‘Not like this.’ Fronto added roughly the same amount of water to his wine and slid the jug across to Cavarinos. ‘Now, tell me what it is that brings you to Massilia.’
The Arverni noble took a sip of the wine, tasting it before watering it, and then took a small swig, nodding appreciatively. ‘That
is
good. Alban? That’s from close to Rome, yes?’
‘Just south. Maybe fifteen miles along the Via Appia.’ He fell silent, expectant.
‘You’re in danger, Fronto. Or at least, I think you are.’
‘I’m always in damn danger. Who from this time?’
Cavarinos rested his elbows on the table. ‘What do you know of our gods, and of the leaders of last year’s revolt?’
‘To the former, a little. I can name a few and tell you what they do, I suppose. And your commanders? Well I saw a lot of them at the surrender, of course.’
‘My people are tenacious,’ Cavarinos sighed. ‘Even long past the horizon of common sense. It will be years before the tribes resign themselves fully to Roman rule. Some will be quicker than others. But there will still be troubles and arguments. For some, last year’s war is not yet over. Those with little vision see our catastrophic defeat as a mere setback.’
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re not suggesting there’ll be another revolt, surely?’
‘Smaller ones are already happening, Fronto. And they will gradually combine and escalate, bringing everyone who can grip a spear into the fold. The only reason it hasn’t happened yet is that it takes something very special to bind the tribes together. We are permanently in a state of war. It is the nature of the tribes. Vercingetorix, with the help of the druids, managed to do the impossible. Even then, with him in command, there were dissenters and naysayers. If they had all joined in with their whole heart, your general would have lost at Alesia.’
‘I can picture that,’ Fronto said, remembering the large relief army on the second hill.
‘But while a second rising would be bad for Rome, it is my inescapable conclusion that it would be very final for the tribes. A repeat of last year, dragging in every last able body, would still not win the war against Rome, and the main result would be that my entire culture, our people and our world would disappear forever. We would become names in your dusty Roman history books.’
‘I tend to agree with you there. Your people never want for heart or courage, but common sense can often be lacking. One day I will introduce you to a special case called Atenos.’
Cavarinos chewed on his lip for a moment.
‘There is a group of very, very dangerous men and women in your lands right now, wielding a dual purpose, neither of which is good for you.’ Noting Fronto’s intent, alert silence, he continued with a sad note in his voice. ‘One of Vercingetorix’s generals who survived among the relief forces, Lucterius of the Cadurci, is busy trying to rebuild the army of united tribes. He had a trusted man who fought at Gergovia and Alesia and who was horribly wounded – disfigured, in fact – at the latter. He is fanatically loyal to his king and the only thing I fear might drive him more than his loyalty is his utter hatred of Rome.’
‘And he is in Massilia?’
‘He and eleven others, masked and cloaked, have been rampaging around the land, torturing Roman officers to try and locate the great Arverni king. They have discovered that he has been taken back to Rome, and they are bound for the capital, via this very port.’
Fronto scratched his head. ‘A dozen killers in masks are going to Rome to try and rescue Vercingetorix? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘In short, yes.’
‘They’re mad. They’ll never succeed.’
‘Don’t be too sure, Fronto. I don’t know what Rome is like, but these dozen are very dangerous indeed. And very secretive. They identify themselves with twelve of the gods of our peoples, and I have seen their handiwork. They butchered a legate.’
Fronto blinked in shock. ‘A
legate
? Who?’
‘I think his name was Reginus.’
Fronto pictured the legate of the Fifteenth and rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘As I say, do not underestimate them. I do not know who they all are, but I have seen two or three of them without their masks. They are all deadly. And they all hate Rome with a passion. Moreover they had been moving for months about the land butchering Romans and still no one knows about them.’
‘Other than you.’
‘Other than me. And while they will be coming through Massilia on their way to Rome, given their activity so far I cannot see them failing to take action when they learn that one of the legates who was responsible for their defeat at Alesia is in the city. And your name is well enough known that it will happen.’
Fronto nodded slowly. ‘And you think they’re in the city now, then?’
‘They may be, though you may have time yet. They were hours ahead of me at Alba, but they will have to move very cautiously through Roman territory, while I simply rode fast and openly. I almost certainly passed them on the way. Besides, there is a huge Roman supply column a day or so north of here. I passed them without too much trouble, but a dozen armed and masked killers will have to be very careful. They will probably have to wait until the column enters the city before they can move south.’
Fronto took a swig of his wine. ‘Sounds like Caesar’s treasure train is almost here then. Good. The port has been at a standstill for weeks waiting for it. Once that’s in Rome and the ships are moving again, my business will heave a sigh of relief.’
‘And I will be able to move on.’
In the strange silence that followed, Fronto found himself speculating. ‘I…’ he paused to rearrange the words in his head. ‘Wherever you are headed, might I offer an alternative?’
Cavarinos raised his brow in interest.
‘Stay with us. I have good men here. And a prince of the Remi is close to my family. You seem to be a man with no place. Why move again?’
Cavarinos shrugged and drained his glass.
‘I have no intention of being tied up in a fresh war, so the north is lost to me. But I am not a Roman, Fronto. I am Arverni. There is somewhere out there for me, but Massilia is not it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yet I have no intention of letting a dozen maniacs rekindle a dead rebellion. These Sons of Taranis need to be stopped, so I will stay for now.’
He smiled. ‘Now pour me another glass of that excellent Alban before we go and join your lovely wife while I catch you up on what I know is happening in the north and you fill in the blanks for me.’
* * * * *
Fronto pointed angrily at the slave girl. ‘I don’t give a hair from Jove’s left bollock what her intentions were, I distinctly and very clearly said I did not want her touching my swords!’
