The eastern end of the top step of the temple of Castor and Pollux, for example, beneath the ornamental colonnade, gave a partial view of the interior of the Basilica Aemilia through one of its high windows. Much of the interior was still hidden from view, and there was no hope of listening in, of course, but to keep an eye on things, the point of view was unrivalled.
Paetus, grateful for a break from the incessant rain, had spent his day here quietly and undisturbed, other than having to shoo a couple of children away when he’d returned from purchasing his lunch. His position gave him a clear view of the open space where the advocates and prosecutors strode about, espousing their views. Apart from Crassus and Cicero and Caelius himself, the respected senator Gaius Coponius and Clodius’ pet Praetor Quintus Fufius Calenus both took turns to give their own, probably spurious, evidence, along with many less notable noblemen.
And finally, with the outcome still hanging in the balance, the trial had ended for the day, the doors were unlocked, and the basilica began to empty. Paetus watched carefully as the togate figures emerged; a studious man could tell a lot from facial expressions and body language.
Many of the men involved in the case bore the stony, serious gaze of the career lawyer. Such a high profile trial brought most of the legal minds in Rome out of the woodwork, whether they were required or not.
Then Cicero and Crassus appeared and Paetus sighed with relief. Crassus was known for his stony features anyway, but the chuckle he gave at some unheard comment of the smiling Cicero spoke volumes about the direction the trial was taking. Paetus’ conclusion was confirmed twice more, principally as Caelius appeared at the door to be greeted instantly by Fronto and Priscus who’d been sitting on the marble steps outside. Briefly his eyes flicked across to the Gaul – Galronus he was called apparently – and Crispus, each leading a small gang of men and closing on the emerging group protectively.
Caelius’ grin threatened to separate the top of his head from his body. And then Clodius and his sister emerged, followed by a gaggle of family and assorted cronies. The man had a face like thunder and gesticulated wildly as he argued with Clodia, whose own features raged between fury and helpless despair. Paetus nodded to himself. Good. Anything that might go wrong for Clodius was a step toward his own revenge.
The argument between the siblings reached a crescendo when Clodius drew back his hand and gave his sister a ringing slap across the cheek, causing her to stagger, the colour draining from her already porcelain face. Paetus almost chuckled at the sight, particularly given that the pair were still in full view of many of their courtroom opposition.
Turning his back on her, Clodius gestured to his followers and strode off into the city. Clodia stood for a time, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks as the shock turned into low, burning anger. After a brief discussion with the two advocates, Fronto, Priscus and Caelius turned and made their way across the square, past the temple where Paetus stood, and heading toward the circus and home. As they moved out into the open space their hired hands, in two groups led by Crispus and Galronus, appeared from among the crowd where they had been lurking, watching for trouble, and gathered as a protective unit around the defendant. Paetus smiled. Even in the winter months, back in Rome and in civilian clothes, Fronto couldn’t shake the habit or appearance of a soldier. No wonder he’d never made a go of it in politics. The man was like a ballista: direct and to the point and as military as they came.
The silent observer was smiling at the mental picture of Fronto addressing the Senate when unexpected movement caught his eye. The temple of Castor was, apart from himself, emptying. Most of the people beneath the colonnade were here for the same reason as he: to get the best possible view of a trial that involved some of Rome’s greatest men. However, now that the basilica was emptying, most of the interested onlookers had descended to try and get close to the parties involved. Indeed, even most of the beggars had also descended, smelling the wealth as it passed.
One figure, however, was moving against the human tide. Clodia, in her finery, cut a graceful figure; hardly subtle in any way, drawing appreciative and hungry glances from the men around her as she climbed the steps to the far side of the temple portico where Paetus stood. The former prefect watched her with interest, his eyes narrowing. She cast her gaze around the temple façade as she reached the top step and he slumped against the column in the manner of a drunk. Her eyes passed across him, barely noting his presence, a testament to how much he had changed in the last year, given that he had met Clodia at social occasions in Rome a number of times in the old days when his wife had been...
Paetus shook away the morbid thoughts. This was no time for a descent into misery. There was something suspicious about Clodia’s stance and the way she checked out her surroundings, and the former prefect tensed.
Reaching into her stola, Clodia withdrew an iron object around eight inches long that must have been very uncomfortable to secrete in such a way. Paetus frowned at the item. He’d seen them before in the supplies of some of the Greek-speaking auxiliary units that fought with him under Valerius at Zela a decade earlier: plumbata – a throwing dart, heavy and deadly.
He was already moving before he’d made his decision. After his potentially disastrous move to prevent Caelius’ assassination weeks ago, he was now committed to the path; besides, it was the right thing to do. Would Caelius ever know of his silent guardian, Paetus wondered as he stepped up behind Clodia, who was testing the weight of the heavy dart while judging the distance to the laughing figure of Caelius, striding across the forum?
