The one Fronto had disarmed had stepped back, seeking his fallen sword now, and Fronto took advantage of the situation, finally facing only one opponent. He met the tall one’s blade with his and as the man tried to pull it back for another swift lunge, Fronto’s free hand grabbed the man’s wrist, yanking it to one side. He had the advantage now over a man with only one effective arm, the other being the bloodied result of Andala’s first scuffle in this room. The Gaul gasped. Even as Fronto’s grip tightened, pulling his blade down, so his own sword came up from hip level, point first, driving into the man’s flesh just above the bladder and shearing up through organs inside his rib cage until he felt the tip hit shoulder blade, arresting its gory progress.
The eyes behind that mask widened and the man shuddered as he dropped his sword, a huge wash of blood sheeting out from his belly and across Fronto’s hand. He coughed, and spatters of the blood that he’d spat into the inside of his mask sprayed through the mouth slit and then dribbled down the ceramic chin.
Behind the dying Gaul, Aurelius crossed the room and swiftly dispatched the unarmed one with little difficulty.
Fronto stood in the doorway, chest heaving from the effort, surveying the scene before him.
Four of the Sons of Taranis lay on the floor of his wine cellar. Four! He could hardly believe his eyes. Moreover, apart from the regrettable demise of the two slave girls, only a few minor cuts and grazes remained on the surviving combatants to show for what they’d lived through.
He owed divine Fortuna. He owed her a great debt.
Reaching down, he lifted the golden figurine of his patron goddess and kissed her fondly.
He watched with a newfound respect as Andala went around the room, putting his second best gladius through the hearts of the four fallen Gauls, just to be sure, ripping away their cloaks as she did so. Lucilia ran across the room, hurdling the corpses, and flung herself into his arms, and Fronto had to lean slightly to prevent the waving blade in her hand catching his arm.
‘I thought we were lost,’ she breathed.
Fronto cradled her close, smiling his thanks to the others, and when she finally stepped back, he laughed. ‘Lucky you had your favourite Amazon here!’ Andala gave him a confused look and stepped forward, proffering the sword to him, hilt first. He shook his head as he plucked his best sword from his wife’s hand. ‘Keep it, Andala. It’s yours.’ And to Lucilia: ‘you’ll have to see to her manumission, you know?’
‘So, seven left then?’ Aurelius murmured as he crouched over the butchered one and peeled the mask from his moustachioed, ruddy and flat face, rising with the cloak in his other hand.
‘I guess so. Lucilia? You and Andala stay here with the boys and Balbina until we’re sure the house is clear.’ As his wife and the Bellovaci girl backed over to the bed area again, Fronto gathered up the rest of the masks and cloaks. By the time he and Aurelius were carrying them up the stairs, Balbus, Cavarinos and Masgava had arrived in the corridor.
‘Everyone alright?’ the old man asked and his eyes widened as he saw the masks his son in law carried. ‘Lucilia and the children are fine,’ Fronto replied reassuringly. ‘Luckily it seems that our new Belgae girl is rather handy with a blade. She held them off until we arrived and dispatched one of them herself.’ He threw the cloaks across to Cavarinos. ‘Anything here you recognise?’
The Arvernian noble turned them over and around one by one until he could find the lines of symbols stitched into them.
‘A hammer and a bowl. Most likely that’s Sucellos “the striker”. Not sure what you Romans would call him.’
‘Yes, well, he got struck about forty times, between Andala and Aurelius here.’
Cavarinos peered at the other cloaks. ‘Stone and a severed head – that would have to be Rudianos. And there’s Toutatis here, and Dis, too if I am not mistaken.’
‘Good. The names are all I need. Masgava, could you make sure the rear of the villa is secured again and that the rest of the house is clear. Cavarinos? Come with me.’
A few moments later, with Cavarinos and Balbus in tow, Fronto arrived at the front door. Arcadios and Catháin were still there, and Pamphilus and Clearchus continued to hover, looking irritated and twitchy. Fronto stopped in the vestibule, reassuring his men that yes, everything was fine, but turned and pointed an angry finger at the two brothers. ‘No thanks to you two. You were supposed to be guarding the women’s door.’
