The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  “Me voces Adonus . . . You may call me Adonus,” Athauhnu smiled. I hadn’t noticed how much his Latin had improved since Caesar had promoted him to dux.

  “I got it from here, Tesserarius,” Macro dismissed our guard. The man nodded to Agrippa and, ignoring the rest of us, strode back to the gate.

  Macro watched the man’s back as he walked away. “I knew that mentul’ in Syria, when he was a mulus under Lucullus. Lazy bustrap’! But, he knew the right arses to kiss. A waste of meat, really. I’d shove a tessera up his tesserarius-arse for a clipped denarius. Now he has his nose up Cicatrix’s arse.”

  A classic Macro performance.

  “Cicatrix?” Agrippa asked. “Who’s Cicatrix, ‘the Scar’?”

  “That’s what we call Gabinius. Not to his face, of course. That’s Gabinius Iunior, the consul’s son. He’s the tribune in charge of these docks . . . my boss,” Macro explained. “And, Gai here knows how he got that scar . . . He gave it to him himeself!”

  I winced a bit at that. I certainly didn’t want to run into Gabinius. Agrippa was giving me a curious look.

  “So,” Macro concluded, “Cicatrix . . . I mean, the tribune is not about at the moment. Usually doesn’t show up until mid-afternoon, if at all. So, let me take you through the warehouses so you can see we’re taking good care of Caesar’s ash and trash.”

  Macro led us through warehouses I and II. Everything looked correct, up on pallets, dry, packing undisturbed, amphorae properly in stands—a seemingly well-run operation.

  “Warehouse III is being converted for grain storage,” Macro explained. “This far north there isn’t a decent harvest before September, so the army is bringing in grain from Sicilia, Africa, and even Aegyptus. First grain ships are due next month. We should be ready for them. We’re using number IV to store supply wagons . . . The oxen are on a farm outside the city.”

  Agrippa nodded his head, then asked, “What about number V?”

  “Uhhh . . . number V?” Macro hesitated. “Number V’s Gabinius’ private operation. He has it sealed.”

  Agrippa stopped walking and faced Macro. “What do you mean private? This is a military installation. There’s nothing private about it!”

  Macro shrugged, “Unless you’re a consul’s son.”

  “What does that mean?” Agrippa pressed.

  Macro decided to give it up. “Okay, Tribune, let me explain how this thing works . . . Cargoes that land on the municipal docks have to pay a fee to dock, a fee to unload, and another fee when the stuff goes out the city gates. Military cargoes are exempt. So, a few denarii change hands, and a civilian ship gets shifted over to us at midnight. Our slaves unload the cargo into Warehouse V, and the stuff leaves the city in a military wagon. It’s part of . . . uh . . . let’s just say it’s a stips. . . a donativum that goes to the tribune in charge of the docks. Plus, he gets to keep part of the cargo . . . a few amphorae of wine . . . a little garum . . . some cheese wheels . . . whatever’s coming in. And, the boss spreads it around a bit. We all get a small donatum, a bonus at the end of the month.

  “It’s the way things have always worked around here. I make sure it doesn’t affect the military operation. The only ones who get hurt are the Graeculi, the Greeklings who run the town.”

  Agrippa thought about that for a while and finally shrugged. “As long as it has nothing to do with the army,” he said, then chose to end the discussion.

  Agrippa decided to audit the military books, so Macro set him up at a desk in a warehouse office. While Agrippa read, the rest of us walked over to a caupona, a wine shop, in the town just behind the military docks.

  When we walked in, I saw a couple of our stevedore slaves sitting at a table around a jug of wine. They didn’t seem at all alarmed by our catching them there. In fact, Macro greeted them with a wink and offered to go them a round.

  “Slow day,” he told us as we took a seat. “They have to work like the devil when a ship docks, so why not kick back a bit when it’s slow.”

  We sat down at a table, and the landlord came over to take our order. Since Massalia was a Greek city, I decided to show off a bit.

  “Theloume na exoume mia kanata krasi . . . kokkino, protimo,” I ordered.

  The landlord stared at me for a few heartbeats while pulling on the gold earring in his left ear. Then, he said in a semblance of Latin, “You Roman schoolboy, no?”

  “No!” I protested. “I’m an officer in the Roman army!”

