Behind them, the gravelled path led down the Janiculum hill in a wide arc to the Pons Aemilius that would take them back to the city when this was over. Fronto noted with interest part way back down the path, among the rapidly thinning foliage, Pompey striding up the slope with a certain speed as though he were late, half a dozen men rushing along around him, some carrying goods.
“How long do you expect the meeting to take?” Fronto asked.
“I really have no idea, Marcus. If all goes well and my peers share my vision of the coming year, we could have everything settled within the hour. Rarely, however, do we all see quite eye to eye without some levelling of the ground.”
Fronto grumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I said we should have brought lunch with us.”
Caesar laughed and sighed, stretching, as he reached the top of the path and stepped out onto the paved walkway surrounding the small temple. Nodding at the younger Crassus, he gestured to the temple’s open doorway. Crassus nodded.
“Father is in there, alone. He is waiting for you, general.”
“Thank you.”
With sighs of relief, Fronto and Priscus clambered up the last step and onto the walkway, the latter immediately slumping onto the low, stone balustrade and kneading his leg.
“I am getting bloody sick of hills. Why couldn’t Romulus and Remus have gone west instead of north? Rome could have been built somewhere flat with a beach!”
Ingenuus strode off toward Crassus and the two fell into quiet conversation as Fronto and Galronus leaned on the railing next to Priscus.
“Nice day” the Gaul noted, looking at the hazy mauve sky through the sparse trees.
“Make the most of it. It’ll be about the last good day of the year, if I’m any judge.”
Priscus looked up, grinning.
“Nice to see you’re as optimistic as ever.”
“Sod off.”
The sound of feet tramping on gravel increased and finally Pompey, his strangely chubby, good-natured face rosy from the climb, appeared at the platform.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My hearty apologies for any tardiness.”
Crassus, behind them, spoke quietly and respectfully.
“No tardiness, master Pompey. Caesar and my father await you inside.”
The general smiled warmly at them.
“I had the forethought to have wine and food brought up for you all, in case this goes on too long.”
Behind him, three of his men crested the slope and carried a large basket and an amphora across the paving, laying them to rest near the spot where Fronto leaned on the balcony with his friends.
“Thank you” Crassus nodded, and Pompey gave them a military salute before striding into the temple, turning and closing the door as he entered.
Priscus grinned and slapped his hands together as he watched the basket being opened and spied the array of bread, fruit, meats and cheeses within. One of Pompey’s men began removing the contents and arranging them on trays.
“Nice.”
Fronto grinned and, crouching, reached inside.
A sharply-drawn breath and he suddenly paused. His hand withdrew and he stepped back to his friends at the railing. Priscus frowned. The legate’s face had slid into an angry grimace.
“What’s up?”
Fronto grabbed his arm and turned him round so that the three of them leaned forward over the railing, looking down toward the city, facing away from the crowd.
“I know him.”
“Who?”
“That man of Pompey’s. He’s not actually Pompey’s man.”
Priscus sighed.
“Try and make more sense.”
Fronto grumbled.
“He’s got two rings on his fourth finger. I saw them together recently, holding down my leg while that Egyptian bastard Philopater beat me to a pulp.”
Galronus frowned at him.
“You’re sure? No one else could be wearing those rings?”
The legate shook his head.
“I’m positive. Galronus, no Roman man wears more than one ring. It’s tasteless, gaudy and simply not done. But the rings are fairly memorable too. They’re both signet rings.”
Priscus narrowed his eyes and Fronto nodded.
“A lion with a sword?” he said quietly.
“That’s Pompey’s seal!” Priscus said, his tone incredulous. “He trusts one of his men with his own seal?”
Fronto waved his hands, trying to warn his friends to lower their voices. He took a quick glance over his shoulder and was irritated to see that, while the man was still emptying the basket, he was also watching the three of them attentively.
“The other one shows a cornucopia. Ring any bells?”
Priscus nodded.
“Clodius. So what do we do?”
Fronto shrugged.
“I favour flattening his face into the floor, myself.”
Priscus nodded his agreement and the pair started violently as Galronus suddenly jumped up.
“He runs!” the Remi officer shouted.
Fronto and Priscus spun around, but the man had abandoned his basket and was already away, disappearing around the rear corner of the temple to the astonishment of the rest of the gathered escort.
Without comment or question, Galronus was already off, his feet pounding on the slabs as he ducked and weaved between the goods being offered around and the gathered dignitaries and servants, heading toward the corner around which the man had run.
Fronto picked himself up and ran after them and Priscus, sighing and muttering about his leg, stood and hobbled at high speed around the near side of the temple in the hope of cutting the man off and saving himself a run.
The panting legate rounded the end of the temple at speed, vaguely aware of the sound of heated debate coming from within as he entered the shade at the building’s rear, his head snapping this way and that. The man had vaulted over the balustrade at the far side and was busy speeding away down the hill, away from the city and toward the Via Aurelia, Galronus close behind and running with the speed of a horse and the surety of a mountain goat.
Managing a somewhat graceless and clumsy leap over the railing, Fronto continued his pursuit, Priscus appearing at his awkward pace at the far side of the temple.
There would be little chance of either of them catching the man at this pace; it was all down to Galronus, though that was clearly no long shot, given the strength and speed of the man.
Suddenly Fronto’s world spun and blurred as his running foot came down on a fallen apple and slipped, sending him into a forward roll that carried him a dozen paces further down the slope, where he slid painfully to a halt. Angrily, he rubbed his head, brushing the sticks from his hair, and stood, gripping one of the many fallen apples that lay scattered around on the slope. For a moment, he glared at the fruit angrily.
Ahead, Galronus had closed and was almost on the running man. Tensing, the Remi warrior leapt, hurtling through the air and hitting the man just below the waist, his arms wrapping around the target’s legs. As Priscus came sliding to a painful halt next to Fronto, the pair watched Galronus and his prey disappear in a flurry of arms and legs, leaves, sticks and dust hurtling into the air and forming a cloud around them.
Moments later, the fugitive managed to struggle free and clambered to his feet, drawing back his leg to deliver a mighty kick to Galronus’ ribs when Fronto’s thrown apple caught him on the temple with a surprising amount of force, knocking him back to the ground, stunned.
Fronto grinned at Priscus, who shook his head.
“How the hell you pulled off that throw I’ll never know. I’ve seen you at festivals trying to put a ball in a bucket. You couldn’t hit the Porta Fontinalis with a rock if you were standing underneath it.”