Clearchus frowned in consternation. ‘The mistress said they would be fine, sir. She urged us to come and help.’
Continuing to wag his finger, he glared at them. ‘The mistress of the house she may be, but you work for me. When I set you a task, you do that task, even if Jupiter himself pokes his face through the clouds and tells you otherwise. Do you understand me?’
The two men, chastened, nodded sullenly and Fronto let his angry gaze linger for a while before gesturing to the door. ‘Open it, Catháin.’
As the northerner did so, Fronto stepped into the doorway, repeating four names under his breath so as not to forget them. An arrow thrummed out of the darkness and clattered into the wall close by, but Fronto ignored it, standing proud in the doorway and holding up one of the expressionless cult masks, letting the light catch it from many angles as he turned it this way and that.
‘Dis!’ he bellowed into the night, and then cast the mask out onto the gravel drive where it landed with a crunch. He took a second and raised it in the same fashion.
‘Sucellos!’
Crash.
‘Rudianos!’
Crash.
‘Toutatis!’
Crash.
‘And before you flee to your bolt-hole, just for good measure: Maponos!’
With a last crunch, the mask he had taken from the young man in the inn hit the gravel. No further arrows were forthcoming, and Fronto took a step out into the garden, his hands on his hips like an indignant landowner bellowing at interlopers.
‘Five gone. All for some pointless petty revenge. Listen to me, Molacos of the Cadurci: Take your last six men and go home. Raise ugly children, drink putrid beer and just be damned grateful that you lived through the war. Because – and mark my words – I will not let you free your king or kill any more officers. Your mission is over.’
Turning his back, and casting up only the tiniest prayer that he not get struck in the back with an arrow, Fronto stepped back inside and let his employee close the door.
‘That’ll have shaken the buggers,’ he said flatly. ‘Their numbers almost halved in one day and with no appreciable gain.’
‘And the fact that you called Molacos by his name, too,’ added Cavarinos.
‘Exactly. Is there any chance that they will actually stop, in the face of this setback?’
The Arvernian shook his head. ‘No. They’ll not stop. In fact, the problem with men like Molacos is that failure just fires their blood. Now he’ll be more determined than ever.’
‘Then I suppose we had best go back down to the inn and see if we can finish this?’
‘I think that’s the sensible decision,’ Cavarinos agreed grimly.
‘Catháin, you are in charge of the place. I’ll leave half the men with you to make sure the villa’s secure, while we go to deal with the rest of these Sons of Whores.’
* * * * *
Fronto nodded to Masgava.
‘That’s the one – the Chimaera’s End.’
The inn, with its gaudily painted sign of an overly-muscular Bellerophon riding a winged horse that looked a little too fat to fly, was still open for business, despite the fact that it was too late for all but the exhausted drunks and the night workers. That, of course, was why it had become one of Fronto’s occasional haunts – it was a quick stroll from his warehouse and catered for those carters and labourers at the various warehouses who wanted a nightcap or twelve when their work ended. How those who stayed there managed to sleep was beyond him, though these were not rowdy customers, but quiet ones.
He was
grateful. To have to wake the innkeeper would be to risk alerting the Sons of Taranis to their approach, and the only other way would be to climb the outer wall to the room’s high window, which would be near impossible with any level of safety and stealth.
Fronto and his small force of men approached the open doorway, from which issued a warm glow and the muted murmur of conversation. As they reached the building, Masgava clapped his hand on Fronto’s shoulder and gently manoeuvred him into the middle of the group rather than the front.
Arcadios came up to join the big Numidian, Biorix and Cavarinos staying close to Fronto protectively. Aurelius they had left with the other group up at the villa, well aware of the prevalence of bats in the streets of Massilia at night and Aurelius’ inability to handle those flying rodents without shrieking.
They stepped into the bar and the murmur stopped immediately – ten armed men will have that effect on a quiet inn.
