“Of course.”
“Erm…?” began Fronto, looking slightly wild-eyed.
“Don’t worry about it, Marcus. We’ll sort it all out” Balbus smiled. “Trust your old friend. I’ll see you right, even in the face of all this womanhood!”
Fronto nodded unhappily.
“So” smiled Balbus ”I think that we should settle for a relaxing night of catching up for now. I’ll send word to the trireme’s captain to remain in port for a couple of days. Once you’re safely packed off to the north, I will take the ladies and the girls back to Rome for the summer to organise everything. I was planning on a trip anyway, and besides, after last year’s events, I suspect it would be good if someone were to keep an eye on our interests in the city?”
Fronto nodded.
“Shall we send someone to let Lucilia know she can come back? And it’s time I saw Corvinia and Balbina. And tried some of Corvinia’s pastries again. Those I have missed.”
Faleria rose slowly. “I shall go and find the ladies and bring them here. I may be a few minutes. The evening is warm and the honeysuckle on your veranda smells delightful. I could do with a few minutes of air before we close ourselves in and gorge.”
Fronto frowned at her as though she must have some ulterior motive.
“Don’t wander too far” he said irritably.
Galronus smiled and stretched. “If it is permitted, I shall accompany you. The night air reminds me of my lands and my people. Sometimes it is nice to remember I am Belgae and born to this sky.”
Fronto moved his frown to his friend. “I notice your Gaulish nature gets neatly sealed away when there’s a racing circuit and a bookmaker anywhere in the vicinity!”
Galronus smiled infuriatingly and walked out of the room, leaving just Fronto and Balbus alone. Almost as if they’d requested it, Galronus closed the door with a click as he left.
Balbus leaned forwards conspiratorially and Fronto frowned.
“What?”
“Have you had a visitor, Marcus?”
The frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”
“Vatia?”
“Eh?”
“Publius Servilius Vatia?”
Still no change in the frown. Balbus took a deep preparatory breath.
“How do you not know Vatia? His father’s the censor who wiped the pirates out at Isauria? The lad’s serving as quaestor for Narbonensis and he paid me a visit a couple of months ago. He expressed an interest in you and I wondered if he’d pursued it?”
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re circling an important point and trying not to make it, Quintus.”
Balbus had the grace to look a little uncomfortable.
“Servilius is making a few enquiries on behalf of his father… enquiries of those who are known to have disputed Caesar’s command or are clear of ties to him.”
“Quintus…” Fronto said quietly. “You’re talking about something very dangerous there. What’s his interest in it?”
“He never said; just sort of… sounded me out. But I thought long and hard about it, and I seem to remember that his father served as admiral of the Euxine fleet under Pompey in the east, so it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”
Fronto shook his head. “If he had come to me, he’d have left with a broken nose. Quintus, you shouldn’t even be talking to these people!”
Balbus shrugged. “As far as I’m aware this is still a republic and not a kingdom. Dangerous it may be, but I do have the right to at least listen to every side in a debate. It’s what a good Roman does.”
Fronto’s eyes flared. “Quintus, don’t tell me things I really don’t want to hear!”
“Relax, Marcus. I’m still a client of Caesar’s and a friend of yours. But don’t tell me you’ve never even contemplated whether you’re doing the right thing hoisting Caesar’s banner, because I know you have. I know that you’re too bright not to question the general.”
“Quintus” Fronto hissed, “that’s quite enough. You’ve always been Caesar’s man!”
“And I still am… for now. But look at it: Gaul is pacified. He’s pushed his remit beyond breaking point and stretched Rome to the very edge, but he’s managed it. Gaul is tamed and everything can settle again. Now, he should be back in Illyricum or Cisalpine Gaul, making laws and skimming money off the taxes like a good governor. He doesn’t need eight legions to hold on to a peaceful Gaul. He should be settling veterans. And what is he doing?”
Fronto shook his head, vehemently.
“What is he doing, Marcus?” demanded Balbus quietly.
“Preparing for campaign.”
“Against who? For what?”
“Germania. He says they’re threatening the Belgae.”
Balbus nodded.
“Good. Then he will push back the Germanic tribes across their river, settle the veterans there to make sure it doesn’t happen again, and then he’ll return to his gubernatorial duties, I presume.”
“Quintus, I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”
“Only because you know I’m right, Marcus. Watch what happens. What I just suggested is all that’s required, and you know that. But if the general settles veterans and returns to political life after he’s saved the Belgae, I’ll eat my own cuirass.”
Fronto opened his mouth to argue again, but the door opened suddenly and Corvinia entered with a warm smile, followed by a grinning Balbina and a veritable army of slaves bearing steaming platters.
Corvinia greeted him warmly and Fronto cast one last warning glance at Balbus before, pushing his fears and dismay deep down into his chest, he stood and put on a smile that he hoped would look genuine.
* * * * *
Two days at Massilia had passed in strained pleasantry. Despite their longstanding friendship, the conversation Fronto and Balbus had shared alone that first night had soured the visit and nothing seemed able to dislodge the dark cloud from Fronto’s thoughts.