  “Maybe . . . yes,” he answered. “But, you talk Greek like Roman school boy. No one talk like that since Achilles in diapers. I bring you some retsina . . . That good, Macro?”

  “That works, Linos,” Macro agreed. “Thanks!”

  After recovering a bit from my embarrassment, I asked Macro, “So, what are you doing up here? What happened to our wine empire?”

  Macro’s face darkened. “Gabinius screwed me! Senior, not Iunior. When he realized that my idea might payoff big, he moved in on it himself. He’s partnered up with your grandfather, Naso, that bastard . . . No offence to your family, Gai . . . Your mom’s a real lady . . . They squeezed me out. Gabinius never forgave me for what you did to Iunior . . . Holds me responsible for that . . . Probably holds me responsible for you and his daughter too.”

  Athauhnu punched me in the arm and gave me an “atta-boy” grin. His listening skills in Latin were improving by leaps and bounds!

  “Nothing happened between me and Gabi!” I tried to protest.

  Macro was continuing his story. “So, my choice was to hit the road or join up as part of Iunior’s familia up here in Massalia. I had the experience, and the old man probably understood that if someone wasn’t babysitting Iunior, he’d totally screw the pooch.”

  “What is this ‘having sex with the dog’?” Athauhnu asked, looking somewhat concerned. But, the landlord arriving with the wine and cups interrupted him.

  As Macro poured the wine, I explained to Athauhnu, “It just means making a lot of mistakes . . . fouling things up.”

  Athauhnu seemed relieved by that.

  “Did you know she’s here?” Macro asked me.

  “She . . . who?” I asked.

  “Gabinia, you idiot!” he said. “Who’d you think I meant? She’s living up at the villa with her big brother, Iunior.”

  I shrugged, “No . . . didn’t have a clue. How would I? Been a bit busy these last few weeks!”

  Then, a thought hit me. “You say that Iunior doesn’t show up at the docks every day, but did he disappear for a few weeks last month?”

  Macro thought about it, then said, “Come to think of it, he did. It was when that big shot from Rome showed up . . . Tried to hide his identity . . . Got off a navy dispatch cutter at high noon all wrapped up in a dark cloak. A senatorial. Not only did Cicatrix show up to greet him, but he was wearing his parade armor. He even tried to shape those snuffies we pay to guard this place into an honor guard.”

  “How’d you know it was a senatorial, if he was wrapped in a sagum?” I pressed.

  “Weren’t you listening, Gai?” Macro said. “He was taxying around the Mare Nostrum in a commissioned Roman naval vessel. You think the senate loans those things out to just anyone? A rumor went around it was one of the Cicerones or Cato up from Rome to check on Caesar.”

  “But, that was the time that Iunior disappeared, right?” I persisted.

  “Yeah . . . exactly!” Macro confirmed. “Like I said, I didn’t think much about it at the time . . . Just assumed that Cicatrix and the nob were off on a two-week bender.”

  “Any evidence that Iunior had left town . . . went up-country?” I asked.

  “Iunior? Up-country!” Macro guffawed. “He gets nervous a thousand passus outside the city gate, even though there haven’t been any wild, long-haired Gauls rampaging through here since Alexander was sucking teat. No offense, Adone!”

  “None taken, Macro!” Athauhnu responded, finishing his second cup of unwatered retsina. Along with mastering Latin, he was star
ting to develop quite a taste for wine.

  “Come to think of it,” Macro said suddenly. “It was right after our mystery guest arrived that our side racket down on the docks really picked up. Only lasted about a week, but there was a midnight ship docking every night. Ran our slaves ragged getting all that stuff into number V.”

  “What stuff?” I asked, my interest picking up.

  “Don’t know,” Macro said. “Everything was in crates. I do know the slaves complained about how heavy the stuff was . . . like the crates were filled with iron ingots . . . or farm equipment . . . Damn near broke their backs. The guards were in a hurry to clear it off the docks . . . not that the civilian dock inspectors were any threat to our operation. They get greased, too. Stuff’s still in there. Far as I know, it hasn’t passed through the city gates yet.”

  I got a sudden, bad feeling. “Can we get into V to have a look around?”

  “No way!” Macro said. “Cicatrix has it locked up tighter than a virgin’s knees. He keeps guards on the doors night and day.”

