Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules)

by Turney, S. J. A.

  “Nice.”

  Fronto grinned and, crouching, reached inside.

  A sharply-drawn breath and he suddenly paused. His hand withdrew and he stepped back to his friends at the railing. Priscus frowned. The legate’s face had slid into an angry grimace.

  “What’s up?”

  Fronto grabbed his arm and turned him round so that the three of them leaned forward over the railing, looking down toward the city, facing away from the crowd.

  “I know him.”

  “Who?”

  “That man of Pompey’s. He’s not actually Pompey’s man.”

  Priscus sighed.

  “Try and make more sense.”

  Fronto grumbled.

  “He’s got two rings on his fourth finger. I saw them together recently, holding down my leg while that Egyptian bastard Philopater beat me to a pulp.”

  Galronus frowned at him.

  “You’re sure? No one else could be wearing those rings?”

  The legate shook his head.

  “I’m positive. Galronus, no Roman man wears more than one ring. It’s tasteless, gaudy and simply not done. But the rings are fairly memorable too. They’re both signet rings.”

  Priscus narrowed his eyes and Fronto nodded.

  “A lion with a sword?” he said quietly.

  “That’s Pompey’s seal!” Priscus said, his tone incredulous. “He trusts one of his men with his own seal?”

  Fronto waved his hands, trying to warn his friends to lower their voices. He took a quick glance over his shoulder and was irritated to see that, while the man was still emptying the basket, he was also watching the three of them attentively.

  “The other one shows a cornucopia. Ring any bells?”

  Priscus nodded.

  “Clodius. So what do we do?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “I favour flattening his face into the floor, myself.”

  Priscus nodded his agreement and the pair started violently as Galronus suddenly jumped up.

  “He runs!” the Remi officer shouted.

  Fronto and Priscus spun around, but the man had abandoned his basket and was already away, disappearing around the rear corner of the temple to the astonishment of the rest of the gathered escort.

  Without comment or question, Galronus was already off, his feet pounding on the slabs as he ducked and weaved between the goods being offered around and the gathered dignitaries and servants, heading toward the corner around which the man had run.

  Fronto picked himself up and ran after them and Priscus, sighing and muttering about his leg, stood and hobbled at high speed around the near side of the temple in the hope of cutting the man off and saving himself a run.

  The panting legate rounded the end of the temple at speed, vaguely aware of the sound of heated debate coming from within as he entered the shade at the building’s rear, his head snapping this way and that. The man had vaulted over the balustrade at the far side and was busy speeding away down the hill, away from the city and toward the Via Aurelia, Galronus close behind and running with the speed of a horse and the surety of a mountain goat.

  Managing a somewhat graceless and clumsy leap over the railing, Fronto continued his pursuit, Priscus appearing at his awkward pace at the far side of the temple.

  There would be little chance of either of them catching the man at this pace; it was all down to Galronus, though that was clearly no long shot, given the strength and speed of the man.

  Suddenly Fronto’s world spun and blurred as his running foot came down on a fallen apple and slipped, sending him into a forward roll that carried him a dozen paces further down the slope, where he slid painfully to a halt. Angrily, he rubbed his head, brushing the sticks from his hair, and stood, gripping one of the many fallen apples that lay scattered around on the slope. For a moment, he glared at the fruit angrily.

  Ahead, Galronus had closed and was almost on the running man. Tensing, the Remi warrior leapt, hurtling through the air and hitting the man just below the waist, his arms wrapping around the target’s legs. As Priscus came sliding to a painful halt next to Fronto, the pair watched Galronus and his prey disappear in a flurry of arms and legs, leaves, sticks and dust hurtling into the air and forming a cloud around them.

  Moments later, the fugitive managed to struggle free and clambered to his feet, drawing back his leg to deliver a mighty kick to Galronus’ ribs when Fronto’s thrown apple caught him on the temple with a surprising amount of force, knocking him back to the ground, stunned.

  Fronto grinned at Priscus, who shook his head.

  “How the hell you pulled off that throw I’ll never know. I’ve seen you at festivals trying to put a ball in a bucket. You couldn’t hit the Porta Fontinalis with a rock if you were standing underneath it.”

  Fronto’s grin widened, but there was an absence of humour in it.

  “You forget; Nemesis is my patron, and she’s working hard today.”

  The two men picked their way down the slope, being careful not to fall and tumble once more. Ahead, Galronus had restrained the fugitive and now had his arms wrenched around behind his back in a painful and restrictive manner. A minute more and the Fronto and Priscus joined the pair. The man had recovered from his stun, but his struggling had died down, pinned as he was. Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  “Clodius must value you to let you wear his seal like that? And Pompey too?”

  The man merely drew a deep breath and glared, silently.

  “I’m sure you remember me?” Fronto asked pleasantly. “I remember you, for certain. Have you nothing to say?”

  “If you value your life, you’ll let me go” the man barked, a hint of menace in his voice. Fronto laughed.

