returned as his resistance drained. Things had been so different at the villa since Galronus had taken ship for Campania a month ago. He had lost his support and had never felt quite so exposed to feminine control. Damn the man!
‘Where were you going anyway?’
Fronto swallowed. If he even dared mention the Dancing Ox , his favourite little tavern down in the city, he knew he would wake the next day with a world-shaking headache. ‘Erm…’ he said, his mind racing to try and find an acceptable reason to be out in the front courtyard in the dark of a Ianuarius evening.
‘I thought I heard horses,’ he rattled out, trying hard to sound convincing and, as he saw Lucilia narrow her eyes, he cupped his hand to his ear. Yes. Definitely. Running horses. A lifeline to grasp for.
‘You don’t think I would leave you alone tonight? I went to the latrines, but I was taking the long route back for fresh air when I heard them. Do you hear them?’
Lucilia gave him another dangerous look. ‘Yes. Though unless they’ve been running on the spot for the last few minutes or you have developed godlike hearing, you are talking utter rubbish.
‘Shh…’
Her eyes widened and blazed as Fronto put a finger to his lips and frowned, turning in the direction of the increasing noise of drumming hooves.
‘Don’t you dare …’
This time, Fronto placed his finger on her lips and the look he shot her stopped her anger in its tracks. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘Those are cavalry, not civilians, and armoured, too.’
‘Really? Whose? Ours? Gauls? How do you know?’
Fronto simply peered out into the night. The regular, syncopated drumming hooves of three riders who were familiar and comfortable with a shared pace. The sound of mail shirts shushing with the horses’ motion. The rattle of metal fittings, scabbards and helmets. Almost certainly Roman. If they were Gauls they were the more Romanized variety and using similar kit, but then there were tribes like that. Probably no threat, but then, as Lucilia had just reminded him, they were not actually within the republic’s bounds here.
Wordlessly he crossed to a large plant pot from which grew a well-trimmed shrub and reached down behind it, into the narrow gap against the wall. With a measured breath he withdrew a plain, traditional soldier’s gladius and slid it from the scabbard.
‘When did you put that there?’
Fronto, still peering off across the dark ground beyond the villa’s low wall, shrugged. ‘I have a few in handy hiding places.’
‘You’ll move them before the boys start walking,’ she hissed.
‘Lucilia,’ he replied, pressing his finger harder against her lips as he raised the sword ready, the thunder of hooves so close now their noise was almost deafening in the quiet night air.
The figures resolved slowly as they rounded the small copse of trees that marked the edge of the villa’s grounds and the fork in the drive that separated the road to their home and that of Lucilia’s father. Fronto tried to pick out the details of the three men, but all he could tell was that they appeared to be cloaked and mailed and moving at pace. He hefted the blade again, glinting in the moonlight.
The three horses pounded along the gravel road and through the gate. Fronto stared at these intruders. They could hardly be hostile, for their blades were still sheathed, but they were hairy, tangled, messy fellows, wrapped in travel cloaks and stained armour and…
He frowned, and the furrowed brow slowly resolved into a wicked, dark grin. His sword lowered.
‘What in the name of seven fallen Vestals happened to you? You look like a hairy cow’s arse.’ Fronto leaned against the doorframe and shook his head with a grin. ‘No, no, no. You make a cow’s arse look good .’
Priscus slipped from the horse and landed badly, almost falling. It was only then that Fronto saw through the hair and the dust and dirt of the journey and realised how bone-tired - how