S. Turney - Sons of Taranis

Biorix. The hulking Gaulish legionary and engineer who had come to his attention half a decade since and had endured and triumphed through every strand of adversity that Fronto and his bodyguard had encountered these past three years.

Pamphilus and Clearchus. None too bright, it had to be said, but as loyal as the day was long, and with strong arms and stout hearts. And the other three men who had served at the villa were all tried and tested, having fought off the enemy during that heart-stopping night attack – Dyrakhes the slinger, Agesander the boxer and Procles the giant Greek former mercenary.

And the last of the ten-man army was now hurrying back across to them, his eyes rolled upward, watching the gulls that filled the sky with their cries and swooping, aware of the potential for aerial deposits and veering close if he thought they might occur. After all, a gull dropping its business on you was among the luckiest of signs. Aurelius. If Masgava was the head of Fronto’s guard, Aurelius was its heart and soul. The former legionary stopped in front of them, heaving in breaths from his run, though with a curious smile and a splash of white across the shoulder of his tunic.

‘Port officials say they’ve had at least a dozen Gallic ships in over the past day and they don’t keep records down to tribal levels so they can’t confirm if any of them are Ruteni. All Gallic vessels marked down are registered at Narbo, Massilia, Agathe or Heraclea, but that doesn’t help as any of them could belong to the Ruteni and could have been at Massilia. The last was logged a little over two hours ago, so even if the bastards we’re after were on that ship, so long as they were sharp they could be in Rome even now, either by road if they bought horses or by swift passenger ferry upriver. Little chance of us catching them in Ostia.’

Fronto nodded. He’d not expected to contain them here, but had held onto a small thread of hope that it might happen nonetheless. ‘To Rome, then. We know where they’re going.’ He turned at the sound of his name and saw Brutus walking across the dock towards him, a legionary leading the officer’s horse behind him.

‘Decimus. Are you bound for Rome, now?’

Brutus shook his head. ‘Soon. Can’t let this convoy out of my sight, else Caesar will have me strung up. A lot of his consulship and political future rides on these barge-loads. I’ll wait until the last of it is loaded and bound for the city and then follow along, to be safe. I was going to say that I’m bound for the house of Casca, but as soon as I’m done with the duty, I’ll head home and stay there unless Casca requires me. You know our family’s houses in Rome, yes?’

‘I do. Which one?’

‘I’ll be on the Palatine – the villa overlooking the Vestals’ compound.’

Fronto chuckled and Brutus flashed an embarrassed grin. ‘A foible of my grandfather. I think he narrowly avoided prosecution by sealing up two of the more overhanging windows. Anyway, you know where to find me if you need me. And you?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Home, on the Aventine. The place is back to functioning normally these days, though it’s been unoccupied by anyone but a caretaker for a while.’

‘Right. Good luck, my friend.’

Fronto eyed a wagon-load of booty being manhandled with difficulty across a ramp and into a wide barge. ‘You too.’

Turning away from the dock, he threw a heavy pouch to Aurelius. ‘Take Dyrakhes and Biorix and buy ten horses. They don’t have to be race winners, but I’d prefer it if their legs didn’t fall off as soon as we leave Ostia. The rest of us will gather a few supplies and meet you at the Rome Gate in an hour.’

* * * * *

Fronto sipped his wine – lightly watered to preserve the rich flavour, though taken in a small quantity. A clear head was required now. The others sat on the same folding stools as he, standard fayre for military campaigns, without the comfort of a civilian couch but with ease of transport and storage. The townhouse of the Falerii had been completely restored after the fire that had torn through it, but there was yet little in the way of furnishing or comfort, having not been fully occupied for some time. Indeed Glyptus, the sour-faced but excruciatingly efficient freedman Faleria had retained to maintain the house, was even now out in the city with a purse of coins, purchasing bedding for ten and a few home comforts. It was late in the evening to shop, really, but in this city – the greatest in the world – there was no time of day or night that goods could not be purchased if one knew where to look.

Outside the squeak of bats flitting about in the dark added a harmonious line above the distant surge and murmur of the late night horse race in the circus for the Apolline Games. Each squeak was accompanied by a twitch in Aurelius’ eye and in order to try and concentrate the man’s thoughts on the task at hand, Fronto had been forced to close all the windows despite the growing stuffy heat.

The party of ten had arrived in the city not long after noon, all weapons and equipment safely stowed in their packs in line with Roman law. They had made their way up to the house to a gruff greeting from Glyptus, who had set about lighting the furnace, but they had declined his grudging offer of a meal, instead strolling down to a tavern Balbus knew well on the Gemonian Way, rather aptly named the ‘Huntsman’s head’. The food had been standard fare at slightly inflated prices and the wine an extortionate cost for a poor vintage, but Balbus had been quite right about its unparalleled view of the carcer. They had spent an hour there having a midday meal, and then another slowly supping wine while they observed, filling the void with harmless small talk.

Not one of them had been concentrating on the food or the drink or the gossip, for all their harmless, mundane appearance to passers-by. In fact, their attention had been fully locked on the state prison opposite, its surroundings and the local populace. While it seemed highly unlikely that they might spot a cloaked and cowled figure in a mask strolling through the forum in daylight, they could not preclude the possibility that the Gauls had shed their disguises and were now trying to blend in. There were a few foreigners here, of course. Greeks, Egyptians, Spaniards, Africans, Levantines, Thracians and so on. Not many of the fair haired northerners, of course, but a few. Enough that a subtle Gaul could walk through the streets without raising too much comment.

And then, finally, they had made their way to the public baths to scrape away the dirt of travel and refresh themselves, all the while listening to the conversation and gossip of the men sharing the great complex with them. Anything might be of use after so long away from the city, after all. Fronto had been fascinated watching Cavarinos as he experienced a true Roman bath complex for the first time. The Arvernian had used Fronto’s baths at the villa, of course, and had learned, with some surprise and perhaps a little scorn, how such things as strigils and spongia worked. But having fully depilated naked slaves tending to his personal hygiene seemed to cause something between fascination and horror for the Gaul.

A little walk around, introducing those who had not visited the city before to its ways and districts, and finally they had returned to the house of the Falerii in time for an evening meal as the sun descended behind the Aventine’s slopes. Glyptus was either a far better cook than Fronto had taken him for or, as Fronto suspected, one of the local and better cauponae owners was grinning at a small pile of coins and an empty ingredients larder. Now, as evening rolled on, in private and with the day’s research to work through, the ten of them sat around a model of the forum’s western end and the slopes of the Capitoline constructed out of boxes, bowls, pots, pans, wax tablets and anything else Fronto could find to add to the growing plan in his tablinum.