Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  It was futile, but he had to try.

  ‘And yet,’ Epaenetus snorted, waving his arms, ‘even with the departure of some of the more volatile foreign concerns, it is worth noting that our city’s coffers are healthier than ever. The tax paid by those loyal traders who stay has more than offset the loss of a few merchants. I cannot say that the city will lose a great deal of sleep when Fronto the wine merchant decides to return to Rome.’

  ‘You sanctimonious, nasty little prick!’

  His outburst seemed to have come from somewhere deep inside without having been filtered by his brain, and Fronto knew then that he had lost completely. Epaenetus had goaded him into alienating the rest of the crowd. He snapped his teeth shut over the rest of the invective that was trying to force its way out. Instead, he shook his head, turned, and stalked away from the gaze of the boule and out into the sunlight.

  Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Why was it so much easier to convince a force of five thousand men to march up a hill into a hail of arrows than it was to convince fifty old farts to waive a tax?

  He stomped across the small square and spotted Catháin sitting on the steps of the portico opposite. The northerner rose as he approached and wordlessly proffered a flask of lightly-watered wine. Fronto took it and threw down a hefty dose. ‘That’s not going to be enough. Let’s go to the Ox.’

  ‘It went well, then?’

  Fronto flashed him an irritable glance. Catháin shrugged. ‘I never expected success, but you had to try. Did you lose your temper by any chance?’

  ‘Once or twice. They goaded me into it.’

  ‘Of course they did, Fronto. They’re politicians. What did you expect?’

  Fronto grunted and took another swig.

  ‘There’s part of your trouble,’ Catháin murmured, pointing across the square. Fronto turned and squinted into the sunlight, across the altar of Poseidon, to where he could see the boule filtering out of the building for their midday meal break. Epaenetus, easily spottable in his green and yellow, had drifted off to one side of the square, where he now stood beneath the colonnade, deep in conversation with Hierocles the wine merchant.

  ‘The sleazy, slippery bastards.’

  ‘Again… politicians. Always expect the worst, that way you’ll rarely be disappointed.’

  ‘Come on. I feel the distinct need to drink until I can’t walk.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto leaned back against the chair in his new warehouse. He had to admit that Catháin had done an astounding job. He’d never have imagined he could get such a place so cheap. The warehouse was twice the size of the old one, and even with all his stock shelved and stored, three quarters of it was empty. And it had two offices built into the side, rather than just a desk and chair in the central aisle. Now, he occupied one such office and Catháin the other. And there was no need for a constant guard since the entire complex, which he shared with the warehouses of four other businesses, was secured within its own walls and guarded at all times. Outside in the shared yard, he could hear the various teamsters sorting out their rotas for the day.

  He almost felt like a proper businessman. Except that, try as he might, he simply couldn’t find a way to expand the business. He was staying afloat, just, through the clever little machinations of his weird northern employee, but the effects of the tax and the constant undermining by Hierocles and his cronies prevented any hope of growth or expansion. He’d been fuming over the possibilities for days, juggling figures and working through hopeful correspondence. He’d spent every waking hour in the warehouse, and slept there sometimes too.

  Though he had to admit, to himself at least, that a large part of the reason for that was the presence of Andala and Lucilia at the villa. Every day saw them grow closer. Every day they were less like mistress and slave and more like two manipulative, giggling girls, watching him carefully and plotting. They had taken to drinking wine together in the evening and discussing things that Fronto had really wished he hadn’t walked in on. Even sleeping in the office had started to seem like an attractive proposition.

  He picked up the next communique in the seemingly endless pile and scanned it. Then he scanned it again. Then he smiled and, just in case, scanned it again. Somewhere above, a roosting bird shat on the cloak he had left folded up on the table, but then that was supposed to be lucky. He checked the minutiae of the text, but it was all there. He grinned.