  “You’re hardly in a position to dictate terms. Clodius can’t threaten me any more than he already does. I’m not afraid of him.”

  The man snorted.

  “It is Pompey Magnus of whom I speak. I am his man and he will not take kindly to this treatment of his factor.”

  Priscus sighed.

  “I think you’ll find that Fronto here considers himself beyond and above mere politics. I honestly believe he thinks he’s the hand of Nemesis at work.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “I’m going to start by breaking two of your fingers in return for mine. Then I’ll decide on the next move, while Priscus sources a hammer for me.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “You wouldn’t? You couldn’t? My master will kill you!”

  “Which one?”

  The man opened his mouth and started to babble desperate threats and promises, but Fronto reached to the hem of his tunic, snagged in his fall, and tore a strip from it, balling it up and shoving it forcefully into the man’s throat, gagging him.

  Galronus frowned.

  “Do you not wish to interrogate him?”

  “Hardly worthwhile.”

  Reaching down, he grasped the man’s middle finger and, with a jerk, snapped it to vertical. The man’s muffled scream brought a smile to the legate’s face.

  “Ah, the beauty is truly not in the receiving, but rather in the giving of gifts.”

  The man’s eyes widened again, tears rushing down his cheeks as Fronto grasped his fourth finger, ready to snap it.

  “Wait!” Priscus grinned. “I may have a better idea.”

  As Fronto let go of the finger, his head cocked to one side, Priscus drew his pugio dagger from the belt around his tunic. Gripping the same finger carefully, he positioned the blade. The man realised what he was doing and tried hard to struggle free, but Galronus’ grip was vice-like.

  He screamed into the balled cloth as Priscus severed the finger with the two rings on. Holding it out to Fronto, the former centurion grinned.

  “Evidence.”

  The legate stared at the finger and slowly broke into a smile.

  “I’d best go put this to good use. Could you two do me a favour and break any part of him that’s supposed to bend? Careful not to kill him tho
ugh. I want to send him back to Clodius alive.”

  Turning his back on the nods of his two companions, Fronto smiled down at the finger in his hand bearing the priceless seal rings of Clodius and Pompey. With a light laugh, he set off back up the hill toward the temple, ignoring the unpleasant noises behind him.

  * * * * *

  Caesar shook his head.

  “We should be above this, gentlemen. We agreed on a course of action at the start of the year at Lucca that should have secured things for all of us in Rome and beyond and provided a solid foundation for our work in the coming year.”

  “We did” Crassus agreed, nodding, “and I have seen no reason to change our plans. You keep Gaul and Illyricum, Pompey keeps Spain and I get Syria. Our various factors and clients manoeuvre things in Rome for us and everyone is happy. Why reconsider?”

  Caesar shook his head.

  “Things are not working out, though. Clodius continues to rabble rouse and interfere in Rome. There is violence and almost outright war on the streets. Cicero, Cato and others work to bring me down in the senate and, while that affects me directly rather than you, think on how it weakens our alliance. We are inter-dependant. We cannot allow weakness in any one of us, for fear it brings down the others.”

  He sat back against the temple’s cold wall.

  “No. It will simply not do to have the three of us absent from Rome for at least a year, with mere assistants attempting to keep things moving for us here. Rome needs to be gripped with a strong hand and guided, else the chaos and disruption I have seen in the streets in the past week will simply escalate until we are faced with disaster.”

  Crassus was nodding slowly.

  “I agree to an extent; things are getting out of control in the city. I will be leaving my son in the city in a position of some importance. In him I have the utmost trust, but I am not sure about any others.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “I have seen your son at work, my dear Crassus. He will not fail you, but we three are the men who have the strength and the will to push Rome in the right direction and you both know that. Withdraw our direct guiding hand and people like Clodius and Cato will gain the upper hand.”

  Pompey, until now largely silent, sat forward.

  “We only need one man in Rome. With the governorship of Spain, I have already maintained the province from here the past few years, and I can continue to do so. I may have to visit a few times, but there is nothing to stop me remaining in Rome.”

  He smiled.

  “Indeed, my theatre will be completed next year, and I would wish to be in the city for its inauguration and the first shows anyway. I could be the man of whom you speak, guiding Rome, while the pair of you deal with Syria and Gaul.”

  Crassus nodded again.

  “The plan has merit, Gaius. With Pompey in the city keeping control, I can settle in Syria and prepare to move into Parthia. You would be free to consolidate Gaul and consider your next move.”

  He smiled sadly.

  “I am aware that there is some disparaging talk about your conquest, but with a year to consolidate with no rebellions, you can be sure of the province before moving on.”

  Caesar sighed.

  “You would need more power than you currently have, Pompey, if you alone were to try and control the heaving hydra that is Rome.”

  He pursed his lips.

  “We considered the consulship at Lucca but put aside the idea as something that might provoke a negative reaction to our alliance. Since we already have that reaction now, let’s use the consulship. We can arrange to have the two of you voted into the consulship together. Between you you would effectively have control of the city.”

  “What about you?”

