Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  And so, weeks on and a small fortune lighter, this sallow ghoul stared back from the mirror.

  Enough was enough. He’d not mentioned as much to Lucilia, but Fronto personally knew what was at the heart of his troubles: he was missing his lucky charms. Nemesis had been broken and Fortuna had gone with Cavarinos of the Arverni. He could only hope that the luck that he himself was sadly lacking was bearing up his Gallic friend. His troubles had started almost immediately following the absence of Fortuna and Nemesis, and until he replaced the figurines around his neck with appropriate quality work, he would not sleep well.

  It was too disheartening to lay the blame for the nightmares upon the multitude of deaths he had left in his wake. He was a soldier born and tried, and to think like that would be to deny all that he was.

  Of course, he was no longer a soldier. He was a wine merchant now, even if not a particularly successful one.

  He would take the blow on the chin and, without a word to his wife, go to the best artisans in town and commission a replacement for each charm in the best materials and at the highest quality. He would have done so months ago, had the money been available. It still wasn’t, of course, but he would work it out somehow. He couldn’t go on like this.

  Of course, the financial side of the business was probably almost as much to blame for his state of exhaustion as the nightmares. He had come to Massilia with grand plans. There were a few Greek wine merchants in town already, of course, but no one with good access to the heart of Roman viticulture down in Campania. And quite apart from the Romans in Gaul who, he knew from years of watching Cita complaining over his stores, created an almost insatiable demand for wine, there was a growing sector of the upper Gaulish society that was starting to turn from their own beer to good southern wine. The trade should be lucrative. He’d felt that it would be. Even Balbus, who had been initially sceptical and rather disapproving of a Roman noble involving himself too closely in commerce, had nodded his agreement of the workability of the scheme. He would use those local merchant vessels who shipped Gallic goods to Neapolis and came back largely empty. He would fill them with wine from the estates of friends and connections in Campania, which he would be able to acquire considerably cheaper than most others could, and would then sell it on to either local Greek merchants, Gallic traders heading into tribal lands, or to the Roman supply system that fed the army in the north.

  He hadn’t been able to tell his mother or sister, of course. His letters to them at Puteoli were carefully worded to avoid all mercantile mention, despite being conveyed there by the same factors who were organising his deliveries. His mother would implode from a hefty dose of patrician-ness if she thought her son had become a common salesman, and his sister would be scathing to say the least. After all, even Lucilia and Balbus had been fairly disapproving, but had lived with his decision because at least it had brought him home from the army.

  But not telling the family had added the complication of not being able to rely on family finances. He had not touched the vaults of the Falerii and had funded the initial concern entirely from his own capital following his resignation of commission from Caesar’s army. Every last denarius he could lay his hands on had gone into acquiring the warehouse in the city, the cart and two oxen, a small staff, and the first stock of wine from Campania. Then he had realised that he could hardly afford to pay the ship captains to transport it, let alone the many sundry expenses that seemed to mount daily.

  By the week before Saturnalia he had pored over the figures and gloomily labelled himself more or less bankrupt. He still had the assets, of course – the warehouse and a consignment of Falernian on the dock at Puteoli, but he was unable to pay the staff, animal feed, and shipping. In the most humbling moment of his entire life, he had gone to visit Balbus without his wife knowing, and had begged for a hand-out. The old man had been generous to a fault, which had made the need for begging in the first place all the more embarrassing, but at least now he had enough of a float to see him through hopefully ‘til spring. Yet unless business picked up, he would be in trouble again by Aprilis.

  His former singulares were helping out. Despite being signed on as household security, they had willingly stepped in to fill roles in the business, but to be honest, they were often more trouble than help. Aurelius had set profits back one evening when he had encountered a bat in the warehouse and dropped a very brittle amphora of very expensive wine as he ran screaming.

