The cartel of Mithonbaal the Syrian had agreed terms. They would pay half the foreign trade tax on the condition that Fronto could guarantee them a full hold from Neapolis each month. It would take some wangling and wheedling to arrange such a thing, but with Catháin’s help, he was sure he could do that.
Mithonbaal was one of the few sailors whose business was so healthy and his name so respected in the boule that he was guaranteed to be true to his word and able to keep his end of the bargain. He had five Phoenician ships based out of Syria and plying the waters from there to Italy and beyond, and one of his vessels was in Massilia every month. Moreover, Mithonbaal was used as an overflow by the more influential Roman and Hispanic concerns, when they had spare space or too much cargo, so as often as not a Spanish or Roman trader in the harbour had some link to the Syrian. It was a veritable coup. The man charged more for transport than anyone except the Greeks, but his offer to share the tax would bring the price down to a very reasonable level. Fronto would make money. Actual profit!
He was on his feet doing the private victory jig he only did in absolute private when the door swung open. Trying not to tangle his legs, Fronto stood straight and the moment of panic he’d felt as he’d seen the state of Catháin’s face melted away as he saw his easy smile.
‘Good news?’
The northerner chuckled, prodding at a split lip with a square of blood-soaked linen. ‘Yes. Good news.’
‘You challenged the entire boule of Massilia to a fight and beat them all?’
The man pried open his bloodshot, bruised eye and laughed. ‘This? Oh this was just three of Hierocles’ thugs who happened on me in a back street. It might look a bit rough, but you should see the state of them!’ He opened his other hand, where a piece of floppy, rent and bloody flesh flopped flat. Fronto felt the bile rise in his throat.
‘What’s that?’
‘Better you don’t ask, but his girlfriend’s going to be furious.’
As Fronto blenched, Catháin roared out in laughter, dropped the torn flesh into the urn they kept for disposing of rubbish, and washed his hands in the labrum of cold water. ‘Got any bread and butter? Nothing makes me hungry like a good barney.’
Fronto shook his head in disbelief and gestured to a platter on the corner table, much of which he’d left untouched.
‘So what’s the news?’
‘I think I’ve just solved all your problems, Fronto.’
‘Me too.’
‘Oh?’ Catháin rubbed his hands dry on his tunic and frowned as Fronto explained.
‘The Syrian’s accepted the terms. We need to secure a full ship every month from Neapolis, but the income will be superb.’
‘Good. Every little helps.’
Fronto felt slightly crestfallen for a moment at the offhand manner in which the man greeted such a triumph, but then he noticed the glow of success in Catháin’s eyes. ‘So what have you got for me?’
‘The solution. I’ve just sealed two completely independent deals today. In terms of transport and shipping, prepare to make a killing. I’ve got a signed agreement from Caesar’s logistics officer in the city. Any military or courier vessel with hold space that comes and goes from Massilia is at our disposal free of charge, on the condition that we give the legions a discount on the wine we bring in. The proconsul’s ships are not liable to the foreign trade tax and even though you should theoretically pay it even using their vessels, it’ll be a cold day in Aegyptus before any councillor in the city tries to argue with Caesar’s men over something like that.’
Fronto blinked. ‘Free?’
‘Yes. And for just a ten percent discount, which will easily be taken care of by the drop in transport costs. And the number of ships going back and forth means we’ve pretty much unlimited space for goods. You can make as many deals as you like and be fairly sure we can deliver on time.’
‘That’s bloody astounding. Was the officer not worried about pissing off the boule?’
‘It seems not. Apparently the prefect in charge had a penchant for the fish sauce they make down in Hispania Baetica, but the fellow who imported it has stopped trading here because of the new tax. Consequently, Prefect Atticus is not particularly tempted to side with the city. It’s always about who and what you know, Fronto.’
‘This could mean the start of something big, Catháin.’
‘Better still, it’s time to start exporting as well as importing. We’re missing out on a huge potential profit that, as far as I can see, nobody has yet thought to plumb.’
‘Export?’ Fronto frowned. ‘Export what?’
‘Wine, you berk. You’re a wine trader.’
Fronto rubbed his furrowed brow. ‘But they don’t make wine in the province. The law of the republic forbids it. All the old vineyards and producers in Narbonensis were torn up and shut down. What are we supposed to export?’
The northerner chuckled and produced a small flask from inside his tunic.
‘What is that?’
‘Try it.’
Gingerly, Fronto unsealed the flask and took a sniff. The hairs in his nose felt as though they were corroding. He winced. ‘What is this?’
‘Try it,’ Catháin repeated. Fronto shrugged and, still frowning, took a sip.
‘That is horrible. What is it?’ He pushed the flask back to Catháin and scurried over to the labrum, washing out his mouth and spitting into the urn.
‘That, Fronto, is wine.’
‘That is most certainly not wine. I don’t know what it is, but I can only assume it came from the anus of some mythical monster.’
‘Your patrician tastes are too fine, Fronto. This is wine made by the Ruteni, just beyond the border of the Roman province. Bet you didn’t know the Gauls made wine, did you?’
‘They don’t,’ Fronto replied flatly, which drew a chuckle from his employee.
‘I know. It’s a little rough. There are four or five southern free tribes that have been making wine for the best part of a century outside the republic’s border. They’re happy to trade, since the Gallic tribes’ economies have never been so poor as now, what with the war destroying their production and trade.’
‘But who would want that muck?’
Catháin laughed again. ‘See? Your patrician tastes coming through again. There are misers in Rome and Latium and Campania and everywhere in between who would buy a thousand amphorae of this stuff to feed to their slaves, servants and gladiators instead of expensive Italian wine. They’ll not pay much, but then you can buy it for next to nothing and ship it free. Fronto, it’s basically money waiting to be earned.’
Fronto stared. ‘It actually sounds feasible.’
‘It is. Very feasible. In fact, it’s a veritable gold-mine. Everybody wins, and you get to heap up profits through it. If you’re feeling generous, you can always donate to the city coffers from your new profits, and try and win a few friends among the boule, or you could send extra money to the tribes who supply you and make influential Gallic friends. Or, of course, you could give me a substantial raise. After all, I suspect I’ve earned it.’
Fronto laughed out loud. ‘Catháin, if you can arrange those tribal imports, you can name your own damn wage!’
‘Good. And the next time you feel like travelling back to Italia, I would like to tag along and see if I can seal some better deals there too.’
‘Agreed,’ Fronto smiled. ‘I’m planning to head to Puteoli before summer to see my sister and Galronus. Gods, he’s going to be astounded to hear I’m importing Gallic wine!’ He slapped Catháin on the shoulder, causing the rather bruised factor to wince, and reached up with his other hand to give Fortuna a caress at his neck. ‘Things are looking up, my friend. At last. And mostly thanks to you.’