Morons like those three almost made him miss Crassus, who was now ensconced in his new position in Rome, regularly attending meetings of the senate and guiding the future of the republic.
Almost… but not quite.
Very much the other side of the coin – a coin now probably authorised to mint by the very same Crassus – was the centurions. Furius and Fabius had spoken to their fellow passengers precisely as much as the courtesy due their social highers and military superiors demanded, and no more. The two men claimed to hold Caesar in very high regard both as an officer and as a tactician, and neither made mention of Pompey or their former commissions. Fronto had planned to turn the conversation around enough to pry into their past, but the constant illness and battering of his senses had made it practically impossible, and so Furius and Fabius remained somewhat mysterious.
One thing was certain: he would trust an oak-bark-sucking druid before he would let one of those two stand behind him with a knife.
Furius and Fabius had remained quiet and apart for most of the journey, talking among themselves and eying the three fops, Fronto and Galronus with equal distain.
Fronto watched with a surly temper as the dockside of Massilia closed on them. Hopefully the other five passengers would be in a hurry to travel north and he wouldn’t be forced to accompany them on the journey. Caesar had apparently already disembarked in Massilia on the previous trip of the Glory of Venus, and most of his officers would now be converging on the army in preparation. Fronto and Galronus wouldn’t be far behind, but there was something that had to be done first.
Despite the best efforts of the port officials of Massilia, there was simply so much traffic that the great trireme commissioned by Caesar had to sit in the glassy waters of the harbour for almost two hours before enough mercantile traffic had unloaded their wares and cleared the queues and jetties to make room for a warship.
In a Roman port, the simple appearance of a military vessel and the name of Caesar would be enough to ensure priority and the dispersal of mercantile traffic. But Massilia was still nominally independent and, at this point, Rome still obeyed her harbour rules.
The sun was already sliding into the western horizon, leaving a fiery shimmer across the water and casting the hills and mountains to the north and east in a deep purple tone when the trireme finally began its approach to the jetty.
Fronto braced himself for the first bounce and yet still lunged at the rail like a novice when it happened, recovering as quickly as he could and hurrying off down to the boarding ramp that was being run out, converging with the ladies and their Gaulish escort. The other centurions and officers had politely stepped aside to allow the ladies to disembark first, and Fronto took advantage, leaping in front of them and hurrying down after his three companions.
Alighting on the solid stone of land, Fronto resisted the urge to crouch and kiss it, concentrating instead on stopping the unmanly wobble in his legs. As he and his companions stood in a small knot on the dock in the rapidly emptying port, the others disembarked behind them, setting foot on the pier and moving away.
Pinarius wore an expression of happy and vacant excitement that immediately annoyed Fronto again.
“Ith tho much more thivilithed than I ecthpected. Thereth a monument near the agora that commemorateth the great ecthplorer Pytheath, you know? He came from thith plath, and ecthplored ath far north ath a thip can go without freething tholid. Mutht we go north in the morning? Can we not thtay a day to thee the plath?”
Fronto winced as his brain tried to add a few solid consonants to the question.
“I think it would be unwise, my dear” replied tribune Hortius with a sad face that resembled one of the theatre masks for Greek tragedies. “Your beloved uncle wants us all with the army as soon as we can be there.”
Fronto kept his opinion of how desperately Caesar sought the company of his nephew in the privacy of his head. ‘Gods, please don’t let him be assigned to the Tenth!’ He resolved to be extra nice to the general on arrival, just in case.
Furius and Fabius alighted with the steady gait of men used to the sea, adjusting their stride easily to the dock and marching off into the town without a word to any of their former fellow passengers.
Fronto watched them go with lowered brows and grunted something under his breath.
“What was that?”
He turned to his sister.
“Pompeian turds” he repeated. “I think they were with Pompey when he led the navy too. Experienced marines, they are. What the hell is Caesar playing at?”
Galronus patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.
