(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 entire 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 within 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.”
Fronto’s grin widened, but there was an absence of humour in it.
“You forget; Nemesis is my patron, and she’s working hard today.”
The two men picked their way down the slope, being careful not to fall and tumble once more. Ahead, Galronus had restrained the fugitive and now had his arms wrenched around behind his back in a painful and restrictive manner. A minute more and the Fronto and Priscus joined the pair. The man had recovered from his stun, but his struggling had died down, pinned as he was. Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“Clodius must value you to let you wear his seal like that? And Pompey too?”
The man merely drew a deep breath and glared, silently.
“I’m sure you remember me?” Fronto asked pleasantly. “I remember you, for certain. Have you nothing to say?”
“If you value your life, you’ll let me go” the man barked, a hint of menace in his voice. Fronto laughed.
“You’re hardly in a position to dictate terms. Clodius can’t threaten me any more than he already does. I’m not afraid of him.”
The man snorted.
“It is Pompey Magnus of whom I speak. I am his man and he will not take kindly to this treatment of his factor.”
Priscus sighed.
“I think you’ll find that Fronto here considers himself beyond and above mere politics. I honestly believe he thinks he’s the hand of Nemesis at work.”
Fronto grinned.
“I’m going to start by breaking two of your fingers in return for mine. Then I’ll decide on the next move, while Priscus sources a hammer for me.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t? You couldn’t? My master will kill you!”
“Which one?”
The man opened his mouth and started to babble desperate threats and promises, but Fronto reached to the hem of his tunic, snagged in his fall, and tore a strip from it, balling it up and shoving it forcefully into the man’s throat, gagging him.
Galronus frowned.
“Do you not wish to interrogate him?”
“Hardly worthwhile.”
Reaching down, he grasped the man’s middle finger and, with a jerk, snapped it to vertical. The man’s muffled scream brought a smile to the legate’s face.
“Ah, the beauty is truly not in the receiving, but rather in the giving of gifts.”
The man’s eyes widened again, tears rushing down his cheeks as Fronto grasped his fourth finger, ready to snap it.
“Wait!” Priscus grinned. “I may have a better idea.”
As Fronto let go of the finger, his head cocked to one side, Priscus drew his pugio dagger from the belt around his tunic. Gripping the same finger carefully, he positioned the blade. The man realised what he was doing and tried hard to struggle free, but Galronus’ grip was vice-like.
He screamed into the balled cloth as Priscus severed the finger with the two rings on. Holding it out to Fronto, the former centurion grinned.
“Evidence.”
The legate stared at the finger and slowly broke into a smile.
“I’d best go put this to good use. Could you two do me a favour and break any part of him that’s supposed to bend? Careful not to kill him though. I want to send him back to Clodius alive.”
Turning his back on the nods of his two companions, Fronto smiled down at the finger in his hand bearing the priceless seal rings of Clodius and Pompey. With a light laugh, he set off back up the hill toward the temple, ignoring the unpleasant noises behind him.
Caesar shook his head.
“We should be above this, gentlemen. We agreed on a course of action at the start of the year at Lucca that should have secured things for all of us in Rome and beyond and provided a solid foundation for our work in the coming year.”
“We did” Crassus agreed, nodding, “and I have seen no reason to change our plans. You keep Gaul and Illyricum, Pompey keeps Spain and I get Syria. Our various factors and clients manoeuvre things in Rome for us and everyone is happy. Why reconsider?”
Caesar shook his head.
“Things are not working out, though. Clodius continues to rabble rouse and interfere in Rome. There is violence and almost outright war on the streets. Cicero, Cato and others work to bring me down in the senate and, while that affects me directly rather than you, think on how it weakens our alliance. We are inter-dependant. We cannot allow weakness in any one of us, for fear it brings down the others.”
He sat back against the temple’s cold wall.
“No. It will simply not do to have the three of us absent from Rome for at least a year, with mere assistants attempting to keep things moving for us here. Rome needs to be gripped with a strong hand and guided, else the chaos and disruption I have seen in the streets in the past week will simply escalate until we are faced with disaster.”
Crassus was nodding slowly.
“I agree to an extent; things are getting out of control in the city. I will be leaving my son in the city in a position of some importance. In him I have the utmost trust, but I am not sure about any others.”
Caesar smiled.
“I have seen your son at work, my dear Crassus. He will not fail you, but we three are the men who have the strength and the will to push Rome in the right direction and you both know that. Withdraw our direct guiding hand and people like Clodius and Cato will gain the upper hand.”
Pompey, until now largely silent, sat forward.
“We only need one man in Rome. With the governorship of Spain, I have already maintained the province from here the past few years, and I can continue to do so. I may have to visit a few times, but there is nothing to stop me remaining in Rome.”
He smiled.
“Indeed, my theatre will be completed next year, and I would wish to be in the city for its inauguration and the first shows anyway. I could be the man of whom you speak, guiding Rome, while the pair of you deal with Syria and Gaul.”
Crassus nodded again.
“The plan has merit, Gaius. With Pompey in the city keeping control, I can settle in Syria and prepare to move into Parthia. You would be free to consolidate Gaul and consider your next move.”
