‘Will they not make an attempt to break out?’’ Antonius mused.
‘No. Not without their leaders to drive them. They are surrounded by our defences and outnumbered, with six legions here. And their life expectancy in the oppidum has just been reduced to almost naught in a matter of hours. Tonight there will be desperate last attempts, and throughout the morning, especially if it remains misty in the valleys as seems the norm. If we continue to deny them water, I will expect their first emissaries after noon tomorrow. By the kalends of the month, we will be dividing the spoils and the slaves, reducing the oppidum and assigning winter quarters.’
‘I somehow expected a fight,’ Antonius frowned.
Varus cocked an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t voice that sentiment near Atenos and the men of the Tenth and Fifth if I were you.’
‘You know what I mean,’ grumbled Antonius.
Caesar smiled and slapped his friend on the back, raising a shower of rain droplets. Above, the rumble of thunder had moved off, southeast. ‘Not every season need end with an earth-shaking contest of arms, Marcus. Be grateful that we have thwarted their army here and now. Gaul, my friends, is pacified. We will be forced to make an example, of course, to prevent further risings, but I do believe that this winter we can begin the grand task of turning this place into a province.’
Varus nodded wearily. By autumn, there was every chance that many of the legions would be disbanded and settled strategically in colonies among the Gauls. And where would that leave the officers? Where would that leave him? Back to Rome to climb another rung of the Cursus Honorum, chasing on the heels of his little brother Publius, who had flouted the family’s ties to Caesar and thrown in his lot with Pompey? To be rewarded for his long service to this army with a comfortable provincial governorship, where he could grow fat and slow as slaves fed him peeled grapes and rich, red Rhodian? After eight years of cavalry service in Caesar’s army, it would take a decade to remove the constant smell of horse-sweat and oiled leather from his nostrils.
He laughed at the thought of Varus the Senator.
‘Something amuses you?’ mumbled Antonius.
‘Oh nothing really. Just pondering on the vagaries of the future, picturing myself joining the ranks of men like Fronto the wine merchant and living the peaceful life.’
The three men smiled at the thought.
OSTIA steamed in the early summer heat. Despite its coastal location, no matter how much Rome seemed to drown under spring and autumn rains, Ostia had seemed universally parched and warm whenever Fronto passed through. The trierarch of the
Black Eagle
, which had brought them from Massilia as part of the military escort, was bellowing commands to his crew as the vessels prepared to unload Caesar’s huge convoy. Ten huge, wide, shallow-bottomed barges waited to take the precious cargo on upriver to Rome, where the larger military triremes would have difficulties navigating. The
Black Eagle
was an escort – a trireme with little space for cargo – and thus had only a tiny fragment of the entire convoy to unload. The great trader vessels that formed the bulk of the flotilla carried the lion’s share of the loot and slaves. Three sailors carried the small party’s gear down the boarding ramp and deposited it close by. There was little of the usual array of bags and boxes that followed Lucilia whenever she left home. They travelled light.
‘I do not like this,’ Masgava said for the fifth time that morning.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Fronto sighed. ‘There are ten of us and we are all good men, Masgava. You trained most of us, after all. Seven of them in an unfamiliar and hostile city. Ten of us, a number of who know every guardhouse, courthouse, storehouse and whorehouse in Rome.’
He caught a look from Lucilia and grinned weakly. ‘Or some of those, anyway.’
Masgava continued to look unconvinced.
‘Lucilia’s safety is more important than my own, and so is that of the boys. You and Arcadios have a responsibility to them. With half a dozen of the lads I expect you to take good care of them.’
‘Andala is competent with a blade, also,’ his wife added with a warm smile, ‘and Galronus will be there.’
Fronto felt a sad little tug for a moment that he was continuing on into peril in the heart of the republic, and not with this small group who would soon be reunited with his old friend the Remi prince, as well as his mother and sister. ‘We’ll come to Puteoli as soon as we’re finished in Rome. Perhaps we’ll even stay for the autumn and winter. It’s been some time since I enjoyed a Campanian break.’
Across the dock, Catháin came scurrying lop-sidedly, still unable to shake off the rolling gait of the practised sailor. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, grinning, and Fronto couldn’t help but smile. For days now the strange northerner had been almost vibrating with excitement at the chance to reorganise the very root of Fronto’s business at the wine production centres of Campania. Catháin coughed. ‘The captain of the
Cassiopeia
will take us for a very good low fee. He is stopping at Antium to unload a cargo, but otherwise is straight to Puteoli and then Neapolis and Pompeii.’
Fronto nodded his satisfaction. Nowhere would be safer for the others than the family villa.
‘Sure I can’t persuade you to join them?’ he murmured, glancing across at Balbus, who was busy settling his heavy, bulky toga in place.
