Catháin nodded. 'There are two or three fairly friendly Baetican and Lusitanian traders in port today, all down at the shitty end of the docks. They're not popular because they trade almost exclusively with the Iberian ports and those around the Pillars of Hercules, and they have a monopoly there that most Massilian Greeks would eat their own grandmother to find a way into.'
Fronto snorted. 'I'm damn glad I've got your extensive knowledge working for me and not for them, then.'
Catháin gave him a look loaded with hidden messages, and Fronto made a mental note to raise the man's salary and buy him a gift before he decided that Spaniards might pay better.
'Come on. Let's go see these Baeticans, then.'
* * * * *
Fronto slumped against the doorframe as he entered his villa, pausing to kick off the soft leather boots and remove his cloak, tossing it towards the hook near the altar to the household spirits and missing by a wide enough margin to knock over the statues of the penates and scatter incense ash all over the marble floor. Waving a tired hand at it, he staggered into the atrium. It had been a tiring day and a bad one, too. Thankfully, Catháin had managed to pull his backside out of the flames once more with a personal introduction to a Baetican captain who knew the strange northerner well enough to call him 'arse-face'. Still, a potential thousand percent profit had been halved at best. And further trade deals going on looked to be troublesome with the lack of cheap transport.
Still, the Baetican had taken them at a price that Fronto knew to be more than reasonable, given the current situation. The man was making a rare journey to Rome instead of west, delivering cargoes of oysters and red ochre pigment from the Balearics that he'd collected en route. His appearance at Massilia at all was pure chance, since he had a small shipment of tin from Baetica that he'd failed to unload in the Balearics but would sell well in the Greek port.
His spirits flagged again as he heard Andala deep in discussion with Lucilia, both voices raised not in anger but in some sort of concern. That boded ill for Fronto. He edged quietly through the atrium on bare feet and peered around the doorway into the triclinium.
Lucilia lay on one of the couches, her hands weaving fretfully. Irritatingly, Andala reclined on the one next to her like some Roman matron at leisure. He started to move angrily, his mouth opening to shout, even as he registered two more sights that stilled his movement and his tongue both.
One was the fact that, despite his having hidden the fine gladius with the orichalcum hilt, Andala now had one of his more utilitarian military blades in her lap and was cleaning the leather binding on the grip.
The other was the sight of two of his men standing with their hands behind their backs, faces downcast. One was a recent acquisition whose name he couldn't yet remember. The other was Clearchus, one of the brothers who'd worked for him for months. Even a brief glance at distance drew his attention to the bruising on their arms and, as Clearchus raised his face to answer a question, Fronto was stunned at the damage to it. One eye was swollen shut, the nose twisted at an agonising angle and the lip swollen and raw. Both men were liberally spattered with blood.
Before he realised he was doing it, Fronto had stormed across the floor into the room.
'What in Hades happened?'
Lucilia looked up at him, her face grave, and answered before even Clearchus could get his painful mouth to work. 'Your men were set upon by armed thugs as they left the warehouse. Not thieves, either, since they smashed the jars of Alban vintage the pair were conveying and stole nothing. If it hadn't been for the timely interruption of a passing gentlemen and his guards, these two poor fellows would probably be dead now.'
Fronto felt the anger that had been muted and contained all day finally boil to the surface, unhindered. His lip curled up into a snarl that made it hard to speak.
'When was this?'
'Noph more phan an hour ago,' the second victim said through broken teeth. Fronto flexed his fists. 'Hierocles,' he grunted. A statement, rather than a question, but both men nodded painfully anyway. 'Enough is enough. The bastard has to be taught.' He paused, waiting for the warning against unnecessary violence from Lucilia, but she simply nodded her agreement, and he noticed now the bowl of pink water and the pink towel by her feet with which she had tended the men's worst wounds.
Wordlessly, Andala reversed her grip on the plain gladius in her hands and held it out, hilt first, to Fronto. He met her eyes and for the first time felt something akin to understanding pass between them. He nodded and took the sword.
He was a soldier, born and forged in decades of war, and he'd had enough pussy-footing around with petty criminals masquerading as merchants. Hierocles had to come down from his pedestal, no matter what the fallout with the boule of Massilia.
He turned and stormed out of the room purposefully, reaching out to swipe his cloak up from the altar in the vestibule.
'Masgava? Gather the men.'
* * * * *
‘What’s the plan, sir?’
Fronto glanced across at Aurelius. It was an excellent question. He had left the villa with his blood up, determined on a course of brutal action. He was still just as determined, of course, to pay Hierocles back for his actions and to end this trouble once and for all, but as the cold air of a Massilian evening bathed his ruddy face he had started to calm and think a little straighter. He could not kill Hierocles, no matter how much he might want to. This was not a Gallic battlefield, and murder was a capital offence in the city. Likewise, then, he would not kill any of Hierocles’ men. But he would hurt the man, and badly. Hierocles would hardly drag them through the courts for a beating, given how many counts of the same for which he was responsible. It would be opening a veritable Pandora’s Box of litigation that would harm Hierocles every bit as much as Fronto. So as long as he stopped short of actual killing, he felt safe from legal repercussions.
He turned to Masgava.
‘You’ve been training the lads in their spare time, I remember. Did you teach them straight combat, or some of your more subtle methods?’
The big Numidian shrugged. ‘I teach a man to fight in any way he can or must with whatever he can find. You know that.’
‘Good.’ He turned back to Aurelius. ‘We’re going to drop in on Hierocles. He has a number of tough men, but not as tough as us, with former soldiers and gladiators.’ He raised his voice to catch the whole group. ‘But the important thing is there must be no killing. Preferably no blades, even, though that might be unavoidable. But unless his men draw swords on you, keep your blades sheathed. Punch and kick, bite and thump. No one is to go in too heavy handed, got it?’
The twelve men around him nodded.
‘You two are fairly new. I need eyes on the street. The city guards patrol these streets irregularly, and I don’t want to suddenly find myself up to the armpits in local law enforcement. When we go in I want you to stay by the entrance. If anyone approaches, step inside, whistle loud and close the door. Got it?’
The two new men nodded, looking rather relieved.
‘How do we get in in the first place?’ asked Aurelius.
‘Leave that to me. As soon as we’re in, I need each of you thinking on your feet. We don’t touch women, children, slaves or other civilians. Arcadios and Dyrakhes, you two are in charge of rounding up any non-combatants. The first room we come across that’s securable, you hustle them all into and keep them safe. Anyone who comes at us with fists or weapons is fair game. Any of his men – and after the last few months, we can recognise most of them – are fair game. If you happen to find Hierocles, shout me.’
‘It’s not much of a plan.’
‘It’s good enough. Everyone set?’