Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Over by the door!’ he shouted in a passable Massiliot Greek. Two of the hired morons turned to look at the second warehouse door, past the empty table, while one was already running back towards his boss. Fronto lashed out with the spinning staff and swept the running man’s feet from under him. As the lad fell with a squawk, his legs flailing up in the air, Fronto spun on his heel, allowing the staff to build up momentum as it circled until it struck the flailing legs with the crack of breaking bone.

  ‘What in the name…’ came the second commanding voice from nearby, and Fronto reappraised. Two men down but only injured. Four men still intact, and the leader by the rear exit. Soon they would pull together and he would be in trouble.

  Leaping towards the two at the head of the group, who had initially passed him while he hid, he smacked one of them in the centre of the back with the staff, hearing ribs break. The second man jumped lithely out of the way, and two others were now closing on him. Three down, but three well-prepared men now tightening in an arc around him. All three had clubs a good two feet long. He had the reach, of course, but the moment those men got inside the span of his staff, his weapon would be rendered ineffective and he would have to fight off clubs with his fists. The situation was beginning to look rather dire.

  Buying himself time to think, Fronto began to twirl his staff around him in a very showy fashion, passing it from hand to hand behind his back with each rotation, making sure to keep himself far enough from walls and shelves to avoid catching the sweep of the weapon. He could almost have laughed. Masgava and he had argued for several hours over why the big man had bothered teaching him such a clearly decorative move. He’d not been able to see any circumstance in which being able to do this would be of benefit.

  Yet here he was, spinning the thing like an acrobat and holding off three thugs in the process.

  Time. He had a moment to think. Could he get out of the nearer of the doors?

  But that would leave these men with free rein in his warehouse. An escape, but hardly a win.

  His spin faltered for a moment as the staff caught the hand of one of the men who’d tried tentatively edging closer. It hadn’t been his weapon hand, sadly, but certainly that appendage would not be useful for some time, if ever.

  A cry of dismay at the far end of the warehouse changed everything. The second sound, which followed quickly on the first, was a familiar voice.

  ‘Fronto?’

  Not Masgava, after all. In fact, it was the slightly pinched tone of Glykon, the local recruit to his business. He’d found early on that there was something that unsettled him about Glykon, but right now he had to admit that he’d rarely been more grateful to hear his name called.

  ‘Here!’ he replied, noting the sudden sounds of a scuffle at the warehouse’s far end. He heard the distinctive rasp of a sword leaving a scabbard’s collar and flinched for a moment. His spinning staff went slightly astray and he lost his spin-rhythm. Fortunately, the three men facing him had turned their attention away from their prey, focusing on the new activity at the far end.

  ‘Fronto! I’m coming,’ Glykon yelled, and then: ‘get out of my way you greasy anus!’

  There was a sound that Fronto recognised as sharpened iron being turned aside by hard wood, and the interlopers’ leader yelled ‘pull out!’

  Fronto watched the three men turn and run, happy to get out of the range of his staff. The one with the broken ribs was on his feet now, arms huddled round his aching midriff, but running for his life with the rest. One of them was helping up the last man – the one Fronto had first winded. The Roman winced as the escaping troublemakers paused long enough to smash a few amphorae and grab a couple of the smaller, more portable, vases, and then they were gone.

  Fronto leaned on his staff for a moment, heaving in grateful breaths. One of the now-fled thugs had helpfully placed their small lamp on the table while they’d faced him and had left it there when they ran, the light continuing to throw the room into golden visibility. As he stumped towards the table and then slid his feet into his sandals, he turned to see Glykon limping down the warehouse towards him. The local employee’s stubbled face and close-shorn black hair gleamed in the lamplight. He was holding one arm tight across his chest, blood from some small wound soaking into his chiton, and he’d clearly taken a blow to the leg that had caused the limp but not drawn blood. A lucky man, or else Glykon was more martially-skilled than Fronto had thought. The Greek had held only a short club and had survived a run in with a veteran criminal armed with a blade.

