S. Turney - Sons of Taranis

‘What’s happening.’

‘Someone important’s coming,’ the former legionary announced, breathless. ‘Whoever it is is surrounded by tough looking men, toga-clad sycophants and lictors with their stick-bundles. And he’s headed this way from the Argiletum.’

Fronto felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Something was about to happen, he could feel it crackling like lightning in the very air. ‘How many lictors?’

‘Lots.’

‘More than six?’

‘Lots,’ repeated Aurelius meaningfully.

‘That’s a consul, then. Anyone fancy wagering it’s Sulpicius Rufus?’

The table remained silent. ‘No, me neither. Shall we go see what Marcellus is here for then?’

There would be no issue with being seen out in the open now for, as they stood and moved towards the entrance of the tavern, Fronto could see the citizens and the poor of Rome gathering like moths to a lamp, filling the sides of the street in response to the arrival of one of Rome’s two most powerful officials. The consuls, two elected each year, held unparalleled power in the republic and, consequently, drew a crowd whenever they moved in the city.

Pushing his way in among the eager watchers, Fronto caught sight of the approaching group. Aurelius had been quite right. Twelve lictors – the official guards of the city’s magistrates – moved ahead in six pairs, bearing their bundles of sticks tied with linen. Behind them he could just see a tall man with reddish blond hair and a face like a constipated frog. Based on appearance alone he took an instant dislike to the man.

The sky was dull with light grey overcast cloud that locked in the muggy warmth of a Roman summer, and Fronto was thoroughly thankful that he’d foregone the expected toga as too restrictive if it came to a fight. He could see the beads of sweat on the consul’s wide, waxy forehead. Marcellus was suffering in the heat.

‘Procles and Agesander, stay here and keep an eye on things. Everyone else get down the road into the forum. Spread out there.’

‘The forum?’ muttered Balbus. ‘Why?’

‘Because if Marcellus is here, it’s for something big and public, almost certainly involving the captive decurion, and he’ll do it in the forum. If the Sons of Taranis are here, they might go for the carcer, but they’ll certainly want to know what the consul is doing, especially since Comum is basically Gaulish and half the crowd are muttering about captive Gauls. Keep your eyes open everyone. Find me one of these bastards and I’ll give you his head-weight in denarii.’

Without waiting, Fronto shoved his way through the press, drawing argument, barks of annoyance and the odd sharp elbow. A moment later he was passing the Basilica Opimia and the Temple of Concord on the wide road that led down from the top of the Capitoline hill to the forum below. Already the crowd was gathering in force as rumour spread and Fronto repeatedly heard the consul’s name whispered, along with the words decurion , Comum , Gaul and Caesar , none of which came as any surprise. Looking around hurriedly, he settled on the temple of Saturn as the best place of observation. Scurrying up the steps to the colonnaded front, he leaned against one of the tall columns and took in the scene.

The crowd was continuing to gather, filling the wide public space, but the people of Rome knew their spectacles well, and the path down the road was left clear, as was a large area by the rostrum where public speeches were made. His eyes roved around. He could make out the squat entrance to the carcer up the slope and though he couldn’t quite make out Procles and Agesander, he could see that Marcellus had entered the prison complex, his entourage gathered outside.

Aurelius was close to the rostrum at the heart of things. Fronto picked out Pamphilus on the lower steps of the temple of Concord and therefore the unimaginative Clearchus who had remained close to his brother as always. Both were wearing hoodless cloaks despite the muggy heat and once more, Fronto wondered about what went on inside their heads other than a light breeze and occasional echoing birdsong.

Balbus was in the doorway of one of the new shops fronting the Basilica Fulvia. Biorix was just visible not far away. Dyrakhes and Cavarinos he couldn’t quite see. Good, though. The lads had spread out well. Now all they needed was for this sudden activity to bring out the Sons of Taranis and all would be excellent. He was still watching the crowd as a commotion arose up the steps and drew his attention back to the carcer. Marcellus had emerged and his lictors were crowded around him as three men herded a man to the road and shoved him none-too-gently forward. The man, clearly from his appearance the Comum decurion who had been incarcerated for days, staggered forward and managed to keep his footing only through blind luck. Stained and covered in his own filth, the poor man who had been raised to citizenship by Caesar and had come to Rome an important official only to be imprisoned, was herded to the open space before the rostrum.

Fronto watched the parade arrive and his eyes widened in shock as he spotted the man following the prisoner. The two who were jostling him to the centre of the wide circle were obviously men from the carcer. The third was Lucius Curtius Crispinus, Marcellus’ centurion, who commanded at the prison. And in his hand was a scourge !

‘No,’ Fronto whispered under his breath. ‘Surely not?’

The same reaction struck throughout the crowd and there was an audible hiss of mass-indrawn breath. Beyond the scene unfolding, Marcellus climbed the steps, his lictors spreading out, keeping the circle at the centre of the forum free of observers, guarding the rostrum and its occupant. The man from Comum had turned and seen what the guard commander carried and now he cried out – his accent as Gallic as it was Roman – and struggled against the two guards. There were no punishment posts here such as a legion might erect and despite the man’s feeble protests and struggles, the two guards slipped leather leashes over his hands, yanking them so tight they bit into his flesh and drew blood. As he cried again and ran out of fight, turning into a blubbering mess, the two guards walked apart, wrapping the other end of the leashes around their own forearms and pulling them so tight that the decurion was jerked straight, his arms pulled taut, so much so in fact that his shoulders almost separated. While the guards held him in position and their commander unfurled the scourge, Marcellus cleared his voice.

Fronto missed the opening of his address. In his head he was revisiting every scourging he had watched in his time with the army, and there had been a few. One or two to the death, many others in multiples of three or five. Few went above twelve, for that was almost certainly a death sentence anyway. And Crispinus was a centurion with no small amount of muscle and will. He would not stint on punishment, Fronto knew, and what he held was a proper military scourge with bone wheels on it. He swallowed. Not only did he feel for the poor bastard down there who had done absolutely nothing to deserve this but to have been connected to the wrong man, but what he was witnessing here went way beyond law and punishment.

This was a statement.

This was, in fact, a declaration of war.

The public might not see it yet, but this was a direct challenge to Caesar by one of the duly elected consuls of Rome, a man with ties to Pompey. Even if they could not bring a prosecution against the general while he remained Proconsul of Gaul or when he took up his consulship, his enemies were today making their statement clear. Fronto could picture Caesar’s face when he heard about this. In a mad, fleeting moment, he pictured Caesar, incensed beyond all reason, finishing mopping up the last of the rebel spirit in Gaul and then sweeping down against Rome with twelve legions. It was a mind-blowing thought. And not impossible. Sulla had done just that, after all.