Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  Priscus sighed.

  It would be good to leave Britannia. And hopefully never come back.

  Chapter Eleven

  OCTOBRIS

  Fronto staggered back across the peristyle garden and fell against the door to his father's 'special room', the strength in his legs buckling, hand shaking uncontrollably from the onslaught. Angrily, he pulled himself up next to the long-worn paint that warned he and his sister to keep out, and turned, reaching up to wipe away the blood flowing from his lip.

  "You can't teach me like this! You cannot expect me to achieve the same skills as you. You're a decade and a half younger than me for a start; and you've been trained as a gladiator. I've been trained as a soldier. It's a whole different thing."

  Masgava bent forward and collected Fronto's fallen blade.

  "This is pretty, but in the hands of the wrong man it is just an ornament."

  "Oh piss off. Yes, it's pretty. But it's a good, solid, military blade nonetheless. And I do know how to use it, and use it well. I've stuck one of those in so many Celts these past four years that I'm starting to see anyone with a moustache as a threat."

  "Then why this?" Masgava indicated the fact that Fronto was battered, bruised and slightly soiled and leaning against the door for support by pointing the fine blade at him.

  "Because you've got me wielding the bloody thing in my left hand. I can barely wipe my arse convincingly with that hand."

  "Then you should learn."

  "Masgava, if I'm ever in the position where someone has taken my right arm off above the elbow, I won't really care about much other than bleeding out."

  "Short sighted view. You need to be able to use both hands, individually or together."

  Fronto sighed. He had to admit that Masgava's methods seemed to be having the right effect. He'd not been this fit since the last time he was in Hispania. His waistline was narrow, his arms muscular, his torso was beginning to mirror the bronze muscle cuirass he'd worn for years with lots of small muscular bulges instead of one large one below the diaphragm. Due to the Numidian's insistence on doing everything outdoors he was actually achieving a healthy tan instead of the pasty paleness that had plagued him for decades and which Priscus had told him made him look more Celtic than the Gauls.

  He was fit. He was strong. He was fast.

  He was also still a dozen miles behind his teacher. No matter how heavy a weight he lifted, Masgava could lift him while holding it. No matter how fast he ran, Masgava was always waiting for him at the end. It was infuriating. And then there was the fighting. It was the only thing that Fronto felt he had ever mastered in his life, and yet he still felt like a boy waving a stick when facing the Numidian. The worst thing was that Masgava seemed to be taking a perverse pleasure in his student's failure and discomfort, while being paid for the privilege. Velius, the most infamous trainer the Tenth had ever had, was like a damn pussycat next to the big black-skinned killer.

  "I just cannot get used to the left hand. I've had to do it a few times in desperation - in the heat of battle - but that's all taken care of by instinct and necessity and any success with it has been far more by luck than by judgement. In the legions the sword goes in the right hand and sits on the right hip. Not for me of course - officers don't carry shields, so our sword goes on the left hip, but it still doesn't matter whether the Gods made you a rightie or a leftie, the sword goes in the right."

  Masgava's eyes narrowed. "So you never used a shield?"

  "Of course I did. When the situation both required and offered it."

  "So you have been forced to adjust your attack mode before."

  "Ye-es" Fronto replied hesitantly, not liking where this was going.

  "So adjust again."

  "Easier said than done."

  "You've changed sword types easily enough. Even swung an axe with a certain sense that you felt natural with it. It cannot be much more difficult to train an off-hand with a familiar weapon than to train a regular hand with a new one?"

  "Really? You think that?"

  Masgava shrugged. "I was trained with a knife in both hands before I grew hair upon my body. I can stitch a wound in my right arm with my left or vice versa. I have equal strength and speed in both, and only through training. By birth, I believe I was inclined to the left."

  "I won't tell you what my mother used to say about that. My great uncle Tullus was a leftie and he - well he enjoyed the company of pre-togate boys if you get my drift."

