood at the corner of the garden's pool, shearing it neatly at the base and sending it with staggering accuracy straight at Fronto's face. The pupil, startled, raised his perfect sword just in time to stop the marble nymph breaking his nose, though the lovely orichalcum hilt took a dent in the process. He glared angrily at the former gladiator.

  "Was that strictly necessary? That's my mother's ornamental fountain!"

  "Would you try and argue a murderer out of such a tactic?"

  "Of course not" Fronto snapped.

  "Then accept it and learn. Everything is a weapon. The dust that blinds when thrown; the position of the sun to discomfort an attacker; the loose rock that can be turned into a missile. Any object, in fact, can become a missile, a blade or a club. To be prepared for any fight is mostly a matter of mental attitude rather than skill. See everything around you not for what it is, but for what it could be."

  Fronto nodded, glancing guiltily at the broken nymph lying on the gravel. His mother would certainly make him pay for that.

  "I shall need a lot of money" Masgava said in his flat, matter-of-fact voice.

  "Oh yes?"

  "I need to procure weapons and armour of various types, and not cast-offs that are brittle and damaged. If you wish to learn properly, it is not a thing to try and do cheaply."

  Fronto sagged.

  "Look, Masgava, I'm not really sure just how necessary all of this is? I mainly wanted to get fit and to improve my skills after letting them slide for a year or more. I'm too old to start training as a gladiator."

  "Really?" the Numidian asked scathingly, walking slowly around him in a circle, eying him like a purchaser at the slave block.

  "Well, when am I ever going to need to know how to kill someone with a marble nymph, no matter how pretty and full-breasted?"

  Masgava stopped once more in front of him and folded his arms. "You do not listen to your own tales, dominus."

  "What?"

  "In two years alone, you have fought a gang of men through your own burning house, been set upon by gladiators in your bath, been taken on by assassins in your camp and hunted through these very rooms by murderous officers."

  Fronto blinked. Had it happened that often?

  "And that is without considering the dangers you faced against the Celts. And if you go east to join Crassus, you will face the Parthians and their desert allies who know how to kill better than any Roman and who revel in the joy of blood. And if you sign up to serve in Africa in the expectation of rebellions, you will have to face my people. Do you relish that thought? How long would you last against five of me? Fifty of me? Five hundred of me?"

  Fronto spread his free hand in a conciliatory gesture, noting with irritation how three of the fingers were slightly raised from the rest after being broken last year and not quite setting correctly.
In cold, wet weather they ached as badly as his knee.

  "Very well. I have a habit of getting eight shades of shit kicked out of me. You've made your point."

  "I do not think I have" Masgava replied and crouched. Fronto eyed him suspiciously, shifting his grip on the sword hilt.

  The Numidian messed with the ties on his sandal, refastening it, and stood again.

  "See that the nerves are making you twitchy. Instead of pouring all your concentration into being ready with the blade to counter whatever I am doing, pay better attention to what exactly that is, and then you will be more able to counter appropriately."

  "But you just retied your sandal strap."

  "Did I?"

  In a blur, faster than Fronto could have imagined possible, the Numidian flicked his foot forwards and up. The sandal-boot, the same style as worn by the military, came free, the tie having been loosened enough. The hobnailed sole flew with once again unerring accuracy for Fronto's face. Fast as he could, and proud of his speed, Fronto jerked his blade to the side and knocked the flying boot out of the way.

  In the blink of an eye, as he looked down, a smug grin plastered across his face at so outwitting the manoeuvre, the big Numidian's bare foot kicked him in the bad knee, having continued upwards after flicking off the sandal.

  The blow was clearly a 'pulled' one, deliberately light, so as to cause no real damage. Still the gentle strike was enough to crumple Fronto's leg, causing him to collapse, smug grin still forming, in a jellied heap on the floor.

  "Still think I'm overdoing things?"

  Fronto stared up at the Numidian, trying to ignore the throbbing in his knee which, he was fairly certain, would have been utterly shattered had Masgava wished it. He'd barely had the time to react to the flying shoe that would have bruised and disoriented him, but even that had been simple distraction while the foot came in to do the damage. The man was a marvel!

  "Fine. Your point has been adequately made. And now that you've undone a few weeks' work on my knee, what do you propose we do for the afternoon."

  Masgava reached down and gripped his wrist, hauling him upright. Fronto hobbled around the gravel for a moment, testing the weight on his knee. The blow had been miraculously aimed, actually doing virtually no harm, just temporarily weakening the knee enough to collapse him. As he hobbled, he felt the strength returning.

  "This afternoon we fight with wooden swords, as I said."

  Fronto shook his head in wonder at Masgava as the big man strode across the gravel to retrieve his discarded sandal. The man didn't even wince at the sharp stones that dug into his bare foot. He must have soles made of leather himself!

  He was still shaking his head as the wooden sword hit him in the stomach, felling him again.

  "Concentrate!"

  * * * * *

  Fronto rose blearily at the hammering sound. Blinking away the sleep, he shuffled across the bed, dropping his feet to the cold marble floor with a slapping sound. Pushing himself upright and stretching, he strode out of the room in just his subligaculum. It was too hot in Rome at the moment to sleep in a tunic.

  Aware that he was all but naked, he shrugged and strode through the atrium towards the front door. He could hear the birdsong and could judge from both that and the angle of the light in the atrium that it was barely dawn. Anyone who knocked on the door at this time of the morning deserved anything they got.

