(Massilia, an allied former-Greek colony on the coast south of Gaul)
The Glory of Venus bucked once on a particularly violent wave as it passed the mole and entered the harbour, settling almost instantly on the millpond water within.
Fronto had long since given up any hope of feeling well as long as he lived. During the stop at Vado Sabatia, a helpful wag among the oarsmen had carved a commemorative inscription on the wooden rail where Fronto habitually stood to vomit over the side, since when he had deliberately avoided the spot.
At last, though, the journey was coming to an end. He’d wondered briefly if his stomach had actually turned inside out the day before. Certainly even the name of foodstuffs was now enough to set him off, let alone the sight or smell of them.
His gaze briefly left the churning waters that so mirrored his own gut and played across the heads of those aboard who were not bent over the oars.
Galronus, Faleria and Lucilia stood at the bow, their gaze locked on the great port ahead. Lucilia had gradually become more animated and excited as she neared her family, and the feeling had rubbed off on her companions. Somewhere on the hills a couple of miles back from the city — nominally within the Roman province of Narbonensis but close enough to allied Massilia to spit a peach stone at — stood the villa of Balbus; former legate of the Eighth Legion, future father in law to the grey, shaking figure leaning on the rail.
The two tribunes, who Fronto had now discovered were named Menenius and Hortius, were apparently being reassigned to serve on the staff of the Fourteenth, which Caesar still treated more as an auxiliary unit than a full legion and which he believed needed bringing up to scratch. Fronto had met a number of the men and centurions of the Fourteenth now and his own opinion was of a powerful legion, strong in body and spirit, carrying both the efficiency of the Roman officers who had trained them and the sheer battle-sense of the Gauls who had supplied the bulk of the manpower. What the great, bluff, hairy monsters of the Fourteenth would make of the two fops who actually called one another ‘darling’ in front of the sailors and hurried off in a panic if their tunic was dirtied, he simply couldn’t imagine.
Even the clerks would eat those two alive.
The only person on board who Fronto feared for more was Caesar’s nephew, Pinarius. The man was clearly too weak in both mind and physique to competently direct a music recital, let alone a battle. The elegantly inscribed rail where Fronto had spent much of the journey had been specifically chosen as the place with a flat leaning surface and standing space that was furthest from Pinarius’ grating lisp and nasal laugh as it was possible to be without walking on water. It was no surprise to find that Caesar had granted a commission to his sister’s son, but Fronto could only picture the general trying to deal with this chinless moron. Hopefully he would only be there for one campaigning season and then gone to ruin the economy in Rome.
Morons like those three almost made him miss Crassus, who was now ensconced in his new position in Rome, regularly attending meetings of the senate and guiding the future of the republic.
Almost… but not quite.
Very much the other side of the coin — a coin now probably authorised to mint by the very same Crassus — was the centurions. Furius and Fabius had spoken to their fellow passengers precisely as much as the courtesy due their social highers and military superiors demanded, and no more. The two men claimed to hold Caesar in very high regard both as an officer and as a tactician, and neither made mention of Pompey or their former commissions. Fronto had planned to turn the conversation around enough to pry into their past, but the constant illness and battering of his senses had made it practically impossible, and so Furius and Fabius remained somewhat mysterious.
One thing was certain: he would trust an oak-bark-sucking druid before he would let one of those two stand behind him with a knife.
Furius and Fabius had remained quiet and apart for most of the journey, talking among themselves and eying the three fops, Fronto and Galronus with equal distain.
Fronto watched with a surly temper as the dockside of Massilia closed on them. Hopefully the other five passengers would be in a hurry to travel north and he wouldn’t be forced to accompany them on the journey. Caesar had apparently already disembarked in Massilia on the previous trip of the Glory of Venus, and most of his officers would now be converging on the army in preparation. Fronto and Galronus wouldn’t be far behind, but there was something that had to be done first.
Despite the best efforts of the port officials of Massilia, there was simply so much traffic that the great trireme commissioned by Caesar had to sit in the glassy waters of the harbour for almost two hours before enough mercantile traffic had unloaded their wares and cleared the queues and jetties to make room for a warship.
