S. Turney - Hades' Gate

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.