(Quintilis: Below the headlands at the entrance to the bay of Darioritum)
White light…
Painful white light…
The taste of bile and salt…
The roaring of unbearable noise…
A smiling face.
Brutus shook his head and stared.
“Is this really the time and the place to be going for a swim?” Fronto grinned.
“Whurr?”
The capsarius who was tending to the cut on his head tutted and pushed him back against the hard surface below. Brutus closed his eyes and tried to think back and organise his thoughts. Everything swam around rather unpleasantly when he closed his eyes.
“Whurr…”
Fronto’s grin took on a note of comprehension.
“We’re on the deck of the Excidium; on our way to shore.”
Brutus continued to shake his head in semi-confusion.
“Wha? Can’ think.”
The face of the Tenth’s legate took on a slightly more sombre look.
“No survivors, I’m afraid. Other than you and the man who dragged you to the Excidium, that is. Good man there… suspect he’ll be in line for a bonus, eh?”
“No survivors?”
“Not one. The Veneti were pretty ruthless with the crew of the Aurora. They were still sawing the bodies to pieces when the two relief crews arrived. I haven’t asked, but I somehow doubt there were any survivors on their side, either. I gather the captains of the Excidium and the Accipiter took the attack and the death of their colleague sort of personally.”
Brutus shook his head again and winced.
“But they were women and children, Marcus.”
Fronto allowed a certain unconcern to show on his face.
“They were an enemy who showed you no mercy. I won’t mourn them, and neither will you.”
Brutus sat up slowly with the aid of the capsarius, who nodded in satisfaction.
“Nothing a rest won’t sort out now, sir, but go slow til you find your strength.”
As the man hurried off to tend to other casualties, Fronto reached down and helped the bedraggled officer slowly to his feet. Brutus wobbled uncertainly and grasped the rail for support. For the first time, he took stock of their surroundings.
“Where are we now?”
“At the north side of the channel. Once the captain here found you and dealt with the remaining Veneti, he came across to pick me up. Now we’re on our way to collect Balbus and then he’s ferrying the three of us back to Darioritum to Caesar. I’m assuming that things are settled there.”
Brutus nodded uncertainly.
“They should be. We left enough ships to deal with the rest of their fleet and it looked as though Caesar’s forces had control of the city. Oooh…”
For a moment he wobbled forwards, sagging against the rail.
“I feel rather unwell.”
Fronto grinned.
“I feel like that on board most ships. But at least it’s nice and calm here, and in an hour we’ll be back among the lads and I can find Cita and requisition enough wine to half-drown you again.”
Brutus gave him a weak smile.
“Then it’s over. The Veneti are quashed.”
“Hopefully. Strangely, though, I’ve been hating this place since we returned, with all the wet and the wind and the storms. Now that it’s settled and becoming quite nice, I’m getting used to it again. We’re about to dock… hold tight.”
The trireme pulled slowly up to the small jetty that marched out into the bay below the fort. A small group of armoured men with red cloaks stood in a knot at the far end. Fronto watched with interest as the Excidium came to a stop and ropes were thrown ashore and then tied.
The small group began to move slowly down the jetty and Fronto’s face tightened. Something was wrong. A lump in his throat, he focused on the small knot of men as they strode toward the trireme. He didn’t know the centurions and optios of the Eighth that Balbus had taken with him, let alone the legionaries, but he could see the figure of the aging legate in the centre.
Fronto closed his eyes and threw a prayer out.
Balbus did not look good.
The legate was being helped along the jetty and, though fully armoured and on his feet after a fashion, he was paler than many corpses Fronto had seen. Paying no further heed to Brutus or the crew of the ship, Fronto leapt over the rail to the jetty and ran along the boards to the men.
Balbus smiled weakly at him.
“Hell.” Fronto’s voice was like lead.
The older legate’s face had a faintly blue tint and Fronto shook his head desperately.
“Stop, stop, stop!” he barked at the men.
Balbus sighed and Fronto noted how he winced and shuddered when he did so.
“Oh shit. Show me your hands!”
The legate of the Eighth, confused, but too weak and pained to argue, held out a hand, the other still being grasped for support. Fronto looked down at the pale blue hand. The finger nails were bulging and wide, to the point of being unsightly. The legate of the Tenth grasped Balbus and gently took the strain, brushing the soldiers aside as he gained sole support of his friend.
Pausing long enough to give the older legate a breather, though that breath was shallow and came in gasps, he took his arm across his shoulder and began to help him slowly along the jetty, waving the other soldiers away.
Balbus smiled at him again and opened his mouth to speak, but the effort was too much and he sighed.
Fronto grimaced and took a deep breath.
“Get those ropes in and prepare to sail as soon as we’re aboard. I want to get back to the army faster than Mercury himself.”
The trierarch of the Excidium took one look at the legate and his burden and nodded, barking out orders. As the two men closed on the rail, Brutus, now largely recovered from his bleariness, reached out and helped the older legate aboard.