  The cartel of Mithonbaal the Syrian had agreed terms. They would pay half the foreign trade tax on the condition that Fronto could guarantee them a full hold from Neapolis each month. It would take some wangling and wheedling to arrange such a thing, but with Catháin’s help, he was sure he could do that.

  Mithonbaal was one of the few sailors whose business was so healthy and his name so respected in the boule that he was guaranteed to be true to his word and able to keep his end of the bargain. He had five Phoenician ships based out of Syria and plying the waters from there to Italy and beyond, and one of his vessels was in Massilia every month. Moreover, Mithonbaal was used as an overflow by the more influential Roman and Hispanic concerns, when they had spare space or too much cargo, so as often as not a Spanish or Roman trader in the harbour had some link to the Syrian. It was a veritable coup. The man charged more for transport than anyone except the Greeks, but his offer to share the tax would bring the price down to a very reasonable level. Fronto would make money. Actual profit!

  He was on his feet doing the private victory jig he only did in absolute private when the door swung open. Trying not to tangle his legs, Fronto stood straight and the moment of panic he’d felt as he’d seen the state of Catháin’s face melted away as he saw his easy smile.

  ‘Good news?’

  The northerner chuckled, prodding at a split lip with a square of blood-soaked linen. ‘Yes. Good news.’

  ‘You challenged the entire boule of Massilia to a fight and beat them all?’

  The man pried open his bloodshot, bruised eye and laughed. ‘This? Oh this was just three of Hierocles’ thugs who happened on me in a back street. It might look a bit rough, but you should see the state of them!’ He opened his other hand, where a piece of floppy, rent and bloody flesh flopped flat. Fronto felt the bile rise in his throat.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Better you don’t ask, but his girlfriend’s going to be furious.’

  As Fronto blenched, Catháin roared out in laughter, dropped the torn flesh into the urn they kept for disposing of rubbish, and washed his hands in the labrum of cold water. ‘Got any bread and butter? Nothing makes me hungry like a good barney.’

  Fronto shook his head in disbelief and gestured to a platter on the corner table, much of which he’d left untouched.

  ‘So what’s the news?’

  ‘I think I’ve just solved all your problems, Fronto.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Oh?’ Catháin rubbed his hands dry on his tunic and frowned as Fronto explained.

  ‘The Syrian’s accepted the terms. We need to secure a full ship every month from Neapolis, but the income will be superb.’

  ‘Good. Every little helps.’

  Fronto felt slightly crestfallen for a moment at the offhand manner in which the man greeted such a triumph, but then he noticed the glow of success in Catháin’s eyes. ‘So what have you got for me?’

  ‘The solution. I’ve just sealed two completely independent deals today. In terms of transport and shipping, prepare to make a killing. I’ve got a signed agreement from Caesar’s logistics officer in the city. Any military or courier vessel with hold space that comes and goes from Massilia is at our disposal free of charge, on the condition that we give the legions a discount on the wine we bring in. The proconsul’s ships are not liable to the foreign trade tax and even though you should theoretically pay it even using their vessels, it’ll be a cold day in Aegyptus before any councillor in the city tries to argue with Caesar’s men over something like that.’

  Fronto blinked. ‘Free
?’

  ‘Yes. And for just a ten percent discount, which will easily be taken care of by the drop in transport costs. And the number of ships going back and forth means we’ve pretty much unlimited space for goods. You can make as many deals as you like and be fairly sure we can deliver on time.’

  ‘That’s bloody astounding. Was the officer not worried about pissing off the boule?’

  ‘It seems not. Apparently the prefect in charge had a penchant for the fish sauce they make down in Hispania Baetica, but the fellow who imported it has stopped trading here because of the new tax. Consequently, Prefect Atticus is not particularly tempted to side with the city. It’s always about who and what you know, Fronto.’

  ‘This could mean the start of something big, Catháin.’

  ‘Better still, it’s time to start exporting as well as importing. We’re missing out on a huge potential profit that, as far as I can see, nobody has yet thought to plumb.’

