Before he realised he was doing it, Fronto had stormed across the floor into the room.
'What in Hades happened?'
Lucilia looked up at him, her face grave, and answered before even Clearchus could get his painful mouth to work. 'Your men were set upon by armed thugs as they left the warehouse. Not thieves, either, since they smashed the jars of Alban vintage the pair were conveying and stole nothing. If it hadn't been for the timely interruption of a passing gentlemen and his guards, these two poor fellows would probably be dead now.'
Fronto felt the anger that had been muted and contained all day finally boil to the surface, unhindered. His lip curled up into a snarl that made it hard to speak.
'When was this?'
'Noph more phan an hour ago,' the second victim said through broken teeth. Fronto flexed his fists. 'Hierocles,' he grunted. A statement, rather than a question, but both men nodded painfully anyway. 'Enough is enough. The bastard has to be taught.' He paused, waiting for the warning against unnecessary violence from Lucilia, but she simply nodded her agreement, and he noticed now the bowl of pink water and the pink towel by her feet with which she had tended the men's worst wounds.
Wordlessly, Andala reversed her grip on the plain gladius in her hands and held it out, hilt first, to Fronto. He met her eyes and for the first time felt something akin to understanding pass between them. He nodded and took the sword.
He was a soldier, born and forged in decades of war, and he'd had enough pussy-footing around with petty criminals masquerading as merchants. Hierocles had to come down from his pedestal, no matter what the fallout with the boule of Massilia.
He turned and stormed out of the room purposefully, reaching out to swipe his cloak up from the altar in the vestibule.
'Masgava? Gather the men.'
* * * * *
‘What’s the plan, sir?’
Fronto glanced across at Aurelius. It was an excellent question. He had left the villa with his blood up, determined on a course of brutal action. He was still just as determined, of course, to pay Hierocles back for his actions and to end this trouble once and for all, but as the cold air of a Massilian evening bathed his ruddy face he had started to calm and think a little straighter. He could not
kill
Hierocles, no matter how much he might want to. This was not a Gallic battlefield, and murder was a capital offence in the city. Likewise, then, he would not kill any of Hierocles’ men. But he would hurt the man, and badly. Hierocles would hardly drag them through the courts for a beating, given how many counts of the same for which he was responsible. It would be opening a veritable Pandora’s Box of litigation that would harm Hierocles every bit as much as Fronto. So as long as he stopped short of actual killing, he felt safe from legal repercussions.
He turned to Masgava.
‘You’ve been training the lads in their spare time, I remember. Did you teach them straight combat, or some of your more subtle methods?’
The big Numidian shrugged. ‘I teach a man to fight in any way he can or must with whatever he can find. You know that.’
‘Good.’ He turned back to Aurelius. ‘We’re going to drop in on Hierocles. He has a number of tough men, but not as tough as us, with former soldiers and gladiators.’ He raised his voice to catch the whole group. ‘But the important thing is there must be
no
killing. Preferably no blades, even, though that might be unavoidable. But unless his men draw swords on you, keep your blades sheathed. Punch and kick, bite and thump. No one is to go in too heavy handed, got it?’
The twelve men around him nodded.
‘You two are fairly new. I need eyes on the street. The city guards patrol these streets irregularly, and I don’t want to suddenly find myself up to the armpits in local law enforcement. When we go in I want you to stay by the entrance. If anyone approaches, step inside, whistle loud and close the door. Got it?’
The two new men nodded, looking rather relieved.
‘How do we get in in the first place?’ asked Aurelius.
‘Leave that to me. As soon as we’re in, I need each of you thinking on your feet. We don’t touch women, children, slaves or other civilians. Arcadios and Dyrakhes, you two are in charge of rounding up any non-combatants. The first room we come across that’s securable, you hustle them all into and keep them safe. Anyone who comes at us with fists or weapons is fair game. Any of his men – and after the last few months, we can recognise most of them – are fair game. If you happen to find Hierocles, shout me.’
‘It’s not much of a plan.’
‘It’s good enough. Everyone set?’
The gang rounded the corner of the Street of Golden Arcades which, in typical non-Roman-linear style, wound like a snake up the hill towards the temple of Apollo. Hierocles’ house sat slightly back from the road, a narrow path leading to the door between well-tended gardens, the frontage between the next two buildings sectioned off with a high wall and a gate with its own little guard house. Hierocles was wealthy and careful.
As they approached, Fronto gestured to his men to move to the side of the street, keeping only Masgava with him, the rest out of sight of the gate unless the guard stuck his head out into the street. As the others moved up the incline along the fronts of other houses, Fronto and Masgava strolled out ahead, straight for the gate, their cloaks hiding the weapons at their sides, but the hoods down to allow easy recognition.
‘Stay there,’ snapped a voice in thick Massiliot Greek as they neared the door, and Fronto came to a halt, with the big Numidian at his shoulder. After a moment, a hatch in the gate opened and a pale face emerged, beady, glassy eyes peering out into the evening.
‘Fronto. What do you want?’
‘I wish to see your master.’
‘He won’t want to see you, Roman.’
Fronto put on his most humble face, despite the irritation with which that filled him. ‘He might. I find I am in difficulty sourcing transport once more and your master can help me.’
The man blinked in surprise. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because I have two deals to conclude, and in return for his help he can have one of them. Both are good deals. Better for me to make Hierocles richer than for my business to fold.’
The man laughed. ‘I suspect my master will think differently, but I’m sure he will enjoy laughing at your misfortune. The big dark animal has to stay outside, though.’
Fronto turned to Masgava, who was almost radiating the desire to cause violence. He tried to look undecided and then with exaggerated reluctance, nodded. ‘You wait for me here, Masgava.’
