‘Is that it?’ Fronto snapped frostily.
‘I’ve got a few other bits and pieces to discuss, but we can do that on the way to the new warehouse this afternoon – nothing urgent. I’ll come back after lunch. Now I need to go train Pamphilus and Clearchus in weights and volumes of amphorae. And on how to handle them without sacrificing every third jar to the god of floors, if you get my drift.’
‘Good luck with that. If you can train them just to hit the hole when they piss, I’ll consider it a win!’
Catháin grinned again as he rose and backed out of the room with a respectful nod in the direction of the ladies. Fronto leaned to look round the door and found both of them looking back at him with inscrutable expressions. Guilt ran through him like a tide for no reason, and he smiled weakly as he rose and moved out to the atrium to join them.
‘My dear.’
‘Marcus. I have decided that Andala here should be my personal attendant.’
Fronto felt a wave of uncertainty, but even through it he registered that Lucilia had called her a ‘personal attendant’ and not a ‘body slave’. That boded no good in any way.
‘Lucilia, she’s not trained in…’
‘She is perfectly well versed in everything she needs to know, and anything we come across that she doesn’t… well, she’s bright and will pick it up very quickly, I’m sure.’
‘Then why did she keep getting sold back to the slavers.’
‘Because she never found the right family.’
‘Owner, Lucilia. It’s called an owner, when you’re talking about slaves.’ He felt a touch of self-recrimination, considering his own stance on slaves, but there was something extremely unnerving about the apparent growing closeness between the two women. It was like watching two dangerous Gallic war bands combining their strength while he stood on the walls and waited for the inevitable assault.
‘On that count, Marcus, I have decided that she will earn two drachma a week. That way within the year she can buy her manumission and decide whether to stay with us as a friend or to go her own way.’
Fronto sighed. ‘Two drachma a week? That’s almost half what I was paying for the warehouse, for gods’ sake. Bocco only gets three obols a week and he’s indispensable.’
‘Didn’t Catháin just save you half the warehouse costs?’
Again nervous tension wracked Fronto. How had she heard that? He prayed to Fortuna that that was all she’d heard. He swallowed noisily. ‘Well, yes, but saving money doesn’t just mean we should spend it on something else.’
‘Oh don’t be so mean, Marcus. You spend plenty on wine and gambling. I only ask for a few overheads here and there.’
It occurred to Fronto momentarily to try and list the innumerable and very expensive overheads to which she was referring, when compared to the relatively small cost of a few nights on the wine. But experience had long taught him which arguments to avoid, and he capitulated with an air of equal surrender and bad grace.
‘Besides,’ she added pointedly, as if reading his mind, ‘how much are your two new pendants costing? I know you’re picking them up this afternoon. Try not to break them or lose them on the way home.’
‘Oh I won’t. And I’ll need them tomorrow when I speak to the council.’
‘Try not to lose your temper and alienate yourself further, Marcus.’
‘Lucilia…’
‘Yes, like that.’
Fronto sighed, registered the slightly knowing smile on Andala’s face with sour grace, and turned to go and find Masgava. It was not a scheduled training morning, but suddenly he felt the almost irrepressible urge to hit something.
* * * * *
Fronto adjusted his chiton and himation and tried to look as official and likeable as possible, but no matter how much he played with the two layers of clothing, they just didn’t sit in the same oratorical fashion as a toga. Not that he was particularly comfortable in a toga, mind, but at least the traditional Roman garb exuded an air of authority and serenity, while the Greek garments seemed as haphazard and variable as the Greeks themselves. They were garments clearly suited to sitting in the agora and expounding on the virtues and drawbacks of the circular nature of knowledge, not to making a rhetorical plea in a government environment.
He looked across at the shadow cast by the gnomon of Pytheas’ sundial. The time had come. The shadow touched the midday point on the wide paved square, and his eyes were drawn up to the agora beyond, with its own central square and numerous administrative offices and buildings. Specifically, the bouleuterion – the council chamber which was to Greek city states what the curia was to Rome.