  The three locals he’d hired were considerably more competent at the actual work – when such work was forthcoming, at least – and yet even they were troubling in their own right. The brothers, Pamphilus with the beak nose and close-set eyes and Clearchus with the tic in one eye and the unsettlingly white hair, were good enough at lifting and carrying and driving the cart. But after weeks in their company there was no escaping the conclusion that they were as thick as two short planks and could be mentally outmanoeuvred by a bowl of beef broth. And they seemed to be dangerously impulsive, too. A horrible combination, but at least a reasonably cheap one. Aurelius hated the pair, and tried to keep away from them, having told Fronto that there was a distinct possibility that he would flatten that beak nose someday. When the brothers had almost run him down in the yard with a cart-load of jars and barrels, Aurelius had had to be dragged away from them screaming imprecations.

  And the other hireling… well, Glykon seemed perfectly friendly and helpful and excellently competent at his work. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, other than the fact that Fronto could feel in his bones that there was something wrong with the man, even if he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Of course, if he could only get rid of Hierocles, things might be different. But this was a lawful city and not subject to Rome, so Fronto had no real rights here, especially against a Greek who was a citizen of the town. The greasy arse-faced rat of a wine merchant had made Fronto’s life hell since his return to Massilia. The former legate of the Tenth had expected healthy competition, and was ready to have to push hard to carve himself a niche in the market. He had not been prepared for Hierocles. The old bastard had taken Fronto’s dip into the wine trade very personally and had publically decried him as a foreign agent trying to infiltrate free Massilia and bind her to the republic with ties of trade. When Fronto had responded calmly to the contrary, the man had taken his calm for weakness and had stepped up his campaign of defamation to actively accuse him of crooked dealings and various small criminal acts.

  Though Fronto had argued his corner in the city’s agora like a good Roman orator and had managed to clear himself of any charge levelled, the stigma of a blackened name seemed to have stayed with him and nothing he could do had rebuilt his reputation. Moreover, being thwarted had simply set Hierocles off on a new path. Unable to remove Fronto through law, he had instead turned to his fellow Greek merchants in the town, further denigrating Fronto and gathering an informal cartel against the new Roman competitor.

  Consequently, for the last month, Fronto had found himself repeatedly undercut for deals, passed over by ship captains and the target of seemingly accidental damage to his wares. Business was bad, but even that bad business was dwindling. Soon…

  He looked deep into his own eyes in the mirror and was not surprised to see an unhealthy dose of defeat in them. He’d had such high hopes for this business. It was something strategic and real in which to immerse himself without diving into the political cesspools of Rome or the bloodbaths of the army. The military was out of the picture anyway. Even if he felt like going back, which in his current physical state would be truly dreadful, Caesar’s time in Gaul was coming to an end shortly and those legions would be stood down as their general returned to Rome to take up higher office. By the time he arrived in Caesar’s tent, there probably wouldn’t be a legion there to command. And that left Rome as an option. To take up a role in the government and be gradually ground down to sand between the rough edges of Caesar and Pompey. Lucilia had broached the idea once that pe
rhaps he could grease a few palms in the senate and try to secure himself a governorship. Fronto had laughed at that until wine came out of his nose.

  He wasn’t laughing now.

  Who was that old man in the mirror?

  ‘Marcus?’

  He turned and riveted a beaming smile on his face.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ Lucilia snorted.

  He let the forced smile slide from his visage and sighed.

  ‘You thrashed around like a windmill in a storm last night,’ she said quietly. ‘Worse than usual?’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Same as usual. I was just finally actually settling and hoping to squeeze in another hour of slumber when Amelgo woke me. Got to get going early today, you see? Irenaeus is due in port this morning and he’s one of few Greek captains who’ll still give me the time of day. I need to get down to the port and get his mark on my contract before that po-faced bastard Hierocles gets to him and turns him from me.’

  ‘Marcus, you should have a man to do this for you.’

  ‘Who? Aurelius? The brothers? Masgava maybe? No. All our lads are workers, not spokesmen. This is a job for glib tongue and I’m the nearest thing here. Unless you want to take a turn at the steering oars of this enterprise?’