  ‘Export?’ Fronto frowned. ‘Export what?’

  ‘Wine, you berk. You’re a wine trader.’

  Fronto rubbed his furrowed brow. ‘But they don’t make wine in the province. The law of the republic forbids it. All the old vineyards and producers in Narbonensis were torn up and shut down. What are we supposed to export?’

  The northerner chuckled and produced a small flask from inside his tunic.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Try it.’

  Gingerly, Fronto unsealed the flask and took a sniff. The hairs in his nose felt as though they were corroding. He winced. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Try it,’ Catháin repeated. Fronto shrugged and, still frowning, took a sip.

  ‘That is horrible. What is it?’ He pushed the flask back to Catháin and scurried over to the labrum, washing out his mouth and spitting into the urn.

  ‘That, Fronto, is wine.’

  ‘That is most certainly not wine. I don’t know what it is, but I can only assume it came from the anus of some mythical monster.’

  ‘Your patrician tastes are too fine, Fronto. This is wine made by the Ruteni, just beyond the border of the Roman province. Bet you didn’t know the Gauls made wine, did you?’

  ‘They don’t,’ Fronto replied flatly, which drew a chuckle from his employee.

  ‘I know. It’s a little rough. There are four or five southern free tribes that have been making wine for the best part of a century outside the republic’s border. They’re happy to trade, since the Gallic tribes’ economies have never been so poor as now, what with the war destroying their production and trade.’

  ‘But who would want that muck?’

  Catháin laughed again. ‘See? Your patrician tastes coming through again. There are misers in Rome and Latium and Campania and everywhere in between who would buy a thousand amphorae of this stuff to feed to their slaves, servants and gladiators instead of expensive Italian wine. They’ll not pay much, but then you can buy it for next to nothing and ship it free. Fronto, it’s basically money waiting to be earned.’

  Fronto stared. ‘It actually sounds feasible.’

  ‘It is. Very feasible. In fact, it’s a veritable gold-mine. Everybody wins, and you get to heap up profits through it. If you’re feeling generous, you can always donate to the city coffers from your new profits, and try and win a few friends among the boule, or you could send extra money to the tribes who supply you and make influential Gallic friends. Or, of course, you could give me a substantial raise. After all, I suspect I’ve earned it.’

  Fronto laughed out loud. ‘Catháin, if you can arrange those tribal imports, you can name your own damn wage!’

  ‘Good. And the next time you feel like travelling back to Italia, I would like to tag along and see if I can seal some better deals there too.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Fronto smiled. ‘I’m planning to head to Puteoli before summer to see my sister and Galronus. Gods, he’s going to be astounded to hear I’m importing Gallic wine!’ He slapped Catháin on the shoulder, causing the rather bruised factor to wince, and reached up with his other hand to give Fortuna a caress at his neck. ‘Things are looking up, my friend. At last. And mostly thanks to you.’

  Chapter Seven

  MOLACOS of the Cadurci stalked through the burning wreckage of the inn. By morning nothing would remain of this place but a few sad mouldering beams and some charred stones. It was a little more high profile than their previous strikes, but he had reasoned that by now word of the executions of Roman officers would have filtered back to the authorities and there was no longer any real need to sneak around. Of course, he would still be careful, as there were only twelve of them, and though they were each and every one a killer, forged in the crucible of war with Rome and moulded into the vengeance of the peoples by the will of one man, there were still limits to their ability. Taking on a large group of Romans would be stupid and suicidal, and at this stage he could not risk the plan for the simple love of killing Romans.

  He could hear the screaming now. Unearthly wailing like a soul beyond the limits of human endurance. Which, of course, was the plain truth of the matter.

  Belenos was sitting in the midst of the conflagration, his feet up on a table as he coddled a large mug of beer to which he had helped himself. As Molacos approached, the golden-haired hunter, as handsome as a child’s lullaby on a summer evening, removed his expressionless mask and dropped it on the table in order to take a deep swig of the drink. He flashed a smile of perfect, straight white teeth at his leader, and Molacos grunted a greeting in return.

