Too many thugs with gangs and too many power-hungry politicians pulling their strings. Rome had become a board for a massive game of stones that was played just to decide which would-be despot had the biggest balls.
"To Hades with the lot of them."
"What was that?" asked a former-legionary sat at the next table, still in his military tunic and boots.
"Oh nothing" Balbus replied. He'd not even realised he had said it out loud.
"Sounds like there's trouble" the veteran at the next table said conversationally.
"Isn't there always these days?"
"I'll drink to that. When I signed up the only fighting was against bearded Pontic and Armenian megalomaniacs."
Balbus wondered for a moment why so little deference was being paid to him by a plebeian soldier, but remembered that he had removed his toga. A quick glance down confirmed that his own tunic was a mere plain green. He could as easily have been a pleb himself as a noble officer.
"You served out east? Under Pompey?" he asked casually.
"Lucullus. You?"
"Caesar. In Gaul."
"Shit. You're lucky. At least you got green fields. They say Gaul's verdant. I was out in bloody Armenia. All mountains and dust. Like living in your own armpit, it was."
Balbus chuckled and realised that the man was hovering over an empty cup. Reaching across with the jug from his table, he poured a healthy dose of wine for the soldier and slid his jug of water over.
"Cheers, mate. Got more cash, but it's at home. Only three streets away, but Milo's lot are out there today roughing people up and I'm buggered if I'm running that gauntlet for a cup of wine."
"Milo?" Balbus frowned.
"Yeah. It's always either his or Clodius' men. Or occasionally both lots of bastards at once. Best to keep your head down and stay indoors. It's about time the big nobs sent those pricks off to fight in the wars. That's keep 'em busy."
"I'll second that" Balbus agreed, taking a swig of wine.
"Sacred shit of Vesta!"
Balbus snapped up from his drink at the outburst from across the tavern. A bunch of lunchtime drinkers were staring at the door and pointing fingers. Following their gaze, Balbus saw a girl in a pale yellow chiton, covered with blood. As he watched, the innkeeper's wife ran across to the girl, cooing soothing noises that were somewhat spoiled by the desperate, panicked edge to her voice.
"Come, girl. Tell me what happened?"
The girl stumbled across from the door, her blood-matted hair slapping against her face and leaving crimson trails. As she grabbed a table corner to straighten herself and fell into the woman's ample bosom, her hair fell away to the side.
Balbus felt his heart freeze.
"Balbina?"
"You know this poor tyke, sir?" the bar-woman asked, her gaze switching to the big old man with the strangely military bearing who was already rushing across the room.
Balbus said nothing. He was not ignoring the woman - even managed a faint nod - but his voice seemed to have dried up and died. His whole body had chilled to freezing point and his heart felt like a ballista ball, weighing down his frame.
The girl, perhaps concussed, turned to face him, her eyes glazed. She looked confused for a moment and then Balbus was on her, scooping her up from the woman, taking care not to put any pressure on her. She must be hurt. Her arms and legs seemed to move freely and in the right direction, but that confirmed only an absence of broken bones. Carrying her pressed to his chest, he returned to the table. The former legionary had swept aside his wine and was on his feet now, hurrying across to help. Balbus waved him away, so the man hovered close by, unsure what to do as he watched the distraught father cradling his daughter.
"Where are you hurt, baby girl?"
Still no sound issued from Balbina and, as gently as he could, her father prised her mouth open with his fingers, fearing what he might see. Her tongue was still there and intact and her neck had no marks. Shock or concussion, probably. Reaching up, he ran his fingers through her hair. Sure enough he found a soft, sticky patch on her crown. It was enough to hurt a grown man, let alone a girl of Balbina's age. But she seemed whole, if silent; just dazed. There certainly wasn't enough physical damage there to account for all the blood.
For the second time in a few short moments, Balbus' heart skipped a beat and gained a little weight. His cold body plummeted into an abyss of ice.
Corvinia!
The legionary had torn a piece from the hem of his tunic and was proffering it for Balbus to mop the wound. The old man suddenly seemed to register the soldier's presence, focusing on the rag. Turning to the man, he tried to speak, his voice only finding any volume on the third attempt.
"What's your name soldier?"
"Palmatus."
"Look after her like she's your own!"
The soldier's eyes widened as the big man gently passed his daughter over, and Palmatus cradled her like a baby as she stared blankly at the ceiling. He stuttered out a reply to the effect that she would be his only concern, but the stranger was already gone, running out of the bar.
It was only after he'd gone that Palmatus saw the toga folded up on the seat next to where he had been sitting and the purse of money attached to a very fine military belt that could only belong to a senior officer. Swallowing nervously, the former legionary crossed to the other table and took Balbus' seat, keeping the officer's gear under close scrutiny.
Outside, Balbus was running. Tears filled his eyes and blurred his view of the subura's lower streets as he made for the forum and the source of all the noise. He didn't need to see clearly. He'd walked this route a hundred times and more to meet up with Corvinia and Balbina after their shopping trips.
