Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (70 page)

“We’ll be clean enough.” Fronto smiled. “Once we’ve seen the family off, we can drop in at the piscina publica on the way back for a swim. That’ll get the last off.”

“You sound considerably calmer and more content than I’ve seen you since you returned to Rome.”

Fronto nodded, unseen in the mist.

“Strangely, despite all the trouble we’re having, some things long overdue seem to be falling into place and I’m finding that I’m feeling curiously positive.”

Without time to breathe, Fronto rolled off the bench and painfully onto the mosaic floor as the tip of a blade slammed down through the slatted wood precisely where his sternum had been a moment before.

“Gnaeus!” he yelled as he rolled and came up into a crouch, naked but ready. The sounds of desperate movement through the mist and the faint view of shapes moving confirmed that Priscus was also busy.

Ducking back instinctively, Fronto saw the bulk of a large figure loom in the mist and swung his right fist with as much force as he could muster.

His knuckles connected with a helmet and a resounding ‘clong’ echoed through the vaulted room. Fronto cursed as he withdrew his hand, the fingers numb from the impact, and the gladiator’s head became clearer through the clouds.

The helmet, a huge, iron construction, bulkier and far heavier than those used in the army, had a wide brim and a full faceguard, two round holes for the eyes the only elaboration. Two long blue feathers rose up decoratively beside the huge plain iron crest. Fronto’s knuckles had not left a dent, unsurprisingly. The same could not be said in reverse.

He had only a moment to see the wide, battle-crazed eyes of the gladiator flashing white in the deep darkness of those two holes before the huge rectangular shield with its dented and marked bronze boss hit him full in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards against the huge granite labrum, whose contents sloshed for a moment, slopping water onto the hot floor where it quickly burned off to steam.

Fronto shook his head in a daze and drew sharp breath at both the heat of the floor where he floundered and the pain in his shoulder, ribs and knuckles. Pushing himself up against the granite stand, he reached his full height for only a second before he had to duck madly to avoid the swung sword that whistled past his ear.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” he shouted, unable to concentrate enough to think of anything more useful, hoping that someone would hear the cry.

Quickly recovering, he danced out of the way of where he could see a vague looming shape and suddenly found himself mere inches away from Priscus, who pushed him back, just as a long, narrow and sharp sword swished through the air where he had been. Castor and Pollux had clearly marked their own targets.

As he staggered from Priscus’ shove, Fronto heard the attack coming before he saw it and threw himself forward into a painful roll across the mosaic floor, the blade passing harmlessly over the top of him as he came back up against the bench where he had so recently been relaxing.

“A hundred denarii just to piss off and bother someone else” he yelled.

His answer came in the form of the gladiator’s shield, swung out horizontally so that the dented bronze strip along the edge caught Fronto on the elbow, spinning him bodily and sending him sprawling across the bench.

Across the room he heard a cry of pain and could only hope it was the other gladiator and not Priscus that had issued the sound. There was no time to enquire, though, as, ignoring his throbbing elbow, he jumped up onto the bench, spied the looming shape of the huge man and kicked out as hard as he could.

The gladiator, even suffering such a restricted view and all but rendered deaf by the huge helmet, pulled back out of the way and the momentum carried Fronto off the bench and face first onto the floor.

How could the man be this alert and quick in such armour?

He struggled to turn onto his back and once again had to roll out of the way as the gladius slammed point first into the floor where he had been, sending up shards of plaster and half a dozen black and white tesserae.

Fronto scrambled away past the wide granite labrum, desperately trying to plan a useful move, but unable to come up with anything. The forbidding shape of that enormous helmet with its incongruously elaborate feathers appeared out of the enveloping mist and suddenly the sword lunged across the huge bowl’s flat surface, the water slopping this way and that, splashing Fronto’s chest as he danced back and right, being sure to keep the huge labrum between them.

As the sword pulled back away, Fronto anticipated the next move and ducked down to his left as the huge shield swept horizontally across the water’s surface, smashing the nozzle that fed the fresh water into the bowl and causing the jet to spray out at an angle.

He hardly had time to straighten again before he had to duck back out of the range of that thrusting blade.

And then he saw it coming.

Pollux made his mistake and Fronto, every bit as experienced in combat as the gladiator, recognised the opening for the opportunity it was and leapt on it.

Drawing the shield across, the gladiator repeated the sweeping blow, but this time as a backhand, the shield sweeping across the space as Fronto ducked sharply.

For a second, no more, the shield was swinging harmlessly out of the way and the sword was pulling back to the right for another blow.

Tensing, Fronto leapt bodily across the wide bowl, his finger tips wrapping themselves around the brim of the helmet and the feather-holder, his bound left hand scrabbling to maintain a grip on the short nozzle, snapping off the blue barb. His feet dangling as he lay across the bowl, his belly submerged in the cold water, Fronto hauled with every ounce of strength, yelping at the pain in his two broken fingers.

The move took the gladiator by surprise and the white eyes widened in their darkened hollows as he was pulled from his feet and slammed down face first into the bowl. The helmet disappeared into the cold water, the torrent running through all the gaps and holes in the iron construction and filling it in moments.