The big man nodded, still glaring at the gate guard. The pale face grinned and there was a rattle and click as the gate was opened from within. Fronto stepped forward, making to enter as the gate began to swing inwards. Then, without warning, he took a long step and slammed his shoulder against the gate, which hammered back against the man opening it, knocking him against the wall of his little guard house. Fronto heard with gratification the whoosh of air from the man’s lungs as he hit. Entering, Masgava waved the others in and slid through into the dark, tree-shaded garden. As his men moved into the house’s grounds, Fronto pulled the winded guard from behind the door.
‘Poor decision there, but I’m grateful.’
Even dazed and winded, the man tried to bring up a knife from his belt. In response, Fronto smacked the man’s head back against the stone wall of his hut and watched the eyes roll up white accompanying the satisfying clunk. Before the man fell, Masgava was there. With a quick grab and twist, he broke the man’s knife arm at the elbow. The forearm hung limp at a horrible angle and the knife fell away. Fronto stared.
‘He’ll live,’ sneered Masgava. ‘But he won’t use a knife until he retrains with his left.’
‘Shit, I’m glad you’re on my side.’
The men were already across the grass and path now, closing on the house. Behind Fronto, the two new lads took control of the gate, one standing just inside and one out. A brief squawk caught his attention and he turned back, jogging across the garden to catch up with his men. His gaze fell upon the source of the noise and he boggled. A roving guard in the grounds had appeared from somewhere and tried to shout an alarm, but Catháin had hit him like a rolling boulder, knocking him to the ground. Even as Fronto opened his mouth to hiss a reminder about not killing, he saw the strange northerner deliver three blows to the man’s face and then jab down with his fingers, putting out the guard’s eyes. The man tried to scream, but Catháin’s hand was over his mouth and with simple casual violence, the northerner slammed the man’s head back to the gravel of the path, driving the blind guard’s wits from him. Before he stood, he took the unconscious man’s blade and stood, examining it. A fine, curved
xiphos
, probably of Cypriot manufacture, looking at the colours and shapes. Fronto hurried over.
‘Was the blinding strictly necessary’
‘Are you wanting to send Hierocles a message, or tickle his arse with a feather, Fronto. Gods in ale, but the blind bastard’ll live.’
Fronto shook his head and moved over towards the house’s main door, where Masgava had taken control of the small band. Nine men. There would be at least as many inside, but blissfully unaware of what was coming. Fronto felt a moment of shame and fear at what they were doing. Sneaking around and invading people’s property was not really his way, and it galled him to be doing so, but he hardened himself. These very arseholes had tried to kill him more than once and had attacked his men numerous times, trying to beat the last two to death. He didn’t like this, but it
was
justified. He reached down to the figurines at his neck. Nemesis felt cold and reassuring. Fortuna would have her part to play tonight, for sure, but it was Nemesis’ raid beyond doubt.
Masgava gestured a couple of times at Fronto and then took Aurelius and ran off around the side of the building, leaving Fronto frowning and wondering what all the gestures had meant. Still, Masgava knew exactly what he was doing, and Fronto trusted him implicitly, so he ignored the disappearance of two men and reached for the door.
Once they were inside, all hope of subtlety would be lost. Surprise would quickly fade, and something would have to replace it for Fronto’s men to retain the upper hand.
Confusion
would be that thing.
Taking a deep breath in preparation and checking that the other six men were still with him, he reached out and threw open the doors to the house, stepping inside. In the short hallway that led to the central courtyard a young woman stopped in her tracks, alarm radiating from her as she dropped the armful of folded laundry she was carrying. She managed a brief muffled squeak before Arcadios wrapped himself around her, one hand across her mouth to cut off the cry. The Greek archer nodded to Dyrakhes and the two dragged her to the left side of the corridor where a doorway led to a darkened room. Fronto couldn’t see inside but, given its location, it was likely a storage room for cloaks and boots and the like. Being dark, it was clearly unoccupied, which was perfect to contain the civilians.
The archer and his companion shut the door on the panicked woman and locked it from the outside before moving across to search the room opposite. Fronto knew that the element of surprise was about to disappear, and stepped out of the corridor into the main courtyard, preparing to change the game. He didn’t understand Greek housing conventions particularly well, and knew Hierocles’ residence not at all. Easier than searching every room was to keep people off-balance and bring them to you.
‘Fire!’ he bellowed in good local Greek. ‘Fire in the
balanea
!’
He didn’t know where the bath complex was, of course, but it would probably be at the rear of the residence, which would drive the occupants to the front, where Fronto and his men were waiting for them. Moreover, a fire in the bath house was far from unbelievable. The furnace would be burning hot on such a chilly March night and, if he were to be truthfully uncharitable, the Greeks were considerably less conscious of the safety requirements of such edifices than stolid Roman engineers.
As Fronto moved out into the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by a colonnade that would have looked more at home in Corinth than this far west and containing a central altar to Hermes liberally scattered with offerings, he heard the cry of ‘fire’ being echoed across the residence. Chaos blossomed.
Fronto found himself moving towards the end of the courtyard, where two doors led off, but also a central passageway that had to lead to the rear sections of the house where the servants’ and guards’ quarters would be, as well as the kitchens, stores and bathing complex. Hierocles would likely be through one of those doors, since the house had a second storey at the rear side of the courtyard only, and the stairs up would be somewhere there. Hierocles, by his very nature, would automatically site himself higher than anyone else. Behind Fronto, the rest of his men were pushing open doors and either emerging quickly, empty handed, or struggling inside, laying flat those of the Greek’s thugs who opposed them. Occasionally Arcadios and Dyrakhes would appear, dragging a screaming slave off to the room where they were being kept out of danger. Even as he watched, Dyrakhes received a vicious bite to the forearm for his pains and, bless the man, he struggled on without taking it out on the girl.