“You’ve lost a lot of centurions in the past two years, Marcus. The general can’t keep shuffling the ones you have left up each time and bringing in newly-raised officers at the bottom, or there’ll soon be no experienced centurions left. He has to bring in veteran officers if they become available, no matter their past.”
Fronto muttered something again in inaudible grunts.
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, the crew can unload the horses and baggage and send them on to the staging post. Let’s get up and see Balbus. My stomach seems to have flipped back over and is demanding wine and meat.”
“It’s a strenuous walk, Marcus” Lucilia reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for the horses?”
“My legs need the workout. They feel like knotted string at the moment.”
Behind them, the men of Caesar’s ship were already unloading the beasts and chests to the dock, where the port workers were consulting their orders, roping chains of beasts together and loading bags and crates onto carts, ready to deliver to their destinations. The cacophony of Latin voices from the ship, Greek tones from the dock, and Gaulish shouts from the immigrant workers rose and fell like the waves of the Mare Nostrum, threatening to make Fronto’s gorge rise again.
Turning his back on the havoc just as Fronto’s magnificent black horse Bucephalus was walked slowly and carefully ashore, he led the small group up the street and out of the port. As they passed into the city itself, Lucilia was suddenly next to him and then past, as though drawn inexorably by the ever-nearing presence of her family. Sharing a glance, Fronto, Galronus and Faleria picked up their pace and hurried along behind. A local she may be, but no girl in her right mind travelled the streets of a port city on her own.
The journey was a tough one; exhausting, in fact. A mile through the rising streets of Massilia, back northeast away from the port, and then two more turning north on roads that led toward the villa district, rising through the hills behind the shore all the time. Barely half a mile from the edge of the great trade city, a solid, stable road of Roman construction ran along a carefully levelled terrace, stretching from Cisalpine Gaul in the east across to Narbo Martius in the west. A milestone claimed the road as Roman territory and marked the point where the local road from Massilia joined the republican highway.
The small group of travellers moved onto the strangely empty main road and walked some half a mile northwest until they found the familiar track that led off to the villas of the Roman nobles who had chosen to settle on the hills above Massilia.
And finally, their hungry eyes lit upon their destination.
The villa of Balbus had thrived since Fronto’s last visit. The garden and building itself were as neat as ever, but the complex also showed signs of growth. Four new buildings had risen to one side, including two bunkhouses for servants or slaves. Ordered rows of newly-planted vines, barely reaching above the soil, marched off down the slope toward the sea, their green tips catching the last of the light.
A slave rushed around the yard and the gardens, lighting lamps and torches where they would be most needed, as labourers returned wearily from the estate beyond, baskets and tools on their shoulders. Fronto smiled.
“Looks like your father’s turning into a farmer. Or a vintner.”
Lucilia grinned back at him. “That’s probably just to cater for your visits, my l
ove. Come on.”
With Galronus looking around appreciatively, perhaps seeing for the first time the possibilities raised by the marriage of Gallic agriculture and Roman organisation, the four stepped into the garden. Newly acquired benches, arbours and a decorative dolphin fountain graced the frontage of the villa, and the walls had been freshly painted with red and white following the winter depredations.
Fronto frowned at the door, which stood open as slaves and servants rushed back and forth, settling everything for the night. He felt sure someone would have informed the villa’s master that a trireme had been seen docking in the port.
“Marcus, you look positively grey!”
Despite himself, Fronto jumped a little at the sudden words that issued from close behind him. Turning, he saw Quintus Lucilius Balbus, former commander of the Eighth legion, lounging on a curved stone bench under a pergola, his arms folded and a sly grin on his face.
Fronto drank in the sight of his old friend. Balbus had aged more than he should have in half a year, but strangely it did not sit badly on him. While he looked a little older, he looked a great deal healthier and happier than he had last time they had met. He had bulked out a little and achieved the rosy complexion of a compulsive gardener. Laughter lines creased his face and he wore a straw hat that had seen better days and a tunic and breeches that, while cut to military pattern, were covered with the stains of fruit and soil.
