Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  Gods it must be halfway to noon! He was getting lazy with this relaxed lifestyle. In the preceding years he would have been up, cleansed, broken his fast, addressed the troops and marched ten miles by now. He smiled a private smile as he realised how much he stretched the truth even speaking to himself. Over the past few years the pressures of the post had turned his always prodigious drinking from a carousing hobby to a necessary habit. Only now that he was out of the armour could he realise just how much he had declined in the past four years. When they'd first marched into Gaul he had been up before the birds in the morning and gone to his cot after the rest of the army. By last year he was dragging himself from his pit after Carbo had already done half the morning's work for him, his head clouded and fugged with last night's wine.

  These past few months back in Rome he had tried to rein in his drinking a little - not that much, obviously - but the aches and pains in his battered body often required that little extra numbing, and so he had largely failed in the attempt. One thing he had noticed, though, was that imbibing on a fun evening with Galronus, Rufus and Galba at the races, or with Lucilia in the privacy of their own rooms, was not leaving him with the sour mood and stinking head that he remembered from preceding years in the wilds of Gaul. Somehow the good humour and circumstances that surrounded each cup made it lighter and healthier. Despite the plethora of aches and pains, the worryingly expanding waistline, the general decline in his fitness and the weakness of that damned knee, Fronto hadn't felt as relaxed and healthy in years.

  Standing, he stretched again, listening with interest as a new click added itself to the morning symphony of cracks and creaks. The left shoulder one was new. Was that from that fall down by the Victoria Virgo temple last month after Rufus' get-together?

  Stepping slowly over to the column of light that sliced through the room from the atrium doorway, Fronto found himself wondering whether it would be nice after all to move to Balbus' generous villa above Massilia. A country villa with wide open windows that would let in light and display views of open hills and vineyards instead of high, featureless walls that kept the city's stink and press safely hidden. Lucilia was keen enough that she was trying to persuade him to spend summers there away from the dung-filled super-heated stink of the city.

  She might be right.

  Where was Lucilia, anyway? What did she have planned this morning? Would they be able to stroll down to the Forum Holitorium once again? They might see that beggar with the twisted arms again. He was funny - a deformed beggar who had turned his misfortune into a street act and seemed to be making a small fortune. He was good though. Good enough that Fronto would happily go watch and pay again.

  What had woken him?

  Fronto suddenly had a memory of his first roused moments of the morning. The door. A knock at the door. Obviously nothing important, though, as they'd let him sleep on. Yawning and scratching himself, Fronto strode out into the atrium, feeling less self-conscious in his expensive silky subligaculum than he had when Lucilia had first presented him with them. They were ridiculously comfortable but had an unfortunate tendency to drop to the floor when he pulled his stomach in or reached up with both arms. He had almost frightened the bed linen girl to death when stretching one morning as she came up from bed level. He grinned at the memory and then instantly felt guilty - damn this married life for its added veneer of guilt.

  "Lucilia?"

  A muffled reply came from somewhere out in the garden and he strode through the atrium, along the short corridor and out into the open peristyle, beneath the walkway that surrounded it. Lucilia sat on the small marble bench with the animal head decorations near the central fountain, Faleria by her side with a small vellum scroll on her knee.

  "Good morning, Marcus. Have you thought yet of putting on some clothes?" Faleria raised an eyebrow meaningfully. Fronto frowned at her, then looked down and hastily rearranged his underwear with a shy smile.

  "You're late up" Lucilia commented.

  "You left me to sleep. Who was at the door?"

  "A courier bearing missives."

  Fronto's attention sharpened. "From?"

  "Yes, there's one for you."

  As Lucilia drew a small scroll case out and proffered it, Fronto reached out eagerly, only for her to swipe it out of reach and lean forward, puckering her lips.

  "Lucilia!"

  "Just a kiss, Marcus."

  With a sheepish look at his sister, which Faleria judiciously ignored, he leaned forward, gave Lucilia a quick peck on the lips and yanked the scroll case from her hand. She laughed and sat back.

