Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (66 page)

Berengarus, however, simply swung his own sword once more as he stepped forward. He had no intention of dragging this out. Fronto stared as the huge barbarian grinned and shifted his grip on his sword.

And then the colossus suddenly straightened and spasmed, his head jerking. His eyes widened and bulged. Frowning in incomprehension, the big barbarian took a laboured step forward, but his body seemed not to respond as he expected and instead of closing on Fronto for the kill, he dropped to his knees like a sack of grain.

With only a simple blinking look of disbelief, the huge man fell forward onto his face.

Fronto's gaze moved to the large kitchen blade jutting from the man's spine halfway up his back - well placed to sever the nerves and paralyse, if not to kill. Even as he accepted the fact that he was saved, he looked up beyond the hilt to the form of his saviour in the doorway.

Lucilia looked shockingly calm.

"She was my mother you
shit
!"

Berengarus was not dead, his body shaking slightly as he tried desperately to rise despite the fact that his body was no longer obeying his own commands. His twitching hand was trying to reach round behind him to pluck the blade from his spine, but only his fingers seemed to respond.

Lucilia ignored him entirely as she stepped over the body and crossed the room to help Fronto remove the cord and stand. An angry red welt ran around Fronto's neck, making him look like the victim of a failed hanging.

"Come on."

With Lucilia's support, he waited until his legs felt stronger and rose to his full height. He peered for a moment at the two bodies in the room. Tulchulchur was gone completely and there was no way he was going to waste even a copper '
as
' under the tongue of that thing. Berengarus was clearly alive and trying to communicate and to move, but remained twitching and immobile like some insect pinned to a board. Fronto knew that back wound. Even if the blade were removed, he would never walk again. There would be no movement in his lower half, but more than that, he appeared to be having trouble with the rest of his body too.
Good
Fronto thought. He would hopefully live a long, painful and extremely miserable life for what he had done. There was no carcer in Puteoli, but there were some lovely cave systems in the cliffs.

Slowly, rubbing his neck and clutching Lucilia as though he might collapse, he made for the stairs with a last look at Berengarus, whose mouth was opening and closing in some kind of plaintive whisper.

Let the bastard suffer.

"You shouldn't have come back. It was foolhardy."

Lucilia raised an eyebrow. "Think where you'd be if I hadn't, beloved husband."

"True. But still…"

His wife's eyebrow simply stayed quizzically raised. "What makes you think I came back for you?"

"What?"

"I needed to cut my bonds. The knives are in the kitchen."

Fronto blinked and Lucilia simply laughed. "Come on. Let's get some air. It smells in here."

"You are a bloody marvel, woman. You know that?"

"Of course I do, dear. Now come on."

Epilogue

Fronto stood in the courtyard garden of the villa, rubbing his red sore neck and enjoying the chill of the evening with the faint damp that threatened rain during the night to come. The events of the previous few days, and indeed much of the year, had been distilled in his mind in the solitude of the peaceful garden into a simple fact: nowhere was safe in these times. For so long he had spent two thirds of each year tramping around foreign soil with the legions, bringing the light of civilization to the backward and extending the power and the influence of the republic, and the remaining third generally in some cheap cesspit of a tavern in Tarraco or Barcino gambling and drinking away the winter months.

And then he had broken his own personal rule and returned to Rome and to the bosom of his family and the last three years had proved that Rome and Italia were every bit as dangerous and troublesome as Hispania or Gaul, but with the added peril of having other people relying upon him there. That was the great change, of course. In bringing his troubles back home, he had involved the family and his close friends and imperilled them, and that was near unforgivable. His father would be appalled.

Simply: he could not realistically see himself living in Rome or even Puteoli. If he could not spend his days as the gods had clearly intended, knee deep in mud and entrails destroying the enemies of Rome, then it was time to start thinking of others instead of himself. Balbus had already stated his intention to leave a capital which seethed with discontent and violence and return to his estate above Massilia. Though he'd not said as much at the time, Fronto had made his decision exactly then. For the safety of his family he and Lucilia would leave Italia and move into the villa that Balbus had thoughtfully built for his daughter and son in law. While he dreaded a long future stretching out in front of him filled with nothing but vines and horticulture and horse rearing and dinner parties, it would be a comfort to be living only a few hundred paces from the older man, and it would be perfect for Lucilia.