Lucilia reached out with a calming hand and patted him on the arm. ‘I gave her permission, Marcus. She has been complaining for weeks that you don’t take care of them and that there are spots of rust on the blades.’
Fronto glared in exasperation. ‘You
do realise
that means that she’s been unsheathing them when you aren’t looking anyway?’
‘You of all people should know better than to let your kit get rusty, Marcus. You may not intend to join Caesar again, but that’s no reason to let things go to ruin.’
His glare darkened. ‘Don’t change the bloody subject!’ He turned to Andala who, he noted, did not look remotely cowed and showed not a breath of remorse. In fact, she looked thoroughly defiant and even slightly angry. By gods sometimes she actually reminded him of Lucilia. Could there be shared blood between the Belgae and the Lucilii?
‘Masgava, would you be good enough to take all three of my gladii and my daggers and put them in a locked box?’
‘They’ll be no use there if you get in trouble,’ the big man rumbled.
‘For the love of Jove is there no one in this household who actually has any intention of doing what I ask?’ Fronto bellowed in vexation.
‘Not if what you ask is not in your best interests,’ Masgava replied calmly.
Fronto glared at the three of them, feeling a little like a retiarius with a torn net and a broken trident facing three armed opponents in the arena. He spun and stomped angrily across the room to where Cavarinos stood peering at a large map of the republic on the wall.
‘You see the sort of crap I have to put up with?’
Cavarinos turned with an indulgent smile. ‘Roman women, I fear, are not that different from Arverni ones. Accept defeat gracefully, Fronto, and rally your men for future battles.’
Fronto glared at him, and Cavarinos laughed, pointing at the map. ‘Your people call our tribes
Gallia
, correct?’
Fronto nodded, still irritated.
‘Then I think your map makers have been toying with you. Look at this place.’
Fronto peered at where he was pointing, out to the east, past the border of the Republic in Anatolia. ‘Galatia?’
Cavarinos nodded, and Fronto smiled. ‘That is another land, ruled by a king called Deiotarus. He’s a client king of Rome, and they’re strong allies of ours.’
‘But the name?’
Fronto nodded. ‘I am given to understand that they are related to your tribes, going back a number of centuries. Pompey used to say they have their own Gaulish language. Probably not unlike yours, I imagine.’
Cavarinos frowned and tapped his lip. ‘I am interested in Galatia. It is on the other side of the world, yet you say it is a land of my people with its own king? Independent?’
‘I believe so.’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘I think, then, it is for Galatia that I am bound when this is over.’
The room’s five occupants turned in the silence that followed, listening to the sound of several footsteps in the atrium outside. Moments later, Aurelius appeared in the doorway.
‘You have another visitor, Domine.’
Fronto frowned. His guards never used such a noble term, mostly calling him by name. As Aurelius backed aside, bowing, three more figures appeared in the doorway. He didn’t recognise the men to either side, though they were clearly tribunes. But the man in the middle…
‘Brutus!’
A genuine smile spread across his face as he hurried across the room to the tired-looking officer in the doorway. He caught sight of his major domo standing respectfully some distance behind them, waiting for orders, while he held the three officers’ cloaks.
‘Amelgo? Have a meal prepared and plenty of wine. Could you have extra cushions brought in too? And a bowl of warm water for our guests to give themselves a quick clean up?’
As the servant dashed off, Fronto grinned at the three officers. ‘You’re welcome to use my baths of course, but from the looks of you you’ve just dismounted and you’ll probably want a seat and a cup of wine first, yes?’
Brutus gave him a tired smile. ‘A drink would be most welcome, Marcus. These two, by the way, are Pontius and Gamburio, tribunes of the Twelfth who have come with me all the way from the north.’ The two officers bowed.
‘Good to meet you. A fine legion, the Twelfth. I remember their formation. Come on. Sit yourselves.’
Brutus sank to a cushioned seat with gratitude.
‘I presume this means that Caesar’s wagon train has arrived?’ Fronto hazarded. ‘I guessed someone important would be commanding it. Glad it’s a friend. And maybe, since you’re a friend’ you’ll be able to squeeze a little shipment of mine aboard the triremes you’re taking to Rome?’
Brutus shook his head. ‘Sorry, Marcus. I’ve been down into town with the wagons and talked to the man in the offices. Sounds to me like we’ll fit most of the cargo on board, but there’s not even enough room for my full load. I’m going to have to do a deal with the more reputable local captains. Or send the other wagons around the coast and down through Italia, though that will mean having to temporarily reassign a cohort or two from the Twelfth. It’s all a bit of a headache, to be honest.’
Fronto was pleased enough to see his friend that he ignored the irritation over the fact that his business would continue to stagnate for a week or more yet.
‘Well at least you’re here and safe,’ Fronto chuckled. ‘A target like your column must have been tempting for half the tribes of Gaul.’
Brutus nodded, scrubbing ruffled hair. ‘We almost fell foul of one attack, from the good and loyal Helvii of all people! But fortunately we were warned in time and the enemy retreated without an arrow loosed.’
Cavarinos stepped away from the wall now, rubbing his hands together.
‘Did you say the Helvii?’
‘Yes.’ Brutus narrowed his eyes at this strange Romanised Gaul who he didn’t recognise.
‘When was this?’
‘Three days ago now.’
‘
That’s
where they were, then,’ Cavarinos nodded to himself. ‘I wondered why Alba was almost empty. The Sons of Taranis must have been right behind them. Hopefully they got bogged down behind your column and delayed.’
Brutus frowned in confusion. ‘The who?’
‘A cult of killers. There are twelve of them, led by a disfigured man.’
Brutus’ brow furrowed further, and he turned and muttered something to the tribunes, who nodded their agreement.