  "It matters not. The simple fact is that if I could unlearn and re-learn, then so can you."

  "Your people were pretty tough by the sound of it. And anyway, you say you were trained with a knife in each hand. Well, a sword in both hands is a different matter entirely. It's not reliant upon my left alone, so compensation will be easier."

  The big Numidian nodded slowly in acceptance of the fact.

  "Then we shall take two blades as our next step."

  Fronto stood, still breathing heavily from their most recent bout, and finally turned. Peering briefly at the faded words on the door, he crouched and scrabbled around in the flower bed, retrieving a key from some hidden location, which he inserted into the lock and turned, pushing open the door with a creak.

  "Come on."

  The former gladiator, a fine sheen of exercise sweat covering his ebony skin, crossed the garden with an interested expression and followed Fronto into the gloomy interior. As their eyes adjusted, Masgava looked about in surprise. The room was only small, but well stocked. At the wall opposite the door four wooden torsos rested on stands, two clad in very high quality mail shirts, the other two in cuirasses of muscle-beaten bronze. A shelf above them on the wall held seven helmets of differing styles, some of which had gone out of fashion a century ago, and yet all were in perfect condition, polished and clean. One side wall held shelves that contained a variety of knives, swords and even two bows. But as Masgava took in the whole room with professional interest, it was to the fourth wall that Fronto crossed.

  The bare plaster held only one item, hanging on a hook: a military-style gladius, plain and business-like. Fronto unhooked it and brought it down, sliding the blade - nicked and well used but also well-kept and in perfect condition - from the sheath, trying not to look at the inscription 'GN VERGINIO' embossed on the fine leather. Turning, he weighed it in his right hand, spinning it and twisting it.

  It had been a while since he had held a normal military gladius, and yet it felt instantly natural; like an extension of his arm. The fine blade he had taken from a murderous tribune was theoretically no different, but its ignoble and grisly history made it feel more murderous than military and it would take a lot to right its wrongs. Besides, he'd had no call to wield a blade over the winter in the city.

  He suddenly became aware that Masgava was watching him intently.

  "Problem?"

  "You have an armoury?"

  "I do. Well, my father did. He felt it inappropriate to keep his military kit in the house, where the children could get to it, so he kept everything in this locked room off the garden - his stuff and that of various other family members. I never understood why he didn't just get rid of it all when he moved on from soldiering but this winter, now I've done the same, I think I understand why he liked to keep it around. It feels comfortable knowing it's there; like you've not properly left."

  Masgava wandered across the room and peered in the gloom at one of the cuirasses.

  "This was yours?"

  "My father's. The left-hand one was mine."

  "Your father was a better soldier than you."

  Fronto blinked. "I'm sorry?"

  "There are fewer marks on his armour. You were hit a lot."

  "I stood in the press with my men. Dad just sat on a horse at the back. The same way I was always supposed to. You're a deadly man in the arena, but you've no experience of the army. In fact, I'd guess if you were little more than a boy when you were taken you've never experienced war?"

  "I have fought a
small army as part of a group at Carthage."

  "In the amphitheatre - with rigid organisation and rules. Carefully controlled. You've not experienced the chaos of war. You could put down any man I know, but facing me with a cohort at your back, I wouldn't wager a bent dupondius on you. It's a different game. You will always exceed me in your killing skills, but I could show you a thing or two about warfare."

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the courtyard, broken by a cough. Galronus had finished his bath and strolled out to watch the progress.

  Masgava nodded in a business-like fashion. "This sword means something to you." A statement rather than a question.

  Fronto looked at the former tribune's blade in the Numidian's hand. "Yes. I told you. It killed-"

  "No. That one." A thick ebony finger gestured at the blade in Fronto's hand.

  "Sort of. It belonged to a friend a long time ago." He almost dropped the blade as Masgava tossed the other gladius over to him, forcing him to juggle for a moment with sharpened edges until he had one in each hand.