In a Roman port, the simple appearance of a military vessel and the name of Caesar would be enough to ensure priority and the dispersal of mercantile traffic. But Massilia was still nominally independent and, at this point, Rome still obeyed her harbour rules.
The sun was already sliding into the western horizon, leaving a fiery shimmer across the water and casting the hills and mountains to the north and east in a deep purple tone when the trireme finally began its approach to the jetty.
Fronto braced himself for the first bounce and yet still lunged at the rail like a novice when it happened, recovering as quickly as he could and hurrying off down to the boarding ramp that was being run out, converging with the ladies and their Gaulish escort. The other centurions and officers had politely stepped aside to allow the ladies to disembark first, and Fronto took advantage, leaping in front of them and hurrying down after his three companions.
Alighting on the solid stone of land, Fronto resisted the urge to crouch and kiss it, concentrating instead on stopping the unmanly wobble in his legs. As he and his companions stood in a small knot on the dock in the rapidly emptying port, the others disembarked behind them, setting foot on the pier and moving away.
Pinarius wore an expression of happy and vacant excitement that immediately annoyed Fronto again.
“Ith tho much more thivilithed than I ecthpected. Thereth a monument near the agora that commemorateth the great ecthplorer Pytheath, you know? He came from thith plath, and ecthplored ath far north ath a thip can go without freething tholid. Mutht we go north in the morning? Can we not thtay a day to thee the plath?”
Fronto winced as his brain tried to add a few solid consonants to the question.
“I think it would be unwise, my dear” replied tribune Hortius with a sad face that resembled one of the theatre masks for Greek tragedies. “Your beloved uncle wants us all with the army as soon as we can be there.”
Fronto kept his opinion of how desperately Caesar sought the company of his nephew in the privacy of his head. ‘Gods, please don’t let him be assigned to the Tenth!’ He resolved to be extra nice to the general on arrival, just in case.
Furius and Fabius alighted with the steady gait of men used to the sea, adjusting their stride easily to the dock and marching off into the town without a word to any of their former fellow passengers.
Fronto watched them go with lowered brows and grunted something under his breath.
“What was that?”
He turned to his sister.
“Pompeian turds” he repeated. “I think they were with Pompey when he led the navy too. Experienced marines, they are. What the hell is Caesar playing at?”
Galronus patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.
“You’ve lost a lot of centurions in the past two years, Marcus. The general can’t keep shuffling the ones you have left up each time and bringing in newly-raised officers at the bottom, or there’ll soon be no experienced centurions left. He has to bring in veteran officers if they become available, no matter their past.”
Fronto muttered something again in inaudible grunts.
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, the crew can unload the horses and baggage and send them on to the staging post. Let’s get up and see Balbus. My stomach seems to have flipped back over and is demanding wine and meat.”
“It’s a strenuous walk, Marcus” Lucilia reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for the horses?”
“My legs need the workout. They feel like knotted string at the moment.”
Behind them, the men of Caesar’s ship were already unloading the beasts and chests to the dock, where the port workers were consulting their orders, roping chains of beasts together and loading bags and crates onto carts, ready to deliver to their destinations. The cacophony of Latin voices from the ship, Greek tones from the dock, and Gaulish shouts from the immigrant workers rose and fell like the waves of the Mare Nostrum, threatening to make Fronto’s gorge rise again.
Turning his back on the havoc just as Fronto’s magnificent black horse Bucephalus was walked slowly and carefully ashore, he led the small group up the street and out of the port. As they passed into the city itself, Lucilia was suddenly next to him and then past, as though drawn inexorably by the ever-nearing presence of her family. Sharing a glance, Fronto, Galronus and Faleria picked up their pace and hurried along behind. A local she may be, but no girl in her right mind travelled the streets of a port city on her own.
The journey was a tough one; exhausting, in fact. A mile through the rising streets of Massilia, back northeast away from the port, and then two more turning north on roads that led toward the villa district, rising through the hills behind the shore all the time. Barely half a mile from the edge of the great trade city, a solid, stable road of Roman construction ran along a carefully levelled terrace, stretching from Cisalpine Gaul in the east across to Narbo Martius in the west. A milestone claimed the road as Roman territory and marked the point where the local road from Massilia joined the republican highway.
