Gallia Invicta

To his credit, he came on with the blow, ignoring the fatal thrust to his gut, but Fronto was recovering from the stun quickly now and ducked in underneath the man’s sword, ripping the dagger out of the man’s gut and then striking again and again, repeatedly hammering the blade into the tunic, the brown linen filling with blood that ran down from beneath and soaked his legs.

The gladiator was dead before he fell back, the curved blade toppling away to fall on the ground. Next to him, he saw Priscus still struggling in a bear-hug with his opponent. Caesar was now beginning to lose the edge in his fight and, watching the next man bearing down on him, Fronto took advantage of the opportunity to strike a side blow at the general’s attacker, thrusting his gladius into the man’s ribs and whipping it back out in time to turn and face the next man.

Behind him there was a grunt and he felt Milo collapse at his feet, the slumping form almost pushing him forward into his enemy. More men were coming at them from the gate; a seemingly endless supply of hired killers.

The smaller, wiry man before him made a textbook military thrust with a gladius and Fronto turned it with his own blade with only a little difficulty, wincing at the pain in his chest and arm as he did so. Again, his dagger lashed out, but the man danced back out of the way. Suddenly devoid of his target, Fronto took the opportunity to change his footing. Milo, below him, was in a pile and bleeding, but groaning and alive. As the man before him made another strangely acrobatic leap forward and thrust with the gladius, Fronto ducked to the side and brought the pommel of his own sword down on the man’s lunging wrist, smashing the bones so that the blade fell away helplessly to the floor.

The man stared at him in surprise, but Fronto had no time to savour the moment as the next man behind thrust with a long sword. Fronto grinned and shifted the prone, panicked and disarmed man into the path of the blow. The small attacker gasped as his companion behind drove the long blade through his back, the tip bursting from the man’s rib-cage and coming dangerously close to continuing on and into Fronto.

A quick jerk turned the man by forty five degrees and ripped the impaling long sword from the next man’s hand and Fronto let the body fall away, blade still projecting from him, as he lunged at the new target. Next to him he heard a yelp as Caesar, having just dispatched another attacker, suddenly succumbed to a blow from a man he’d not seen at the periphery. Behind, Galronus staggered against a wall, clutching his elbow.

“Get inside and close the door.”

Galronus looked like he might argue for a moment, but nodded, ducked through the door they were defending and began to bolt it closed from within.

Behind them, the attackers that had become cut off from their main force had been dispatched, Cestus and his men issuing forth from the stables and stores and falling on them from behind. Now they faced only the attackers at the gate, though there were still many of them to come.

Fronto stepped back.

“Fall back. Defend the passage!”

As he stepped back again Priscus disengaged from the huge man and the two brought their weapons to bear. Caesar clutched his side and fell back in line with them, his sword point running with blood. The enemy rallied over the bodies of their fallen companions and two men stepped out from the crowd, one armed after the fashion of a Samnite gladiator and massively-built, moving in a crouch, the other lithe and reedy with a sword in each hand, both spinning in circles like the sails of a mill. The pair stalked forward, slowly and menacingly.

“Who the hell are these two?” Front said, almost sneering.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder.

“Those two are death, plain and simple. Get in the house.”

Fronto glanced round into the eyes of Cestus and, for the first time, saw uncertainty in the man’s eyes. His urge to stay and fight evaporated with that look and he nodded to Priscus and Caesar. As Cestus and the giant Celt known as Lod stepped forward, accompanied by half a dozen other men, Fronto and Priscus hauled Milo to his feet and half walked-half carried him back toward the stable. Cicero was spattered with blood and held the door open with a hollow expression as they passed through.

The stables had been brought under control, the advancing flames now out, steam and smoke mixing, filling the air with noxious fumes. Fronto caught sight of Posco.

“Have you opened an exit?”

Posco shook his head.

“There are several dozen men waiting in the road to the rear, master. I thought it prudent to concentrate on saving the stables and putting out the fire.”

Fronto nodded.

“Good.”

Gesturing to him, the group made their way into the storeroom and into the house proper. Barrels, sacks and boxes lay around, blackened and charred and now soaking wet. Most of the house’s stores were clearly ruined, and structural damage had been done to the building itself.

“Think your man Cestus can hold them?”

Priscus nodded.

“If anyone can, he can.”

“Good. Posco? What’s the situation?”

The slave shrugged.

“The rear door is still burning. We started getting it under control, but then it occurred that at this point it would just crumble if we put the fire out and then the rest of those men could get in, so we’ve contained it but let it burn.”

“Quick thinking, Posco. Good man.”

“The fire in the bath house was easy to put out, given… well, it’s a bath house, sir. The Oecus is on fire and there is still burning in your father’s room, but the vestibule is under control and the flames are almost out.”

Priscus smiled.

“Sounds like you’ve done a damn good job there. That could easily have gone the other way.”

Fronto nodded.

“Yes, very good. But the front door is clear, you say?”

Posco nodded.

“The flames are out, master. Everything is hot to the touch and you can hardly see your hand in front of your face for the smoke, but the danger is past.”

Fronto grinned and turned to Priscus.

“Want to have a little fun?”

Paetus had been forced to move further into the shadows, aware now that Priscus, and therefore Fronto and possibly several others, were conscious that he still lived. He had changed accommodation and cursed himself for letting his activity become too open.

Clodia had ignored his warnings and pushed her vicious agendas until he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands and remove her from circulation. His opinion of Clodius had plummeted further, if such were possible, with the fact that he barely acknowledged the disappearance of his sister. Indeed, the man had been overheard privately stating his relief that she was no longer messing in his affairs.

And so Paetus had pulled back, returning to mostly just observing events and planning and so now he sat on the wall that surrounded the garden of the house across the road from Fronto’s and looked down. Things had clearly not gone the way the attackers expected. He had counted forty five men with the Egyptian, and ten of them had split off to move into the street behind, presumably to prevent anyone effecting an escape.

He had initially wracked his brains for a way to warn Fronto or even to help, but such desire had melted away when he watched the attack progressing around the burning house and had seen, among the other defenders, Gaius Julius Caesar step out into the passageway, fighting for his life. At that point it had become a matter of supreme indifference which side won, as one of the two men he most hated in the world fought desperately against the forces of the other.

And then things had started to swing toward Fronto’s defenders. Philopater, standing beneath Paetus’ very position, shaded by the laurel leaves that flowed over the wall top, committed the small group of hardy men that