Each man brandished his weapon of choice, many of them old service gladii, others the fairly common Greek kopis sword. None of the inn’s occupants made to move against these armed arrivals, though. Most of them were wary and tired, a few too inebriated to stand, let alone fight. The innkeeper suddenly burst forth from the end of the bar, waving his hands and shouting ‘no, no, no, no, no…’
Masgava’s free hand snapped out and grabbed the chubby man by the chin, his large, powerful fingers and thumb sinking into the wobbly flesh of the man’s jowls as he forced his jaw shut. Fronto watched, impressed, as the innkeeper fell silent, intimidated beyond words by Masgava’s expression alone. It was only when he was lowered back to the floor that Fronto realised the big Numidian had actually lifted him off the floor by his chin. As the man alighted again and let out a nervous fart, Masgava put a shushing finger to his lips, tapped his temple with a finger and walked on towards the stairs. As Fronto passed the innkeeper, the man was shaking like a leaf. Not one pair of eyes in the room was looking directly at any of them.
It paid to have good men with you, Fronto smiled.
The party took the stairs one at a time, slowly and keeping to the side again to prevent creaks. The corridor above was dark – no oil lamps lit at this time of night. The ten of them moved stealthily down the corridor until they reached the door at the end. Again, Masgava motioned for silence and put his ear to the door. He shook his head, indicating silence within, and then crouched to the keyhole. Rising, he shrugged his uncertainty. He looked back at Fronto and indicated his shoulder questioningly. In reply, Fronto mimed opening the door by the handle.
Quietly the Numidian grasped the ring and turned. Next to him, Arcadios hefted his gladius and prepared. Stealth now abandoned in favour of surprise, Masgava threw the door back and he and Arcadios swept in like a river in flood, Biorix and Cavarinos behind him, Fronto and the rest following on.
The room was pitch black, the window shuttered tight, and Fronto panicked as he entered, suddenly well aware that the enemy were at a serious advantage in pitch black in a room they had occupied for days. His fears were realised as he heard first a strangled grunt from Masgava ahead in the dark, and a cry of pain from Arcadios. His own sword slashed out, blind, into the darkness at the side, where an enemy might lurk, but certainly no ally.
Nothing. His eyes were adjusting slightly, but not enough to pick out anything but the vaguest of shapes. His sword lanced, slashed and swiped in the darkness and he felt a triumphant surge as it connected with something, only to realise it was a bed post.
Someone threw open the shutters and the room burst into clarity in the low light from the street outside and from the moon, which had made a brief but most welcome appearance in a gap in the clouds.
The room was empty.
Well, not entirely empty. The thin cord that had been stretched across at neck height might well have crushed the windpipe of a running man, but Masgava had caught it first and, at his height, it had hit him below the collar bones. Arcadios was leaning on a bed, swearing and, as the room came into view, yelled ‘tribuli!’
Fronto looked down. The floor was scattered sparsely with pointed iron caltrops, one of which Arcadios was busy removing from his foot, accompanied by some choice curses and the patter of blood droplets.
‘Some leaving gift,’ Biorix grunted, kicking one of the tribuli carefully aside. Apart from the painful traps, the room was empty. No Sons of Taranis. No kit bags, weapons, cloaks or masks.
Fronto sheathed his sword. ‘They must have come back here after the villa, so they can’t be far ahead of us.’
‘Unless they cleared out first and took everything with them to the villa?’ Arcadios mused.
Cavarinos shook his head. ‘They cannot have believed they would fail a second time. They have just left.’
‘No use asking the barman,’ Fronto sighed. ‘They wouldn’t have told him anything, even if he’d asked, which he wouldn’t. But we know they’re somewhere in the city and now there are only seven of them. Will they try again?’
Cavarinos pursed his lips. ‘If they are true to their mission, no. They couldn’t risk any more losses if they hope to free the king. You can never be truly sure, though, with a man like Molacos. Fanatics are bad enough normally, but when you thwart them like you have, it can push them over the edge of the madness cliff. If Molacos still has a grain of sense, he had his ship ready to sail before they came for you. I would place money on them already being at sea.’
Fronto straightened and crossed to the window, stepping around the caltrops. He stood for a moment, leaning on the window and looking out across the city, and came to a decision. Turning, determination filling his expression, he folded his arms.