The small group of travellers moved onto the strangely empty main road and walked some half a mile northwest until they found the familiar track that led off to the villas of the Roman nobles who had chosen to settle on the hills above Massilia.
And finally, their hungry eyes lit upon their destination.
The villa of Balbus had thrived since Fronto’s last visit. The garden and building itself were as neat as ever, but the complex also showed signs of growth. Four new buildings had risen to one side, including two bunkhouses for servants or slaves. Ordered rows of newly-planted vines, barely reaching above the soil, marched off down the slope toward the sea, their green tips catching the last of the light.
A slave rushed around the yard and the gardens, lighting lamps and torches where they would be most needed, as labourers returned wearily from the estate beyond, baskets and tools on their shoulders. Fronto smiled.
“Looks like your father’s turning into a farmer. Or a vintner.”
Lucilia grinned back at him. “That’s probably just to cater for your visits, my love. Come on.”
With Galronus looking around appreciatively, perhaps seeing for the first time the possibilities raised by the marriage of Gallic agriculture and Roman organisation, the four stepped into the garden. Newly acquired benches, arbours and a decorative dolphin fountain graced the frontage of the villa, and the walls had been freshly painted with red and white following the winter depredations.
Fronto frowned at the door, which stood open as slaves and servants rushed back and forth, settling everything for the night. He felt sure someone would have informed the villa’s master that a trireme had been seen docking in the port.
“Marcus, you look positively grey!”
Despite himself, Fronto jumped a little at the sudden words that issued from close behind him. Turning, he saw Quintus Lucilius Balbus, former commander of the Eighth legion, lounging on a curved stone bench under a pergola, his arms folded and a sly grin on his face.
Fronto drank in the sight of his old friend. Balbus had aged more than he should have in half a year, but strangely it did not sit badly on him. While he looked a little older, he looked a great deal healthier and happier than he had last time they had met. He had bulked out a little and achieved the rosy complexion of a compulsive gardener. Laughter lines creased his face and he wore a straw hat that had seen better days and a tunic and breeches that, while cut to military pattern, were covered with the stains of fruit and soil.
“You become a farmer, Quintus?”
The older man laughed, a deep rich sound, and then stood and enfolded Fronto in a crushing hug, releasing him only when he realised that Lucilia was waiting impatiently.
“Daughter. You’ve seen fit to pay a quick visit to your father, then?”
His eyebrow arched in mock anger, but he couldn’t hold the expression for long as Lucilia rushed into the gap left by Fronto and threw her arms round his nicely-padded ribcage.
“Father, I wish we’d come sooner, but…”
“I know. You had trouble keeping this one out of the taverns long enough?”
Fronto shot him a sour glance, which set the older man laughing again.
“Come on inside. I’m sure we have a great deal to discuss.”
Fronto sank back into the comfortable couch, allowing the cushions to enfold him and take the edge off the ache of his creaking bones and clicking joints. Closing his eyes, he savoured the sip of wine and then opened them at a gurgling sound, only to find Lucilia adding a healthy dose of water to his beaker. Glaring at her, he caught the mirth on Balbus’ face across the room and sighed, sipping the now-respectfully-watered wine as he reached to the plate of cheeses on the small table next to him.
“Can you afford a lay-over?”
Fronto gave a non-committal shrug.
“A short one. You know the general. Doesn’t do to keep him waiting too long, but we’ve been quite quick so far. Perhaps a couple of days? There’s an office in the agora apparently staffed by a couple of ex-legionaries assigned by Priscus. They’re organising all the transport of men and goods to the army. It looks like the new camp prefect has taken half the responsibilities of the chief quartermaster from him.”
Balbus grinned. “I’m sure Cita will just love that. Have you reported to them yet?”
“No. I thought I’d leave it for now.”
