He and his family, along with Fronto’s sister, who had formed a worrying alliance with Corvinia that boded ill for his future, had arrived by ship from Massilia last night and made their way to Balbus’ townhouse on the Cispian hill. Faleria had been determined to return to her own home but, with it still undergoing renovation, Balbus had had to insist that she join them as their guest.
His townhouse had remained unoccupied for more than two years, with only a small skeleton staff of servants to keep it clean and intact, and the provisions within were woeful. After an evening of scraping up whatever they could for a meal, sending the servants out to find the few remaining late-night food stalls still open, the womenfolk had decided that the next morning would be a full re-supply shop that would require at least half a dozen servants for porterage, and Balbus himself, in case male choices had to be made, or the family coffers had to be opened to pay the enormous bills.
It had taken precisely ten minutes of struggling through the throngs of people, trying to keep up with the four women who moved like a pack of wolves through the crowd, for Balbus to decide he’d had enough. Stating flatly that he had more intention of joining a theatre troupe than contemplating another minute’s shopping, he had arranged to meet them here.
Here, because two minutes to the north, along the Clivus Argentarius, stood a nice little tavern that would be a good place for the women to take stock of their purchases and for Balbus to silently, and with wine, bemoan his fate among this group of Amazons.
In the meantime, it was rather nice sitting in the shade. His hand dipped into the pack of honeyed dates he’d managed to purchase during the fray and the sweet, sticky treats brought on such a thirst that he had to reach for the skin of grape juice that he’d also bought.
Taking a deep pull, his gaze passed over the top of the skin and locked on the curia building below and to the left, where the senate was in heated debate. At less than seventy yards distance, it was almost possible to hear the subject matter from the steps; almost but not quite. But still, occasionally, the debate would rise in pitch, tone and volume and words would carry this far. The third time he heard Caesar’s name shouted in the building and the roar of assent that followed, he had decided that this situation needed more attention, and had paid an urchin to go stand near the doors and listen in. After all, it didn’t do for a man of stature to lurk outside the senate doors like an eavesdropper. Besides, the stairs were so much more comfortable.
Whatever they’d been discussing in there for the past hour, Caesar had apparently been at the very crux of the matter. Other words had risen from the cacophony, each one as expected as the next: Gaul, Pompey, Consul, Glory, Triumph, Cost. Cost. Cost seemed to be an important matter for debate, too.
It was not hard to piece together the arguments from those snatches he’d heard, though the urchin would help later, in return for the three copper coins promised from Balbus’ purse.
His attention was suddenly drawn to the front of the building as the senate house’s doors swung open, releasing the roar of angry and excited politicians into the city. Balbus was less than surprised to recognise the first figure to emerge.
Cicero had his hands raised in triumph as he stepped into the light, beaming at the crowd that had assembled outside, hoping to set eyes on the men who controlled their republic. The great orator had the look of a victorious gladiator, playing to the people. The senators who followed him closely, though Balbus knew perhaps half of the faces at most, were clearly Cicero’s supporters and pets, cheering him on.
The chorus of “Summons for Caesar” was still being echoed around the curia’s interior, and Balbus frowned. Had Cicero already managed to press for such a drastic move in the general’s absence? But the more he listened, the more it sounded like a demand than an announcement.
Cicero had paused on the steps and dropped into conversation with two senators at his side and Balbus’ eyes strayed across the scene until he locked onto the wretch who was dutifully eavesdropping for him. The boy had managed to get himself remarkably close to the city’s most honoured and respected orator. That conversation alone would be well worth the three copper coins.
Balbus started and shrank instinctively back into the shade as his eyes lit upon the small group behind the boy; five men in the drab brown tunics of the Roman poor. They would blend into any crowd with ease. But Balbus had served with the legions for more years than he cared to remember and the stance of a soldier was unmistakable, no matter what he wore. His gaze played across the men, taking in the long sleeves on their tunics, unfashionable, but long enough to cover any marks of military service and the bulges in the tunics at their waists that spoke of hidden daggers.
Cicero and his two favourite pets left the stairs and began to walk across the forum. Balbus felt his heart jump as the boy scurried out of the way and began to jog toward the stairs where he sat, while the five lurking men moved across the open space formed by the crowd parting for the senators, shadowing them. A sinking feeling settled like a river stone in his gut.
His eyes darted back and forth until he spotted Corvinia at a stall behind the shrine of Venus Cloacina. They might be finished any minute, but if he waited, he would lose any hope of finding out what was going on.
Biting his tongue, he gathered up the punnet of dates and the skin of juice in the sweep of his large hand and began to descend the steps three at a time. By the time he reached the paving of the forum and his young, scruffy accomplice had converged on him, he’d already dug a number of small coins from his purse. Pausing, he dropped the collection into the young lad’s waiting hands. It was perhaps the cost of a couple of good cups of wine, but represented a clear fortune to the boy. His eyes widened.
“I have to go for now” he said, his breath coming heavily. He wasn’t built for this sort of exercise these days, since his illness in Gaul. “Stay here and wait for me with your information and I’ll double that when I get back.”