  Fronto straightened and looked at the case. It was a standard, military issue case that had clearly come from the armies in Gaul. He noted, with interest, that a similar one sat on the bench between the girls. Whatever Faleria was reading had also come from the army. From the look on her face it had not best impressed her.

  Greedily, he tore at the seal bearing the insignia of the Tenth Legion. Carbo, then? Or Atenos - could Atenos write in Latin?"

  Jerking open the case, he tipped out the small scroll page, crammed with miniature writing. Vellum was expensive and hard to come by out in Gaul, so correspondents were as economic with materials as possible. What surprised him was that the scruffy, spidery handwriting was actually that or Priscus.

  "News from your beloved Legion?" Lucilia goaded.

  "Mmph." Fronto replied, running his eyes along and down the vellum, frowning, smiling, his eyes occasionally widening in surprise.

  "Well, come on!" Lucilia prodded him. "Don't forget some of these people are my friends also."

  Fronto looked up. "Sounds like I got out just in time. Caesar's running out of senior men. He's made Priscus legate of the Tenth!"

  "Good for Gnaeus. He deserves it."

  Fronto glared at her. For all the fact that he would support of his oldest, closest friend in the legions to the end of the world and beyond and wanted nothing but the best for him, for some reason it rankled badly that Priscus had been given his former position. But then, would he have preferred a stranger commanding his beloved Tenth?

  He silently chided himself. Legates served at their commander's whim. That he had commanded the Tenth long enough to consider them his was unusual in itself. No other general would have kept commanders in charge of a single unit for so long. But still it felt somehow like a betrayal. He realised he was muttering under his breath.

  "What was that?"

  "I said he's going to get more than he bargained for. Sounds like the officer corps is stretched to the limit. He won't be simply commanding the Tenth. I'll bet he ends up serving as Camp Prefect or Quartermaster as well, or even running two or three legions. The general's even had to promote centurions into the tribunate. I bet the old bastard's regretting driving me away now."

  He became aware that Lucilia was peering at him with a penetrating gaze as though she was picking apart his inner thoughts - thoughts that he now realised were horribly suddenly filled with jealousy that he was not involved in it all.

  "Priscus suspects some big revolution among the Gauls is coming. Sounds like he's right too, from what he says. But the general's still going ahead with his second jaunt to that piss-wet island. Furius and Fabius are now serving as tribunes in the Tenth, apparently!"

  "Another deserved set of promotions."

  "But an unheard of one. Centurions to tribunes? Come on... we'll be having slaves in the Senate next."

  "Have you any idea how pompous you sound?" Faleria snapped at him and Fronto recoiled suddenly.

  "Sis?"

  "Sorry, Marcus. I realise that was a little sharp. Ignore me - I'm being waspish."

  Fronto narrowed his eyes.

  "What's up, sis?"

  Faleria, her eyes dark and troubled, held out the scroll that she had been reading. Fronto took it and began to read. The note was short and succinct, written out by the Praetor's clerks as attested by the mark at the end. Dictated directly by Caesar. Fronto re-read it just in case.<
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  By the order of Caius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul and Illyricum, all officers and nobles of the native auxilia are called back to service as per the requirements of their oaths of fealty to the state.

  You are required to attend the army under the command of Titus Atius Labienus in Gesoriacum as presently as travel allows and no later than the Kalends of Septembris. Further orders will be issued upon arrival.

  In the name of the senate and the people of Rome.

  Fronto shook his head.

  "He doesn't have the right to call Galronus back at his whim like that. I was there when the oaths were administered. The units are under oath to serve with a commanding noble from the tribe, but which one is never stipulated. I know for a fact that Galronus left his Remi under the command of his cousin, who is also a noble of the same line - a prince in his own right. Don't let this get to you. It's Caesar doing his best to fill his diminished command with tried and tested men."

