"Ladies, may I introduce you to two veteran commanders of Caesar's legions" Balbus said expansively at the three women, who looked less than pleased about the possibility of being dragged away from the famous, handsome poet, but who recognised the barely concealed order from the house's master. As Balbus steered the women away from Catullus, the poet lifted a plain-sandaled foot and pushed another chair towards Fronto.
"Many congratulations, master Falerius."
"No one calls me that. I'm Fronto to most; Marcus to friends."
"I am as yet unaware as to my position in that hierarchy. It is good to meet you… Fronto. You have something of a reputation as a direct man - a man of action rather than words."
"That sounds surprisingly double-edged for what I presume is a complement."
Catullus laughed and once more Fronto noted the hollowness to the sound. It was mechanical and devoid of true feeling. "I apologise. I am known for my somewhat cutting and edgy compositions, as your former commander will be well aware."
"I think Caesar pays little attention to such lampoonery when he's got men like Cicero around bad-mouthing him. Apologies if I puncture your ego, Catullus, but you're only a small fish in that particular pool."
Catullus snapped out the mechanical laugh again.
"Good. Straight talking as I was told. I have a question for you."
"Go on."
"I am informed," the poet said, stretching, "that you are one of very few men indeed who have had dealings with Publius Clodius Pulcher and come out on top; that he in fact is a little afeared of you."
"Slimy, shit-ridden filthy catamite damn well should be frightened of me. If we ever cross paths again, he's going to be a shadow of his former self. In fact, I'd say there's probably only one man that hates him more than me, but that's another story."
Catullus simply nodded at this sudden display of bile and invective.
"Good. Not that you hate him, particularly, but rather that you bested him. You see, I need information on something, and I am fast running out of avenues to search. Clodius is the only real source that I have not yet tapped and he has been the most likely possibility throughout, given his proximity to the subject. It seems that the events of the past few years have made him a very careful and defensive person, though. He never shows his face in public without a small army surrounding him. He even has a shield bearer beside him in public in case of disgruntled archers."
"Again, much of that is my fault, but not all. I know of someone who's been waiting over a year for the opportunity to put a blade between those shoulders. Clodius would probably have been picked off months ago by any one of his enemies if he wasn't cocooned in the centre of an army and shielded. What's the son of a whore done to you then?"
"Not so much a 'what's he done', Fronto. More of a 'what might he know'. You see his sister and I were something of an item."
Fronto felt his stomach turn over. Perhaps a handful of people in the whole Republic knew what had become of the meddlesome Clodia: her untimely, if well-deserved death at the hands of the renegade officer Paetus. Official reports simply had her down as a disappearance. A brief and inexpensive memorial had been staged by her brother, during which he had hardly even paid attention, keeping himself busy with his murderous debt ledgers.
Catullus? This callow young poet had been romantically involved with the poisonous siren? There must be some steel in the man then, else she would have likely eaten him alive.
"Clodia?" He managed to say, hopefully without any unusual inflection. "She disappeared over a year ago. I'm afraid I see very little hope in pursuing her now."
"Regardless," the poet responded quietly, "I must do so. To not know… well let me try and put it poetically. She was the rosy fingers of dawn that began my days and the gentle shroud of night that closed them. She was the lamp that lit my way and the blanket that warmed me. Without her I am a shell, Fronto. A mere shell. I have to know."
Fronto shook his head slowly. "Don't get involved with her brother. The man is poison incarnate. Everything he touches withers. If you draw his attention he'll turn on you, and a year from now someone will be knocking on my door looking for the poet that vanished in mysterious circumstances. You understand that?"
Catullus simply nodded his understanding.
"When I ran out of worldly contacts to pursue, I started to seek the advice of oracles and soothsayers."
"Always a laugh."
"You may not put much stock in such matters, Fronto, but some things are a little hard to discredit. I heard the same thing from three different sources: that I would find her, but then I would die. Frankly that end is the most appealing for me now. Better to be reunited in death than alive and apart."
