Simply: he could not realistically see himself living in Rome or even Puteoli. If he could not spend his days as the gods had clearly intended, knee deep in mud and entrails destroying the enemies of Rome, then it was time to start thinking of others instead of himself. Balbus had already stated his intention to leave a capital which seethed with discontent and violence and return to his estate above Massilia. Though he'd not said as much at the time, Fronto had made his decision exactly then. For the safety of his family he and Lucilia would leave Italia and move into the villa that Balbus had thoughtfully built for his daughter and son in law. While he dreaded a long future stretching out in front of him filled with nothing but vines and horticulture and horse rearing and dinner parties, it would be a comfort to be living only a few hundred paces from the older man, and it would be perfect for Lucilia.
Yes. Massilia it was. Sooner or later the Republic would consume the port that still retained its Greek culture and nominal independence, and it would become part of Narbonensis, and then who knew? Perhaps Massilia might get an arena and a hippodrome? That would be a comfort - something to distract him from the endless monotony of the farmer's life.
In a few more moments he would have to go back inside. Lucilia was preparing a hearty meal for them all and the men would be wondering where he had got to. It seemed they had come away remarkably lightly given the dangers they had faced. Fronto had acquired a sore throat and a huskiness to his voice from the near strangulation; Palmatus was limping but his leg would heal, as would Galronus' arm. Masgava was still pale and bed-ridden but seemed in good spirits and was convinced he would pull through. Fronto was glad it hadn't been him who'd had to help seal the man's stomach wound. Balbus had still looked pale and panicked from the experience by the time they arrived back at the villa with the big Numidian carried on a shield. The poor bastards who'd been locked in the steam room had been too far gone to save by the time the door was jemmied open, and the two with the sling and bow had been swiftly dealt with, but it could have been so much worse.
A few more moments. The night air was so peaceful.
A clatter of hooves.
Horsemen?
He heard the noise of the hooves on the gravelled path before the party crested the rise and began to approach the villa. He frowned. There were perhaps two dozen of them and even in the low evening light with the sun already disappeared behind the Misenum headland he could make out enough details. Soldiers. Many of them bore plumed helms and some wore cloaks.
What was this? Some new threat? Was Pompey really so stupid and bloody-minded that he would send soldiers in case of the failure of his pet murderers. News of their failure would not reach Rome for days, if at all. That depended on whether the sole survivor - a man called Acrab apparently - felt inclined to return to Rome and Pompey. Seemed unlikely.
Slowly, Fronto took a step backwards. If they were professionals and the cavalry were accurate with their spears there was every possibility they could skewer him before he made it through the door and into the villa. He could hardly run, nor could he yell the alarm in case it just brought spears his way. And so he crept slowly backwards, hopefully unnoticed by the riders, keeping his eyes locked on them.
Definitely around twenty of them. Half a dozen men in extremely high quality tunics and cloaks, their boots brocaded and decorated with embossed lions, their cloaks as glittering as the Godsawful thing Faleria had made him years ago and that he'd lost not long after in Gaul. Behind those six officers, the rest resembled the Praetorian guard of a powerful general. And yet, he could not place the man at the fore.
He was not Pompey, Caesar or Crassus - Fronto knew all three by sight. Of course there were perhaps a dozen other men in Rome who rated such escort and spectacle in military style, but to Fronto's knowledge none of those were brave enough to pomp themselves up in a world where that could be seen as setting themselves in opposition to the triumvirate of greats.
The man was not thin, but his bulk was muscular and strong, not fat. His handsome face was wide and displayed both the lines of a man given to laughter and the complexion of a man given to drink. His hair was dark and short, yet uncontrollably curly. He seemed extremely at ease with himself, a fact that only put Fronto all the more on guard.
Back-pacing, Fronto had almost reached the door when the party pulled up just outside the gate and the leader slid easily from his saddle and stretched like a man returning home from a long day's work. His eyes met Fronto's and he smiled.
It was as though the tension had been exploded with a look. Something in the man's genuine friendly expression immediately discounted the possibility of violence or trouble. With an easy grace that reminded him of Caesar, the man strode through the gate into the courtyard garden, pausing at the entrance to bend over a rose bush and inhale deeply of its scent.
"Roses. Always a personal favourite, especially after a day's riding that leaves ones nostrils filled with sweat and manure" the man smiled.
"Erm…"
"Marcus Falerius Fronto?" The man grinned and nodded. "You would have to be. Even allowing for the bias and invective in the description I was given, you are quite unmistakable."
Fronto frowned. Still, something about the man's easy manner kept him relaxed and at ease in himself. Yet he was on the back-foot. Failing to react perhaps because he had no idea what he was reacting to.
"I'm he. May I ask who you are?"
The man's smile widened - something that should be impossible without splitting his head in half. "I am Marcus Antonius and I'm tired and parched. Is there anywhere we can go and sample the delights of your vineyard while we talk?"
Fronto found that he also was smiling. He'd never met Antonius, though Caesar had spoken fondly of him at times over the years. A distant cousin but also a friend, Antonius had been busy out in the deserts of Syria and Judea while Caesar fought across Gaul, and Fronto had often wondered why he had not accepted a commission in the general's army.