  Faleria shook her head. "It's more than that, Marcus. If there's some big rebellion looming, it's Caesar pulling in all the officers he trusts to help him deal with it, and all the ones he doesn't for…"

  She fell silent, and Fronto nodded slowly. It made sense. Fronto knew that Galronus was hardly about to rise up in opposition to Caesar, and it appeared that the Remi were one of the more supportive and accepting of the allied tribes. But Caesar would be taking few chances now.

  "I'll write to Priscus - tell him that Galronus isn't coming back for the time being and ask him to explain why to the general."

  "Thank you, Marcus. I just don't know what to do with this. Galronus will be back from the market any time now. Do I show him it? If I do, he might just go anyway - you know how seriously he takes these things. But if I don't, he might be offended later that I hid it from him."

  Fronto reached down and collected the scroll case from the bench, allowing the vellum to curl into a roll once more and dropping it into the cylinder. "Not your problem. I got the message and it was me who didn't tell him."

  "Marcus…"

  "No. Forget about it. My problem now and I'll sort it. Now what delights do you two ladies have lined up for us today?"

  Faleria arched an eyebrow, some of her sharp humour returning as she said "You mean you're having a day away from the races and the fights?"

  "Can I help it if all these Pompeian luminaries keep inviting us to them?"

  "You don't have to say yes to everything they invite you to. We only get to see you two days a week."

  Fronto sighed. "Anyway… I have nothing on today, so what would you like to do?"

  "Lucilia would like to take a walk down in the woodlands beside the Via Appia, Marcus. I thought we could take her and show her the Egeria spring and the pools. Maybe even pick some of those gorgeous mushrooms for the evening meal?"

  Something inside Fronto deflated. A walk - bad for the knee, combined with a sacred nymphaeum - bad luck in Fronto's experience, followed by picking mushrooms - a dirty and irritating task resulting in the collection of one of the few foods that he would be happy never to eat again. A perfect day, then.

  "Come on, then" he said, wearily.

  "Hadn't you better put on some clothes first?"

  Fronto glowered at his sister as Lucilia let out a light, tinkling laugh. Turning on his heel, he strode back through the house to the room where, he now realised, Lucilia had already had his day's clothing laid out. He eyed the toga on the chair with distaste. The heavy, itchy thing was little more than an encumbrance of the wealthy used to display their superiority. Carefully ignoring it, he changed his underwear for a very similar new silk subligaculum in Tyrian purple (what was he? A king?) and pulled on the dark green tunic and breeches. Pulling the chair out of the way, he reached round behind the folded toga and opened the cupboard, withdrawing a well-worn grey cloak. So what if he was mistaken for a pleb?

  Suitably attired - at least as far as he was concerned - he stepped back out into the atrium and wondered whether he should visit the house baths first? With a smile, he reached up and snagged a hand in his tangled hair. No. If he went out messy it would be an excuse for them to visit the baths down near the Porta Capena on the way out, which would lessen the time spent trudging through woodlands pulling up fungi.

  As he turned towards the garden once again, the entrance hall behind him echoed to a knocking at the door. Turning, he strode towards the door, but the figure of Posco, the longest serving member of the household staff, scuttled from the other side of the atrium and rushed ahead of him, unlatching the door. As he opened the portal, Fronto heard a familiar voice entreating entry and smiled.

  "Let the gentleman in, Posco."

  "Of course, dominus" the little man replied in a slightly offended tone, as though it were unthinkable that he might do anything else.

  Balbus strode in, lithe and sweat-free despite the heavy toga. Fronto smiled as he spotted the litter in the street and the four burly slaves rubbing their sore hands and shoulders.

  "Marcus" Balbus said in greeting, and Fronto's brow creased instantly at the serious intonation in his friend's voice.

  "Something wrong?"

  "Depends on your perspective, I guess. You've not heard the news then?"

  "Just got up. What news?"

  "Catullus."

  "The poet? The loverboy one? What about him?"

  Balbus began to stroll on towards the atrium and Fronto swung around and fell in alongside him.

