Gallia Invicta

Fronto nodded.

“Not really a surprise. We knew he would. What did he say about Balbus? Is he sending him back straight away?”

“Soon as the medicus agrees to it.”

“Has he decided on what to do with the Eighth?”

Fronto frowned.

“You have the sound of a man angling for a legate’s position?”

Brutus shrugged.

“Little need for more naval activity. I don’t want to jump into Balbus’ boots while they’re still warm but… well, yes. I can see myself in the position. Can’t you?”

Fronto shook his head.

“Probably not. Maybe, but probably not. The general had already lined up Cicero for the next available legate position. Not sure whether he’ll still go through with it, given that Cicero’s brother’s busy calling him names in front of the senate, but there you go.”

Crispus retrieved his own drink, and Roscius of the Thirteenth used a foot to push a chair out for him. Crispus nodded and sat.

“So the situation in Rome is not troublesome enough to encourage Caesar back there yet? Not even the disturbing possibility that Pompey and Cicero are now in league together against him; possibly even with Clodius?”

Fronto shook his head and eyed the mug of dark, frothy liquid suspiciously.

“There’s no real evidence of that. It’s just conjecture. Problem is: I like Pompey. Always did. If Caesar had half of Pompey’s honour; his way with people, he could rule the world.”

He smiled.

“Mind you, if Pompey had half of Caesar’s guts, so could he.”

Crispus nodded.

“Between them, Crassus and Clodius, the future of Rome is beginning to look distinctly oligarchic.”

Fronto frowned in incomprehension and Roscius smiled.

“Run by a few powerful men. Like multiple kings” he said quietly.

Fronto sighed.

“There was me being desperate to get home, but the more you lot talk about it, the gladder I am that I’m out here.”

Brutus smiled and took a sip of wine.

“On the bright side, Marcus, we’ve some time to breathe, rest and recover. Nothing else is likely to happen until we have word from the other armies.”

Fronto leaned back in his seat and, closing his eyes tight, threw down the entire mug of insipid ale in three huge gulps, before belching loudly and slamming the mug on the table.

“Resting it is, then. Now take this shit away and find me something in a nice red.”

Interim — Late Quintilis: Rome

Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus slumped against the cold marble and winced. He’d been kidding himself all winter and spring that by the end of the year he’d be as strong on his feet as ever he was, but this last day of ducking into doorways and stomping around the streets of the city had made it abundantly clear that he’d never be that Priscus again. His lame leg was strong enough to support him and walk for a while though after an hour every step became a dull, painful ache. The limp slowed him down and, after a day on his feet, he was beginning to worry that, if he fell over, he might never get up again.

But the day was almost over. The sun had already sunk behind the Esquiline Gate away behind him and night was beginning to draw in.

He’d been curious this morning when he first shadowed the address the beggar had given him. The apartment block in which the mysterious man had been renting a room was what could charitably be called ‘humble’, and Priscus had loitered across the passageway at dawn, wrapped in a plain woollen cloak, waiting for the man to show his face.

And when he did, Priscus had frowned and watched the man intently, trying not to register his surprise. He knew him from somewhere. Perhaps he was a veteran of the Tenth, or someone he’d met among the other legions over the past couple of years. He couldn’t place the face precisely, but the man was hauntingly familiar, with his light and athletic frame and chiselled, sun-tanned features.

For a while, he had worried that his limp and slight deformity would make his pursuit obvious. He hadn’t realised until he paid attention to the people in the streets around him, however, just how many lame or crippled folk littered the streets of the great city in the lower class areas, and his prey remained unaware of the former centurion following his every move.

It was humbling to think on how many of these lame people all around had also served in the legions until that wound crippled them and took away their livelihood. It struck home how privileged he was to be allowed to continue to serve in such a condition.

And so he had blended with the poor folk of Rome as he followed his quarry throughout the day, and the man had busied himself with what Priscus considered to be the most dull and mundane routine possible. The absolute high point of excitement had been a visit to the baths and a bite of lunch, breaking up the monotony of shopping, washing clothes, reading the notices of the acta diurna in the forum, a couple of visits to temples and an hour or two spent poring through records in the Tabularium. Priscus had tried, but had not managed to get close enough to see what records the man had examined. All in all, a frustrating day for the lame spy.

He had been about to give up on the whole affair and pass off the situation and the saving of lady Faleria, Fronto’s mother, as pure good chance. As a last nod toward thoroughness, he had followed the man, clearly a former soldier, back toward his rooms as the sun began to sink, only to watch him walk straight past the building and to the market stall along the street, where he stopped to purchase a spray of colourful and sweet smelling flowers.

Intrigued now, he had followed the man once more as he made his way east to the edge of the city and then out through the Esquiline Gate, past the sub-urban spread beyond, and out along the great Via Labicana, lined with its tombs, monuments and mausolea.

He had been forced to fall back a little once they had left the press of city folk and made their way along the sparsely populated road.

Finally, but a moment ago, the man had stopped and, producing a key, ducked furtively to the roadside and unlocked the gate of a tall, circular mausoleum.

Priscus watched with interest as he leaned against the marble, rubbing his hip and thigh and wincing with the pain. When this was over, he would have to travel half the width of the city to get back to the Falerius household. He would need a soak and a drink when he got back.

Grumbling, he watched the silent bulk of the circular tomb. The light continued to fade and he had to pull sharply back into the shadows as the man reappeared and, locking the gate, turned back toward the city and strode off with a weary, heavy gait.

Priscus dithered, unsure whether to follow the man back to town or investigate the mausoleum, but the pause allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and he spared one last glance at the retreating figure of his quarry before lumbering quietly across the road and to the solid iron gate of the tomb.

Inset into a smooth marble facade, the gate was fastened with a sturdy lock, the interior obscured by a second curved wall that formed a passage around the edge of the mausoleum and circled a central chamber. Priscus could see a small oil lamp on the shelf opposite, and the heady, mixed aroma of sweet flowers and burning oil proclaimed that the lamp had been used recently. A striking flint stood on the shelf next to it.

Was it sacrilegious? Would he be pursued throughout the rest of his life by the lemures if he did what he was thinking of doing? He smiled. Fronto was getting all superstitious and worrying about ghosts and demons, but the Vinicii were made of more practical stuff.

Still smiling, he reached into his tunic and withdrew a steel spike around three inches long. He may be from