‘We should get her out of here then, Marcus.’
Fronto stared into Lucilia’s gaze and tried to separate the strands of emotion therein. His wife was intrigued, suspicious, perhaps even jealous? But there was a healthy dose of compassion there too.
‘Lucilia, you heard the man. She’s trouble.’ He turned to the functionary. ‘How much does she stand to make at auction?’
‘Between one hundred and one hundred and fifty drachma, Kupios.’
Fronto sighed. ‘We can’t go doling out that kind of money, Lucilia. Not for someone we don’t desperately need.’
‘You said the other day that Captain Irenaeus had saved you quite a bit of money. Marcus, you said she was under your protection. You can’t leave her in this place.’
‘Lucilia…’ he peered into his wife’s eyes, but he knew that look all too well. ‘If you want her, then we can’t get that little redhead you liked the look of.’ It was a long-shot, but worth a try.
‘Fine.’
He sighed, and strolled over to the cell. ‘I never did learn your name?’
‘They call me Annia.’
‘I’m sure. What do you call you?’
‘My name was Andala.’
‘Then it still is,’ Lucilia said firmly. ‘Glykon, find this Sethos and haggle him down as low as you can. For every two drachma you save on the hundred and fifty, you can have one of them.’
Glykon smiled and Fronto looked at the straight-backed, pretty young woman who had once held him at knife-point. He could hardly wait for Helladios the goldsmith to finish his new Fortuna pendant. He needed a bit of good luck for a change, and this, while extremely coincidental, did not smack of good luck.
Quarter of an hour later the small party of five left the slave markets, Fronto grasping a sadly very thin purse, Lucilia with a satisfied smile. She’d come away with the redhead too, after all. ‘I think I would like to spend an hour in the markets, Marcus. Our new staff will need clothing and bedding.’
Fronto sighed. He could really do without spending yet more money he didn’t really have on material, but there would be no arguing with Lucilia when she was in this mood. Besides – his gaze strayed across the road – the Artemis tavern was still calling him. ‘Alright, dear. But this place is not safe at the moment. My opposition are not above taking those things I love, even in public, so Masgava and Aurelius can go with you.’ The two former bodyguards nodded their approval and understanding.
He smiled. ‘And I’ll…’
‘I know, dear. I’ll look for you in the tavern when I’m done. Try to be able to talk when I get back. The new slaves are being delivered this afternoon and it would look bad if you can’t address them clearly.’
Fronto smiled and kissed his wife, watching her stroll off towards the busy market area, Aurelius and Masgava hovering around her protectively. He was confident that nothing would happen to her. There were no two men in the world he would trust more to protect her.
Turning, he gestured for Glykon to follow and strode into the doorway of the Artemis. It was a tavern he rarely got to – he never seemed to be in the south of the city, where there was no connection to his business or his private life. He’d been in a couple of times over the past year or more, though, and had found the place to be largely patronised by workmen, teamsters and sailors from the port buildings and shipyards that loomed on the far side of the potters’ quarter. It had a curious smell, derived from the various industries that surrounded it and from the smoked meats hanging behind the bar.
Fronto heard a strangled noise and turned to see Glykon with a look of haughty disapproval.
‘You don’t like this place?’
‘It is not a place for man of quality, Domine.’
‘Despite appearances, I’m not a man of quality,’ grinned Fronto, indicating his ruffled and badly-settled chiton and himation.
‘Perhaps I should return to the villa and prepare for the new staff?’
Fronto frowned, then shrugged easily. ‘If you want.’
‘Then I shall see you upon your return, Domine.’
He watched the odd Greek bow, turn and leave, making his way northeast, through the heart of town towards the gate that gave access to the hills upon which the villa sat. With a chuckle, Fronto turned to the tavern. Strangely, it seemed already quite full of life, and no table was entirely unoccupied. In the end, he strolled to the bar, bought himself a cup of medium quality Lemnian, and then made for a table near the door where a man sat alone with his cup. A man, Fronto had noted, who had been watching him with interest as he and Glykon had conversed in the doorway.
