‘Marcus?’
Fronto cast a thousand simultaneous thanks to Fortuna, promising her an altar for this, and grinned down at his father-in-law. ‘At least you had the sense to hide.’
‘I saw what they did to my best men. I’m a soldier, not an idiot, Marcus.’
As the two men reached down and lifted the young girl to freedom, then helped the old man out of the cramped space, Balbus straightened with a hiss of pain, rubbing his sore back.
‘That was a stroke of genius,’ Fronto laughed. ‘You used the labrum of water to extinguish the furnace?’
Balbus nodded, coughing in the thick atmosphere. ‘I hadn’t quite counted on the quantity of smoke. We almost expired from that alone.’
‘Ha.’ Fronto turned as Biorix appeared. ‘They’re safe. Round up the men and get ready to head back. We’ll deal with all this mess in the daylight.’
As the big former legionary hurried off, Fronto looked his father- and sister-in-law up and down. ‘Let’s get a horse and get you over to my place. Then we can get you in the bath and cleaned up.’
Balbus gave him a sour look. ‘If it’s alright with you, I’ll just dunk myself in the horse trough here before we leave. I’ve had quite enough of bath suites for one night.’
* * * * *
Fronto sat with Balbus, the old man busily cleaning out a sooty ear with a square of linen. Cavarinos and Masgava also occupied the room, every other available able-bodied man in an assigned position around the villa keeping watch while a few lucky ones caught up on sleep. In a couple of hours the sun would begin to make its presence felt, and in just under an hour the rota would change, different men going to rest and those relatively refreshed rising to take their place.
Lucilia had been ecstatic at her family’s return and Fronto had found himself musing that if they all lived through the next day or so, his home life would be considerably more relaxed for a while. Indeed, despite his bloody exertions the previous afternoon and the soulless horror of what he’d seen in his father-in-law’s house, he felt blessed and immensely relieved that everyone he really cared for in Massilia was now under one roof with a very watchful guard, Balbina safe with Fronto’s own boys
Balbus had repeatedly refused Fronto’s insistence that he bathe to remove the layer of grime and dirt that even a dip in a horse trough had done little to remove, but a brief sharp word from his daughter had put paid to that and the old man had emerged from the baths refreshed and clean, dressed in Fronto’s clothes. Fronto and Cavarinos had also changed, their own bloodied apparel sitting in a washing pile. It had made Fronto chuckle to see the Arvernian in a Roman officer’s spare tunic and belt, though Cavarinos had looked less than pleased with the change, and had insisted on retaining his trousers, despite their state.
‘Will they really try again?’ Balbus asked quietly, excavating his other ear. ‘If their goal is to get to Rome urgently and they have a ship waiting, will they waste the time?’
Cavarinos shrugged and glanced across at Fronto. ‘How long until your treasure fleet sails?’
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘A day or two. No, definitely two. It won’t be today.’
Cavarinos turned back to Balbus. ‘They will want to be away from this place before the fleet, else they might fall foul of Roman marines at sea. But that still gives them today. I expect them to sail tonight, at the last real opportunity. They will stay as long as they can and try as hard as they can. They may have a goal to achieve, but these men are fanatics, legate Balbus. They are rabid haters of your officers. I have seen what they have done before now. And if they have been thwarted once tonight, they will try all the harder. Molacos will not want to lose face with his men.’
‘I have to say, prince Cavarinos, that your arrival was gods-sent. Thank you. But for you, I would likely have died and so would Marcus here.’
Fronto saw Cavarinos wince at the use of a title. There was an unintentional bitterness in the Arvernian that coloured everything in his life now. It was why he could not wear his face and hair as a Gaul, yet would not dress himself as a Roman. It was why, despite clearly hating every morsel of his soul for doing it, he killed his own people in saving a nominal enemy. It was why he would never stay, no matter how persuasive Fronto thought he might be. It saddened him to see the Arvernian brought so low. A year ago, at a strange native sacred spring, he and Fronto had spoken privately and had discovered in each other a kindred spirit, abhorring the nature of the protracted war that was ruining Gaul and wishing there was any way to end the matter peacefully. And now Gaul was lost and Cavarinos was a ghost. A slight change in fortunes at Alesia and it might have been a whole different matter.
