Both men took a quick sip of the exquisite wine and looked up at the sound of the commotion outside. A moment later, as they both sat up, Balbus' doorman, a former legionary of the Eighth, stomped in, bowing and saluting, clearly unsure whether he should be following military or civilian protocol. Balbus nodded encouragingly.
'Beg pardon, sir.'
'Yes?'
'There's a foul-mouthed barbarian at the gate demanding to speak to master Marcus Falerius Fronto. I would have automatically turned him away other than the fact that he has half a dozen of master Fronto's men with him.
Balbus raised an eyebrow, and Fronto turned to the former legionary. 'What did the 'barbarian’ call you?'
'I'd rather not say, sir, but it'd make a whore blush and my mother will be spinning in her urn. And he threatened to flatten my face, too.'
'Catháin,' smiled Fronto. 'Might be important.'
Balbus gestured to the legionary. 'Let the man in, Scortius.'
'Yessir.'
Another brief altercation at the villa's door was followed by the slap of soft leather boots on marble as the strange northerner made his way through to the triclinium, Balbus' doorman scurrying along behind, trying to get in front to lead the way and failing dismally.
'Fronto, we've got a problem.'
'And good evening to you, too, Catháin. This is my father-in-law, Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth.'
Catháin gave a brief nod in Balbus' direction and clapped his hands together in a business-like manner. 'You know that Helvian wine that we're shipping to Rome?'
Fronto nodded and noted Balbus' curious expression.
'It's a big deal. Two hundred amphorae of the stuff bound for a gladiator ludus in Rome. The stuff tastes like something that leaked out of a badger's arse, but the lanista is willing to pay good silver for it regardless. It's the deal of the year. Something like a thousand percent profit.'
Balbus nodded appreciatively.
'Well there's a problem, Fronto,' the northerner grunted, slapping his fist into his palm. 'I got a message from Antidorus the teamster and rushed down to the port. The shipment was due to be loaded onto a trireme called the Demeter, but the captain's refused to take the load on board and won't tell us why. All he said was I should take it up with the logistics and quartermaster office in the city. I went to see Fabius Ambustus, given that he and I now have something of an understanding, but the guards at the office tell me he's too busy and won't let me see him. Meantime the Helvian wine moulders on the quayside. If it could smell any worse I'd wonder if it was going off. If we can't get it loaded this afternoon, I'm going to have to put it back into storage and hope for the best.'
'Shit.'
'Just that,' agreed Catháin. 'If that shipment doesn't sail in the morning, we'll be late with the delivery. At the very best we'll be looking at a daily-increasing fee for the delay. If we're really unlucky, he'll cancel the deal altogether and we'll be left with undrinkable wine to shift suddenly – enough of it to float a trireme, ironically.'
Fronto nodded. 'And every day's delay will drop our profits enough that a week or so will put us in danger of making a loss.'
'Quite so.'
He turned to Balbus and sighed. 'Sorry to interrupt our afternoon, but this is something I need to take care of urgently. I might be back if I can sort things out fast enough.'
Balbus smiled indulgently.
'Go. Play merchant and play it well. I shall see you in due course.'
Nodding his thanks, Fronto turned and grasped Catháin's hand as the man offered to help him up. 'Come on. I need to quickly change and then we'll head down to the office.'
'Change?' the man asked curiously.
'The uniform of a senior officer still carries a lot of weight in military circles even when you've retired, and I keep everything pressed and clean, just in case. I just hope Andala's not been messing with it all while she's looking for my sword again.'
* * * * *
He'd expected it to feel entirely natural when he donned his Roman military tunic, cloak, belt and so on. He was, after all, a soldier born and forged in decades of war. And yet, as he and his small group of companions bore down on the office, he found he was shrugging his shoulders constantly, uncomfortable in the snug fit after the very giving and light Greek-style chiton and chlamys. The fact that it no longer felt normal disturbed him somehow and reinforced his refusal to consider a return to the martial life – a refusal that Balbus had clearly disbelieved.
He hooked a finger in his bronze-plated belt and turned it slightly so that the fittings for the dagger didn't catch on his cloak as it had so often done, evidenced by all the pulled threads in one small patch of cloth.
The two bored-looking legionaries by the door of the office building that had been granted to Caesar rent free by the city's boule eyed the small party approaching them with interest, but did not straighten to attention.
Behind Fronto, Catháin, Masgava, Aurelius and Arcadios walked, looking as strong and implacable as they could. Fronto himself was prepared for an argument. Everything seemed to involve an argument these days, whether at work or at home.
'I need to see Prefect Fabius Ambustus on a matter of the utmost urgency.'
The legionaries shared a look that contained surprisingly little respect, given Fronto's apparel.
'The prefect is very busy, sir. There's a waiting list for meetings, but he's not even considering granting an audience until after market day.'
Fronto ground his teeth and tried not to lose his temper. Market was still three days away. What was Ambustus doing? A decade of command coursed through Fronto's veins as he leaned towards the insolent legionary and brought his angry face so close his breath would fog the man's eyeballs.
'I may not be wearing the knotted belt of command, soldier, but you might recognise the stripe on my tunic denoting my former rank. I held, and still do hold, the ear of Gaius Julius Caesar, proconsul of Rome, and your commander's commander. I hold a rank of authority in both Massilia and Rome and served over a decade TRYING TO KEEP RUNTS LIKE YOU FROM GETTING THEIR HEADS TORN OFF BY GERMAN CANNIBALS!' As the soldier leaned back against the wall, away from the blast of fury that had burst from Fronto's maw, the former legate allowed a horrible smile to cross his face. 'Now I am going inside to speak to the prefect,' he announced, trying to demonstrate the gulf in rank that separated him from this entire outpost's staff in one stressed word. 'You can try and stop me, though I strongly recommend against it, or you can exercise that fat, blubbery useless arse of yours by running ahead to warn Fabius Ambustus that I'm coming.'
The soldier nodded hastily, clearly not trusting his tongue to words, and slipped in through the doorway. Fronto paused long enough to glare daggers at the other door guard. 'I do not wish to be disturbed, understand?'
The soldier quailed and nodded, and the officer turned from him and stumped into the building, his escort following close on behind.
Fronto had been to visit the man a few times. Like all military bureaucrats, Ambustus considered himself about three ranks more important than his uniform confirmed. He ran the office in Massilia like a despot of ancient times, but it was hard to argue with the efficiency with which he maintained Caesar's supply, transport and courier system through the port. Some of the value of his role had disappeared several years ago when the general had finally opened up the secondary trade route through the Helvetian territory from Vesontio, but during the summer sea and river transport was still by far the fastest way to move anything.
Each room in the building was occupied by a different actuarius or librarius, each surrounded by piles of writing tablets, sheaves of vellum and scrolls of parchment, each scribbling furiously or affixing their stamp to an official request or record. For a moment, Fronto was struck by an unusually high level of activity even for this place. On previous visits there had always been one or two rooms at least that lay dormant, their occupant off for the day or at midday meal. Not so, today. In fact, each and every one appeared fraught. Still, he resolved not to weaken his purpose. He would know why the offer of transport had been rescinded without a jot of notice.