The betrothal arrangements had been made around him and despite of him, largely by Corvinia, Lucilia and Faleria, while Fronto nodded and smiled and made his best attempt at small-talk: a thing he’d never truly got the hang of. Lucilia had noticed that something was different, as had Faleria, despite his smiles, though both had had the sense and tact not to enquire as to the cause.
The morning he had said goodbye to Lucilia, Faleria and the family had been an unexpected wrench for him, despite the fact that his feet had been itching to hit the trail north as soon as the mood had turned. He was never a man to avoid confrontation in the line of duty, but a confrontation with a good friend was a different proposal.
He and Galronus had checked over their horses as the slaves of the villa and the solider from the staging post in the agora fussed around their pack animals and the many bags. Fronto had flatly refused a baggage cart due to the interminably slow pace it would set, and had purchased two strong pack beasts for the journey.
With just a few muted last hugs and kisses, he’d mounted up, tipped a nod at Galronus, and the pair had been on the road while the sun was still young and cool.
The journey along the valley of the Rhodanus was peaceful and could have been pleasant, had Fronto been in a better mood. Galronus had watched him from time to time with something like concern but, fortunately, the big Gaul seemed to have something else on his mind and did not push the conversation at any point. The worst thing that had risen from his repeated replaying of that conversation in his head was the fact that he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Balbus might be right.
After six days of almost silent travel, they arrived at the settlement of Vienna; last town on their journey north through the province of Narbonensis, before they entered the less well-trodden paths of newly-conquered Gaul. An overgrown Gallic oppidum with signs of Romanised settlement, Vienna was reckoned by many the last civilized place before further Gaul. The signs of recent settlement by the veterans of Caesar’s legions were everywhere, from the construction style of the
new houses to the foundations of a new theatre and a temple to Venus and Roma in the centre.
Fronto and Galronus made for the mansio off the ‘forum’. The Sweeping Eagle was part local tavern, inn or guest house, and part military staging post. It was owned and operated by a former signaller for the Eighth legion who had retired to the town after the Helvetii campaign three years ago and had opened this business with his severance pay.
The ‘Eagle’ appeared to be thriving, not only with the traffic directed to it by the Roman officers who used it as a convenient stopping off point, the supply trains that came through here on the way to and from the army and the Roman merchants who used it as a base to ply their wares to the newly-accepting Gauls; but also, apparently, as a watering hole of choice for locals from every sector of society.
The last time Fronto had seen the place, it had been a sizeable, square, two-storey building with a courtyard surrounded by outhouses and stables behind.
Silvanus seemed to have done well in this past season. A whole new wing sprouted off from the near wall, and an extension seemed to be underway on the far side, though currently the roof there consisted of a huge leather sheet apparently constructed from old legionary tent sections. Somewhere a quartermaster would be having a fit, and a legionary mule driver would be swinging a heavy purse.
Dismounting at the entrance to the rear courtyard, Fronto and Galronus enquired as to a room, confirming that there was a double billet available in the new extension so long as they didn’t mind sleeping under a temporary roof – for a discount, of course.
The groom took their mounts while they removed the bags they would need and hauled them onto their shoulders, making for the tavern door in the failing light.
Within a few minutes they were ensconced at a heavy oak table, scratched and decorated with the names of passing soldiers and their units, as well as a number of dubious comments about the physical characteristics of their friends and some anatomically unlikely suggestions.
The man at the bar – a local with a shiny pate and bulging moustaches – caught Fronto’s eye and nodded, bringing over a dusty bottle of wine and two earthenware cups; travellers in Roman garb never asked for the local beer. Fronto and Galronus studiously examined the scratchings as the barman unstoppered the wine and gave the cups a quick wipe with his cloth. The man narrowed his eyes as he spotted the officer’s tunic with the pteruges that Fronto wore beneath his heavy cloak, and scurried away. Fronto rolled his eyes.
“See? Even he doesn’t trust a man of the legions, and this place has been at least nominally Roman since my grandfather was a twinkle in his father’s eye.”
Galronus looked up and met his gaze. It was the first hint of normal conversation they had shared in days.
“Of course,” Fronto added, “this far from the sea, I expect they hardly ever saw a citizen until Caesar marched up here.”
“Fronto…”
He frowned as he took in the strange expression on Galronus’ face.
“Are you alright?”
Galronus smiled.
“I’m thinking of taking your sister to marriage, Marcus.”
Fronto’s cup dropped to the table, splashing cheap, vinegary wine across both him and the wooden surface. His lips moved curiously.
“According to custom, I will need your agreement” the Gaul continued. “I’m not sure how it all works when we cross our customs, but your agreement is a factor in every way as far as I can see. That and gifts, though I’m a little confused as to whether I should be giving you gifts or receiving them; or possibly both.”
Fronto, his jaw slack, shuffled his chair backwards and used his bare hand to sweep the spilled drink from the side of the table where it dribbled and spattered to the floor. His eyes narrowing, he refilled the cup and drank the contents in one open-gulletted mouthful.
“You what?”
“You do not agree?”
Fronto shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I just… When…? Why hasn’t Faleria mentioned this to me?”