  "Now you will show me how you handle two weapons and I will judge your left."

  * * * * *

  Fronto lit the oil lamp in the tablinum and sank into one of the seats, reaching for the jug of fruit juice Masgava made sure he always had once he'd cleaned up from training. The room flickered with an orange glow as darkness took hold outside. With an aching arm Fronto tipped the juice into the glass beaker before him and stared at the deep red result. Galronus, at his side, smiled with startled surprise as he reached for the small snack bowls.

  "Masgava?"

  "I thought you trained well today. You deserve a treat."

  Fronto was too overcome with relief and gratitude to complain at being treated like a child.

  "Besides," the big man went on with a wide grin, "since I've tipped the rest of your secret stash into the sewer, I thought you might want to make the most of your last jug."

  Galronus burst out laughing while the fires of ire flickered in Fronto's eyes, but he was simply too weary to fight now. That was a battle he would wage tomorrow when he felt fresh. He took a sip of the neat wine, savouring its thick, sweet, heady taste and sat back.

  "Tell me how you ended up in the arena."

  Masgava fixed him with a dark look and then helped himself to a glass of the wine, watering it to a half and half mixture. "Why?"

  "Indulge me. There's only the three of us in the house for days on end and Galronus and I already know one another well."

  The gladiator's expression softened and he shrugged. "It is not an exciting story."

  "And…?"

  "There was a fight between my tribe and our neighbours when I was a boy. They won, and to make sure their mastery was complete they sold all the King's family and the tribal elders to Roman slavers. I had begun to learn the way of the blades and so Largus sold me on to a Lanista in Utica."

  "You were of a royal line?" Galronus asked with interest, reminding Fronto out of the blue that the Remi warrior was himself a prince of his tribe.

  "Well I wasn't one of the elders." He sighed. "I was a distant sister-son. Peripheral at best, which is why I was sold off to die and not kept in case I was valuable."

  "Did the slaver teach you Latin or did you learn it in the ludus?" Fronto asked curiously. "It's almost flawless, which is unusual for a man without his letters."

  "I was always clever. Too clever, my father used to say. But regardless, I knew Latin long before I was taken in chains; Greek too. You will find many ordinary merchants in Numidia that do so let alone nobles. The world is full of buyers for our kilim and other crafts, but there are few merchants operating south of the sea who are not Roman or Greek. They are the languages of trade."

  Fronto nodded his understanding. "Starting tomorrow I'm going to teach you to read and write in Latin and Greek as well."

  "I may not wish to learn."

  "Then you're not as clever as you think you are."

  An uncomfortable silence fell across the room, broken finally by Masgava. "Tell me about the army."

  Fronto frowned. "Big subject."

  "You said this afternoon that as much as I could teach you about fighting, you could teach me about warfare."

  "Wait a moment. I'm paying you to train me, and I'm going to teach you your letters, and now you want me to teach you soldiering too? Just who hired who here?"

  Masgava shrugged. "I told you I don't care about reading or writing. Tell me about the army instead."

  "A whole lifetime of military experience isn't something I can pass on in a month."

  The big Numidian leaned back and relaxed into his seat. "In the past ten weeks you have become a warrior again. You still have a lot to learn, but you no longer need to build muscle; now you have only to keep it - to train little and often. Now it is all about acquiring skills, and your regime should change accordingly. We will have more free time and you are house-bound anyway. Teach me."

  Galronus gestured with a glass. "I can help too, Marcus. Might be fun, since we're both missing the life."

  Fronto frowned. It seemed like a waste of time and he had little idea of how to begin, but they were right, really. It was not as if they had much else to occupy them.

  "Alright then" he said, placing his glass on the floor beside him with a clink and swiping the table clear of miscellanea, handing the various dishes and platters to the others. Dipping his finger in his wine, he drew two wavering lines across the table. "These are the rivers Lureta and Trebia." Swiping a handful of pine nuts he began arranging them on one side in piles. After some shuffling and apparently satisfied with the results, he scoured the nibbles Masgava had produced. Settling with a frown on a bowl of olives, he arranged them on the other side.