“I will go in the morning” said Galronus quietly from his seat at the room’s end. He had seemed thoughtful and quiet since he arrived, though Fronto put it down to the awful sea voyage. The five of them sat in a rough circle.
Balbus shook his head. “Stay and relax, friend Galronus. I’ll send one of my lads down tomorrow morning to start organising things for you. That way they can just meet you here in two days and pick you up at the villa with your beasts and goods.”
A brief frown of regret passed Fronto’s face as he pictured all the dockside taverns and their owners reaching out to take his coin. It was quickly replaced by a genuine smile. Time later for that. For now: other things were required.
“Are Corvinia or Balbina joining us?”
“Corvinia is preparing a repast that will double your weight and Balbina is helping her. I think Balbina’s sulking a little as I told her the adults had to talk before she could see you.”
“Yes” Fronto said quietly. “There are things we have to discuss, Quintus.”
He glanced sidelong at Lucilia and waggled his eyebrows.
Balbus burst out laughing, almost choking on his own wine. “Lucilia, my dear, I suspect that my dear friend Marcus would like you to step out and occupy yourself while we menfolk talk.”
Fronto carefully avoided Lucilia’s glare. He shot a quick glance at Faleria too, but she simply smiled sweetly and called out “I’ll be along shortly, Lucilia.”
Lucilia nodded once, curtly, at her father, shot a warning glance full of daggers at Fronto, and trotted daintily from the room, her stola swishing about her knees with that hypnotic sway that Fronto was resolutely ignoring right now.
Once she had left, Fronto waited for the door to close and opened his mouth to speak, but Balbus held up a cautionary finger and waited almost a minute in silence. Finally, somewhat muffled by the door, they heard Lucilia ‘harrumph’ and patter off across the marble. Balbus smiled. “She reminds me so much of her mother at times.”
Fronto coughed uncomfortably.
“You have something important to say?” Balbus nudged.
“Erm… yes. Sort of.”
“Something that involves Lucilia?”
“Well… erm. Sort of, yes.”
“Has she done something disgraceful?”
“No. No. Not that. Sort of… erm…”
Fronto collapsed into an uncomfortable silence, horribly aware that a pink stain had risen to replace the pallid grey of his cheeks.
“For the love of Venus, Marcus, he’s playing with you!” came a muffled voice from beyond the door. Balbus roared with laughter, and Fronto glared at the wooden portal, wishing he was somewhere on a battlefield, up to the knees in gore, facing a thousand screaming Gauls; even on a ship! Anywhere instead of this.
Settling from his laugh, Balbus took on a more serious face and turned to address the door.
“If you do not go and find your mother and leave us to this, Lucilia, the conversation might never happen.”
A huffy noise rose from behind the door, and footsteps pattered away again. Fronto narrowed his eyes. “Is she…?”
“She’s gone. Now calm down, pretend you’re ordering a general advance with cavalry on the wings and auxiliary support, and talk to me, Marcus.”
“Nothing untoward has happened, Quintus. I’ll state that for the record. And I didn’t try to drive a wedge between her and the Caecilius boy.”
Balbus nodded sagely. “She has been writing to her mother, who has in turn been abusing my ears and straining my patience. I am painfully aware of how headstrong the women of my family are. Am I to believe then that Lucilia has succeeded in her quest to entrap you?”
Fronto sighed and, with an apologetic face, tipped the heavily-watered wine from his beaker into a houseplant next to him and replaced it with neat red liquid, taking a sip.
“I was sort of hoping to move things along nice and slowly, but the girl seemed Hades-bent to get me signed up, hog-tied and becoming a father before I can even shave again.”
“It’s in the nature of girls, Marcus.”
“It’s a difficult situation. You’re my friend, Quintus. I know there’s an age difference between us — frighteningly, not as wide as the one between Lucilia and myself — but I never saw you as a father figure. It would be… weird.”
Balbus smiled expansively.
“Don’t forget that Caesar and Pompey are almost the same age and related in the same manner, and yet there’s no discomfort in their relationship.”
Fronto shook his head. He wouldn’t have said that, though he understood the point his friend was trying to make.