  Fingers wrapping around the hilt of the cudgel he had taken to leaving on the altar near the entrance, Fronto hefted it and crossed to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open, weapon ready to strike.

  Galba - former commander of the Twelfth Legion and now a praetor of Rome with standing in the courts - stood in the slanting morning light, his bristly, dark face grave. His brow furrowed at the sight of the house's owner.

  "Good morning" Fronto greeted him, replacing the club on the altar top and stepping back to open the door.

  "What's happened to Posco?" the heavy-set visitor asked, stepping inside and adjusting his toga.

  "Sent him, Galronus and most of the slaves and servants south with the girls to Puteoli. Just me and one man left here, and Masgava doesn't strike me as a born doorman. Probably never even thought to come and see who you were. You're up early."

  "Thought I'd drop in before I get to work. A praetor cannot afford to be abed after sunrise."

  Fronto closed the door and grinned as Galba looked him up and down with a furrowed brow.

  "Yes. You got me out of bed. I don't habitually accept visitors naked."

  "You've been exercising I see."

  Fronto pulled an exaggerated pose, flexing his arm muscles. "Shows then?"

  "Doesn't make you less of an idiot, but at least now you're a thin idiot."

  Springing back to a normal stance, the house's owner gestured his guest towards the Tablinum. As they strolled Galba relaxed a little. "You may have it right, parading round in your underwear, though. It's damnably hot today in a toga."

  "I can imagine. That's the price you pay for public service. It's just one of many reasons why I'll never take position in the city. Now what brings you here so early in the morning?"

  Galba entered the office and sank into the proffered seat.

  "A warning. Pompey appears to have it in for you. I don't know what you've done to piss him off, but ever since Julia's death, he's been like a bull behind a gate. I'm told he rarely sleeps, and then badly. He's worried all his people and his clients to the point of panic."

  "He's just looking for somewhere to lay the blame so he can feel better. He'd be fine if he were in Caesar's position - or Crassus'. Then he'd have a nation of Rome's enemies to take it all out on. But in Rome he has to be restrained; careful."

  "Not over-restrained" Galba said quietly.

  "Go on?"

  "He's been blackening your family's name throughout the senate and anywhere he has influence."

  "Should I really care?"

  "Yes. You should. You personally might not care if your father's alcoholism was publically advertised, or even that you might be said to be following the same trail. You might not care that you're called dissolute and even an opponent of the senate because of your ties to Caesar."

  "I have no ties to Caesar."

  "Perhaps not in your eyes, but the great and good - and the bad, for that matter - of the Republic see it another way. Your sister and your wife will hardly appreciate the way the Falerii are being systematically diminished. Good job they're in the south. If Faleria finds out about this you'll have to physically restrain her."

  Fronto shrugged, though the thought that Pompey was besmirching his father's name rankled more than a little.

  "We'll live. It's a few weeks of bad-mouthing. Soon he'll change his tack and find something else to obsess over and forget all about us. And then things will begin to right themselves. A name blackened in Rome is only of import as long as the news is fresh. As soon as it stops being spoken of it will fade. Look at all the names blackened under Sulla. Most of them are now the top families of the Republic"

  Galba nodded, though his face was still dark.

  "I tend to agree, though I think the problem is a little more serious than you seem to realise. And if that were the only trouble I would have waited and seen how things panned out before bothering you, but there's more."

  "What?"

  "The old general is trying every trick he can to damage you. He's got a gaggle of lawyers poring over the tablets of law in the Tabularium, trying to find anything he can use against you."

  "We've broken no laws, Galba."

  "Of course you have. Every day, every inhabitant of Rome breaks some law. There are so many of them - and some so obscured by the endless years since their institution - that people aren't even aware they're breaking them. Have you ever bowed or stopped to acknowledge a high official in the Forum?"

  "Of course not. You watch a consul make an appearance and the crowds rush to see him."

  "Then they're breaking ancient
laws. Once upon a time a horseman was condemned for riding past a consul. See what I mean? It only takes a few rabid and inventive lawyers with enough precedents and you could find yourself spending the next six months in court answering one charge of inanity after another."

  "Is he that petty?"

  "Again, I suspect you underestimate, Marcus. They may be petty, but if even half the obscure laws are invoked, convicted and go through, you could end up flat broke, homeless and with a ruined name. Be very aware, Marcus, that Pompey has resources you couldn't even dream of. Without Caesar's support or that of Crassus, you form a fairly solid and naked target to a man with a thousand bows and a million arrows."

  Fronto leaned back. "So what do I do?"

  "Nothing. Keep your nose clean and provoke no one. Don't drink. Don't gamble. Don't even go out if you can help it. Stay out of the light for a while."

  "And all that time Pompey gets free rein?"

  "Hardly. I am a praetor, remember, with no small power. And there are men in the courts, the senate, and other positions of power who fear or distrust Pompey. Leave it in our hands and we will block every move he can make as well as any man could. Just lie low until he runs out of options. Sooner or later it will end and he'll have nothing else to throw at you. You're an easy target, but there are people out there who'll make a shield for you even if they don't like you or don't know you, just to oppose Pompey."

  "Should I go to Puteoli as well?" Fronto asked quietly and earnestly.

  Galba shook his head. "Not now. At this point it would seem like an admission of guilt; fleeing the scene of the crime as it were. In time, it might not be a bad idea, but not now. For now, just stay down and be quiet."

  The praetor shuffled uncomfortably in his seat in the silence. Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  "What is it?"

  "There is one other thing you could do?"