It took him only a moment to realise that he’d actually lifted the marble dish from the stem, jagged and cracked cement hanging from the bottom.
A slow grin spread across his face as he watched Fabius being driven across the room towards the far wall, Menenius intent on the kill. Almost silently in his soft leather shoes — thank you again, Lucilia — Fronto padded around the room’s edge, gripping the labrum as best he could. Once he was directly behind the tribune, he began to step slowly and silently forwards, raising the bowl to strike.
His grin fell away as Menenius stabbed the centurion in the shoulder, causing him to yell and stagger away, and then turned to face Fronto and the raised labrum bowl.
The tribune tried to say something, but his jaw would not allow it, and instead he winced, his eyes flashing angrily as he readied his sword and stepped forward to lunge at Fronto.
The legate screwed his eyes tight, waiting for the blow he could do nothing about, but all that happened was a dull thud. After another heartbeat he opened his eyes to see Menenius toppling to the floor, Fabius standing behind him, sword raised and the ash pommel coated with matted hair and blood.
“Sorry we’re late” the centurion managed, grinning through the blood pouring out of his face before collapsing to his knees, breathing heavily.
Fronto stared down at the two men. The centurion was rocking slightly on his knees, reaching up to his lost eye gingerly with a blood-slicked hand. Menenius was groaning as he lay on the floor, blood running from the fresh wound on his scalp.
His own eyes narrowing, Fronto dropped painfully to a crouch, casting the bowl heavily to one side where it cracked several tesserae of Achilles’ shoulder, and wrapping the fingers of his left hand around the hilt of the tribune’s magnificent sword. His hand closed on the ivory grip and he lifted it slowly, feeling its reassuring weight. It really was a stunning piece of work. Much too good for a murderer, however uncommon he may be.
His mouth set in a firm, unyielding line, Fronto shuffled across to the fallen tribune and turned him over. The man had his eyes closed, groaning and probably concussed from the pommel-bashing.
“Wake up, you vicious bastard!”
Menenius opened his eyes a crack, but they refused to focus.
“Come on” Fronto urged him. “Wake up!”
Less than gently, he gave the tribune a prod in the neck with the point of the gleaming, crimson blade, drawing a bead of blood. Menenius’ eyes shot open and his vision resolved itself.
“Thank you. And fuck you.”
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Fronto drove the blade down through the tribune’s sternum, hearing it crack and then groan as the widening blade forced the split bone apart. He felt the blow ease as the tip found organs to tear through and then slow again at the spine — though it punched through without too much difficulty — creating a shudder-inducing sound as it screeched on the mosaic tesserae beneath.
Menenius gasped and almost bucked like a panicked horse, pinned to the floor with his own blade.
Fronto leaned over him and watched for almost a hundred heartbeats until the light went out in the tribune’s eyes and he passed away. He then reached down and found a coin from his belt purse with his good hand and carefully slid it into the man’s mouth.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Fabius asked quietly. “He doesn’t deserve to pay the ferrymen.”
Fronto looked up at the centurion and grinned lopsidedly. “Well I don’t want his malevolent spirit knocking about this side of the Styx. Besides, if he passes to Elysium I’ll get the chance to gut the bastard again when I get there.”
Fabius laughed, a trickle of blood issuing from his mouth as he did so.
“What in the name of Juno’s knockers are you two doing here?”
The centurion sighed and sagged.
“Priscus thought you might need some looking after. He’s a bit busy, but he seemed to think we might be able to help.”
“You were the ones on that liburna at Ostia?”
“Mm-hmm” the centurion confirmed.
“Well I’m damn glad you came.”
Fabius struggled to get to his feet and Fronto leaned over to help. The two men aided each other to make it upright, swaying a little as they stood. As the centurion staggered over to the heaving form of Furius, Fronto bent and drew the blade from the tribune’s body with some difficulty, admiring it as it came free.
“I don’t normally like to loot the dead, but… well, it’s not like he needs it.”
He grinned at the look on Fabius’ ruined features and hurried over to help him lift Furius. He was no medicus but he’d seen plenty of wounds in his time. Fabius would live, for all the loss of his eye, but it was touch and go whether Furius would survive his belly wound. The next day or two would tell.
“Do you suppose you can make it out to the storehouse in the yard?”
“I doubt it. Why?”
“Because there should be a jar of wine out there and I’m in sore need of a drink.”
Fabius laughed painfully.
“First, I think we need to retrieve your sister and try and send for a medicus of some kind.”
Fronto shrugged and almost fell as his knee wobbled.
“I feel I might be about ready to give this knee that month or two’s rest now.”
Epilogue
The slave opened the door and started in surprise at the gathering outside.
“Tell your master that Marcus Falerius Fronto is here to see him.”
The slave nodded and closed the door, scurrying off inside. Fronto turned to those who’d accompanied him.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Balbus said quietly.
“Positive.”
“And you don’t want me there?”
Fronto shook his head. “I’m fine, Quintus. In fact, you should go and see Faleria and tell Galronus to break the seal on that amphora. I’m certainly going to need a drink when I get back.”
Lucilia narrowed her eyes at him and squeezed his arm. “Do you want me to stay, Marcus?”
“No. Go with your father. I’ll see you all back at the house. We’ve got things to arrange, and I want to be there when Galronus pops his question. I will piss myself if she says no.”
Lucilia smiled warmly. “That’s not going to happen, Marcus. Get used to the idea.”
Fronto laughed quietly and watched as Balbus and his daughter turned to head back to their house on the Cispian. At the bottom of the street, a respectable distance away, half a dozen of Balbus’ newly-hired guards waited for them. No longer was the older man willing to risk the ladies on the streets of Rome without a suitable escort. Things had changed in the city, and not for the better. Still, things would be better for
“Stop smiling like a dazed girl-child” Fabius admonished him from behind. “You’ll look like an idiot.”
Furius, at his other shoulder, laughed for a moment until the pain of his belly-wound stopped him.
“I don’t really need you two either.”
“I think that experience suggests otherwise, don’t you?” the shorter centurion grinned.
Fronto opened his mouth to deliver a suitably cutting reply that he wasn’t sure of yet when the door opened again and the servant stepped aside.
“Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Fronto stared across the threshold. It had been almost two weeks since the death of the tribunes and he’d done little more exerting since then than stroll down to the bakery — or the circus when Lucilia was unaware — and his knee was already beginning to feel stronger and easier. Fabius had had his various wounds tended and Fronto