The fellow was tall, broad-shouldered and had the build of a manual worker but the face of a thinker. He was clean-shaven, but his dark hair was odd, cut short at the front but long at the rear with braids behind each ear, keeping strands from his face when he leaned forward. His chiton was cut from strong, functional material, and the green and blue container that sat beside his chair had the look of a traveller’s kit bag. His features were strange; hard to place. If he had to, Fronto would put him as a northern Gaul, or perhaps a German.
‘Mind if I sit?’ he asked politely in good Greek.
‘By all means,’ the man replied in a curious accent that did nothing to help clarify his oddness.
Fronto slumped into the chair with a grateful sigh and threw down a mouthful of wine. ‘My name is Fronto. Marcus Falerius Fronto.’
‘Yes,’ the man smiled. ‘Fronto the wine merchant.’
‘You know me?’
‘Everyone in the port knows Fronto the wine merchant. You’re rapidly becoming infamous, my Roman friend. Besides, I’ve watched you and your lot at the jetties many a time.’
Fronto suddenly felt very uncomfortable again. Today seemed to be catching him on the back-foot rather a lot. ‘So who are you?’
‘My name is Catháin. Well, the bit you’ll pronounce is, anyway.’
‘You’re in the wine trade?’
‘Not quite. I was foreman of Eugenios’ olive oil business, though he and I had a little disagreement over wages. It seems foreigners are starting to work at something of a disadvantage in Massilia.’
‘I hear you there, brother.’
Catháin leaned forward, a questioning look on his face. ‘If you are the Fronto who is currently in the sights of Hierocles’ artillery, then what are you doing with his man?’
It was Fronto’s turn to frown now. ‘What?’
‘Glykon, the little shit weasel. What are you doing with him?’
Fronto felt as though a trapdoor had opened beneath him. ‘Glykon?’
‘Of course. He’s been Hierocles’ man since the dawn of the wine trade. I believe they’re distant cousins.’
Fronto blinked and took another slug of wine. Suddenly the reason for his employee’s presence in the warehouse the other night became startlingly clear. In fact, he’d be willing to bet that the commanding voice he’d heard from the leader with the sword was Glykon. And the man had switched sides and saved Fronto when he realised their ‘theft’ had gone wrong and the gang had been spotted. Damn it, how had he missed all this?
‘Shit. Why has no one told me before?’
‘Because you’re a Roman, Fronto. You’re about as popular as a turd in a bath to most of these people. I’ll bet the new taxes are squeezing you tight, eh?’
‘You have no idea,’ Fronto sighed.
‘You want my advice?’
‘Given the evidence so far, I’d be a fool to turn it down.’
Catháin grinned. ‘Have someone you trust check into all your employees. Hierocles is a devious bastard and he’ll get under your skin. Get rid of Glykon and vet the rest carefully. I’ve seen your workers down on the docks, too. Half of them are soldiers with no idea what they’re doing. Separate your guards, your household, and your workforce completely. The guards might think they’re being helpful, but your workers would actually be more efficient if the others stayed out of things altogether.’
‘Can’t really argue with you on any of that.’
‘Then, the only way you’re going to be able to beat the high tax legally is by improving your business. Secure cheaper sources, markets and transport and seek out buyers as yet untouched by Hierocles so you can carve out a niche from which to expand your influence.’
Fronto blew out a heavy breath and leaned back in his seat. ‘Are you for hire?’
‘That, my Roman friend, depends upon how much you’re paying.’
Fronto snorted. ‘My wife is busy spending a small fortune on rubbish at the moment. I’ll give you a standard teamster’s wage and Glykon’s pay on top as soon as I fire him. That should be about right for a foreman, I reckon?’
Catháin chuckled. ‘On one condition. When I start to make you money, I take an extra five percent cut of all profits.’
‘Done.’