Clenching his teeth and with a single glance to make sure that no one of consequence was paying attention to them, Paetus grasped the wrist of her throwing arm with one hand while the other came around from behind her head and clamped across her mouth. As she uttered a stifled squawk, Paetus lifted her bodily off her feet with ease and stepped back into the shadows of the colonnade. Without pausing there to give her time to regain her senses and fight back, he retreated into the temple doorway with her. The interior, dim and shady after the overcast but bright light of the forum, was austere and quiet.
Paetus cast his glance around and noted the two figures in the centre of the open space. A junior priest in his white robes was explaining something to a plebeian in a depressing grey tunic. The two looked up in surprise as Paetus and the thrashing woman entered the building and stepped aside from the bright square of the door.
“You two: out!” Paetus barked and, to illustrate his command, he jerked his chin towards the door. The citizen took one look at the tableau and ran from the room. The priest, on the other hand, approached the door and held his hands out in a soothing fashion, turning to face the pair. He opened his mouth to speak just as he noticed the deadly weapon clutched in the woman’s white hand, the circulation cut off by her assailant’s grip. The priest changed his mind hurriedly, closed his mouth and scuttled out of the door, making frightened sounds.
Finally, Clodia seemed to calm down, her breathing settling just as she brought her foot down hard on Paetus’ own, expecting him to screech and release her. His grip on her wrist tightened as he took his other hand from her mouth. She gasped at the pain in her arm and her spasming fingers lost their grip of the plumbata dart, which fell into her assailant’s outstretched hand. With a grim smile, he let go of her wrist and weighed the dart in his hand.
“That would have been exceptionally unwise, Clodia.”
She glared at him.
“A spoiled girl” he declared, “stamping her feet and throwing things because she is not getting her own way.”
“Who are you?”
Paetus smiled. She really didn’t recognise him, even face to face and a foot apart.
“I am a child of Mars, watching over the wellbeing of Marcus Caelius Rufus and his companions.” He pursed his lips and then smiled humourlessly. “In time, I will become an agent of Nemesis, but for now, Caelius is in my care. I see that the results of the trial appear to be swing
ing against you. Your petty and personal accusations against an innocent man for your own vain glory are driving your brother ever further away from you and serve no purpose for either of you. You have lost the case, as tomorrow will make clear to you. Let the matter drop and move on with your corrupt and stained life and forget you ever heard the name Marcus Caelius Rufus.”
Clodia glared at him and her lip curled into a snarl.
“Nobody tells me what to do, you piece of refuse. Not my brother; not Caelius; not even Mars himself. When I find out who you are, be on your guard, as I shall add your name to the list below his.”
Paetus smiled, though with clenched teeth the effect was far more frightening than it should have been. Clodia drew a nervous breath as her attacker dropped the dart and grasped her at the shoulders, his hands gathering a bunch of her stola as he lifted her from the floor once again and swung her round to press her against the temple wall, knocking the wind out of her.
“You have no idea, girl; simply no idea. I have been through Hades and back, dragging my feet in the fire of the underworld. I have fought armies, been tortured and killed. I am Mars becoming Nemesis! I have endured more than a human can endure and still I survive. Do not presume to threaten me, and mark my words: stay silent and out of the way. Every step you take into the public light brings you one step closer to my grip and I offer only this one warning.”
To punctuate his point, he shook her so that her head snapped back with a crack against the tufa wall of the temple’s interior. As he stepped back to let her go, she slumped, becoming limp in his grip as she passed out.
Silently, he chided himself. He’d become incensed and had taken things too far, even using part of the speech he was saving for the day he had his hands on her brother. He’d meant to merely warn her off but had ended the encounter by threatening her, claiming a divine duty, and knocking her unconscious against a temple wall. Still, there was little doubt in his mind she would remember this.
Gently, he allowed the woman in his arms to slump to the floor, where he left her propped against the wall. There was no blood on the tufa or her head, so he’d not hit her that hard; she would wake soon enough. Collecting the heavy dart from the floor, he returned to her unconscious form and dropped the weapon in her lap. She might have trouble explaining the possession of a weapon in the forum. He was sure she would talk her way out of it, but the embarrassment would filter back to Clodius too.
Taking a deep breath, Paetus stood and left the temple. There was no sign of the priest near the steps. Perhaps he had gone to Pontifex Maximus to report the defilement of his temple. Wherever he may be, Paetus was pleased to have the time to leave the podium and head back to his lodgings to ponder on the outcome of the day.
* * * * *
Fronto frowned at Priscus.
“Do you ever see dead people?”
The former primus pilus of the Tenth grinned.
“Have you any idea what a stupid question that is, given our profession.”
Fronto’s frown deepened for a moment in confusion before he realised what his friend was talking about and shook his head irritably.
“Don’t be an idiot. You know exactly what I mean. A long time ago I used to see my father from time to time...” he glanced sidelong at Priscus. “After he died, before you make any more smart remarks. I remember seeing him here and there. I’ve never had much use for Gods and priests…”
He turned his eyes upwards apologetically.