  Lucilia gave him a look that startled him, as though she were actually considering it. Hurriedly, wanting to draw the argument to a close before it began, he waved concerns aside. ‘Do you know where my best chiton is? The blue one with the white edging.’

  ‘Must you dress as a Greek?’

  ‘When dealing with these people it is better not to over-publicise my Romanness. Irenaeus is a good man, but even he might be better disposed to a man in a chiton than in the red tunica of a Roman officer. Do you know where it is?’

  Lucilia nodded. ‘Amelgo laid it out in our room, along with your best sandals and the white cloak. You will look quite the Hellenic gentleman.’

  ‘Thank you, my love. Are the boys up?’

  ‘And crawling about like a pair of rodents. Lucius is up on his feet, holding onto table edges and pulling himself round. Marcus, as usual, cannot be bothered to try and walk, and simply sits there drinking. I’m beginning to wonder if the very name is cursed?’ The harsh words were delivered with a sly upturn of the mouth to remind Fronto that she was as dry a joker as her father, and he chuckled. ‘He’ll stand up in his own good time. Never fret about him walking. Children always learn in the end. You don’t see many forty year olds still crawling about on the floor, do you?’

  ‘Only you and your friends on market day after a session in the Ox.’

  Again the upturn, and Fronto laughed aloud. Gods, but it felt good to laugh.

  His mood slumped again at the all-too familiar sound of a shattering amphora outside in the gardens. The distressing noise was followed by a verbal altercation between the recognisable Greek slur of Pamphilus and Clearchus and the angry Latin of Aurelius and Masgava. Odd though it was to hear a polyglot argument like that, the novelty had long since worn off.

  ‘Why did I put idiots and jugglers in charge of the best stock?’

  And it was his best stock. The very finest of wines he’d managed to import into the city before Hierocles’ cartel of hate had interfered and soured the deal with the trader who had been set to buy it. After another ‘accident’ at the warehouse, Fronto had had the best stock moved to the villa, and had finally managed to line up another buyer, though for considerably less profit. And now it sounded like he’d have to speak to the buyer and apologise for being at least one amphora short.

  ‘You need more men,’ Lucilia said quietly. ‘And not ex-soldiers or surly Greeks. You need to get down to the slave market and get some bargains. Go early on the morning three days after market day, when the leftover stock has gone but the new slaves have come in.’

  ‘I don’t like buying slaves. I don’t really like owning slaves. Father always said a man who works for a wage you can trust, but a man you have to keep at the end of a stick will beat you with it the moment you turn your back.’

  ‘Your father, gods forgive me for saying it, was a hopeless drunk with less sense than a Scythian.’

  ‘Lucilia…’

  ‘Don’t snap at me. I’m quoting your sister. I’ve noted your aversion to owning them, and I know that there are those who won’t do it for fear of another slave war. I didn’t even argue when you emancipated Amelgo after only a week of being back. But those slaves who are treated well are happy with their lot, Marcus. Slaves are the norm. Good grief, even the Greeks keep slaves, and they consider themselves the masters of equality. Daddy has slaves. Everyone has slaves. And slaves will be careful with your stock out of respect, or at least fear.’

  ‘Listen Lucilia…’

  He was interrupted by another muffled crash of pottery and further bellowing in two languages.

  ‘Alright,’ he sighed. ‘I take your point. I don’t like spending money we haven’t really got, but I suppose I could maybe buy three or four, if I can find them cheap enough.’

  ‘And another two for the house, Marcus. We’re woefully undermanned here.’

  He winced, but nodded.

  ‘If money’s too much of an issue, talk to Father. I’m sure he would happily lend you a few sesterces.’

  Fronto winced again and coughed to cover his nerves. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll take your advice on timing though. Five more days until the old stock’s gone and the new are in.’