There were, of course, a thousand explanations for the uproar in the forum. Just as there were so many possible causes for the damage his beautiful, delicate little girl had suffered. But even had he the time and the inclination to consider them at this point, he would inevitably have arrived at the same conclusion: Corvinia had been hurt, and badly. Badly enough for Balbina to run for the safety of her father even with a debilitating head wound. Many battle-hardened legionaries did not have the presence of mind and the inner strength to act so when dazed from a blow.
Little Balbina.
And Corvinia.
Rounding the corner of the tabernae nova, the former legate of the Eighth cast his gaze around the forum's open space. Crowds of bystanders had gathered on the steps of various buildings and in groups around the periphery, where they could indulge their ghoulish need to observe grisly events yet were far enough removed to be uninvolved and to disperse swiftly if necessary.
His eyes took them in only in passing as his gaze fell upon the focus of the forum's attention.
A small group of half a dozen folk stood at the corner of the temple of Janus, close to the building's south door. It was clear from their stance that they were gathered around something on the floor and with ice-cold certainty, Balbus knew what it was.
His feet, clad in very military-style sandal boots, pounded across the flags of the forum, striking up sparks with the nails in the soles and he slowed only as he approached the concerned crowd.
Sensing something important and seeing the look on the big man's face, the men and women who had gathered opened up to allow the new visitor access.
A man crouched over Corvinia's body. He wore a long, loose-fitting grey tunic in a very Levantine style, an origin confirmed by the hair and beard that marked out the man as a Jew. Corvinia's head rested upon a folded robe of the same pale grey. Balbus tried to speak, but his voice seemed to have shrivelled once more.
Corvinia looked so peaceful. She might easily have been in repose if one saw her from only the diaphragm up. Balbus' eyes fell to the ragged hole in her front, just at the base of the ribs, and the blood that soaked her lower half, spreading out in a pool around her prone form.
One blow. Struck by a man who knew how to kill and do it quickly and efficiently.
Finally, his voice seemed to well up, buoyed on a tide of anger that was colder than the fear which had preceded it.
"Who did this?"
In a thick accent, the Jew - clearly a new arrival to the city - spoke as he stroked Corvinia's hair. "No one saw. She was among the crowd."
"Someone saw." Balbus' gaze flicked up to the watching masses, narrowing. Deep in his heart he knew well enough that no one would admit to having seen anything. To witness a crime was to become involved, and the plebs and nobles of the forum wanted only their ghoulish look at what was going on - not to become involved. Besides, if the soldier back in the tavern was right and the forum had been the playground of Milo's men today, even a good and honest citizen would think twice before crossing such a gang.
"She passed very quickly and without too much pain" the Jew said quietly.
Balbus blinked and stared at him. "The blood!"
"The blow cleaved the heart. Death was only moments in coming. She did not have time to speak, let alone to suffer; trust me - I trained as a physician. God's blessings shall be upon her."
Balbus shook his head, tears starting to fall.
"She never hurt anyone."
"An innocent is the hardest passing to bear" the man said sagely, drawing an angry look from Balbus. The urge to flail out at this calm man reciting platitudes passed as quickly as it came. Despite the pain, the anger and the fear, Balbus could still recognise a man doing his best - a man who had taken care of her even as she died.
Stooping, the former legate gathered his wife in his arms and rose with a grunt, Corvinia's lifeless arm swinging down loose until the Jew reached across and lifted it to fold it across her chest.
"For its worth, you have my sympathy. Though it is not my custom, I placed a perutah under her tongue. I trust you will not be offended by this?"
Unable to find a suitable reply, Balbus simply nodded curtly. For a long moment, he stared down at the calm face of his wife. The Jew had closed her eyes. The former legate was trembling lightly. As he drank in that peaceful visage, he felt himself torn in two.
On the one hand a good husband and father - something Balbus had always prided himself upon being - would take Corvinia to her home, collecting Balbina on the way, and care for the women, bringing friends and relatives in to help, calling upon physicians and priests. There would be so much to do - so many things to attend to, and the organisation of the household and any tasks associated had always been the responsibility of Corvinia.
On the other hand, despite his love for his family and his almost legendary calm, Quintus Lucilius Balbus was also a soldier - a warrior and a veteran, who had waded knee deep through fields of the dead and dying. Two decades had hardened him into a man who could detach from the horror of reality and surrender himself to the guided rage and the single-mind of purpose that was required to take lives without considering their value.
"What is your name?"
"I am Elijah of Beth Horon, sir."
"Will you help me?"
"My hands are yours."
As Elijah held out his arms, Balbus nodded his gratitude and gently dropped Corvinia into his grasp. "I must find my daughter and take them home. Then I must call a council of war."
* * * * *
Titus Annius Milo stood in the shelter of the doorway of the temple of Castor and Pollux and watched Balbus and the easterner depart from the north edge of the forum, towards the subura. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head.
"Did you see who struck the blow?"
His lieutenant - a dour Abbrutian called Servo with a crooked, broken nose - shook his head. "Not one of ours as far as I can tell."
"It matters not. The blame with land with us - with me. Do you know who that is?"
"An old, fat man."
"He is an old, fat, dangerous man, who commanded the Eighth legion across Gaul. Lucilius Balbus. A friend of Fronto's and a man of Caesar's."
