Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Read online

  Fronto watched the pair of warriors edge around the corner of the columbarium, and once they were out of sight, he and Balbus began to creep quietly towards the doorway and the open iron gate. Fronto found himself smiling with satisfaction despite everything. A year ago he would have been grumbling about his joints and muscles and making more noise than a triumphal parade as he snuck across the garden. Ha. Who was he kidding? A year ago he’d still be two miles further back, sat on a bench, rubbing his knee and almost in tears. He’d never even have got here. Masgava had done a damn good job getting him back into shape.

  With perfect timing, just as Fronto and Balbus reached the near corner of the building, Galronus and Palmatus emerged at the far corner, signing that they had found nothing. Good. Whoever it was would still be inside, then.

  While none of them bore weapons, even though they were now outside the city boundary, all four would be able to make good account of themselves if trouble arose. Fronto flexed his muscles and nodded.

  The four men closed on the door. The padlock hung open, suggesting that the intruder either had access to a key or was skilled at opening locks. A faint orange flicker danced on the darkened portal’s stonework and Fronto squinted, narrowing his eyes against the daylight as he approached, so as not to find himself all-but blind when he peered into the gloomy entrance.

  Stepping into the doorway, he opened his eyes wide again - fast, in case anyone was lurking close to the exit - his hands coming up ready to defend or attack as required. Even as he took in the scene before him, he was automatically stepping inside and sideways so that the other three could enter.

  The occupant appeared to be alone.

  Fronto blinked.

  The orange glow illuminated a single figure - a young man of perhaps ten or eleven summers, standing by the altar with a silver cup in his hand. The light glinted off the surface of a fresh wine libation in the bowl atop the stone, and the crumbs and pieces of several cakes sat beside it.

  While the other three moved in beside him and shuffled around the edge as the figure turned to face them, Fronto stepped forward so that the small oil lamp on the shelf would light his face. The young man seemed entirely unafraid.

  His hair was clearly blond, though the shade was hard to tell in the dancing orange glow. He wore a well-tailored and expensive tunic of some pale colour and light calf-skin shoes. He was slightly built - one might even say spindly - and short for his age, which was apparent from his face, but something about him carried a power that defied his physical presence.

  ‘If you are here to cause damage or thieve goods, I would remind you who owns this columbarium. There is nowhere you could hide from the Julii after such dishonour, as I’m sure you will realise. So if you are here on ill business, I recommend you move on immediately.’

  He tipped the last of his cup’s contents into his mouth, swallowed, and placed the vessel on the altar top. ‘But you’re no intruders, are you?’

  Fronto felt, rather than saw, Balbus relax and take a step forward.

  ‘We could be.’ the older man said quietly. ‘Dangerous for a boy of breeding to be abroad in the city alone. Where are your escort?’

  ‘At home,’ the young man replied nonchalantly. ‘Probably searching the house for me at the behest of my tutor. But I know this city, old man, and how to traverse it safely. I am in no danger.’

  ‘Not even from us?’

  ‘Hardly!’ the boy gave a humourless laugh. ‘Four men - three of them wearing studded military boots - all reeking of fresh sea salt, one of them a Gallic nobleman and another wearing a Gaulish torc?’

  Fronto blinked. How had the lad picked all that out so quickly, especially in near darkness?

  ‘How is my uncle?’ the lad asked genially. ‘Send him my regards when next you see him.’

  ‘We could have been Pompey’s men’ Fronto suggested with just a hint of irritation.

  ‘I think not. He has no active legions now that he’s signed over the First to my uncle, and in any case, he would hardly countenance an army in whose ranks a Gaul served with authority. That’s my uncle’s kind of decision. Wine?’

  Fronto was still shaking his head in surprise as Balbus stepped forward. ‘Octavian? Atia’s boy?’

  ‘That I am. Are you men returned from Gaul, or bound for there?’

  ‘On our way north,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘We thought to stop by and honour your great grandmother, since it is Parentalia and your great uncle is trapped so far away with the army. The same occurred to you, perchance?’