As they planted their feet on the deck, the hammering of a fast rhythm began and the oars began to dip. Brutus helped Fronto support the legate of the Eighth across to a free rowing bench and lowered him to it. As Fronto held him steady, the young staff officer grabbed a barrel and moved it closer to serve as a back-rest.
“Is he…” Brutus tried to find a way to be circumspect in front of Balbus but, failing, gave up. ”Is he dying?”
Fronto gave him a sharp glance.
“Not as long as I’m here, he damn well isn’t! But I want to get him to a proper medicus as soon as possible.”
Brutus frowned as he examined the ailing man.
“I’m not sure, but I think he’s slowly getting his colour back.”
“Good. But that might not be the end of it.”
Brutus turned his frown on the legate of the Tenth.
“Don’t tell me you know medicine, Fronto?”
“Hardly. But I recognise this. Happened to my dad three times in a year and the third one took him from us for good.”
He ground his teeth and glared at Balbus before smashing his fist so hard on the bench he left a crack.
“I should have damn well seen it coming. I should have spotted it!”
Brutus shrugged.
“You couldn’t have.”
“Yes I bloody could. Three times he’s complained recently of heartburn. That’s how it starts. It’ll come to you as no surprise that my father was a lover of the vine. We thought nothing of his increased indigestion and heartburn, but then this started to happen: the collapsing; the blue skin and the fat fingers.”
“But he’s clearly recovering, Marcus. Look: his colour is returning rapidly and his breathing’s steadying.”
Fronto shook his head angrily.
“Yes, but this will have weakened him for good. Once it starts, it sets off a decline.”
He turned and grasped Balbus by the shoulders, pushing him a little more upright, and stared into the older man’s face.
“You mad old bastard. You knew something was wrong. You knew you weren’t well and you volunteer to go personally invading a fort at night? Are you crazy?”
Balbus blinked and shook his head gently. The blue had faded. He was pale as could be, but better than before. With a sad smile, he opened his mouth and took a deep breath.
“Marcus? Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
“You mad old bastard. Don’t you dare do this to me. I lost Velius last year and Longinus the year before. I’m not losing anyone this year. Gaul’s had its last taste of my friends.”
Balbus chuckled quietly and wearily.
“I’m not dead, Marcus. Far from it… just over-exerted myself a little.”
Fronto continued to stare in saddened anger at him.
“Rest. Stop speaking and rest. The medicus will sort you out.”
Balbus nodded and sank gratefully back to lean against the barrel. Fronto shot a meaningful look at two sailors who stood nearby furling ropes and gestured to the older legate. The men nodded and, dropping the ropes, leaned down to take hold of the weakened officer, supporting him as he sagged into a relieved doze.
Fronto marched angrily across the deck to the far rail and smashed his fist on the wood once again, wincing at the pain. Brutus followed him over and placed his hand gingerly on the legate’s shoulder.
“He might be alright yet, Fronto? Just because it happened to your father more than once doesn’t mean it will to Balbus.”
Fronto shook his head.
“It will. Might be years before it happens again, but it will. And each time it’ll weaken him until he just can’t fight it anymore. After my father I… consulted several doctors. Balbus might be around for years yet, but not with us.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s the end of his military career. Can’t continue to command the Eighth. He’ll have to go back to Massilia for Corvinia to look after. She’ll be beside herself when she finds out.”
Brutus sighed and turned to lean on the railing, gazing out to sea.
“I can’t imagine the staff without his input. You know the younger officers and tribunes call him ‘granddad’? Not as an insult, mind you. He’s probably the most popular officer in the army. More so than you!”
Fronto snorted derisively.
“I’m not popular. I piss too many people off.”
Brutus laughed.
“I think you might be surprised. That’s one of the reasons you’re popular.”
Fronto fell into a sad silence and stared down at the water.
“I hope this is it. Hope this is the end of Gallic revolts. Time to turn this place into a province and go home. I think I might ask Caesar to relieve me and then I can go with Balbus. Someone needs to take him home and it should be someone Corvinia knows.”
Brutus shook his head.
“If there’s anything left to do, you know Caesar won’t let you go, especially if he’s already losing the legate of the Eighth.”
Fronto ignored the comment, staring into the churning water, his mind refusing to let him rest. Balbus couldn’t have looked different from Lucius Falerius Fronto, a tall man with speckled black and grey hair and a wide face with a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and yet whenever Fronto thought of the older legate now, he couldn’t help but draw a disturbing number of parallels between the two.
Balbus had been the first friendly and sympathetic person he’d met after leaving Cremona with the Tenth more than two years ago. He’d grown close to the man in that time and realised that Balbus was, in fact, the only man in Caesar’s army that he trusted implicitly and automatically deferred to the opinion of.
The conquest of Gaul was exerting a high price indeed.
He stared out across the bay toward where he presumed Darioritum to be and willed the trireme on as fast as he could.
Fronto paced and fretted.
“For Juno’s sake, sit down! You’re giving me a headache.”
