The two men were making their way towards the courier station, where two legionaries lounged by the gate, leaning casually against the wall with the look of men who expected nothing more than to watch the world go by until their shift ended.
As was always the case with crowds in places like Ostia, the currents pulled three ways. Those with legitimate business went about it heedless of the two officers, often getting in their way until asked to move. Those whose business was illegal or underhand in some way scurried away from them, avoiding any possible confrontation with authority. And those whose business it was to accost strangers pushed through the crowd to get to them: traders; whores; beggars…
Polyneikes angled his approach. His very realistic limited mobility slowed any action and made planning that much more essential. Carefully, he swung and weaved, giving the impression of a man trying to keep on his feet despite his terrible afflictions, while in fact threading a speedy and neat passage between the crowds towards the two figures with the bags slung over their shoulders. He could easily earn an extra eight aurei if he could dispatch the big Gaul too, but Polyneikes was no fool. Twenty was plenty, as he was wont to say, and escaping the scene after one perfect, deadly strike was easy enough to a well-trained man. Whereas giving in to greed and attempting a second blow was tempting the Fates, and he was not about to push Atropos into snipping his thread this early in his career.
As he estimated the distance at ten paces and mentally added a count of six for the difficulty of movement, Polyneikes the assassin began to count under his breath.
Twelve.
The Roman had turned to speak to the Gaul. The pair were completely oblivious, It was almost too easy. His fingers closed on the pommel of the knife and gave a gentle tug.
The blade, a wicked thing of Parthian origin that had been sharpened to the point where it could almost cut through sound, came loose from the twine easily, the twin severed loops falling unnoticed to the ground beneath the ‘beggar’. His tattered, filthy wool cloak swung to and fro, concealing the glinting iron blade.
Six.
His hand twisted, the thumb releasing the tie carefully crafted to the inside of the cloak to keep it in position and covering the knife. The cloak billowed slightly as the knife began to rise.
“…at the Porta Trigemina” the Roman was saying. “Then I’ll make my way…”
Polyneikes’ grip changed on the hilt, raising it for the blow.
“Not so fast, sonny.”
The Greek assassin’s world collapsed around him as a hand clamped round his mouth and dragged him back through the crowd, a blade simultaneously sliding up between his ribs and plunging deep into his black heart. His eyes wide, he watched the dishevelled Roman and the big Gaul disappearing off through the crowd, completely unaware.
They were completely lost from sight when the hand came away from his mouth and he hit the cobbles, no longer able to scream as Atropos of the Fates snipped the thread and his eyes glazed over. By the time his death was noticed by anyone who cared in the press of bodies and the cry went up, both his targets and his assailant were gone.
Fronto and Galronus rode past the multitudinous beggars, traders, whores and bustling city folk outside the Porta Trigemina and slowed only slightly at the gate where two of the private militia raised on the orders of Pompey nominally monitored the traffic in and out of the city. The bored looking men barely glanced up, even at the unusual sight of a trouser-wearing Gaul entering the sacred bounds of Rome.
Once inside, Fronto glanced off toward the slope of the Aventine and then refocused as his mind locked onto something that had reached his ears but hadn’t initially registered. Frowning, he tapped Galronus on the elbow.
“Go to Balbus’ place. I’ll see you there soon as I can.”
The Remi noble nodded and rode on toward the Forum Boarium at a steady pace, allowing the city’s populace time and room to get out of the way. Watching him go for a moment, Fronto slid from the saddle, hooked the reins over his forearm, and strode over to the stall of the merchant whose cries had caught his attention. Peering up and down the trinkets on display, his eyes fell on exactly what he’d hoped to find. Picking it up, he examined it a little closer and, satisfied, held it up to the stallholder.
“How much?”
“To a soldier? Ten denarii, to help you save the Republic, eh?”
Without taking his eyes from his new acquisition, Fronto fished in his purse and passed the coins across. The trader blinked in surprise at some mug paying the extremely inflated asking price without haggling down at least a third of the way. Avarice lending speed to his hands, he quickly stashed away the coins and attended to someone else before this visiting officer decided he’d been cheated.
Fronto turned away from the stall and smiled with the first hint of real satisfaction in days. Reaching up, he undid the leather thong hanging around his neck and slid the strange bow-legged Gaulish woman from it. For a long moment, he stared at the amulet in distaste, wondering just how different the season might have been if he hadn’t insulted his patron Goddess with the horrible little image.
Teeth bared, he turned and flung the offending article out across the crowd and into the Tiber, where it disappeared from sight and the world of men. With a deep breath of relief, he slid the new, well-crafted bronze figurine of Fortuna onto the thong and retied it around his neck.
With a sudden flash of inspiration, he returned to the stall.
“Do you have Nemesis, too?”
The trader, his greed propelling him back to his new gullible best customer, nodded and reached down to the table, collecting a small ivory image of a winged Goddess with a sword in her hand.
“Just the one. Elephant ivory and good work. Very rare.” The trader narrowed his eyes. “Not cheap.”
Reaching into his purse, Fronto withdrew a gold aureus and dropped it onto the table. The stallholder almost frothed at the mouth. “I don’t have much change” he hazarded.
“Keep what you think’s fair and donate the rest to the shrine of the Goddess next time you’re passing. I’m not paying you over the odds; I’m paying a healthy value for the favour of Nemesis.”
As the trader almost pounced on the coin, Fronto added the new amulet to the cord round his neck, a grim smile crossing his face. Now he was a little more prepared. The two divine ladies that he worshipped above all and who had always looked after him now dangled together over his heart: Fortuna and Nemesis; luck and vengeance,
Gripping the reins, he hauled himself back up into the saddle and trotted off in the direction of the still-ruinous, part-repaired house of his ancestors
Chapter 22
(Rome: The Aventine Hill)
The townhouse of the noble Falerii stood heartbreakingly incomplete. It saddened Fronto to see the house in which he’d spent so much of his youth in such a condition, although it was a considerable improvement on the last time he’d seen it. Gone were the protruding charred timbers and the smoke blackened walls around the windows. New doors protected it from the street and the roof of one side was already covered with newly-fired red tiles. The other side was covered with temporary protective sheeting, while the side gate into the yard stood open, revealing a scene that looked more like a workmen’s store than the place where his father had taught him the rudiments of swordplay.