Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  Priscus rolled his eyes; it was going to be one of those conversations.

  “You can get quite peculiar and depressing sometimes, Marcus.”

  Fronto glared at him.

  “Don’t you believe in anything?”

  “Steel.” Priscus answered flatly. “And cake. And wine, and women, and the inability for dice to ever come up right for me, and that politicians should be automatically denied the right to serve with the military.”

  Fronto stared at him for a moment and then laughed.

  “Fair enough; particularly to that last. But the thing is that, although I don’t sacrifice or do much in the way of libations or praying, that idea has been at the heart of everything I’ve done since I hit adulthood. Looking back, I can’t think of a single occasion where I’ve deliberately caused harm to someone who didn’t deserve it.”

  He paused and grinned.

  “Plenty of harm to those who did deserve it, mind you.”

  His face became serious again.

  “Thing is, Gnaeus, that I keep seeing someone that simply can’t be here, and they’re always watching me. It’s starting to make my spine itch and my scalp crawl. And while I can’t say I’m directly and personally responsible for hurting them, I’m still serving and supporting a certain general who is directly responsible.”

  Priscus narrowed his eyes.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Never mind” Fronto sighed, spotting the door of his family home up ahead in the quiet street. “I’m just starting to feel like a man at the circus, watching the quadrigae racing out of the starting gate and realising too late that he’s backed the wrong driver.”

  Again, his companion pursed his lips.

  “You saying you’re not going to go back with the general?”

  Fronto shook his head, but Priscus noted something uncertain about the manner of the legate of the Tenth.

  “No; not that. I’m needed with the Tenth, and they deserve a commander who knows them. But the general is starting to wear on my nerves. The more I look at Pompey and Crassus, the more I think that they’re the future that Rome deserves and that Caesar is a new Sulla in the making, ready to march his men into Rome and…”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m in service with the general, but it’s more through acknowledgement of our history together than anything else; I certainly don’t need his patronage and we don’t owe him money or anything. I will head out when he issues the call, but I think the time of me keeping my mouth shut and playing along is just about at an end.”

  Priscus turned to look back at the assorted group behind them: a well-known politician with a good history, a Gaulish nobleman, a young legate, and a bunch of hired muscle. Hardly the legion he was used to having at his shoulder.

  “At least you get to go back. I’ll be staying here for the duration. Try not to start another civil war when you disagree with him, though. Caesar may be powerful and a great orator, but try and remember that your opinion carries a lot of weight with the centurionate and the more impressionable officers, so be careful.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Aren’t I always careful, Gnaeus?”

  “Are you ever?”

  Fronto rolled the dice again on the marble step.

  “Shit.”

  Grumbling, he fished in his pocket and withdrew two more coins, slapping them irritably down on the step in front of Galronus. The Remi chief grinned.

  “You get worse at dice when you are tense.”

  “And your Latin gets suspiciously better when you’re winning. I constantly fear that you’re hustling me, Galronus.”

  The Belgic nobleman laughed and gathered up the dice, raising a questioning eyebrow at Fronto.

  “Go on then. One more.”

  Beside them, leaning against the column, Crispus sighed and adjusted his toga.

  “Have you ever considered stopping playing games before you run out of coin? No one has been on a losing streak like this since the Carthaginians.”

  Fronto shot an irritable glance up at his friend.

  “I notice you never put your hand in your pocket!”

  “And that is why there is still money in it. Can you not see that Galronus is better at this than you; as well as luckier, of course.”

  “Shut up.”

  Crispus smiled benignly. He had enjoyed his winter in the city. The previous year, Fronto had shown him the delights of Tarraco, but there really was no place like Rome. It would be sad in a way to return to the legions, but then life there was rarely dull either, particularly with Fronto around. He wondered briefly how Felix was doing in his absence.

  A few bony clicks and a sigh announced a further emptying of Fronto’s pocket. Galronus stretched.

  “Enough. I can hardly walk with all your coins as it is.”

  Fronto glowered at him and examined the dice suspiciously before handing them back to the Gaul.

  Crispus smiled again. There was something about Fronto. He was a catalyst in the best sense of the word; a force that brought everyone to his level. Last year he had taken Crispus, a serious and fairly naive young officer, and had taken him under his wing, opening his mind to a number of surprising experiences. The result had been astounding: Crispus had returned to the Eleventh a stronger, more commanding legate with a better understanding of the men who followed him. The life experience Fronto had pushed at him had been invaluable.

  And in the same way as Fronto had brought Crispus down to a practical level last year, he had taken Galronus and done something similar with him. The Remi chief was already intelligent and honourable for sure but, in just a few months, Fronto had shown him the very best and the very worst that the city and its people had to offer, and the Gaul had come away with a new view of Rome. He had confided in Crispus a few nights ago after a party, while Fronto lay draped across a couch, drooling, that he had never truly understood why Rome considered itself civilised and everyone else ‘less’ in some way. And yet now, when he returned to the Remi after Caesar’s campaigns were concluded, he would miss the comforts he had discovered…

  … if he decided to return to the Remi.