  "Alright. We might as well start now, and this'll be good for you too, Galronus. Strategy is of prime importance in any military engagement and is harder to pick up than the technical side. We'll start with a cautionary tale. The olives are the Roman force of Longus. The nuts are Hannibal and Mago. This, gentlemen, is a cautionary tale…"

  * * * * *

  Balbus sat in the 'Grapevine Tavern' with his back to the cold brick wall, wondering why in the name of Vulcan the proprietor insisted on having a roaring fire going on one of the hottest days of the year. He had already removed his toga and sat in just his tunic and sandals, flapping the hem up and down beneath the table occasionally to waft air round his warmer parts. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead from the sparse, greying hair.

  For the past hour he had sat here alternating a well-watered dry Alban wine - a surprisingly quality find in such a place - with cups of barley water to keep cool and hydrated. Corvinia and Balbina were in the market doing the endless rounds of fabric stalls and jewelry traders. The effort had become too much for the ageing ex-soldier and after only a quarter of an hour or so he had removed himself to his favourite tavern in the subura, only a short walk from the forum, where Corvinia knew to find him once she had finished. It was a comfortable arrangement and one that had been going on for some time.

  On the table before him, next to the nearly-empty cup, sat a coin: a denarius of Aemilius Scaurus. Issued in the year of the consuls Piso and Gabinius - the very year Caesar took the Eighth and marched them under Balbus' command into Gaul. Funny how it seemed so long ago now. It had been two years since he'd even served in the army.

  His mind turned once more to the subject he'd been contemplating the past hour.

  Fronto.

  The man - along with Galronus and the pet gladiator - had been holed up inside the Falerii house on the Aventine for a month now. Occasionally the Gaul or the Numidian left to stock up on food and drink, but as far as Balbus was aware Fronto himself had not left the building at all.

  Upon hearing tell of the endless string of accusations Pompey's people had leveled at the Falerii, and as the man's father-in-law, Balbus had taken it upon himself to visit Fronto as soon as possible. He had been met at the door by Galronus, who had ex
plained in no uncertain terms that he was to visit no more. When pressed, the Remi noble - who had served with Balbus and considered him a friend - had explained unhappily that close association with Fronto in these trying times was a dangerous proposition and that Fronto wished to keep his friends at a distance for their own preservation. Balbus had argued that he could hardly appear disassociated given their familial connection, but Galronus had been adamant, apparently at the insistence of Fronto.

  It had been a surprise to learn that Lucilia and Faleria had gone south to Puteoli and it was that more than anything that led to Balbus acquiescing and accepting Fronto's decision. If the former legate of the Tenth - a man who was no stranger to peril - felt the danger strong enough to send away the women, then Balbus should respect that.

  But it had been a month! A month!

  For the past few days Balbus had been toying with the idea of another visit. Despite the accusations leveled by Pompey, little was coming of any of them, most being disproved or turned aside by Galba and other cronies in the government of the city, and the general seemed to be losing some of his driving ire as the reality of the situation settled on him. Though his anger had been earth-shaking, it had now in large part given way to grief and he rarely left his own house, echoing Fronto's lack of activity half a city away. The defamation of Fronto's character and that of his family continued, though now under the supervision of lesser men on Pompey's behalf. Soon enough it would end and things might be able to get back to normal.

  Now might be the time to visit Fronto again and try and talk the recluse out of his square brick shell.

  A surge of noise outside drew his attention for a moment. Though it was loud, it was some way off and merited little more than casual interest. It was a sad state of affairs in such a once-great city that civil disobedience and random acts of violence and unpleasantness had so become the norm that few men even looked up from their drink unless it turned into a riot. And riots were more common than festivals these days.