Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (66 page)

Priscus cursed himself as they ran for underestimating the audacity of the man. They were in the very centre of Rome, just after nightfall. There were fewer people about in the chilly damp air than during the day or on a warmer night, but still there must have been at least twenty people witnessed the attack tonight. The man clearly had no fear of discovery or recrimination. It was said that Clodius ‘owned the streets’, and Priscus was starting to see how the saying had come about.

He was trying to figure out a way to gain distance on their pursuers and keep himself in the game when a squawk from ahead startled him. A thrown rock connected with Galronus’ skull hard enough to knock him from his feet. The Remi nobleman fell with a shout, rolling on the pavement. In former times, Priscus would have leapt lithely over him. Not now. Not with the leg the way it was. He tried to clear the rolling form, but his foot barely left the ground and he came down with a crash, falling over the prone form of Galronus.

Milo skidded to a halt and turned. Priscus waved at him.

“Go on. Get back to the house and tell them what happened.”

Priscus glanced around them in desperation. Only three men had emerged at the top of the slope, one of Philopater’s smaller gangs that had approached from the forum end. If he and Galronus could just stand and take them on…

A shout made him turn back. Milo had stopped. Another force of perhaps a score of men was approaching out of the gloom from the direction of the circus, cresting the slope on the very road they were making for. Milo backed toward his fallen companions.

“We may be in trouble.”

Priscus tried to rise, heaving the stunned Galronus as he did. Neither of them had the strength or stamina to stand. Milo backed up to them and ground his teeth. Clodius appeared over the crest of the hill behind them, followed by Philopater and a large group of murderous men.

Briefly, Priscus considered the other exits from the square. They could perhaps have got to the Velabrum and descended the hill there to get lost among the shops and narrow streets. But there was simply not enough time and, even had there been, he had not the strength. There was nowhere to run as the two forces converged on the three men, trapped between the pincers in a vice of mercenaries. Lights in the nearby houses went out as self-preservation led their occupants to an expedient ignorance of events in the square outside.

“It would appear that the Gods are favouring you tonight, Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus. And your friends.”

Priscus frowned as he regarded the man who effectively controlled the streets of the city. Clodius and Philopater had stopped at the edge of the square, their followers gathering around them.

Glancing over his shoulder he heaved a sigh of relief.

Cestus strode out of the front ranks of the other force, the hulking figure of Lod, the Celtic giant beside him. The former Gladiator bore no blade, according to Roman law, but the wooden stave he carried would be, in his capable hands, better than a sword in most.

The small warrior crouched close to the trio of desperate men.

“It would appear that the lady Faleria is right: master Fronto’s suicidal bravado
is
infectious.”

“Good grief! I’ve had men shadowing you since you left the house. I’m not about to allow a repeat of what happened to Fronto. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Priscus turned again as Clodius shouted to them.

“Be grateful. You’ve been given a reprieve, but the sky is lowering by the hour and it will fall on you and yours presently.”

The man turned and strode off among his men. Philopater continued to glare at them, lingering for a moment then, grinning, drew a finger across his throat meaningfully and turned to leave.

Chapter 22

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

Fronto slipped his legs over the side of the bed in the large room that had once been his father’s and let his bare feet fall to the marble floor with a cold slap.

“Get back in.”

“Not a chance in Hades, Faleria.”

“You’re in no state to be walking around. Lucilia said at least a day before we were to let you even get up, let alone walk around.”

Nodding, Fronto slowly pushed himself upright and, wobbling for a moment, began to stretch his arms and gently test his legs. Certain moves with his left arm sent waves of pain through his shoulder and chest, any sharp movement in his neck was excruciating and there was a constant dull pain in his head but, other than that, he appeared to be in working order. Frowning, he took a tentative step forward. No problem there. They seemed to have left his legs alone nicely.

“Where
is
Lucilia, anyway? I haven’t seen her in hours. I thought at one point she was never going to let me out of her sight again.”

“It was a long time ago, Marcus. It doesn’t pain me to talk about it like it does you.” She smiled weakly. “And her reasons for enquiring appeal to me.”

“She’s been in Rome for over a week and has not yet even
asked
about the possibility of visiting the house of the Caecilii. Do you really think she has any intention of meeting her proposed match? Are you blind, daft or simply wrapping yourself in clothes of denial, Marcus?”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with this, Faleria. Go see her and try to persuade her to meet the Caecilii. I have more important matters to attend to.”

Faleria watched him leave the room and turn the corner before smiling that weak smile again.

