A movement caught Fronto’s attention and he glanced across at a narrow side street. Three men were moving slowly down it toward them, wooden clubs in hand. Every ten steps or so brought them past another side street, each with its own small group of thugs converging on them.
“There’s going to be a hundred of them by the time we reach the gate” Fronto noted to Caesar, nodding in the direction of the latest arrivals. The gang following them had almost doubled in size as they moved slowly on.
“It’s important we keep moving. The closer we are to the gate, the safer we are.”
Fronto held less certainty about the defensive nature of the area, but there seemed little else to do as they moved slowly on, the tension building constantly.
“Clodius must have an almost infinite supply of thugs. It’s almost as if he breeds them!”
On the cart just above and behind them, Priscus pointed ahead.
“There’s the gate. We’re almost there.”
Fronto glanced past the shoulders of Cestus and his companion. The Porta Naevia with its single arch of heavy travertine blocks crossed the road fifty yards ahead, just coming into view as they rounded a gentle curve in the road.
“We’re going to make it.”
The carts rumbled on, closing the distance with interminable slowness, and the huge arch grew ever more tantalisingly near, the heavy gates standing open to either side.
“Why is there no one around?” Fronto said nervously.
Caesar shrugged. “One armed gang following another? Even the rudest peasant can spot that kind of trouble approaching, Fronto. You expect them to stay around for the show?”
“Crap.”
Cestus stepped into the shadow of the gateway, three more of his men with him, and the lead carriage rolled under the arch. Fronto bit his cheek.
Behind them they could almost sense the tensing of muscles ready to attack. The silence was taught and dangerous.
“Whoa!”
Fronto’s head snapped back to the light at the far side of the gate. Cestus, silhouetted in the arch, was holding up his hand and the wagons were quickly slowed and stopped. The gang behind came on at an even slower pace, closing the gap.
Fronto was about to shout a question ahead to Cestus when he saw the rest of Clodius’ men, spreading from the sides of the street into the gateway, blocking the path ahead.
“Shit. What now?”
Caesar arched his brow and shrugged.
“Now we see what they have to say.”
The two men strode out forward into the shadows until they fell in alongside Cestus. There were perhaps three dozen men in the road ahead. A fight now would be virtual suicide. Some of the men, being outside the city, had taken the opportunity to arm themselves with real weapons. To the rear, a tall man with a scar down his face that permanently closed one eye stepped up. The mob parted before of him.
“You appear to have reached the end of the road. My master sends his regards. He hopes you will allow us to make this quick and painless.”
“Your master can kiss my hairy pink arse!” Fronto barked.
Caesar cast a sidelong glance at Fronto and there was a genuine smile there.
“What?” Fronto hissed back at him.
“You really must have faith in your general, Marcus.”
He turned to the Falerii’s chief house slave, standing by his shoulder.
“Now, Posco, if you would?”
The slave nodded with a smile and drew a small copper horn from the cart beside him. Taking a deep breath, he blew a series of loud, sharp notes and then lowered it. Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“Where did you learn the muster call, Posco?”
The slave merely gave him an enigmatic smile and pointed.
Ahead, beyond the armed gang that barred their way, more men were appearing from the side of the road, falling in to the street and settling in ordered rows.
Caesar smiled at the tall, scarred thug, who was looking over his shoulder in surprise.
“Would you like to kiss Fronto’s ‘hairy pink arse’, or just get the hell out of our way?”
Fronto blinked.
“Who are they?”
The men were falling into military formation and, though in plain tunics and cloaks, a number of them bore a gladius or pugio or a solid legionary shield on their arm.
Caesar grinned.
“Sound off!” he bellowed.
From the depths of the large unit, still increasing in strength, voices called out.
“Servius Tarcus, centurion of the Ninth Legion… retired.”
“Aulus Octavius, optio of the Seventh Legion… retired.”
Other voices were announcing their origins among the crowd and Fronto turned to frown at Caesar, whose grin widened.
“You’d be surprised how many veterans of my legions there are within the city’s bounds, Fronto, and most of them hold a loyalty that goes far beyond receiving their honesta mission. Some of them are your men, even.”
Fronto blinked again and turned to look over his shoulder. The advancing mob behind them had stopped. Lod stepped forward and crouched menacingly.
“Boo!” he barked, and some of the men at the front of the gang actually jumped.
Caesar stepped toward the tall, scarred spokesman.
“Disperse immediately or pay the penalty for public disorder. Your choice.”
The man stood silently for a moment, clearly weighing up his options, but the decision had been made for him. The men of his gang melted away at the periphery into the side streets and doorways and he stood at the centre of a rapidly shrinking force.
“Run, then, and don’t come back” the man said to Caesar defiantly.
The general grinned.
“Oh, we’re not all leaving. Some of us have business yet in Rome.”
The man dithered again, fumbling for another pithy retort but, realising there were now less than a dozen men between him and a century’s worth of veteran soldiers, he threw and angry glance at them, let out an exasperated grunt, and ran off into a side street.
Fronto shook his head.
“You do like to show off, don’t you? Did it not occur to you to let me in on it?”
“And spoil the surprise?” Caesar grinned. “Hardly.”
He looked up at the three women, each heaving sighs of relief.
“Well ladies, it would appear that the way ahead is clear. The veterans of my legions will join Cestus and escort you as far as Albanum and the mansio there. I hope the sea air agrees with you and that we will meet again very soon.”
