Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  A sly look crossed his face.

  ‘Remember the letter I showed you? Cicero’s causing you trouble. You need to get home too and deal with that.’

  Caesar’s eyes hardened.

  ‘Marcus, you are not changing my mind; you are merely beginning to aggravate me. We will remain at Darioritum until we receive word from the other armies…’

  Fronto started to speak, but Caesar raised his voice and shouted over the top.

  ‘AND IF WE ARE REQUIRED TO CARRY OUT FURTHER ACTIONS WE WILL DO THAT TOO!’

  He fell silent under the glare of the Tenth’s legate and sighed again.

  ‘Look, Marcus, I am not unsympathetic, but you are a soldier. You know how this has to be done, and if you were thinking like a soldier right now, it would be you saying these things and not me. You are angry, tired, worried and saddened by both Balbus and your family’s plight. However, your place is with me and with the Tenth until the campaign is at an end for the year.’

  Fronto opened his mouth again, but Caesar held up his finger.

  ‘You can be of no help to Balbus right now. In fact, your presence and involvement is more likely to cause him further discomfort than to relax him. As soon as my personal medicus says he can travel, I will send Balbus home with the best physicians we have to offer, a small group of helpers and an escort of veterans from Ingenuus’ guard. Likely the Eighth will want to send an escort too. And then, when the time comes and we are done in Gaul, you and I shall both visit Balbus and his lovely wife on our journey back.’

  Fronto grumbled, but kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Your sister and mother are in the best hands available, Fronto, as you well know. Priscus is not going to let anything happen to them. Your mother has suffered, I know, but now Priscus will be looking after her and making sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Again, Fronto grumbled, but said nothing.

  ‘Marcus, we have to be sure here first. Logical. Methodical. Certain. Go and find your close friends, drink yourself into a comfortable stupor, get some good solid sleep, visit Balbus in the morning, and then we’ll talk again. I can’t spare you until the campaign’s over and you know that, but in the morning you’ll be rested and thinking straight.’

  The general smiled slyly.

  ‘How often do I actually advocate your binges, Marcus? Look on this as an opportunity, as I will not expect you at the staff meeting in the morning.’

  Fronto sagged. The problem was that the general was correct in everything he said. His presence would only make Balbus try harder and strain himself, when he should be lying back and relaxing. Priscus would have taken the attack on his mother rather personally and would tear Rome to pieces to stop it happening again. And most of all, if the army did not complete the job here in Gaul, they would end up coming back again later in the year, or early in the next, to put down yet another rebellious tribe.

  It galled him, but he could not fault the reasoning. Of course, he did not feel very reasonable, right now.

  ‘I’ll do just that. Try not to be too surprised if I’m not here tomorrow, though.’

  It was a stupid and petty thing to say, and he knew it. His gaze refused to rise to meet that of Caesar. The general smiled as though he saw plainly through the childishness.

  ‘Drink, relax and sleep, Marcus. Tomorrow is a new day.’

  Fronto glared up at him, but nodded despondently and then turned and scuffed his feet angrily on the way out of the tent.

  By now, all the Veneti prisoners had been processed and were safely locked away in guarded stockades. The commotion had died down considerably, the Roman fleet moored in the bay, and much of the army organising themselves ready to move into the oppidum, leaving large vexillations of troops outside in camps. Fronto marched past them, ignoring the activity as he made his way back to the gate with its grisly decoration and the street beyond with the tavern sign that marked the location of his friends.

  As he rounded the gate entrance and entered the main thoroughfare, his gaze fell on four men making their way down the centre of the road toward him, and he frowned.

  The two men in the centre were staggering, supported by legionaries at their shoulders. They appeared to be Gauls, dirty and unkempt; perhaps refugees who had hidden in a pig pen or a…

  He blinked as he realised that the brown, stained and torn tunics that the men wore beneath the fresh woollen cloaks about their shoulders had once been the crimson tunics of Romans. The two men were Romans. His eyes refocused. They were Romans, but they had beards and long hair. Dirty and disfigured.