  ‘After a fashion,’ Octavian smiled. ‘Suffice it to say that I was unimpressed with the devotions I had witnessed thus far, and felt the balance had to be redressed.’ He straightened and flexed his shoulders. ‘However, it is time now for me to return and allay the fears of my womanish tutor. Do avail yourself of the rest of the wine in this jug. I shall leave it here, and it is a Caecuban of the Opimian vintage, worth more than a centurion’s yearly pay. It would be a crime to waste the rest.’

  Fronto realised that he was still shaking his head and stopped, scratching his chin instead.

  ‘Would you like an escort back to your house?’

  ‘That will not be necessary. Pay your respects, soldier, and good luck to you all. Help my uncle as best you can, and you could urge him to finalise matters with his new province as soon as possible? Whatever his plans for the governorship, he cannot afford to leave Rome to its own devices much longer. The city becomes more of a festering pit of lunacy with every passing month. Soon it will be safer in northern Gaul with nothing but a spoon and a tunic than in the forum surrounded by guards.’

  He gave a pleasant, slightly lop-sided smile and with a nod of acknowledgement stepped out past Fronto and Balbus and into the light, where they heard him exchange pleasantries with the ladies.

  The four occupants of the tomb shared glances.

  ‘I don’t know about you three, but that lad seems to resemble his great uncle disturbingly closely.’

  Balbus nodded. ‘Of Caesar’s nieces, Octavian’s mother was always the clever one - the best of the brood. She’s a distant cousin of mine, of course.’

  Palmatus shook his head with a curled lip. ‘In my experience nearly every noble in Rome is a little too closely related, if you know what I mean? Pale, with bulging eyes, a throat-apple the size of a cabbage and all the mental flexibility of a donkey with the shits.’

  He turned and noticed in the low flickering light the glowering looks Fronto and Balbus were casting at him.

  ‘Present company excepted, of course.’ He grinned a wicked grin. ‘Anyone else itching to try the lad’s special wine?’

  Fronto maintained his scowl for a moment longer before cracking and chuckling at the irreverent humour that he’d come to expect from the plebeian ex-legionary.

  ‘Why not. Let’s make libations to Aurelia Cotta and young Julia and drink a toast to the general and his great nephew’s generosity.’

  As he crossed to collect the jar of rare and extraordinary wine the young Octavian had left them, he mused on family. Curiously, now that he’d tied himself by marriage to Balbus, and Balbus was Atia Caesonia’s cousin, that meant - he supposed - that there was a very distant familial connection between him and the general. He almost laughed at the realisation.

  The morning would carry them north again towards war. But for today, the group would relax and enjoy what they could of Rome.

  ‘Galronus, you’d better go outside and bring Masgava and the girls in. Lucilia seems to have gone off wine these days, but Faleria will relish this vintage.’

  * * * * *

  Bucephalus whickered with irritation, apparently feeling the urge to run and stretch despite Fronto’s stern words and careful grip on the reins. He’d not ridden much in the past year or so, and his beloved horse - which Longinus had bequeathed to him a lifetime ago and a world away - had spent much of that time stabled and limited, run out only briefly by the equisio at Puteoli. Indeed, the journey below
deck on first the liburna and then Caesar’s trireme from Ostia to Massilia seemed to have made the beast twitchier than ever.

  ‘Steady, you big black bastard,’ Fronto grunted through clenched teeth as he used both reins and knees to try and steer Bucephalus to the right. The carriage, lent eagerly by one of the more helpful of the city’s assembly, rumbled along behind bearing the three women, while Balbus rode ahead and the other three brought up the rear.

  Fronto shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun and peered off across the hill at the line of horses and men disappearing at a tangent towards the north and the Rhodanus valley. Marcus Antonius had taken the bulk of the new officer corps straight for Samarobriva at his earliest opportunity, departing in the evening, hoping to make the mansio at Aquae Sextiae for the night. He had expected Fronto to go with them, as any extra delay would make the placation of Caesar all the more difficult, but Fronto had been adamant that he must see the family safely to their homes before he could consider riding north. Besides, Lucilia deserved at least one last night in a real bed with her new husband. He’d not announced that to Antonius, of course, but it was true nonetheless. And so he would follow on with Galronus, Masgava and Palmatus the next day. He would miss out on the escort of a hundred cavalry that Antonius had had waiting for them at Massilia, but he’d ridden the route to Samarobriva enough times now to know he was safe. Besides, he wore a Gallic torc and travelled with a prince of the Remi. Who would challenge him?