‘I owe Fronto a debt. He released me from slavery in a Roman camp. My people consider such a debt paramount. It is a life debt in effect. When the Sons of Taranis no longer threaten him, that debt will be paid, and into the bargain there will be no new great rising. The people of our tribes will turn from war to the fields, nurturing crops and children, trying to rebuild within the arms of Rome.’
‘Would that many Roman nobles could express so noble a sentiment,’ admired Balbus. ‘You would do well in our senate.’
Fronto smiled at the look of horrified fascination that crossed Cavarinos’ face at the very thought.
‘What was that?’ interjected Masgava sharply.
‘What?’
The four of them fell silent, and then they all heard the clanging of the bell at the front door. In two heartbeats the alarms were clanging all over the villa. ‘Where?’ Balbus asked.
‘The first alarm was the front door,’ Masgava replied, snatching his sword from close by and belting it as he made for the exit. Behind him Cavarinos was already moving. Balbus grabbed his own gladius, sheathless since he had taken it into his bath house. Fronto gripped his Gaulish sword with the slight kink near the tip where he’d levered up the slab. He’d had the chance to retrieve his own sword he supposed, but over the evening he’d grown comfortable carrying the big weapon. It gave him a surprising reach.
Through the villa the four men ran, joined by a sleepy looking Arcadios and Aurelius who had clearly just hauled themselves from their cots and grabbed a weapon without even taking the time to belt their tunics.
The front door was ajar, and Catháin was peering out into the darkness.
‘What is it?’ Fronto shouted.
‘Archers, Fronto. At least three, from the regularity of the strikes. They’re not particularly good – I’ve seen better – but they’re getting close. Once they’ve found their range they’ll be able to take anyone at a door or window at their leisure.’
‘I’d not seen them as archers in my head,’ mused Fronto.
‘Remember young Aneunos?’ replied Cavarinos. ‘He was an archer, and a good one. There will be others. Molacos had been a hunter himself.’
The door to their left opened to reveal the brothers Pamphilus and Clearchus. Both had their blades drawn and a trickle of blood ran from the latter’s scalp down into his eye, which blinked repeatedly.
‘Bastards have found the range for the windows,’ grunted Clearchus.
‘Why did you open the shutters, then?’ sighed Fronto, wondering at how two such numb brothers had survived the streets of Massilia for so long.
‘Can’t see the enemy through solid wood, sir.’
‘I swear that if either of you had an original thought…’
His insult went unfinished as an arrow whispered through the open crack in the door, almost catching both Catháin and then Fronto, and clattered off along the floor into the atrium.
‘Bastards, bastards, bastards!’ roared Clearchus, wiping the blood from his eyes. ‘C’mon.’
Pamphilus reached past them and yanked the front door wide open, almost pulling Catháin from his feet. Brandishing their blades, the brothers ran into the open door, straight towards the unseen archers. Neither made it across the threshold before Masgava’s huge meaty hands slapped down on their shoulders and jerked them back inside. Two arrows filled the air, one tearing the shoulder fabric of Clearchus’ tunic and drawing blood, the other missing Masgava’s ear by a finger-width as it rattled off across the atrium.
Without waiting for the order, Catháin pushed the door to so that only a narrow sliver remained. Enough to see through, with very little danger to the observer.
‘They are improving their aim rapidly,’ Arcadios said quietly. ‘Let me give them something to think about.’
Catháin nodded and stepped aside. As the others watched, the Greek archer withdrew three arrows from his quiver, nocking one, with the other two held by the point in the fingers that gripped the bow.
‘When I say, open the door, count to six quickly and then close it.’
The northerner who managed Fronto’s business nodded, turning a lopsided grin on his employer. ‘While I like a punch-up as much as the next man, proper battles are extra. I shall be expecting a raise tomorrow. Or at least a healthy bonus.’