Brutus pointed meaningfully at the bench next to him and raised an eyebrow at Fronto.
“Can’t relax until I hear the medicus’ opinion.”
“I know, but he’s not going to work any faster just because you’re wearing a rut in the turf.”
He watched as Fronto kicked at a tuft of grass in irritation and tried to identify a way to turn the legate’s mind to a different subject.
“I expected you to explode at Caesar. At least an argument.”
Fronto stopped pacing and glared at him.
“He’s the general. It’s his game, so let him choose his rules.”
Brutus was beginning to worry. Fronto being argumentative and out of sorts was normal Fronto. Fronto being acquiescent and submissive was a disturbing sight. They had arrived at Caesar’s hastily-erected headquarters tent less than an hour ago. The oppidum was being systematically cleared and searched by the Eleventh and Thirteenth legions prior to becoming a temporary encampment but in the meantime, Caesar had needed somewhere to debrief with his officers and the temporary camp prefect had responded by providing a tent near the docks.
As soon as they’d landed on the jetty, Balbus had been taken off his hands by one of the capsarius that was working nearby and escorted to another hastily-raised surgical tent where the chief medicus could check him over. Fronto had refused to attend Caesar and had gone with Balbus, only to find that the medicus would not admit him. Angrily, he had raged impotently for a few minutes and then rejoined the officers at the general’s tent.
There had been surprisingly few casualties at Darioritum, given the scale of the operation, and Caesar had been in an uncharacteristically good mood, offering a great deal of praise to most of those involved, and particularly to Fronto, Brutus and the absent Balbus. Fronto had all but ignored the compliment, staring glassily into a dark corner, his mind elsewhere.
The news of Caesar’s designs for the Veneti had met with varied responses. The execution of the leaders was to be expected, given the fact that they had risen in revolt against Rome after having accepted terms only the year before. Examples had to be made and every officer knew the value of that, but the decision to ship the rest of the tribe: men, women and children indiscriminately, off to Rome to the slave markets had been more of a surprise.
Given the current objective of Romanising the Gauls, depopulating an entire region was perhaps working against their goal. The idea had been popular in some circles, though. The profit from the mass slave sales would be passed down from the general to the officers and men of the army. A legionary with a cash bonus was a happy legionary, regardless of the source of the money. Brutus had been less enthralled with the decision and had prepared for a huge outburst from Fronto. Indeed, he had not been alone. Most knowing eyes turned to the commander of the Tenth at the news, but Fronto nodded blankly, staring into the shadows.
The entire meeting had taken less than half an hour and then Brutus had accompanied the worried legate as he had left the command tent, striding across the grass while officers and men went about their assorted business, rank upon rank of Veneti captives being roped and penned ready for their long journey to permanent servitude. On the high walls of the oppidum, close to the main gate, the leaders of the Veneti were being crucified on ‘T’ shaped posts, where they would remain until exposure or carrion feeders took their last breath from them, or until Caesar relented and decided to grant them a quick death by the sword.
And now, for the last twenty minutes, they had stayed outside the tent of the chief medicus on Caesar’s staff, Brutus sitting in a gloom of his own while Fronto paced and grumbled.
“Fronto!”
The pair of them looked up at the call. Crispus, the young legate of the Eleventh, was making his way toward them alongside an officer Fronto didn’t recognise. The worried legate waved a hand half-heartedly in greeting.
“How’s he doing?” Crispus asked as they reached the bench, his voice full of concern.
“How the bloody hell would we know?” Fronto barked irritably. Crispus drew back in surprise, his companion’s face registering the same expression.
“Sorry” Brutus apologised for him. “The medicus won’t let him in.”
Fronto glared at them.
“Look,” Crispus said quietly, “I know that you’re vexed. As soon as you have seen the medicus, we are going to take you into the city and find a purveyor of alcohol where we can let you drown that sorrow.”
Fronto shook his head silently, still pacing.
“It wasn’t an offer, Fronto. It was a statement.”
Fronto rounded on him, a finger raised, and opened his mouth, just as the tent flap opened. The four men attending outside looked up apprehensively.
“Legate Balbus is resting.”
“Out of the way.”
As Fronto tried to push the medicus aside, the man stood firm in the doorway until the other three officers pulled the struggling legate back into the open. Fronto rounded on the unknown officer, a pale, thin, serious looking fellow with straight black hair.
“These two can get away with that.” He raised his hand threateningly. “You I don’t know, and you’d better be on first name terms with the Styx boatman if you ever touch me again.”
Crispus hauled Fronto around.
“This is Lucius Roscius, your fellow legate from the Thirteenth. Roscius, don’t mind Fronto, he’s just a little upset right now.”
Fronto turned a withering glare on them and then swung back to the medicus, who was standing rigid and blocking the doorway.
“Let me in.”
“No, legate Fronto. Your friend is resting and may well already be asleep. I have administered a mixture of henbane and opium to induce extended rest. If he is strong enough, I will allow you to visit tomorrow morning. He will not be disturbed or moved now until tonight when he can be carefully transferred to a safe, hygienic, building in the oppidum.”
