Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (4 page)

"Oh piss off Quintus. You sound like Faleria now."

He looked around at the garland strewn, drape-infested room.

"And you could have removed all the family death masks. Is that really appropriate?"

"Our ancestors have as much right to see this as I do. Pull that fake smile up a notch - the witnesses are here."

Fronto's smile passed from the forced to the genuine as the ten witnesses for the ceremony appeared in the doorway, escorted by Balbus' body slave. The rest of the household were all busy attending the women, leaving them with one decrepit gardener and the reedy Greek that Balbus treated like a family member.

Galba, the former legate of the Twelfth legion, had been a natural choice, having shared years of friendship and comradeship in the army and having returned to the city to take up the role of a Praetor. He wore the toga strangely naturally, given his military bearing and stocky form, and he headed the group as the very image of the Roman nobleman.

Behind him, Rufus carried his toga yet more naturally. The taciturn, quiet man had been a last moment addition to the list when Fronto learned of his arrival in the city. Rufus had resigned his commission in the Ninth in order to return to Rome and work through his father's estate, following the old man's passing in the winter. Despite the unhappy reason for his return, his presence was welcomed by Fronto. He added a certain gravitas to any occasion.

The same could not be said of the third figure. Galronus still shied away from the toga, despite having been officially granted citizenship just after Saturnalia and accounting himself the equal of any knight of Rome. His Gallic finery sat at peculiar odds to the rest, but somehow lightened the proceedings and helped Fronto relax just that tiny, necessary bit.

Faleria followed Galronus a little too closely, which brought the corners of Fronto's mouth up a tiny bit further. The Remi chief had made his intentions clear to Faleria at a family gathering with distant cousins and uncles at the villa in Puteoli during the Parentalia festival. Fronto had almost burst out laughing at the number of very serious relations who almost expired in shock at the audacity of the 'barbarian' as they saw him. Only Fronto, Faleria and their mother had managed to maintain their calm manner. The older lady had surprised Fronto by smiling and congratulating both the young Belgic warrior and her daughter, but the biggest surprise had been the complaint from Faleria that he had taken far too long in drumming up the courage to speak to her about it. Their betrothal was due to be announced at the wedding feast this very evening - a victory of Fronto's in the attempt to shift some of the focus from himself during the agonising parade of Rome's chinless, worthless upper class.

Behind Faleria came three of Balbus' relatives that Fronto had only met once during the arrangements, all of whom held position and property in the city.

After them, filling the final three places of the ten-person witness party, came three Roman luminaries that Faleria had secured: the orator Cicero, the poet Catullus and finally, surprisingly, Publius Crassus the younger, Monetalis and Augur of Rome and former commander of Caesar's Seventh legion. While Cicero and Catullus' presence could easily be sought and bought by anyone with the right name and offers, Fronto had snorted when Faleria had suggested Crassus. Despite a certain grudging respect for the young martinet of an officer who had done as much damage to Rome's cause in Gaul as he had to the Gauls themselves, he was not at all sure why the young man had agreed to attend. Crassus was on a star-strewn path to glory in the Roman administration. Next year he would join his father in their attempt to obliterate Parthia and after that: probably a consulship, knowing the family's luck and connections. Crassus had never shown any real affinity with Fronto, but he did have a history of social activity with the Falerii. Fronto resolved to spend as little time in the man's presence as possible today.

Faces were missing - faces that made him sad. His mother, for one: retired now almost permanently to the villa in Puteoli, her strength in a gentle if saddening decline. The letter from Priscus apologising for not being able to be present was still on his desk. He had read it several times, finding it hard to believe that one of his oldest friends would not be here. But Priscus was still an officer and had duties. He was seemingly involved in something that simply would not afford him the time to take leave. He had intimated big things, but it was his absence that Fronto had fixated upon. He would have liked Carbo here too. Even in the just two years the man had served as his second, he had come to trust and rely upon that jolly pink-faced centurion. But Caesar had denied all leave for anyone below staff rank - even Crispus, one of his dearest friends in the army was trapped with his legion in Gaul. Varus had accepted the invitation but had been struck down with a malady in the harsh Gaulish winter that had prevented him travelling.

