Still, he had his plan.
Somehow, Verginius had clearly managed to get to Fronto . It even crossed his mind that somehow the twisted ex-Roman had managed to engineer Galronus’ absence, but that was a dead end idea. He had merely taken advantage of the Remi’s absence . To find Fronto now, he would have to locate the last place he was and the last person he spoke to. He would find Rubrius Callo first, just in case, but after that it would be Parella in her inn, then the baths and the towel boy. But Fronto had talked about making new contacts, and had probably been in new places. Low, disreputable places. So that would be next.
An hour later, as the evening set in and lamps were lit across the city and having learned from Callo only that the two boys had rather urgently accepted Fronto’s offer, the Remi tied up his horse outside the Leaning Slab , Parella’s bar, adorned with a painted image of a native tomb with a slipped doorway. For a moment he wondered about the wisdom of leaving on the horse the bag of coin he’d brought from the villa as potential bribes, but it was hardly something he could carry if he needed to fight anyone. And he felt sure someone was going to die this evening.
The room fell silent as the door swung open. Galronus had been in here three times now with Fronto, always dressed and equipped as a common nobody. The occupants were startled by his new appearance. He had removed his Roman tunic – though he loved the linen and the quality of the manufacture , and replaced it with a rough woollen one of Gallic origin. He had donned trousers, which he never wore south of the Gallic central mountain range, and he was armed and armoured like a mercenary, his Remi torc around his neck, arm rings in place and an expression of murder on his face . He had borrowed Fronto’s fine mail shirt rather than his own, and had his own long Gallic sword holstered awkwardly on his back to leave him room for Verginius’ sword on one hip and Fronto’s on the other. The pugio he now often wore was uncomfortably hanging next to the sword.
To top it all, he had taken some charcoal dust from the villa’s furnace and drawn patterns on his face and arms with it. Not a Remi thing at all, but he knew how such things worried the superstitious Romans.
It was not the sort of look to engender cooperation from the authorities, but then it was not the authorities he wanted to cooperate.
The occupants of Parella’s bar variously shied away, vanished under tables, or looked on in fascinated readiness to flee. Galronus knew his personality had been rather altered by his exposure to Rome, but he had held proud to his Remi stance on women. Despite the examples of his friends, Galronus knew Romans often treated their women harshly. He , however, respected the more delicate sex , and would usually shy away from harming a woman. But there were some times when such niceties had to be brushed aside. Parella was smiling as she polished the bar, though the grin slipped as Galronus stomped across the room, jingling, his armour shushing and the sword clunking, and smacked one calloused fist on the timber.
‘Fronto has vanished. If you know nothing about it, you know someone who does. Tell me.’
Parella had the grace to look embarrassed, even apologetic, then looked around conspiratorially as the pair were being listened in on.
‘There’s a big Arenosio warrior has the city stitched up tight. No one knows where to find him, but everyone’s frightened of him. ’
‘Who might know where to find him?’
The woman shivered. ‘I don’t know,’ and as Galronus started to rise to an impressive , threatening height, she blurted out ‘ but if anyone does , they’ll be at the Empty Jug.’
‘Where is this Empty Jug?’
Moments later, he was outside, stomping off through the city with his hand on his steed’s reins, and it seemed like only moments of seething and worrying before he turned a corner and smelled the bar before he even saw it. It smelled like an old sock into which someone had ejected from both ends.
He was tying his horse to an iron ring on the wall, about to march into the place, when something caught his eye. In the poor light cast by the torch beside the tavern’s door, he spotted marks on the floor. Blood, some hours old and now dried, but definitely today’s. Of course, blood outside a place such as this would hardly be unusual, but when combined with the potential that Fronto could have been here, casting his net wider, Galronus was convinced that the dried blood marked Fronto’s meeting with a cobble. His eyes played around the narrow street and fell upon the deserted shop opposite, its original name whitewashed out, its windows shuttered. There was a fin e spatter mark on the door. At the tavern, he wrenched their pitch -dipped sizzling torch from its bracket, crossed the road and tried the door. The shop opened easily, and he found himself in a deserted building site … a building site with a tale to tell. More dried blood, and now something new. A small pool that had not yet dried. Perhaps three hours old, he thought, maybe four. This was not blood from a beating, but from a true wounding.
