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 lit 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.