He smiled sadly.
“I am aware that there is some disparaging talk about your conquest, but with a year to consolidate with no rebellions, you can be sure of the province before moving on.”
Caesar sighed.
“You would need more power than you currently have, Pompey, if you alone were to try and control the heaving hydra that is Rome.”
He pursed his lips.
“We considered the consulship at Lucca but put aside the idea as something that might provoke a negative reaction to our alliance. Since we already have that reaction now, let’s use the consulship. We can arrange to have the two of you voted into the consulship together. Between you you would effectively have control of the city.”
“What about you?”
Caesar smiled at Crassus.
“I will be far too busy to attend to the duties of a consul in the coming year. You, however, will have at least a year in Syria before you could even consider attacking Parthia. You can stay in contact with Pompey here and the two of you would be able to keep things under control. Is that not the answer?”
There were nods from the other two men.
“It’s workable” Pompey smiled.
“But” Caesar added, gesturing with a cautionary finger “this would be for the benefit of us all, and of Rome itself, and not for personal gain.”
He concentrated his gaze on Pompey.
“I would expect you, in my absence, to maintain my reputation and keep my enemies muffled in the senate as you would do for yourself. I hope we understand one another?”
Pompey nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. Crassus looked back and forth between the two men, an unspoken question in his expression.
“I…” Pompey began, but there was a knock at the door.
The three men exchanged surprised glances and Crassus, nearest to the entrance, rose from the seat.
“Come in?”
The great bronze portal swung open with a metallic creak and dazzling sunlight invaded the gloom of the temple. The figure silhouetted in the doorway slowly resolved itself into the shape of Fronto, his arms folded.
“Marcus? We were not to be disturbed. This is most discourteous.”
Fronto stepped slowly into the shadow and bowed.
“I apologise for my breach of etiquette, gentlemen. I realise your time and privacy is important and I shall not keep you, but for a moment.”
“Get on with it, man” Crassus sighed.
Fronto nodded.
“Yes, of course. I have a message for master Pompey that could not wait until after the meeting.”
Pompey smiled at him warmly.
“Indeed?”
Fronto strode across to him, bowed, and withdrew a hinged, folding wax tablet from within his tunic, passing it to Pompey. With a bow, he stepped back and strode toward the dazzling doorway.
“Thank you, gentlemen” he said with a nod and, withdrawing, pulled the door shut behind him.
Silence filled the temple and Pompey turned the tablet over in his hands, examining the seal that crossed the join; it was his own. With a frown, he snapped the seal and opened the tablet.
“Well?” Crassus demanded impatiently. “What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait a half hour?”
In the darkness neither of them could see the colour drain from Pompey’s face as he stared down into the tablet. The wax that formed the two pages had been scraped out hastily to make room for the finger that sat in the centre, its two signet rings mocking him and announcing in no uncertain terms that his clandestine dealings with Clodius were no longer merely a rumour.
Swallowing nervously, he looked up and forced a smile, snapping the tablet shut and tucking it away into his toga.
“It seems that my son Gnaeus has suffered a fall whilst riding. He will be fine. This could have waited… my apologies.”
Crassus nodded.
“No apology necessary, my friend. I know how it is when a son injures himself. It fills the heart with butterflies and pushes it up into the throat. We should be finished very soon and you can go and see him.”
Caesar narrowed his eyes as he studied the man opposite him.
“Yes,” he said very slowly and deliberately, “you should certainly look after your own.”
The sun beat down on the Janiculum as the doors of the temple swung open. Fronto stood alone, twenty yards from the door beneath a tree and it was to him that Caesar strode as his peers returned to their escorts.
“What did you really give Pompey.”
“You don’t need to know that, Caesar.”
The general eyed him suspiciously.
“I would say that whatever it was gave the man rather a shock. After you left, he hardly said a word other than to hurriedly agree with anything I said. Honestly, I suspect that if I’d suggested he dress as a woman from now on, he would be having his hair curled and pinned up as we speak.”
Fronto grinned.
“Marcus, I want to know what you’ve done.”
“I’ve settled things, Caesar. Leave it at that. I think you’ll find that Clodius’ claws have been dulled. The great Pompey will, I suspect, be very careful to keep control of Rome for you while you’re away.”
The general continued to glare at him and finally shook his head in exasperation.
“You are an infuriating man, Marcus Falerius Fronto.”
“I have been told that, yes.”
The two men sighed and stretched. Smiling, Fronto proffered a mug of wine to the general.
“Thank you, but no. I have much to do. Another week or so of planning and organising things with those two and then it will be time for me to return to the provinces.”
Fronto looked across in surprise.
“You leaving so soon?”
“I have a number of matters to attend to in Illyricum and more in Cremona. I need to do something about the Veragri at Octodurus. I’d like nothing more than to lead the legions there and make them pay for what they did to the Twelfth, but that could just cause another set of eruptions in Gaul. So, what I’m thinking of doing is sending Mettius and Procillus with a chest of money and a small escort and buying enough peace and goodwill across the Alps to persuade them to open the trade route I need. It might be simpler and less costly in the long run.”
