Fronto took a deep breath and leaned back.
“Old wounds should not be reopened. You don’t have to be a capsarius to know that.”
“I’m not sure any medicus would agree that this particular one ever truly closed.” Fronto grunted and leaned over the rail again.
“She is a prize, Fronto. She looks at you with little less than naked hunger, and that is rare for a man like you.”
“Thanks. That’s a charming sentiment.”
Crassus laughed.
“I thought you were supposed to be all practical and pragmatic? I’m on my way back to Rome to a glittering future, Fronto. I’m about to meet my twenty sixth year, I have two successful military campaigns under my belt and, when my father gets a province next year, I shall begin my rise through the ranks of Rome. Quite simply, I am a catch that many respectable fathers will consider for their daughters.”
He smiled as he looked Fronto up and down.
“You, on the other hand, have no interest in politics, which means you will likely live out your days taking on officer positions in the army of whatever Praetor is busy warring that season, and face down in a wine mug in the subura the rest of the time. I know why, and I realise that you won’t believe me, but I can understand both the allure and the necessity of that for you.”
He straightened.
“But it means that you’re not a great prospect for most noblewomen, and you’re reaching the age where only the matrons, widows and divorcees will look at you.”
Fronto glared at him silently.
“You know I’m right. And you know that Balbus’ life is what you could have if only you would just pick yourself up, dust yourself off and play the game a little. You cannot wallow in self pity your entire life, Fronto. Clean yourself up, apologise to Lucilia and use the time with her that the Gods seem to have miraculously granted you, or you will still be doing this when you drop dead in a muddy field in Germania as a septuagenarian.”
Fronto continued to glare in silence as Crassus shrugged.
“Advice is free, Fronto, but I still don’t give it often.”
With a nod of the head, Crassus walked off along the deck toward the stern, leaving the Tenth’s legate alone at the rail, fuming with himself and entirely unsure why.
Fronto kept his eyes straight ahead. The conversations with Lucilia and then Crassus had ruined what was left of his tattered, sea-sickened mood for the rest of the journey, and he’d felt no relief as the merchant vessel had docked in the port of Ostia and the eager travellers had transferred to one of the numerous barges that ploughed the sixteen miles of Tiber between the great port and the emporium docks by the Aventine.
The curt apology he had planned for Lucilia had never quite come about and she now moved with a sad and offended look that made it all the more difficult to approach her. The journey along the Tiber, in a great barge hauled upstream by heavy oxen on the bank, had been much the same: quiet and depressing.
In fact, as Fronto stepped onto dry land and stared up at the slope of the Aventine before him, he realised that his dismal mood was constructed partly of the ongoing uncomfortable silence between Lucilia and himself and partly of the nerves gradually increasing as he neared home and wondered what he might now find there.
The group of officers, along with the young lady and the baggage carts, made their way along the waterfront and through the Porta Trigemina into the city proper, though with the crowds and the rickety housing along the base of the hill opposite the docks, the fact that they were now actually in the city of Rome could only be determined by the fact that they had passed through the great triple gateway and the inevitable crowd of beggars that gathered outside, clawing at the hems of the passers by.
At the edge of the Forum Boarium, Crassus and his tribunes, along with Brutus, Roscius, Varus and Crispus separated and went their own ways to family and friends. Galronus fell into position beside Lucilia and the wagon of luggage, while Fronto strode ahead, hardly acknowledging their presence as he walked.
The starting gates of the circus were already busy, preparing for the first race of the day, and the murky, swampy ground around them being churned beneath the feet of the workers was evidence that Rome had suffered heavy rain in recent days. The sky now was a sullen grey that matched Fronto’s mood perfectly as he turned and left the great circus, stomping up the sloping street, past the temples of Luna, Minerva and Diana and that drew an unofficial border between the houses of the wealthy and the dwellings of the poor.
A turn to the left and a further one to the right brought the three travellers to the street of Fronto’s youth with its gentle slope and wide walkways, the south side marked by high walls that surrounded the gardens of other houses. The city residence of the Falerii, roughly halfway along the street, was relatively modest for a patrician residence, evidence of Fronto’s father’s modest and frugal nature. The plain walls, almost entirely lacking in apertures, gave an austere impression.
Fronto strode ahead of his companions yet further and reached for the door, rapping hard on the wood.
There was a pause, while the others caught up with him, the wagon squeaking irritatingly as it rolled to a halt.
The door opened slowly to reveal not the disapproving features of the house’s chief slave, but those of four men Fronto had never seen before. Two had the distinct look of brigands, the third a massive man wearing the braids and beard of a Celt of some variety and the fourth a small, steel-eyed man bearing scars that clearly marked him as a professional fighter of some note.
“Who are you?” the latter asked plainly.
Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“I am the master of this house. Get out of my way.”
The other three moved forward, effectively blocking the entrance with a wall of muscle.
“Gnaeus?” the man’s voice called and, between the bodies, Fronto saw with relief the familiar face of Priscus duck around a corner. The former centurion blinked and stepped out into the hallway.
“Marcus? Thank all the Gods. It’s about time you showed up.”
He turned to the small, wiry warrior.
“Good job, Cestus, but this is the man I work for.”
The four men backed away from the door and fell to one side, nodding respectfully at Fronto. He was on the verge of an irritated outburst but Priscus, recognising the signs, reached out and drew the legate through the door by the elbow, gesturing to the men.
“This is Cestus. He’s my chief enforcer now. Used to be a gladiator… one of the few ex-gladiators in Rome not currently in the employ of Clodius, I might add. These others are Todius, Aranius and Lod; all good men. No bugger gets in here without being cleared by me or Faleria.”
Fronto stopped, an eyebrow raised.
“First name terms now, eh, Gnaeus?”
Priscus looked past Fronto’s shoulder and grinned.
“Galronus! Good to have you back.”
He paused.
“You have company too?”
“I’ll tell you all about it in good time, when…”
“Marcus?”
He looked up past Priscus to see Faleria, dressed in simple pale green and her hair down and damp, fresh from the baths. Somehow, despite the difficulty he always had with her, something eased inside him. She looked healthy.
“Faleria. How are you?”
She laughed a small surprised laugh and then hurried past the guards and threw her arms around her brother.
“It is far beyond time you were home, Marcus. Gnaeus does a perfect job, but mother has been counting down the days to the Armilustrium. She knew you’d be back before then.”
Fronto smiled with a curious sadness and then looked up at Priscus and gestured with his thumb. The former centurion nodded, limping forward, and gestured to Galronus.
“Come, my friend, I have quarters ready for guests. I presume you’ll be staying the winter?”