Fronto glared at the medicus and Brutus frowned.
“So what is your diagnosis?”
“I have let his blood in appropriate quantities and slowed the flow with mandragora. The symptoms I have had described to me are consistent with a condition Galen noted, and the physical evidence supports that diagnosis. If there are no complications of which I am unaware, legate Balbus can prevent further attacks of this kind with a careful regimen of diet, light exercise and a calm environment that is not too wet and earthy, since his black bile is, I fear, in excess. There should also be periodic bloodletting to help restore the balance of the humors and bring the black bile back down.”
Fronto shook his head angrily.
“He doesn’t need cutting. They did that to my dad and it made no difference.”
The medicus glared at him.
“Do not presume, legate, to lecture me on medicine. I know nothing of your father’s progression, but I am entirely confident in my diagnosis. You may visit tomorrow morning.”
Without a further word, he turned and retreated into the tent. Fronto lunged for the doorway, but Brutus stepped into the way.
“Come and have a drink. You need it, whether you want it or not.”
Grasping the shoulder of the grumbling legate, Brutus turned him away from the tent. Almost as though a spell were broken when he lost sight of the leather door flap, Fronto took a deep breath and gripped and released his hands a couple of times.
“Yes. Wine. Or possibly even Gaulish beer. Preferably by the cask, in either case.”
As the four men strode toward the oppidum’s gate, Fronto turned to the pale young man in the burnished breastplate to his left.
“Sorry. Rude of me. Not your fault. I guess we met in Rome?”
Roscius smiled, an odd sight on his grave, alabaster face.
“I had the honour of accompanying Caesar to your home on the Aventine, yes, legate, though we had no opportunity to speak then.”
Fronto nodded.
“Good thing really. I don’t think I was a very courteous host that day. But then, I was piss wet through.”
Roscius smiled again.
“I believe you merely corrected bad manners among your guests. No gentleman could find fault with that.”
Fronto gave a weak smile, his first in hours.
“I think I like you, Roscius.”
“High praise indeed” the man said, his face straight, but a twinkle in his eye.
Fronto laughed as the four officers approached the gate of Darioritum.
Balbus had been one of his best friends these past few years, but it was occasionally driven home into his gloomy consciousness that there were more people he relied on in this army than the legate of the Eighth. A small collection of good friends always seemed to be on hand whenever he needed them.
The oppidum was eerie. The entire population of Darioritum had been rounded up, along with the other Veneti refugees, and placed in guarded stockades nearby. The town itself stood hollow and empty, like Carthage after Scipio was done with it. The only signs of life were the occasional contubernium of legionaries, performing a secondary sweep of the buildings, and the occasional moans of the crucified leaders on the wall.
The gate remained intact, the huge portal standing open; a testament to how easily the Roman force had stormed the oppidum.
“I’m not sure I like the ‘Carthage’ solution. When we occupy a Gallic oppidum, there’s usually local merchants and innkeepers still there to serve us afterwards. That’s how it goes: we beat them, but then we invite them to become part of our empire and we pay them for their services appropriately. It’s all good… but when they’re systematically extinguished, it feels wrong.”
Crispus nodded sagely.
“It is an old-fashioned response. And brutal, I admit. However, in terms of inn keeping, I fear I have frequented enough establishments these days to have a strong grasp of what is required. Let us find a tavern and I shall serve the drinks.”
Fronto smiled at him.
“You, Crispus, are a constant source of support to a weary old soldier.”
“Sir?” a strong voice called out from behind.
The four men turned together to see Atenos, chief centurion of the Second cohort in the Tenth legion, striding after them.
“Centurion?”
“Legate, I have a message for you.”
Fronto nodded “Go on then?”
The huge Gallic centurion held out his hand. A neat scroll tube lay in it.
“Oh, a written message. Alright.”
As he grasped it, he frowned.
“This has come from Priscus in Rome. He doesn’t let other people handle these?”
Atenos shrugged.
“I wasn’t about to let the courier disturb you now, legate. I may have made him soil his breeches before he agreed to hand it over, though.”
Fronto stared.
“Anyway, Atenos… I’ve been hearing stories about your performance since we parted. What the hell did you think you were doing?”
The big Gaul shrugged.
“Training, sir.”
With a salute, he turned and strode off. Fronto shook his head.
“That man is going to either make or break the Tenth. I’m not sure which, but I’m certainly glad he’s on our side.”
A chorus of chuckles greeted the comment and the officers ambled on through the main street until they spotted, not far along, a tavern sign hanging over a low, oaken building.
“That’ll do.”
As they made their way into the murky interior, Crispus trotted lightly over to the bar area and began to look up and down behind it.
“They’ve got some fairly potent looking brews here; the smell is curling my nose hair. There’s some wine here, though. Looks like its come all the way from Gallia Narbonensis. Could be just the thing to relax you, Marcus.”