  "He was found on the floor of his townhouse this morning. He'd apparently had some sort of fit. There are a hundred different stories going around already, but all of them agree that he was found in a pool of his own vomit, all twisted and tensed. Some say he shat himself and others that he's bled from the ears. Any which way, the city's in uproar. The superstitious are saying it's a sign from the Gods and spouting the usual rubbish. The mindless are saying it's the plague from Parthia finally hit Rome and that we're all going to die. The sensible are saying that he probably ate and drank himself to death like most rich layabouts."

  "And the correct will be seeing poison" Fronto replied quietly.

  "Poison?"

  "Hemlock to be precise. 'Socrates' Root'. He told me of it himself in a conversation at our wedding feast. He'd had it predicted by augurs."

  "Coincidence?"

  "Not when he was getting involved with that snake Clodius."

  Balbus stopped in his tracks.

  "Clodius? Why would he poison a celebrated poet? Hardly his style. Politicians and wealthy plebs, yes. Poets?"

  "Catullus was in love with Clodia - or at least infatuated enough to obsess about finding out what happened to her. I suspect he pushed that stinking rectum of a rat bastard Clodius too far asking questions about his sister, the poor sod. I suppose I'll have to try and remember the rest of his prophecy now."

  Again, Balbus frowned. "Prophecy?"

  "I'll tell you later, when I've had a think on it. I sort of dismissed it offhand at the time, but perhaps a little prematurely in hindsight. In the meantime, we're planning a little walk into the woods to pick mushrooms. Care to join us?"

  The older man's face creased into a smile. "Sounds pleasant. Why not?"

  In the privacy of his head, Fronto ran through the reasons.

  * * * * *

  Three days had passed since the death of the handsome young poet and still the streets abounded with wailing lovelorn girls - and often boys too - as well as doomsayers and lunatics claiming divine disfavour or the spectre of plague creeping through the twisting thoroughfares of the city. Their numbers lessened with each day though, at least.

  The details were becoming distilled.

  The cause of Catullus' death was now being attributed to eating the wrong mushrooms - a fact that struck Fronto as particularly unfunny, given how he had passed his time the day of the body's discovery. But the symptoms as they had been recorded and released were also conversant with a man who had taken - or been fed - hemlock. The coincidence was all too
much for Fronto, who could hardly blame an innocent mushroom, given his prior warning.

  And for three days he had also been wracking his brains trying to recall the prophecy the poet had repeated to him. Four people were going to die and it would be cataclysmic for Rome or some such rubbish. There was something about Vulcan, he was sure, and something to do with the Parthians, but beyond that he was drawing a blank. He doubted he would even have remembered the hemlock part had Catullus not just passed that way.

  He had confided what he did remember to Balbus, who had urged him to visit a soothsayer and try and have the prophecy revealed once more. Fronto couldn't think of a more effective way to waste both an hour and a purseful of money and had refused flatly. The day he put his trust in a dishevelled dribbling idiot who claimed to know the shape of things to come because he had got a wart on just the right part of his buttock or because he had been hit on the head with a dead duck was the day he might as well sign away the last of his sanity and stand for the senate. If the prophecy was really true, it would play out and then he would remember it in due course. And, of course, if it was true there would be nothing he could do about it anyway.

  Turning his thoughts from such irritating and nebulous matters, he peered at the door in front of them. Lucilia nudged him.

  "Stop looking so gormless and distant. And straighten your toga."

  Grumbling, Fronto did as he was told like a good soldier and fixed as genuine a smile as he could muster on Pompey's closed door just as there was a click and an olive-skinned man opened it and bowed, ushering them inside. Fronto gave a last longing look at the litter that had brought them here from the Aventine and then followed his wife inside.

  Everything about Pompey's new palatial town house echoed the personality of the general or of his beautiful wife. It was tastefully wealthy and with an edge of the austere, as one would expect of Caesar's daughter. No gilt glamour and opulence; almost martial in its severe simplicity. The décor was picked out in pale pastel colours and marble white, with subdued and quiet landscapes and cityscapes painted on the wider surfaces, and yet the upper walls, almost hidden from initial sight, were crimson.