"Then it serves a good purpose in the long run."
Milo turned to the Abbrutian. He was an able controller of thugs and a tough fighter, but what he had gained from the Gods in strength, he had lost in sense.
"Hardly. War is not what we want. It's what we're likely to get, though, now. Shame really. I rather liked Fronto. Fought side by side with him a few years ago. Funny how things work out."
He sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Best report this to Pompey. He'll want to know."
* * * * *
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus sat in his tablinum, tapping his fingers on his knees. His face showed the signs of numerous sleepless nights and his unshaven chin was rapidly approaching 'bearded' status. Though he had recently become something of a recluse, beset by his grief, he had at least kept up his bathing and dressing as fitted such a powerful figure, rather than surrendering himself to slovenliness the way some distressed widowers did. A hard hearted man might say that having previously lost two wives to divorce and one to Elysium, he'd had some prior experience in these matters.
"Is it worth us making it publically known that we had no part in her death?"
Pompey shrugged and turned in his seat to face Milo. "Doubtful. With the current political climate it is unlikely to make you look any less guilty, but it may give you an additional reputation for weakness and indecision. Better to be seen as harsh and wicked but certain than forgiving and weak. Given our recent political campaign against the Falerii - fruitless as it has been - and Balbus' closeness to the family, this will be seen as a personal attack by myself, whatever is announced in public."
Milo nodded. He had come to much the same conclusion, though it was always best to allow the general to make the decisions. "Then is it perhaps in our interests to pursue your campaign further."
"Against Fronto?"
"Yes, general. Your pet politicians and lawyers have failed to push through any of their actions against him. Perhaps it is time to use force?"
Pompey shook his head slowly. "For all my invective against Fronto and his sister, I will not commission deaths for my own gain. I am a master of Rome not a common criminal and, since you and your men are known to be solidly within my camp, I can hardly authorise you to move against the Falerii and their allies in any fashion. No. I need you to concentrate on keeping that weasel Clodius and his thugs busy. Since taking Caesar's patronage, the villain is proving far more resourceful than he ever was when he worked for me."
Milo nodded again. Clodius' gang was a constant niggle. The man was wily and careful, never leaving the safety of his favourite haunts without a sizeable bodyguard.
"Leave me."
Milo gave a curt bow and backed out through the atrium. Pompey waited a short while until he heard the sound of the enforcer and his escort being ushered out into the street. Another pause, as he listened to his heart pounding in his chest - a rhythmic noise that seemed to be the soundtrack to his life now that Julia had been taken.
"You can come out, now."
A moment of silence passed before the hulking form of Berengarus the German appeared from the garden, where he had been waiting.
"You heard?"
The colossal man-mountain nodded.
"You may have caused me considerable trouble, you great northern oaf. Slaves do not perform tasks without their master's permission!"
"He friend of Fronto."
"I realise, Berengarus, that for all your enormous size and prodigious strength, your mind is an under-developed muscle, but you really need to apply just a little thought from time to time, or at least listen to the wisdom of others."
The big man frowned in incomprehension.
"I wished to visit upon the house of the Falerii my displeasure at their part in the death of my wife and child. While the physicians inform me that the infusion she took was not the cause of her death, they do suspect that it may well have weakened her enough for nature to take its distressing course. In my heart I know that the beak-nosed pleb-lover Caesar put them up to this, but I can hardly reach out across the hundreds of
miles to Gaul and strangle the man, and so I am left with Fronto and his witch of a sister."
The frown stayed solidly in place on that big, blond Germanic brow. Pompey sighed and went on. "Simply put: my wrath was directed at the pair for their part in it; not at their extended family or friends. I am not trying to wage war on half of Rome."
Again, the big man simply shook his head.
"Are you truly too dense to grasp such a simple concept? Fronto and his sister. No one else. And even then, by acceptable, civic means. No murdering innocent women in the forum. I have no intention of sinking to their level. I'm of half a mind that even pursuing the pair of them is little more than a fool's errand, and I do not wish my name blackened in public by involvement in brutal unlawful killings."
"Fronto must die."
The general looked up at the barbarian. There was such a determined conviction in the big face, and the simple three-word sentence had carried such bile and venom that Pompey once again found himself picturing the vicious battle that had taken place four years earlier when the giant's family had perished: a wife scythed down with a cavalry blade; a son drifting, cold and blue-grey beneath the choppy surface of the wide river. For all their differences, were he and the barbarian really that different? The German sought revenge from the man he saw as responsible - or one of the men at least.
"The man is a soldier, you know? Resourceful and strong. He will be no easy target."
"Must die."
Pompey took a deep breath. "I sought to ruin them, you know? Not to kill them. While I sympathise with your plight, I refuse to condone such actions. To have any man in my employ, be he freedman or slave, commit simple murder is unacceptable. Do you understand?"
With no sign of acknowledgement, the huge warrior simply stood and glowered.
"You truly desire nothing other than to destroy Fronto?"
A single nod.
"And you believe you can do it?"
Another nod.
"Then gather your things."
This time, the big man frowned again and Pompey took a deep breath and sat back.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 29