But it was not the oddness of the cultural clash that had plunged his mood into darkness. That was the fault of the commotion. In the main street leading from the gate, perhaps two dozen locals were arguing in a rather urgent, panicked manner. And among their number, at the centre, sat a cart. Though he could not pick out the detail at this distance, the bundle on the cart was wrapped in a red cloak, and that identified it better than anything. As if that was not bad enough, between the occasional moving of the men’s’ legs, he could see the dark pool that had formed beneath the cart.
Casting a black look at the sky and mentally cursing Toutatis for bringing him such ill luck, Cavarinos rode on into Alba Helviorum. He was surprised at how quiet the town was, despite the commotion in the street. A place like this normally hummed with life, from the ringing of hammer on anvil to the calls of street hawkers and children playing their games underfoot.
This place felt surprisingly empty. As he neared the arguing crowd one of the Helvii looked around and saw him, shaking his friend to stop the argument. A heartbeat later, the small ruckus had fallen quiet and each of them was looking at the approaching rider, silent and expectant. It occurred to Cavarinos that they might well think him one of their own nobles. For all his Arverni heritage, Cavarinos wore his face clean-shaven and had stopped wearing his serpent arm-ring or any other obvious identifying items. Moreover, despite their rising against Rome last year, the Arverni had been trading across the border with their recent enemies for decades, and the cut and material of their clothing owed much to Roman influence. Likely they thought him a Helvian noble.
He sighed. ‘What happened to him?’
He gestured at the cart with its morbid burden. The local he had asked frowned in confusion. Cavarinos’ accent was most certainly not Helvii. ‘He has been killed.’
‘I gathered that,’ said Cavarinos, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s an officer. Passing through was he?’
The man shook his head. ‘Head of an engineering detail that’s designing the aqueduct,’ he replied quietly. ‘What they did to him…’ he shuddered.
Cavarinos nodded grimly and walked his horse over to the cart where he leaned across and lifted the corner of the red cloak. Beneath, the pink of the flayed muscles was crusted with dark red, though the body still leaked through the boards of the cart. Cavarinos tried not to breathe in too heavily as the flies emerged in a small cloud from beneath the cover. It had been quite recent. Within a day. Hours, in fact. His enquiring mind could not help but ask where the skin had gone.
‘Did you see the killers?’
‘No,’ the man replied and opened his mouth to say something, but his friends shot him a warning glance and he clamped his mouth shut. Cavarinos sucked his lip in suspicious interest.
‘Let me guess. He’d been tortured and left in his room. And any soldiers guarding him had been dispatched quickly and efficiently.’ The men nodded.
‘I’m not going to enquire as to what’s going on here. Your secrets are yours. I’ll be on my way.’
‘But,’ the first man said urgently, ‘you know something about this?’
‘I know who the killers are. If you value your life, don’t press this.’
‘But what will we do? The authorities will blame us!’
Cavarinos scratched his neck absently. ‘I think you’ll find the authorities will have more to worry about. This isn’t an isolated incident. In fact, it’s happened all over. I was hoping to have outrun it by now, but it seems they’re ahead of me. Perhaps their arrival in Roman territory will slow them. They will have to be more careful now.’
The man looked at him oddly, and Cavarinos realised he’d spoken out loud what was essentially an internal monologue. ‘Burn him and pot the ashes, then deliver him to the authorities and tell them the truth.’ With a last glance at the unfortunate Roman, he trotted on through the town, heading for the Rhodanus River, which would lead him most of the way to Massilia.
They were ahead of him. His mind helpfully superimposed Fronto’s face on that ruined body on the cart, and he automatically picked up his pace.
* * * * *
Fronto laughed as young Lucius tottered about on the grass, chasing the red and black butterflies that were a common sight around Massilia in the winter. He chuckled out loud as Lucius fell headlong on the grass and let out a strange shout. It was almost words, but not quite. Lucilia would have run across to him, all concern that he had hurt himself, but Fronto was becoming accustomed to Lucius’ noises, and that one was frustration. Indeed, the boy was up again in moments, wobbling a little before ploughing on, laughing, after another butterfly that had crossed his path.
Fronto leaned back on the wall, resting his head against the gatepost. It was nice to live in such a climate again. He’d grown up by the sea at Puteoli and had spent most of his career around Rome and Puteoli or over in Hispania, where the heat was similar though considerably drier. But the last seven years up in Gaul had been rather eye-opening. He’d not believed that so much rain was possible. Parts of northern Gaul couldn’t have been much wetter if you submerged them.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his eyelids.
‘Civilian life clearly suits you.’
His eyes snapped open at the comment and he had to look around in confusion for a while before he spotted the figure by the tree at the side of the drive. Recognition was instant, but his mind fought him for a while, insistent that he was wrong and this couldn’t be who he thought it was.
The Gaul smiled. ‘I have to say that I’m relieved. I was half expecting to get here and find you peeled and pinned to a tree.’
Fronto simply stared. Behind him, Lucius let out a squeak of triumph that quickly turned into a howl of frustration, and then slid back into giggling and the thumping of tiny feet on turf.
‘I’d not thought to see you again,’ he said, recovering from his surprise a little.
‘I had never really intended to come,’ Cavarinos replied, walking his horse towards the gate. ‘However, events in the wide world, as usual, drive the course of my life and despite everything I find myself in Roman lands, seeking out Romans in defiance of my own. It never ceases to amaze me the strange twists and turns our lives take.’
Fronto gave him a sour look. ‘Shouldn’t you be with the Arverni, planning to rise against us? From the news I catch that seems to be the fashion.’
Cavarinos laughed with not a trace of humour. ‘There are visionless lunatics all over the land who are trying to push along a dead horse called freedom and make him run. They only drag out the inevitable and bring upon the tribes yet more woe. And that is partially why I’m here. I hadn’t realised it until I found a flayed centurion up in Alba Helviorum. Until then I was coming purely out of respect for a former opponent. But somehow I think it’s become bigger than that now. What’s happening needs to be stopped, not just to save your sorry hide, but for the future good of the tribes.’
Fronto slid from the wall and opened the gate. ‘You are speaking in riddles, Cavarinos. Have you been hanging around with druids?’
‘It’s been a long and very unpleasant journey, and I had to ride down into town to find out where you lived. If you are, as I seem to remember, a wine merchant, it would be appropriate, I think, to offer some of your wares to a tired guest.’
Fronto snorted and closed the gate behind the Arverni noble. He turned to the house. Aurelius was standing by the door. He’d been there for half an hour now, cleaning his nails with the tip of a knife and other such sundry pastimes. Clearly he had recognised Cavarinos as no enemy, if not a friend, but even then he had his hand on the pommel of his gladius as he watched intently. The former members of his singulares had taken their duties very seriously since the attack on Hierocles’ building, fearing reprisals, and one of them was never far from his side, armed and ready.