“Thank you. And fuck you.”
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Fronto drove the blade down through the tribune’s sternum, hearing it crack and then groan as the widening blade forced the split bone apart. He felt the blow ease as the tip found organs to tear through and then slow again at the spine — though it punched through without too much difficulty — creating a shudder-inducing sound as it screeched on the mosaic tesserae beneath.
Menenius gasped and almost bucked like a panicked horse, pinned to the floor with his own blade.
Fronto leaned over him and watched for almost a hundred heartbeats until the light went out in the tribune’s eyes and he passed away. He then reached down and found a coin from his belt purse with his good hand and carefully slid it into the man’s mouth.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Fabius asked quietly. “He doesn’t deserve to pay the ferrymen.”
Fronto looked up at the centurion and grinned lopsidedly. “Well I don’t want his malevolent spirit knocking about this side of the Styx. Besides, if he passes to Elysium I’ll get the chance to gut the bastard again when I get there.”
Fabius laughed, a trickle of blood issuing from his mouth as he did so.
“What in the name of Juno’s knockers are you two doing here?”
The centurion sighed and sagged.
“Priscus thought you might need some looking after. He’s a bit busy, but he seemed to think we might be able to help.”
“You were the ones on that liburna at Ostia?”
“Mm-hmm” the centurion confirmed.
“Well I’m damn glad you came.”
Fabius struggled to get to his feet and Fronto leaned over to help. The two men aided each other to make it upright, swaying a little as they stood. As the centurion staggered over to the heaving form of Furius, Fronto bent and drew the blade from the tribune’s body with some difficulty, admiring it as it came free.
“I don’t normally like to loot the dead, but… well, it’s not like he needs it.”
He grinned at the look on Fabius’ ruined features and hurried over to help him lift Furius. He was no medicus but he’d seen plenty of wounds in his time. Fabius would live, for all the loss of his eye, but it was touch and go whether Furius would survive his belly wound. The next day or two would tell.
“Do you suppose you can make it out to the storehouse in the yard?”
“I doubt it. Why?”
“Because there should be a jar of wine out there and I’m in sore need of a drink.”
Fabius laughed painfully.
“First, I think we need to retrieve your sister and try and send for a medicus of some kind.”
Fronto shrugged and almost fell as his knee wobbled.
“I feel I might be about ready to give this knee that month or two’s rest now.”
Epilogue
The slave opened the door and started in surprise at the gathering outside.
“Tell your master that Marcus Falerius Fronto is here to see him.”
The slave nodded and closed the door, scurrying off inside. Fronto turned to those who’d accompanied him.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Balbus said quietly.
“Positive.”
“And you don’t want me there?”
Fronto shook his head. “I’m fine, Quintus. In fact, you should go and see Faleria and tell Galronus to break the seal on that amphora. I’m certainly going to need a drink when I get back.”
Lucilia narrowed her eyes at him and squeezed his arm. “Do you want me to stay, Marcus?”
“No. Go with your father. I’ll see you all back at the house. We’ve got things to arrange, and I want to be there when Galronus pops his question. I will piss myself if she says no.”
Lucilia smiled warmly. “That’s not going to happen, Marcus. Get used to the idea.”
Fronto laughed quietly and watched as Balbus and his daughter turned to head back to their house on the Cispian. At the bottom of the street, a respectable distance away, half a dozen of Balbus’ newly-hired guards waited for them. No longer was the older man willing to risk the ladies on the streets of Rome without a suitable escort. Things had changed in the city, and not for the better. Still, things would be better for them next week when they left along the Via Appia for the winter at Puteoli; Balbus, Corvinia, young Balbina and their retinue included. After all, how else would they gather the families together for the wedding ceremony that was now looming on the horizon.
“Stop smiling like a dazed girl-child” Fabius admonished him from behind. “You’ll look like an idiot.”
Furius, at his other shoulder, laughed for a moment until the pain of his belly-wound stopped him.
“I don’t really need you two either.”
“I think that experience suggests otherwise, don’t you?” the shorter centurion grinned.
Fronto opened his mouth to deliver a suitably cutting reply that he wasn’t sure of yet when the door opened again and the servant stepped aside.
“Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Fronto stared across the threshold. It had been almost two weeks since the death of the tribunes and he’d done little more exerting since then than stroll down to the bakery — or the circus when Lucilia was unaware — and his knee was already beginning to feel stronger and easier. Fabius had had his various wounds tended and Fronto had to admit he was impressed with the tall centurion’s stamina. He was already beginning to exercise again, retraining himself with his sword in the courtyard of the villa to fight with only one eye, which altered his perception.
Furius would pull through, the Greek medicus said. After four days of monitoring the bad wound, he’d noted no putrefaction and announced that he’d succeeded in saving the centurion. It would be months before the shorter officer could take even the lightest exercise, but the man was willing himself better and refused to stay still.
And so here they were, out in the city.
The three men stepped through the door. Despite the austerity of the exterior wall, the inside of the house was well appointed. Tasteful, yes, but displaying great wealth and power.
Caesar sat in his triclinium, an untouched platter of fruit at his side, a great map laid out on the table before him. He looked up, his face betraying no surprise at the three men’s arrival.
“Fronto? What can I do for you?”
The legate of the Tenth legion walked across to face his patron and folded his arms, the two centurions falling in behind him.
“First thing’s first, Caesar. Tell me about Clodius.”
“Hmm?”
“Clodius. What did you do?”
The general frowned as though trying to recall the name. “Oh yes. Clodius. I expressed my displeasure to him.”
“And that’s all?”
“I am not about to smash a useful tool, Fronto, because I accidentally nicked myself with it. Yes. I expressed my displeasure. He will not overstep his bounds so again.”
“I see.”
The general scratched his chin idly. Fronto’s eyes fell on the map.
“Britannia? Trying to figure out what went wrong?”
“Hardly. I am trying to decide how best to deal with them when the sailing season opens again.”
“You’re going back?” said Fabius from Fronto’s shoulder, his voice betraying his surprise.
“Indeed I am. The task is not yet complete.”
Fronto snorted. “I hear that the senate has voted you twenty days of thanksgiving. I suspect your task is complete, unless twenty days isn’t enough?”
Anger flashed across Caesar’s eyes. “Have a care, Fronto. You may think you command independently, but I am still the praetor of the army and you serve me.”
“Not any more.”
Caesar’s brow furrowed as he sat back in his seat and reached for the fruit.
“Do tell…”
“You go too far, Caesar. I simply cannot stand there and deny everything that Cicero accuses you of, gainsaying Labienus and his supporters when I can see plainly and with my own eyes just how right they are.”