Still, that gate, such as it was, was open, which suggested surrender rather than defiance.
A moment later, half a dozen riders emerged through the gap and began to wend their slow way down to the waiting Romans. Varus watched with interest. They were all nobles, but he could see no sign of Commius of the Atrebates, a man who after years of repeated contact he would recognise quickly. The ambassadors reined in their horses close to Caesar and bowed. It did not escape Varus’ notice that the general did not return the gesture, and he knew Caesar well enough to know that that fact presaged no good for the ambassadors.
‘Proconsul,’ the first man greeted Caesar. He was well turned out and wearing enough gold that he sagged slightly under the weight, like a wet tent. His old, grey braids hung down by his ears and the loose steel-coloured hair at the rear whipped in the breeze.
‘Yes.’
The man looked somehow taken aback by the curtness of the general’s response.
‘I am Orcetrix of the Bellovaci. I speak for the tribe in the absence of Correus.’
‘Death,’ corrected Caesar.
The man looked confused at the way this was going, and Caesar fixed him with a cold glare. ‘Correus is not absent. He is dead. He lies in a field of eight thousand of your tribe who sought to ambush us. Stop attempting to fawn and dissemble. I have terms, but you may speak your piece first.’
Caesar was angry. Varus knew that such coldness was much more indicative of ire in the general than was shouting. Orcetrix seemed to have come to the same conclusion, for he licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat.
‘Caesar is famed far and wide for his clemency.’
Varus almost burst out laughing. The general didn’t
look
particularly clement right now. But the noble was continuing unabated. ‘Correus was a troublemaker, rousing our people to war against Rome. We have long lived under the shadow of his fury and his autocracy. Now that your blessed arrival has rid us of his dangerous presence, we are at last free to follow our hearts’ desires, which are to hold tight and dear to our alliance with Rome.’
Caesar sniffed in the cold air.
‘Is that it?’
‘We offer payments of appropriate tribute and the granting of noble hostages against such a dreadful miscalculation ever happening again, in return for an agreement to allow our people to go in peace and settle once more in our villages.’
Varus felt sorry for the man. He could see Caesar’s fingertips drumming impatiently on the saddle.
‘And what of the other rabble rouser? Commius of the Atrebates?’
The man looked suddenly very nervous.
‘We are unable to locate him, Caesar. He was last seen several hours ago. No one seems sure when he slipped away from the camp, but his five hundred Germans are also gone, so we assume he has fled to the far side of the Rhenus.’
Caesar nodded but Varus noted the irritated drumming on the saddle increase in furious pace.
‘Clemency, you say?’
‘Err… yes, Caesar? For those of us who found ourselves carried to war against you at the whim of those who would guide our movements against our will.’
‘My intelligence puts one Orcetrix of the Bellovaci on the hillside opposite Alesia with the Gallic relief force last autumn. Are you about to deny the presence of either yourself or your tribe in a grand revolt against Rome last year?’
‘Ah. Well, now…’
‘You claim to be pushed into war, and yet we know you rose against us last year, even if you managed to flee the scene largely undiminished. Perhaps we should have chastised those who came to Vercingetorix’s aid following our victory over the Arvernian. Then you would have had neither the strength nor the numbers to do such a thing again this winter.’
‘Yes, Caesar, but, well… you see, the thing is…’
‘Silence.’ Caesar’s anger was made manifest in his tone of voice and even though it came out as little more than a quiet hiss, the word cut straight through the man’s blustering and silenced him.
‘You are rebels and enemies of Rome. The only reason I am even remotely tempted towards leniency is that I wish to settle Gaul and put an end to the endless wars. Here are my terms.’
The man looked hopeful at the general’s words, but Varus could imagine what Caesar saw as lenient at this point, and he doubted it matched up with Orcetorix’s ideas.
‘In addition to the noble hostages that you have already offered, it seems an appropriate punishment that perhaps a fifth of your army, and the best of it, from what I can see, already lies as carrion. However, I cannot allow such a large force to remain at arms. You will deliver to us all weapons in this camp, and one man in every four of fighting age will be taken to the slave markets to ensure that you are unable to attempt something like this again.’
The man looked stunned. ‘But Caesar…’
‘I am not finished. We have impounded your entire baggage train, which I presume, given the fact that we found your settlements stripped clean, contains your winter and spring food stores. I recognise that your people will perish without that grain, and so you are to be given the opportunity to purchase it back at the standard trade rate set by my chief quartermaster, which is six silver denarius per bushel, or whatever your local coinage equivalent makes up.’
‘General…’
‘The gold on your person alone would probably feed a family for a year. See that you gather enough payment to provide for your people.
That
is what a leader does, rather than attempting to pin the blame for his failures upon the dead. These are my terms, and they apply equally to each tribe involved in this revolt. I presume those others behind you represent your allies? Return to your camp and make the appropriate arrangements. When you have the hostages, the slaves, the weapons and the grain payments for me, return and our transaction will be completed.’