‘Hardly. A threat to Rome is a threat to all Romans. And I owe these animals for what they did at my villa.’ The old man cupped Lucilia’s chin in his large hand. ‘Be safe, daughter. We will join you soon.’ Stooping, he reached out and hugged Balbina who remained silent as usual, though the pain in her eyes at his departure was almost tangible. ‘Look after your sister and your nephews. Don’t let that reprobate Galronus have you drinking his nasty Gaulish drinks.’
Straightening, he nodded to Masgava, who reached out to Fronto and clasped his hand. ‘Be careful. These are not Hierocles’ muscle. They’re dangerous and, to have got to Rome intact, they must be clever and careful. Don’t underestimate them, and remember: you may not be able to carry a sword in the city, but to a gladiator anything can be a weapon in the right circumstances.’
Fronto smiled and let go as Catháin waved the small party on towards a Greek merchant ship that wallowed at one of the jetties, loading cargo as efficiently as possible in a harbour filled to the gills with Caesar’s fleet, another twenty ships still waiting out at sea for their turn. Fronto watched his wife and children and their eminently capable guards make their way across the wide dockside, ready for the next leg of their journey south to safety, three of the hired hands from Fronto’s small but trustworthy force carrying the bags on their backs and shoulders.
‘They will be safe,’ Cavarinos said, as if reading his innermost thoughts. ‘Greek sailors know the Middle Sea like no others, and each man with them – and the women, in fact – are strong and trustworthy.’
‘I know.’
‘Then stop looking at them with such sad eyes, as though they were leaving you forever. They have a Bellovaci woman with them sworn to your wife’s protection and a warrior prince of the Remi awaiting them. Oh, and some Romans, too.’
Fronto turned a scathing look on the Arvernian, who flashed him a tight smile. ‘You need to focus on the task at hand.’
He nodded and, as the men from the ship unloaded the last of their kit, looked around at the men who had come with him – some through loyalty, some for pay, others for vengeance or some indefinable Gallic motivation Fronto couldn’t quite follow.
Balbus. His father-in-law, old friend and former peer in the legions. Despite the heart trouble that had seen him leave the Eighth half a decade ago, Fronto would say that the old man looked fitter and leaner than he had for years and was, of course, every bit as wise and clever as he had always been.
Cavarinos. To all intents and purposes, the man was one of the enemy, or at least had been so quite recently. But the Arvernian was an enigma. Concerned with the survival of his people more than their ascendance, he had quickly become as close to Fronto as any Roman he could name. The former legate would have no qualms over having Cavarinos at his back. Would that be the same, he wondered, when the men they faced were the Gaul’s countrymen?
Biorix. The hulking Gaulish legionary and engineer who had come to his attention half a decade since and had endured and triumphed through every strand of adversity that Fronto and his bodyguard had encountered these past three years.
Pamphilus and Clearchus. None too bright, it had to be said, but as loyal as the day was long, and with strong arms and stout hearts. And the other three men who had served at the villa were all tried and tested, having fought off the enemy during that heart-stopping night attack – Dyrakhes the slinger, Agesander the boxer and Procles the giant Greek former mercenary.
And the last of the ten-man army was now hurrying back across to them, his eyes rolled upward, watching the gulls that filled the sky with their cries and swooping, aware of the potential for aerial deposits and veering close if he thought they might occur. After all, a gull dropping its business on you was among the luckiest of signs. Aurelius. If Masgava was the head of Fronto’s guard, Aurelius was its heart and soul. The former legionary stopped in front of them, heaving in breaths from his run, though with a curious smile and a splash of white across the shoulder of his tunic.
‘Port officials say they’ve had at least a dozen Gallic ships in over the past day and they don’t keep records down to tribal levels so they can’t confirm if any of them are Ruteni. All Gallic vessels marked down are registered at Narbo, Massilia, Agathe or Heraclea, but that doesn’t help as any of them could belong to the Ruteni and could have been at Massilia. The last was logged a little over two hours ago, so even if the bastards we’re after were on that ship, so long as they were sharp they could be in Rome even now, either by road if they bought horses or by swift passenger ferry upriver. Little chance of us catching them in Ostia.’
Fronto nodded. He’d not expected to contain them here, but had held onto a small thread of hope that it might happen nonetheless. ‘To Rome, then. We know where they’re going.’ He turned at the sound of his name and saw Brutus walking across the dock towards him, a legionary leading the officer’s horse behind him.
‘Decimus. Are you bound for Rome, now?’
