‘Will they really try again?’ Balbus asked quietly, excavating his other ear. ‘If their goal is to get to Rome urgently and they have a ship waiting, will they waste the time?’
Cavarinos shrugged and glanced across at Fronto. ‘How long until your treasure fleet sails?’
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘A day or two. No, definitely two. It won’t be today.’
Cavarinos turned back to Balbus. ‘They will want to be away from this place before the fleet, else they might fall foul of Roman marines at sea. But that still gives them today. I expect them to sail tonight, at the last real opportunity. They will stay as long as they can and try as hard as they can. They may have a goal to achieve, but these men are fanatics, legate Balbus. They are rabid haters of your officers. I have seen what they have done before now. And if they have been thwarted once tonight, they will try all the harder. Molacos will not want to lose face with his men.’
‘I have to say, prince Cavarinos, that your arrival was gods-sent. Thank you. But for you, I would likely have died and so would Marcus here.’
Fronto saw Cavarinos wince at the use of a title. There was an unintentional bitterness in the Arvernian that coloured everything in his life now. It was why he could not wear his face and hair as a Gaul, yet would not dress himself as a Roman. It was why, despite clearly hating every morsel of his soul for doing it, he killed his own people in saving a nominal enemy. It was why he would never stay, no matter how persuasive Fronto thought he might be. It saddened him to see the Arvernian brought so low. A year ago, at a strange native sacred spring, he and Fronto had spoken privately and had discovered in each other a kindred spirit, abhorring the nature of the protracted war that was ruining Gaul and wishing there was any way to end the matter peacefully. And now Gaul was lost and Cavarinos was a ghost. A slight change in fortunes at Alesia and it might have been a whole different matter.
‘I owe Fronto a debt. He released me from slavery in a Roman camp. My people consider such a debt paramount. It is a life debt in effect. When the Sons of Taranis no longer threaten him, that debt will be paid, and into the bargain there will be no new great rising. The people of our tribes will turn from war to the fields, nurturing crops and children, trying to rebuild within the arms of Rome.’
‘Would that many Roman nobles could express so noble a sentiment,’ admired Balbus. ‘You would do well in our senate.’
Fronto smiled at the look of horrified fascination that crossed Cavarinos’ face at the very thought.
‘What was that?’ interjected Masgava sharply.
‘What?’
The four of them fell silent, and then they all heard the clanging of the bell at the front door. In two heartbeats the alarms were clanging all over the villa. ‘Where?’ Balbus asked.
‘The first alarm was the front door,’ Masgava replied, snatching his sword from close by and belting it as he made for the exit. Behind him Cavarinos was already moving. Balbus grabbed his own gladius, sheathless since he had taken it into his bath house. Fronto gripped his Gaulish sword with the slight kink near the tip where he’d levered up the slab. He’d had the chance to retrieve his own sword he supposed, but over the evening he’d grown comfortable carrying the big weapon. It gave him a surprising reach.
Through the villa the four men ran, joined by a sleepy looking Arcadios and Aurelius who had clearly just hauled themselves from their cots and grabbed a weapon without even taking the time to belt their tunics.
The front door was ajar, and Catháin was peering out into the darkness.
‘What is it?’ Fronto shouted.
‘Archers, Fronto. At least three, from the regularity of the strikes. They’re not particularly good – I’ve seen better – but they’re getting close. Once they’ve found their range they’ll be able to take anyone at a door or window at their leisure.’
‘I’d not seen them as archers in my head,’ mused Fronto.
‘Remember young Aneunos?’ replied Cavarinos. ‘He was an archer, and a good one. There will be others. Molacos had been a hunter himself.’
The door to their left opened to reveal the brothers Pamphilus and Clearchus. Both had their blades drawn and a trickle of blood ran from the latter’s scalp down into his eye, which blinked repeatedly.
‘Bastards have found the range for the windows,’ grunted Clearchus.
‘Why did you open the shutters, then?’ sighed Fronto, wondering at how two such numb brothers had survived the streets of Massilia for so long.
‘Can’t see the enemy through solid wood, sir.’
‘I swear that if either of you had an original thought…’
His insult went unfinished as an arrow whispered through the open crack in the door, almost catching both Catháin and then Fronto, and clattered off along the floor into the atrium.
‘Bastards, bastards, bastards!’ roared Clearchus, wiping the blood from his eyes. ‘C’mon.’
Pamphilus reached past them and yanked the front door wide open, almost pulling Catháin from his feet. Brandishing their blades, the brothers ran into the open door, straight towards the unseen archers. Neither made it across the threshold before Masgava’s huge meaty hands slapped down on their shoulders and jerked them back inside. Two arrows filled the air, one tearing the shoulder fabric of Clearchus’ tunic and drawing blood, the other missing Masgava’s ear by a finger-width as it rattled off across the atrium.
Without waiting for the order, Catháin pushed the door to so that only a narrow sliver remained. Enough to see through, with very little danger to the observer.
‘They are improving their aim rapidly,’ Arcadios said quietly. ‘Let me give them something to think about.’
Catháin nodded and stepped aside. As the others watched, the Greek archer withdrew three arrows from his quiver, nocking one, with the other two held by the point in the fingers that gripped the bow.
‘When I say, open the door, count to six quickly and then close it.’
The northerner who managed Fronto’s business nodded, turning a lopsided grin on his employer. ‘While I like a punch-up as much as the next man, proper battles are extra. I shall be expecting a raise tomorrow. Or at least a healthy bonus.’
He was still smiling wide as Arcadios breathed ‘now!’
The door pulled inwards and in the most fluid movement Fronto had ever seen from an archer, Arcadios released the first missile out into the night, dropping the second to nock even as his shoulder rolled, bringing back the string and releasing, the third arrow following suit in perfect timing like some kind of machine.
As he stepped back and lowered the bow and Catháin muttered ‘six’ and closed the door to a sliver again, they all heard a yelp and shouts of alarm outside. For a long moment there were no further thuds of arrowheads hitting door and wall, and when it started up again, it was slower, more cautious.
‘Nicely done,’ Balbus complemented the archer.
Arcadios smiled shyly. ‘It’s an eastern technique. Hard to get right, and not easy to be accurate with. But when what you need is speed and surprise, it can be very effective.’
‘It sounded pretty accurate to me,’ Fronto whispered, impressed. ‘Into the dark against hidden targets and it sounded to me like you hit one.’
‘Luck,’ muttered Arcadios, though Fronto suspected self-effacement rather than chance.
‘Let’s hope you got the son of a dog in the heart or the eye,’ Catháin grinned.
‘Why are they doing this?’ Cavarinos mused.
‘What?’
‘Why the arrows?’
‘They already tried a direct assault,’ Fronto reminded him, ‘and look how that one turned out. Their quarry managed to get into hiding in time. Maybe they’re just trying to keep us contained until it’s light so that they don’t miss anyone this time?’