The others nodded and Fronto sighed. ‘It’s not simply a matter of not wanting to break the rules, Dyrakhes. It’s a sacred law as old as the city. When you cross the pomerium – the sacred boundary of the original city – there are rules as old as the gods. Carrying a weapon of war in public is a terrible violation. It doesn’t apply in your own homes, of course, and it doesn’t apply to tools and eating knives and all that. And there’s some bending of the boundaries, to be honest. When I was young, before Sulla extended it thirty years ago, the pomerium barely covered the centre and stopped just this side of the circus. My great grandfather built this house before the Aventine became the domain of the plebs largely because this hill was outside the pomerium then and he felt safe from flaunting sacred law. Caesar officially broke the law by crossing it and coming to this house a few years ago, since he should have laid down his governorship to do so, but no one would dare cross the general at the time, and many would argue that the recent extension to the pomerium wasn’t legal anyway and that Caesar hadn’t crossed the true one. Even some magistrates probably only consider the original ancient pomerium a proper legal boundary.’ He frowned as he realised that he’d drifted off into an almost tutorial explanation, and smiled at himself. Age, perhaps? His grandfather had done that a lot.
Balbus gave him an odd look. ‘The long and the short of it is that a man can be fined, beaten, exiled or even executed for carrying a weapon within the pomerium, depending on his status, so we do not do it even if it puts us at a disadvantage. But,’ he smiled, ‘there are no rules against carrying a good eating or whittling knife, or a cleaver, or even a good stout staff. Just weapons.’
Fronto nodded. ‘And that is what we’ll do. Permissible arms only. We’ll start in the morning.’
Aurelius shook his head. ‘Respectfully, sir, the Sons of Whores or whatever they’re called won’t be sleeping on it. They might even be there right now, trying something. If we’re settled on the plan – that for now we observe and try to spot the enemy – we should start right away.’
‘Everyone is exhausted after the journey, Aurelius.’
‘Not really, sir. I understand the taverns on the Argiletum and the Clivus Argentarius stay open ridiculously late if not all night, so the Huntsman’s Head will probably be the same. I’ve pulled all night watches many times in the legion and I’ll feel better in a lively place than here with your unusually loud and large collection of bats. I’ll take on the first watch.’
‘I will too,’ murmured Biorix. ‘I know the look of a tribesman as well as Cavarinos there. And who better to look like a couple of retired veterans enjoying a cup of wine than a couple of retired veterans?’
Fronto sat thoughtful and silent for a moment. ‘Alright. Pamphilus and Procles will relieve you in the third watch of the night. That should give them ample time to rest first. Once you’re relieved, you two, get straight back here and to sleep. I need everyone on their toes.’
Aurelius and Biorix said their farewells and left the room, and Fronto peered at his large model. ‘I suppose there’s not much else we can do until we know more. I’ll leave this here for further use, but I guess we would all be best served now by getting some sleep. In the morning I’m going to the city tabularium to see what I can find out that might be of use.’
* * * * *
Fronto unrolled the next scroll and ran his finger down it until he found the name he was looking for. Lucius Curtius Crispinus. There he was in ink: Marcellus’ carcer man. A former senior centurion out east who’d received his retirement early while Marcellus was the legion’s senior tribune. Seems the two had been linked even then. When Marcellus came back to Rome so did Crispinus, ignoring the nice parcel of Illyrian land he’d been granted as his honesta missio. The scroll told a story of an exemplary officer. Decorated numerous times on campaign, winner of the corona aurea. Fronto’s kind of officer, in fact. He reached up for the other ledgers he’d brought from the shelves. After some furious rifling through, he stabbed a finger down on the centurion’s name again. Interesting. Crispinus owned that estate in Illyricum but also occupied one of Marcellus’ town houses rent free. He was clearly indispensable to the consul to be kept in such a manner, but what was truly interesting was that Crispinus also had his name on the deeds of another property on the Viminal. A property that had previously been registered to Pompey himself until he had moved his family to the grand new house by his great theatre. Did Marcellus know that his client centurion was bypassing him and taking handouts directly from Pompey?
It made little difference to the matter in hand. Crispinus might be a true veteran centurion with an excellent record – he might be incorruptible and the paragon of Roman virtus – but either way, whether he was Marcellus’ man or Pompey’s, it put him a long way from Fronto’s reach. Marcellus was an enemy of Caesar, and Pompey… well, everyone knew where that was going. And Fronto was well known for his connection to Caesar. A dead end there.
With the deep sigh of the thwarted, Fronto returned the documents to their assigned places and left the building, the clerk by the exit giving him a cursory look-over to make sure he had removed no files from the place. Despite the danger of recognition by the Sons of Taranis, he took a quick dip across the long sloping road to the open front of the Huntsman’s Head with its excellent view of the carcer. Pamphilus sat, looking somewhat irritable, toying with his bread and cheese. Across the table from him sat the hulking shape of the Greek marine, Procles. Fronto had expected a certain amount of irritability from Pamphilus, having been split from his brother Clearchus, but really between them they barely produced enough brightness to illuminate a barrel. Splitting them up and pairing them with more inventive thinkers had been a natural decision and Procles, for all his size and shape, was a surprisingly quick-witted man.
‘Morning, lads.’
‘Marcus,’ nodded Procles, talking over the top of Pamphilus who’d started to call him sir. Anonymity was important at times like this.
‘What news?’
‘Oh this morning’s fascinating,’ grinned Procles, patting a spare seat. Fronto sank into it and poured himself a cup of their wine. ‘Do tell.’
‘Well, Procles smiled,’ glancing around to make sure no one was listening too closely. ‘There might only be six men inside, but they change regularly. They do shifts with three changes a day, if I’ve worked out my timings properly from what Aurelius told me. And the latest shift arrived not long ago, but only five of them arrived. Six men left and five entered. Since then we’ve heard a lot of raised voices from inside, but you can’t quite hear what they’re saying from here.’
Fronto frowned and opened his mouth to answer but at that moment the carcer door opened with a bang and two men appeared, one angry and one clearly anxious.
‘To the barracks, Corvus, and fetch another man.’ Crispinus. It had to be. Fronto had spent most of his adult life around centurions and he knew the tone. The way that voice carried across the open space it was clearly used to filling a parade ground. The man being lashed by the former centurion’s tongue quailed nervously. ‘Statius is never late for work. Something’s happened to him, sir.’
Crispinus waved a dismissive hand. ‘He spends too much time in the drinking pits of the Subura. Probably got himself knifed, but I’ll look into it later. Can’t be below compliment with these guests, now get going.’
Fronto watched for a while as the nervous man ran off, presumably back to Marcellus’ compound to gather a replacement, and the centurion retreated into the carcer, slamming the door shut angrily.