He stopped drumming his fingers and raised his hand, pointing at the quailing man’s face.
‘The legions will camp here for two days before they are once more distributed appropriately. And when I leave Bellovaci territory, pray to each and every god you recognise, Orcetrix, that I never have to return, for if I find myself brought back here to sort out trouble again, I will have new shield covers for every man in my twelve legions made out of your people’s skin. Do you understand me?’
Orcetrix cowered, nodding, and backed away.
Varus watched the dejected party leave. Caesar had been angry. That much was clear. But something deep inside insisted on highlighting the fact that perhaps eight thousand able-bodied slaves, plus the loot from the wagons and the weapon sales, and finally the huge ransom that would be paid for the grain would altogether amount to a sum fit for a king. The proconsul would probably make more from this outcome than he had from the silver mines of the Bituriges or the trade ports of the Carnutes.
Another tribe’s riches had become Caesar’s.
MOLACOS looked at the broken Roman and slowly removed the cult mask from his face. The weeping, agonised soldier looked up in horrified fascination at the ruined face of the thing behind the mask and quailed despite everything that had already been done to him.
‘Who will be able to answer my questions? I grow tired of interrogating Romans and my time is precious. Tell me where to go and I will grant you the mercy of a quick death and not give you to Catubodua, the avenging widow, who waits outside the door with her roll of skinning knives.’
The soldier whimpered through a face full of tears, blood and snot, and after a pause, Molacos sighed and rose, making for the door.
‘No. Wait,’ wailed the man.
‘I am listening.’
‘My legate from the Fifteenth is on his way back to Rome. Gaius Antistius Reginus. He’ll be less than a week behind me, and will be passing through Gergovia on his way. He will be able to answer your questions.’
Molacos nodded. A
legate
. The commander of a legion. A man of senatorial rank and one of Caesar’s own circle. A rare opportunity to interrogate such a highly-placed man. Excellent.
‘Well done, man.’
Fishing in his pouch, he produced something and dropped it on the floor in front of the ruined soldier. The man stared at it. A snare, made of some sort of sharp cord, knotted to allow it to tighten. He’s seen such things used, used them himself when hunting rabbits to supplement the legion’s rations on the march. They occasionally killed by strangulation, but more often by biting into the windpipe and blood vessels as the animal struggled.
Molacos was rising.
‘What is this?’ the soldier gasped. ‘You said you would give me a quick death!’
‘And I have. You have until I open the door to kill yourself, or Catubodua will come in and do the job for you much more slowly. I suggest you are very quick. She is literally salivating at the thought of peeling you.’
He ambled towards the door, listening to the whimpering behind him. His hand closed on the door handle, pulling it inwards and even as Catubodua, her impassive mask hiding her hungry grin, strode past, he could hear the gagging noises as the soldier tried desperately to strangle himself in time.
FRONTO reached down and picked up the exquisite coloured glass containing the expensive Chian and took a sip. Barely watered at all, it warmed as it coated his mouth with a rich, velvety taste. He smiled.
‘If you want to just give me money, then give me money. You don’t have to muck about with all this.’
‘This?’ Balbus raised an eyebrow inquisitively and Fronto grinned at his old friend and, more recently, father-in-law.
‘You buy the best wines I can import at the standard full price I charge the unwitting and you save them for when Lucilia or myself visit. I’ve noticed this. Even Pamphilus and Clearchus have commented on it, and neither of them could outthink a milestone. You know I would just bring a good amphora when I visit anyway.’
‘You don’t think I save all of it for you, do you?’ Balbus chuckled. ‘My favourite Greek medicus in the city tells me that thick red wine is actually good for my heart, and the less water I add the better. Imagine that? And so, if I’m not watering it down, of course I’m going to choose the very best. I’ve had trouble with the heart for years, but I’m currently in rude health and I intend to remain that way long enough to watch my grandsons take the toga virilis and get enslaved by some Roman girl with swaying hips and fluttering eyelashes.’
Again, Fronto grinned, though with a touch of sadness at the core of the smile. Balbus was perhaps two decades older than Fronto, and he himself was no glowing youth, long past the age when most Romans fathered their children. He hoped the old man’s heart would hold out that long. He made a mental note to take a jar of this very same vintage to the temple of Aesculapius… Asklepios, damn these Greek naming conventions… and use it as a libation in favour of the old man’s health.
‘Anyway, what were we talking about?’
‘You were worrying about your slaves,’ Balbus smiled, taking another pull on his wine and smacking his lips appreciatively.
‘Lucilia keeps pointing out that you have no issues with keeping slaves.’
‘Lucilia looks a lot but sees little.’
Fronto frowned. In his experience it was much the other way around. ‘Go on?’