  Lucilia smiled reassuringly. ‘If it makes you feel better, just keep the slaves long enough to know that they’re good at the job and trustworthy, then give them their freedom along with room and board. But at least then they’ll be bound to you and more careful than those hirelings out there.’

  ‘I tell you what: five days, and you can come with me and help me choose.’

  As the shouting intensified outside, he sighed, kissed his wife on the cheek and strolled off to find his fine Greek clothes to face the day as best he could.

  * * * * *

  Fronto lurched to the side as a burly Greek with a two-week beard, reeking of sour wine, pushed past him into the throng of the agora and on into the crowd, muttering something angrily. His grumbling was soon lost in the general chaos and din of arguing amateur philosophers, fishmongers, salesmen, beggars and madmen, though Masgava turned and shot the man the darkest of looks on principle.

  The entrance and solid, otherwise-featureless rear wall of the theatre loomed on their right, seated at the foot of the green, rocky hill upon which sat one of the city’s three great temples. To the left, the narrow, disorganised tangle of streets cobwebbed off into the heart of the city, for Massilia’s agora was oddly offset at one end of the wide bay. Behind them the pandemonium of that public space raged and surged like a stormy sea of humanity, but the way ahead was little better. The wide thoroughfare from the agora to the northernmost jetties of the port was packed with life as merchants and teamsters hurried this way and that, carts bouncing and jolting on the cobbled ground, stray dogs winding in and out of the unheeding legs. Men haggled and argued, and the masts of ships were visible over their heads a tantalisingly short distance away. All this, and the sun was still barely over the horizon. On a busy day and with a clear sea, even in winter Massilia made Rome look sedate, calm and organised.

  It had taken Fronto some time to get used to the utter bedlam that was the last free Greek city in the west. It had seemed to him that the place had no rules and no order, but long-term exposure was teaching him otherwise. Massilia had its rules and its order, but they were a far cry from the Pax Romana, and a foreigner could never hope to understand the workings of the city-state or the Hellene mind behind it in a year of market days.

  Slowly, though, he was unburdening his soul of Roman canker. If only Massilia would stop resisting his acclimatisation...

  ‘If you would let us come with you armed and in force, you would not have to fight your way through the crowd,’ the huge ex-gladiator grunted.

 
‘And my almost non-existent popularity would disappear into the cracks between the cobbles, Masgava. It’s all a game.’

  ‘Other merchants have bodyguards.’ The Numidian threw out a finger and pointed at a man in a yellow chiton, dripping with gold and jewels, surrounded by a gang of burly Gauls in mail shirts, their fingers dancing on the pommels of their swords as they eyed the crowd suspiciously.

  ‘He’s a Greek. He can afford to stand out because people don’t hate him for what he is.’

  Masgava eyed the ostentatious jewellery and snorted. ‘I hate him.’

  ‘But here and now, sadly, your opinion counts for about the same as mine, which is to say: not at all. Today is about trying to foster good relations with our Greek neighbours, not asserting our Roman-ness with red tunics and blades. Come on, that looks like Irenaeus’ ship.’

  As the two men moved on through the crowd, pushing towards the port, Fronto kept his gaze intermittently on the tall mast, which he felt sure would be the friendly Greek’s ship. Very few of the port’s sailors would contemplate a black sail, for the ill luck associated with the colour, though Irenaeus allowed himself this little foible, since at the sail’s centre Apollo’s white raven theoretically overrode all misfortune.

  Fronto’s heart sank as he emerged from the crowd with Masgava at his shoulder to see the ship’s owner busily haggling with a Levantine merchant with a beard like the ancient Cypriots or Sumerians, tightly curled, oiled and falling to twin points at his collar bones. Gods, but the sailor was early. It had been said that Irenaeus would be in Tauroentum, a little way along the coast, and would not arrive in Massilia until the middle of the morning. He was, instead, already part unloaded as the height of the ship riding in the water confirmed. He must have arrived before dawn and, since no sailor in their right mind would try the rocky coast of southern Gaul in the dark, he must have actually put in at Massilia late last night.