The boy’s face split into a wide grin as he nodded vigorously. Balbus smiled at him and, scanning the crowd until he spotted Cicero and his friends, ran on, pushing his way through protesting women and men, priests and traders. A pickpocket hoping to make an easy target received an elbow in the face for his mistake, and Balbus was suddenly bursting through the crowds only a few yards behind the five soldiers in their dreary kit.
As Cicero rounded the side of the arcade of shops known as the tabernae vetae, he paused, sharing a few quick words and a smile with the senators before they departed. The two lapdogs moved off, still chatting together, along the Vicus Tuscus, toward the cattle market and the Tiber, while Cicero turned, making his way past the temple of Castor and along the Via Nova. Unnoticed behind them, their stalkers also split, three of their number following the senators toward the river, the other two climbing the hill after Cicero.
Balbus fumed for a moment, his head snapping back and forth between the two streets and finally settled on Cicero as the more important of the two groups. Stepping into the shadow of the great temple, Balbus attempted to melt into the background — no mean feat for an overweight ex-soldier with a gleaming pate and a pristine white toga. As the shadowing soldiers crested the first rise, following their prey with little subtlety, Balbus moved like a panther along the side of the quiet road.
Ahead, Cicero paused in the street and, adjusting his toga, strode toward a large townhouse at the southern edge, a bakery built into its frontage. Balbus nodded to himself in confirmation as he spotted the name of the bakery: ‘Pistrinum Ciceronia’. The orator had simply returned home from his deliberations. As Cicero disappeared into the house’s interior, the door clicking shut behind him, Balbus stepped back into an angle between two buildings and watched as the two men following him huddled together in deep conversation and then broke up and hurried away along the street.
Again, Balbus dithered, torn between following the men, returning to the corner to see if the other senators were still in sight, and heading back to the forum to
try and meet up with his young informant and the ladies.
Wishing he’d not started all of this, the ageing ex-officer strolled on along the street after the two men who had previously been shadowing Cicero. Given their clandestine nature, the men seemed to be somewhat lax in their awareness, only occasionally glancing around and not paying even enough attention to spot the portly man lurking in the shadows.
Up the Via Nova they strode, calmly, unaware of anyone following them, turning right and climbing the slopes of the Palatine, passing through the ruined piers of the Mugonian gate and cresting the hill to the area of the city occupied by the spacious houses and villas of the city’s wealthier and more important folk.
Balbus frowned at their presence in such a rich area, and followed them with deepening interest and suspicion as they passed across an open square, turning down an alley to the right and disappearing through a small gate in the back wall of a sizeable property.
Balbus stood for a moment, still frowning, and then strode across to a low bench beneath an apple tree at the far side of the square, where he could just see the closed gate and high wall of the expensive residence into which the dubious men had passed.
For three minutes he sat, contemplating what to do next, starting suddenly as a click resounded just behind him. Craning his head around urgently, he saw a middle aged and well-to-do matron and her house slave leaving a gate just such as the one he watched. The woman looked at him with something between surprise and suspicion but, taking in his age, weight, and togate attire, her brain labelled him equestrian class at the least and therefore unlikely a threat to house and person. Nodding a greeting, she turned to head for the forum.
Balbus narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, good lady?”
The woman paused and turned with an elegantly sculpted eyebrow raised.
“Sir?”
Balbus gestured toward the gate in the wall that he faced.
“Do you happen to know who resides at that villa?”
The woman’s face took on a look dark and disapproving enough that Balbus wondered whether he should apologise for asking.
“That, sir, is the house of Atia Balba Prima, daughter of…” she actually looked as though she might spit as her mouth formed a name with distaste, “Julia Caesaris.”
Without further ado, the woman gathered her stola around her and strode off toward the forum, her slave at her heel, leaving Balbus staring at the gate in consternation.
Atia? Niece of Caesar. What the hell was the general up to now?
Wishing there was another urchin around to set to watching the door, Balbus stood, stretched, and turned back to locate the busily shopping women somewhere back down in the forum and the boy with his overheard senatorial musings.
Clearly he was going to have to pay attention in Rome.
Something was afoot.
Chapter 4
(Divoduron, in the land of the Mediomatrici)
The most powerful men in Gaul sat on low benches around three sides of the tent, the legs of the seats deliberately shortened, forcing them to look up at the general and his officers who occupied the fourth. Periodically one would stand as though he were a Roman patrician addressing the senate, and make some salient point or other to which Fronto paid no attention whatsoever.
The assembly of the chiefs of Gaul had been in progress for over an hour now and Fronto had retained precisely zero words that had been spoken in that time. To pay attention and contribute was not why the officers were here; they were here as a reminder of the pomp and sheer power that Rome and Caesar had at their disposal. They were here to help make the Gauls feel small, just like the shortened seat legs, the captured Gallic standards that hung on the leather wall behind the officers and the centurions and men who stood erect behind the Gauls as though guarding them.