  No… not disfigured, but walking with limps and cradling weakened or broken arms.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  The legionaries, startled by the sudden attention from a legate, almost jumped to a salute, remembering at the last moment to hold on to the men they escorted. One of the hairy, unkempt figures looked up in surprise.

  ‘Fronto?’

  The legate frowned.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The man opened his mouth and grinned, three missing teeth making a conspicuous hole in his smile.

  ‘Quintus Velanius.’

  ‘Velanius?’

  He knew the name, but could not place it.

  ‘Oh come on, Fronto. We played dice often enough last year? Senior tribune of the Eleventh.’

  Fronto’s eyes widened.

  ‘Velanius? I thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead. It’s been months!’

  The legate came to a halt as the groups met and he looked the tribune and his companion up and down. They had clearly been brutalised and tortured, but nothing that would not mend. He could not believe it.

  ‘Stop shaking your head, Fronto. You look like there’s something wrong with you.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘We were kept in a cellar; a virtual dungeon. It’s like the tullianum. We’ve been shouting for hours, since we heard the Veneti leave, but these lads only just found us.’

  Fronto grinned, feeling a little of the weight of anger and sadness fall away.

  ‘You need a shave.’

  The tribune next to Velanius, whose name escaped Fronto, laughed.

  ‘Not just shave, but scrape months of crud from the skin. I feel like I’ve been living in a latrine… a cramped latrine.’

  ‘And then’ Fronto added, ‘after you’ve had a bath, you need to report to the general, get yourself debriefed as quickly as possible, and then get back here and make for that building over there, with the hanging sign.’

  Velanius shook his head, smiling.

  ‘You never change, Fronto. We’ll join you tomorrow, perhaps. Today, we need to recuperate and sleep.’

  Fronto shrugged.

  ‘Suit yourself, but my purse only stays open for so long.’

  ‘Yes, until you’ve lost it all at dice.’

  ‘Sod off’ he said, grinning madly.

  The officers continued to smile at one another for a while, and then Velanius sighed.

  ‘Come on. We need to go. See you later, Fronto.’

  The legate nodded, smiling, as the two men limped off with their escort. He watched them until they passed through the gate and out of sight, and then turned and crossed the street, entering the tavern. To his surprise, no one else had yet joined the other three occupants.

  ‘Fronto. How’d it go?’

  As he entered, he strode across to the seat he’d left around an hour ago as he’d finished reading Priscus’ letter, and sank gratefully into it. As he exhaled slowly, Crispus placed a mug in front of him. Fronto eyed it and then looked up at this friend, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘No wine?’

  ‘Drink that. It will do you good. I’ve tested three or four now, and I think I can safely say that this is the one you need tonight.’

  Reaching forward, he sniffed the mug and recoiled before grasping it and tentatively taking a sip.

  ‘Juno’s arse… that tastes like… well, I suppose it tastes like Juno’s a
rse, probably.’

  ‘Get it down you.’

  Opposite, Brutus, grasping a cup of wine that Fronto eyed enviously, sat back.

  ‘I assume that Caesar said no?’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Not really a surprise. We knew he would. What did he say about Balbus? Is he sending him back straight away?’

  ‘Soon as the medicus agrees to it.’

  ‘Has he decided on what to do with the Eighth?’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘You have the sound of a man angling for a legate’s position?’

  Brutus shrugged.

  ‘Little need for more naval activity. I don’t want to jump into Balbus’ boots while they’re still warm but… well, yes. I can see myself in the position. Can’t you?’

  Fronto shook his head.

  ‘Probably not. Maybe, but probably not. The general had already lined up Cicero for the next available legate position. Not sure whether he’ll still go through with it, given that Cicero’s brother’s busy calling him names in front of the senate, but there you go.’