  “We’ve got to get in there and see what’s in those crates,” I told Macro. “Let’s finish the wine and get Agrippa!”

  We left the caupona and walked toward the dock gate. A rather sad specimen of a Roman soldier was standing guard. He barely nodded to us as we passed through.

  “They all know me,” Macro explained. Then, he changed the subject. “You never told me what happened to your head, Gai. Looks like you were in a fight. A jealous Gallic husband catch up with you?”

  Athauhnu chuckled. “If a Gaul caught him with his woman, he’d have a second mouth to smile with. A bruise like that, one of our women could give him if he didn’t please her!” A sudden amazing grasp of Latin!

  “Horse kicked me,” I said simply.

  “Horses,” Macro shook his head. “Never trusted those nasty beasts . . . evil . . . pure evil!”

  By then we had reached Warehouse I. We found Agrippa still plowing through the tabulae.

  “You have a good time at the caupona?” he asked without looking up from his work. “You smell like a pine forest. What were you drinking? Some crazy Greek concoction?”

  “We have to get into number V and take a look around,” I said bluntly.

  Agrippa looked up, alarmed. “Why?”

  No Roman wants to look too deeply into the private matters of another Roman. Romanitas. It just isn’t done.

  “I hope I’m wrong,” I continued. “But, I think Pompeius is stockpiling contraband . . . weapons and equipment for the tribes.”

  Again, Agrippa resisted. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  I told him about the “mystery visitor” and the “midnight ships,” how the timing seem to fit with the reports of Romans resembling Pompeius Iunior and Gabinius Iunior going up-country to visit the Gauls and try to stir things up against Caesar, and how the crates didn’t seem to be commercial goods, but something else, something heavy, something made of steel.

  Agrippa sighed. “Alright . . . we’ll take a look. But, if all we find is cheese and garum, we forget about the whole thing . . . ti’ placebit . . . acceptable?”

  “Mi’ placebit,” I agreed. “Acceptable.”

  We walked over to Warehouse V. There were two security guards posted at the entry door. They stiffened when they saw us approaching. They noticed Agrippa’s purple stripe. They knew Macro.

  “Open it, Laeve,” Macro ordered.

  “You know I can’t do that, Macro,” the one called “Lefty” responded. “Cica—I mean the tribune—would have the flesh off my back if I did.”

  “I’ll have the flesh off your back if you don’t!” Agrippa countered.

  “You got no jurisdiction over me,” Laevus began.

  “This is an army installation,” Agrippa told him. “And, it’s under my jurisdiction. So, open that bleedin’ door before I lose what’s left of my patience!”

  Laevus’ barracks-lawyer bravado quickly crumbled. He turned to his mate and said, “Quick, get the tesserarius.” Then, to Agrippa, “We don’t have the keys, Tribune . . . Only our tribune has them!”

  “Not an insurmountable problem,” Agrippa said. He looked around and spotted what he wanted. “Insubrecus Decurio, hand me that crowbar!”

  I looked and saw a vectis that had been left on top of some discarded packing by a careless slave. I handed it to Agrippa.

  “Step aside, Soldier!” Agrippa ordered, now armed with the iron rod.

  Laevus hesitated just a heartbeat, then decided on discretion. He stepped away. As he did, I heard him hiss at Macro, “We’re all in for it now, you stupid bastard!”

  Agrippa had the shackles off the door in no time and kicked the door open. The interior was dim, but there were oil lamps and a flint stored at the entry. We lit the lamps and entered. Laevus stayed outside.

  I heard a thud from outside the door, then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. Macro walked in, rubbing his fist.

  He said, “I may not be the brightest lamp in anyone’s room, but my papa married my mama . . . and I don’t take that kind of shit from no snuffy.”

  “Fungulus?” Athauhnu asked. “Quid vult dicere ‘fungulus’?”

  “Incompetent and sloppy soldier,” I explained. “Fungulus . . . a snuffy.”

  Athauhnu nodded and chuckled. “Snuffy . . . I like that!”

  We looked around the warehouse. It was as Macro had said: wine, some cheeses, bundles of fabric—just evidence of perfectly reasonable and well-organized corruption.