  ‘You alright, Domine?’

  The Roman mode of address formed within a Greek sentence seemed extremely odd, but the tone was respectful and concerned, and Fronto found himself warming to the odd man.

  ‘Remarkably, I seem to be entirely unharmed,’ he glowered at a mass of pot sherds further along the warehouse and a growing pool of dark red around them. ‘My stock does not seem to have borne up quite so well. I think that’s the Chian busy running out into the gutters.’ He shook his head, turning to more immediate concerns. ‘And you? I see you’re bleeding. Is it just a flesh wound? We’d best get you seen to. It’s a bit early for the physicians to be open in town, but Balbus’ major domo is a former field medic, and he knows a thing or two about wounds.’

  Glykon smiled. ‘Your wife is beside herself with worry, sir. I can walk on to master Balbus’ house, or even stitch the wound myself. First thing’s first: let’s get you home, sir.’

  Fronto nodded slowly. ‘If you’re really alright. I cannot thank you enough for your timely arrival. My business concerns would have been the last of my worries in another quarter of an hour.’

  Glykon gestured to the door. ‘I’ve brought the spare keys, sir. Go ahead and sluice down in the fountain outside and I’ll lock up and meet you there. You could do without being spattered with other people’s blood when the domina sees you. It would raise difficult questions, sir.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘Quite right. Sage advice, there, my friend. I’ll see you outside when I’ve cleaned up. And when we get home I want to set a two-man armed guard in the warehouse each night. Hierocles has just shifted his game up a notch. I’m going to make him sorry for this.’

  * * * * *

  ‘I still don’t like this.’

  Lucilia nodded patiently. ‘I know dear. You’re startlingly un-Roman in your outlook sometimes, you know, my love? But bear in mind that these people will soon have a roof over their head, a warm home, good meals and even a few coins. Better than the free but poor of Rome. And every slave you buy is someone you save from fieldwork or the mines, if you’re feeling philanthropic again. They won’t understand their good fortune after spending their youth living in mud huts and washing in streams.’

  Fronto snorted. ‘Sorry, Lucilia, but that’s the sort of blinkered Romanitas that only afflicts those who haven’t fought alongside the Gauls. Don’t forget that many of them served in Caesar’s army. They have their own world that’s in some strange ways more civilised than ours. And they don’t live in mud huts. They have stone- and timber-built houses with windows and doors and rugs and furniture.’

  ‘And there’s little chance of another servile war,’ Lucilia went on as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘The Spartacus debacle taught people a lesson.’

  ‘Balls! It taught people a lesson for a couple of years. A few people have shunned slaves, but the rest stopped treating them so badly for a few months until the horrors were forgotten, then they went straight back to beating the boys and humping the girls like a good Roman pater familias.’

  ‘Then you be an exception to the rule.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Lucilia. The majority of the slaves at the market will be Gauls of one tribe or another. It’s possible I was even commanding the fight when some of them were taken. And even if not, they were once free men with a sense of nobility and they’re hardly likely to view a new Roman master with any level of acceptance. If you buy a Gaul and speak Latin, watch for a makeshift knife
in the night.’

  ‘Then just be choosy about who we buy. I am quite capable of selecting good house slaves. You can steer us right in terms of Gauls, and Glykon knows the trade world, so he can advise us well on who to take on for your business.’

  Fronto turned and looked at the dark-haired Greek who followed at a respectful distance. Behind him, Masgava and Aurelius watched the crowd carefully. Masgava had decided that following the ‘incident’ at the warehouse, Fronto would have an armed guard whenever possible, and the former officer had not the strength to argue. Consequently, while Biorix and Arcadios watched over the warehouse, the big ex-Gladiator and the superstitious former legionary accompanied he and Lucilia, both wearing nondescript local-style clothing but with a long dagger and a short one at their belt beneath the cloaks they all wore against the Januarius chill. The temperature had finally risen last month and the skies had been blue for weeks. At least it never snowed or froze down here like it did in the north, but there was still a chilling wind from the sea.

