Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Who the hell are these two?’ Fronto said, almost sneering.

  He felt a hand touch his shoulder.

  ‘Those two are death, plain and simple. Get in the house.’

  Fronto glanced round into the eyes of Cestus and, for the first time, saw uncertainty in the man’s eyes. His urge to stay and fight evaporated with that look and he nodded to Priscus and Caesar. As Cestus and the giant Celt known as Lod stepped forward, accompanied by half a dozen other men, Fronto and Priscus hauled Milo to his feet, and half walked-half carried him back toward the stable. Cicero was spattered with blood and held the door open with a hollow expression as they passed through.

  The stables had been brought under control, the advancing flames now out, steam and smoke mixing, filling the air with noxious fumes. Fronto caught sight of Posco.

  ‘Have you opened an exit?’

  Posco shook his head.

  ‘There are several dozen men waiting in the road to the rear, master. I thought it prudent to concentrate on saving the stables and putting out the fire.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Good.’

  Gesturing to him, the group made their way into the storeroom and into the house proper. Barrels, sacks and boxes lay around, blackened and charred and now soaking wet. Most of the house’s stores were clearly ruined, and structural damage had been done to the building itself.

  ‘Think your man Cestus can hold them?’

  Priscus nodded.

  ‘If anyone can, he can.’

  ‘Good. Posco? What’s the situation?’

  The slave shrugged.

  ‘The rear door is still burning. We started getting it under control, but then it occurred that at this point it would just crumble if we put the fire out and then the rest of those men could get in, so we’ve contained it but let it burn.’

  ‘Quick thinking, Posco. Good man.’

  ‘The fire in the bath house was easy to put out, given… well, it’s a bath house, sir. The Oecus is on fire, and there is still burning in your father’s room, but the vestibule is under control, and the flames are almost out.’

  Priscus smiled.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve done a damn good job there. That could easily have gone the other way.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Yes, very good. But the front door is clear, you say?’

  Posco nodded.

  ‘The flames are out, master. Everything is hot to the touch, and you can hardly see your hand in front of your face for the smoke, but the danger is past.’

  Fronto grinned and turned to Priscus.

  ‘Want to have a little fun?’

  * * * * *

  Paetus had been forced to move further into the shadows, aware now that Priscus, and therefore Fronto and possibly several others, were conscious that he still lived. He had changed accommodation and cursed himself for letting his activity become too open.

  Clodia had ignored his warnings and pushed her vicious agendas until he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands and remove her from circulation. His opinion of Clodius had plummeted further, if such were possible, with the fact that he barely acknowledged the disappearance of his sister. Indeed, the man had been overheard privately stating his relief that she was no longer messing in his affairs.

  And so Paetus had pulled back, returning to mostly just observing events and planning and so now he sat on the wall that surrounded the garden of the house across the road from Fronto’s and looked down. Things had clearly not gone the way the attackers expected. He had counted forty five men with the Egyptian, and ten of them had split off to move into the street behind, presumably to prevent anyone effecting an escape.

  He had initially wracked his brains for a way to warn Fronto or even to help, but such desire had melted away when he watched the attack progressing around the burning house and had seen, among the other defenders, Gaius Julius Caesar step out into the passageway, fighting for his life. At that point it had become a matter of supreme indifference which side won, as one of the two men he most hated in the world fought desperately against the forces of the other.

  And then things had started to swing toward Fronto’s defenders. Philopater, standing beneath Paetus’ very position, shaded by the laurel leaves that flowed over the wall top, committed the small group of hardy men that had remained by his side and watched as the two psychopaths, known to the underworld as Castor and Pollux in a most impious fashion, moved in to shred the defenders.

  Fronto’s guards fought well, especially the one called Cestus. They were losing ground, being pushed back along the passageway, but they were making the attackers pay for every foot, and the Egyptian’s force was rapidly diminishing. Every now and then the deadly Dioscuri twins would move to the front of the attack and cause mayhem before stepping back and letting the others do some of the work. Bodies from both sides littered the yard.

  And then something happened that would stay with Paetus for the rest of his life.

  The kindling and dried wood that had been stacked against the front door of Fronto’s house, then sprayed with pitch and set alight had burned down quickly. The door had caught, and the flames had spread within, but the debris around the entrance had turned to a pile of grey charcoal, steaming in the damp night air and discolouring the house’s white wall.

  There was a faint click. Philopater had not noticed, his attention riveted to the scene of destruction that he had caused. Paetus, however, was in a commanding position, and was continually scanning the roof of the house to see where fire still burned.

  The front door of the house swung open silently, a cloud of smoke billowing out of the aperture and into the street, entirely engulfing the façade.

  At last Philopater became aware that something was wrong.

  ‘What in the name of…’

  The cloud billowed and bulged, carbon filling the air and ash settling on the glistening pavement and, as the haze began to thin in the gentle night breeze, three figures appeared in the gloom, stepping out of the cloud and into the street.