As Fronto wandered across to the table by the window and sank into a chair, Brutus gathered other seating from around the bar where it had been overturned and Roscius, an intrigued frown on his pale brow, walked across to the bar to help Crispus.
“You actually drink the local brews?”
“Indeed, yes. Try them… you might be surprised. I’ve grown quite accustomed to them. When we returned to Rome in the winter, I had to pay an emperor’s ransom to import beer from Vesontio. Imagine that: importing Gallic goods to the capital.”
As the two men laughed and went along the kegs, Fronto undid the scroll case and unrolled the letter.
Marcus.
I do not know where to begin. Things are beginning to fall apart in Rome. I would be careful how you pass this on, but the elder Cicero has been before the senate a few times, attacking Caesar’s various bill and achievements. Not sure why or what he hopes to achieve, but he is definitely stirring up trouble for the general.
Clodius appears to have stopped visiting Pompey’s house. I suspect we have been seen observing them, since the two never meet now, but I have seen Philopater speaking to some of Pompey’s men from time to time, so there is still something going on.
A number of people who gave evidence for Caelius in the trial have come to a nasty end in the last week. It appears that Philopater has been a busy man. Three known allies turned up on the banks of the Tiber following a swim while attached to marble busts of the general, so I think we can read a message into that, and two more died when their houses mysteriously burned to the ground.
But I’m afraid I have saved the worst for last.
Your mother was attacked at the market yesterday. I was not present. She was out shopping with Posco when, according to witnesses, they were jumped by four men and dragged into an alleyway. Do not worry unduly. I had a medicus visit the house straight away as soon as they returned. Your mother was beaten, but not seriously wounded. She is more shaken and frightened than in actual pain. Posco fared worse, as he tried to fight them off.
I have no hope of discovering the identity of the men who attacked them, since there was no sign of them when I got to the site of the attack, but there is one ray of light. A beggar saw what happened. The four attackers took them into the alley and, moments later, another man entered too. The beggar said he looked like he might be a retired soldier, but whoever he was, it looks like he saved the pair of them as, moments later, they returned to the street, running for home, and shortly after, he reappeared and left the scene. The enterprising beggar followed the old soldier and gave me an address for a paltry sum of money.
I go today to try and track this man down and find out whether he is involved or merely a brave passer-by. Either way, I have spent considerable amounts of your money hiring more men and have put a permanent large guard on your mother and Faleria, and all the house and servants.
I will write again as soon as I know more. I have received nothing from you yet since my last letter, but then I assume your courier is still on route to me. I hope the campaign out there finishes soon, as we really could do with you being back here.
Hoping Fortuna continues to watch over you.
Gnaeus.
“The answer is no.”
Fronto ripped his hands away from the table in disgust and whirled away from the general, grinding his teeth. He took a deep breath, willing himself calm, and then turned back.
“But we’re done here, and the legions are staying. You don’t need me.”
“Fronto, whether we’re done here or not remains to be seen. The battle only concluded today, for the love of Venus!”
The general sighed and cradled his hands on the flat, wooden surface, fixing Fronto with a sympathetic look.
“I know you want to go home. I understand that, Marcus. I want to, as well. And I’m aware that Balbus is going to have to be sent back to Massilia and that you’ll want to go with him, but the timing is simply not auspicious for such acts.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Then what are we waiting for? Tell me that!”
“We have to give it at least a week here to make sure that we have all of the Veneti and that no more centres of resistance are going to spring up. We need to contact the Osismii along the coast and make sure that they know the situation and are willing to take their oaths and acquiesce to the power of Rome. We have to wait on word from Crassus, Labienus and Sabinus to make sure their actions have also been a success. I am simply not willing to leave the job unfinished and march back to Rome without being certain that Gaul is completely pacified.”
Fronto growled.
“This benighted bloody country is never going to be pacified. Crispus has this lovely analogy of a lumpy sleeping pallet that describes the whole damn situation in disgusting detail. And anyway, Sabinus and Labienus are capable of doing all this for you, and Crassus will probably have executed half the population of the south west by now, so you could go to Rome if you really wanted.”
A sly look crossed his face.
“Remember the letter I showed you? Cicero’s causing you trouble. You need to get home too and deal with that.”
Caesar’s eyes hardened.
“Marcus, you are not changing my mind; you are merely beginning to aggravate me. We will remain at Darioritum until we receive word from the other armies…”
Fronto started to speak but Caesar raised his voice and shouted over the top.
“AND IF WE ARE REQUIRED TO CARRY OUT FURTHER ACTIONS WE WILL DO THAT TOO!”
He fell silent under the glare of the Tenth’s legate and sighed again.
“Look, Marcus, I am not unsympathetic, but you are a soldier. You know how this has to be done, and if you were thinking like a soldier right now, it would be you saying these things and not me. You are angry, tired, worried and saddened by both Balbus and your family’s plight. However, your place is with me and with the Tenth until the campaign is at an end for the year.”
Fronto opened his mouth again, but Caesar held up his finger.