Still, no use dwelling on the depressing absences. This was a 'happy occasion' as his sister had been drilling into his skull for the past two weeks of nightmarish organisation. Fronto had perfected his old trick of making himself so difficult and irritating that they sent him away and had managed to be ejected from the house by mid-morning every day to spend his time with Galronus at the races or in the taverns of the city.

He couldn't help but wonder whether that was a situation that would change in the next few hours. Lucilia was a strong-willed woman.

"Marcus, you look well. Almost blissfully, in fact." Rufus smiled warmly as he crossed the room.

"You think so? I think he looks uncomfortable and slightly sick" replied Galba with a grin that caused Rufus to elbow him sharply in the ribs.

"Glad you could come" Fronto replied weakly. He was starting to tremble slightly and had no idea how to stop it. He was also aware of the clamminess of his palms and hoped he would not have to shake hands with anyone. Perhaps he was ill? If he was properly ill, he might be able to delay proceedings?

Quickly, he ran a mental check over his body. Trembling. Sweaty palms. Churning stomach. Dry mouth. Headache. Sadly, nothing concrete for illness. They were all associated with nerves and there was nothing he could do about that. He had faced so many dangers in his time, from screaming, violent barbarians to murderous villains to collapsing buildings. But nothing brought the shaky fear to the surface like this.

"Time I moved away" Balbus said quietly. "Be strong." With a last gesture, he held up the small object he had been gripping the past hour. Fronto peered at the ring before reaching out and grasping it.

"A plain iron one would have done."

"Not for my daughter. Behave and don't whimper."

Fronto was about to deliver a cutting reply, but his old friend - future father! - had already stepped away into position near the witnesses. Time was almost up. With a shiver, Fronto shifted his weight to the other foot and faffed with the toga, trying to align it better and distribute the weight more evenly. How could a damn article of clothing weigh more than his armour?

But that was his lot in life now: No more cuirass and helm. Just a toga.

He squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the depression sinking in again. Any time he started contemplating the future he ended up in a grey miserable fog that lasted until he was safely drunk.

Aware that he probably looked deranged, standing with one leg slightly bent, shuffling and shaking and with his eyes squeezed shut, he straightened and opened them.

And remembered why he was doing this.

Lucilia was simply stunning. Fronto had seen dozens of weddings and dozens of brides in his time, and it was virtually impossible to tell one bride from the next until they changed out of the traditional garments, but somehow Lucilia managed to look individual, different and beautiful.

Her hair was bound up in the traditional six-locked cone shape, draped with the flame-coloured veil that shimmered and floated before her face, giving her features a gauzy, other-worldly appearance. Her white tunic, girdled with the double knot was somehow divine in its austerity. The saffron-shaded palla over her shoulders was quietly magnificent, cut in silk from beyond Parthia by an expert seamstress. Her golden sandals clicked lightly on the marble.

Fronto realised that his symptoms had almost entirely vanished, replaced by a speedily-thumping heart. He hoped he didn't look too vacant and reminded himself not to drool.

Corvinia and Balbina and the various women of the family came on in her wake, almost overshadowed by her stunning beauty. Fronto hardly noticed them as they moved from the open garden into the tablinum and greeted the witnesses with a simple nod. Fronto realised that he had started walking automatically, before his brain had even sent the message to his feet, keeping pace with the bride as she passed through the spacious room and into the atrium, where the altar had been placed next to the impluvium pool. From somewhere off to the left, an old man in the white robe of a haruspex shuffled into view, leading a thoroughly washed and deodorised pig, who snorted in a disgruntled manner. The old man almost fell over the pig which, Fronto knew, would be taken for a bad omen by many, but managed to right himself just in time. Old Bucco was Balbus' uncle and had the distinction of having been Pontifex Maximus for a brief stint following the Social war. How the doddery old lunatic managed to stay upright on his ageing bow legs was a matter of question for Fronto, but the man was undeniably the most qualified for the task.

