‘He and eleven others, masked and cloaked, have been rampaging around the land, torturing Roman officers to try and locate the great Arverni king. They have discovered that he has been taken back to Rome, and they are bound for the capital, via this very port.’
Fronto scratched his head. ‘A dozen killers in masks are going to Rome to try and rescue Vercingetorix? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘In short, yes.’
‘They’re mad. They’ll never succeed.’
‘Don’t be too sure, Fronto. I don’t know what Rome is like, but these dozen are very dangerous indeed. And very secretive. They identify themselves with twelve of the gods of our peoples, and I have seen their handiwork. They butchered a legate.’
Fronto blinked in shock. ‘A legate? Who?’
‘I think his name was Reginus.’
Fronto pictured the legate of the Fifteenth and rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘As I say, do not underestimate them. I do not know who they all are, but I have seen two or three of them without their masks. They are all deadly. And they all hate Rome with a passion. Moreover they had been moving for months about the land butchering Romans and still no one knows about them.’
‘Other than you.’
‘Other than me. And while they will be coming through Massilia on their way to Rome, given their activity so far I cannot see them failing to take action when they learn that one of the legates who was responsible for their defeat at Alesia is in the city. And your name is well enough known that it will happen.’
Fronto nodded slowly. ‘And you think they’re in the city now, then?’
‘They may be, though you may have time yet. They were hours ahead of me at Alba, but they will have to move very cautiously through Roman territory, while I simply rode fast and openly. I almost certainly passed them on the way. Besides, there is a huge Roman supply column a day or so north of here. I passed them without too much trouble, but a dozen armed and masked killers will have to be very careful. They will probably have to wait until the column enters the city before they can move south.’
Fronto took a swig of his wine. ‘Sounds like Caesar’s treasure train is almost here then. Good. The port has been at a standstill for weeks waiting for it. Once that’s in Rome and the ships are moving again, my business will heave a sigh of relief.’
‘And I will be able to move on.’
In the strange silence that followed, Fronto found himself speculating. ‘I…’ he paused to rearrange the words in his head. ‘Wherever you are headed, might I offer an alternative?’
Cavarinos raised his brow in interest.
‘Stay with us. I have good men here. And a prince of the Remi is close to my family. You seem to be a man with no place. Why move again?’
Cavarinos shrugged and drained his glass.
‘I have no intention of being tied up in a fresh war, so the north is lost to me. But I am not a Roman, Fronto. I am Arverni. There is somewhere out there for me, but Massilia is not it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yet I have no intention of letting a dozen maniacs rekindle a dead rebellion. These Sons of Taranis need to be stopped, so I will stay for now.’
He smiled. ‘Now pour me another glass of that excellent Alban before we go and join your lovely wife while I catch you up on what I know is happening in the north and you fill in the blanks for me.’
* * * * *
Fronto pointed angrily at the slave girl. ‘I don’t give a hair from Jove’s left bollock what her intentions were, I distinctly and very clearly said I did not want her touching my swords!’
Lucilia reached out with a calming hand and patted him on the arm. ‘I gave her permission, Marcus. She has been complaining for weeks that you don’t take care of them and that there are spots of rust on the blades.’
Fronto glared in exasperation. ‘You do realise that means that she’s been unsheathing them when you aren’t looking anyway?’
‘You of all people should know better than to let your kit get rusty, Marcus. You may not intend to join Caesar again, but that’s no reason to let things go to ruin.’
His glare darkened. ‘Don’t change the bloody subject!’ He turned to Andala who, he noted, did not look remotely cowed and showed not a breath of remorse. In fact, she looked thoroughly defiant and even slightly angry. By gods sometimes she actually reminded him of Lucilia. Could there be shared blood between the Belgae and the Lucilii?
‘Masgava, would you be good enough to take all three of my gladii and my daggers and put them in a locked box?’
‘They’ll be no use there if you get in trouble,’ the big man rumbled.
‘For the love of Jove is there no one in this household who actually has any intention of doing what I ask?’ Fronto bellowed in vexation.
‘Not if what you ask is not in your best interests,’ Masgava replied calmly.
Fronto glared at the three of them, feeling a little like a retiarius with a torn net and a broken trident facing three armed opponents in the arena. He spun and stomped angrily across the room to where Cavarinos stood peering at a large map of the republic on the wall.
‘You see the sort of crap I have to put up with?’
Cavarinos turned with an indulgent smile. ‘Roman women, I fear, are not that different from Arverni ones. Accept defeat gracefully, Fronto, and rally your men for future battles.’
Fronto glared at him, and Cavarinos laughed, pointing at the map. ‘Your people call our tribes Gallia, correct?’
Fronto nodded, still irritated.
‘Then I think your map makers have been toying with you. Look at this place.’
Fronto peered at where he was pointing, out to the east, past the border of the Republic in Anatolia. ‘Galatia?’
Cavarinos nodded, and Fronto smiled. ‘That is another land, ruled by a king called Deiotarus. He’s a client king of Rome, and they’re strong allies of ours.’
‘But the name?’
Fronto nodded. ‘I am given to understand that they are related to your tribes, going back a number of centuries. Pompey used to say they have their own Gaulish language. Probably not unlike yours, I imagine.’
Cavarinos frowned and tapped his lip. ‘I am interested in Galatia. It is on the other side of the world, yet you say it is a land of my people with its own king? Independent?’
‘I believe so.’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘I think, then, it is for Galatia that I am bound when this is over.’
The room’s five occupants turned in the silence that followed, listening to the sound of several footsteps in the atrium outside. Moments later, Aurelius appeared in the doorway.
‘You have another visitor, Domine.’
Fronto frowned. His guards never used such a noble term, mostly calling him by name. As Aurelius backed aside, bowing, three more figures appeared in the doorway. He didn’t recognise the men to either side, though they were clearly tribunes. But the man in the middle…
‘Brutus!’
A genuine smile spread across his face as he hurried across the room to the tired-looking officer in the doorway. He caught sight of his major domo standing respectfully some distance behind them, waiting for orders, while he held the three officers’ cloaks.
‘Amelgo? Have a meal prepared and plenty of wine. Could you have extra cushions brought in too? And a bowl of warm water for our guests to give themselves a quick clean up?’
As the servant dashed off, Fronto grinned at the three officers. ‘You’re welcome to use my baths of course, but from the looks of you you’ve just dismounted and you’ll probably want a seat and a cup of wine first, yes?’
Brutus gave him a tired smile. ‘A drink would be most welcome, Marcus. These two, by the way, are Pontius and Gamburio, tribunes of the Twelfth who have come with me all the way from the north.’ The two officers bowed.
‘Good to meet you. A fine legion, the Twelfth. I remember their formation. Come on. Sit yourselves.’
Brutus sank to a cushioned seat with gratitude.