Gallia Invicta

had remained by his side and watched as the two psychopaths, known to the underworld as Castor and Pollux in a most impious fashion, moved in to shred the defenders.

Fronto’s guards fought well, especially the one called Cestus. They were losing ground, being pushed back along the passageway, but they were making the attackers pay for every foot, and the Egyptian’s force was rapidly diminishing. Every now and then the deadly Dioscuri twins would move to the front of the attack and cause mayhem before stepping back and letting the others do some of the work. Bodies from both sides littered the yard.

And then something happened that would stay with Paetus for the rest of his life.

The kindling and dried wood that had been stacked against the front door of Fronto’s house, then sprayed with pitch and set alight had burned down quickly. The door had caught and the flames had spread within, but the debris around the entrance had turned to a pile of grey charcoal, steaming in the damp night air and discolouring the house’s white wall.

There was a faint click. Philopater had not noticed, his attention riveted to the scene of destruction that he had caused. Paetus, however, was in a commanding position, and was continually scanning the roof of the house to see where fire still burned.

The front door of the house swung open silently, a cloud of smoke billowing out of the aperture and into the street, entirely engulfing the facade.

At last Philopater became aware that something was wrong.

“What in the name of…”

The cloud billowed and bulged, carbon filling the air and ash settling on the glistening pavement and, as the haze began to thin in the gentle night breeze, three figures appeared in the gloom, stepping out of the cloud and into the street.

Paetus almost laughed as he realised that the figures were Fronto, Priscus and Galronus, all three daubed in carbon, their faces and hands blackened, their tunics dark grey with ash. They looked like lemures, the spirits of the restless dead. He could only imagine what Philopater saw, but the gasp from below told him the man was not moved to mirth.

As the three figures stepped into the air, carrying a blade in each hand, Fronto’s two companions separated and stepped to the side, forming a strange, unearthly barrier between the fight in the yard and the events that were unfurling in the street outside.

“To me!” the Egyptian bellowed, his voice cracking with fear. Had he identified the men yet? Did he care?

The hired thugs paid no attention. They had not heard their master, involved as they were in a fight to the death.

“To me!” he yelled again, desperation flooding into his voice.

One or two of the attackers at the back turned to look; one even strode across to the gate but, as his eyes fell on the black spirits stalking the street, he began to push the gate closed, wide eyed in panic. Paetus heard the gasp from Philopater as he realised his men had abandoned him to his fate.

The gate shut. Galronus and Priscus stepped to the side, to a position where they could leap to Fronto’s assistance if needed, but could make sure that gate stayed closed and the other thugs unable to join them.

“Help me!” Philopater howled, backing away against the wall.

“No man in his right mind will help you, you Egyptian catamite!”

“Fronto?”

“In the flesh.”

The legate advanced slowly on his quarry, who backed against the whitewashed plaster, left with nowhere to run.

“I have just done my job, Fronto. Surely you understand that? Would you blame a soldier who attacked you? No; you would blame his commander: the man who sent him against you. Your argument is not with me, but with my master.”

Fronto smiled. Paetus was impressed at the effect of that feral white grin in the blackened face. It even sent a chill up his hidden spine.

“I think you do yourself a disservice, Philopater. You are known to enjoy your work. In fact you go above and beyond your orders at times. I think, though, that your end has finally caught up with you.”

The Egyptian, breathing fast and heavy, swept a sword from his belt; a short weapon with a strange, wavy blade of an Egyptian design.

“You will find, Fronto, that I do not submit so easily.”

He swept the blade through the air a couple of times with an expert flick of the wrist, creating pretty silvered patterns in the air.

Fronto swung the heavy Celtic blade in his right hand with negligent grunt, a prize from his first year in Gaul, severing the Egyptian’s fist and carrying both it and the strange blade off down the street where they bounced and came to rest in a gutter, glinting silver and red.

Clodius’ henchman stared at the severed wrist and the arc of blood that hung in the air for a moment before spattering the floor.

“I’m not looking for your submission.”

Fronto threw the heavy Celtic blade behind him, where Galronus, struggling with two swords already, caught it with difficulty. Paying no heed, Fronto swapped his gladius from his bad hand to the good.

“You’ll understand if I don’t use my left. I had a little accident recently.”

Philopater straightened.

“You are a Roman noblemen. I yield to you. Surely you will not strike down a surrendering enemy?”

Fronto barked a laugh.

“Oh surely you don’t believe that? You’re going to die now, Philopater. It just remains to be seen if it’ll be like a man, or like a quivering coward.”

The Egyptian heaved in a deep breath and looked down at his missing hand. Shock was holding off the agony, but he knew that at any time that shock might wear off and he would start to feel what had happened.

“You will make it quick? And certain? How a patrician would expect to die?”

Fronto frowned.

“Hardly a death you deserve, as I’m sure even you would agree?”

Philopater sighed.

“But you are better than me, or so you believe.”

Fronto narrowed his eyes.

“A quick, sure death then. On your knees.”

The Egyptian rolled his eyes upwards, muttering a prayer to one of the deities of his homeland, and Paetus ducked back into the shadows of the bushes on the wall top.

The legate stepped forward, his two companions approaching to be sure the Egyptian had no last minute deviousness in mind.

Philopater smiled as he pulled his tunic neckline down to reveal the olive flesh beneath and threw his head back, exposing his neck.

“Does it bother you that you yourself are now wielding a sword on the streets of Rome in contravention of your most sacred laws?”

“Shut up before I change my mind.”

Placing the tip of his gladius at the man’s throat, just above the meeting of the collar bones, Fronto took a deep breath.

“Nemesis, my guide.”

As his strength fell behind the blow, driving the gladius down through the man’s neck and windpipe, deep into the cavity of his chest and straight through his heart, Fronto looked up and smiled.

The Egyptian gave a last sigh as the steel cut through his heart and swept his life away, blood fountaining up from the wound and adding to the grisly appearance of Fronto. The legate withdrew the blade and let the body fall away to the floor, gladius dropping to his side while his face remained raised.

“You can come down now. We appear to be alone.”

Paetus dithered for a moment, hanging back in the shadows.