Fronto grinned as he drained the last of his cup. ‘Now I shall go to the bar, buy a small amphora of Rhodian to seal the deal, and you can tell me about where you come from, since I cannot for the life of me place your accent.’
Chapter Four
TITUS Mittius rubbed his hands together and blew into them to warm them. Irritatingly, he’d thrown dice with a fellow prefect over duty assignments two months ago and the other officer – the lucky bastard – had secured the supply depot at Arausio in the Rhodanus valley. Apart from the occasional strong wind, that area was a good Roman one, and close enough to the southern coast that the temperature was noticeably warmer. Here at Brivas, in the lands of the Arverni, the great Cevenna mountains kept any warmth at bay and locked the land in cold winter. Frost had formed on his saddle.
‘How many more do we have unhomed?’
‘Unhomed, sir? None. But many of the houses are near-ruinous. A winter of neglect, you see, sir.’
A winter of neglect.
Because a large portion of the former inhabitants of this Arverni town were now either in the burial pits at Alesia or the slave markets of Massilia and Rome. His job as ‘resettlement officer’ for the Arverni sounded extremely grand, and it certainly involved plenty of variety, travelling around the tribe’s lands and allocating property and trade from the dead to the living poor. Trying to build workable communities from the war-ravaged survivors, so that by spring there would be enough inhabitants to allow the town to live on. It sounded like the very best side of Rome. One might be tempted to consider the seedier side of it, of course. Because when the settlement had the best population manageable and everyone had a home, land and whatever else they needed to live, all those goods that went unclaimed were requisitioned by Rome and sent back to the quartermasters to sell or reassign. But on a practical level it worked for everyone. The Arverni benefitted from Roman organisation helping them rebuild, and Rome gleaned a little profit from the endeavour.
‘Very well, Aulus. Once the assignments and musters are complete, send the foraging parties out to the local area and gather stone and timber. Most of these places should be repairable and anywhere you find that isn’t, pull it down and reuse the materials. I want Brivas to be self-supporting by the end of Januarius. Then we move on to Revessio.’
The centurion saluted and marched away to his men.
Mittius sighed and looked about the oppidum of Brivas. It was not a defensive place, particularly. More of a civil settlement by the river. It had potential, mind. Reminded him rather of Falerii Novi, his hometown thirty miles north of Rome. In a time of peace, when the summer sun burned the moisture from the land, Brivas might even be described as pleasant.
He shivered in the icy breeze and led his horse around the shattered, ruinous remnant of a building. Not pleasant at the moment, mind.
Time to write a letter to Marcia. The couriers would be coming through tomorrow on their way east. He would receive any new orders from the proconsul’s staff, and the riders would take any missives on for Cisalpine Gaul and for Rome. He tried to think what he would say. He missed her. He was pleased with what he was doing and proud to be bringing civilisation and the Pax Romana to the world. He hoped the girls were being good and that young Sciavus had stopped sniffing around after them. Gaul was cold, and he was looking forward to…
Titus Mittius gasped as the cord slipped round his neck and tightened. He was no stranger to combat and his fingers immediately reached down to the sword at his side, but were smashed numb with something heavy and his sword was drawn from its sheath and confiscated. He tried to cry out. Aulus could only be on the other side of this damn building! But the cord around his neck was choking him. Powerless, he gave in and stopped struggling as each movement brought a slight tightening of the cord.
His assailants moved into view, and he felt a supernatural shiver run through him. Several of them, wearing voluminous, heavy, black cloaks with deep hoods, and each sporting a mask with a chillingly friendly expression. Identical masks. Somehow the slight smile in the visage made the figures all the more menacing. Two of them took his horse’s reins and moved the beast on. They were being so brazen in full daylight. Most of the populace and the soldiers were across the river, running through allocations and ledgers, of course, but there would still be occasional legionaries, and centurion Aulus Critus, up here in the settlement, while they catalogued and gathered everything for redistribution.