Galronus’ grip tightened on the handle of Verginius’ gladius. Fronto was wounded. They had beaten him, dragged him out of sight and then hurt him badly. Not killed. There wasn’t enough blood for that, and it wasn’t Verginius’ style. Besides, the body w ou ld have to be dragged, and from the drips and spatters, it looked like the wounded Roman had walked out, probably only with a lot of help, though. But to where?
Galronus was angry. Angrier than he had ever been. Fronto was his brother , damn it. No… Fronto was closer than a brother. Galronus had actual brothers, and yet they were less in his eyes. Fronto was his friend , too. A true friend . And the Remi would rip Hispania apart and tear pieces off Verginius to find him.
By the time he emerged into the street again, he had one gladius in each hand. He burst through the door of the Empty Jug like the wrath of the Furies, bristling with weapons and belligerence. The population managed a fascinating array of reactions. Some ran, others back ed away. Some hid. A young man in the corner with bad facial bruising almost leapt out of his skin, and one particularly large Roman thug with a club bumbled toward him , growling.
‘Who in Hades do you think you are?’ the Roman roared, raising his club threateningly.
Galronus cut his hand off with Fronto’s sword and swung Verginius’ upwards from the waist, arresting its deadly arc as the tip touched the thug’s throat apple from below.
‘I am Galronus of the Remi, and if you want to see the dawn back… the fuck… away.’
The huge man wilted like a daisy in the parched sun, shrinking back, tossing away his club and raising his remaining hand even as blood sluiced f rom the severed stump. Galronus, instantly losing interest in the damaged thug, turned. The wounded boy. Blood on the street ... b lood in the shop ... b lood on the boy. Coincidence?
‘Where is Marcus Falerius Fronto?’
The lad shra nk back against the wall, an expression of terror crossing his face, but Galronus’ eyes narrowed. He knew intelligence when he saw it . The lad was putting on a show. Already his eyes – one of which was a barely-open slit – were shielding a mind calculating his best way out of t his situation.
Galronus loomed over the table and raised his sword. The boy stared at him, seemingly unable to ascertain whether this was merely threat or true danger. Well, he’d learn soon enough.
Galronus’ sword slammed down into the table, driving through the old, worm-eaten wood, and driving through the boy’s thigh beneath. The lad screamed, and Galronus heard the scrape of several chairs behind him as other patrons rose. Still with a sword through a table and a human leg, he turned his fiery gaze on the bar. ‘Anyone comes within sword range of me and I’ll send you to Charon in so many pieces he’ll need an abacus to make sure you’re across the river entire.’
The various unpleasant figures faltered for a moment, then backed away once more. Galronus turned to the boy and was pleased to see that all guile and façade seemed to have melted away. The lad was now genuinely terrified.
‘One question: where is Marcus Falerius Fronto? And don’t try to deny anything , coz I saw the recognition of the name in your eyes
then. Tell me where he is and I might not use another blade.’
He let go of Verginius’ sword, leaving the leg pinned and the boy weeping.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Wrong answer,’ Galronus barked as he lifted the other blade.
‘I really don’t. I really don’t know!’ the lad shouted desperately. ‘But I can tell you who will .’
The tip of Fronto’s blade hovered a finger-width from the boy’s eye and he swallowed nervously. ‘If he finds out I sent you…’
‘He’ll not be in a position to cause trouble, lad. And if you don’t send me, then whatever he might do to you will seem like an afternoon with a pink girlie from Narbo compared with what I’ll do to you.’
The boy weighed up his chances for only a moment.
‘There are three of them – big mountain warriors, led by someone who never comes out in public. I don’t know where they’re staying, but I have an arrangement. I hang a red scarf on the statue of Marius at the end of the port, and they come and find me. They’re your men. They’ll know where he is.’