“I just don’t want you to have to say yes to anything you don’t approve of, just because we’re friends. Family is family, and she’s your daughter, after all.”
Balbus smiled and looked down. When he raised his head again, his eyes sparkled. “To be honest, Marcus, I’m more than happy with the match. I was more worried that you’d been forced into something you didn’t want. Feel free to tell me now if Lucilia has pushed you into this.”
Fronto laughed weakly.
“Well she certainly pushed me into it, but that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with it. Are you sure about this, Quintus? You know I’m career military. A career soldier is a poor prospect for a husband.”
Balbus shook his head. “Mars would melt and Fortuna pluck out her eyes before they let anything happen to you on the battlefield, Marcus. The match is approved if you wish it.”
Fronto swallowed. His throat had suddenly gone dry. This felt like handing over his sword to the executioner.
“I do, Quintus. A betrothal of… what? A year, for decency?”
Galronus frowned and leaned forward. “Why delay? Among the Remi, we marry when we find the right match. There is no need for a time to show the people of the tribe first.”
Fronto glared at him.
“If I remember rightly, the Remi don’t even pause to remove their breeches, if you get my drift.”
Galronus shrugged. “When the match is right, the match is right.”
“Let’s say less than a year” interjected Faleria from her couch nearby. “We’ll have to organise everything so that we can fit it in during the winter break between campaigns?”
Fronto suddenly felt his stomach flip again as it had on the ship.
“Errrr… alright then.”
Faleria gave him an encouraging smile, and then turned to Balbus.
“Can I suggest, Quintus, that you and I work out the details later: the ring, the gifts, the money and so on. And, of course, the date, the location, informing those who need to know and all the other minutiae?”
Balbus frowned. “Do you not think that Marcus should have a…” he caught the helpless panic on his friend’s face and nodded instead. “Very well, let’s take all the trouble out of his hands. I’m sure Corvinia and Lucilia will want to involve themselves, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Erm…?” began Fronto, looking slightly wild-eyed.
“Don’t worry about it, Marcus. We’ll sort it all out” Balbus smiled. “Trust your old friend. I’ll see you right, even in the face of all this womanhood!”
Fronto nodded unhappily.
“So” smiled Balbus ”I think that we should settle for a relaxing night of catching up for now. I’ll send word to the trireme’s captain to remain in port for a couple of days. Once you’re safely packed off to the north, I will take the ladies and the girls back to Rome for the summer to organise everything. I was planning on a trip anyway, and besides, after last year’s events, I suspect it would be good if someone were to keep an eye on our interests in the city?”
Fronto nodded.
“Shall we send someone to let Lucilia know she can come back? And it’s time I saw Corvinia and Balbina. And tried some of Corvinia’s pastries again. Those I have missed.”
Faleria rose slowly. “I shall go and find the ladies and bring them here. I may be a few minutes. The evening is warm and the honeysuckle on your veranda smells delightful. I could do with a few minutes of air before we close ourselves in and gorge.”
Fronto frowned at her as though she must have some ulterior motive.
“Don’t wander too far” he said irritably.
Galronus smiled and stretched. “If it is permitted, I shall accompany you. The night air reminds me of my lands and my people. Sometimes it is nice to remember I am Belgae and born to this sky.”
Fronto moved his frown to his friend. “I notice your Gaulish nature gets neatly sealed away when there’s a racing circuit and a bookmaker anywhere in the vicinity!”
Galronus smiled infuriatingly and walked out of the room, leaving just Fronto and Balbus alone. Almost as if they’d requested it, Galronus closed the door with a click as he left.
Balbus leaned forwards conspiratorially and Fronto frowned.
“What?”
“Have you had a visitor, Marcus?”
The frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”
“Vatia?”
“Eh?”
“Publius Servilius Vatia?”
Still no change in the frown. Balbus took a deep preparatory breath.
“How do you not know Vatia? His father’s the censor who wiped the pirates out at Isauria? The lad’s serving as quaestor for Narbonensis and he paid me a visit a couple of months ago. He expressed an interest in you and I wondered if he’d pursued it?”
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re circling an important point and trying not to make it, Quintus.”