He was still smiling wide as Arcadios breathed ‘now!’
The door pulled inwards and in the most fluid movement Fronto had ever seen from an archer, Arcadios released the first missile out into the night, dropping the second to nock even as his shoulder rolled, bringing back the string and releasing, the third arrow following suit in perfect timing like some kind of machine.
As he stepped back and lowered the bow and Catháin muttered ‘six’ and closed the door to a sliver again, they all heard a yelp and shouts of alarm outside. For a long moment there were no further thuds of arrowheads hitting door and wall, and when it started up again, it was slower, more cautious.
‘Nicely done,’ Balbus complemented the archer.
Arcadios smiled shyly. ‘It’s an eastern technique. Hard to get right, and not easy to be accurate with. But when what you need is speed and surprise, it can be very effective.’
‘It sounded pretty accurate to me,’ Fronto whispered, impressed. ‘Into the dark against hidden targets and it sounded to me like you hit one.’
‘Luck,’ muttered Arcadios, though Fronto suspected self-effacement rather than chance.
‘Let’s hope you got the son of a dog in the heart or the eye,’ Catháin grinned.
‘Why are they doing this?’ Cavarinos mused.
‘What?’
‘Why the arrows?’
‘They already tried a direct assault,’ Fronto reminded him, ‘and look how that one turned out. Their quarry managed to get into hiding in time. Maybe they’re just trying to keep us contained until it’s light so that they don’t miss anyone this time?’
Cavarinos shook his head. ‘No. They’d wait for daylight to begin if it was darkness that was hampering them. This is different. There are maybe three or four of them out there… so where are the rest?’
Fronto’s eyes widened. ‘A ruse? A decoy?’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘How well protected is your rear?’
Fronto noted sourly the presence of Arcadios. Without the expert archer at the back door, the answer was: a lot less protected than he’d like. Arcadios had been called from his bed to the front door because of the archers.
‘Who’s looking after the rear door?’
Arcadios frowned. ‘Zeno and Evagoras.’
Fronto gestured to Catháin and Arcadios. ‘You stay here. Keep trying that little trick every now and then and keep them busy. You two,’ he pointed at Pamphilus and Clearchus, ‘stay with them. Let no one in.’
With a beckoning finger to Masgava, Aurelius, Cavarinos and Balbus, Fronto raced through the villa, heading for the rear door. As he rounded the final corner, his heart in his throat, he was dismayed, though far from surprised, to see the door wide open and the two Massiliot mercenaries sprawled across the threshold in a wide pool of their own blood.
‘Shit!’
He looked at the four men with him.
‘Masgava, you stay here. Don’t let anyone in or out. You are my rock, alright?’ The Numidian nodded, drawing his blade at last and standing, implacable like a colossus, at the door’s side. Fronto turned to the others. ‘Balbus, can you check the private suites. That’s where they’ll have made for straight away, but they’ve probably found them empty by now. Cavarinos, look after my father-in-law.’
Despite Balbus’ sour look at the command, he nodded and Cavarinos gave Fronto a supportive squeeze of the shoulder before running off to check the family’s rooms.
‘Aurelius? You’re with me. Let’s hope the wine store’s still secure.’
* * * * *
The wine store was a large, brick-vaulted room built into the substructures of the villa proper where the hill began to slope away with a view of the sea. It had two doors: one down a short flight of steps from a corridor in the rear of the house, and a second from the grassy slope outside. Yet despite it having an external door Fronto had deemed it a safe location, partially because the enemy would naturally seek them out in the living areas of the house, but also because that rear door was as secure as the villa’s walls unless opened from the inside. The outer door was wide and high and formed from oak planks over a hand-width thick, reinforced with cross spars also of oak. For this door, when opened, came down rather than swinging out, forming a shallow ramp, up which to move heavy loads of amphorae. It was one of Catháin’s modifications to the business and had sped up movement of the huge jars no end. But with the enemy inside the villa now, such external security measures were immaterial.