  Glykon was clearly doing his best for the business. He had managed to secure a few small deals, to help alleviate the pressure, with the contacts he had in the city. And he worked all hours, despite a lack of bonus in pay. And, of course, he had saved Fronto’s skin in the warehouse. Lucilia had wanted to give him a gift for his timely interruption there, but Glykon had refused, labelling it his duty. He was a good man. But…

  Far from the agora, close to the huge pottery warehouses and the kiln buildings pouring their pungent smoke into the sky, the slave market was strangely – given the general chaos of the Greek city-state – a much more ordered and solid affair than the sprawling mass of the graecostadium in Rome. Enclosed by a wide boundary wall, the place consisted largely of three large blocks of pens, each subdivided into rooms labelled with the traders’ signs, the central yard with a block for the display of wares, a set of wooden seating stands that could easily double as a theatre, and a separate building that housed the market’s staff and guards.

  The small group approached the gate to the complex, Lucilia almost buzzing with the anticipation of the trade, Masgava and Aurelius watching their surroundings carefully, and Fronto gazing longingly at the Artemis tavern across the road. As they neared the pair of guards, Glykon stepped ahead and opened the purse of business funds he carried on behalf of his employer.

  ‘We’re here for a private visit.’

  The two men looked at the purse and watched as Glykon counted out two small coins apiece, before nodding and gesturing inside. It was the way of things. Those with influence or money or both could arrange such a visit instead of having to sit in the crowd at the public sale in an hour or so and argue with the rest of the buyers. For a small gratuity to the gate guard and a small donation to the market funds, they would be permitted to peruse the indoor pens, select any goods they wished to purchase, and then speak to the merchants who would be here gearing up for the main event. If a deal could be reached early, that slave would be withdrawn from the lists for a private transaction.

  Passing through the gate, Glykon deposited a few more obols with a minor functionary, who led them to the first of the three buildings. ‘Apologies, Kupios, but only the one building is available. We are awaiting a large shipment, but winter is a thin time for supplies, and the other two buildings remain empty at this time.’

  ‘Maybe we should come back another day?’ Fronto murmured, but Lucilia smiled at the man. ‘I have confidence we will find what we need, sir.’

  The man bowed and opened the door so they could enter. The interior was sweaty and warm even from the entrance, and Fronto passed his cloak to the functionary along with the others, to hang on the pegs and await their return.

  The next quarter of an hour ranked highly on Fronto’s list of experiences not to repeat. The conditions of the slave quarters naturally led to the entire building reeking of faeces, urine, vomit and filth. The inhabitants, familiar with the routine, rushed over to the bars and clamoured to be purchased, desperate to get out of this place. As Lucilia perused them, staying carefully out of reach of the flailing arms, Glykon checked them over. Masgava looked positively ill, and Fronto found himself wondering how long the big Numidian had lived in a place like this before he’d been given a blade and sent out onto the sands. Aurelius looked nervous but then, for such a big fellow, Aurelius always looked nervous.

  Fronto watched as Lucilia selected a short, narrow-hipped Spaniard with a face like a fighting dog and the build of a wrestler. Glykon quizzed the man and discovered that the strange figure spoke not only his own tongue, but Latin and Greek, and knew his numbers and letters too. The company in that particular cell suggested that his owner was not aware of his talents, having naturally lumped him in with the other muscle. Lucilia was ever sharp. A bargain had been found already.

  He’d tried to argue against her choosing a Gaul at all, though the vast majority of the stock seemed to be Gauls. In the end, he’d had to back down and let her have the delicate red-haired Parisi girl who had been so nervous that Lucilia had had to coax her to the bars. Fronto had his own suspicions as to how reticent the girl might be when she was up at the villa and made a mental note to have her kept well away from blades or other pointy things.

