“I would appreciate it, given the nature of rumour and the uncertainty of everything here, if you would do us the honour of not passing on these spurious accusations to Pompey. I will speak to him myself in due course.”
The other man frowned for a long moment, but nodded.
“If I were to report every unsavoury rumour I heard to him, I would be running in and out of his house like a courier. If you hold your tongues about this and remain open minded until you are in a position to confirm their truth or falsehood, so will I.”
Fronto grumbled irritably.
“This is getting us no closer to a solution.”
“On the contrary, I feel that this little meeting has been of great importance and use” the general smiled. “I have had certain fears allayed and am satisfied that all here are of a like mind. We all want to see Clodius declawed.”
“Dead” corrected Fronto.
“Declawed… or more if the opportunity arises, yes.”
“Dead” repeated Fronto flatly.
“More important now is to decide how to progress from here. Clearly I will need to arrange a meeting with Crassus and Pompey. Not a great public meeting like the one I attended early in the year, though; a more private affair. In the meantime, Cicero can begin trying to calm things in the senate, though I fear you will have great difficulty with the irrepressible Cato. If you, Milo, will simply keep your own mind open and observe the moves of both Pompey and Clodius, hopefully you will be able to arrive at a definite conclusion as to the truth of any complicity.”
He smiled at Cestus.
“In the meantime, it would be a good idea that no one with a grudge against Clodius go out in public without adequate defensive measures. His enemies do tend to end up bobbing along the Tiber with no head.”
He leaned back.
“Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we can prod Clodius in the direction of tipping his hand and perhaps putting a foot wrong?”
On the far side of the triclinium, Fronto stood, angrily.
“It seems that you all have the situation well under control. I am therefore currently entirely superfluous to this discussion. Please feel free to stay and partake of the food and drink. My mother would be horrified if you left unsatisfied.”
Casting a baleful look around his companions, he strode from the room.
Galronus made to rise, but Priscus put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.
“Leave him to stew. If he has anyone to rant at, he’ll just wind himself up even further.”
The two men settled back into their seats as the conversation resumed in depth.
Fronto stormed down the street angrily, ignoring the fine misty drizzle that had begun to fall. He had not even bothered to stop and wrap a toga about him or throw on a cloak, and tramped down the paving in an increasingly soggy white tunic.
It never ceased to amaze him how the cleverest and most powerful people in the world would talk themselves in ineffectual circles without being able to spot the plain truth of the matter, though it was hanging plainly in the air before them.
“Pointless.”
He ignored the questioning look the old woman threw at him from the side of the street.
They would argue for another hour and the conclusion would inevitably be that they should do nothing and simply wait to see it something miraculous happened and Clodius fell down a sewer and drowned.
He looked up irritably in the drizzle. Ahead stood the temple of Bona Dea, lonely and surrounded by a peaceful garden. Often there would be stalls or at least beggars in the street close by, hoping for a tossed crust from the citizens descending the streets from the Aventine, but the chilling wet had driven them indoors, possibly even into the temple itself.
On a day like this…
Fronto’s thoughts whirled in panic as everything went black, a bag thrust over his head and muscular arms were suddenly around his elbows and his midriff.
His mind reeled, but his body was already reacting like the soldier he was. He stamped down hard on the foot of a man and then raked his heel down the shin of another, all the while lunging and struggling this way and that.
Had he been able to free his arms, he might have stood a chance, but the grip on his elbows was spectacularly tight and painful, other hands grasping him as he was pulled sharply to his left.
His mind began to calm despite the circumstances and he noted the creak as an outside gate was opened. Waving his fingers as best he could, he felt the edge of a brick and mortar wall and then felt the brush of a large garden plant with waxy leaves.
Then he was being bundled unceremoniously through another door and out of the weather. A doorway, eight paces within, and then a right turn. Twelve paces along the corridor and then a left. Two paces and suddenly he was thrust violently to the floor.
Before he could find his senses and struggle to his knees, however, huge hands clamped themselves around his elbows and shoulders and pushed him down to what felt like a pile of rough sacking. While he struggled in vain, the bag was whipped from his head and he blinked as his eyes adjusted.
He was in a bare room, reasonably well lit by a leaded window opposite. The room was clearly in the process of decoration or restoration from the workmen’s detritus around him: piles of brick and plaster, sacks of goods and tools strewn here and there. The shape blotting out a large portion of the window slowly resolved itself into the shape of a tall man in a grey cloak and tunic, thin and bordering on dangerously so. It was not until the figure turned to the side and nodded at the men holding Fronto that he saw the pronounced jaw and hook nose silhouetted against the white.
Philopater.
He drew a sharp breath and bit his lip to prevent crying out as a man unseen to his left grasped his middle finger and snapped it to vertical, breaking the knuckle.
“My employer is inclined to be generous, particularly with the benefit of the doubt.”
“Really?” Fronto panted. “Funny way of showing it.”
Philopater leaned closer and his features became clearer.
“You are clearly Caesar’s creature. And yet” he said as he stepped sideways and put his finger to his lip, “it is well known in some circles that you are a disapprover of the maniac and do rarely see eye to eye with him. This prompts my employer to take an interest in you.”
He leaned closer again.
“Sever your ties with the man and stay well out of the way. Be not involved.”
Fronto laughed.
“Caesar may be less than I would hope, but he’s a
He bit his lips enough to draw plenty of blood as the fourth finger on his left hand joined the middle one with a snap.
“Torture is hardly likely to win me over, you Egyptian faggot” he panted.
Philopater nodded.
“Indeed. You are made of sterner stuff. However, our reach is long. Remember your mother and think about your sister and that lovely little thing you brought back from Gaul. You’re not a medical man, so you probably don’t know that broken skulls can be extremely catching, very contagious.”
Fronto growled.
“In time,” Philopater continued, “my employer may make you an offer that even Croesus would be hard put to refuse, but a show of faith by disassociating yourself with Caesar is required at this juncture. This will be your one and only opportunity to decide which side of the coin looks more favourable to you; be careful not to waste it in bravado.”
Fronto nodded, smiling knowingly.