Fronto gestured towards the door.
"What brings you to our house?"
"You, you fool. Well, you and your friend the former commander of the Eighth."
Fronto's brow wrinkled as he stepped into the warmer brightness of the entrance hall.
"You're here on his behalf? Caesar is not one to change his mind or forget a slight. I cannot imagine him sending such an august person just for us after the trouble I've caused him."
Antonius laughed - a rich, dark laugh like a glass of mulsum on a warm night.
"Beloved Bacchus, no. Caesar simply asked me to gather the best officers Rome had to offer and I intend to do that whatever his personal whims. When I take on a task, I do it to the best of my ability." He winked. "Sometimes Caesar needs a guiding hand, as I understand you are well aware."
"How did you know where to find me?"
The irascible Clodius told me where I might find both you and Quintus Lucilius Balbus. He was adamant that you would not accept -. However, Caesar has spoken to me of you in the past and I suspect that you and I are alike in many ways; and if I'm right, I think you are ready to take up command in his army once again. I go in a month to join his ranks in Gaul, as do the others out there. Think on my request while we find your wine cellar and peruse its contents."
Fronto followed the man across the hall, gesturing towards the stores where the wine was kept. His head was spinning. Not an offer, as put to him by Clodius and Caesar months ago - as though they were doing him a favour - but a request. As though he would be doing them a favour by accepting. Marcus Antonius was clearly shrewd. Time to push further.
"You came all the way from Rome to Puteoli for two men?"
"Ha. Hardly, Fronto. You are an important figure in my search, but not the only one. We are bound for Paestum in search of the indefatigable Gaius Rufio, and then to Grumentum where I hear Publius Cornelius Sulla lives in semi-retirement on a sizeable estate. You and Balbus are conveniently on my way. If I am any judge of men, by the time my journey is complete and I
pick up Caesar's trireme at Ostia I will have a dozen of the very best military minds in the Republic at my side."
Fronto digested this as he made his way into the store room. Antonius' eyebrows rose in admiration at the racks of amphorae.
"He will fight against having me back" Fronto said quietly.
Antonius shrugged.
"Briefly, perhaps. He respects my opinion, though, and he is short of effective officers. He will overcome his personal irritations sooner than you might think. If you know him as well as I think, you know that he will never let personal matters interfere with his work." He chuckled. "I take it from your words that you are willing to take up your command once more?"
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. He and Balbus again after years away? Serving together, back under the general? A year ago he had been so adamant that the general's service was not for him - that Caesar was not to be trusted and even not to be believed; that he was unscrupulous and cold and calculating. Comparing him to Pompey - the great pirate killer and general, the thrice triumphant commander and beloved of the senate - he came off as a villain.
It had taken close proximity and involvement with the great Pompey to see beneath the man's civilised veneer and to the raging anger and vicious streak within. After a year in the supposed civilised culture of the heart of Rome Fronto's viewpoint had changed somewhat. Yes, Caesar was cold and calculating. He was a single-minded politician and capable of acts that scraped along the baseline of acceptability. And yet it was now clear to Fronto that for all that, he was still the best commander and possibly even the best man for Rome. Pompey might tear Rome apart with his rage and Crassus would ruin it with his avarice. Caesar might seek to be something of a tyrant as Balbus feared, but he was strong. And as he strengthened so would Rome and all those who served the general.
Lucilia and Balbina and the servants could move to Massilia and live in the villas above the great port city and he and Balbus would be close to home when a season ended. It was almost too good to be true.
"I'll have an answer for you by morning. You are staying, yes?"
Antonius smiled and indicated the racks of amphorae. "I was hoping you would offer me the night's accommodation. Thank you. And I look forward to your answer."
An eerie howl echoed hollowly from somewhere outside, or perhaps even deep in the earth.
"I didn't know Puteoli had wild wolves?" Antonius quizzed, his brow furrowed.
Fronto tapped a foot on the flagged floor of the storeroom and smiled. "Just another guest acquainting himself with his new accommodation. I fear the caves of Puteoli are somewhat different from his homeland."
* * * * *
The druid rubbed his pained knee and peered across the flames to the man on the heavy wooden bench opposite. Not for the first time he wondered whether they were doing the right thing.
His people had been the heart and soul of the Celtic world since the earliest days - the lore keepers and even the king-makers. They had been the link between the world of men and the will of the Gods. Their ways were secretive because without such secrecy power would dilute throughout the world and much of the important lore would be lost.
The man opposite was busy running his fingers through drooping moustaches and toying with the braid at his ear. He was broad and tall and chiselled-cheekbones handsome. He oozed confidence and power. Three years ago, when the druid had been a renowned figure among the Ambiani and his tribe had been under siege by the Romans he had met their commander Caesar and had recognised instantly the man's hunger, power and will. Caesar - he had known at that time - was not a man to stop short of total victory - a man who saw a new world with him at the head of it. Those same things the druid could see in the gaze of the Gaul opposite.