‘It’s time to take the fight to them, then. I did this with Hierocles and his Greek thugs for months, trying to stay peaceful and on the right side of law. And at every opportunity the slimy bastard ruined me and hurt my people and my business. And in the end I had to show my teeth to stop him. Now these rebel killers are doing the same. They keep us penned in the villa, defensive and panicked, waiting for the next attack. It’s time to show our teeth again.’
‘But how will we find them?’ murmured Biorix.
‘We know where they are going: to the carcer in Rome. That is where we’ll find them.’
‘And your family?’ Cavarinos prompted. ‘You can’t leave them here for fear of reprisals, and it would be too dangerous to take them with you.’
Fronto nodded. ‘Catháin has been badgering me to let him go to Campania and secure better sources of wine. He and a few of the men can accompany Balbus, Lucilia and the children to Puteoli. They’ll be safe at my mother’s villa there, especially with Andala with them. And Galronus is in Puteoli, too, so he’ll look after them. That means that once we pass Ostia we can concentrate on the remaining seven rebels.’
Masgava sheathed his sword. ‘It’s a good plan.’ He glanced at Cavarinos. ‘Will you be leaving us here?’
Fronto felt a strange lurch inside. He hadn’t thought of that. Would Cavarinos willingly walk into the Roman eagle’s own nest? Would he really want to see the jail that held his king; his kinsman in fact. Would he be able to face that and not feel the need to free the man himself? Cavarinos may seem one of them, but when faced with his own people languishing in the carcer…?
The Arvernian’s face betrayed his indecision, but resolution came down fast and complete. ‘I will see this through to the end. The Sons of Taranis must be stopped.’
‘Can we stop them sailing?’ Arcadios asked quietly. ‘I know we’re talking as though they’ve already left, but we can’t be sure.’
‘We know the enemy have a friendly ship,’ Biorix replied, ‘but it’s probably already left, and even if it hasn’t, with no name and the number of Gallic traders in port, tracking them will be like trying to find a particular turd in the latrines.’
‘You are full of delightful images,’ snorted Fronto. ‘But you’re right. They may well already have sailed. It’s not common to sail at night, but the port’s open and
there’s nothing to stop them. Best we get ahead to Rome and see if we can find them there, like I said. Brutus’ orders do not cater for passengers in his fleet, but I will secure a place for all of us and he will not argue with me. The family and most of the staff and guard will come too. And at Ostia we’ll transfer the family onto a ship bound for Puteoli before we continue upriver.’
Cavarinos picked up one of the pointed tribuli from the floor and turned it round and round in his fingers. ‘Roman. Imagine that. Despite their aversion to Rome, they’re not above using your own weapons.’ He sighed and cast the caltrop aside. ‘To Rome, then.’
‘To Rome.’
Chapter Seventeen
MARCUS Antonius leaned close to Caesar, trying not to catch the eye of Calenus on the general’s far side. ‘You think Gaius is safe among the Bellovaci?’
The general turned his aquiline features on his friend, confidante, distant cousin and senior officer. ‘You think he is not?’
‘Gaius is a good man, I know. But he’s little experience of command yet. A legion and a half to keep the Belgae in place. Have we done enough to pacify them?’
A knowing smile played on the general’s lips. ‘This is anxiety over our strategy, then? Not simply fraternal concern?’
‘I would hardly… it’s not my place…’
‘Ha.’ Caesar chuckled. ‘Worry not, Marcus. Your little brother is quite safe. He has some of my best tribunes and centurions with him, and the Belgae are beaten for good. They could barely raise a cheer, let alone an army. Besides, your mother would tear me to pieces if I placed Gaius in real danger.’
Antonius laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen a quieter people than the Bellovaci now.’
A roar brought their attention back to the open square before them. Cenabum was not what it had once been. The Carnutes had damaged the important river port in their original attack that had ignited the flames of that great revolt which had died at Alesia. In response, the legions had all-but razed it. Now a new village was rising amid the ashes of the old port. One day there would be aqueducts here, and paved roads and a forum, temples to the Capitoline triad. Now there were huts among the ruins. The smell of charred wood lingered even after so many months – years now, in fact. The place smelled like a pyre, and it would take a generation for that to fade. But they were not in Cenabum for the facilities, nor for the air. They were in Cenabum to make a statement.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 38