Their shadow had observed them almost continually for a fortnight and had seen no less than four close calls where arguments and insults with other groups almost exploded into full street warfare. For the first week, he’d been perplexed. The situation was well and truly baffling. Fronto and his compatriots spending their winter break taking noblemen and foreigners into the most dangerous parts of Rome and starting fights?
Then he’d made a few enquiries, spoken to some people, and learned of the upcoming trial and its connection to Clodius. Piecing that together with Caelius, the Ciceros and Caesar’s men, he could well assume that the solid Fronto had been chosen as an appropriate guardian for the accused.
Close behind, someone cleared their throat meaningfully.
Paetus turned sharply, but the noise was innocently directed at someone else and nobody was paying him any attention. The ordinary folk of Rome passed by along the walkway at the southern edge of the Palatine, beneath the hallowed portico of the great Temple of Apollo Palatinus. Once again Paetus chided himself for lurking like some mischievous child. He was free and in no danger of being recognised.
Standing, he brushed off the dark blue tunic that seemed to have picked up so much dust. Down below, Fronto and his group approached a street salesman and his cart stacked with bread, cheese and other nourishing basics. The games today would be big. The great Sicilian charioteer Fuscus was to run the first and third races today, but Apollodorus of Nikopolis had also drawn the third race and, while the man had nowhere near as many victories under his belt as Fuscus, he was tipped by all the gambling dens as the man to watch. People had come two days’ ride to watch the races today.
And in the midst of this, Paetus moved unseen.
Getting away from the slave train during the winter had been ridiculously easy. It had been mostly a matter of timing. He’d waited until they had almost reached Russellae, only a couple of days from Rome, and had then given himself a deep cut on his leg. Periodically, he would prise the wound open so that it bled profusely and take a mouthful of tinny crimson liquid, waiting until he was near one of the guards to cough it back out. A day and a half of feigning such critical illness almost did for him for real, as the continual reopening of the wound left him feeling dizzy and light headed and stumbling as he walked.
But the ruse had been successful. The morning they rose after their stop at Russellae on the way to the markets of Rome, Paetus repeated the blood-coughing procedure with a great flourish, the illness being made all the more realistic by his now pallid, rubbery features. As he coughed a mouthful of blood over the boot of one of the guards, he collapsed as though in a faint. The guard used his muckied boot a couple of times on Paetus’ ribs and the Roman ‘slave’ felt at least two bones crack, but kept himself as still as death, ignoring the pounding.
“Chalk up another!” the guard shouted to his mate and, as the slaves were roped together once more and began to move, two of the soldiers picked up Paetus by the limbs and flung him unceremoniously into the ditch near the road for the carrion feeders to work on.
Once the slave train had gone, Paetus picked himself up and began the long and painful trip to the city. His ribs still gave him trouble now, over two months later, but he would have taken the punishment tenfold to find himself in the position he was now.
While his family were gone to the Elysian fields, his home still stood, after a fashion. The building had been burgled and ransacked repeatedly since falling empty. It had been claimed by the state upon confirmation of Paetus’ death and would be demolished to make way for something else, but public works were a slow business in Rome and Paetus had found the boarded-up shell of his house standing forlornly, reminding him of what Clodius and Caesar had ripped away from him.
It had taken him less than an hour to locate and retrieve the hidden stash of coins, buried in an amphora beneath the dining room floor for a time when it would be needed. It was hardly wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, but would give him funding for the best part of a year for food and lodging in Rome if he used it carefully.
And so he had become someone new. He’d decided to call himself Plautus, for humour value, but had stayed so alone the past two months that the only person who had asked for his name was the lowlife landlord who rented him his basic room on the Caelian Hill. A shave, a haircut and a trip to the baths had turned him from a Gaulish vagrant into a Roman once more, and a few shrewd purchases in the markets had dressed him like one again.
It had taken him a few weeks to organise everything and then he had begun his task. His room was full of wax tablets that detailed the daily movements and activities of Publius Clodius Pulcher and his cronies. It had come as a surprise to learn that Fronto had come back to Rome for the winter, as the legate of the Tenth had a notorious love of provincial dives and tried to avoid prolonged contact with his family. But that knowledge had given him his first chance to learn more of Caesar’s activity, since the general seemed to be wintering in the provinces.
Paetus was a patient man, given to forward planning and care and, although eager to set about righting the wrongs that certain unscrupulous demagogues had perpetrated upon himself and others, he recognised that acting rashly would likely bring his revenge to a brief and very unsatisfactory conclusion. It could take years to do it right.
He leaned back, thinking to himself, pondering the near future. He would have to use some of his finances to arrange an income. Perhaps the buying and selling of goods? He had enough experience in military logistics, after all.
His attention was attracted sharply by the mention of Fronto’s name nearby. He almost spun around to look, but managed to stop himself in time.
“Which one is Fronto?” a deep voice asked.
“See the one that’s dragging his leg and lurching a little and the one with the green tunic? Fronto’s the one between them, but all of them are dangerous, even the Gaul behind them. Try not to get tangled with them. Leave the thugs to get them out of the way. A common street fight, as you see every day the races are on. Fronto will likely be expecting something, but he won’t have time to react to everything. Just make sure you’re quick and not seen.”
