A quick jerk turned the man by forty five degrees and ripped the impaling long sword from the next man’s hand and Fronto let the body fall away, blade still projecting from him, as he lunged at the new target. Next to him he heard a yelp as Caesar, having just dispatched another attacker, suddenly succumbed to a blow from a man he’d not seen at the periphery. Behind, Galronus staggered against a wall, clutching his elbow.
“Get inside and close the door.”
Galronus looked like he might argue for a moment, but nodded, ducked through the door they were defending and began to bolt it closed from within.
Behind them, the attackers that had become cut off from their main force had been dispatched, Cestus and his men issuing forth from the stables and stores and falling on them from behind. Now they faced only the attackers at the gate, though there were still many of them to come.
Fronto stepped back.
“Fall back. Defend the passage!”
As he stepped back again Priscus disengaged from the huge man and the two brought their weapons to bear. Caesar clutched his side and fell back in line with them, his sword point running with blood. The enemy rallied over the bodies of their fallen companions and two men stepped out from the crowd, one armed after the fashion of a Samnite gladiator and massively-built, moving in a crouch, the other lithe and reedy with a sword in each hand, both spinning in circles like the sails of a mill. The pair stalked forward, slowly and menacingly.
“Who the hell are these two?” Front said, almost sneering.
He felt a hand touch his shoulder.
“Those two are death, plain and simple. Get in the house.”
Fronto glanced round into the eyes of Cestus and, for the first time, saw uncertainty in the man’s eyes. His urge to stay and fight evaporated with that look and he nodded to Priscus and Caesar. As Cestus and the giant Celt known as Lod stepped forward, accompanied by half a dozen other men, Fronto and Priscus hauled Milo to his feet and half walked-half carried him back toward the stable. Cicero was spattered with blood and held the door open with a hollow expression as they passed through.
The stables had been brought under control, the advancing flames now out, steam and smoke mixing, filling the air with noxious fumes. Fronto caught sight of Posco.
“Have you opened an exit?”
Posco shook his head.
“There are several dozen men waiting in the road to the rear, master. I thought it prudent to concentrate on saving the stables and putting out the fire.”
Fronto nodded.
“Good.”
Gesturing to him, the group made their way into the storeroom and into the house proper. Barrels, sacks and boxes lay around, blackened and charred and now soaking wet. Most of the house’s stores were clearly ruined, and structural damage had been done to the building itself.
“Think your man Cestus can hold them?”
Priscus nodded.
“If anyone can, he can.”
“Good. Posco? What’s the situation?”
The slave shrugged.
“The rear door is still burning. We started getting it under control, but then it occurred that at this point it would just crumble if we put the fire out and then the rest of those men could get in, so we’ve contained it but let it burn.”
“Quick thinking, Posco. Good man.”
“The fire in the bath house was easy to put out, given… well, it’s a bath house, sir. The Oecus is on fire and there is still burning in your father’s room, but the vestibule is under control and the flames are almost out.”
Priscus smiled.
“Sounds like you’ve done a damn good job there. That could easily have gone the other way.”
Fronto nodded.
“Yes, very good. But the front door is clear, you say?”
Posco nodded.
“The flames are out, master. Everything is hot to the touch and you can hardly see your hand in front of your face for the smoke, but the danger is past.”
Fronto grinned and turned to Priscus.
“Want to have a little fun?”
Paetus had been forced to move further into the shadows, aware now that Priscus, and therefore Fronto and possibly several others, were conscious that he still lived. He had changed accommodation and cursed himself for letting his activity become too open.
Clodia had ignored his warnings and pushed her vicious agendas until he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands and remove her from circulation. His opinion of Clodius had plummeted further, if such were possible, with the fact that he barely acknowledged the disappearance of his sister. Indeed, the man had been overheard privately stating his relief that she was no longer messing in his affairs.
And so Paetus had pulled back, returning to mostly just observing events and planning and so now he sat on the wall that surrounded the garden of the house across the road from Fronto’s and looked down. Things had clearly not gone the way the attackers expected. He had counted forty five men with the Egyptian, and ten of them had split off to move into the street behind, presumably to prevent anyone effecting an escape.
He had initially wracked his brains for a way to warn Fronto or even to help, but such desire had melted away when he watched the attack progressing around the burning house and had seen, among the other defenders, Gaius Julius Caesar step out into the passageway, fighting for his life. At that point it had become a matter of supreme indifference which side won, as one of the two men he most hated in the world fought desperately against the forces of the other.
And then things had started to swing toward Fronto’s defenders. Philopater, standing beneath Paetus’ very position, shaded by the laurel leaves that flowed over the wall top, committed the small group of hardy men that had remained by his side and watched as the two psychopaths, known to the underworld as Castor and Pollux in a most impious fashion, moved in to shred the defenders.
Fronto’s guards fought well, especially the one called Cestus. They were losing ground, being pushed back along the passageway, but they were making the attackers pay for every foot, and the Egyptian’s force was rapidly diminishing. Every now and then the deadly Dioscuri twins would move to the front of the attack and cause mayhem before stepping back and letting the others do some of the work. Bodies from both sides littered the yard.
And then something happened that would stay with Paetus for the rest of his life.
The kindling and dried wood that had been stacked against the front door of Fronto’s house, then sprayed with pitch and set alight had burned down quickly. The door had caught and the flames had spread within, but the debris around the entrance had turned to a pile of grey charcoal, steaming in the damp night air and discolouring the house’s white wall.
There was a faint click. Philopater had not noticed, his attention riveted to the scene of destruction that he had caused. Paetus, however, was in a commanding position, and was continually scanning the roof of the house to see where fire still burned.
The front door of the house swung open silently, a cloud of smoke billowing out of the aperture and into the street, entirely engulfing the facade.
At last Philopater became aware that something was wrong.
“What in the name of…”
The cloud billowed and bulged, carbon filling the air and ash settling on the glistening pavement and, as the haze began to thin in the gentle night breeze, three figures appeared in the gloom, stepping out of the cloud and into the street.