  He tried not to list the answers to that, and failed until Bucephalus’ next attempt to take him for a long, leg-stretching run dragged all his attention back to the business at hand.

  As they approached the road that led to Balbus’ beautiful rural villa with its cultivated vineyards and orchards, its sheds and stables and the view over the sea, breath-taking even in the changeable weather of late winter, Fronto first laid eyes on the new villa the old man had spent a year constructing in secret for his daughter and new son-in-law.

  Almost a mirror of Balbus’ villa, and close enough to loose a scorpion bolt from the one to the other, the only visible differences between the two houses were the newness and cleanliness of the stonework and the lack of plant life and gardens about it. And the huge tracts of farmland, of course, but Balbus knew just how little Fronto saw himself as a farmer. The old man had apparently taken that into account.

  ‘By Fortuna and her golden tits that’s something,’ he muttered, drawing the big black stallion to a halt so that he could take it all in. Balbus paused slightly ahead and turned with a smile.

  ‘My villa is perfect, so I thought ‘why change a good thing?’ and had the new one built to the same design. The only difference is that yours might be a little more exposed to the sea winds, being closer to the slopes, so I’ve had hypocaust flooring put in all the downstairs rooms to keep the place warm, and the flues take the hot air up past all the upper rooms. The courtyard’s just overgrown grass at the moment, mind. I didn’t bother with any gardening, as I felt sure you’d want to personalise that - blooms and the like.’

  Fronto pictured himself choosing flowers and positioning them just right. The image made him laugh. ‘Lucilia, perhaps.’

  Balbus grinned in reply and the two men kicked their steeds into motion once more as the carriage rattled closer behind.

  ‘It’s just occurred to me that there’ll be no staff,’ Fronto said, slapping his forehead.

  ‘True. I can build the thing for you, but staffing it’s a different matter. You and Lucilia will have to do that.’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Actually, since I’ll be gone in the morning, it’ll have to be you and Lucilia. Is there a good slave market in Massilia?’

  ‘Where do you think all the poor buggers Caesar’s captured over the last five years end up?’ Balbus asked with a grim smile.

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps we’ll be selective and choose Greeks and Spaniards and so on. I can’t see the family of one of Caesar’s legates being a popular master for enslaved Gauls or Belgae. We don’t really want another Spartacus rising in southern Gaul, do we? Or another Berengarus!’ For a fleeting moment he wondered how the crippled giant was faring in his cave prison at Puteoli, fed scraps by the villa slaves. Hopefully he was suffering an eternity of torment for what he’d done. More likely by now he had given in to despair and starved himself to death. He became aware suddenly that Balbus was talking again, and refocused his ears.

  ‘… and I’m certain my daughter will be fairly sure of what she wants. In the meantime, I’ll send over a couple of the better slaves from my villa to see to your needs - get the furnaces stoked and all that - and I’ll have Agathocles double up on whatever he prepares for the evening meal and bring half of it round to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Quintus. It’s going to take some getting used to, though I spent a little time a few years back in the seaside villa of Longinus’ widow near Tarraco. It’s quite similar, really, apart from the precipitous slope, and that just reminds me of home. It’s the remoteness of the place from civilisation that worries me.’

  ‘You’ll be surprised when you explore Massilia a bit more just how urban it all is. It’s got a nice agora full of cheap taverns, a theatre - don’t pull that face, I know you don’t like plays - and a stadium that they use for foot races, but occasionally for the horses too. There’s good wine from Italia, Carthage and Greece - a lot of the latter - as well as olives and garum from Hispania and a lot more. And you’ll find a lot of it at only half the price you’d pay in Rome.’

