S. Turney - Hades' Gate

"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."