Fronto shrugged. ‘Normally neither of them would have an issue with throwing down a few jars. Even on duty. I know both of them can handle a few cups and remain sober enough to work. But since the news you brought, Masgava has all the lads on a strict no-booze-on-duty routine.’
‘Good. Your men seem very loyal.’
‘They’ve been through a lot with me. Up in the forest of Arduenna a couple of years ago…’ he noted with a sly grin Aurelius ward himself against evil at the name of the Belgic goddess. ‘And then of course in the war last year. We lost a lot of good men.’ He noted a pained look cross Cavarinos’ face. ‘I know. You did too. Everyone did. But my little personal force was reduced to about a quarter over that time. Those who are left are closer than brothers.’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘It is good for warriors to be like that. And it is good that they have experienced the horror and loss of war. Only warriors who remember what war is like should lead men. Those who do not know the consequences are too eager to bathe in blood regardless of the consequences.’ The Arverni noble felt a flash of pain and guilt pass through him at the memory of his brother, dead at Alesia.
‘Wise words,’ Fronto agreed.
‘Will you go back to your army?’
Fronto blinked. The question caught him totally off-guard, and when that happens, the first thought to flash into a man’s mind is oft the unsought truth. The fact that as soon as Cavarinos had spoken, Fronto had pictured himself in armour with centurions and comrades at his side made him suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Not the least because most of those he’d instantly pictured around him had been dead for years. He bit down on that image and forced it back, suppressing it beneath common sense.
‘I will never say “no” to that question. But I have no plans to do so. I’m far from a young man, these days, with a wife and children depending on me. No man can say I’ve not done my duty to Rome and her people now. Time for younger men to play the game.’
The Arvernian cocked an eyebrow. ‘You sound like a man trying to convince himself. Good luck with that.’
‘I miss the life,’ admitted Fronto. ‘But I don’t miss the actual fighting. I saw things these past few years that most officers would never see. I have dreams…’
Cavarinos barked out a short, totally-humourless laugh. ‘Let us not compare dreams. Mine would shock your hair white. If I were a man to believe in gods and superstitions I would think myself cursed.’
A short, slight whistle through teeth attracted their attention, and both men turned to see Biorix at the door step back into the shadow, nodding towards the street. With the hand of a practised deceiver, Cavarinos picked up the jar of wine and held it to the light, giving the impression from the doorway that both men were simply looking at the label on the jug, while enabling them both to clearly view the door.
Two figures appeared in the entrance and sauntered inside, one slapping the other on the back, laughing at some joke. Fronto peered at the men, wondering why Biorix had warned them, then recognised the pair a moment later. Glykon – Hierocles’ man who had ruined Fronto’s business from the inside for months unchecked, was chuckling at some jest of the man whose ribs Fronto had broken with a staff that night they had broken into his warehouse. Without intending to, Fronto shot up from his chair.
‘Find another bar, shit weasel.’
The two men stopped, Glykon immediately recognising Fronto even as his friend tried to place the man. Glykon’s gaze took in the hardened Gallic noble sitting opposite the Roman and also, as he spun with a sense of dread, the two former legionaries close to the door. In other circumstances, the man might have stood up for himself, even against Fronto. But with the odds so heavily stacked in the Roman’s favour, he gave an obsequious smile and bowed from the waist.
‘By all means. I find the company here unpalatable, anyway.’
The other man had now recognised Fronto, his hands shooting to newly-repaired ribs at the memory, and he began to pull at Glykon’s shoulder, trying to turn him and eject him from the place. Two Greek sailors who had just entered behind them cursed the pair as they tried to get past to the bar, and Fronto’s former enemies scurried out of the bar, almost knocking down another man as they went.
It took Fronto a moment to realise that he was growling, and he made himself stop. ‘Bastards,’ he grunted as he reached for the wine jug to pour another cup, but as his fingers closed on the pottery handle, Cavarinos’ hand fell on his wrist and held it down.
‘Don’t look left,’ the Arverni said, almost in a whisper. ‘Laugh as though I told you a joke.’
Fronto panicked. Nothing in the world is more difficult than a convincing fake laugh at short notice. He chortled like an idiot at a freak show and felt thoroughly stupid, especially as Cavarinos gave him a look that conveyed just how moronic he’d sounded. ‘Count to three,’ the Arvernian went on in stilted Greek, ‘then look to your right briefly.’
Fronto frowned, surprised to hear Greek from the Gaul, but not sure why. After all, the more southerly tribes had been trading with Romans and Greeks for centuries. It would be natural for them to speak the languages of trade. Then he realised he’d not been counting and, figuring it had probably been three already, he turned and scanned the bar interior to his right.
The only thing different from the last time he’d looked was the addition of the two Greek sailors and the local that had followed Glykon into the bar. Something about that latter figure nagged at him, though.
It was a warm spring day, and early evening. The sun had been high in the sky, searing the pavements and roofs of Massilia all day, and now the town was pleasantly warm even for Massilia as the sun began to sink and give way to the gold and indigo of evening. So why was the man so huddled up in an ankle length cloak of dark grey wool? And with a hood, too, though the latter was not pulled up.
He saw the new arrival start to turn and pulled back round to face Cavarinos sharply.
‘You know him?’
The Arverni gave a slight nod, keeping his face lowered, his eyes on the cup before him.
‘And he speaks no Greek?’
‘I believe not, but keep your voice down just in case.’
‘Who is he?’
Cavarinos scratched his neck, his arm covering most of his face. ‘He is Aneunos, the son of Lucterius of the Cadurci.’
Fronto’s eyes widened at the name. ‘The Lucterius we fought at Gergovia? Who I understand was leading that relief force on the other hill?’
‘The very one. Try not to say his name again. Your surprise is preventing you from speaking quietly, and he will doubtless recognise his own name and that of his father.’
‘You think he is one of this group you were speaking of? The one I won’t name, just in case?’
‘It seems likely.’ Cavarinos motioned him to stay silent and busily poured them both another drink, chatting inanely about the wine’s quality for a few moments until he sat back and breathed easier. ‘He’s gone,’ he announced, reverting to Latin.
‘Gone? Where?’
‘Upstairs. And he just spoke to the innkeeper, didn’t get a key, so I presume he was already staying here.’
‘Are you suggesting that this place is where they are all staying?’
‘That would be my guess, yes.’
Fronto chewed on his lip. ‘Anything else you can tell me? You said there were twelve of them identifying themselves with gods. The leader – this Molacos – was Taranis.’
‘Yes. There is also a giant one – Mogons – and at least one woman – Catubodua. I saw that Aneunos’ cloak bore a sun and a bow. That would suggest Maponos, which fits, given his youthfulness. I have vague recollections of young Aneunos winning a great archery contest a few years back, when he came of age. You would probably think of Maponos as Apollo.’
Fronto continued to chew on his lip. ‘Definitely one resident. Possibly twelve. It’s a bit of a gamble.’