‘We’re fine, Aurelius. Would you do me a favour and walk Cavarinos’ horse round to the stables and leave it in their hands.’
Aurelius came across, nodding a greeting at the Gaul as he took the reins and walked the horse around the side of the house, his eyes never leaving the new arrival. Fronto paused to pick up Lucius who was struggling to pull up a weed in the lawn and then led his friend to the front door.
‘This is no social call then?’
Cavarinos rubbed his arms and hands as they entered and smiled sadly. ‘I am some way from enjoying a social life yet, Fronto. But it does make me happy to see you well, if clearly tired.’
‘Business is more tiring and more complicated than warfare, Cavarinos.’
‘Which is one reason why the tribes make poor traders, but have been fighting each other for centuries. We were never a complex people.’
Fronto stopped in the atrium, casting a prayer across to the altar of the household gods as Lucilia came strolling in at the far side of the small pool, carrying young Marcus, asleep in her arms.
‘I see you had luck getting Lucius to sleep, then?’ she noted archly. ‘Honestly, Marcus, you could at least try. He’ll be awake all afternoon now, and he’ll play merry Hades with us tonight.’ She noted for the first time the figure behind him and smiled warmly. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
Fronto lowered Lucius to the floor and steered him away from the shallow impluvium pool before straightening. ‘Lucilia, this is Cavarinos, a prince of the Arverni and formerly one of Vercingetorix’s most trusted generals.’
Surprise flashed across her face, but recognition soon replaced it. ‘Cavarinos? The one to whom you gave your precious Fortuna?’ She chuckled as she crossed the room to them. ‘You have no idea how miserable he’s been without his precious goddess. In the end he spent a small fortune on a replacement.’
Fronto cast her a withering look. ‘I was suffering for want of luck. It was basic common sense to replace it.’
Cavarinos smiled and pulled out the figurine hanging at his neck, worn but recognisable. ‘I’m not sure how much luck it’s brought me.’
‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’ Fronto sniffed. ‘A third of the people of Gaul aren’t.’
‘And this would be your lovely wife, then, Fronto? I don’t believe you ever told me her name?’
Fronto snorted again. ‘The only times we’ve ever talked we were enemy leaders in the middle of a war. I didn’t tell you my shoe size or my favourite colour either.’
Cavarinos gave him an indulgent smile, and Lucilia glared at him before turning a wide smile back on the Gaul. ‘Lucilia, daughter of Quintus Lucilius Balbus and wife of a mannerless brute. Pleased to meet you, Prince Cavarinos.’
‘I think the title is rather moot now, my lady. But it is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Shall we retire to the triclinium, then?’ Fronto asked, but Cavarinos nodded pointedly at Lucilia.
‘Somewhere private, then?’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, my lady, but there is a private matter we must discuss first, before I can afford to relax.’
Lucilia acquiesced and bowed, retreating from the atrium in the wake of the slapping footsteps of Lucius. ‘Then I shall have cook rustle up something appropriate for, say half an hour?’
Fronto nodded. ‘Thank you, dear. We’ll be done shortly.’
Gesturing for Cavarinos to follow, he headed towards his tablinum – the small office that he still occasionally used in his villa. As the two entered, he shut the door behind them, noting the fact that Masgava had appeared silently in the atrium, armed and watchful. As the door closed, he nodded at the big Numidian, trying to convey the message that he was fine. Turning, he strode across to one of the two chairs in the room and sank into it, the cushion expelling a puff of dust beneath him.
Cavarinos looked around at the room with interest. The walls were covered with maps showing major trade routes and wine-growing regions, seasonal tide charts and so on. The desk was piled at one side with writing tablets. And five amphorae of different sizes sat by a wall. The floor was a mosaic that showed Bacchus cavorting. ‘This looks just like a Roman headquarters. You make me smile Fronto. Even as a merchant you approach your business as if it were war.’
‘You have no idea how close the two can be. Right down to the shedding of blood in fact.’
He reached out and picked up a small jug from a low side table and unstoppered it, filling two fine, painted glasses showing birds in flight. ‘Ever had Alban wine?’
Cavarinos frowned. ‘Possibly. Years ago we did good trade with Roman merchants. I had excellent Roman wines in those days.’
‘Not like this.’ Fronto added roughly the same amount of water to his wine and slid the jug across to Cavarinos. ‘Now, tell me what it is that brings you to Massilia.’
The Arverni noble took a sip of the wine, tasting it before watering it, and then took a small swig, nodding appreciatively. ‘That is good. Alban? That’s from close to Rome, yes?’
‘Just south. Maybe fifteen miles along the Via Appia.’ He fell silent, expectant.
‘You’re in danger, Fronto. Or at least, I think you are.’
‘I’m always in damn danger. Who from this time?’
Cavarinos rested his elbows on the table. ‘What do you know of our gods, and of the leaders of last year’s revolt?’
‘To the former, a little. I can name a few and tell you what they do, I suppose. And your commanders? Well I saw a lot of them at the surrender, of course.’
‘My people are tenacious,’ Cavarinos sighed. ‘Even long past the horizon of common sense. It will be years before the tribes resign themselves fully to Roman rule. Some will be quicker than others. But there will still be troubles and arguments. For some, last year’s war is not yet over. Those with little vision see our catastrophic defeat as a mere setback.’
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re not suggesting there’ll be another revolt, surely?’
‘Smaller ones are already happening, Fronto. And they will gradually combine and escalate, bringing everyone who can grip a spear into the fold. The only reason it hasn’t happened yet is that it takes something very special to bind the tribes together. We are permanently in a state of war. It is the nature of the tribes. Vercingetorix, with the help of the druids, managed to do the impossible. Even then, with him in command, there were dissenters and naysayers. If they had all joined in with their whole heart, your general would have lost at Alesia.’
‘I can picture that,’ Fronto said, remembering the large relief army on the second hill.
‘But while a second rising would be bad for Rome, it is my inescapable conclusion that it would be very final for the tribes. A repeat of last year, dragging in every last able body, would still not win the war against Rome, and the main result would be that my entire culture, our people and our world would disappear forever. We would become names in your dusty Roman history books.’
‘I tend to agree with you there. Your people never want for heart or courage, but common sense can often be lacking. One day I will introduce you to a special case called Atenos.’
Cavarinos chewed on his lip for a moment.
‘There is a group of very, very dangerous men and women in your lands right now, wielding a dual purpose, neither of which is good for you.’ Noting Fronto’s intent, alert silence, he continued with a sad note in his voice. ‘One of Vercingetorix’s generals who survived among the relief forces, Lucterius of the Cadurci, is busy trying to rebuild the army of united tribes. He had a trusted man who fought at Gergovia and Alesia and who was horribly wounded – disfigured, in fact – at the latter. He is fanatically loyal to his king and the only thing I fear might drive him more than his loyalty is his utter hatred of Rome.’
‘And he is in Massilia?’