Yes. Massilia it was. Sooner or later the Republic would consume the port that still retained its Greek culture and nominal independence, and it would become part of Narbonensis, and then who knew? Perhaps Massilia might get an arena and a hippodrome? That would be a comfort - something to distract him from the endless monotony of the farmer's life.

In a few more moments he would have to go back inside. Lucilia was preparing a hearty meal for them all and the men would be wondering where he had got to. It seemed they had come away remarkably lightly given the dangers they had faced. Fronto had acquired a sore throat and a huskiness to his voice from the near strangulation; Palmatus was limping but his leg would heal, as would Galronus' arm. Masgava was still pale and bed-ridden but seemed in good spirits and was convinced he would pull through. Fronto was glad it hadn't been him who'd had to help seal the man's stomach wound. Balbus had still looked pale and panicked from the experience by the time they arrived back at the villa with the big Numidian carried on a shield. The poor bastards who'd been locked in the steam room had been too far gone to save by the time the door was jemmied open, and the two with the sling and bow had been swiftly dealt with, but it could have been so much worse.

A few more moments. The night air was so peaceful.

A clatter of hooves.

Horsemen?

He heard the noise of the hooves on the gravelled path before the party crested the rise and began to approach the villa. He frowned. There were perhaps two dozen of them and even in the low evening light with the sun already disappeared behind the Misenum headland he could make out enough details. Soldiers. Many of them bore plumed helms and some wore cloaks.

What was this? Some new threat? Was Pompey really so stupid and bloody-minded that he would send soldiers in case of the failure of his pet murderers. News of their failure would not reach Rome for days, if at all. That depended on whether the sole survivor - a man called Acrab apparently - felt inclined to return to Rome and Pompey. Seemed unlikely.

Slowly, Fronto took a step backwards. If they were professionals and the cavalry were accurate with their spears there was every possibility they could skewer him before he made it through the door and into the villa. He could hardly run, nor could he yell the alarm in case it just brought spears his way. And so he crept slowly backwards, hopefully unnoticed by the riders, keeping his eyes locked on them.

Definitely around twenty of them. Half a dozen men in extremely high quality tunics and cloaks, their boots brocaded and decorated with embossed lions, their cloaks as glittering as the Godsawful thing Faleria had made him years ago and that he'd lost not long after in Gaul. Behind those six officers, the rest resembled the Praetorian guard of a powerful general. And yet, he could not place the man at the fore.

He was not Pompey, Caesar or Crassus - Fronto knew all three by sight. Of course there were perhaps a dozen other men in Rome who rated such escort and spectacle in military style, but to Fronto's knowledge none of those were brave enough to pomp themselves up in a world where that could be seen as setting themselves in opposition to the triumvirate of greats.

The man was not thin, but his bulk was muscular and strong, not fat. His handsome face was wide and displayed both the lines of a man given to laughter and the complexion of a man given to drink. His hair was dark and short, yet uncontrollably curly. He seemed extremely at ease with himself, a fact that only put Fronto all the more on guard.

Back-pacing, Fronto had almost reached the door when the party pulled up just outside the gate and the leader slid easily from his saddle and stretched like a man returning home from a long day's work. His eyes met Fronto's and he smiled.

It was as though the tension had been exploded with a look. Something in the man's genuine friendly expression immediately discounted the possibility of violence or trouble. With an easy grace that reminded him of Caesar, the man strode through the gate into the courtyard garden, pausing at the entrance to bend over a rose bush and inhale deeply of its scent.

"Roses. Always a personal favourite, especially after a day's riding that leaves ones nostrils filled with sweat and manure" the man smiled.

"Erm…"

"Marcus Falerius Fronto?" The man grinned and nodded. "You would have to be. Even allowing for the bias and invective in the description I was given, you are quite unmistakable."