“You become a farmer, Quintus?”
The older man laughed, a deep rich sound, and then stood and enfolded Fronto in a crushing hug, releasing him only when he realised that Lucilia was waiting impatiently.
“Daughter. You’ve seen fit to pay a quick visit to your father, then?”
His eyebrow arched in mock anger, but he couldn’t hold the expression for long as Lucilia rushed into the gap left by Fronto and threw her arms round his nicely-padded ribcage.
“Father, I wish we’d come sooner, but…”
“I know. You had trouble keeping this one out of the taverns long enough?”
Fronto shot him a sour glance, which set the older man laughing again.
“Come on inside. I’m sure we have a great deal to discuss.”
* * * * *
Fronto sank back into the comfortable couch, allowing the cushions to enfold him and take the edge off the ache of his creaking bones and clicking joints. Closing his eyes, he savoured the sip of wine and then opened them at a gurgling sound, only to find Lucilia adding a healthy dose of water to his beaker. Glaring at her, he caught the mirth on Balbus’ face across the room and sighed, sipping the now-respectfully-watered wine as he reached to the plate of cheeses on the small table next to him.
“Can you afford a lay-over?”
Fronto gave a non-committal shrug.
“A short one. You know the general. Doesn’t do to keep him waiting too long, but we’ve been quite quick so far. Perhaps a couple of days? There’s an office in the agora apparently staffed by a couple of ex-legionaries assigned by Priscus. They’re organising all the transport of men and goods to the army. It looks like the new camp prefect has taken half the responsibilities of the chief quartermaster from him.”
Balbus grinned. “I’m sure Cita will just love that. Have you reported to them yet?”
“No. I thought I’d leave it for now.”
“I will go in the morning” said Galronus quietly from his seat at the room’s end. He had seemed thoughtful and quiet since he arrived, though Fronto put it down to the awful sea voyage. The five of them sat in a rough circle.
Balbus shook his head. “Stay and relax, friend Galronus. I’ll send one of my lads down tomorrow morning to start organising things for you. That way they can just meet you here in two days and pick you up at the villa with your beasts and goods.”
A brief frown of regret passed Fronto’s face as he pictured all the dockside taverns and their owners reaching out to take his coin. It was quickly replaced by a genuine smile. Time later for that. For now: other things were required.
“Are Corvinia or Balbina joining us?”
“Corvinia is preparing a repast that will double your weight and Balbina is helping her. I think Balbina’s sulking a little as I told her the adults had to talk before she could see you.”
“Yes” Fronto said quietly. “There are things we have to discuss, Quintus.”
He glanced sidelong at Lucilia and waggled his eyebrows.
Balbus burst out laughing, almost choking on his own wine. “Lucilia, my dear, I suspect that my dear friend Marcus would like you to step out and occupy yourself while we menfolk talk.”
Fronto carefully avoided Lucilia’s glare. He shot a quick glance at Faleria too, but she simply smiled sweetly and called out “I’ll be along shortly, Lucilia.”
Lucilia nodded once, curtly, at her father, shot a warning glance full of daggers at Fronto, and trotted daintily from the room, her stola swishing about her knees with that hypnotic sway that Fronto was resolutely ignoring right now.
Once she had left, Fronto waited for the door to close and opened his mouth to speak, but Balbus held up a cautionary finger and waited almost a minute in silence. Finally, somewhat muffled by the door, they heard Lucilia ‘harrumph’ and patter off across the marble. Balbus smiled. “She reminds me so much of her mother at times.”
Fronto coughed uncomfortably.
“You have something important to say?” Balbus nudged.
“Erm… yes. Sort of.”
“Something that involves Lucilia?”
“Well… erm. Sort of, yes.”
“Has she done something disgraceful?”
“No. No. Not that. Sort of… erm…”
Fronto collapsed into an uncomfortable silence, horribly aware that a pink stain had risen to replace the pallid grey of his cheeks.