The huge man tried to shout, but the sound came out as submerged bubbles. The shield flailed and the sword jerked, trying to land a blow, but the man was prone, partially submerged and in desperation, bordering on panic. The gladius blow landed harmlessly on the granite edge of the labrum and the blade skittered away while the shield proved too heavy in the circumstances to lift over the top.

Fronto almost lost his grip as the huge, powerful killer struggled to free himself, and was forced to pull himself up and over until he was lying on top of the gladiator, both hands on the helmet, holding the face underwater.

Again and again the man bucked, trying to throw off his assailant until, after a lifetime of moments, the spasms slowed and the jerking stopped. Fronto held the head under the water for a count of forty, just to be sure, and then slid backwards until his feet touched the warm floor. The gladiator lay still in the huge, shallow bowl, his heavy helmet keeping him anchored there, bubbles occasionally escaping a join in the helmet.

He stepped back, taking a heavy breath, and suddenly became aware of the continuing grunts and scrapes of fighting across the room in the fog.

“Priscus?”

“Bit busy!” the reply came, sharply.

Fronto squinted into the mist and could just make out two shapes moving in the whiteness. A whirring confirmed which one was the double-bladed Castor.

Grimacing, Fronto stepped back to the slumped figure in the bowl. The sword had gone from the man’s hand sometime during the last throes of the struggle and could be anywhere on the floor in the mist. Narrowing his eyes, the weary legate crossed to the far side and worked the shield straps free from the man’s arm until the huge, rectangular item was in his hands.

Gritting his teeth, he padded quietly, barefoot, across the patterned floor toward the shadowy shape. Priscus had somehow managed to pull a heavy wooden slat from the bench and was using it like a sword to parry the blows of the gladiator, though the state of the wood and the tinny, acrid smell of blood announced that he wasn’t doing very well.

Smiling, Fronto approached the killer and raised the shield above his head.

“Hello” he said warmly.

The man spun round, a sword flicking out, ready to deliver a horrible blow but, as he did so, Fronto brought the huge, heavy shield down hard on the man’s unprotected skull, the rounded bronze boss smashing into his forehead just above the eye. The blow was hard enough to send the gladiator flat to the floor, his swords falling away, unheeded, as he passed from consciousness in an instant.

“No point” Fronto shrugged. “We know damn well who he was working for and what he was trying to do. Never leave a vengeful enemy behind you.”

Priscus frowned at him in incomprehension as Fronto leaned over the prone gladiator and carefully positioned the narrow blade over the heart before leaning on the hilt with his full weight and driving the blade home until he heard the point scraping in the mosaic below. The gladiator gave what sounded like a sigh of relief and shuddered once.

“I always love the games. Gladiators are so
exciting
” Fronto said with a grin as Priscus reached the labrum, pushed the body out of the way, and started to wash his wounds with the cold water, drawing sharp breaths each time.

“I personally have had about as much excitement as I can take in one day. Can we just have a little boredom for a while, now?”

Fronto laughed as he dropped the blade and sat on the bench.

“I was contemplating bed for a while after this to catch up on my sleep, but now I’m favouring surveying the damage to the wine store. What d’you think?”

* * * * *

Caesar smiled and gave a tug on the straps that held the baggage tightly in the second cart. With a nod of satisfaction, he stepped back.

“It would seem that you are all set, ladies.”

Fronto rolled his eyes as he leaned against the slightly carbon-stained gatepost. Both he and the stable hand had checked the straps more than once, but Caesar had to give his approval and win the smiles of the three women in the front carriage. It was, to Fronto’s mind, born of a pathological need to be lauded for even the smallest things.

Turning to look out into the street, he spied Cestus standing at the far side, looking back and forth.

“Are we good to go?”

The former gladiator had a last check, motioned to a few of his men, and then nodded. Fronto smiled at the three ladies in the wagon.

“Time to go. Once you’re beyond the Porta Naevia, stick to public places and don’t wander out of sight of Cestus and his men. The mansios on your route should be good and secure, but avoid anywhere you suspect might be trouble. Just stay quiet, unobtrusive and safe.”

Faleria leaned over the side of the wagon.

“For the tenth time, Marcus, we know. We’ll be alright. It’s those of you staying in the city
I
worry about.”

Fronto smiled.

“Let’s move.”

At a wave Posco led the carriage out into the street, the other two wagons grinding and squeaking behind as they began to rumble forward. Fronto accompanied the vehicle with the three ladies, Caesar matching his position at the far side. Priscus sat on the bench of the rear cart, saving his leg as much of the walk as possible. It would be only a little over five minutes to the gate, and then the party would continue to accompany the caravan for the next mile or so until they were clear of the urban area.

Slowly, the three vehicles, accompanied by almost two dozen men, rolled out into the street and, turning, began the slow descent from the Aventine toward the temple of the Bona Dea at the junction with the Via Ardeatina. Fronto glanced across at the general. It would have been closer and more direct to leave the city by the Porta Capena and straight onto the Via Appia, rather than this round-about route that required a connecting road a few miles south, but Caesar had been insistent that this path would be the safest, and the ladies fell over one another to agree with the great orator, whatever Fronto’s opinion.