Fronto frowned. Still, something about the man's easy manner kept him relaxed and at ease in himself. Yet he was on the back-foot. Failing to react perhaps because he had no idea what he was reacting to.

"I'm he. May I ask who
you
are?"

The man's smile widened - something that should be impossible without splitting his head in half. "I am Marcus Antonius and I'm tired and parched. Is there anywhere we can go and sample the delights of your vineyard while we talk?"

Fronto found that he also was smiling. He'd never met Antonius, though Caesar had spoken fondly of him at times over the years. A distant cousin but also a friend, Antonius had been busy out in the deserts of Syria and Judea while Caesar fought across Gaul, and Fronto had often wondered why he had not accepted a commission in the general's army.

Fronto gestured towards the door.

"What brings you to our house?"

"You, you fool. Well, you and your friend the former commander of the Eighth."

Fronto's brow wrinkled as he stepped into the warmer brightness of the entrance hall.

"You're here on
his
behalf? Caesar is not one to change his mind or forget a slight. I cannot imagine him sending such an august person just for us after the trouble I've caused him."

Antonius laughed - a rich, dark laugh like a glass of mulsum on a warm night.

"Beloved Bacchus, no. Caesar simply asked me to gather the best officers Rome had to offer and I intend to do that whatever his personal whims. When I take on a task, I do it to the best of my ability." He winked. "Sometimes Caesar needs a guiding hand, as I understand you are well aware."

"How did you know where to find me?"

The irascible Clodius told me where I might find both you and Quintus Lucilius Balbus. He was adamant that you would not accept -. However, Caesar has spoken to me of you in the past and I suspect that you and I are alike in many ways; and if I'm right, I think you are ready to take up command in his army once again. I go in a month to join his ranks in Gaul, as do the others out there. Think on my request while we find your wine cellar and peruse its contents."

Fronto followed the man across the hall, gesturing towards the stores where the wine was kept. His head was spinning. Not an offer, as put to him by Clodius and Caesar months ago - as though they were doing him a favour - but a
request
. As though
he
would be doing
them
a favour by accepting. Marcus Antonius was clearly shrewd. Time to push further.

"You came all the way from Rome to Puteoli for two men?"

"Ha. Hardly, Fronto. You are an important figure in my search, but not the only one. We are bound for Paestum in search of the indefatigable Gaius Rufio, and then to Grumentum where I hear Publius Cornelius Sulla lives in semi-retirement on a sizeable estate. You and Balbus are conveniently on my way. If I am any judge of men, by the time my journey is complete and I pick up Caesar's trireme at Ostia I will have a dozen of the very best military minds in the Republic at my side." 

Fronto digested this as he made his way into the store room. Antonius' eyebrows rose in admiration at the racks of amphorae.

"He will fight against having me back" Fronto said quietly.

Antonius shrugged.

"Briefly, perhaps. He respects my opinion, though, and he is short of effective officers. He will overcome his personal irritations sooner than you might think. If you know him as well as I think, you know that he will never let personal matters interfere with his work." He chuckled. "I take it from your words that you are willing to take up your command once more?"

Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. He and Balbus again after years away? Serving together, back under the general? A year ago he had been so adamant that the general's service was not for him - that Caesar was not to be trusted and even not to be believed; that he was unscrupulous and cold and calculating. Comparing him to Pompey - the great pirate killer and general, the thrice triumphant commander and beloved of the senate - he came off as a villain.

It had taken close proximity and involvement with the great Pompey to see beneath the man's civilised veneer and to the raging anger and vicious streak within. After a year in the supposed civilised culture of the heart of Rome Fronto's viewpoint had changed somewhat. Yes, Caesar
was
cold and calculating. He was a single-minded politician and capable of acts that scraped along the baseline of acceptability. And yet it was now clear to Fronto that for all that, he was still the best commander and possibly even the best man for Rome. Pompey might tear Rome apart with his rage and Crassus would ruin it with his avarice. Caesar might seek to be something of a tyrant as Balbus feared, but he was strong. And as he strengthened so would Rome and all those who served the general.