‘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. Exactly 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.’
It was futile, but he had to try.
‘And yet,’ Epaenetus snorted, waving his arms, ‘even with the departure of some of the more volatile foreign concerns, it is worth noting that our city’s coffers are healthier than ever. The tax paid by those loyal traders who stay has more than offset the loss of a few merchants. I cannot say that the city will lose a great deal of sleep when Fronto the wine merchant decides to return to Rome.’
‘You sanctimonious, nasty little prick!’
His outburst seemed to have come from somewhere deep inside without having been filtered by his brain, and Fronto knew then that he had lost completely. Epaenetus had goaded him into alienating the rest of the crowd. He snapped his teeth shut over the rest of the invective that was trying to force its way out. Instead, he shook his head, turned, and stalked away from the gaze of the boule and out into the sunlight.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Why was it so much easier to convince a force of five thousand men to march up a hill into a hail of arrows than it was to convince fifty old farts to waive a tax?
He stomped across the small square and spotted Catháin sitting on the steps of the portico opposite. The northerner rose as he approached and wordlessly proffered a flask of lightly-watered wine. Fronto took it and threw down a hefty dose. ‘That’s not going to be enough. Let’s go to the Ox.’
‘It went well, then?’
Fronto flashed him an irritable glance. Catháin shrugged. ‘I never expected success, but you had to try. Did you lose your temper by any chance?’
‘Once or twice. They goaded me into it.’
‘Of course they did, Fronto. They’re politicians. What did you expect?’
Fronto grunted and took another swig.
‘There’s part of your trouble,’ Catháin murmured, pointing across the square. Fronto turned and squinted into the sunlight, across the altar of Poseidon, to where he could see the boule filtering out of the building for their midday meal break. Epaenetus, easily spottable in his green and yellow, had drifted off to one side of the square, where he now stood beneath the colonnade, deep in conversation with Hierocles the wine merchant.
‘The sleazy, slippery bastards.’
‘Again… politicians. Always expect the worst, that way you’ll rarely be disappointed.’
‘Come on. I feel the distinct need to drink until I can’t walk.’
* * * * *
Fronto leaned back against the chair in his new warehouse. He had to admit that Catháin had done an astounding job. He’d never have imagined he could get such a place so cheap. The warehouse was twice the size of the old one, and even with all his stock shelved and stored, three quarters of it was empty. And it had two offices built into the side, rather than just a desk and chair in the central aisle. Now, he occupied one such office and Catháin the other. And there was no need for a constant guard since the entire complex, which he shared with the warehouses of four other businesses, was secured within its own walls and guarded at all times. Outside in the shared yard, he could hear the various teamsters sorting out their rotas for the day.
He almost felt like a proper businessman. Except that, try as he might, he simply couldn’t find a way to expand the business. He was staying afloat, just, through the clever little machinations of his weird northern employee, but the effects of the tax and the constant undermining by Hierocles and his cronies prevented any hope of growth or expansion. He’d been fuming over the possibilities for days, juggling figures and working through hopeful correspondence. He’d spent every waking hour in the warehouse, and slept there sometimes too.
Though he had to admit, to himself at least, that a large part of the reason for that was the presence of Andala and Lucilia at the villa. Every day saw them grow closer. Every day they were less like mistress and slave and more like two manipulative, giggling girls, watching him carefully and plotting. They had taken to drinking wine together in the evening and discussing things that Fronto had really wished he hadn’t walked in on. Even sleeping in the office had started to seem like an attractive proposition.
He picked up the next communique in the seemingly endless pile and scanned it. Then he scanned it again. Then he smiled and, just in case, scanned it again. Somewhere above, a roosting bird shat on the cloak he had left folded up on the table, but then that was supposed to be lucky. He checked the minutiae of the text, but it was all there. He grinned.