  Crispus retrieved his own drink, and Roscius of the Thirteenth used a foot to push a chair out for him. Crispus nodded and sat.

  ‘So the situation in Rome is not troublesome enough to encourage Caesar back there yet? Not even the disturbing possibility that Pompey and Cicero are now in league together against him; possibly even with Clodius?’

  Fronto shook his head and eyed the mug of dark, frothy liquid suspiciously.

  ‘There’s no real evidence of that. It’s just conjecture. Problem is: I like Pompey. Always did. If Caesar had half of Pompey’s honour; his way with people, he could rule the world.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Mind you, if Pompey had half of Caesar’s guts, so could he.’

  Crispus nodded.

  ‘Between them, Crassus and Clodius, the future of Rome is beginning to look distinctly oligarchic.’

  Fronto frowned in incomprehension, and Roscius smiled.

  ‘Run by a few powerful men. Like multiple kings’ he said quietly.

  Fronto sighed.

  ‘There was me being desperate to get home, but the more you lot talk about it, the gladder I am that I’m out here.’

  Brutus smiled and took a sip of wine.

  ‘On the bright side, Marcus, we’ve some time to breathe, rest and recover. Nothing else is likely to happen until we have word from the other armies.’

  Fronto leaned back in his seat and, closing his eyes tight, threw down the entire mug of insipid ale in three huge gulps, before belching loudly and slamming the mug on the table.

  ‘Resting it is, then. Now take this shit away and find me something in a nice red.’

  Interim - Late Quintilis: Rome

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus slumped against the cold marble and winced. He’d been kidding himself all winter and spring that by the end of the year he would be as strong on his feet as ever he was, but this last day of ducking into doorways and stomping around the streets of the city had made it abundantly clear that he would never be that Priscus again. His lame leg was strong enough to support him and walk for a while though after an hour every step became a dull, painful ache. The limp slowed him down and, after a day on his feet, he was beginning to worry that, if he fell over, he might never get up again.

  But the day was almost over. The sun had already sunk behind the Esquiline Gate away behind him and night was beginning to draw in.

  He’d been curious this morning when he first shadowed the address the beggar had given him. The apartment block in which the mysterious man had been renting a room was what could charitably be called ‘humble’, and Priscus had loitered across the passageway at dawn, wrapped in a plain woollen cloak, waiting for the man to show his face.

  And when he did, Priscus had frowned and watched the man intently, trying not to register his surprise. He knew him from somewhere. Perhaps he was a veteran of the Tenth, or someone he’d met among the other legions over the past couple of years. He could not place the face precisely, but the man was hauntingly familiar, with his light and athletic frame and chiselled, suntanned features.

  For a while, he had worried that his limp and slight deformity would make his pursuit obvious. He had not realised until he paid attention to the people in the streets around him, however, just how many lame or crippled folk littered the streets of the great city in the lower class areas, and his prey remained unaware of the former centurion following his every move.

  It was humbling to think on how many of these lame people all around had also served in the legions until that wound crippled them and took away their livelihood. It struck home how privileged he was to be allowed to continue to serve in such a condition.

  And so he had blended with the poor folk of Rome as he followed his quarry throughout the day, and the man had busied himself with what Priscus considered to be the most dull and mundane routine possible. The absolute high point of excitement had been a visit to the baths and a bite of lunch, breaking up the monotony of shopping, washing clothes, reading the notices of the acta diurna in the forum, a couple of visits to temples and an hour or two spent poring through records in the tabularium. Priscus had tried, but had not managed to get close enough to see what records the man had examined. All in all, a frustrating day for the lame spy.

  He had been about to give up on the whole affair and pass off the situation and the saving of lady Faleria, Fronto’s mother, as pure good chance. As a last nod toward thoroughness, he had followed the man, clearly a former soldier, back toward his rooms as the sun began to sink, only to watch him walk straight past the building and to the market stall along the street, where he stopped to purchase a spray of colourful and sweet smelling flowers.