"I note that doesn't say whether you'll find her alive or dead. Would you be happy to find she lives and then drop dead? I think not. Soothsayers cannot be trusted. I went to the oracle at Cumae once. Not exactly a satisfactory experience in any way."
"I was told something else, Fronto. I was told that Rome was coming to an end. I was told prophecy, Fronto, and I suspect that if I depart this life with my Clodia found, I will be the lucky one."
"Prophecy is all crap" Fronto replied flatly, though one eyelid jumped a little at the lie.
"I will be the first of four to die, they said. And those four will snap the threads that hold the republic together. The first by Socrates root, they said, so I think I can safely assume I will not pass peacefully in my sleep. The second, they said, would be by the Vulcan's fury, the third by the arrival of the sun, and the fourth by the Parthian shot. I'm no expert in these things, but I can't say it sounds good."
"Don't put so much stock in this mumbo jumbo. And steer clear of Clodius. Nothing good will come of it."
"I suspect otherwise. Are you saying you will not help me gain access to Clodius?"
Fronto shrugged. "I'm saying I cannot help you gain access to him. There's no way but to walk up to his army and ask to speak to him, and I would heartily advise against that. Broken fingers and ribs are not pleasant. You're a celebrated man. For you to show up bobbing in the Tiber would be a shame."
Catullus fixed Fronto with his sharp, emerald gaze and finally nodded and sat back. "Then thank you for your time, Fronto. I hope the composition was up to expectations."
"Lovely. Thanks."
Turning from the poet, Fronto strode across the room and out into the peristyle garden. It was still early in the year and the evening air had a bite to it, though the rain had stopped blessedly a few days ago. It could be worse, though. Priscus' letter had told of an abominable winter in northern Gaul. Taking a deep breath, he strolled around the sides of the garden beneath the portico, breathing in the jasmine and marjoram.
"You look troubled, my love."
Pausing, Fronto turned to see Lucilia standing in the doorway.
"I just spoke to your poet friend. He's a strange one."
"Perhaps. You've had this pall hanging over you all day. I've not mentioned it, though many a bride might take offence at such an atmosphere on her wedding day."
"Sorry, Lucilia. It's just the…"
"Future. Yes, I know. I'm well acquainted with how your mind works, Marcus." She strode forward and hooked her arm through his, urging him to walk on. "Put all of that aside. We can work it out in due course. For now, we have a summer coming that the auspices tell us will be a good one, and we have the city to play in, your villa in Puteoli to adjourn to and, of course, the new house in Massilia to visit. Think of it as a year-long leave break from the army."
Fronto laughed.
"Sometimes I see so much of your father in you. Lucilla."
"Hopefully not the baldness."
Fronto sighed. "I have this horrible feeling that we're heading for a fall again."
"You and I?"
"The republic in general. Like the Social War. Troops in the streets; despots and proscriptions; blood and fire. I keep getting a whiff of it for just a moment and then the wind changes."
> "All the more reason to enjoy the time we have now. Anyway, I was coming to tell you something."
"Go on."
"You remember Julia? Atia's niece?"
Fronto's spirits sank a little again. Caesar's daughter - his only direct issue and the young wife of Pompey. The glue that bound the two politicians together.
"Yes" he replied apprehensively. "She's an old friend of Faleria's."
"I know. She's pregnant, you know?"
"I am aware."
"Well she's determined to go to a performance in that monstrous new theatre her husband has built before she's too bulky to move, and she's asked if Faleria, Galronus, you and I want to join them. It's being organised now for a show in two or three weeks and I said we'd love to go. I hope you've nothing planned instead?"
Fronto's spirits sank ever further, rustling around in the soles of his boots. He had never yet sat through a theatre performance sober. Indeed, he had been forcibly ejected from the theatre in Tarraco twice in his time for drunken and lewd behaviour - when he was younger. Drama was anathema to Fronto. He sagged.