  There was a click from the door behind them and the wooden portal swung open. Fronto scrambled to his feet with Galronus and joined Crispus as they backed away behind the columns and out of the way of the basilica’s main exit.

  The first person to emerge was Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus, the judge presiding over the trial. Fronto examined the man’s face for any clue, but he was unreadable. Behind him came a number of lawyers and clerks while Fronto tapped his foot impatiently.

  It seemed hours as togate men with serious expressions left the basilica before the first face they recognised appeared. Cicero and Crassus stood side by side at the shoulders of Caelius, who wore an ecstatic grin. Fronto sighed with relief. Caelius turned toward them as Crassus and Cicero, deep in conversation, veered off on their own errands.

  “Acquitted on all counts” the relieved politician announced with a smile. He grasped Fronto by the arms happily. “Marcus, you should have seen it. Cicero pulled the pair of them to pieces; not just Clodia, but her brother too. They looked like idiots; and not just idiots. They looked like vicious and greedy idiots. The expression on Clodia’s face! I thought she was going to explode.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Very good. Now stop jumping around like a six-year-old with a new toy… you’re far from out of danger. Indeed, if I’m not mistaken, now that they have no legal recourse to taking you down, we should be ever more on the lookout for hidden knives, poisoned mushrooms and perhaps the odd incendiary building.”

  Caelius’ face fell.

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I’m not going to be safe for a long time, am I?”

  “Not while Clodia’s around. It’s just possible that her brother will forget about you; consider dealing with you more trouble than it’s worth. After all, it was his sister that started all this, not him. But he can be a vengeful sa
ck of dog vomit, that man, so I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “I’ve had the muster order from the general. Start of next week Crispus, Galronus and I head to Ostia with him and his staff and take ship for Gaul. However, my sister has invited Priscus to stay at our house over the winter, and he’s got the brains, experience, money and men to keep you safe. Be very nice to him and stay close. We’ll be back here as soon as either the campaigning season ends or Caesar considers the Gauls subdued, whichever happens first.”

  Caelius nodded nervously, his eyes darting around the crowd as though assassins were already lurking there which, of course, they very well could be.

  “It may be better for all concerned if I return to Interamna Praetutianorum. We’ve a large estate there and I could stay out of the city for a while; let things die down?”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “You’re safer here. Out in the countryside accidents could happen even easier… fewer bystanders too. In the city you have lots of witnesses. Besides, Priscus needs to keep his eye on Clodius. That man has his finger in a lot of pies and sooner or later he’s going to burn it. Stay here, but keep close to Priscus and do whatever he says.”

  Caelius nodded and stepped away from the moving crowd of chattering lawyers to stand with Fronto and his friends as Clodius and his sister emerged from the doorway, their faces grim. As the pair reached the top step, close to Fronto, the man stopped, his sister almost running into his back in surprise.

  “Fronto? And your pack of dogs too. Where’s the lame one?”

  Fronto grinned wolfishly.

  “Somewhere close by. Where he can see every move you and your pals make. Had a bad day?”

  Clodius shrugged.

  “You win some and you lose some. In spite of what you think, this is not an overwhelmingly important matter to me. I have other, more significant things to think about.”

  Fronto’s grin remained in place.

  “I can imagine. A few houses to burn down? Some women and kids to knife? The odd kneecap to break? That sort of thing?”

  Clodius’ expression flickered for a moment and settled into an ironic smile.

  “Something like that, yes. On a grander scale, but yes. If you ever feel the need to abandon that declining has-been that can’t keep Gaul quiet, feel free to come and see me. I can always use a few good men.”

  Fronto’s teeth clenched and he spoke through them in a low hiss.

  “I shall continue to smile for the look of the thing, since we’re in public. If we ever meet in private, however, I might have to explain to you in great detail just how little I think of you. In the meantime, since I see no sign of your pet Egyptian catamite, I have to assume that he’s busy sharpening some knives, or treating some mushrooms, so I think we will take our leave and go celebrate somewhere where I can’t see your dog’s-arse ugly face.”

  Turning his back on the rigidly-fixed smile of Clodius, Fronto grabbed Caelius and Galronus, strolling down the steps to join the small band of hired mercenaries below.

  Clodius scratched his chin.

  “That man interests me; fascinates me, really. He is part thug and part orator, part vagrant and part patrician, part hero and part villain. I was very seriously thinking of having both Fronto and Caelius killed tonight, but it may just be both more prudent and a great deal more fun to let him be and see how this develops.”

  Clodia stared at her brother.

  “You can’t just let this end here?”

  He turned and regarded her with a sneer.

  “I cannot? What has this got to do with me other than a rather imprudent attempt to help my sex-crazed and idiotic sister take her revenge on an ex lover?”

  Clodia stared for a moment and then, bringing her arm back, delivered a slap that would have stung Clodius’ cheek had he not raised his own arm to block the blow. His teeth clenched, he grasped her wrist and pulled her around in front of him.