  Then, Macro said, “Something’s wrong!”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “This room’s a lot shorter than the building,” Macro announced, walking toward the back of the warehouse. Then, after a few heartbeats, he called, “Tribune! Could you bring that crowbar back here?”

  We followed the sound of Macro’s voice to what we thought was the back of the building. Macro was standing in front of a heavily locked door in what was now obviously a partition across the back of the warehouse.

  Agrippa made short work of the locks, and we entered. When our eyes adjusted to the dark, we could see that the room was filled with sealed shipping crates. But, before we could investigate further, the tesserarius of the security detail burst in. Laevus was close behind. Even in the dark, the swelling around his right eye was obvious.

  “Fungulus!” I heard Athauhnu chuckle in the dark.

  “What in the name of Hecate’s three mutts do you people think you’re doing?” the tesserarius exclaimed.

  “Watch your mouth when addressing senior officers!” Agrippa shot back.

  The man stiffened. “Sorry, sir . . . Didn’t see you . . . This warehouse is off limits.”

  “Not to Caesar’s quaestor!” Agrippa corrected him.

  The man ignored Agrippa and hissed to Laevus, “Get Gabinius here, stat’! I don’t care if you got to pull him out of a lupinarium, just get him here!”

  Laevus bounded toward the exit as Agrippa attacked one of the crates. He had the top off in a few heartbeats. I lowered my lamp into the crate. At first it looked like rows of black skulls packed in straw. When my eyes adjusted, I realized I was looking at tarnished galeae, military helmets, dozens of them.

  Agrippa attacked another crate, javelins. Then another, swords. Then, military tunics. Boots.

  “Explain this, Soldier!” Agrippa confronted the guard.

  “I’ve never seen any of this before, Tribune!” the man stammered. “I have no idea.”

  Just then, Laevus and another man burst into the room. The other wore a white tunic with a broad stripe that appeared black in the darkness. He had a vivid scar across his cheek, a scar I had given him months ago. Aulus Gabinius Iunior!

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “Who are you?” Agrippa shot back.

  “I am the commander of this installation!” Gabinius declared. “Aulus Gabinius Iunior, son of the consul.”

  Before he could get too deep
into his pedigree, Agrippa demanded, “Can you explain the contraband in this warehouse?”

  Gabinius dismissed the question, “I don’t have to explain anything to you, a mere angusticlavus, from some dirt-farm in the Italian hills by your abominable accent.”

  Agrippa lowered his voice. “You are addressing the quaestor exercitus, the quartermaster of the army of Gaius Iulius Caesar, Imperator, proconsul of this province. Again, I demand you explain this contraband in an army warehouse. And, you will address me as ‘Sir’!”

  “I . . . address you as ‘Sir’?”

  Agrippa’s patience was at an end. “Adone, Dux!” he commanded.

  “Ti’adsum, Tribune!” Athauhnu responded. “Yes, Sir!”

  “Place this officer under arrest!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Gabinius started. When Athauhnu tried to take his arm, Gabinius shook him off and snarled, “Take your hands off me, you long-haired bastard . . . Tesserarius!”

  Gabinius’ guard made a move toward the hilt of his sword. Agrippa saw the movement.

  “Freeze, Soldier!” he ordered. “Think about it! The worst that could happen to your boss here is he might spend the rest of his life kicking his heels up around some island in the Bay of Neapolis. You, on the other hand . . . you draw that sword, and I’ll see to it you’re beaten to death by ten of Caesar’s muli. I’m sure they’ll make a nice, slow job of it when they find out what the weapons in these crates were intended for.”

  Athauhnu had Gabinius’ arms behind his back. I handed him a length of cord to bind his hands. That was the first time Gabinius noticed me.

  “You!” he hissed. “Macro’s Gallic fancy boy! I should have guessed. Macro, you’re a dead man! You’re all dead men! You have no idea what you’re up against.”

  “Adone Dux!” Agrippa ordered. “Gag the prisoner!”

  Before Athauhnu could act, Gabinius raged, “You fools! You stupid fools! You’ll never make anything stick! Even Caesar doesn’t dare hold me! I’ll be back in Rome screwing your mothers before—”

  Agrippa hit him. He moved so fast, all I saw was Gabinius down on the ground, the scar on his cheek split wide open.