"Can we sit down? My knee's killing me."
"I've told you to go back to that Greek physician and actually listen to him this time. I need you… active, if you get my meaning. Anyway, before you find a pathetic excuse, you needn't panic. It seems that Julia shares the bloodlust that runs in her family. It's not to be a play, but a contest of arms."
"Gladiators?" Fronto brightened as he sank to a bench and rubbed his knee.
"Yes. All sponsored by Pompey. We'll have the prime seats with the games' editor. You'll be able to escape the humdrum world of the greatest city on the planet for an afternoon and imagine you're standing on a Gaulish hill, up to the knees in body parts."
Fronto grinned.
"Well when you put it like that, it'd be rude not to accept an invitation from so illustrious a figure."
"Indeed." Lucilia reached up and placed her hands on his cheeks, gently but forcefully turning his head until he could see into her deep, hypnotic eyes. She leaned forward and kissed him.
"Let's get back to the party. I know you've managed to get your sister and her man to steal some of our thunder, but the guests might actually want to speak to us."
Fronto nodded, his spirit lightening at the thought of an afternoon at the games.
"And then we can see if you can get me in the same situation as Julia."
Fronto blinked and stopped, but Lucilia was already walking back to the festivities, laughing.
* * * * *
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, vanquisher of the Cilician pirates, twice consul of the republic of Rome, triumphant victor of the Sertorius and Spartacus campaigns, triumvir and son-in-law of Caesar, ran his fingers along the edge of the petals and smiled, leaning in to take a deep breath.
"Your aunt is a devious and dangerous woman, Julia, but she does send the most pleasant gifts when of a mind."
The heavily pregnant Julia Caesaris, her face an aquiline mirror of her father, though as pretty as she was striking, smiled warmly.
"Be kind, Gnaeus. Atia has been nothing but accommodating and this ridiculous pissing contest between you and father needs to be kept well and truly away from family life. The medicus said that I need to remain as calm and content as possible, and that means no complaining about my family."
Pompey turned, his jowled, jolly face breaking into a broad grin.
"Julia, my love, you are the tonic that calms my blood."
Turning and leaving his young wife in the bright atrium, the great Pompey strolled into the vestibule and towards the door, examining the fresh decoration on the walls. When he had laid down the plans for the great new theatre complex that he had bequeathed to the city, he had had the foresight to add a luxurious new townhouse beside it to replace his old, plain and small home, but now he was having second thoughts about his new residence. To have common plebs running shops in the front may well be a common, profitable and space-saving practice in busy cities, but he should have stipulated that the entire block was to be self-contained as his property alone. Even though the house was so new that it still smelled of paint and plaster, he could almost hear the chattering and busyness of the future tenants of the two shops that flanked his front door. Maybe he should forego the rent they would net him and simply seal them up, knocking through a door inside?
The great general stopped, his finger tapping his lip, his head tilted to one side.
He could hear people and activity in the left-hand of the two shops; it had not just been his imagination.
His jaw set in an angry fashion and he turned, striding back into the atrium where a surprised Julia raised an eyebrow at his expression.
"Something amiss, husband?"
"Someone's playing silly buggers in the empty shops out front." Raising his voice so that it could be heard through the peristyle and in the slave and servant quarters out to the back of the complex, he bellowed "Artorius?" - the name of the chief of his household security.
Within moments the stocky Sabine with a broken nose and scarred face appeared through the open doorway, three of his men at his heels. Artorius knew his master's moods and what his various tones of voice indicated, and that sharp command has suggested the need for muscled men.
"Dominus?"
"Come with me."
As the five men strode from the atrium towards the front door, Julia smiled a weary smile. "Do be careful, Gnaeus. You're not as young as you seem to think."