He smiled curiously.
“Also, I am reorganising the legions prior to the next year. Priscus is insistent that there are men in the legions, once of Pompey’s army, who are of dubious allegiance, and since Priscus is now my camp prefect, I can hardly ignore his concerns. I will be taking him with me to arrange matters; all my rotten legionary eggs shall be placed in one basket and I may then hand that basket to the Germans or the British when I see them.”
Fronto raised an eyebrow.
“Germania?”
Caesar smiled.
“Gaul is pacified, or will be when I’ve bought the Veragri, but the German and British tribes are restless. They must be subdued before they have an adverse effect on the settlement of Gaul. Prepare yourself, Marcus. Next spring, we move on to pastures new.”
Fronto sighed.
“Could you not have swapped your governorship with Pompey? Spain is so much warmer and friendlier than the far north.”
The general laughed.
“Make the most of the winter, Marcus. Next year could be a difficult one.”
“Aren’t they all?”
The two men fell silent and stared off down through the woods at the city below. Rome glistened in the sun. There were times when the city was simply breathtaking.
Fronto sighed. Britannia meant ships and sea journeys.
“Great.”
Posco looked up over the edge of the well where the bucket slopped water this way and that, and balanced it on the brick surface, a smile breaking out across his face. He turned to the slave girl next to him, who was busy lifting a yoke and settling it on her shoulders to receive the water.
“Drop that and run inside. Tell the mistress that the master has returned.”
She looked up in surprise and squinted at the hill, past the outbuildings and the edge of the great sulphurous crater that bounded the eastern edge of the estate and past which the main road ran. A lone figure on horseback was making its way down across the grass from the road.
“Go on, girl. Quickly.”
As she removed the yoke once more and ran back into the front door of the villa and to the atrium in search of the house’s mistresses, Posco quickly washed his hands in the bucket and dried them on his tunic before walking out toward the arched gateway with its canopy of crawling vines.
Fronto looked tired, but the smile he wore dispelled the tension Posco had been feeling ever since they had arrived almost two weeks ago.
Standing respectfully aside, he watched as his master approached and finally, as he reached the gate, haul on the reins and slide from the horse before tying him to the fence.
“Posco… am I glad to see you?”
The slave grinned.
“And I you, sir. I have sent word to the mistress.”
Fronto nodded, stretching.
“I am ready for a bath, a meal and a large mug of wine, Posco.”
“May I ask why sir travels alone? We were expecting master Priscus or master Galronus at least?”
“They will not be joining us, Posco. I winter with the family alone this year. Priscus is preparing to return to the legions as their new camp prefect and Galronus decided to stay in the city and try his luck at the circus again. I tried to tell him we have one in Puteoli, but I fear that Gaul has become more of a Roman than I will ever be.”
The slave smiled again.
“I shall have the baths heated ready for you, master. The evening meal is not prepared yet, but if you will allow a few minutes, I will arrange something to tide you over, sir.”
Fronto grinned.
“The drink will do in the meantime. I haven’t had a local wine in a very long time.”
Another slave appeared and took Bucephalus’ reins, leading the magnificent beast to the stable as Posco accompanied his master through the garden toward the villa’s door.
As they approached, the figure of Lucilia appeared in the archway, her deep blue chiton emphasising her pale skin and ebony hair, the simple gold earrings and necklace glittering in the afternoon sunlight. She was, simply, breathtaking.
Posco, busy chattering away, realised suddenly that he was alone and turned to find that his master had stopped a dozen paces back. He smiled.
“I’d best get to the baths.”
Grinning cheekily, he scuttled off toward the bath house, mentally cataloguing the tasks he would have to complete before dinner. On the way, he found young Pegaleius watering the garden and, grasping him by the arm, took him along to help.
Lucilia smiled at the weary traveller.
“You rode alone?”
Fronto nodded and started to walk forward again slowly, unable to take his eyes from her.
“Was that wise?” she asked. “With so many troubles, I mean?”
He grinned.
“I think the troubles are largely past. Clodius will no longer be any trouble. Pompey the great is sweeping Rome clear of all its mess and I have hired workers and artisans to repair the house and left a few men to look after it.”
“So you are here for the winter?”
“I am here for the winter” he smiled. “At least until spring. I see no desperate reason to return to the city.”
He eyed her questioningly.
“Though you may have one?”
She frowned in incomprehension.
“The Caecilii?” he said, an unspoken question in his eyes. “A young man who has probably been expecting you for some time?”
The smile that flooded her face warmed his heart.
“I expect he has already received a letter calling off the match” she said with a contented sigh. “I left mother working on father. She can be very persuasive.”
Fronto laughed.
“You are as expert a manipulator as any politician in Rome, Lucilia.”
She smiled as he finally approached her and reached out, taking her in his arms and enfolding her in them tightly.
There was silence for a long moment until finally she loosened her own grip and pushed her head back, looking up into his eyes.
Fronto smiled and leaned down to meet her kiss.
This was going to be a winter to remember.