‘You know what you’re doing?’
Fronto turned to Catháin and nodded. ‘For what they’re worth I have all my arguments marshalled.’
‘I’m more concerned about you losing your temper and messing it all up.’
‘Now you sound like Lucilia.’
‘That’s because we both know you well and neither of us will lie just to comfort you.’
‘Wish me luck.’ Fronto reached up and caressed the intricate gold figure of Fortuna hanging on the thong at his neck, feeling slightly more comfortable for her presence. With a last nod at Catháin, he paced off across the radiating lines of the ancient sundial towards the agora. He had not noticed the cold breeze due to his jangling nerves until he passed through the high arched doorway and into the colonnade of the public space, where the wind dropped and the temperature rose noticeably.
The central square of the agora was already filled with people whiling away their time in business deals and trades, argument and counter-proposition, public haranguing, or simply sitting with a loaf of fresh bread and a cup of wine enjoying the sun. Here, at the heart of Massilia’s public forum, the square was surrounded on all sides by the colonnaded walk and the buildings radiating off, and so, sheltered from the wintry wind, the sun filled the space and made it seem more like spring. It would have been a pleasant and relaxing place to be in other circumstances.
Fronto’s eyes fell upon the portico ahead. The paid guards of the city – a system Fronto couldn’t help but think Rome should adopt instead of relying on the private forces of the nobiles – stood to the sides of the grand entrance, not to prevent access, but to ensure there was no trouble. After all, Massilia was a democracy and theoretically more libertarian than Rome, and anyone had the right to attend council. In practice, Fronto had realised after only months in the city, a Greek democracy was about as fair to the people as the Roman republic. Rule was still effectively the province of the rich, no matter how much they espoused the equality of the demos.
And they were not keen on Romans.
Taking a deep breath and casting up a prayer to Fortuna, he stepped up to the columns and nodded a greeting to the guards as he passed. The portico building led through into a smaller colonnaded square, at the heart of which stood a grand altar to Poseidon, beloved of the Phocaeans who had founded this city, and so crucial to the sea-trade that made Massilia wealthy. Fronto nodded his respect to the altar as he passed. They could call him what they like, but at least he still looked like Neptune in the statues. He realised as he approached the unimpressive doorway opposite that his mind had wandered once more and he’d been lost in a mental comparison of divine images when he really needed to be concentrating on the task at hand. Was that due to his general sleep-deprived state, or more to nervousness over what he was doing?
There was no more time to think, which might be a good thing. His hands trembling with anxiety, Fronto stepped through the doorway and into the dim interior of the most important building in the agora of the city.
The bouleuterion of Massilia resembled a small roofed theatre. A semi-circular orchestra was faced by curved seating stands and backed by a plain wall with arches high up to allow light in and illuminate the interior. Despite the cloudless sky, the sun’s position and the season meant that little light actually penetrated the gloom and numerous oil lamps in wall niches actually l
it the proceedings.
Fronto swallowed nervously. There were twelve rows of seats in the arc facing the speaker’s space, and perhaps half of the seats were filled. Most of those present had beards so long they hid the owner’s neck, their hair shaggy and long like the statues of the gods throughout the city. The mean of their age was probably a decade older than Fronto, and he was no young man. It was disturbingly like standing before the Roman senate, which he’d done a few times in his youth.
The official who kept proceedings in line gestured for him to wait, and Fronto realised that the silence was not the boule of the city waiting for him, but rather a lull in a speech from a preceding plaintiff. The man, a fat, wobbling fellow of middle years with the swarthy skin of an easterner, looked close to panic.
‘I… I can think of nothing else to say in my defence, esteemed councillors.’
There was another uncomfortable silence, broken a moment later by the portly man’s nervous fart squeaking out in a place built for perfect acoustics. Fronto had to force himself not to laugh.
