visible occasionally as her hair moved.
“Innkeep?”
The huge Gaul handed a local his change and shoved a clay cup towards him before sidling down the bar. Fronto thought he caught a hint of recognition in the man’s expression as he suddenly moved from the sullen keeper of drinks to the helpful attendant of the bar.
“Good evenin’ officers. What can ‘us do fer yer?”
“Where is Silvanus?” Fronto enquired quietly. “He normally looks after visiting officers himself.”
“The master’s gone to Nemausus to secure a supply of oil an’ garum from ‘ispania, sirs. Can us ‘elp yer?”
Fronto shrugged. “About time Silvanus got some good food in here. The beer and ‘wine’ I’m getting used to, but I was getting sick of roast pig.”
The Gaul grinned. “Then y’ain’t gonna like the menu tonight, sir!”
Fronto sighed and pointed at one of the amphorae stacked against the wall behind the bar, still sealed and with the seal facing him.
“We need a good, quiet room for the night, two full dinners… no, make it three but split it between two plates, and that amphora of Sicilian wine that I don’t even care how you got.”
The Gaul laughed. “Find yerself a table, then, master officer, an’ us’ll get things ready fer yer. Citizen officers can settle up in the morn. ‘Tis house rule.”
Fronto smiled gratefully.
“If it’s all the same, we’ll go to the room first and dump our kit, wash, and then be back down in about half an hour for food?”
“If’n yer please, sir.”
“And don’t sell that wine to anyone else while I’m gone!”
Again the Gaul gave a deep belly laugh and collected a good iron key of Roman design from the counter at the rear of the bar, tossing it over to Fronto.
“Top o’ the stairs, end o’ the corridor on the right. It’s over the stables, so’s the noise is low.”
“And smells of horse shit. Still an improvement over this lot” Fronto grinned wearily. “Cheers. See you in half an hour or so.”
Galronus frowned as they turned and pushed back across the room to the stairs that led up to the second floor where the rooms were.
“I don’t think I like Sicilian wine. Too heavy.”
Fronto shook his head in mock disbelief. “For a man whose people brew something that tastes like foot fungus and old boots I’m not sure your viniculture opinion holds much weight. Silvanus has cocked up. There’s no way that amphora should be on public display. He’d normally keep something like that hidden in the cellars in case major dignitaries happen to stop by.”
“Maybe while he’s away your big barman friend is running the place?”
They reached the foot of the wooden staircase and Fronto cast a glance across the heaving main room of the inn.
“If that’s the case, Silvanus has chosen well. The place is packed. He must be raking it in!”
With tired, straining leg muscles, the two officers climbed the stairs and turned down the corridor, strolling along the length of it until they reached the far end, where a window stood, the shutters open. Fronto glanced out interestedly across the roof of the annexe that had been only half-constructed the last time they were here and which lay just below the window. To the right was the courtyard, the stables below them.
“It certainly is quieter along here” Fronto muttered. Galronus simply nodded and peered out of the window himself as Fronto reached up with the key and unlocked the door. Shouldering his kit bag again, the legate pushed open the portal and strode into the room.
Galronus turned back to the doorway and looked into the room, lit by the early evening sunlight shining in through the window.
His hand went to his sword immediately as his eyes focused on the thing between them and the window.
The body of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen in the Eighth legion, veteran officer and proprietor of the Sweeping Eagle, swung back and forth, rhythmically blotting out the sunlight, his face contorted, swollen purple tongue extended and neck at an uncomfortable angle with the noose knotted around it. A patch of detritus marred the floorboards below the swinging corpse.
As Galronus drew his long, Gaulish cavalry blade with a rasp, he shouted the warning to Fronto, who had entered the room without looking ahead, his attention locked on trying to remove the stiff key from the door.
In the event, he was too late. As his sword came free and his mouth opened, a shadowed figure appeared from behind the door, throwing an arm round Fronto’s neck and yanking him out of sight.
Fronto squawked in surprise, somewhere unseen behind the door.
Desperately, Galronus pulled back his heavy-duty blade and, squinting and making an educated guess as to the relative positions of Fronto and his assailant, slammed the blade through the hairline crack between planks in the door, smashing the boards aside as the blade punched easily through.
He was rewarded with an unearthly scream and, as he withdrew the sword with some difficulty from between the planks, he noted with great satisfaction the dark oily blood coating the blade.
“Shit!” shouted a voice from behind the door.
“The bastard’s killed me!” added a second voice
“Shit!” repeated the first.
Neither was the voice of Fronto, both speaking in a southern Gallic dialect, confirming to Galronus that at least two murderers were waiting for them.
Suddenly, Fronto staggered out into view again, one hand clutching his throat where he’d been momentarily strangled, the other reaching down for his sword as he backed towards the swinging body.
Without waiting for Fronto, Galronus stepped into the room, turning to face the men behind the door. One was clutching his belly, blood pouring between his fingers and down to the floor just as it drained from his face. In his other hand, he held a hunting and skinning knife, clean-bladed and unused. A few feet from him a second man held a similar blade, but was edging away towards the window.
“No you don’t.” The Remi officer turned with the man’s movement and sprang like a wildcat, his sword coming back up as he leapt. The would-be assassin made a split-second decision between fleeing for the window and trying to protect himself from this madman. Figuring that he would never reach the window in time, he turned and lashed out with the knife as the cavalryman came down on him, sword descending in time with his body.
Fronto watched in horrified fascination as the world seemed to slow to a crawl.
Galronus hit the assassin feet first, both heels slamming into the man’s knee and smashing his leg beyond hope. At the same time, his blade came down and even as the knee turned backwards the heavy blade bit deep into the man’s torso at the angle between neck and shoulder, cleaving a foot deep into him.
Simultaneously, the hopelessly outclassed assassin had struck with the knife. Galronus’ arm had come up protectively to save his face from the blow at the last minute and the knife hammered home into his forearm, neatly slipping between the two bones and driving straight through his arm up to the hilt.
The would-be-murderer was dead before his body settled to the ground. Fronto stared as Galronus stood, gritting his teeth and, wincing, drew the blade out of his arm with a splash of blood.
“I could have done with questioning him.”
“What about the other one” Galronus asked casually, but realised as he looked across the room that the man had driven his heavy knife deep into his own heart to end the torment of the belly wound that would take perhaps a day to kill him.
“Now we have no idea why all this.”
Galronus shrugged. “It occurs to me that your friend the barman will know; he must have been in on this. Perhaps we should ask him?”
“I think not” Fronto said quietly, sheathing his sword and hoisting his kit back onto his shoulder. “If
