The gang rounded the corner of the Street of Golden Arcades which, in typical non-Roman-linear style, wound like a snake up the hill towards the temple of Apollo. Hierocles’ house sat slightly back from the road, a narrow path leading to the door between well-tended gardens, the frontage between the next two buildings sectioned off with a high wall and a gate with its own little guard house. Hierocles was wealthy and careful.
As they approached, Fronto gestured to his men to move to the side of the street, keeping only Masgava with him, the rest out of sight of the gate unless the guard stuck his head out into the street. As the others moved up the incline along the fronts of other houses, Fronto and Masgava strolled out ahead, straight for the gate, their cloaks hiding the weapons at their sides, but the hoods down to allow easy recognition.
‘Stay there,’ snapped a voice in thick Massiliot Greek as they neared the door, and Fronto came to a halt, with the big Numidian at his shoulder. After a moment, a hatch in the gate opened and a pale face emerged, beady, glassy eyes peering out into the evening.
‘Fronto. What do you want?’
‘I wish to see your master.’
‘He won’t want to see you, Roman.’
Fronto put on his most humble face, despite the irritation with which that filled him. ‘He might. I find I am in difficulty sourcing transport once more and your master can help me.’
The man blinked in surprise. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because I have two deals to conclude, and in return for his help he can have one of them. Both are good deals. Better for me to make Hierocles richer than for my business to fold.’
The man laughed. ‘I suspect my master will think differently, but I’m sure he will enjoy laughing at your misfortune. The big dark animal has to stay outside, though.’
Fronto turned to Masgava, who was almost radiating the desire to cause violence. He tried to look undecided and then with exaggerated reluctance, nodded. ‘You wait for me here, Masgava.’
The big man nodded, still glaring at the gate guard. The pale face grinned and there was a rattle and click as the gate was opened from within. Fronto stepped forward, making to enter as the gate began to swing inwards. Then, without warning, he took a long step and slammed his shoulder against the gate, which hammered back against the man opening it, knocking him against the wall of his little guard house. Fronto heard with gratification the whoosh of air from the man’s lungs as he hit. Entering, Masgava waved the others in and slid through into the dark, tree-shaded garden. As his men moved into the house’s grounds, Fronto pulled the winded guard from behind the door.
‘Poor decision there, but I’m grateful.’
Even dazed and winded, the man tried to bring up a knife from his belt. In response, Fronto smacked the man’s head back against the stone wall of his hut and watched the eyes roll up white accompanying the satisfying clunk. Before the man fell, Masgava was there. With a quick grab and twist, he broke the man’s knife arm at the elbow. The forearm hung limp at a horrible angle and the knife fell away. Fronto stared.
‘He’ll live,’ sneered Masgava. ‘But he won’t use a knife until he retrains with his left.’
‘Shit, I’m glad you’re on my side.’
The men were already across the grass and path now, closing on the house. Behind Fronto, the two new lads took control of the gate, one standing just inside and one out. A brief squawk caught his attention and he turned back, jogging across the garden to catch up with his men. His gaze fell upon the source of the noise and he boggled. A roving guard in the grounds had appeared from somewhere and tried to shout an alarm, but Catháin had hit him like a rolling boulder, knocking him to the ground. Even as Fronto opened his mouth to hiss a reminder about not killing, he saw the strange northerner deliver three blows to the man’s face and then jab down with his fingers, putting out the guard’s eyes. The man tried to scream, but Catháin’s hand was over his mouth and with simple casual violence, the northerner slammed the man’s head back to the gravel of the path, driving the blind guard’s wits from him. Before he stood, he took the unconscious man’s blade and stood, examining it. A fine, curved xiphos, probably of Cypriot manufacture, looking at the colours and shapes. Fronto hurried over.
‘Was the blinding strictly necessary’
‘Are you wanting to send Hierocles a message, or tickle his arse with a feather, Fronto. Gods in ale, but the blind bastard’ll live.’
Fronto shook his head and moved over towards the house’s main door, where Masgava had taken control of the small band. Nine men. There would be at least as many inside, but blissfully unaware of what was coming. Fronto felt a moment of shame and fear at what they were doing. Sneaking around and invading people’s property was not really his way, and it galled him to be doing so, but he hardened himself. These very arseholes had tried to kill him more than once and had attacked his men numerous times, trying to beat the last two to death. He didn’t like this, but it was justified. He reached down to the figurines at his neck. Nemesis felt cold and reassuring. Fortuna would have her part to play tonight, for sure, but it was Nemesis’ raid beyond doubt.
Masgava gestured a couple of times at Fronto and then took Aurelius and ran off around the side of the building, leaving Fronto frowning and wondering what all the gestures had meant. Still, Masgava knew exactly what he was doing, and Fronto trusted him implicitly, so he ignored the disappearance of two men and reached for the door.
Once they were inside, all hope of subtlety would be lost. Surprise would quickly fade, and something would have to replace it for Fronto’s men to retain the upper hand. Confusion would be that thing.
Taking a deep breath in preparation and checking that the other six men were still with him, he reached out and threw open the doors to the house, stepping inside. In the short hallway that led to the central courtyard a young woman stopped in her tracks, alarm radiating from her as she dropped the armful of folded laundry she was carrying. She managed a brief muffled squeak before Arcadios wrapped himself around her, one hand across her mouth to cut off the cry. The Greek archer nodded to Dyrakhes and the two dragged her to the left side of the corridor where a doorway led to a darkened room. Fronto couldn’t see inside but, given its location, it was likely a storage room for cloaks and boots and the like. Being dark, it was clearly unoccupied, which was perfect to contain the civilians.
The archer and his companion shut the door on the panicked woman and locked it from the outside before moving across to search the room opposite. Fronto knew that the element of surprise was about to disappear, and stepped out of the corridor into the main courtyard, preparing to change the game. He didn’t understand Greek housing conventions particularly well, and knew Hierocles’ residence not at all. Easier than searching every room was to keep people off-balance and bring them to you.
‘Fire!’ he bellowed in good local Greek. ‘Fire in the balanea!’
He didn’t know where the bath complex was, of course, but it would probably be at the rear of the residence, which would drive the occupants to the front, where Fronto and his men were waiting for them. Moreover, a fire in the bath house was far from unbelievable. The furnace would be burning hot on such a chilly March night and, if he were to be truthfully uncharitable, the Greeks were considerably less conscious of the safety requirements of such edifices than stolid Roman engineers.
As Fronto moved out into the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by a colonnade that would have looked more at home in Corinth than this far west and containing a central altar to Hermes liberally scattered with offerings, he heard the cry of ‘fire’ being echoed across the residence. Chaos blossomed.
Fronto found himself moving towards the end of the courtyard, where two doors led off, but also a central passageway that had to lead to the rear sections of the house where the servants’ and guards’ quarters would be, as well as the kitchens, stores and bathing complex. Hierocles would likely be through one of those doors, since the house had a second storey at the rear side of the courtyard only, and the stairs up would be somewhere there. Hierocles, by his very nature, would automatically site himself higher than anyone else. Behind Fronto, the rest of his men were pushing open doors and either emerging quickly, empty handed, or struggling inside, laying flat those of the Greek’s thugs who opposed them. Occasionally Arcadios and Dyrakhes would appear, dragging a screaming slave off to the room where they were being kept out of danger. Even as he watched, Dyrakhes received a vicious bite to the forearm for his pains and, bless the man, he struggled on without taking it out on the girl.