‘May I?’ asked an old man in the seats who looked like almost every other old man present. His colleagues nodded and he rose, gesturing to the man at the floor. ‘You cannot supply anything in your own defence barring hearsay, assumption and extrapolations from fact. Yet Alkimachos has provided us with details of your offence and witnesses to confirm their validity. I understand that as a foreign visitor, you will have some difficulty in securing witnesses in your defence, but the simple truth is that this boule can only rule on fact, and the fact is that you have been proved at fault, Ahinadab of Tyros. Since you cannot provide any evidence in your defence, this council charges you with a payment of twenty tetradrachm to the city for the necessary repairs of the jetty, five tetradrachm to the owner of the vessel Electra and eight drachma to each captain who was inconvenienced by your actions.’
The swarthy man’s face fell in defeat and Fronto felt suddenly very sorry for him. The man looked broken, and the fines that had just been levied would cripple even the healthiest of businesses. As Ahinadab shuffled off the stage, mopping his forehead and his fresh tears, Fronto felt his heart lurch. He was next, and things were unlikely to be any easier for him.
‘Marcus Falerius Fronto,’ the official announced, ‘wine merchant, resident of Massilia and citizen of Rome.’ The man waved him forward and Fronto stepped into the gaze of more than a hundred eyes. He felt the sudden need to fart and clenched as hard as he could, refusing point blank to show weakness at this early stage. His eyes strayed around the group. Most were hard to distinguish from one another, but his keen gaze soon picked out the two he’d been told to look for. Catháin had once again proved his usefulness – the strange northerner was a mine of information about the city. Sure enough, Epaenetus was wearing the green chiton and the yellow himation that made him stand out among his dour peers, somewhere near the top on the left. He was the one to watch, Catháin had said. Look into his eyes, he’d added. Fronto did and he shuddered. Even at this distance, he could see the black glossy orbs reflecting the oil lamps’ light. They were the dead eyes of a shark, and with no white showing. It was like looking into the abyss.
He tore his gaze to the other figure. In the front row, on the right, sat an old man who would look no different from most of the others were it not for his missing arm. The stump, removed at the elbow, waved gaily at his neighbour as the two men chattered quietly. Poliadas. Once an emissary of Massilia to Rome, he had visited the capital many times and was said to look more kindly on the republic than most of his peers. Catháin had made the point rather harshly that the one-armed old man was the only member of the boule with whom Fronto might expect to find sympathy.
‘Say your piece,’ the speaker in the previous case announced, taking his seat again and arranging his himation for comfort.
Fronto cleared his throat and felt panic crash down on him. He couldn’t remember anything he’d planned on saying! This, of course, was one of the reasons he’d always been adamant that he would not play a role in Rome’s government. Forcing down the panic and squeezing back in the fart that was once more threatening to leak out, he cleared his voice and threw out his arms wide.
‘Noble and esteemed members of Massilia’s boule, I come before you not as a Roman merchant, or a son of the republic. I come before you as a loyal resident of Massilia.’ Nods rippled around the multitude of heads, and Fronto breathed carefully. So far, so good. ‘The recent tax on foreign merchants in the city has, I’m sure the esteemed councillors will be aware, already ruined a number of trade concerns that have long held a place in the city’s economy. Through careful restructuring and simple luck, my wine business has so far managed to stay afloat throughout the changes, though I am also facing ruin in the coming months.’
Silence greeted this news, and Fronto could feel the lack of sympathy flowing from the seating. ‘Massilia was founded as a trade colony by explorers from Phocaea centuries ago,’ he went on. ‘These lands were once the lands of the Gauls, and now the republic borders your city. Massilia relies upon trade for its lifeblood as it has done ever since the Phocaeans, and we are all, to some extent foreigners in this place. To impose ruinous taxes on non-Greeks is to limit the growth and income of the city in a manner of which your forefathers would disapprove. Can you not see this?’