“For the love of Venus, Marcus, he’s playing with you!” came a muffled voice from beyond the door. Balbus roared with laughter, and Fronto glared at the wooden portal, wishing he was somewhere on a battlefield, up to the knees in gore, facing a thousand screaming Gauls; even on a ship! Anywhere instead of this.
Settling from his laugh, Balbus took on a more serious face and turned to address the door.
“If you do not go and find your mother and leave us to this, Lucilia, the conversation might never happen.”
A huffy noise rose from behind the door, and footsteps pattered away again. Fronto narrowed his eyes. “Is she…?”
“She’s gone. Now calm down, pretend you’re ordering a general advance with cavalry on the wings and auxiliary support, and talk to me, Marcus.”
“Nothing untoward has happened, Quintus. I’ll state that for the record. And I didn’t try to drive a wedge between her and the Caecilius boy.”
Balbus nodded sagely. “She has been writing to her mother, who has in turn been abusing my ears and straining my patience. I am painfully aware of how headstrong the women of my family are. Am I to believe then that Lucilia has succeeded in her quest to entrap you?”
Fronto sighed and, with an apologetic face, tipped the heavily-watered wine from his beaker into a houseplant next to him and replaced it with neat red liquid, taking a sip.
“I was sort of hoping to move things along nice and slowly, but the girl seemed Hades-bent to get me signed up, hog-tied and becoming a father before I can even shave again.”
“It’s in the nature of girls, Marcus.”
“It’s a difficult situation. You’re my friend, Quintus. I know there’s an age difference between us – frighteningly, not as wide as the one between Lucilia and myself – but I never saw you as a father figure. It would be… weird.”
Balbus smiled expansively.
“Don’t forget that Caesar and Pompey are almost the same age and related in the same manner, and yet there’s no discomfort in their relationship.”
Fronto shook his head. He wouldn’t have said that, though he understood the point his friend was trying to make.
“I just don’t wan
t you to have to say yes to anything you don’t approve of, just because we’re friends. Family is family, and she’s your daughter, after all.”
Balbus smiled and looked down. When he raised his head again, his eyes sparkled. “To be honest, Marcus, I’m more than happy with the match. I was more worried that you’d been forced into something you didn’t want. Feel free to tell me now if Lucilia has pushed you into this.”
Fronto laughed weakly.
“Well she certainly pushed me into it, but that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with it. Are you sure about this, Quintus? You know I’m career military. A career soldier is a poor prospect for a husband.”
Balbus shook his head. “Mars would melt and Fortuna pluck out her eyes before they let anything happen to you on the battlefield, Marcus. The match is approved if you wish it.”
Fronto swallowed. His throat had suddenly gone dry. This felt like handing over his sword to the executioner.
“I do, Quintus. A betrothal of… what? A year, for decency?”
Galronus frowned and leaned forward. “Why delay? Among the Remi, we marry when we find the right match. There is no need for a time to show the people of the tribe first.”
Fronto glared at him.
“If I remember rightly, the Remi don’t even pause to remove their breeches, if you get my drift.”
Galronus shrugged. “When the match is right, the match is right.”
“Let’s say less than a year” interjected Faleria from her couch nearby. “We’ll have to organise everything so that we can fit it in during the winter break between campaigns?”
Fronto suddenly felt his stomach flip again as it had on the ship.
“Errrr… alright then.”
Faleria gave him an encouraging smile, and then turned to Balbus.
“Can I suggest, Quintus, that you and I work out the details later: the ring, the gifts, the money and so on. And, of course, the date, the location, informing those who need to know and all the other minutiae?”
Balbus frowned. “Do you not think that Marcus should have a…” he caught the helpless panic on his friend’s face and nodded instead. “Very well, let’s take all the trouble out of his hands. I’m sure Corvinia and Lucilia will want to involve themselves, of course.”
Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles Page 4