Paetus smiled to himself. He appeared to be centre stage in this little production entirely by chance. The two men fell silent, but Paetus, his ears sharp, listened to their footsteps as they strode away along the path. The former prefect gave one last glance down from the rail, to the road by the circus, where Fronto and his companions were busy gnawing their way through a hearty breakfast as they strode along.
Allowing enough time for the men to have moved off, Paetus turned to look at the back of the two men who were now making their way down the Scalae Caci toward the Circus. The figure on the left was familiar enough to him: Philopater, the gaunt Egyptian with the hook nose who ‘arranged’ things for Clodius. Paetus had met him a number of times, not always in the best of circumstances. The other man he didn’t know, but he had the bearing of a veteran soldier and, contrary to the law, the shape of a pugio scabbard bulged at the belt beneath his tunic. A killer then, either professional, or at least a well-trained amateur.
As they reached the grand facade of the temple of Cybele, Philopater nodded to his companion and then veered off to the right, past the temple and back toward the forum. The second man continued on down the slope toward the Circus and Paetus was briefly torn between the need to follow the Egyptian and find out what else he was up to, or to see how events played out down below.
The first race was still over an hour away and the illustrious family names of Marcus Falerius Fronto and Marcus Caelius Rufus would guarantee them a good spot, even if they arrived late. The small group were making for a tavern at the foot of the path, where it met the main road that led down to the Aemilian bridge across the Tiber. The figure ahead picked up speed. The streets down there were crowded enough that a clever man could inflict damage and escape unnoticed; especially when they had a distraction…
Paetus looked behind Fronto’
s group and spotted the dozen thugs moving through the crowd behind them, carrying heavy lengths of wood. Fronto, as always, was out ahead with his friends, letting the hired help bumble along behind, largely unprotected.
‘No help this time, Fronto. When Clodius’ thugs leap on your own, you’ll fall foul of a well-placed blade.’
Though he was bright enough not to voice his thoughts aloud, Paetus found himself hurrying. He would have to do something. Not only was Fronto just about the only man that had proved to be sympathetic to Paetus’ plight, he was also apparently involved in a plan to cause Clodius trouble. The situation was good for Paetus, so long as this killer didn’t get his knife in Fronto or Caelius.
Paetus frowned as he descended. Everything he did these days was prepared far in advance, but now he found himself in a corner with no time to plan; just to choose a path and take it. To help Fronto could possibly lead to him being noticed, but to not do so was to likely condemn the man to an assassin’s knife.
The killer was already reaching the stretch where the path levelled out, Paetus still several dozen steps behind him. He watched in anger as the man reached up under his tunic and drew the knife ready to act. The thugs had all but caught up with the back end of the small group. No time left. Decide!
Paetus clenched his teeth and shook his head. He couldn’t attack the man; it would be too ridiculously obvious. Reaching down to the side of the path, he picked up a weighty stone. Was his throw good enough? He used to be good, certainly, but that was a long time ago.
A scream below announced that the action had begun. The group of thugs sent by Clodius had jumped on Fronto’s men and had taken the first two down with the initial blow. Already they had erupted into a confused tussle. The hairy Gaul behind the noblemen turned instantly and leapt into the fray among the hired help. Paetus clearly heard Fronto’s shout, tuned to it as he was from years of campaigning with the man.
“Priscus and Crispus? Get Caelius away to safety!”
Paetus faltered for a moment. Fronto was turning back to join the Gaul in attacking the thugs. Priscus and the legate of the Eleventh grasped Caelius and propelled him from the action, to somewhere presumed safe. Paetus watched as the killer bore down directly on the three approaching men.
With a sigh, he hefted the rock.
“Apollo guide my hand.”
Ignoring the strange looks he received from the various others on the path, he drew back his arm and cast the stone with as much force as he could while maintaining a level of accuracy.
Priscus was looking back at the gang fight going on behind him and Crispus was looking at the nobleman he was helping along the street. The assassin whipped the freed blade from beneath his tunic and, brandishing it, pushed a startled woman out of the way, already lunging with a swipe aimed straight for Caelius’ neck.
It would have been an instant kill, had the thrown rock not connected with the man’s head and thrown him back into the crowd. The knife leapt, glittering, into the air before descending in an arc down to the ground.
Biting his lip, Paetus turned and began to hurry back up the sloping path, trying to appear as unremarkable as possible. Perhaps he still had time to catch up with Philopater before he became lost in the crowd at the forum.
As the figure of Paetus disappeared up the slope, the fight was already under control and swinging back in favour of Fronto’s men. Priscus and Crispus had pushed Caelius beneath the arch of the tavern doorway before Priscus lurched back through the crowd, grunting at the pain his crippled leg gave him, only to find the would-be assassin had vanished. He turned to locate Fronto, irritation gnawing at him, only to see the legate staring up at the Scalae Caci leading up to the Palatine with a curious look on his face.
“What’s up with you?”
“I honestly don’t know. Must be seeing things!”
“Well let’s get back to the house. I think we can safely say my appetite for violent sports is sated for the day!”