Esus.
It was not his name, of course.
The real Esus was no simple man. The real Esus was the blood-slicked lord of war - the battle God who with Toutates and Taranis constituted the very heart of all druidic rites. It was a measure of respect beyond reason to call this man Esus.
But there were good reasons for the pseudonym.
For over a year now the Romans had been delving into the druids' business. They had upturned every stone and caught half a dozen messengers, trying to prepare themselves for what they saw as a plot against them. It had become necessary to give this man a new identity so that the Romans could not use his real name to uncover anything truly important.
Also, if all went the way the druids planned, there was every chance that this man would become the very embodiment of Esus in the world of men. He was an accomplished warrior, hunter and leader of men. He was of a noble lineage and a man who claimed to respect the druids and the old ways. On the surface it was everything they could hope for. The entire council had given their consent, despite the reservations a number of them felt.
After all, the man's father had sought to rule Gaul himself and he had been only half the man that his son had become. Could they trust this warrior? If they went to all this trouble and he was truly his father's son, they could be denying the rule of all Gaul to Caesar only to replace the detached and cold Roman for a single powerful overlord who knew them all too well. No druid would submit to an overlord whether he be Roman or Gaul
He sighed. The council had decided and everything was in motion. There was simply no going back now. Soon the whole world would writhe in flames and only one power could come out in control. If placing their very future in the hands of a would-be king was the cost of being that one victor then so be it.
"The Eburones were stupid" he said quietly, poking the fire with a stick.
The big man stopped playing with his braid, raised a quizzical eyebrow and then picked up his long, heavy, decorative blade and began to run a whetstone along it.
"And the Nervii were idiotic to go along with them" the druid continued. "They acted too soon. They sought to achieve the goal early and without our aid - to win the glory of a free Gaul for themselves. And now the Treveri are embroiled with Caesar's other man, probably expecting us to rush to his aid."
"It is all to the good" the big man said without looking up from his blade.
"How so?" the druid asked irritably. Three of the biggest tribes in the north east had jumped ahead of the plan and now they suffered the consequences, weakening the potential army the druids could count upon.
The big man continued to rasp along the keen edge with the stone.
"They tested the Romans and showed us what they could do. Until this winter we had only ever reacted to their attacks or dealt with them in small risings. Ambiorix and his allies showed us to some extent what is possible - they did destroy two legions, after all - and what clearly not to do. Add to that the likelihood that the Romans will see this rising of Belgae tribes as the culmination of what they have discovered rather than a symptom or side-effect, and we might find the Romans becoming a little more complacent in the coming year."
"Possibly" the druid conceded with a nod of his head. "But still it was a waste of men. I cannot see any potential benefit that outweighs the loss of potential forces."
The whetstone stopped mid-stroke and the bright, emerald green eyes of the man they had dubbed Esus looked up at him.
"When you asked me to lead, you did so not because of my lineage - and certainly not because of my father - but because I can bring you a strategy that will win you all of Gaul and the destruction of the Romans. And when we have risen up like vengeful spirits and driven them from our lands, I will become a second Brennus, taking our warriors back into their own lands and to the city of Rome itself. We will free Gaul and then shake and burn Italia and reclaim all our ancient lands that have languished beneath the Roman boot for generations."
He scraped the stone down the rest of the blade, admired his handiwork in the firelight and then slid the huge sword into its sheath.
"You look only at the immediate effects. I am looking ahead to the future. I know that you have spent two years building this plan and you
have been surprisingly effective given your lack of experience or skill in the world of war or politics, but now it is time to relinquish your control. Now I and my companions will take the reins of this beast you have been rearing and prepare to ride it against Caesar. But we are still a year or more away from our objective, so be patient and leave me to my task."
"Do not disappoint us" the druid said simply.
"Have no fear" smiled Vercingetorix coldly as he rose to his feet, looming in the small hut. "Caesar will soon rue the day he trod our sacred soil."
END.
Author's Note
Where do I start? MM5 marks a turning point in the saga. I felt that there were too many threads hanging in Rome and too many doors that needed to be closed or opened, bearing in mind what the next few years will bring, and so it seemed prudent to set a considerable slice of the action there. This had become apparent during MM4 and even before that, during the third book, and is one of the main reasons for the departure of Fronto at the end of book 4. The other was the seeming repetition of rehashing the Britannia campaign two years running without some extra fun on the side.
And so Fronto was in Rome. There were tales to tell with his family and I hope that this volume has fleshed out something of the family history and brought the reader a tiny bit closer to understanding Marcus. Moreover, Fronto has been sliding from his prime for a few years and, with what is coming, it was something of a necessity to bring him to epiphany point and turn him around, strengthening and revitalizing him.
Hence the introduction of Masgava, who is one of my fave additions for a while. Despite their reliative minor roles, I also enjoyed Palmatus and Elijah. Galronus, of course, has come to the fore a little more in terms of his social side. It's all about character in Rome this time. I suspect that the 'star medal for interesting creation' will go to the Monster of Vipsul, though. Creepy.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 51