Galronus nodded and leaned back, removing the sword point from near the boy’s watering eye. He then wrenched the blade from the leg, out through the splintered table and wiped it on the rag at his belt.
‘I strongly advise you all forget this happened and stay here for at least another two drinks. If I find any of you have followed me I shall not be pleased .’
A moment later, he was outside the bar, untying his steed, mounting and trotting off for the docks. It was a long chance, but the best he had. What if Verginius and his men had left the city? What if, now that they had Fronto, they didn’t need the boy any more?
No. This was Verginius, the smiling demon king. This was the man who had set traps and planned a whole rebellion just to draw Caesar into Aquitania. He would not be finished yet. He still had Caesar to revenge himself upon, and somehow Galronus doubted he himself would be free of the lunatic’s attentions entirely. At the very least there would be a man left in touch.
The darkness had truly set in by the time he had hung a red soldier’s scarf on the statue and then ridden hurriedly away and backed his steed into a dark alleyway.
He waited. The sound of the sea slapping the dock and the groan and creak of a dozen moored vessels mesmerised him as he watched ceaselessly , occasional citizens wandering back and forth about their own business, even though the port was quiet, business shut down for the day . The better part of an hour had gone by when the first character took notice of the scarf. He was no Arenosio warrior, but he was the first person w andering past who was not drunk, busy, or tired and hurrying home. The figure was a lad of maybe seven summers, and Galronus would have paid him no attention had he not crossed the open space and climbed the statue , clearly making for the scarf. It was just a ragged soldier’s scarf and of no value, even to a beggar. Galronus watched with narrowed eyes. The boy fondled the scarf for a moment, and then ran off.
Damn it. Galronus was faced with a choice. Follow the boy or watch the scarf? Either might be the right choice, but for some reason the sheer purpose with which the boy had gone to the statue suggested his involvement, while loitering here was uncertain in its efficacy at best.
Chewing irritably over the decision, Galronus slid from the horse, tying it to a shutter hinge on a warehouse, then quickly jogged out of the dark alley and across to the end of the street up which the boy had run. Over the shushing of his own chain shirt and the jangle and clatter of his weapons – sneaking was clearly not an option – he lost the sound of the boy, and as he turned the corner he faced a street devoid of urchins. A few folk with purpose or a skinful of wine w andered the street and a disfigured legionary sat by a dilapidated door with a bowl containing a pitiful few coins, displaying his half a leg in hope. Galronus ran up to the soldier and fished two sestertii from his belt pouch, holding them up in front of the man’s face.
‘A boy, running. Where did he go?’
The legionary looked hungrily at the coins and pointed to a side street up away from the docks, heading north toward the city’s edge. Galronus nodded his thanks and dropped the coins into the bowl. A few moment s later he was at that street. Houses and shops led off from each side, but they petered out halfway along. The latter half of the street was sided by bare walls, then an expensive looking house frontage. Galronus frowned. Something was out of place, and he couldn’t quite work out what it was. Quickly, he looked back up and down the main street then back at the house , and it struck him. The city was dark, and every house had lamps or torches to light their door s , unless they were too poor to do so. This house was both wealthy and dark. There could, of course, be any number of explanations, but somehow Galronus couldn’t put it down to abandonment or absence. The rich had slaves and kept everything running even when the y were not there. This house should not be dark.
There were some times when Roman civility and subtlety just had to be pushed aside and replaced with brute force and directness. Building up pace into a run, Galronus hit the front door of the house with all his weight, the interior latch splintering and bending, the whole leaf of wood slamming inwards against the wall. The interior was lit with only a single oil lamp in a delicate atrium just ahead past the house’s altars, and it illuminated two figures. The boy was already turning to leave again, but the warrior was busy shouting at him, his tirade cut short by the explosion of the door. Galronus didn’t stop, though his shoulder ached terribly from the timbers, and he ran into the atrium, hit ting the warrior square- on even as the man drew his sword. The pair of them plunged into the small, square pool at the room’s centre, Galronus atop his target. The warrior tried to bring his sword to bear, but he simply couldn’t find the room in the small pool with this maniac on top of him. Galronus, however, had given himself to the rage of Taranis, thunder drumming in his veins, lightning flashing in his eyes. He knelt up, his knees on the warrior’s chest.