Pompey ignored the well-intended jibe and paused at the freshly-painted, bronze studded door, allowing Artorius to grasp the handle with its ornate lion head and swing the wooden leaf inwards. Inwardly acknowledging his wife's gentle reminder, he forced himself not to storm angrily out front before his men and waited until Artorius and two guards walked out, following them, with the last man taking up the rear place.
The street outside was as quiet as this region ever got during the daytime, with a few street sellers, the requisite number of beggars and whores, and the general populace going about their business. At this particular moment, however, their business seemed to be 'watching the front of the house of Pompey'. The general growled in irritation at the crowd of spectators that had paused and were observing his house.
Giving them but a moment's notice, he turned to see what had drawn their attention and his ire rose all the more.
While the house of Pompey was complete and freshly decorated, the two unoccupied stores that formed the frontage were still in the final stages of construction, their walls part plastered, the fronts still partly-bricked and partially still mere skeletal wooden structures.
The right-hand shop as he looked back towards his door was already near destroyed.
Three figures raged and fought around the small space, smashing wooden clubs into fresh plaster, waving knives, and shaking the timber frontage so that the tiles on the roof rattled. Two more combatants lay on the floor, plainly unconscious - possibly deceased.
Even as Pompey stared at the debacle, his face burning with anger, the larger, central figure managed to bring the odds closer, gripping one of his opponents by the shoulders and running him physically across the room, smashing his crown into the wall, behind which - in the general's house - stood the shelf that held the flowers Atia had sent. He could picture the ornate glass vase falling and smashing on the floor of his atrium.
Time after time his loved ones had warned Pompey about his temper. He may have the physical appearance of a jolly, good-natured fellow, but the fires of his anger were never truly extinguished, smouldering and bubbling even at his most peaceful, waiting to rage into a flaming inferno.
An image of Julia wagging a finger at him in admonishment flashed into his mind and he bit down on the rising tide of rage with great difficulty.
The big man in the shop let go of his most recent victim and Pompey noticed with distaste the cracked plaster and the smear of blood and lumps of something where the loser, his head smashed and broken,
had left brain matter on the wall.
"Hold!" bellowed Artorius, his men fanning out around him to create a crescent that sealed in the shop. The big warrior either failed to hear over the rush of blood in his ears or blatantly ignored the newly arrived hirelings.
Instead, the huge fighter turned to face his last surviving opponent. The smaller man had drawn a knife and was warily edging round him, possibly in an effort to flee the scene.
As the big combatant spun round and faced the street, Pompey looked him up and down. He was clearly no Roman. Well over six feet tall - probably over seven - and with a torso like Hercules, the man had straggly long straw-blond hair that had been plaited until the fracas had dishevelled him, and a beard that almost obscured the lower half of his face. His bulging arms were marked out with strange designs and he wore only a ragged grey tunic, ripped open at the front, trousers after the Celtic style and fur-lined boots. He looked as though he would be far more at home wielding an axe in a snowy forest.
Even as Pompey watched, a small part of him was impressed as the barbarian giant gripped one of the upright posts that formed the frame for the wall and, grunting, tore it free from its position, turning back wielding the eight-foot post as though it were little more than a javelin.
Unable to escape the shop, the remaining opponent stepped forward and lunged with his knife, hoping to get inside the sweeping range of the huge club.
He was too late, as the big barbarian already had enough momentum on a swing that caught the knifeman a glancing blow - not heavy, but enough to knock him sideways and disrupt his attack. As he righted himself for another attack, he failed to notice the beam on its return journey and the barbarian caught him a hefty blow in the side that must have snapped the arm and broken several ribs.
The man bellowed his pain as he collapsed, but the barbarian was not finished yet. Stepping close to his last victim, he raised the beam vertically and then dropped it, end first, onto the convulsing man's face, smashing his head like an overripe melon and killing him instantly.
The big man heaved in several deep breaths and then turned to leave and registered Pompey and his men for the first time. With a strangely predatory smile, showing bloody, rotten teeth, the huge man barked something in a guttural language.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 4
