Standing, he brushed off the dark blue tunic that seemed to have picked up so much dust. Down below, Fronto and his group approached a street salesman and his cart stacked with bread, cheese and other nourishing basics. The games today would be big. The great Sicilian charioteer Fuscus was to run the first and third races today, but Apollodorus of Nikopolis had also drawn the third race and, while the man had nowhere near as many victories under his belt as Fuscus, he was tipped by all the gambling dens as the man to watch. People had come two days’ ride to watch the races today.
And in the midst of this, Paetus moved unseen.
Getting away from the slave train during the winter had been ridiculously easy. It had been mostly a matter of timing. He’d waited until they had almost reached Russellae, only a couple of days from Rome, and had then given himself a deep cut on his leg. Periodically, he would prise the wound open so that it bled profusely and take a mouthful of tinny crimson liquid, waiting until he was near one of the guards to cough it back out. A day and a half of feigning such critical illness almost did for him for real, as the continual reopening of the wound left him feeling dizzy and light headed and stumbling as he walked.
But the ruse had been successful. The morning they rose after their stop at Russellae on the way to the markets of Rome, Paetus repeated the blood-coughing procedure with a great flourish, the illness being made all the more realistic by his now pallid, rubbery features. As he coughed a mouthful of blood over the boot of one of the guards, he collapsed as though in a faint. The guard used his muckied boot a couple of times on Paetus’ ribs and the Roman ‘slave’ felt at least two bones crack, but kept himself as still as death, ignoring the pounding.
“Chalk up another!” the guard shouted to his mate and, as the slaves were roped together once more and began to move, two of the soldiers picked up Paetus by the limbs and flung him unceremoniously into the ditch near the road for the carrion feeders to work on.
Once the slave train had gone, Paetus picked himself up and began the long and painful trip to the city. His ribs still gave him trouble now, over two months later, but he would have taken the punishment tenfold to find himself in the position he was now.
While his family were gone to the Elysian fields, his home still stood, after a fashion. The building had been burgled and ransacked repeatedly since falling empty. It had been claimed by the state upon confirmation of Paetus’ death and would be demolished to make way for something else, but public works were a slow business in Rome and Paetus had found the boarded-up shell of his house standing forlornly, reminding him of what Clodius and Caesar had ripped away from him.
It had taken him less than an hour to locate and retrieve the hidden stash of coins, buried in an amphora beneath the dining room floor for a time when it would be needed. It was hardly wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, but would give him funding for the best part of a year for food and lodging in Rome if he used it carefully.
And so he had become someone new. He’d decided to call himself Plautus, for humour value, but had stayed so alone the past two months that the only person who had asked for his name was the lowlife landlord who rented him his basic room on the Caelian Hill. A shave, a haircut and a trip to the baths had turned him from a Gaulish vagrant into a Roman once more, and a few shrewd purchases in the markets had dressed him like one again.
It had taken him a few weeks to organise everything and then he had begun his task. His room was full of wax tablets that detailed the daily movements and activities of Publius Clodius Pulcher and his cronies. It had come as a surprise to learn that Fronto had come back to Rome for the winter, as the legate of the Tenth had a notorious love of provincial dives and tried to avoid prolonged contact with his family. But that knowledge had given him his first chance to learn more of Caesar’s activity, since the general seemed to be wintering in the provinces.
Paetus was a patient man, given to forward planning and care and, although eager to set about righting the wrongs that certain unscrupulous demagogues had perpetrated upon himself and others, he recognised that acting rashly would likely bring his revenge to a brief and very unsatisfactory conclusion. It could take years to do it right.
He leaned back, thinking to himself, pondering the near future. He would have to use some of his finances to arrange an income. Perhaps the buying and selling of goods? He had enough experience in military logistics, after all.
His attention was attracted sharply by the mention of Fronto’s name nearby. He almost spun around to look, but managed to stop himself in time.
“Which one is Fronto?” a deep voice asked.
“See the one that’s dragging his leg and lurching a little and the one with the green tunic? Fronto’s the one between them, but all of them are dangerous, even the Gaul behind them. Try not to get tangled with them. Leave the thugs to get them out of the way. A common street fight, as you see every day the races are on. Fronto will likely be expecting something, but he won’t have time to react to everything. Just make sure you’re quick and not seen.”
Paetus smiled to himself. He appeared to be centre stage in this little production entirely by chance. The two men fell silent, but Paetus, his ears sharp, listened to their footsteps as they strode away along the path. The former prefect gave one last glance down from the rail, to the road by the circus, where Fronto and his companions were busy gnawing their way through a hearty breakfast as they strode along.
Allowing enough time for the men to have moved off, Paetus turned to look at the back of the two men who were now making their way down the Scalae Caci toward the Circus. The figure on the left was familiar enough to him: Philopater, the gaunt Egyptian with the hook nose who ‘arranged’ things for Clodius. Paetus had met him a number of times, not always in the best of circumstances. The other man he didn’t know, but he had the bearing of a veteran soldier and, contrary to the law, the shape of a pugio scabbard bulged at the belt beneath his tunic. A killer then, either professional, or at least a well-trained amateur.
As they reached the grand facade of the temple of Cybele, Philopater nodded to his companion and then veered off to the right, past the temple and back toward the forum. The second man continued on down the slope toward the Circus and Paetus was briefly torn between the need to follow the Egyptian and find out what else he was up to, or to see how events played out down below.
The first race was still over an hour away and the illustrious family names of Marcus Falerius Fronto and Marcus Caelius Rufus would guarantee them a good spot, even if they arrived late. The small group were making for a tavern at the foot of the path, where it met the main road that led down to the Aemilian bridge across the Tiber. The figure ahead picked up speed. The streets down there were crowded enough that a clever man could inflict damage and escape unnoticed; especially when they had a distraction…
Paetus looked behind Fronto’s group and spotted the dozen thugs moving through the crowd behind them, carrying heavy lengths of wood. Fronto, as always, was out ahead with his friends, letting the hired help bumble along behind, largely unprotected.
‘No help this time, Fronto. When Clodius’ thugs leap on your own, you’ll fall foul of a well-placed blade.’
Though he was bright enough not to voice his thoughts aloud, Paetus found himself hurrying. He would have to do something. Not only was Fronto just about the only man that had proved to be sympathetic to Paetus’ plight, he was also apparently involved in a plan to cause Clodius trouble. The situation was good for Paetus, so long as this killer didn’t get his knife in Fronto or Caelius.