  Paetus almost laughed as he realised that the figures were Fronto, Priscus and Galronus, all three daubed in carbon, their faces and hands blackened, their tunics dark grey with ash. They looked like lemures, the spirits of the restless dead. He could only imagine what Philopater saw, but the gasp from below told him the man was not moved to mirth.

  As the three figures stepped into the air, carrying a blade in each hand, Fronto’s two companions separated and stepped to the side, forming a strange, unearthly barrier between the fight in the yard and the events that were unfurling in the street outside.

  ‘To me!’ the Egyptian bellowed, his voice cracking with fear. Had he identified the men yet? Did he care?

  The hired thugs paid no attention. They had not heard their master, involved as they were in a fight to the death.

  ‘To me!’ he yelled again, desperation flooding into his voice.

  One or two of the attackers at the back turned to look; one even strode across to the gate but, as his eyes fell on the black spirits stalking the street, he began to push the gate closed, wide eyed in panic. Paetus heard the gasp from Philopater as he realised his men had abandoned him to his fate.

  The gate shut. Galronus and Priscus stepped to the side, to a position where they could leap to Fronto’s assistance if needed, but could make sure that gate stayed closed and the other thugs unable to join them.

  ‘Help me!’ Philopater howled, backing away against the wall.

  ‘No man in his right mind will help you, you Egyptian catamite!’

  ‘Fronto?’

  ‘In the flesh.’

  The legate advanced slowly on his quarry, who backed against the whitewashed plaster, left with nowhere to run.

  ‘I have just done my job, Fronto. Surely you understand that? Would you blame a soldier who attacked you? No; you would blame his commander: the man who sent him against you. Your argument is not with me, but with my master.’

 
Fronto smiled. Paetus was impressed at the effect of that feral white grin in the blackened face. It even sent a chill up his hidden spine.

  ‘I think you do yourself a disservice, Philopater. You are known to enjoy your work. In fact you go above and beyond your orders at times. I think, though, that your end has finally caught up with you.’

  The Egyptian, breathing fast and heavy, swept a sword from his belt; a short weapon with a strange, wavy blade of an Egyptian design.

  ‘You will find, Fronto, that I do not submit so easily.’

  He swept the blade through the air a couple of times with an expert flick of the wrist, creating pretty silvered patterns in the air.

  Fronto swung the heavy Celtic blade - a prize from his first year in Gaul - in his right hand with negligent grunt severing the Egyptian’s fist and carrying both it and the strange blade off down the street where they bounced and came to rest in a gutter, glinting silver and red.

  Clodius’ henchman stared at the severed wrist and the arc of blood that hung in the air for a moment before spattering the floor.

  ‘I’m not looking for your submission.’

  Fronto threw the heavy Celtic blade behind him, where Galronus, struggling with two swords already, caught it with difficulty. Paying no heed, Fronto swapped his gladius from his bad hand to the good.

  ‘You’ll understand if I don’t use my left. I had a little accident recently.’

  Philopater straightened.

  ‘You are a Roman noblemen. I yield to you. Surely you will not strike down a surrendering enemy?’

  Fronto barked a laugh.

  ‘Oh surely you don’t believe that? You’re going to die now, Philopater. It just remains to be seen if it’ll be like a man, or like a quivering coward.’

  The Egyptian heaved in a deep breath and looked down at his missing hand. Shock was holding off the agony, but he knew that at any time that shock might wear off, and he would start to feel what had happened.

  ‘You will make it quick? And certain? How a patrician would expect to die?’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘Hardly a death you deserve, as I’m sure even you would agree?’

  Philopater sighed.

  ‘But you are better than me, or so you believe.’

  Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  ‘A quick, sure death then. On your knees.’

  The Egyptian rolled his eyes upwards, muttering a prayer to one of the deities of his homeland, and Paetus ducked back into the shadows of the bushes on the wall top.

  The legate stepped forward, his two companions approaching to be sure the Egyptian had no last moment deviousness in mind.

  Philopater smiled as he pulled his tunic neckline down to reveal the olive flesh beneath and threw his head back, exposing his neck.

  ‘Does it bother you that you yourself are now wielding a sword on the streets of Rome in contravention of your most sacred laws?’

  ‘Shut up before I change my mind.’

  Placing the tip of his gladius at the man’s throat, just above the meeting of the collar bones, Fronto took a deep breath.

  ‘Nemesis, my guide.’

  As his strength fell behind the blow, driving the gladius down through the man’s neck and windpipe, deep into the cavity of his chest, and straight through his heart, Fronto looked up and smiled.

  The Egyptian gave a last sigh as the steel cut through his heart and swept his life away, blood fountaining up from the wound and adding to the grisly appearance of Fronto. The legate withdrew the blade and let the body fall away to the floor, gladius dropping to his side while his face remained raised.

  ‘You can come down now. We appear to be alone.’

  Paetus dithered for a moment, hanging back in the shadows.

  ‘I know you’re there. I saw you from across the street, before I struck the blow here. You have my word I will not stand in your way.’

  Paetus shook his head angrily. Even now, trying to remain as uninvolved as he could, he had still failed. Biting his cheek in irritation, he dropped from the wall and landed on the pavement, his knees bent, a few feet from the leaking corpse.