It was an assembly of the Gallic rulers about as much as it was an orgy of the Gods. It was, in fact, Caesar once more playing the Gauls for his own benefit. Indeed, he had even feigned ignorance over the very existence of Germanic tribes this side of the great river, just to allow the Gauls to plead, demand, and urge Caesar to come to their aid.
Showmanship.
Fronto felt uncomfortable with the whole pretence, all the more so since Labienus kept catching his eye and raising his eyebrows, nodding towards the general. He knew why it was all happening, of course. The senate continued to bemoan Caesar’s pushing beyond the limits of his granted powers, and the pleas of the allied Gallic chiefs would legitimise his campaign. But still it reeked to Fronto.
Another Gallic chieftain stood, his silvery braids whipping around his neck as he rose, his moustaches all-but obscuring his mouth as he refused to grant Caesar any more levies for his cavalry. Fronto rolled his eyes and mouthed along with Caesar’s somewhat predictable reply.
“Without adequate cavalry support, I cannot see any way in which we can reasonably challenge your Germanic aggressors.”
He’d heard Caesar use the same line three times already. It was a stalemate situation at the moment. The Gauls were all in favour of Rome coming north in force and driving out the new invaders, but many of their husbands, fathers and sons had finally been released to return to their tribes after two or three years of serving with the Romans. Their tribes were beginning to recover, the returning manpower allowing them to raise their farming and manufacturing to the levels they had achieved before Caesar had first enlisted their cavalry. Only three tribes had so far relented and agreed to provide new men for Caesar’s horse army and those were tribes that had only recently become allies and had lost few men to the campaigns.
It was all about attrition. Caesar had them in the palm of his hand. The Gauls needed him to get rid of the invaders, lacking the strength to do so themselves, and everyone there knew it. They simply jostled to get the best deal from the situation for the fewest losses. By the time the meeting was over, Caesar would have his cavalry, of that there could be no doubt. But it was extremely wearing to be a part of.
Fronto glanced across and accidentally caught Labienus’ eye once more. The staff officer was watching him intently, damn him.
Fronto’s eyes strayed to the other figure in the room whose presence offered something of an interesting alternative to the stony-faced Roman officers and wheedling, supposedly-noble Gauls.
Centurion Furius was in position at the rear of the tent, next to the entrance, casting unmoved, superior looks at the gathered chiefs. Fronto had watched him for a lot of the last hour, drinking in every detail about the man. Here was a soldier he would trust as far as he could throw a ballista.
Furius was marginally shorter than Fronto, perhaps five feet four or five, but his body mass was clearly higher. The man had shoulders like Atlas, broad and strong, a dimension betrayed by the fact that his mail shirt showed signs of having been altered to give extra shoulder room, the shinier newer links standing out against the dulled old ones. The lower half of his face was covered with grey bristles that reached from the collar of his armour almost to his eyes, covering his neck and even his cheekbones. It gave him a deeply animalistic appearance that seemed in Fronto’s opinion to suit him. One thing had particularly interested him, though: a shiny white scar on his tanned skin followed the line of his collar bone, and just above it. There were a number of ways a man could receive such a wound, of course, but Fronto couldn’t help remembering stories of the men who had worked for Clodius Pulcher and instigated mutiny in the eastern legions being executed by Lucullus’ officer with a single downward thrust into their hearts.
He shook his head to bat away such fanciful thoughts. No man would survive such a blow.
As he watched, he realized Furius had straightened and come to attention.
His mind focusing once more, Fronto glanced around. Caesar was gesturing at the centurion.
“Bring me the records of our cavalry numbers.”
Furius saluted again and turned. Fronto frowned for a moment as an opportunity struc
k him to escape this gloomy proceeding. Turning to the general, he cleared his throat.
“If I might be excused, general, I will bring Galronus. He has just completed a full inspection of one of the three cavalry wings and could probably provide useful information for you.”
Caesar frowned for a moment at the breach of protocol, though hardly unexpected, given the perpetrator, and then nodded.
“Be quick.”
Fronto bowed slightly and shuffled out behind the line of officers, making his way around the tent and out of the entrance. The arguing began once more before he’d even made it out of earshot.
He knew exactly where Galronus would be: in Fronto’s tent, helping himself to whatever tasty vittles he could find. Fronto had arranged to meet him after the meeting. Almost certainly Priscus would be there, too, and Priscus would be the man with the cavalry records.
Centurion Furius was busy striding across the command compound toward the camp prefect’s tent. With a tight smile, Fronto jogged off after him. As they approached the large tent, Furius came to a halt outside and barked out a request for entry, his voice deep and gravelly.
Fronto slowed and sauntered up alongside him.
“He won’t be in there, centurion.”
Furius turned and glowered at the legate.
“Sir?”
“Priscus. He won’t be there. He’ll be at my tent.”
The centurion nodded his thanks, showing no sign of real gratitude in the movement. As he turned and strode off toward the Tenth’s ranks, Fronto fell in alongside and walked with him.
“You served with Pompey? Or Lucullus?”
Furius cast him a suspicious look.
“Both, legate.”
“Lucullus was an extraordinary general. Never met him, but I wish I had. My father spoke highly of him.”
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