“I think I had better rest a little” she sighed. “The slaves will know what to pack, if the fires have left us much to take.”
Her son smiled at her sadly and Faleria stood and took her mother’s arm as the two walked from the room, leaving him, coated with thick black dust and blood, alone with Lucilia. He looked wearily around at the house with its charred marks, sooty footprints and general disarray. There would be months’ worth of repairs to be done, though it was possible the house would be destroyed entirely this winter while unoccupied. Clearly he would not be staying here now.
“What will you do?”
He glanced round at the young lady who sat on the couch behind him. He had actually forgotten she was there.
“Caesar will arrange somewhere for Priscus, Galronus and myself to stay. Crispus offered us rooms with his family if we needed them.”
“Are you going to kill Clodius?”
Fronto turned and raised an eyebrow.
“I would love nothing more. Caesar is right, though: it cannot be done in the city. The weasel must be forced out of Rome before he can be dealt with. It may be a long job.”
He tapped his lip thoughtfully.
“Though there are other forces abroad that seek his end, and they are not so prey to Rome’s laws and traditions as we. A vengeful spirit follows Clodius and it is possible the man may meet the sunrise one morning lying next to his own head before I ever have the opportunity. For now it is more important to keep those we care about safe than to launch a dangerous war of revenge.”
Lucilia smiled.
“Your sister is more like you than she would like to admit, I think, Marcus. The pair of you argue and fight, spit and fume, but I believe you are closer than most, despite that.”
He sagged.
“Faleria is infuriating, but she is my sister. She is so much like my mother at times that I could almost scream. But then, in fairness, I am truly my father’s son, and that cannot be easy on either of them.”
A silence fell over the room and Fronto was surprised at how comfortable it felt. He suddenly wished he were accompanying them to Puteoli that afternoon.
“I have been unrelenting in my disapproval of you, Lucilia. It has made me a bad host and a bad friend. My apologies have been largely hollow and driven by wine.”
She smiled understandingly.
“Do not underestimate those around you, Marcus. I see nothing in you that I did not already know was there, and what you sometimes see as weaknesses, I can see as strengths. Your sister told me…”
She tailed off, uncertain as to how he would react, but Fronto merely sat back heavily on a couch and sighed.
“I know. She has spent years coming to terms with what happened and I assumed she was still… unhappy about it. She is far stronger than I gave her credit.”
Lucilia smiled sadly.
“What happened to Faleria’s husband was not your fault, Marcus.”
He shook his head vehemently.
“Yes it was. Verginius was killed by my inexperience, lack of ability and reckless attitude. I sent him to his death and I’ll never entirely forgive myself for that. And it was that which killed Carvalia too.”
Lucilia leaned forward.
“Faleria forgave you years ago. When the time comes and you can forgive yourself, I suspect a world of opportunity and happiness might just open up for you. I know you’re a perceptive man, Marcus, and you know my mind. I will wait for you in Puteoli until the demons stop chasing you.”
Fronto stared at her, a dozen emotions battering him in constant waves, leaving him feeling drained and yet less sure of himself. He watched as she rose, crossed to the door and, with a last, lingering look, walked off to her room, leaving him entirely alone.
Standing slowly, he crossed to the door, but she was already gone. Wearily he stepped across the threshold, around the peristyle, and to the armoury that stored so many memories. With a sigh, he lifted the baldric over his head, uncomfortably, and held the sheathed sword tightly. For a long moment he stared down at the weapon, a quality blade freshly made so many years ago for an eager young tribune heading off to fight with Caesar in Spain.
His finger traced the text picked out on the leather in bronze.
GN VERGINIO
With a last, deep, sigh, he returned the weapon to the rack on the wall before turning and heading for the baths.
Fronto grunted with the release of tension as he lay flat on the bench at the side of the caldarium. He had arrived at the cold bath to find the water a dark grey where first Galronus and then Priscus had dunked themselves. Shaking his head with a smile, he had added his own sooty coating to the slick floating on the surface and then strode through to the hot room to find Priscus standing at the large labrum, washing himself down to remove the last remaining traces of the filth.
The presence of a strigil and towel lying in a pile at the room’s centre announced that Galronus had been and gone. The Belgic officer had taken to bathing after the Roman fashion, but still held a faint and unshakable distrust of the process.
“I see you decided to skip the full experience and just dip and wash?”
Priscus shrugged as he crossed the room and lay down on the bench opposite, the steam in the room billowing up and making Fronto’s face hazy in the cloud of white.
“No slaves around to help scrape, and just too much shit to clean easily.”
Fronto laughed.
“Yes, I saw the cold bath. Looks like a sewer.”
Priscus sighed as he settled back.
“I’ve got rather used to this, you know? Two years of bathing in weed-infested Gaulish rivers makes you appreciate the simple comforts. Though at least a running river would clean us more thoroughly in this state.”
“We’ll be clean enough.” Fronto smiled. “Once we’ve seen the family off, we can drop in at the piscina publica on the way back for a swim. That’ll get the last off.”
“You sound considerably calmer and more content than I’ve seen you since you returned to Rome.”
Fronto nodded, unseen in the mist.
“Strangely, despite all the trouble we’re having, some things long overdue seem to be falling into place and I’m finding that I’m feeling curiously positive.”
It was Priscus’ turn to laugh.
“That has the sound of a woman’s involvement. You been cornered by that little morsel of Balbus’?”
A low rumble was Fronto’s only answer and Priscus laughed again.
“Thought so. She’s been stalking you like a lion, you know.”
“Oh shut up.”
There was a light metallic clunk and Fronto laughed.
“I thought you were forgoing the scraping.”
“I am.”
Without time to breathe, Fronto rolled off the bench and painfully onto the mosaic floor as the tip of a blade slammed down through the slatted wood precisely where his sternum had been a moment before.
“Gnaeus!” he yelled as he rolled and came up into a crouch, naked but ready. The sounds of desperate movement through the mist and the faint view of shapes moving confirmed that Priscus was also busy.
Ducking back instinctively, Fronto saw the bulk of a large figure loom in the mist and swung his right fist with as much force as he could muster.
His knuckles connected with a helmet and a resounding ‘clong’ echoed through the vaulted room. Fronto cursed as he withdrew his hand, the fingers numb from the impact, and the gladiator’s head became clearer through the clouds.
The helmet, a huge, iron construction, bulkier and far heavier than those used in the army, had a wide brim and a full faceguard, two round holes for the eyes the only elaboration. Two long blue feathers rose up decoratively beside the huge plain iron crest. Fronto’s knuckles had not left a dent, unsurprisingly. The same could not be said in reverse.
He had only a moment to see the wide, battle-crazed eyes of the gladiator flashing white in the deep darkness of those two holes before the huge rectangular shield with its dented and marked bronze boss hit him full in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards against the huge granite labrum, whose contents sloshed for a moment, slopping water onto the hot floor where it quickly burned off to steam.