few miles south, but Caesar had been insistent that this path would be the safest, and the ladies fell over one another to agree with the great orator, whatever Fronto’s opinion.
He grumbled irritably as he walked.
Slowly, the group reached the lower end of the street, the edges here lined with beggars, the concentration increasing as they neared the temple. It had not rained now for days and the streets were beginning to look filthy, coated with animal dung and general detritus. Fronto’s grumbling intensified as he trod in something soft.
Out to the front, Cestus and Lod stepped out into the main road and the gladiator waved a hand. The carts rolled to a halt and Fronto and Caesar loped on ahead to meet the small warrior. As they reached the junction, the reason for Cestus’ gesture became clear.
Off to the left, toward the circus maximus, the street was lined to either side with busy stalls, interspersed with beggars, drunks and occasional respectable folk. The open street in the centre was, however, devoid of the general citizenry of Rome. A surly gang of several dozen men, a match for their own force at least, stepped slowly and menacingly toward them, hammers, pick handles and lengths of wood in their grasp.
“Shit. Clodius has absolutely no fear, does he?”
Caesar nodded and made a very subtle hand gesture.
“Keep moving on slowly and purposefully. All will be well.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The two men retreated toward the carts and their escort and Cestus returned to his position at the front as the caravan turned away down the street. Lod fell in at the rear, walking backwards as six of the guards fell in beside him, carefully eying the sizeable gang that was following them slowly, stalking like a predator cat.
“Why they no fight?”
Fronto, glancing over his shoulder at the huge Celt, was wondering the same thing, and then shook his head in irritation as the answer popped into his head.
“Because there’s more of them ahead. We’re being herded.”
Caesar nodded.
“That is possible, but here the road is far more defensible than by the Porta Capena should the situation arise. I think we will be fine, Marcus.”
“You keep saying that, but even if that’s fully half their force out here, it still means we’re outnumbered two to one.”
The two men fell silent as the carts rumbled on along the street, the population thinning out here as they moved away from the temple and toward the gate and the slum-like region that clung to the outer wall like some parasitic sea creature. Certainly Caesar had been correct about the more defensible nature of this route. The less affluent neighbourhoods in the area led to the insulae and walled blocks to either side of the street pressing in and narrowing the thoroughfare.
A movement caught Fronto’s attention and he glanced across at a narrow side street. Three men were moving slowly down it toward them, wooden clubs in hand. Every ten steps or so brought them past another side street, each with its own small group of thugs converging on them.
“There’s going to be a hundred of them by the time we reach the gate” Fronto noted to Caesar, nodding in the direction of the latest arrivals. The gang following them had almost doubled in size as they moved slowly on.
“It’s important we keep moving. The closer we are to the gate, the safer we are.”
Fronto held less certainty about the defensive nature of the area, but there seemed little else to do as they moved slowly on, the tension building constantly.
“Clodius must have an almost infinite supply of thugs. It’s almost as if he breeds them!”
On the cart just above and behind them, Priscus pointed ahead.
“There’s the gate. We’re almost there.”
Fronto glanced past the shoulders of Cestus and his companion. The Porta Naevia with its single arch of heavy travertine blocks crossed the road fifty yards ahead, just coming into view as they rounded a gentle curve in the road.
“We’re going to make it.”
The carts rumbled on, closing the distance with interminable slowness, and the huge arch grew ever more tantalisingly near, the heavy gates standing open to either side.
“Why is there no one around?” Fronto said nervously.
Caesar shrugged. “One armed gang following another? Even the rudest peasant can spot that kind of trouble approaching, Fronto. You expect them to stay around for the show?”
“Crap.”
Cestus stepped into the shadow of the gateway, three more of his men with him, and the lead carriage rolled under the arch. Fronto bit his cheek.
Behind them they could almost sense the tensing of muscles ready to attack. The silence was taught and dangerous.
“Whoa!”
Fronto’s head snapped back to the light at the far side of the gate. Cestus, silhouetted in the arch, was holding up his hand and the wagons were quickly slowed and stopped. The gang behind came on at an even slower pace, closing the gap.
Fronto was about to shout a question ahead to Cestus when he saw the rest of Clodius’ men, spreading from the sides of the street into the gateway, blocking the path ahead.
“Shit. What now?”
Caesar arched his brow and shrugged.
“Now we see what they have to say.”
The two men strode out forward into the shadows until they fell in alongside Cestus. There were perhaps three dozen men in the road ahead. A fight now would be virtual suicide. Some of the men, being outside the city, had taken the opportunity to arm themselves with real weapons. To the rear, a tall man with a scar down his face that permanently closed one eye stepped up. The mob parted before of him.
“You appear to have reached the end of the road. My master sends his regards. He hopes you will allow us to make this quick and painless.”
“Your master can kiss my hairy pink arse!” Fronto barked.
Caesar cast a sidelong glance at Fronto and there was a genuine smile there.
“
“You really must have faith in your general, Marcus.”
He turned to the Falerii’s chief house slave, standing by his shoulder.
“Now, Posco, if you would?”
The slave nodded with a smile and drew a small copper horn from the cart beside him. Taking a deep breath, he blew a series of loud, sharp notes and then lowered it. Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“Where did you learn the muster call, Posco?”
The slave merely gave him an enigmatic smile and pointed.
Ahead, beyond the armed gang that barred their way, more men were appearing from the side of the road, falling in to the street and settling in ordered rows.
Caesar smiled at the tall, scarred thug, who was looking over his shoulder in surprise.
“Would you like to kiss Fronto’s ‘hairy pink arse’, or just get the hell out of our way?”
Fronto blinked.
“Who
The men were falling into military formation and, though in plain tunics and cloaks, a number of them bore a gladius or pugio or a solid legionary shield on their arm.
Caesar grinned.
“Sound off!” he bellowed.
From the depths of the large unit, still increasing in strength, voices called out.
“Servius Tarcus, centurion of the Ninth Legion… retired.”
“Aulus Octavius, optio of the Seventh Legion… retired.”
Other voices were announcing their origins among the crowd and Fronto turned to frown at Caesar, whose