‘There is not a single slave in this house, Marcus. Many of them were brought here as slaves, but I paid a good weekly stipend and set manumission at an easy target to reach. Of the slaves I have bought since I settled in Massilia, only two did not work hard, do me proud, and buy their own freedom within the year. And both of those two I sold in the end to the fishing concerns. One was lazy and one was greedy and neither had a future with my house, so now they work hard gutting fish, when they could have had an easy life here. I have seven former slaves, now freedmen and –women, working in my household and lands. And they all continue in their former roles, but for a decent wage. You’d be most surprised I expect to hear that the best paid of them all was a totally unbroken Aedui girl, who it turned out has an affinity with horses. She now manages my stable and has three lads working for her. I’ll not introduce you to her, given your history with comely Gauls…’
Fronto gave his father-in-law a black look.
‘And the other fourteen staff I have here,’ Balbus went on, ‘are all ex-military, hired after they received their honesta missio, or in one case released early with a missing arm. He turned out to be an excellent cook. He made that fine meal you just ate, in fact. I trust my ex-legionaries, and it saves me having to hire guards like yours. Any pair of hands in my villa could pick up a sword with at least some skill and put the pointy end in an interloper, regardless of their daily duties.’
Fronto nodded at his friend’s sense and wondered how Lucilia would take it if he explained that her father didn’t really trust slaves in his household either. He sighed.
‘Anyway, it’s this Andala woman that bothers me. Her and Lucilia are starting to get very close. They act far more like giggling girls together than mistress and slave and it’s making me very nervous. It’s like living with a crocodile and a bear and finding the pair of them shaking paws and eyeing you up while they lick their lips. It’s only a matter of time before Lucilia embarks on another of her ‘I have to change Marcus campaigns.’
‘Really, Marcus. My daughter can be a handful, but she knows what she’s doing running a household. She learned from the best.’
‘She gives that Bellovaci girl far too much freedom.’
Balbus chuckled again. ‘This from the man who doesn’t like keeping slaves.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Did you know that the day before yesterday I came in late and found that while Lucilia and the boys were fast away in the arms of Morpheus, Andala was sitting in my office polishing my best gladius? I wanted to rant at her, but that would have woken Lucilia and I somehow know that I’d come off at the end as the loser in that encounter. But I took the sword from its customary place on the wall and hid it under my bed with the old campaign tunics and cloaks. And the girl is always in our rooms now. Lucilia seems to have promoted her to looking after the boys. Wouldn’t
you
be nervous?’
'I say again, Marcus: she knows exactly what she's doing.'
Fronto sighed and sat back with his glass of Chian, giving it an appreciative sip. ‘The only bright side is that one of my former soldiers, Aurelius - you remember him?'
'The one with the bats, yes?'
'That's the one. He seems to have something of a torch burning for her, and I've noticed the odd look when she observes him that reminds me of the German cavalry when they spot a small, poorly-armed patrol. Guarded hunger. I'm going to try and foster the thing from both sides - see if I can pair them off and get her out of my hair, but that in itself is difficult as it means I'll have to spend time at the villa instead of hiding out in the warehouse.'
Balbus snorted.
'Have you had any news from Gaul?'
Fronto tried to fight the all-too-familiar sense of loss as he ran over the list of friends now passed who would have been the ones to send him all the news. Now only Atenos remained in the Tenth, and Atenos was about as likely to write a letter as he was to paint his backside blue and dance on a table asking for a 'Syrian Surprise'. In fact, the only person who had sent Fronto a missive since the day he left Caesar's camp had been Varus, and the cavalry officer had been brief and terse.
'Little. But I hear rumours. I tend to spend time down with Caesar's supply officer in the town, and news leaks through. Sounds like there are numerous small revolts breaking out across the north.'
'Nothing dangerous, though?'
'No,' Fronto shrugged. 'Just last ditch attempts from a defeated people. After Alesia even their best were beaten, and they knew it. Only idiots and lunatics will hold out now.'
'Have you given any thought as to what will happen when the proconsul finishes his term and heads back to Rome?'
Fronto blinked, and Balbus smiled oddly. 'You fool no one, Marcus. You can play the wine merchant for a while. You might even turn out to be good at it. But we all know that one day you'll go running back to the military. You are the oddest imaginable Roman patron, you know? All the others use the military as a stepping stone. Not you. Sooner or later, once he's made consul, Caesar will find a new front upon which to fight, and as soon as he does, you'll go running.'
'Not again.'
Balbus barked out a short laugh. 'Don't be absurd, Marcus. Of course you will. If I hadn't collapsed in action years ago I'd be racing back myself. Hell, despite any arguments I might have with Caesar, I'd be heading to his command tent now if I could. You're not a home body. You never were.'
'Life's full of surprises, Quintus. My acceptance of the quiet life might just be one of them.'