“You can be of no help to Balbus right now. In fact, your presence and involvement is more likely to cause him further discomfort than to relax him. As soon as my personal medicus says he can travel, I will send Balbus home with the best doctors we have to offer, a small group of helpers and an escort of veterans from Ingenuus’ guard. Likely the Eighth will want to send an escort too. And then, when the time comes and we are done in Gaul, you and I shall both visit Balbus and his lovely wife on our journey back.”
Fronto grumbled, but kept his mouth shut.
“Your sister and mother are in the best hands available, Fronto, as you well know. Priscus is not going to let anything happen to them. Your mother has suffered, I know, but now Priscus will be looking after her and making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Again, Fronto grumbled, but said nothing.
“Marcus, we have to be sure here first. Logical. Methodical. Certain. Go and find your close friends, drink yourself into a comfortable stupor, get some good solid sleep, visit Balbus in the morning, and then we’ll talk again. I can’t spare you until the campaign’s over and you know that, but in the morning you’ll be rested and thinking straight.”
The general smiled slyly.
“How often do I actually advocate your binges, Marcus? Look on this as an opportunity, as I will not expect you at the staff meeting in the morning.”
Fronto sagged. The problem was that the general was correct in everything he said. His presence would only make Balbus try harder and strain himself, when he should be lying back and relaxing. Priscus would have taken the attack on his mother rather personally and would tear Rome to pieces to stop it happening again. And most of all, if the army did not complete the job here in Gaul, they would end up coming back again later in the year, or early in the next, to put down yet another rebellious tribe.
It galled him, but he couldn’t fault the reasoning. Of course, he didn’t feel very reasonable, right now.
“I’ll do just that. Try not to be too surprised if I’m not here tomorrow, though.”
It was a stupid and petty thing to say, and he knew it. His gaze refused to rise to meet that of Caesar. The general smiled as though he saw plainly through the childishness.
“Drink, relax and sleep, Marcus. Tomorrow is a new day.”
Fronto glared up at him, but nodded despondently and then turned and scuffed his feet angrily on the way out of the tent.
By now, all the Veneti prisoners had been processed and were safely locked away in guarded stockades. The commotion had died down considerably, the Roman fleet moored in the bay, and much of the army organising themselves ready to move into the oppidum, leaving large vexillations of troops outside in camps. Fronto marched past them, ignoring the activity as he made his way back to the gate with its grisly decoration and the street beyond with the tavern sign that marked the location of his friends.
As he rounded the gate entrance and entered the main thoroughfare, his gaze fell on four men making their way down the centre of the road toward him and he frowned.
The two men in the centre were staggering, supported by legionaries at their shoulders. They appeared to be Gauls, dirty and unkempt; perhaps refugees who had hidden in a pig pen or a…
He blinked as he realised that the brown, stained and torn tunics that the men wore beneath the fresh woollen cloaks about their shoulders had once been the crimson tunics of Romans. The two men were Romans. His eyes refocused. They were Romans, but they had beards and long hair. Dirty and disfigured.
No… not disfigured, but walking with limps and cradling weakened or broken arms.
“Who’s that?”
The legionaries, startled by the sudden attention from a legate, almost jumped to a salute, remembering at the last minute to hold on to the men they escorted. One of the hairy, unkempt figures looked up in surprise.
“Fronto?”
The legate frowned.
“Who the hell are you?”
The man opened his mouth and grinned, three missing teeth making a conspicuous hole in his smile.
“Quintus Velanius.”
“Velanius?”
He knew the name, but couldn’t place it.
“Oh come on, Fronto. We played dice often enough last year? Senior tribune of the Eleventh.”
Fronto’s eyes widened.
“Velanius? I thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead. It’s been months!”
The legate came to a halt as the groups met and he looked the tribune and his companion up and down. They had clearly been brutalised and tortured, but nothing that wouldn’t mend. He couldn’t believe it.
“Stop shaking your head, Fronto. You look like there’s something wrong with you.”
“But how?”
“We were kept in a cellar; a virtual dungeon. It’s like the tullianum. We’ve been shouting for hours, since we heard the Veneti leave, but these lads only just found us.”
Fronto grinned, feeling a little of the weight of anger and sadness fall away.
“You need a shave.”
The tribune next to Velanius, whose name escaped Fronto, laughed.
“Not just shave, but scrape months of crud from the skin. I feel like I’ve been living in a latrine… a cramped latrine.”
“And then” Fronto added, “after you’ve had a bath, you need to report to the general, get yourself debriefed as quickly as possible, and then get back here and make for that building over there, with the hanging sign.”
Velanius shook his head, smiling.
“You never change, Fronto. We’ll join you tomorrow, perhaps. Today, we need to recuperate and sleep.”
Fronto shrugged.
“Suit yourself, but my purse only stays open for so long.”
“Yes, until you’ve lost it all at dice.”
“Sod off” he said, grinning madly.
The officers continued to smile at one another for a while, and then Velanius sighed.
“Come on. We need to go. See you later, Fronto.”