‘Where is Fronto?’
Without waiting for a reply he stabbed down with both swords, each raking along the man’s scalp, narrowly missing a killing blow, but both agonisingly cutting a deep furrow along his head, blood and hair washing out into the water of the pool . The warrior screamed. The blades still standing in his flesh, Galronus yanked them downwar ds, cutting off both ears, then flung the swords across the room and grabbed the warrior by his oozing, ruined scalp.
‘Fronto! Where is he?’
The warrior burbled something, but defiance was creeping back into his expression.
‘Not good enough. Where is he?’ Galronus turned the head until the face dipped into the water , and held it there, the man’s face panicked and wide-eyed in the increasingly opaque pink water. Galronus saw the sign of desperation in the face and realised he was about to draw a drowning breath, then pulled the head back out. The warrior gasped and coughed.
‘Fronto!’
‘Slave… trader…’ the man coughed.
‘Where?’
‘Carthago… Nova.’
Galronus frowned. The name was not familiar, though it had something to do with Carthage, obviously. It mattered not – s omeone would tell him. He looked into the warrior ’ s eyes and the rage resurfaced for a moment. This was one of the men who had caused all this trouble, who had taken Fronto and wounded him. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the face into the water again as the warrior panicked and thrashed. He was bigger than Galronus, stronger too, but Taranis was in the Remi’s veins now , filling him with god-like power . Perhaps Nemesis was there too , after all his time with Fronto. T here w as no mercy in him, and h e held the man there until he stopped moving. Nemesis had been served, but Taranis was still in his veins and would be until Fronto was by his side once more.
He turned. The boy was standing near the door. He’d not run, which surprised Galronus, though he did look utterly terrified.
‘Carthago Nova. Where is it?’
‘Hundreds o’ miles, master. South. Along the coast.’
&
nbsp; ‘Go home. Find safer work.’
Leaving the boy to his own devices, Galronus ran out into the street once more and jogged back toward the port and his horse, hoping the very presence of a small sack of coins had not drawn thieves to it. The slavers would have only a few hours’ head start, and they would move slow. They couldn’t have gone more than ten miles, he reckoned, and they would be following the main coast road, for there was nothing illegal in their trade.
And that was an obstacle he was going to have to overcome: s lave traders were legal and protected with the same rights as any other business under Roman law . Admittedly, Fronto should not be among their cargo, but that was not their doing. It would be unworthy to load upon the traders the guilt that should lie solely with Verginius and his men. But law or no law, Fronto was coming home tonight.
* * *
Galronus peered at the encampment. The slaves were still locked up in their wagons, purpose-built affairs like strong wooden cages on wheels, with a latrine hole the width of a man’s palm allowing the cargo to defecate on the move and keep their cage relatively clean. Now, they had been encamped for several hours and already the smell from beneath the three wagons was strong enough to waft on the night breeze across the outskirts of Oleastrum.
The slavers had camped close to the shore , between the beach and a farmstead with a small two-winged villa, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the town itself. No one liked slave caravans to camp on their doorstep, but the beach was clearly not owned by the farm, and the slavers had made use of the tree-spotted open land.
The three wagons were in a rough arc around a fire where the merchant and his men sat, their tents making up a matching arc on the far side. These traders were taking no chances. The three wagons each held between twelve and twenty slaves, crammed in, but despite their secure cages there was also a guard of fifteen men that Galronus had counted, with two thirds of their number alert and on duty at any given time. His heart had sunk when he realised this would not be a simple retrieval carried out by violence , or by the threat of it. Two or three men he could deal with, or a whole room of men who would react well to threat. But these were professionals, several of them ex-legionaries, no doubt, and they would not be cowed easily. And they would fight well and die hard.
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 39