‘Especially since he’ll have bought most of it,’ noted Varus with a sigh. ‘Rome is rapidly turning from an ideal into a commodity.’
* * * * *
Lucterius almost fell as he was pushed into the Roman stockade, though he kept his feet and held his head high. His legs were still stiff and ungainly from spending so long strapped across the back of a horse, as well as the residual bruising from the Arverni traitors’ cowardly attack at Nemossos. Behind him the gate slammed shut. Perhaps three dozen men were incarcerated here, presumably for being the more avidly anti-Roman, noble, and dangerous of Caesar’s captives. That might yet serve him well. He’d heard tales as he was manhandled through the camp – the proconsul had had the weapon hand struck from his entire army. Yet here there was no such dismemberment in evidence. Burning, hate-filled eyes turned to the new arrival. Here were warriors and nobles, still wearing their arm-rings, though disarmed and without their mail. And the fire in their eyes might be useful. He would still free himself, with the aid of these men. But first he had to get one difficult confrontation out of the way.
‘Where is Drapes,’ he demanded of the other prisoners.
Two or three hands pointed and Lucterius’ gaze followed the fingers to see a heap of ragged flesh and bone in the corner. The man was clearly dead, though Lucterius couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad one. ‘What happened?’
‘Starved himself,’ grunted one of the men.
Lucterius straightened. ‘Then he had less backbone than I thought. But we are different. We are Cadurci, and Arverni, and Carnutes and other great names. Men of tribes with a thousand year heritage of battle and honour. We will never bend our knees or our necks to Rome. Come, brothers, and we will plan our escape and to where we will run and regroup.’
He hadn’t expected a rousing cheer, but something positive would have been nice. Instead, he was greeted by a stony silence and glowering eyes.
‘Have heart, brothers,’ he cajoled. ‘Vercingetorix is being freed from the Roman prison as we speak, and this is far from over. I am Lucterius of the Cadurci, who led the…’
‘We know who you are,’ snarled one of the warriors.
‘Then we…’
‘You are the bastard who persuaded us that we could still win and then abandoned us to our fate. You are the bastard who led us to our defeat and death yet again. You are the man who has condemned the Cadurci to the fires of the underworld. This is all your doing, Lucterius. All your fault.’
Lucterius frowned as he recoiled at the words.
‘Now, listen…’
But the three dozen men were rising now, like the shambling dead from the graves of Alesia, fists balled and eyes afire. And they were closing on him.
‘Everything I have done, I did for the good of the people of all our tribes,’ he stuttered defensively.
‘Tell that to the king of the dead when you meet him,’ snapped the first person to reach him, and swung a fist like a sack full of sharp stones, sending him reeling and to one knee. He had no time to recover, though, as someone behind him stamped down and shattered his leg. Lucterius fell prone to the ground with a scream as the flurry of fists and feet began to rain down. From somewhere a secreted makeshift wooden knife appeared in the flurry. It pierced several organs a dozen times before it found his heart and finally ended Lucterius, architect of rebellion, and his dream of a free world.
* * * * *
The triclinium of the Puteoli villa was as full as it had been in years. Fronto, still breathing carefully due to the slowly-healing wound at his side, sat close to his recent companions: Aurelius, who had his arm strapped up to his chest and hissed when he moved; Balbus, with the bindings around his scalp that he prodded and scratted at constantly with his good arm, the future of the other still uncertain; Biorix, with wrappings on each limb and often prone to fits of memory loss; and Cavarinos, marked with a few scars but largely intact, at least physically. The Arvernian had agreed to travel south to Puteoli with the others, despite the fact that since the carcer his conversation had largely revolved around his intense desire to find a new world where nothing was familiar. He had passage to Galatia booked with a merchant from Neapolis, who would sail on the Ides of the month, and Fronto was taking daily opportunities to try and argue him out of it, as yet with no luck.
Across from the survivors of Rome, Lucilia cradled the boys as both Falerias – elder and younger – cooed over them. Galronus sat close by, his face uncharacteristically grave. Fronto had never seen his old Remi friend looking more Roman, from the clothes to the stance to the hair, to the gravitas. Throw a toga over him and he could walk into the senate’s curia without drawing much of a glance. Masgava and Arcadios were here too, seated close together with Catháin, who had spent the past few weeks completely reorganising Fronto’s business and rarely sported anything other than a satisfied grin.
It was a busy place. The villa was full of life and laughter. Reunions had been warm and happy, and even news of the dreadful events that had taken place in Rome had done little to mar the last few nights of festivities as family and friends reunited, some after more than a year.
Then, this morning, everything had changed.
There had been a knock at the door and as the visitor was escorted in while his entourage were settled in the guest quarters, Fronto had felt his heart lurch at the sight. Decimus Junius Brutus would always be welcome in his house as an old friend and fellow officer, but anything that might bring him this far from Rome at a time when his duties there would be all consuming could hardly be good. Finally, the tired-looking Brutus was ushered in by one of the servants and took a seat gratefully, the proffered glass of wine even more so.
‘It’s good to see you all,’ Brutus sighed after his first sip.
‘I’d like to say the same,’ Fronto replied with a sad smile, ‘but I suspect this is no social visit? Caesar and Casca’s business I fear will keep you in Rome for months yet?’
Brutus nodded unhappily. ‘The matter is resolved and I am but a courier, for all my station. Your name has been dragged through the mud in the senate and the courts, even through the streets, just as we expected. I do wish you’d stayed in the city to help defend yourself. Coming south just made you look all the more guilty. There’s only so much even a great advocate like Galba can do to defend someone in absentia, even with the funds Casca spared for the matter.’
‘The senate will decide what the senate will decide, and my presence would have made little difference. If Galba’s oratory and Caesar’s money couldn’t swing it, then there was nothing I could have done to change things. Marcellus was targeting me from the beginning since it’s well known I’m Caesar’s man. The whole matter was simple lies drawn from circumstantial evidence, anyway. I told you what really happened.’
‘And I believe you, of course. After all, I’d seen these ‘Sons’ at Massilia. Yet the word across Rome remains that you drew a gladius within the pomerium, killed citizens in the carcer, and tried to free a political prisoner against the consuls’ explicit will. Marcellus hardly had to do anything to ruin you. You’d all-but ruined yourself, and running away just compounded it. Galba fought tooth and nail in that courtroom, and while Caesar’s money helped turn a few purses your way, Marcellus was Croesian in his generosity to those who might be bought. Pompey might not have been involved in the case, but you can bet his money changed hands in its regard. Galba fought your corner valiantly, but his best hope was damage limitation. The only thing that really worked in your favour was that Pompey deliberately distanced himself from the whole Comum affair, and that meant he had to stay completely out of the case against you and leave it to Marcellus. He couldn’t be seen to be butting heads with Caesar, you see. In fact, I hear that Pompey is furious with Marcellus over the Comum thing.’