“I’m not convinced about that, my brother.”

Fronto stormed through the house, grumbling. Since waking with a start to hear about Priscus’ near miss in the forum, his mood had slowly slipped from disgruntlement into a deeper anger, but the fresh knowledge that Lucilia was prying into areas that were none of her business and causing Faleria pain, whatever she said, had pushed him into borderline fury. He ground his teeth as he slapped across the marble. Even the very air smelled angry and acrid.

Dithering for a moment, realising that goose pimples were rising on his flesh in the cold of the night and that his bare feet were not helping, he detoured by his room, slipped on his boots and gathered his scarf and a cloak before heading out toward the triclinium.

As he strode in through the door, a heated debate was in progress and the voices tailed off slowly, the occupants looking up at him.

Had his mood been lighter, he would have turned his surprise at the presence of Caesar and young Cicero into a quip. Instead, he continued to issue the low rumble of discontent that had begun back in his room.

“Fronto? I was given to believe you were recovering and would not be joining us?”

He glared at the general.

“Frankly, this is
my
house, Caesar. When plots are being hatched in it, I like to be involved.”

He nodded to Priscus and Galronus, sitting wearily back on a couch next to Milo. The Belgic officer was tending to a patch of bloody, matted hair with a damp cloth.

“I hear Clodius actually had the nerve to attack you in the streets?”

Priscus nodded.

“There were plenty of people about to start with, but I think you’d have trouble finding a witness if you tried. He organised it well: after dark, but during the early lull when most people are indoors eating. I’m afraid we lost some good men tonight.”

Fronto shook his head and then winced at the pain that brought, striding across the room to the flask of wine on the table and taking a swig directly from it.

“I told you we had to deal with him directly.”

Caesar shook his head.

“It’s still not the time. Besides, after tonight every gang and private force the senators can muster will be out in the streets. It looks extremely bad for the government if one man’s force is allowed to effectively control the streets. They will have to do something about it, and that means fielding their own gangs to try and maintain order.”

Milo leaned forward.

“But that’s just asking for trouble; an escalation. Clodius has the edge on the streets. He has the largest gang in Rome and everyone knows it. If other people start trying to muscle him out, there’s going to be trouble.”

“He has an
army
, Fronto. You’ll never get near enough.”

“I’m not having a repeat of the last discussion we had here.”

Caesar sighed.

“The streets are becoming too dangerous for a man to walk alone. The senate cannot keep control, and as soon as there are more gangs out in the night, eruptions will occur. If we sit back out of the way, Clodius is likely to make a slip. With the increase in violence, something will happen and he will be named. Then there will be a trial and he can be dealt with in the correct manner.”

Fronto shook his head.

“Banishment is not good enough. I want his head on a spike, pecked by crows.”

“But once he is tried and banished and out of the city, a great many options open up, Fronto. He will lose his land and his money. Without the money he won’t be able to pay his thugs.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And outside the pomerium, there are no weapon laws and soldiers can be soldiers, if you follow me?”

Fronto blinked.

“You would actually consider open war against him?”

“As I said, there are many options out there, but not within the city. He is just too powerful in Rome. Let things progress naturally and wait until he becomes a viable target, Marcus.”

As the room burst into activity, Fronto wheeled and ran from the room, stopping in the open peristyle garden outside. Spinning around in panic, he saw smoke rising from the rear rooms of the house, where the wall backed on to another street, a second column from the roof around the bath house, and a third from the atrium area at the front.

He shook his head desperately.

“Priscus? Cestus? Get your men out and check the house over. Get the slaves onto putting out any fires they can find.”

Paying them no further attention, he ran around the corner and into the main area of the house, his head snapping this way and that. The vestibule was filling with roiling smoke and orange flame licked at the front door and danced along the wall, mocking the altar to the house’s guardian spirits. The room where he had so recently been indisposed was empty; he could see directly through the doorway.

Ignoring the thumping in his head, he turned to his right and ran toward the apartments. As he entered the darker corridor that led to them and to the baths beyond, Faleria appeared from a side door, helping their mother, who was coughing and shaking.

“Marcus! What’s happened?”

Fronto took a deep breath. Without even checking, he knew damn well what had happened.

“The house has been fired, Faleria. The front door’s impassable, so get mother out into the garden where she can catch her breath. The servants and slaves will be coming through there too, and Priscus and Cestus are around.”

Without waiting further, he ducked past them and saw a half dozen of Cestus’ men come racing around the corner from their bunk room near the baths.

“Try to put the fires out” he yelled at them