Brutus shook his head. ‘Soon. Can’t let this convoy out of my sight, else Caesar will have me strung up. A lot of his consulship and political future rides on these barge-loads. I’ll wait until the last of it is loaded and bound for the city and then follow along, to be safe. I was going to say that I’m bound for the house of Casca, but as soon as I’m done with the duty, I’ll head home and stay there unless Casca requires me. You know our family’s houses in Rome, yes?’
‘I do. Which one?’
‘I’ll be on the Palatine – the villa overlooking the Vestals’ compound.’
Fronto chuckled and Brutus flashed an embarrassed grin. ‘A foible of my grandfather. I think he narrowly avoided prosecution by sealing up two of the more overhanging windows. Anyway, you know where to find me if you need me. And you?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Home, on the Aventine. The place is back to functioning normally these days, though it’s been unoccupied by anyone but a caretaker for a while.’
‘Right. Good luck, my friend.’
Fronto eyed a wagon-load of booty being manhandled with difficulty across a ramp and into a wide barge. ‘You too.’
Turning away from the dock, he threw a heavy pouch to Aurelius. ‘Take Dyrakhes and Biorix and buy ten horses. They don’t have to be race winners, but I’d prefer it if their legs didn’t fall off as soon as we leave Ostia. The rest of us will gather a few supplies and meet you at the Rome Gate in an hour.’
* * * * *
Fronto sipped his wine – lightly watered to preserve the rich flavour, though taken in a small quantity. A clear head was required now. The others sat on the same folding stools as he, standard fayre for military campaigns, without the comfort of a civilian couch but with ease of transport and storage. The townhouse of the Falerii had been completely restored after the fire that had torn through it, but there was yet little in the way of furnishing or comfort, having not been fully occupied for some time. Indeed Glyptus, the sour-faced but excruciatingly efficient freedman Faleria had retained to maintain the house, was even now out in the city with a purse of coins, purchasing bedding for ten and a few home comforts. It was late in the evening to shop, really, but in
this
city – the greatest in the world – there was no time of day or night that goods could not be purchased if one knew where to look.
Outside the squeak of bats flitting about in the dark added a harmonious line above the distant surge and murmur of the late night horse race in the circus for the Apolline Games. Each squeak was accompanied by a twitch in Aurelius’ eye and in order to try and concentrate the man’s thoughts on the task at hand, Fronto had been forced to close all the windows despite the growing stuffy heat.
The party of ten had arrived in the city not long after noon, all weapons and equipment safely stowed in their packs in line with Roman law. They had made their way up to the house to a gruff greeting from Glyptus, who had set about lighting the furnace, but they had declined his grudging offer of a meal, instead strolling down to a tavern Balbus knew well on the Gemonian Way, rather aptly named the ‘Huntsman’s head’. The food had been standard fare at slightly inflated prices and the wine an extortionate cost for a poor vintage, but Balbus had been quite right about its unparalleled view of the carcer. They had spent an hour there having a midday meal, and then another slowly supping wine while they observed, filling the void with harmless small talk.
Not one of them had been concentrating on the food or the drink or the gossip, for all their harmless, mundane appearance to passers-by. In fact, their attention had been fully locked on the state prison opposite, its surroundings and the local populace. While it seemed highly unlikely that they might spot a cloaked and cowled figure in a mask strolling through the forum in daylight, they could not preclude the possibility that the Gauls had shed their disguises and were now trying to blend in. There were a few foreigners here, of course. Greeks, Egyptians, Spaniards, Africans, Levantines, Thracians and so on. Not many of the fair haired northerners, of course, but a few. Enough that a subtle Gaul could walk through the streets without raising too much comment.
And then, finally, they had made their way to the public baths to scrape away the dirt of travel and refresh themselves, all the while listening to the conversation and gossip of the men sharing the great complex with them. Anything might be of use after so long away from the city, after all. Fronto had been fascinated watching Cavarinos as he experienced a true Roman bath complex for the first time. The Arvernian had used Fronto’s baths at the villa, of course, and had learned, with some surprise and perhaps a little scorn, how such things as strigils and spongia worked. But having fully depilated naked slaves tending to his personal hygiene seemed to cause something between fascination and horror for the Gaul.
A little walk around, introducing those who had not visited the city before to its ways and districts, and finally they had returned to the house of the Falerii in time for an evening meal as the sun descended behind the Aventine’s slopes. Glyptus was either a far better cook than Fronto had taken him for or, as Fronto suspected, one of the local and better
cauponae
owners was grinning at a small pile of coins and an empty ingredients larder. Now, as evening rolled on, in private and with the day’s research to work through, the ten of them sat around a model of the forum’s western end and the slopes of the Capitoline constructed out of boxes, bowls, pots, pans, wax tablets and anything else Fronto could find to add to the growing plan in his tablinum.