Balbus had the grace to look a little uncomfortable.
“Servilius is making a few enquiries on behalf of his father… enquiries of those who are known to have disputed Caesar’s command or are clear of ties to him.”
“Quintus…” Fronto said quietly. “You’re talking about something very dangerous there. What’s his interest in it?”
“He never said; just sort of… sounded me out. But I thought long and hard about it, and I seem to remember that his father served as admiral of the Euxine fleet under Pompey in the east, so it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”
Fronto shook his head. “If he had come to me, he’d have left with a broken nose. Quintus, you shouldn’t even be talking to these people!”
Balbus shrugged. “As far as I’m aware this is still a republic and not a kingdom. Dangerous it may be, but I do have the right to at least listen to every side in a debate. It’s what a good Roman does.”
Fronto’s eyes flared. “Quintus, don’t tell me things I really don’t want to hear!”
“Relax, Marcus. I’m still a client of Caesar’s and a friend of yours. But don’t tell me you’ve never even contemplated whether you’re doing the right thing hoisting Caesar’s banner, because I know you have. I know that you’re too bright not to question the general.”
“Quintus” Fronto hissed, “that’s quite enough. You’ve always been Caesar’s man!”
“And I still am… for now. But look at it: Gaul is pacified. He’s pushed his remit beyond breaking point and stretched Rome to the very edge, but he’s managed it. Gaul is tamed and everything can settle again. Now, he should be back in Illyricum or Cisalpine Gaul, making laws and skimming money off the taxes like a good governor. He doesn’t need eight legions to hold on to a peaceful Gaul. He should be settling veterans. And what is he doing?”
Fronto shook his head, vehemently.
“What is he doing, Marcus?” demanded Balbus quietly.
“Preparing for campaign.”
“Against who? For what?”
“Germania. He says they’re threatening the Belgae.”
Balbus nodded.
“Good. Then he will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume.”
“Quintus, I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”
“Only because you know I’m right, Marcus. Watch what happens. What I just suggested is all that’s required, and you know that. But if the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”
Fronto opened his mouth to argue again, but the door opened suddenly and Corvinia entered with a warm smile, followed by a grinning Balbina and a veritable army of slaves bearing steaming platters.
Corvinia greeted him warmly and Fronto cast one last warning glance at Balbus before, pushing his fears and dismay deep down into his chest, he stood and put on a smile that he hoped would look genuine.
Two days at Massilia had passed in strained pleasantry. Despite their longstanding friendship, the conversation Fronto and Balbus had shared alone that first night had soured the visit and nothing seemed able to dislodge the dark cloud from Fronto’s thoughts.
The betrothal arrangements had been made around him and despite of him, largely by Corvinia, Lucilia and Faleria, while Fronto nodded and smiled and made his best attempt at small-talk: a thing he’d never truly got the hang of. Lucilia had noticed that something was different, as had Faleria, despite his smiles, though both had had the sense and tact not to enquire as to the cause.
The morning he had said goodbye to Lucilia, Faleria and the family had been an unexpected wrench for him, despite the fact that his feet had been itching to hit the trail north as soon as the mood had turned. He was never a man to avoid confrontation in the line of duty, but a confrontation with a good friend was a different proposal.
He and Galronus had checked over their horses as the slaves of the villa and the solider from the staging post in the agora fussed around their pack animals and the many bags. Fronto had flatly refused a baggage cart due to the interminably slow pace it would set, and had purchased two strong pack beasts for the journey.
With just a few muted last hugs and kisses, he’d mounted up, tipped a nod at Galronus, and the pair had been on the road while the sun was still young and cool.
The journey along the valley of the Rhodanus was peaceful and could have been pleasant, had Fronto been in a better mood. Galronus had watched him from time to time with something like concern but, fortunately, the big Gaul seemed to have something else on his mind and did not push the conversation at any point. The worst thing that had risen from his repeated replaying of that conversation in his head was the fact that he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Balbus might be right.