  Lucilia and Glykon together then began to set upon the task of finding Fronto some new workers. As they discussed the property on offer, moving from cell to cell, Fronto started to look at the markers on the walls. The script was in a particularly jagged form of Greek and he had to concentrate to translate the words. The names of the various traders were universally Greek: Anatolios. Nikomachos. Tychon. His eyes widened as he read the text on the signs below the merchants’ names. The traders themselves may be Greek, but the supplier name was also given for transparency of business, and Kaísaras appeared on four of every five cells. It seemed too much of a coincidence for there to be more than one man of that name supplying slaves.

  ‘Lucilia, these slaves are almost all from Caesar. They’ve come down from the fights last year. I probably saw a bunch of these faces at Alesia.’

  ‘Do stop worrying, Marcus. It is only natural that many of Caesar’s slaves would end up here. He has to spread the captives about. Sending them all to Rome would simply ruin the market altogether. You’re supposed to have a head for business now.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  He peered into Tychon’s pen at the denizens and his helpful imagination dressed them in bronze and mail and put blades in their hands. Suddenly he was right back at the desperate fight for the gate at Mons Rea. In fact, he could swear that the one currently glaring at him with wide blue eyes actually threw a spear at him back there. He shuddered and turned away from the pen, opening his mouth to speak. But as he stepped away, a stray desperate hand caught the edge of his pale green chiton and the darker green himation worn above it, and he felt his clothes ripped away as he moved. He was jerked to a halt as the material held tight around his middle, leaving him naked to the waist. Turning, he yanked on his clothing, jerking it out of the slave’s hands. The functionary, who had been following them around at a respectful distance, rushed over with a thin wand of wood, smacking the errant slave on the hands and eliciting a howl.

  ‘Many apologies, Kupios, but I must really advise you not to get too close to the goods. If you wish a closer viewing, we have guards to keep things under control.’

  Fronto grunted as he struggled to separate the two tangled garments.

  ‘Roman!’

  The five of them turned at the call and Fronto frowned.

  ‘Roman officer,’ added the husky female voice. ‘From Bellovaci war, yes?’

  ‘What in the name of Juno…?’

  A solitary figure stood in an otherwise empty cell, gripping the bars. She was dirty, but her stance was not one of a broken slave. Straight-backed, she laughed.

  ‘Naked again, Roman. But not so small this time, eh?’

  Fronto’s blood chilled and he turned to Lucilia to see that her own
questioning look had fallen upon him.

  ‘Gods, it cannot be.’

  ‘Marcus, who is this woman who seems to know you?’

  ‘She… err. She was a Bellovaci woman who almost gutted me in a river in Belgae lands – what? – six years ago now? Seven? How in the name of Fortuna did she end up here?’

  He gave up trying to disentangle the clothes and simply wrapped them round himself and over his shoulder as he strode over to the cell. She was older, perhaps thirty summers now, and wearing rags, and his memory was not what it once was, but there could be no mistaking those eyes. It was the woman who had grabbed his blade while he bathed in a cold river and who had latched on to him like a puppy seeking a home until he’d managed to palm her off on Crispus.

  ‘Why is she in her own cell?’ he asked the functionary.

  ‘She’s trouble, that one, Kupios. She looks good, but she keeps going out and coming back. No one wants to keep her. Some have beaten her, but they say it makes her all the more defiant. She seems impervious to pain. Sethos the trader loves her. He keeps selling her for a good profit, and she comes back to him cheap to sell again.’

  Fronto felt Lucilia’s interrogative gaze on his back and shivered. ‘This girl was not taken as a slave. She was in the care of an officer.’ His helpful memory chose to remind him that Crispus had died years back on a Gallic spear. What would have happened to a girl in his care? His family in Rome would probably not want such a rough barbaroi in their house.

  ‘I should have checked up on you when Crispus died.’ He turned to Lucilia. ‘She was, I think, a girl of good family among her tribe. She was under our protection, but the Fates seem to have been unkind to her.’