  Intrigued now, he had followed the man once more as he made his way east to the edge of the city and then out through the Esquiline Gate, past the suburban spread beyond, and out along the great Via Labicana, lined with its tombs, monuments and mausolea.

  He had been forced to fall back a little once they had left the press of city folk and made their way along the sparsely populated road.

  Finally, but a moment ago, the man had stopped and, producing a key, ducked furtively to the roadside and unlocked the gate of a tall, circular mausoleum.

  Priscus watched with interest as he leaned against the marble, rubbing his hip and thigh and wincing with the pain. When this was over, he would have to travel half the width of the city to get back to the Falerius household. He would need a soak and a drink when he got back.

  Grumbling, he watched the silent bulk of the circular tomb. The light continued to fade, and he had to pull sharply back into the shadows as the man reappeared and, locking the gate, turned back toward the city and strode off with a weary, heavy gait.

  Priscus dithered, unsure whether to follow the man back to town or investigate the mausoleum, but the pause allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and he spared one last glance at the retreating figure of his quarry before lumbering quietly across the road and to the solid iron gate of the tomb.

  Inset into a smooth marble façade, the gate was fastened with a sturdy lock, the interior obscured by a second curved wall that formed a passage around the edge of the mausoleum and circled a central chamber. Priscus could see a small oil lamp on the shelf opposite, and the heady, mixed aroma of sweet flowers and burning oil proclaimed that the lamp had been used recently. A striking flint stood on the shelf next to it.

  Was it sacrilegious? Would he be pursued throughout the rest of his life by the lemures if he did what he was thinking of doing? He smiled. Fronto was getting all superstitious and worrying about ghosts and demons, but the Vinicii were made of more practical stuff.

  Still smiling, he reached into his tunic and withdrew a steel spike around a handwidth long. He may be from a respectable family himself, but there were skills one learned that came from lower-born influences. The smile sliding into a wide grin, he began to work at the lock with the spike, his t
ongue protruding from the side of his mouth until, after a short pause, there was a click and the lock fell open.

  Much better this way. A rock would have been quicker, but it would have been impossible to conceal the fact that someone unauthorised had been here.

  Taking a quick glance around the area, he satisfied himself that he was alone in the near dark. Taking a deep breath, he swung the gate open, grateful that it did not grind or squeak.

  Lighting the oil lamp was quick and easy, since it had only very recently been extinguished and Priscus raised it above his head so as not to blind his night vision with the flickering flame. The encircling corridor stretched off for a couple of paces ahead but, as he shuffled down it, the arch into the central enclosure was close by.

  Taking a deep breath, the possibility that someone could be lurking in the dark only now occurring to him, Priscus ducked swiftly through the arch and stood, his jaw agape as he took in the sight of the central chamber.

  As with most high-born family mausolea of this fashion, the walls were dotted with alcoves, each of which held a cinerary urn for a member of the family. Between them, often below the urns, small inscriptions of high quality named the deceased, though none were large enough to be visible in the flickering lamplight from the doorway.

  It was not these that had caused Priscus’ jaw to drop.

  A large slab or table stood in the centre of the chamber and upon it lay the body of a woman. Priscus almost dropped the lamp as he stared at the peaceful form of the lady Clodia, coins on her eyes for the journey, her arms folded across her chest and topped with fresh flowers, the body wrapped from feet to sternum in expensive white Egyptian linen.

  Priscus stumbled forward, his mind reeling. Clodia had been missing for months, though clearly, from the lack of decay, she had only died some time in the last day or two. His heart racing, he crossed to her and looked at the body in a low panic. Her throat bore a thin purple line. Strangled with something narrow; possibly a leather thong. He shuddered. Clodia was, there was no denying it, a wicked and troublesome woman, and she had likely deserved this; earned it a hundred times over. And yet it was with a strange sadness that Priscus stood over the sleeping woman, her perfect face finally peaceful in death.