Fronto nodded and turned to gather his hirelings, finding it hard to tear his gaze away from the slope.
“No. Couldn’t have been.”
Fronto blinked. Cicero he had been expecting, but his companion? The elder Crassus carried with him a gravitas that instinctively made one want to bow. It was no wonder this man had held such pivotal roles in Roman government for the last fifteen years; no wonder that Caesar seemed to be bending over backwards to keep Crassus sweet. The man’s heavy brow and serious gaze turned back from conversation with Cicero and settled on Caelius Rufus and the small group accompanying him at the bottom of the steps.
“The date for the trial has been set” Cicero announced, as he left the staircase of the curia and alighted in the forum once more. “We have been most fortunate, not the least because of the political weight that our friend here carries.”
Caelius, between Fronto and Crispus, nodded with a mix of eagerness and fear. He had succumbed recently to bouts of mad depression, contemplating the seriousness of his situation, and Fronto was starting to worry about the man.
Crassus nodded toward his companion.
“Cicero is too generous with his praise. The Clodii pushed for as early a trial as the senate would allow, since their evidence is vague and tenebrous at best. Far better would it be for them to push the accusations before we have a chance to put together a solid defence.”
“We?” Caelius frowned.
“Yes” Cicero smiled. “Crassus here has agreed to stand as co-advocate for your trial. The good news is that we have persuaded the senate that an early trial would likely lead to misrepresentation and false information. We have managed not only to get the date set back to the beginning of Aprilis, giving us over a month to put your case together, but also to have the proceedings moved to the privacy of the Basilica Aemilia which will be closed for the session, rather than a public trial.”
Fronto frowned and cast his gaze around the square casually, heaving a sigh of relief as he spotted Galronus, arms folded, leaning on the inscribed panel above the lacus Curtius, three of the hired hands close by. Priscus stood on the steps of the temple of Concord, his eyes continually strafing the forum for anything out of the ordinary, a small party of men at his shoulders.
“You’d best make the case tighter than a Greek’s arse” he stated emphatically. “Someone is very definitely out to remove Caelius from the picture. We’ve stopped half a dozen attempts on his life in the past two weeks. Another month? His chances diminish with each week, so make that time count.”
Crassus nodded in a vague recognition to Fronto. The legate couldn’t remember when he’d met the man before, but clearly Crassus recognised him.
“Keep him safe. The continued situation here appears to be driving a wedge between Clodius and his sister, and a disorganised opposition is always to be commended.” The statesman narrowed his eyes at Fronto. “Do you have any idea when Caesar plans to return to Rome or what his plans are?”
Fronto paused for just a moment, contemplating whether it would be prudent to disseminate such information.
“The general should be here in weeks at the latest. I’ve no idea what his plans are from there, but campaigning season’s almost here and knowing the old bas… knowing the general, he’ll have engineered some incursion by ice monsters from the north or some such for us to go and fight for the glory of… Rome.”
Crassus gave him a curious lop-sided smile.
“Caesar told me that you were outspoken. He seems to think this is a merit rather than a flaw and perhaps he is correct. Still, the fact remains that it is more than possible you will be off to ravage your ‘ice monsters’ before the trial actually begins. Have you given any thought to continued protection for the defendant here should you have to leave and join your legion?”
Fronto frowned. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. For the first time in years he’d wintered in Rome and had found that he’d actually enjoyed himself; particularly in the past few weeks with the added entertainment of villains to
kick. He’d hardly spared a thought for the Tenth. Beside him, Crispus cleared his throat.
“I daresay that our favourite convalescing camp prefect would be more than adequate for the task. He is to stay in Rome on enforced leave and I suspect would welcome the distraction.”
Fronto grinned.
“Aye, Priscus knows what he’s doing; Caelius’ll be in good hands.”
Cicero and Crassus shared a glance and nodded.
“Very well,” Crassus smiled, “you just keep on doing what you’re doing and we shall begin putting the case together in detail. Cicero here has gathered copious notes, details and depositions over the past fortnight and we should have everything we need, though we may drop in from time to time when questions arise that only Caelius here can answer.”
Cicero changed hands with the tablets he was carrying and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it sharply, a cloud falling across his face as he looked back up the steps.
Fronto turned to follow his gaze. The prosecution party had appeared at the entrance to the curia and begun to make its way down to the comitium where they stood. The legate spared a moment to take in everything he could of his enemy. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Clodius, but for some reason his mind had padded the man out with a rotund, sweaty form, dripping in jewellery and excess, piggy eyes greedily searching out his next vice. This mental image could hardly have been further from the truth.
Clodius was a handsome man of middle height, with neat black hair and high cheekbones, his form slim and athletic and attire suited to an austere public event. The man was, quite simply, stylish. Behind him stood the tall, olive figure of his ‘facilitator’, Philopater. Fronto had met the man a couple of times and had taken enough of a dislike to him that he had to restrain himself on sight. The other prosecutors had separated from the pair as they emerged and, without any exchange, had veered off to the left away from the gathering. As Clodius and his man approached, however, a new figure appeared at the doorway and stepped light and fast down the stairs to catch up with them.
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