  ‘You look well, Paetus. Funnily enough, now that you’re a civilian, or a ghost, or whatever it is you purport to be, you’re in better military shape than you ever were as a soldier.’

  The former camp prefect straightened.

  ‘You, on the other hand, Fronto, are in the same state as ever: filthy and wounded.’

  The other two were approaching across the street.

  ‘Paetus.’

  He looked up at Priscus and nodded respectfully.

  ‘Why this strange charade, Paetus? What is it you want? Clodius? Caesar? Me?’

  ‘Hardly you, Fronto. You must know I could have killed you a hundred times now if I’d wanted.’

  ‘Indeed. Priscus tells me you’ve been something of a guardian spirit to the Falerii? I suppose I should thank you?’

  Paetus smiled.

  ‘More happy coincidence, really. My troubles are not with you, yet I did not set out to protect you, but to ruin Clodius. The two goals are happily often in concert, however.’

  He cocked his head.

  ‘You knew about me, but you’ve never mentioned it to Caesar? It warms me to you, I have to say, but I also have to enquire as to why?’

  Fronto shrugged.

  ‘Not everything is appropriate to report. You should go now. The fight inside will be over soon, and then the general will come out here. You don’t want to be here when that happens.’

  Paetus smiled.

  ‘True. You’ve dealt Clodius a heavy blow tonight. He will seek revenge, and it will come like the breath of the draco, fiery and lethal. Get out of Rome as soon as you can. This will seem like a simple brawl compared to what he will do next.’

  Fronto smiled.

  ‘I will deal with it when it comes. Clodius will fall in time.’

  ‘Clodius is mine, Fronto. Do not concern yourself with him. Events are even now in motion. His end is coming. Not immediately, but when it does it will be painful and ignominious. Leave him to me.’

  The former prefect smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘It was good to speak to you again, Marcus.’

  Fronto smiled in return.

  ‘And you, but Clodius is only yours if you beat me to him.’

  The two men stood for a moment in silence, and then the fugitive turned and disappeared down the street, fast and quiet.

  ‘I feel for him.’ Priscus sighed.

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘He was right about Clodius’ reaction, though. Time for the Falerii to beat a temporary retreat, I fear.’

  Chapter 23

  (Late Octobris: House of the Falerii in Rome.)

  Fronto stood in the atrium, gingerly rubbing his aching shoulder and side.

  ‘What’s the upshot?’

  Priscus glanced across at Cestus, who straightened from where he leaned against the soot-blackened wall.

  ‘We lost twelve men from the guard, two slaves to the attackers and two to fire. Three men are wounded, and one slave, but they’ll all mend in time. That leaves the household support at six slaves and Posco, and fourteen guards, not including the seven we have out in the city.’

  ‘And the enemy?’

  Now Cestus smiled unpleasantly.

  ‘Twenty eight dead.’ His smile became yet more vicious. ‘Well, there were twenty four, but we took the opportunity to finish off four more wounded ones we found when it got light.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Not bad, given the circumstances.’

  ‘There is one thing’ the former gladiator said with a sigh. ‘Castor and Pollux, the two assassins, escaped. Don’t know how they got away, but they’re not among the bodies. Too clever, that pair.’

  Fronto frowned for a moment and then remembered the two killers that had come to the fore as Cestus sent the defenders inside.

  ‘Nothing we can do about that. P
hilopater’s body makes it all worthwhile, though.’

  Priscus leaned against the wall.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do with it? Going to send the skull to Clodius?’

  Fronto shook his head.

  ‘No. That’s beneath us, Gnaeus.’ He turned to Cestus. ‘Get all twenty nine, including Philopater, into a cart, take them down to the end of the street, opposite Bona Dea, and dump them in a pile, weapons and all. Let’s leave a no-nonsense message for Clodius.’

  Cestus nodded and turned to leave, pausing for a moment.

  ‘I’ll take six men to help and leave eight here with you. The other lads in the city will be reporting in shortly, so you should be safe.’

  As he left, Fronto and Priscus sighed and looked one another up and down.

  ‘Time we hit the baths and got all this soot off, eh?’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘In a moment. Something to do, first. I’ll catch you up.’

  Clasping hands, he watched Priscus hobble off toward the baths, before turning to stride wearily through the corridors toward the garden.

  Faleria and her mother sat in the tablinum, along with Lucilia and Posco.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Marcus. Who does this man think he is to invade our house? If your father were still alive…’

  Fronto smiled.

  ‘The years he has been gone have somewhat magnified his legend, mother. I fear he would have fared no better than we. Rome is changing. The city he knew is gone, replaced by a lawless labyrinth of intrigues and criminals.’

  He glanced across at Lucilia.

  ‘And I brought you into it. I should not have done that. I should have left you in Massilia, and I’m sorry about that.’

  The young woman shrugged.

  ‘You are not to blame for the state of the republic, Marcus.’

  He sighed and straightened.

  ‘Rome is no longer safe for good people. It’s no longer safe for the Falerii. You must leave.’