The legate nodded, smiling, as the two men limped off with their escort. He watched them until they passed through the gate and out of sight, and then turned and crossed the street, entering the tavern. To his surprise, no one else had yet joined the other three occupants.
“Fronto. How’d it go?”
As he entered, he strode across to the seat he’d left around an hour ago as he’d finished reading Priscus’ letter, and sank gratefully into it. As he exhaled slowly, Crispus placed a mug in front of him. Fronto eyed it and then looked up at this friend, an eyebrow raised.
“No wine?”
“Drink that. It will do you good. I’ve tested three or four now, and I think I can safely say that this is the one you need tonight.”
Reaching forward, he sniffed the mug and recoiled before grasping it and tentatively taking a sip.
“Juno’s arse… that tastes like… well, I suppose it tastes like Juno’s arse, probably.”
“Get it down you.”
Opposite, Brutus, grasping a cup of wine that Fronto eyed enviously, sat back.
“I assume that Caesar said no?”
Fronto nodded.
“Not really a surprise. We knew he would. What did he say about Balbus? Is he sending him back straight away?”
“Soon as the medicus agrees to it.”
“Has he decided on what to do with the Eighth?”
Fronto frowned.
“You have the sound of a man angling for a legate’s position?”
Brutus shrugged.
“Little need for more naval activity. I don’t want to jump into Balbus’ boots while they’re still warm but… well, yes. I can see myself in the position. Can’t you?”
Fronto shook his head.
“Probably not. Maybe, but probably not. The general had already lined up Cicero for the next available legate position. Not sure whether he’ll still go through with it, given that Cicero’s brother’s busy calling him names in front of the senate, but there you go.”
Crispus retrieved his own drink, and Roscius of the Thirteenth used a foot to push a chair out for him. Crispus nodded and sat.
“So the situation in Rome is not troublesome enough to encourage Caesar back there yet? Not even the disturbing possibility that Pompey and Cicero are now in league together against him; possibly even with Clodius?”
Fronto shook his head and eyed the mug of dark, frothy liquid suspiciously.
“There’s no real evidence of that. It’s just conjecture. Problem is: I like Pompey. Always did. If Caesar had half of Pompey’s honour; his way with people, he could rule the world.”
He smiled.
“Mind you, if Pompey had half of Caesar’s guts, so could he.”
Crispus nodded.
“Between them, Crassus and Clodius, the future of Rome is beginning to look distinctly oligarchic.”
Fronto frowned in incomprehension and Roscius smiled.
“Run by a few powerful men. Like multiple kings” he said quietly.
Fronto sighed.
“There was me being desperate to get home, but the more you lot talk about it, the gladder I am that I’m out here.”
Brutus smiled and took a sip of wine.
“On the bright side, Marcus, we’ve some time to breathe, rest and recover. Nothing else is likely to happen until we have word from the other armies.”
Fronto leaned back in his seat and, closing his eyes tight, threw down the entire mug of insipid ale in three huge gulps, before belching loudly and slamming the mug on the table.
“Resting it is, then. Now take this shit away and find me something in a nice red.”
Interim — Late Quintilis: Rome
Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus slumped against the cold marble and winced. He’d been kidding himself all winter and spring that by the end of the year he’d be as strong on his feet as ever he was, but this last day of ducking into doorways and stomping around the streets of the city had made it abundantly clear that he’d never be that Priscus again. His lame leg was strong enough to support him and walk for a while though after an hour every step became a dull, painful ache. The limp slowed him down and, after a day on his feet, he was beginning to worry that, if he fell over, he might never get up again.
But the day was almost over. The sun had already sunk behind the Esquiline Gate away behind him and night was beginning to draw in.
He’d been curious this morning when he first shadowed the address the beggar had given him. The apartment block in which the mysterious man had been renting a room was what could charitably be called ‘humble’, and Priscus had loitered across the passageway at dawn, wrapped in a plain woollen cloak, waiting for the man to show his face.
And when he did, Priscus had frowned and watched the man intently, trying not to register his surprise. He knew him from somewhere. Perhaps he was a veteran of the Tenth, or someone he’d met among the other legions over the past couple of years. He couldn’t place the face precisely, but the man was hauntingly familiar, with his light and athletic frame and chiselled, sun-tanned features.
For a while, he had worried that his limp and slight deformity would make his pursuit obvious. He hadn’t realised until he paid attention to the people in the streets around him, however, just how many lame or crippled folk littered the streets of the great city in the lower class areas, and his prey remained unaware of the former centurion following his every move.
It was humbling to think on how many of these lame people all around had also served in the legions until that wound crippled them and took away their livelihood. It struck home how privileged he was to be allowed to continue to serve in such a condition.
And so he had blended with the poor folk of Rome as he followed his quarry throughout the day, and the man had busied himself with what Priscus considered to be the most dull and mundane routine possible. The absolute high point of excitement had been a visit to the baths and a bite of lunch, breaking up the monotony of shopping, washing clothes, reading the notices of the acta diurna in the forum, a couple of visits to temples and an hour or two spent poring through records in the Tabularium. Priscus had tried, but had not managed to get close enough to see what records the man had examined. All in all, a frustrating day for the lame spy.