Bucco raised his hands for a respectful silence and paused dramatically, the pig calmly standing by his leg, close to the altar and a smoking, glowing brazier.

"May the Gods look upon this union… phlaaaaw… and bless it. We seek their… phlaaaaw… benediction and the omens in the… phlaaaaw… entrails of this noble beast."

Fronto closed his eyes for a moment as he came to stand still beside Lucilia and in front of the spectacle. Balbus had warned him that Bucco had acquired an odd speech defect following the illness that had struck his left arm useless and made half his face slip, but Fronto had been unprepared for the strange exhaling, drooling drawl that punctuated his sentences. He tried not to laugh as the 'noble beast' left them the first gift of the day on the decorative marble floor.

Three of the house's slaves stepped forward and gently tipped the pig onto its side, holding it steady while Bucco brandished the knife, peering intently at it with one eye, while the other roved over the wall to one side.

Fronto raised his gaze to the doorway beyond and ran through a list of the upcoming charioteers at the circus in the next month and how much he was prepared to back each for, trying not to listen to the grotesque noises rising from the sacrifice before him. In fact, he became so involved in his mental list that he only realised the act was complete when Bucco rose into view, crimson to the elbows, holding something wobbly and purple that he dropped into the brazier beside the altar with a hiss and a smell that set Fronto's stomach rumbling.

"The organs are good" the old man intoned in a reedy voice. "The liver… phlaaaaw… is particularly good. The Gods bless this union. Let us now devote the heart to Venus and make the libation."

Fronto dutifully stepped forward and took the bronze jug offered by a slave, tipping some of the best quality wine in the city onto the altar's depression where it sat amid the purple stains of previous gifts. Handing back the jug he stepped away.

Quietly he stood, watching the altar as the wretched carcass was hauled away from near his feet by two slaves, leaving a long trail of red. He found he was humming one of the Tenth's favourite marching songs under his breath and forced himself to stop.

"Ring" hissed Lucilia next to him. With a start, he realised that Bucco was watching him intently. Flushing, he produced the gold band and slid it onto the waiting finger, noting the look of triumph and… ownership?... that crossed his new bride's face.

In almost a dreamlike daze he repeated by rote the vows Balbus and he had drafted with the aid of Faleria three nights ago, and only half listened as Lucilia spoke her own. He dutifully smiled whenever it appeared to be appropriate, though he had hardly heard a thing in truth. In fact, the following quarter of an hour passed in a blur of nodding and smiling and speech impediments as his subconscious threw him questions to keep his mind busy.

What was he going to do?

Now
that
was a question that had been plaguing him ever since he had turned his back on Caesar the previous autumn. Soldiering was all he had ever known, and certainly all he was good at. Faleria and Lucilia would expect him to take a post in the Roman administration. He could very easily fast-track to the senate, given his age and experience. He might even be made a governor. But that would involve politics every day of his life, for as long as he lived. The very thought sent a shiver along his spine.

Balbus had managed a sensible enough suggestion, offering the possibility of simple retirement to the country to manage his estate. Other men his age did it, after all, and with the family name he had it would be a respectable choice.

But soooo boring.

Balbus might be happy cross-breeding vines or snipping roses, but the idea failed to appeal to Fronto. He might as well drop dead now.

He had come up with the possibility of setting up a ludus and obtaining a stable of gladiators. A lanista could make a lot of money and the life would be a little more exciting than trimming flowers or arguing with senators. Lucilia had made her thoughts on the possibility of a future as a lanista's wife quite plain.

So not that, then.

The only other possibility that had been raised by Galronus was to return to Caesar, helmet in hand, and request reassignment. Fronto didn't believe for a moment that Caesar would have him back even if he felt inclined to ask. He did
not
feel inclined to ask. The Remi chief had then suggested the possibility of Crassus' Parthian army, but the idea of spending a few years out in the expanses of deadly sand beyond Syria was hardly a draw. During winter he had been regaled with tales of that region by Furius and Fabius and everything they said had put him further off the idea.