Galronus shrugged nonchalantly. “I haven’t told her yet.”
Fronto dropped his cup again, but caught it this time before the worst of the spillage.
“Listen, Galronus: Faleria might not be interested. She’s had a bit of a… past. She…”
“I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She’s interested.”
Fronto shook his head again, not so much in disagreement, as in astonishment. “Well, I don’t know…”
He suddenly became aware of a shadow falling across the table and looked up sharply.
“What?” he snapped at the two men standing above him. The Gallic barman looked nervous and apologetic, but that was hardly a surprise. The surprise was that the expression was mirrored in the face of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen of the Eighth legion and proprietor of the establishment. The burly veteran leaned forward.
“You’re senior officers, right, sir?”
Fronto frowned and flashed a glance at Galronus. “We’ll pick up on that little problem again later.” Turning back to the innkeeper, he pursed his lips and nodded.
“I’m the legate of the Tenth, and this is Galronus, commander of the Belgic cavalry contingent. What’s the problem?”
Silvanus looked around conspiratorially.
“Can I ask you to come with me for a few minutes, sir?”
Fronto shared a look with Galronus and the pair shrugged, standing and gathering their packs. Silvanus gave a small, hurried salute and, beckoning, scurried off toward the side door. Curious, the pair followed him out into the courtyard again, where he approached a set of cellar doors in the floor near the inn’s back wall. Crouching, he removed a heavy key and unlocked the doors, revealing a sloping ramp for beer casks, down which he trod carefully.
Fronto put his hand on the pommel of the gladius at his side as he glanced once at Galronus and then shuffled down into the dark space beneath the inn. The big Gaul followed. With the deep cerulean sky of late evening behind them, they could see very little within and it came as a surprise when they touched level floor again. A moment later there was a spark and Silvanus lit a small oil lamp, passing it to Fronto before lighting another and holding it high to illuminate the cellar.
Carefully, picking his way around the goods stored in the room, the innkeeper led them round a corner to where the other half of the cellar was divided into three parts with partition walls. Two doors remained closed, but the left-hand side, with a wide stable-style door, stood open, revealing a log store, the chunks of heavy, seasoned wood casting strange shadows as the lamplight danced across them.
“We found it yesterday. I didn’t know who to tell until you arrived.”
Fronto frowned and stepped in through the low door, ducking his head. Galronus was behind him again instantly.
The legate straightened in shock, cracking his head on the beam above the door and cursing sharply, rubbing his head.
“You see, sir? Not something to shout about.”
Fronto nodded, his eyes wide as he crouched over the body of Publius Pinarius Posca, senior tribune and nephew to Julius Caesar. There were contusions everywhere, caused by his hasty burial beneath the heavy, sharp logs, but it was clearly him. Even without the uniform tunic, Fronto would have recognised the high forehead and receded chin. His heart racing, he turned over the body. A dark stain of dried blood bloomed on his back around a wound, half way down the ribcage, slightly left of the spine.
“Murder. Plain and simple. No accident and not a fair fight.” Handing the lamp to Galronus, he used both hands to tear the crusted, hard tunic and open up a bare patch of pale, almost translucent skin beneath. The wound was neat; narrow and flat, expertly placed and professionally executed. Reaching down to his belt, Fronto slid his military-issue pugio dagger from the sheath and laid it next to the wound for comparison.
“I’d say that’s pretty convincing. And he’s been dead… three days, I reckon? Two at least, and not more than four.”
Fr
onto stood again and shared a look with Galronus.
“Travelling with the tribunes you think?”
The big Gaul nodded and Fronto turned to the innkeeper. “Best get him seen to by the priests in town and then arrange for him to be shipped back to Massilia and then Rome. I’ll leave you coin to cover the whole thing. We’re going to go up and have enough wine to float a trireme, but if I were you, I’d have a couple of your slaves dig through that log pile and just make sure there aren’t two effeminate junior tribunes in there too. Pinarius couldn’t have been travelling alone.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Normally I would remember senior officers passing, but there have just been so many on their way to the army that it’s been a bit of a blur.”
Fronto glanced once more at the body and then shivered.
“Come on. I need a drink.”
Galronus helped him out of the log store and the pair made their way back through the cellar and up the shallow slope to the courtyard above. Before they entered the busy main room again, Galronus grasped Fronto’s shoulder and pulled him up short.
“You think the same as me, I suspect?”
Fronto nodded.
“Two new centurions, eh? Caesar’s not going to be happy at this.”
Chapter 3
(Divoduron, in the land of the Mediomatrici)
Fronto couldn’t help but wonder what it said about him in that he felt profound relief that the brutal murder of a Roman officer had at least changed the subject of their sparse conversations from the subject of marriage and Faleria. Had he become so jaded with his own society that even needless violence was a preferable alternative to the social niceties?
He felt sure Faleria would say yes.
But in answer to what?
Shaking his head in irritation, Fronto glanced across at Galronus, sitting astride his horse with a serene and even happy face. It seemed that he couldn’t even keep off the subject within the seclusion of his own skull.
4.Conspiracy of Eagles Page 5