  Caesar smiled at Crassus.

  “I will be far too busy to attend to the duties of a consul in the coming year. You, however, will have at least a year in Syria before you could even consider attacking Parthia. You can stay in contact with Pompey here and the two of you would be able to keep things under control. Is that not the answer?”

  There were nods from the other two men.

  “It’s workable” Pompey smiled.

  “But” Caesar added, gesturing with a cautionary finger “this would be for the benefit of us all, and of Rome itself, and not for personal gain.”

  He concentrated his gaze on Pompey.

  “I would expect you, in my absence, to maintain my reputation and keep my enemies muffled in the senate as you would do for yourself. I hope we understand one another?”

  Pompey nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. Crassus looked back and forth between the two men, an unspoken question in his expression.

  “I…” Pompey began, but there was a knock at the door.

  The three men exchanged surprised glances and Crassus, nearest to the entrance, rose from the seat.

  “Come in?”

  The great bronze portal swung open with a metallic creak and dazzling sunlight invaded the gloom of the temple. The figure silhouetted in the doorway slowly resolved itself into the shape of Fronto, his arms folded.

  “Marcus? We were not to be disturbed. This is most discourteous.”

  Fronto stepped slowly into the shadow and bowed.

  “I apologise for my breach of etiquette, gentlemen. I realise your time and privacy is important and I shall not keep you, but for a moment.”

  “Get on with it, man” Crassus sighed.

  Fronto nodded.

  “Yes, of course. I have a message for master Pompey that could not wait until after the meeting.”

  Pompey smiled at him warmly.

  “Indeed?”

  Fronto strode across to him, bowed, and withdrew a hinged, folding wax tablet from within his tunic, passing it to Pompey. With a bow, he stepped back and strode toward the dazzling doorway.

  “Thank you, gentlemen” he said with a nod and, withdrawing, pulled the door shut behind him.

  Silence filled the temple and Pompey turned the tablet over in his hands, examining the seal that crossed the join; it was his own. With a frown, he snapped the seal and opened the tablet.

  “Well?” Crassus demanded impatiently. “What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait a half hour?”

  In the darkness neither of them could see the colour drain from Pompey’s face as he stared down into the tablet. The wax that formed the two pages had been scraped out hastily to make room for the finger that sat in the centre, its two signet rings mocking him and announcing in no uncertain terms that his clandestine dealings with Clodius were no longer merely a rumour.

  Swallowing nervously, he looked up and forced a smile, snapping the tablet shut and tucking it away into his toga.

  “It seems that my son Gnaeus has suffered a fall whilst riding. He will be fine. This could have waited… my apologies.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “No apology necessary, my friend. I know how it is when a son injures himself. It fills the heart with butterflies and pushes it up into the throat. We should be finished very soon and you can go and see him.”

  Caesar narrowed his eyes as he studied the man opposite him.

  “Yes,” he said very slowly and deliberately, “you should certainly look after your own.”

  The sun beat down on the Janiculum as the doors of the temple swung open. Fronto stood alone, twenty yards from the door beneath a tree and it was to him that Caesar strode as his peers returned to their escorts.

  “What did you really give Pompey.”

  “You don’t need to know that, Caesar.”

  The general eyed him suspiciously.

  “I would say that whatever it was gave the man rather a shock. After you left, he hardly said a word other than to hurriedly agree with anything I said. Honestly, I suspect that if I’d suggested he dress as a woman from now on, he would be having his hair curled and pinned up as we speak.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Marcus, I want to know what you’ve done.”

  “I’ve settle
d things, Caesar. Leave it at that. I think you’ll find that Clodius’ claws have been dulled. The great Pompey will, I suspect, be very careful to keep control of Rome for you while you’re away.”

  The general continued to glare at him and finally shook his head in exasperation.

  “You are an infuriating man, Marcus Falerius Fronto.”

  “I have been told that, yes.”

  The two men sighed and stretched. Smiling, Fronto proffered a mug of wine to the general.

  “Thank you, but no. I have much to do. Another week or so of planning and organising things with those two and then it will be time for me to return to the provinces.”

  Fronto looked across in surprise.

  “You leaving so soon?”

  “I have a number of matters to attend to in Illyricum and more in Cremona. I need to do something about the Veragri at Octodurus. I’d like nothing more than to lead the legions there and make them pay for what they did to the Twelfth, but that could just cause another set of eruptions in Gaul. So, what I’m thinking of doing is sending Mettius and Procillus with a chest of money and a small escort and buying enough peace and goodwill across the Alps to persuade them to open the trade route I need. It might be simpler and less costly in the long run.”

  He smiled curiously.

  “Also, I am reorganising the legions prior to the next year. Priscus is insistent that there are men in the legions, once of Pompey’s army, who are of dubious allegiance, and since Priscus is now my camp prefect, I can hardly ignore his concerns. I will be taking him with me to arrange matters; all my rotten legionary eggs shall be placed in one basket and I may then hand that basket to the Germans or the British when I see them.”