Damn it. Where had all his good, reasoned arguments gone? His head had apparently emptied of prepared lines and left him with only desperate pleas and semi-aggressive arrogance. At least old one-armed Poliadas was smiling at him helpfully. One of the other old men waved for Fronto’s attention.
‘You seem to be labouring under the impression that the new tax is aimed at non-Greeks, Fronto the wine merchant. In fact, the tax is applied to all non-citizens of Massilia, regardless of their origin. A Greek speaker from Sicilia will pay the taxes just as surely as a Roman. Yet if a Roman were to become a citizen of Massilia, he would become exempt. And remember, this tax does not apply to those who bring in goods to the city, or to those who purchase goods from us. It applies simply to any non-citizen business within the city who brings in and sells on goods. Such concerns are contributing nothing to the city. That is the root of the tax.’
‘And to become a citizen of Massilia, I would need to give up my citizenship of the republic, I presume?’
The general murmur of the crowd made the answer to that clear. Catháin had brought up the possibility in one of their discussions, but Fronto simply could not do such a thing. He liked Massilia and liked living here, and he hoped to make a good place among the Greeks here as time progressed, but he was a citizen of Rome from a very old family, and no trade dispute would make him renounce that. A thought struck him as he pictured his villa on the hill, and he smiled.
‘My business is not within the city, esteemed councillors. I have warehousing there, but the centre of my business is at my villa which, you may be aware, sits on the hills behind the city, in territory overlooking the lands of the republic.’ It was splitting hairs, admittedly, but he was grasping at straws now, with his reasoned arguments fled.
Epaenetus stood in the back rows and threw an arm towards him. Fronto’s heart fell at the sight.
‘Therein lies another issue, Fronto the wine merchant. The land upon which you reside belongs to Massilia – making you fully liable to the tax, I might add – but which your precious republic marks upon its maps as its own. Your people are like an avaricious wolf, pacing around the borders of our city, searching for a way in. The very legality of your business concerns is disputable at best, due to the dubious legality of your residence and lands. In your position I would be paying the tax and trying not to draw attention to the irregularities of my affairs.’
Fronto bridled.
‘Listen to me!’ he snapped. ‘I have no say in what the republic claim to be theirs. I am not an expansionist Roman working to undermine your city. I am a simple merchant trying to make a living.’
Shit. He’d lost his temper. Exactl
y what he’d promised not to do. He could see from the faces before him that he was losing any hope of swaying them. Even the one-armed former emissary was frowning. Bollocks.
‘So,’ Epaenetus smarmed, ‘Fronto the wine merchant is not the same Fronto who served as one of Caesar’s officers in the belligerent and unnecessary conquest of the tribes in the north? You are not that expansionist Roman?’
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
‘I was a soldier, doing my duty, if that is what you are trying to determine. And now I am retired, and a wine merchant. But while we’re on that subject, I would point out that the city’s economy has boomed throughout the Gallic campaign. The trade in slaves alone has made your city – our city – rich. Its role as one of the main stopping points for supplies going back and forth, along with the trans-Alpine route, has brought you endless trade and bolstered your economy. So much so, in fact, that I note you have waived the new tax in the case of Caesar’s forces, despite being adamant that it be applied to all such groups.’
‘The tax is applied to merchants only. The proconsul does not buy and sell in the city. He simply uses the city as a port for the transport of his own goods. And in return for such considerations from us, he contributes to the city’s coffers on a regular basis. It is only his reasonable and respectful acceptance of our authority here that eases our fears over such a strong Roman military presence so close to us. You have no such gesture of goodwill to speak for your motives.’
Fronto sighed. ‘You are decided that the tax is to stay, and without exceptions, then?’
There was a murmur of confirmation around the council chamber, and Fronto ground his teeth. He’d forgotten his best arguments and lost his temper, and with that he’d also lost any hope of winning them over.
‘I will say once again, look to the empty warehouses and stores that only a month ago were thriving businesses bringing in money to the city, but which your new tax has destroyed. So many merchants have given up and moved on. And others will go after them.’
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 15