Drawing the shield across, the gladiator repeated the sweeping blow, but this time as a backhand, the shield sweeping across the space as Fronto ducked sharply.
For a second, no more, the shield was swinging harmlessly out of the way and the sword was pulling back to the right for another blow.
Tensing, Fronto leapt bodily across the wide bowl, his finger tips wrapping themselves around the brim of the helmet and the feather-holder, his bound left hand scrabbling to maintain a grip on the short nozzle, snapping off the blue barb. His feet dangling as he lay across the bowl, his belly submerged in the cold water, Fronto hauled with every ounce of strength, yelping at the pain in his two broken fingers.
The move took the gladiator by surprise and the white eyes widened in their darkened hollows as he was pulled from his feet and slammed down face first into the bowl. The helmet disappeared into the cold water, the torrent running through all the gaps and holes in the iron construction and filling it in moments.
The huge man tried to shout, but the sound came out as submerged bubbles. The shield flailed and the sword jerked, trying to land a blow, but the man was prone, partially submerged and in desperation, bordering on panic. The gladius blow landed harmlessly on the granite edge of the labrum and the blade skittered away while the shield proved too heavy in the circumstances to lift over the top.
Fronto almost lost his grip as the huge, powerful killer struggled to free himself, and was forced to pull himself up and over until he was lying on top of the gladiator, both hands on the helmet, holding the face underwater.
Again and again the man bucked, trying to throw off his assailant until, after a lifetime of moments, the spasms slowed and the jerking stopped. Fronto held the head under the water for a count of forty, just to be sure, and then slid backwards until his feet touched the warm floor. The gladiator lay still in the huge, shallow bowl, his heavy helmet keeping him anchored there, bubbles occasionally escaping a join in the helmet.
He stepped back, taking a heavy breath, and suddenly became aware of the continuing grunts and scrapes of fighting across the room in the fog.
“Priscus?”
“Bit busy!” the reply came, sharply.
Fronto squinted into the mist and could just make out two shapes moving in the whiteness. A whirring confirmed which one was the double-bladed Castor.
Grimacing, Fronto stepped back to the slumped figure in the bowl. The sword had gone from the man’s hand sometime during the last throes of the struggle and could be anywhere on the floor in the mist. Narrowing his eyes, the weary legate crossed to the far side and worked the shield straps free from the man’s arm until the huge, rectangular item was in his hands.
Gritting his teeth, he padded quietly, barefoot, across the patterned floor toward the shadowy shape. Priscus had somehow managed to pull a heavy wooden slat from the bench and was using it like a sword to parry the blows of the gladiator, though the state of the wood and the tinny, acrid smell of blood announced that he wasn’t doing very well.
Smiling, Fronto approached the killer and raised the shield above his head.
“Hello” he said warmly.
The man spun round, a sword flicking out, ready to deliver a horrible blow but, as he did so, Fronto brought the huge, heavy shield down hard on the man’s unprotected skull, the rounded bronze boss smashing into his forehead just above the eye. The blow was hard enough to send the gladiator flat to the floor, his swords falling away, unheeded, as he passed from consciousness in an instant.
Priscus looked up at him in surprise as he lowered the wooden slat.
“A shield? Really?”
Fronto shrugged.
“You’d prefer I spent some time scouring around for something better?”
Priscus laughed as he reached down and gingerly touched a deep wound on his forearm.
“Thanks. Your style’s a bit peculiar, but your timing’s excellent as always.”
He paused to deliver a hearty kick, full of feeling, to the unconscious gladiator.
“What do we do? Tie him up and interrogate him?”
“No point” Fronto shrugged. “We know damn well who he was working for and what he was trying to do. Never leave a vengeful enemy behind you.”
Reaching down, he picked up one of the man’s swords and examined it.
“Ever seen one like this before?”
“Nope. Thin and sharp. Some sort of cavalry weapon I suppose. Hurts, though, I can confirm that for you.”
Fronto smiled as his friend fingered another wound on his thigh.
“Get those cleaned up. Lucilia will stitch them for you. If you’re lucky, she might give you a carrot too.”
Priscus frowned at him in incomprehension as Fronto leaned over the prone gladiator and carefully positioned the narrow blade over the heart before leaning on the hilt with his full weight and driving the blade home until he heard the point scraping in the mosaic below. The gladiator gave what sounded like a sigh of relief and shuddered once.
“I always love the games. Gladiators are so
“I personally have had about as much excitement as I can take in one day. Can we just have a little boredom for a while, now?”
Fronto laughed as he dropped the blade and sat on the bench.
“I was contemplating bed for a while after this to catch up on my sleep, but now I’m favouring surveying the damage to the wine store. What d’you think?”
Caesar smiled and gave a tug on the straps that held the baggage tightly in the second cart. With a nod of satisfaction, he stepped back.
“It would seem that you are all set, ladies.”
Fronto rolled his eyes as he leaned against the slightly carbon-stained gatepost. Both he and the stable hand had checked the straps more than once, but Caesar had to give his approval and win the smiles of the three women in the front carriage. It was, to Fronto’s mind, born of a pathological need to be lauded for even the smallest things.
Turning to look out into the street, he spied Cestus standing at the far side, looking back and forth.
“Are we good to go?”
The former gladiator had a last check, motioned to a few of his men, and then nodded. Fronto smiled at the three ladies in the wagon.
“Time to go. Once you’re beyond the Porta Naevia, stick to public places and don’t wander out of sight of Cestus and his men. The mansios on your route should be good and secure, but avoid anywhere you suspect might be trouble. Just stay quiet, unobtrusive and safe.”
Faleria leaned over the side of the wagon.
“For the tenth time, Marcus, we know. We’ll be alright. It’s those of you staying in the city
Fronto smiled.
“Let’s move.”
At a wave Posco led the carriage out into the street, the other two wagons grinding and squeaking behind as they began to rumble forward. Fronto accompanied the vehicle with the three ladies, Caesar matching his position at the far side. Priscus sat on the bench of the rear cart, saving his leg as much of the walk as possible. It would be only a little over five minutes to the gate, and then the party would continue to accompany the caravan for the next mile or so until they were clear of the urban area.
Slowly, the three vehicles, accompanied by almost two dozen men, rolled out into the street and, turning, began the slow descent from the Aventine toward the temple of the Bona Dea at the junction with the Via Ardeatina. Fronto glanced across at the general. It would have been closer and more direct to leave the city by the Porta Capena and straight onto the Via Appia, rather than this round-about route that required a connecting road a