  Fronto grinned. ‘Alright, you’re starting to sell it to me now.’

  His friend laughed as they reached the entrance arch to the unkempt courtyard garden with its deep lawns.

  ‘I’ll leave you here,’ Balbus smiled, ‘and head off to get my own house in order and warmed up. I’ll pop back round and see you in the morning before you leave.’

  Fronto nodded. It would have been nice to invite his old friend in for the evening, especially in a new, unfamiliar house still cold from the winter and lacking the comforts of a home. Lucilia would see to all that over the next week or two, of course, but at this time they would only have the few sparse blankets and cushions Balbus had seen fit to have brought round in preparation. Among the various goods back in the baggage cart behind the carriage, escorted by the other three warriors, sat a chest of the family’s denarii from Rome that would easily see the house furnished and staffed in short order. He smiled as he imagined the glee on Lucilia’s face as she set to in the agora of the city choosing drapes and furnishings.

  ‘You’d best take Masgava and Palmatus with you, Quintus. You’ll have the spare comforts for them, unlike us.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that, Marcus… I’m taking Galronus and your sister, too. You and Lucilia should have the first night on your own. You’ve had precious few opportunities, and even those few are about to dry up.’ His knowing wink brought a childish flush to Fronto’s cheeks and he nodded and clambered down from Bucephalus to hide his embarrassment.

  The carriage pulled up behind and the door opened, allowing Lucilia to alight with a wide smile.

  ‘Oh father, it’s perfect.’

  ‘Of course it is, child. Would I do anything less? Now go on. I’ve arranged everything with Marcus and food and comforts will be brought across shortly.’

  Without pause for farewells - knowing he would be spending the next few weeks in his daughter’s constant company - Balbus nodded at Fronto and then kicked his horse forward towards the homely villa a little further along the road.

  As the carriage rattled on once more, the cart full of goods following, Galronus, Masgava and Palmatus nodded and smiled at him as they passed. Though none of them said anything, Fronto had the distinct impression that they were silently laughing at him for some reason. He felt an irrational rush of irritation and, still gripping Bucephalus’ reins, strode into the courtyard in the wake of his young wife.

  ‘I don’t even know what to do with this big softie. No idea where the stabl
e is and whether there’s food and water there.’

  ‘Father will send his equisio round to deal with it shortly, beloved, be sure of that. In the meantime the grass in this garden is horribly overgrown. Close the gate and let the poor beast wander and stretch his legs and eat for a while. If he’s half as sick of being cramped up on board ships as I am, he’ll need it.’

  Fronto nodded and closed the gate, turning to the big black head with the glistening, intelligent eyes. He pointed his finger at the stallion’s forehead as he let go of the reins.

  ‘No jumping the wall and running away, and try not to eat the gate, you big numb bugger.’

  Bucephalus neighed and turned, stomping off across the gravel and onto the deep grass. Fronto thought the noise sounded suspiciously argumentative, and glared at the animal as it set about demolishing the overgrowth.

  ‘Come on,’ Lucilia called from over by the door.

  ‘Wait there.’ Fronto jogged across and ducked between her and the portal, bending and putting his arms around her.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Picking you up to carry you across the threshold.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘But it’s tradition. What about the bad luck? Or the Sabine tradition?’

  Lucilia huffed and folded her arms. ‘That’s for the newly married. We’ve been married best part of a year. Besides, I would rather not be carried right now.’

  Fronto, deflated, stepped inside, noting with relief and a little gratitude the jars of wine and water standing on the table in the atrium and the two beautiful glasses that rested beside it. Quintus had apparently anticipated his initial needs.

  ‘Come on.’ he strode across to the table and picked up a glass. The house may be sparsely furnished, but there would be enough to keep them going for the night. Lucilia, smiling with happiness at her new home, shut the door behind her, lowering the level of light in the atrium to the glow of late sun that penetrated the open roof at the centre.

  ‘We should move through to the triclinium and see if there are lamps to be lit. It won’t be light for much longer and the dark just adds to the chill.’