Both men took a quick sip of the exquisite wine and looked up at the sound of the commotion outside. A moment later, as they both sat up, Balbus' doorman, a former legionary of the Eighth, stomped in, bowing and saluting, clearly unsure whether he should be following military or civilian protocol. Balbus nodded encouragingly.
'Beg pardon, sir.'
'Yes?'
'There's a foul-mouthed barbarian at the gate demanding to speak to master Marcus Falerius Fronto. I would have automatically turned him away other than the fact that he has half a dozen of master Fronto's men with him.
Balbus raised an eyebrow, and Fronto turned to the former legionary. 'What did the 'barbarian’ call you?'
'I'd rather not say, sir, but it'd make a whore blush and my mother will be spinning in her urn. And he threatened to flatten my face, too.'
'Catháin,' smiled Fronto. 'Might be important.'
Balbus gestured to the legionary. 'Let the man in, Scortius.'
'Yessir.'
Another brief altercation at the villa's door was followed by the slap of soft leather boots on marble as the strange northerner made his way through to the triclinium, Balbus' doorman scurrying along behind, trying to get in front to lead the way and failing dismally.
'Fronto, we've got a problem.'
'And good evening to you, too, Catháin. This is my father-in-law, Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth.'
Catháin gave a brief nod in Balbus' direction and clapped his hands together in a business-like manner. 'You know that Helvian wine that we're shipping to Rome?'
Fronto nodded and noted Balbus' curious expression.
'It's a big deal. Two hundred amphorae of the stuff bound for a gladiator ludus in Rome. The stuff tastes like something that leaked out of a badger's arse, but the lanista is willing to pay good silver for it regardless. It's the deal of the year. Something like a thousand percent profit.'
Balbus nodded appreciatively.
'Well there's a problem, Fronto,' the northerner grunted, slapping his fist into his palm. 'I got a message from Antidorus the teamster and rushed down to the port. The shipment was due to be loaded onto a trireme called the
Demeter
, but the captain's refused to take the load on board and won't tell us why. All he said was I should take it up with the logistics and quartermaster office in the city. I went to see Fabius Ambustus, given that he and I now have something of an understanding, but the guards at the office tell me he's too busy and won't let me see him. Meantime the Helvian wine moulders on the quayside. If it could smell any worse I'd wonder if it was going off. If we can't get it loaded this afternoon, I'm going to have to put it back into storage and hope for the best.'
'Shit.'
'Just that,' agreed Catháin. 'If that shipment doesn't sail in the morning, we'll be late with the delivery. At the very best we'll be looking at a daily-increasing fee for the delay. If we're really unlucky, he'll cancel the deal altogether and we'll be left with undrinkable wine to shift suddenly - enough of it to float a trireme, ironically.'
Fronto nodded. 'And every day's delay will drop our profits enough that a week or so will put us in danger of making a loss.'
'Quite so.'
He turned to Balbus and sighed. 'Sorry to interrupt our afternoon, but this is something I need to take care of urgently. I might be back if I can sort things out fast enough.'
Balbus smiled indulgently.
'Go. Play merchant and play it well. I shall see you in due course.'
Nodding his thanks, Fronto turned and grasped Catháin's hand as the man offered to help him up. 'Come on. I need to quickly change and then we'll head down to the office.'
'Change?' the man asked curiously.
'The uniform of a senior officer still carries a lot of weight in military circles even when you've retired, and I keep everything pressed and clean, just in case. I just hope Andala's not been messing with it all while she's looking for my sword again.'
* * * * *
He'd expected it to feel entirely natural when he donned his Roman military tunic, cloak, belt and so on. He was, after all, a soldier born and forged in decades of war. And yet, as he and his small group of companions bore down on the office, he found he was shrugging his shoulders constantly, uncomfortable in the snug fit after the very giving and light Greek-style chiton and chlamys. The fact that it no longer felt normal disturbed him somehow and reinforced his refusal to consider a return to the martial life - a refusal that Balbus had clearly disbelieved.
He hooked a finger in his bronze-plated belt and turned it slightly so that the fittings for the dagger didn't catch on his cloak as it had so often done, evidenced by all the pulled threads in one small patch of cloth.
The two bored-looking legionaries by the door of the office building that had been granted to Caesar rent free by the city's boule eyed the small party approaching them with interest, but did not straighten to attention.
Behind Fronto, Catháin, Masgava, Aurelius and Arcadios walked, looking as strong and implacable as they could. Fronto himself was prepared for an argument.
Everything
seemed to involve an argument these days, whether at work or at home.
'I need to see Prefect Fabius Ambustus on a matter of the utmost urgency.'
The legionaries shared a look that contained surprisingly little respect, given Fronto's apparel.
'The prefect is very busy, sir. There's a waiting list for meetings, but he's not even considering granting an audience until after market day.'