After six days of almost silent travel, they arrived at the settlement of Vienna; last town on their journey north through the province of Narbonensis, before they entered the less well-trodden paths of newly-conquered Gaul. An overgrown Gallic oppidum with signs of Romanised settlement, Vienna was reckoned by many the last civilized place before further Gaul. The signs of recent settlement by the veterans of Caesar’s legions were everywhere, from the construction style of the new houses to the foundations of a new theatre and a temple to Venus and Roma in the centre.
Fronto and Galronus made for the mansio off the ‘forum’. The Sweeping Eagle was part local tavern, inn or guest house, and part military staging post. It was owned and operated by a former signaller for the Eighth legion who had retired to the town after the Helvetii campaign three years ago and had opened this business with his severance pay.
The ‘Eagle’ appeared to be thriving, not only with the traffic directed to it by the Roman officers who used it as a convenient stopping off point, the supply trains that came through here on the way to and from the army and the Roman merchants who used it as a base to ply their wares to the newly-accepting Gauls; but also, apparently, as a watering hole of choice for locals from every sector of society.
The last time Fronto had seen the place, it had been a sizeable, square, two-storey building with a courtyard surrounded by outhouses and stables behind.
Silvanus seemed to have done well in this past season. A whole new wing sprouted off from the near wall, and an extension seemed to be underway on the far side, though currently the roof there consisted of a huge leather sheet apparently constructed from old legionary tent sections. Somewhere a quartermaster would be having a fit, and a legionary mule driver would be swinging a heavy purse.
Dismounting at the entrance to the rear courtyard, Fronto and Galronus enquired as to a room, confirming that there was a double billet available in the new extension so long as they didn’t mind sleeping under a temporary roof — for a discount, of course.
The groom took their mounts while they removed the bags they would need and hauled them onto their shoulders, making for the tavern door in the failing light.
Within a few minutes they were ensconced at a heavy oak table, scratched and decorated with the names of passing soldiers and their units, as well as a number of dubious comments about the physical characteristics of their friends and some anatomically unlikely suggestions.
The man at the bar — a local with a shiny pate and bulging moustaches — caught Fronto’s eye and nodded, bringing over a dusty bottle of wine and two earthenware cups; travellers in Roman garb never asked for the local beer. Fronto and Galronus studiously examined the scratchings as the barman unstoppered the wine and gave the cups a quick wipe with his cloth. The man narrowed his eyes as he spotted the officer’s tunic with the pteruges that Fronto wore beneath his heavy cloak, and scurried away. Fronto rolled his eyes.
“See? Even he doesn’t trust a man of the legions, and this place has been at least nominally Roman since my grandfather was a twinkle in his father’s eye.”
Galronus looked up and met his gaze. It was the first hint of normal conversation they had shared in days.
“Of course,” Fronto added, “this far from the sea, I expect they hardly ever saw a citizen until Caesar marched up here.”
“Fronto…”
He frowned as he took in the strange expression on Galronus’ face.
“Are you alright?”
Galronus smiled.
“I’m thinking of taking your sister to marriage, Marcus.”
Fronto’s cup dropped to the table, splashing cheap, vinegary wine across both him and the wooden surface. His lips moved curiously.
“According to custom, I will need your agreement” the Gaul continued. “I’m not sure how it all works when we cross our customs, but your agreement is a factor in every way as far as I can see. That and gifts, though I’m a little confused as to whether I should be giving you gifts or receiving them; or possibly both.”
Fronto, his jaw slack, shuffled his chair backwards and used his bare hand to sweep the spilled drink from the side of the table where it dribbled and spattered to the floor. His eyes narrowing, he refilled the cup and drank the contents in one open-gulletted mouthful.
“You what?”
“You do not agree?”
Fronto shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I just… When…? Why hasn’t Faleria mentioned this to me?”
Galronus shrugged nonchalantly. “I haven’t told her yet.”
Fronto dropped his cup again, but caught it this time before the worst of the spillage.
“Listen, Galronus: Faleria might not be interested. She’s had a bit of a… past. She…”
“I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She’s interested.”
Fronto shook his head again, not so much in disagreement, as in astonishment. “Well, I don’t know…”
He suddenly became aware of a shadow falling across the table and looked up sharply.