He had been about to give up on the whole affair and pass off the situation and the saving of lady Faleria, Fronto’s mother, as pure good chance. As a last nod toward thoroughness, he had followed the man, clearly a former soldier, back toward his rooms as the sun began to sink, only to watch him walk straight past the building and to the market stall along the street, where he stopped to purchase a spray of colourful and sweet smelling flowers.
Intrigued now, he had followed the man once more as he made his way east to the edge of the city and then out through the Esquiline Gate, past the sub-urban spread beyond, and out along the great Via Labicana, lined with its tombs, monuments and mausolea.
He had been forced to fall back a little once they had left the press of city folk and made their way along the sparsely populated road.
Finally, but a moment ago, the man had stopped and, producing a key, ducked furtively to the roadside and unlocked the gate of a tall, circular mausoleum.
Priscus watched with interest as he leaned against the marble, rubbing his hip and thigh and wincing with the pain. When this was over, he would have to travel half the width of the city to get back to the Falerius household. He would need a soak and a drink when he got back.
Grumbling, he watched the silent bulk of the circular tomb. The light continued to fade and he had to pull sharply back into the shadows as the man reappeared and, locking the gate, turned back toward the city and strode off with a weary, heavy gait.
Priscus dithered, unsure whether to follow the man back to town or investigate the mausoleum, but the pause allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and he spared one last glance at the retreating figure of his quarry before lumbering quietly across the road and to the solid iron gate of the tomb.
Inset into a smooth marble facade, the gate was fastened with a sturdy lock, the interior obscured by a second curved wall that formed a passage around the edge of the mausoleum and circled a central chamber. Priscus could see a small oil lamp on the shelf opposite, and the heady, mixed aroma of sweet flowers and burning oil proclaimed that the lamp had been used recently. A striking flint stood on the shelf next to it.
Was it sacrilegious? Would he be pursued throughout the rest of his life by the lemures if he did what he was thinking of doing? He smiled. Fronto was getting all superstitious and worrying about ghosts and demons, but the Vinicii were made of more practical stuff.
Still smiling, he reached into his tunic and withdrew a steel spike around three inches long. He may be from a respectable family himself, but there were skills one learned that came from lower-born influences. The smile sliding into a wide grin, he began to work at the lock with the spike, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth until, after a minute, there was a click and the lock fell open.
Much better this way. A rock would have been quicker, but it would have been impossible to conceal the fact that someone unauthorised had been here.
Taking a quick glance around the area, he satisfied himself that he was alone in the near dark. Taking a deep breath, he swung the gate open, grateful that it did not grind or squeak.
Lighting the oil lamp was quick and easy, since it had only very recently been extinguished and Priscus raised it above his head so as not to blind his night vision with the flickering flame. The encircling corridor stretched off for a couple of yards ahead but, as he shuffled down it, the arch into the central enclosure was close by.
Taking a deep breath, the possibility that someone could be lurking in the dark only now occurring to him, Priscus ducked swiftly through the arch and stood, his jaw agape as he took in the sight of the central chamber.
As with most high-born family mausolea of this fashion, the walls were dotted with alcoves, each of which held a cinerary urn for a member of the family. Between them, often below the urns, small inscriptions of high quality named the deceased, though none were large enough to be visible in the flickering lamplight from the doorway.
It was not these that had caused Priscus’ jaw to drop.
A large slab or table stood in the centre of the chamber and upon it lay the body of a woman. Priscus almost dropped the lamp as he stared at the peaceful form of the lady Clodia, coins on her eyes for the journey, her arms folded across her chest and topped with fresh flowers, the body wrapped from feet to sternum in expensive white Egyptian linen.
Priscus stumbled forward, his mind reeling. Clodia had been missing for months, though clearly, from the lack of decay, she had only died some time in the last day or two. His heart racing, he crossed to her and looked at the body in a low panic. Her throat bore a thin purple line. Strangled with something narrow; possibly a leather thong. He shuddered. Clodia was, there was no denying it, a wicked and troublesome woman and she had likely deserved this; earned it a hundred time over. And yet it was with a strange sadness that Priscus stood over the sleeping woman, her perfect face finally peaceful in death.
His hip gave way again and he staggered, fumbling with the lamp and almost dropping it. Wincing, he fell back against the wall, his heart leaping as two of the funeral urns wobbled distressingly for a moment. He grasped the base of an alcove and steadied himself as, for the first time, his eyes fell upon one of the inscriptions.
Q Aelius Paetus Numidius
Priscus’ mind swam. He stared and then, shaking his head, pulled himself across to one of the other alcoves.
T Paetus Corvus
More.
Every alcove another Paetus.
Priscus stood blinking in the presence of the innumerable dead, heaving in deep breaths. Fronto was going to love his next letter!