The ladies of the house of the Falerii smiled gratefully at the general and, waving at Fronto, gestured to Posco to move on. As Priscus slipped down from his seat and wandered across to the officers, Lucilia leaned over the edge and planted a difficult and somewhat unexpected kiss on Fronto’s forehead.
“Hurry back, Marcus.”
Fronto stared at her as the vehicles trundled on, the legionaries falling into escort positions as he rubbed his head and looked at his fingers suspiciously.
Turning, he realised that Priscus and Caesar were both grinning at him.
“Oh, grow up!”
Chapter 24
(Late October: On the Janiculum, overlooking Rome.)
“I can’t see why they couldn’t have met in the city” Priscus grumbled, massaging his painful hip as he stumped slowly up the sloping gravel path.
“Neutral ground. They are the three most powerful men in Rome, so I suppose it’s symbolic.”
“Sym-bollocks is what it is!”
Fronto smiled at his friend. Behind them, Galronus stomped up the path, showing no sign of fatigue. Fronto glared at him and, turning, plodded wearily on. Ahead of them, Caesar walked quietly, as though out for a stroll to enjoy the late autumn air, Aulus Ingenuus striding along beside him, armed now they were well outside the city’s pomerium.
Ingenuus had tried desperately to persuade the general, in light of recent events, to allow the e
ntire contingent of his cavalry guard that had returned from Gaul to escort him today, but the general had insisted on a small accompaniment only.
Ahead, a small group of men loitered at the hill’s crest, lounging on benches or leaning on the decorative balustrade. Fronto squinted and could make out the figure of the younger Crassus, clad in his dazzling white toga. Fronto mentally dismissed the showy garment; whitening it with chalk was a practice rarely carried out these days, and yet, he couldn’t help but nod with approval when he spotted the tip of a gladius sheath below the hem.
“Looks like Crassus and his men are already here.”
Behind them, Galronus hurried to catch up.
“I still do not understand the importance of this. We should be concentrating on Clodius, surely?”
Fronto smiled.
“In a way, we are. I had a lot of time to think last night, Gnaeus, and every time we’ve pushed Clodius, he’s pushed back harder, and each time it’s not us that gets the brunt of it, but my family. I sat chatting to Nemesis last night and came to the conclusion that I had a choice: vengeance against Clodius or looking after those I care about and that simply has to come first. The time to deal with Clodius will come, but when there is no chance of the backlash destroying the Falerii. Anyway, these three men can, between them, make almost anything happen in Rome; or stop it happening. The chaos in the city is only rife because these three are not working together and therefore letting it happen.”
He became aware of Caesar watching him with a frown.
“Not specifically because of you” he added wearily. “But it needs sorting out.”
As the general turned back to face their destination, Fronto glanced ahead and then back over his shoulder. The temple of Janus on the hill’s crest had been chosen carefully as the venue for a number of reasons: it was neutral territory for the three men; it was sacred ground, and no true Roman would commit an act of violence within; it offered an unrivalled view to aid privacy and safety; last of all, the two faced Janus was the master of beginnings, changes and choices and the symbolism of the God’s shrine would not be lost on any man present.
Behind them, the gravelled path led down the Janiculum hill in a wide arc to the Pons Aemilius that would take them back to the city when this was over. Fronto noted with interest part way back down the path, among the rapidly thinning foliage, Pompey striding up the slope with a certain speed as though he were late, half a dozen men rushing along around him, some carrying goods.
“How long do you expect the meeting to take?” Fronto asked.
“I really have no idea, Marcus. If all goes well and my peers share my vision of the coming year, we could have everything settled within the hour. Rarely, however, do we all see quite eye to eye without some levelling of the ground.”
Fronto grumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I said we should have brought lunch with us.”
Caesar laughed and sighed, stretching, as he reached the top of the path and stepped out onto the paved walkway surrounding the small temple. Nodding at the younger Crassus, he gestured to the temple’s open doorway. Crassus nodded.
“Father is in there, alone. He is waiting for you, general.”
“Thank you.”
With sighs of relief, Fronto and Priscus clambered up the last step and onto the walkway, the latter immediately slumping onto the low, stone balustrade and kneading his leg.
“I am getting bloody sick of hills. Why couldn’t Romulus and Remus have gone west instead of north? Rome could have been built somewhere flat with a beach!”
Ingenuus strode off toward Crassus and the two fell into quiet conversation as Fronto and Galronus leaned on the railing next to Priscus.
“Nice day” the Gaul noted, looking at the hazy mauve sky through the sparse trees.
“Make the most of it. It’ll be about the last good day of the year, if I’m any judge.”
Priscus looked up, grinning.
“Nice to see you’re as optimistic as ever.”
“Sod off.”
The sound of feet tramping on gravel increased and finally Pompey, his strangely chubby, good-natured face rosy from the climb, appeared at the platform.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My hearty apologies for any tardiness.”
Crassus, behind them, spoke quietly and respectfully.
“No tardiness, master Pompey. Caesar and my father await you inside.”
The general smiled warmly at them.
“I had the forethought to have wine and food brought up for you all, in case this goes on too long.”
Behind him, three of his men crested the slope and carried a large basket and an amphora across the paving, laying them to rest near the spot where Fronto leaned on the balcony with his friends.
“Thank you” Crassus nodded, and Pompey gave them a military salute before striding into the temple, turning and closing the door as he entered.
Priscus grinned and slapped his hands together as he watched the basket being opened and spied the array of bread, fruit, meats and cheeses within. One of Pompey’s men began removing the contents and arranging them on trays.
“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 withi
n 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.”
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