  “You stupid bitch. I am up to my neck in plots and plans that have taken years to put in place, with some of the most powerful men in Rome playing roles, some unaware even that they are doing so. I am standing on the top of a rickety tower built of my own machinations, and I leave you to your own devices for a few months and you pull the base of the tower out from under me. I need public exposure and humiliation right now as much as I need a knife in the gut and what do you do? Launch mad accusations at a high-profile young politician with powerful friends. Congratulations on making us both figures of public derision!”

  He let go of her wrist and pushed her back away from him.

  “But you will deal with him? For me?” Clodia’s voice had almost become a whimper. Her brother turned his angry gaze on her.

  “You will disappear from view. I don’t want to see your face until the next time I send for you and if I hear anything about your exploits from an outside source, I may well re-task Philopater with a new target. Do you understand?”

  Clodia blinked.

  “You’re just going to let him go?”

  “You’ve lost, Clodia, and I will expend no further money or effort to try and salvage your tattered reputation. Now get out of my sight.”

  Without a parting glance at her, Clodius turned and strode purposefully off down the steps. Behind him, Crispus straightened by the column beside which he lurked and waited for the broken and dejected figure of Clodia to shuffled off across the square. The basilica had emptied and the last of those involved had descended and disappeared in the forum. Crispus smiled to himself as he stepped out into the open and gazed off after the retreating figure of Clodius, now on the other side of the square.

  “And you interest me, Clodius Pulcher. Just what plots and plans are you hatching?”

  With a grin, he set off to catch up with the others. Priscus would certainly have something to do this summer other than babysitting, after all.

  Chapter 5

  (Aprilis: Approaching Vindinium in northwestern Gaul)

  Fronto sighed as the mounted party crested the hill and the oppidum with its Legionary camps appeared, sprawled around the low hill beside the river.

  It had not been a long journey by the standards of some he had taken, but had still been more than two weeks in all. The general and his staff and senior officers, accompanied by Aulus Ingenuus and the general’s praetorian guard had embarked on a small transport vessel at the navalia, the military port on the Campus Martius, and had taken a couple of hours to Ostia, where they had transferred to one of the triremes of the fleet for the two day journey to Massilia.

  By the time the ship had put to sea, the miserable grey drizzle that had once more set in had grown to a full blown deluge. Fronto had looked nervously out at the crashing waves and asked tentatively whether the captain really thought the sea was safe enough, but the man had merely laughed at him and told him that they would put to port for storms, but not for a bit of rain.

  Never the world’s best sailor, Fronto had lurched miserably from foot to foot as the Argus bounced from wave to wave, trying to ignore the smell of the cooked pork and bread dipped in spicy sauce that the others were tucking into for lunch.

  The only thing that made the miserable two days bearable for Fronto was the fact that he managed to hold onto his stomach’s contents for the duration, while Galronus, who had never before stepped aboard a ship, had turned a worry grey-green colour in the first ten minutes and had made sounds like a dying goose for the whole journey.

  Finally, blessedly, the ship put in at Massilia just as, to Fronto’s intense irritation, the clouds dispersed and gave way to an unseasonably bright and warm day. The officers had led their horses up from the Argus, along the dock and up the slope, to turn and watch the ship pull back out into a freshly calm and placid open sea for its return journey.

  The sixteen officers and two dozen cavalry troopers, armed against the bands of thugs and robbers known to operate in the dirty streets of this great po
rt, and followed by the dozen carts that contained their campaigning gear, had made their way slowly from the coast up the slope toward the area of exclusive villas owned by some of the more affluent, yet discerning, Roman nobles. Few men born in the great city itself would choose such a site for a country residence, but those who valued their privacy and solitude, while maintaining close access to a major crossroads, could hardly do better.

  Fronto had nodded appreciatively. He’d been promising to visit here for the last couple of years when he was off duty and free, but had never seemed to have the time. He’d not pictured himself turning up among a group of senior officers with the general himself, though. The view was quite stunning, with the villa they were here to visit sprawling over the crest of the hill, giving a massive panorama of the city below and the coast for several miles in either direction with its coves and rocks and sapphire sea.

  More welcome even than the sun and the breathtaking scenery was the figure of Quintus Balbus, commander of the Eighth Legion, standing by the gate at the entrance to his villa. Balbus looked, as always, every inch the Roman legate, his cuirass polished to a mirror shine, the protective medusa head leering out from the chest, his crimson cloak freshly cleaned and pressed, draped about his shoulders, and his plumed helmet beneath his arm. Despite the commander’s advanced years, his limbs were muscular and powerful; the result of two years of strenuous exercise during the Gallic campaigns.

  Behind the grinning officer, his wife Corvinia stood, a warm, if disapproving, smile aimed directly at Fronto while she held her two girls back respectfully. In the two years since Fronto had last met them, the eldest had begun her transformation to womanhood with remarkable results. Fronto sighed. Here we go again: women. Corvinia had wanted to mother him and marry him off, whereas Lucilia, the elder daughter, had clearly seen him as a prospective catch.

  But much to Corvinia’s disappointment, the general had no plans for a social visit and there was barely time to exchange pleasantries before Balbus’ horse was brought round by a slave and the legate hauled himself up to join the column riding back to the legions.