Knowing that he was helpless, Mittius allowed himself to be moved forward towards the house that served as his home and headquarters as long as he was in Brivas. In the most amazingly professional manner, given his predicament, he began to take mental notes. They were wearing trousers and leg wrappings that clearly labelled them Gauls, and probably locals. Either Arverni or other tribes nearby. They included women among their number, for one of the two leading the horse moved with the sway of hips that made her gender obvious. Their masks looked like the cult masks the Gauls used at some of their religious ceremonies. That last thought panicked him, for like every Roman in the army he had heard the horror stories of what druids did to Roman prisoners in their crazed, dangerous cults.
No one came to his aid, despite his hopes, and a few moments later he was being shoved roughly through the door to his house. In the rear, a spring that rose from the ground in the back garden flowed through the house along a wide stone trough and then out to the settlement again. He’d wondered about this curious little piece of hydro-engineering when he arrived, and one of the locals had explained that this house had belonged to a butcher, who used the water in his work. Indeed, many hooks hung from the rafters and he tried not to think too much about them right now.
His hands were jerked round behind his back and tied tightly together, and the pressure of the cord on his throat loosened slightly, allowing him to heave in a deep breath of life-giving air.
‘I don’t know who you are, but we are here for the good of the people of Brivas,’ he hazarded, hoping to shatter their prejudices with a little well-placed explanation.
‘Quiet!’ snapped the woman in horribly-accented Latin, and a big man who had been just out of sight behind him stepped forward.
‘Hardly quiet, Belisama. I want him talking. I want him talking a lot.’ This voice was like clotted blood in a wound, like pitch bubbling from a swamp. It made the Roman shudder.
The big figure turned to Mittius.
‘I am going to ask you three questions, Prefect. Be aware from the start that you are already a dead man. But how that happens is up to you. You will either die of drowning, or a cut throat, or strangulation, or simple beating. If you are truly unhelpful, it may be more than one. Are you prepared?’
Mittius straightened. He was terrified. The warm, wet feeling down his leg made that absolutely clear. But he was also a soldier of Rome and whatever it was these people wanted, they were clearly enemies of the republic.
‘You’ll learn nothing from me, when you burst into a peaceful settlement and interrupt the process of trying to restore the land after the war, you animals!’
The big man shook off his hood and reached up,
peeling the mask away from his features. The raw, torn, ravaged thing that sat behind the mask sent a shockwave of dread and revulsion through Mittius.
‘The next half hour is, for you, going to be a time of woe, I think,’ the monster said, smiling through a torn face.
* * * * *
Molacos of the Cadurci washed his hands in the spring water until the last of the pink tinge ran off out through the hole in the wall and off through the garden. Rising from a crouch, he dried them on his trousers and looked down at the remains of the Roman, whose throat had suffered periodic, agonising restriction so many times that the red rings around his neck formed a striped collar. The top of his head was matted with blood where the skull had cracked and all four limbs were at unpleasant angles from the body slumped over the trough. Despite the beatings and the strangulations the man had been surprisingly strong-willed, and in the end he had been allowed to drown only until his lungs were full and burning and then, while still conscious and panicked, he’d been pulled back from the stream and his throat hacked from side to side with a serrated knife.
Oh, the prefect of the Arverni resettlement had died badly.
Molacos hated Romans more than any living thing in the world, and he would tear the heart from a Roman girl-child without flinching. But he respected strength. And even while he had hated this prefect as much as any other man of the legions, he had to acknowledge grudgingly that the soldier had remained a man to the end, despite everything.
He turned. Ten other figures stood in the shadowy interior, only a couple of them still disguised.
‘Still nothing, then,’ old Cernunnos rasped, one of the few still donning the mask.
‘No. But someone will answer me in time. And while they resist, we get to kill Roman officers. There can be no goal more true than ours and no path more just. Every one of these vermin that graces his afterlife alleviates the Roman blight on the world of men.’
‘Where next?’ asked Rudianos, his flame red hair framing a pale, serious face.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 9
