Finally, the door of the carcer creaked and opened inwards, emitting a waft of stale, fetid air. The face that appeared in the narrow gap was broken-nosed, lined with three distinct scars and bore the short hair that was the norm for a legionary.
‘Yes?’
‘No time to explain,’ Fronto barked. ‘You need to let us in.’
‘Piss off.’
The door started to close and Fronto stepped forward, jamming his foot in it as he spoke. ‘Listen, you… ow!’ The muscular legionary had pushed the door with every nuance of strength in his large arms and though Fronto’s foot had definitely stopped it closing, there was a crunch and a flash of blinding pain shot up his leg as foot bones broke. The legionary frowned in surprise as the door failed to close and tried again with the same force. This time, Fronto’s foot was further in and he felt the heavy timber close on his ankle, scraping the flesh from it and almost breaking the vital joint.
‘Listen,’ he hissed through teeth gritted against the pain, ‘there are some well-armed and very determined men coming here to free one of your prisoners and they outnumber you three to one. Let us in.’
‘Only my centurion…’
Fronto shoved hard and the door slammed inwards, smashing into the surprised legionary’s face and sending him reeling back. In a heartbeat, Fronto threw the door open and ushered the others in, taking a swift look back out along the street. Perhaps fifty paces away a bunch of street urchins had arrested the cart’s progress, ribbing the merchant and making lewd suggestions, comparing the phallic lamps to their owner.
Thank you lady Fortuna, he smiled again, and turned to see a tense stand-off in the guard room. The last time he had been in this chamber he had been in the company of Pompey and it had been his men staffing the place. Pompey had ruled the carcer a ‘non-public’ place, and had allowed his men blades. It seemed Marcellus was sticking rigidly to his law-abiding persona beyond reason. Even the carcer’s guards now carried only wooden batons. All six of the place’s staff were here in this room, their bowls of food and game of dice forgotten in the face of this intrusion. With the discipline of legionaries – a level of which Fronto heartily approved – the half dozen men had armed themselves and stood even before all the arrivals were inside. Three of them had moved to block access to the heavy armoured door that led through to the cells.
As Fronto’s men gathered in a small knot and moved into the place, Fronto dropped back the latch and peered at the keyhole. No key. Stepping away from the door, he approached the three most threatening men, the ones guarding the way to the cells. In the absence of the centurion, he didn’t know who might be in charge, and the leader was far from evident.
‘Listen, you lot. There are near a score of Gauls coming to free your prisoner and they’re all armed with swords…’
Before he could get another word out, one of the guards had lunged at him, almost knocking the short staff from his hands. Fronto jabbed back in automatic response and as if that exchange were a trigger the room erupted into chaos, the guards and Fronto’s companions alike jabbing and blocking with their batons and staves.
In the chaos, he heard a voice shout ‘Go tell Crispinus!’
He turned, his broken foot agonising, but the man who was intent on stopping him smacked him painfully in the knee with his club. Fronto wheeled and shoved the man, sending him lurching back. Again, he turned to the entrance to see the man with the broken nose who he’d hurt on entry unlatching the door.
‘No!’
But his attention was drawn again to the man facing him who’d recovered and was swiping again with the short length of ash.
‘For the love of Bacchus, will you lot stop this?’
Again he shoved his attacker out of the way and glanced over his shoulder. The door stood open, the doorman gone, running to find the centurion. Even as he turned to run and close the door again, a knife thudded into the oak frame, thrown from somewhere in the street.
‘Shit!’ yelled the guard who’d sent his friend running – the man in charge now, Fronto presumed. The man leapt over to the door and peered out. Pressed in the struggle, Fronto couldn’t get a reasonable view outside, but he saw the guard’s eyes widen and could picture the scene in the street. ‘Shut the bloody door!’ he yelled.
Nodding in shock, the guard did so, dropping the latch.
‘Carcer!’ the senior guard yelled above the din, ‘Ad Signum!’
The call cut through the chaos and the effect was instant. Whatever trouble the guards were causing for them, Fronto found himself impressed with the way, even after years of retirement, the call to standard pulled the men immediately from what they were doing. A moment later all five were lined up to one side. Fronto’s men, panting, huddled together again. Miraculously everyone was upright and there appeared to be no broken bones or major wounds – just a few bruises and contusions.
‘Who are you?’ the speaker asked, addressing Fronto.
‘Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of Caesar’s Tenth Equestris, retired.’
The five men saluted automatically and Fronto had to brush aside the etiquette.
‘Who are they, then, sir?’ the man asked.
‘A bunch of Gaulish warriors and slaves. The five with the cart are all very dangerous. They’re coming to try and free Vercingetorix, and they won’t stop ‘til they’re all dead. Find the keys. Lock that door.’
The legionary’s face folded into an expression of contrite embarrassment. ‘Afraid Paulinus had the door keys, sir.’
‘Let me guess: Paulinus is the one who just left to warn your centurion?’
A nod.
‘Turds! The latch won’t hold them for long. Still, your commander might bring help. Where is he?’
‘He’ll be at barracks, sir, up on the Viminal, top end, near the walls.’
Fronto made a quick mental calculation, assuming the barracks to be that house he’d found the records of which had formerly belonged to Pompey. A little over a mile from here to there, he reckoned, and all uphill. Paulinus was clearly fit – all these former soldiers were still in good shape – but still that would be more than a quarter of an hour. Plus the same back, or slightly less allowing for the downhill. Plus any time taken by Crispinus to gather and arm men in between.
‘No help coming for three quarters of an hour or more, then, so it’s down to us. There are twelve of us, and nineteen of them altogether. We can manage that, I figure. Most of them are half-starved slaves.’
The door suddenly erupted in a din of thuds, thumps and bangs as the Gauls outside began to hammer at it. The latch immediately groaned and strained, and Cavarinos gestured to Procles. The two men grabbed the heavy table with the meal accoutrements on it and tipped it sideways, jamming it up against the exterior door.
‘Hang on, sir,’ the senior guard said, and ran over to the corner where two cupboards stood. Shoving one aside roughly, he scrabbled around in the grime behind and withdrew something, turning in a cloud of dust and holding something out. Fronto stared at the two gladii in the man’s hands. Both were very standard military issue and clearly unused for some time, from the thick coat of muck.
‘Left over by the previous occupants, sir,’ the man said. ‘We meant to get rid of them, but you know how it is.’
Fronto grinned and grabbed one of the blades, tearing it from its scabbard. It was pitted with rust from lack of care, but well-edged and still eminently usable. He hefted it comfortably as the guard pulled the other and did the same.
‘When they get in, don’t mistake my men in the press for theirs, will you.’
The guards nodded, peering intently at Fronto’s companions and committing their faces, shapes and clothes to memory.