“Apart from Nemesis and Fortuna, of course… But there are times that make me question either my beliefs or my sanity.”
Priscus made a face.
“What the hell are you talking about? I swear the longer we stay out of combat, the weirder you get.”
Fronto sighed.
“The spirits of the departed. Mother always said that the manes and the lemures were real; that the manes appeared to give you advice and support when you needed it, and the lemures stalked those who were responsible for their deaths. She thought she saw my father several times too, so she was pleased that I did, but she always assured me, even when I was young, that the restless dead would have no cause to haunt me, cause I was a good boy.”
Priscus rolled his eyes; it was going to be one of those conversations.
“You can get quite peculiar and depressing sometimes, Marcus.”
Fronto glared at him.
“Don’t you believe in anything?”
“Steel.” Priscus answered flatly. “And cake. And wine, and women, and the inability for dice to ever come up right for me, and that politicians should be automatically denied the right to serve with the military.”
Fronto stared at him for a moment and then laughed.
“Fair enough; particularly to that last. But the thing is that, although I don’t sacrifice or do much in the way of libations or praying, that idea has been at the heart of everything I’ve done since I hit adulthood. Looking back, I can’t think of a single occasion where I’ve deliberately caused harm to someone who didn’t deserve it.”
He paused and grinned.
“Plenty of harm to those who did deserve it, mind you.”
His face became serious again.
“Thing is, Gnaeus, that I keep seeing someone that simply can’t be here, and they’re always watching me. It’s starting to make my spine itch and my scalp crawl. And while I can’t say I’m directly and personally responsible for hurting them, I’m still serving and supporting a certain general who is directly responsible.”
Priscus narrowed his eyes.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Never mind” Fronto sighed, spotting the door of his family home up ahead in the quiet street. “I’m just starting to feel like a man at the circus, watching the quadrigae racing out of the starting gate and realising too late that he’s backed the wrong driver.”
Again, his companion pursed his lips.
“You saying you’re not going to go back with the general?”
Fronto shook his head, but Priscus noted something uncertain about the manner of the legate of the Tenth.
“No; not that. I’m needed with the Tenth, and they deserve a commander who knows them. But the general is starting to wear on my nerves. The more I look at Pompey and Crassus, the more I think that they’re the future that Rome deserves and that Caesar is a new Sulla in the making, ready to march his men into Rome and…”
He shrugged.
“I’m in service with the general, but it’s more through acknowledgement of our history together than anything else; I certainly don’t need his patronage and we don’t owe him money or anything. I will head out when he issues the call, but I think the time of me keeping my mouth shut and playing along is just about at an end.”
Priscus turned to look back at the assorted group behind them: a well-known politician with a good history, a Gaulish nobleman, a young legate, and a bunch of hired muscle. Hardly the legion he was used to having at his shoulder.
“At least you get to go back. I’ll be staying here for the duration. Try not to start another civil war when you disagree with him, though. Caesar may be powerful and a great orator, but try and remember that your opinion carries a lot of weight with the centurionate and the more impressionable officers, so be careful.”
Fronto smiled.
“Aren’t I always careful, Gnaeus?”
“Are you ever?”
* * * * *
Fronto rolled the dice again on the marble step.
“Shit.”
Grumbling, he fished in his pocket and withdrew two more coins, slapping them irritably down on the step in front of Galronus. The Remi chief grinned.
“You get worse at dice when you are tense.”
“And your Latin gets suspiciously better when you’re winning. I constantly fear that you’re hustling me, Galronus.”
The Belgic nobleman laughed and gathered up the dice, raising a questioning eyebrow at Fronto.
“Go on then. One more.”
>
Beside them, leaning against the column, Crispus sighed and adjusted his toga.
“Have you ever considered stopping playing games before you run out of coin? No one has been on a losing streak like this since the Carthaginians.”
Fronto shot an irritable glance up at his friend.
“I notice you never put your hand in your pocket!”
“And that is why there is still money in it. Can you not see that Galronus is better at this than you; as well as luckier, of course.”
“Shut up.”
Crispus smiled benignly. He had enjoyed his winter in the city. The previous year, Fronto had shown him the delights of Tarraco, but there really was no place like Rome. It would be sad in a way to return to the legions, but then life there was rarely dull either, particularly with Fronto around. He wondered briefly how Felix was doing in his absence.
A few bony clicks and a sigh announced a further emptying of Fronto’s pocket. Galronus stretched.
“Enough. I can hardly walk with all your coins as it is.”
Fronto glowered at him and examined the dice suspiciously before handing them back to the Gaul.
Crispus smiled again. There was something about Fronto. He was a catalyst in the best sense of the word; a force that brought everyone to his level. Last year he had taken Crispus, a serious and fairly naïve young officer, and had taken him under his wing, opening his mind to a number of surprising experiences. The result had been astounding: Crispus had returned to the Eleventh a stronger, more commanding legate with a better understanding of the men who followed him. The life experience Fronto had pushed at him had been invaluable.
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) Page 10