“What?” he snapped at the two men standing above him. The Gallic barman looked nervous and apologetic, but that was hardly a surprise. The surprise was that the expression was mirrored in the face of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen of the Eighth legion and proprietor of the establishment. The burly veteran leaned forward.
“You’re senior officers, right, sir?”
Fronto frowned and flashed a glance at Galronus. “We’ll pick up on that little problem again later.” Turning back to the innkeeper, he pursed his lips and nodded.
“I’m the legate of the Tenth, and this is Galronus, commander of the Belgic cavalry contingent. What’s the problem?”
Silvanus looked around conspiratorially.
“Can I ask you to come with me for a few minutes, sir?”
Fronto shared a look with Galronus and the pair shrugged, standing and gathering their packs. Silvanus gave a small, hurried salute and, beckoning, scurried off toward the side door. Curious, the pair followed him out into the courtyard again, where he approached a set of cellar doors in the floor near the inn’s back wall. Crouching, he removed a heavy key and unlocked the doors, revealing a sloping ramp for beer casks, down which he trod carefully.
Fronto put his hand on the pommel of the gladius at his side as he glanced once at Galronus and then shuffled down into the dark space beneath the inn. The big Gaul followed. With the deep cerulean sky of late evening behind them, they could see very little within and it came as a surprise when they touched level floor again. A moment later there was a spark and Silvanus lit a small oil lamp, passing it to Fronto before lighting another and holding it high to illuminate the cellar.
Carefully, picking his way around the goods stored in the room, the innkeeper led them round a corner to where the other half of the cellar was divided into three parts with partition walls. Two doors remained closed, but the left-hand side, with a wide stable-style door, stood open, revealing a log store, the chunks of heavy, seasoned wood casting strange shadows as the lamplight danced across them.
“We found it yesterday. I didn’t know who to tell until you arrived.”
Fronto frowned and stepped in through the low door, ducking his head. Galronus was behind him again instantly.
The legate straightened in shock, cracking his head on the beam above the door and cursing sharply, rubbing his head.
“You see, sir? Not something to shout about.”
Fronto nodded, his eyes wide as he crouched over the body of Publius Pinarius Posca, senior tribune and nephew to Julius Caesar. There were contusions everywhere, caused by his hasty burial beneath the heavy, sharp logs, but it was clearly him. Even without the uniform tunic, Fronto would have recognised the high forehead and receded chin. His heart racing, he turned over the body. A dark stain of dried blood bloomed on his back around a wound, half way down the ribcage, slightly left of the spine.
“Murder. Plain and simple. No accident and not a fair fight.” Handing the lamp to Galronus, he used both hands to tear the crusted, hard tunic and open up a bare patch of pale, almost translucent skin beneath. The wound was neat; narrow and flat, expertly placed and professionally executed. Reaching down to his belt, Fronto slid his military-issue pugio dagger from the sheath and laid it next to the wound for comparison.
“I’d say that’s pretty convincing. And he’s been dead… three days, I reckon? Two at least, and not more than four.”
Fronto stood again and shared a look with Galronus.
“Travelling with the tribunes you think?”
The big Gaul nodded and Fronto turned to the innkeeper. “Best get him seen to by the priests in town and then arrange for him to be shipped back to Massilia and then Rome. I’ll leave you coin to cover the whole thing. We’re going to go up and have enough wine to float a trireme, but if I were you, I’d have a couple of your slaves dig through that log pile and just make sure there aren’t two effeminate junior tribunes in there too. Pinarius couldn’t have been travelling alone.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Normally I would remember senior officers passing, but there have just been so many on their way to the army that it’s been a bit of a blur.”
Fronto glanced once more at the body and then shivered.
“Come on. I need a drink.”
Galronus helped him out of the log store and the pair made their way back through the cellar and up the shallow slope to the courtyard above. Before they entered the busy main room again, Galronus grasped Fronto’s shoulder and pulled him up short.
“You think the same as me, I suspect?”
Fronto nodded.
“Two new centurions, eh? Caesar’s not going to be happy at this.”