  ‘Pull up a bench and have a drink.’

  ‘Do you not fear falling beams or tongues of fire?’

  Belenos grinned. ‘Am I not the shining God who pulls the sun? What have I to fear from burning beams?’

  ‘Don’t get clever. And I will not drink that swill.’

  ‘This,’ Belenos said after another sup, ‘is true Arveni beer. A good brew.’

  ‘This inn was given over to the Roman army, and the owner simply served and serviced Rome. Whatever it made and sold is tainted, and I will have nothing from it.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Is Bellisama almost done, d’you think? The other Romans are all burning and their goods taken or destroyed. It is time to move on.’

  The handsome hunter shrugged with a quirky smile. You know my sister, Molacos. She will not leave a job half done.’

  ‘The prefect knows nothing. That was clear even before I left the room. Now she dallies for no reason.’

  ‘Oh, she has reason, Molacos. You know her. She will not rest her blades until she has flensed each and every Roman this side of the Alpes. And very likely she will then look beyond the mountains. Our quarry is long gone. We should devote ourselves purely to the killing of Romans. It’s what we’re good at.’

  Another blood-curdling shriek ripped through the silence and died slowly, like its owner. Molacos eyed the creaking, charring roof beams above him suspiciously and held up his arm to shield his face from some of the scorching heat of the bar which was burning furiously, aided by strong spirits.

  ‘We have to go before this place collapses.’

  ‘It will see out this beer. I deserve a rest.’

  Molacos was about to retort angrily when the door to the rear room swung open to reveal the inferno beyond and Bellisama emerged, soot-streaked and sweating, weapons cleaned and sheathed, her mask in one hand and a necklace of fingers hanging from her other.

  ‘Dear brother, I missed your last naming day. How poor of me.’ With a cackle, she threw the finger necklace at Belenos, who caught it and turned it round and over, examining it. ‘You could have left his rings on.’

  ‘I put out his eyes with them and filled the sockets. You can go and get them if you like?’

  Belenos chuckled again and slugged down the beer. ‘Very well. Where next, glorious leader?’

  ‘We head back towards Gergovia,’ Molacos sighed. ‘There are a few other potential places on the way and I still live in hope that one interr
ogation will bear true fruit.’

  ‘And if not, at least we get to kill Romans.’

  Molacos shook his head and marvelled at the twins. They were like children, but it was hard not to love them.

  Chapter Eight

  VARUS glanced around at the men of the Ninth hurrying between the farmstead’s huts, gathering armfuls of dry hay and other animal fodder. Most of the legionaries were spending more time than they realistically should inside the huts, and throwing their loads into the cart with wild abandon rather than stacking it carefully before rushing for another building. He could hardly blame them. The rain was near torrential, the ground churned into a thick quagmire of mud and animal dung through which the men slopped and squelched, all the while getting colder and wetter, watching their armour and weapons getting soaked and knowing that even after the foraging was done with and they were safe back in camp, the work had only just begun, with hours of cleaning and polishing ahead to prevent rust. Still, he ought to intervene. It was, after all, the fodder for the cavalry they were gathering.

  Two days had passed since the fort’s completion, and the army sat behind its defences, seething in the rain and watching the Bellovaci and their allies across the swamp sullenly brooding. There would still be two days before Trebonius arrived with the other legions, at the best estimate, and while the army was managing to subsist on the meagre supplies it had brought with it, augmented by forage brought in by raiding parties, more supplies were always needed, especially with such a large relief force marching to join them. The foragers of the four legions had been out every hour the gods sent gathering firewood, barrels of water, supplies of grain, vegetables and animals whenever possible and now, finally, animal fodder. For throughout the continual foraging, the auxiliary cavalry had been out protecting the parties and using up what little supplies they had in the process.