Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (6 page)

“Come on. This is making me feel sicker than the ship.”

Chapter 2

(Massilia, an allied former-Greek colony on the coast south of
Gaul
)

The
Glory of Venus
bucked once on a particularly violent wave as it passed the mole and entered the harbour, settling almost instantly on the millpond water within.

Fronto had long since given up any hope of feeling well as long as he lived. During the stop at Vado Sabatia, a helpful wag among the oarsmen had carved a commemoraive inscription on the wooden rail where Fronto habitually stood to vomit over the side, since when he had deliberately avoided the spot.

At last, though, the journey was coming to an end. He’d wondered briefly if his stomach had actually turned inside out the day before. Certainly even the
name
of foodstuffs was now enough to set him off, let alone the sight or smell of them.

His gaze briefly left the churning waters that so mirrored his own gut and played across the heads of those aboard who were not bent over the oars.

Galronus, Faleria and Lucilia stood at the bow, their gaze locked on the great port ahead. Lucilia had gradually become more animated and excited as she neared her family, and the feeling had rubbed off on her companions. Somewhere on the hills a couple of miles back from the city – nominally within the Roman province of Narbonensis but close enough to allied Massilia to spit a peach stone at – stood the villa of Balbus; former legate of the Eighth Legion, future father in law to the grey, shaking figure leaning on the rail.

The two tribunes, who Fronto had now discovered were named Menenius and Hortius, were apparently being reassigned to serve on the staff of the Fourteenth, which Caesar still treated more as an auxiliary unit than a full legion and which he believed needed bringing up to scratch. Fronto had met a number of the men and centurions of the Fourteenth now and his own opinion was of a powerful legion, strong in body and spirit, carrying both the efficiency of the Roman officers who had trained them and the sheer battle-sense of the Gauls who had supplied the bulk of the manpower. What the great, bluff, hairy monsters of the Fourteenth would make of the two fops who actually called one another ‘darling’ in front of the sailors and hurried off in a panic if their tunic was dirtied, he simply couldn’t imagine.

Even the clerks would eat those two alive.

The only person on board who Fronto feared for more was Caesar’s nephew, Pinarius. The man was clearly too weak in both mind and physique to competently direct a music recital, let alone a battle. The elegantly inscribed rail where Fronto had spent much of the journey had been specifically chosen as the place with a flat leaning surface and standing space that was furthest from Pinarius’ grating lisp and nasal laugh as it was possible to be without walking on water. It was no surprise to find that Caesar had granted a commission to his sister’s son, but Fronto could only picture the general trying to deal with this chinless moron. Hopefully he would only be there for one campaigning season and then gone to ruin the economy in
Rome
.

Morons like those three almost made him miss Crassus, who was now ensconced in his new position in
Rome
, regularly attending meetings of the senate and guiding the future of the republic.

Almost… but not quite.

Very much the other side of the coin – a coin now probably authorised to mint by the very same Crassus – was the centurions. Furius and Fabius had spoken ttheir fellow passengers precisely as much as the courtesy due their social highers and military superiors demanded, and no more. The two men claimed to hold Caesar in very high regard both as an officer and as a tactician, and neither made mention of Pompey or their former commissions. Fronto had planned to turn the conversation around enough to pry into their past, but the constant illness and battering of his senses had made it practically impossible, and so Furius and Fabius remained somewhat mysterious.

One thing was certain: he would trust an oak-bark-sucking druid before he would let one of those two stand behind him with a knife.

Furius and Fabius had remained quiet and apart for most of the journey, talking among themselves and eying the three fops, Fronto and Galronus with equal distain.

Fronto watched with a surly temper as the dockside of Massilia closed on them. Hopefully the other five passengers would be in a hurry to travel north and he wouldn’t be forced to accompany them on the journey. Caesar had apparently already disembarked in Massilia on the previous trip of the
Glory of Venus
, and most of his officers would now be converging on the army in preparation. Fronto and Galronus wouldn’t be far behind, but there was something that had to be done first.

Despite the best efforts of the port officials of Massilia, there was simply so much traffic that the great trireme commissioned by Caesar had to sit in the glassy waters of the harbour for almost two hours before enough mercantile traffic had unloaded their wares and cleared the queues and jetties to make room for a warship.

In a Roman port, the simple appearance of a military vessel and the name of Caesar would be enough to ensure priority and the dispersal of mercantile traffic. But Massilia was still nominally independent and, at this point,
Rome
still obeyed her harbour rules.

The sun was already sliding into the western horizon, leaving a fiery shimmer across the water and casting the hills and mountains to the north and east in a deep purple tone when the trireme finally began its approach to the jetty.

Fronto braced himself for the first bounce and yet still lunged at the rail like a novice when it happened, recovering as quickly as he could and hurrying off down to the boarding ramp that was being run out, converging with the ladies and their Gaulish escort. The other centurions and officers had politely stepped aside to allow the ladies to disembark first, and Fronto took advantage, leaping in front of them and hurrying down after his three companions.

Alighting on the solid stone of land, Fronto resisted the urge to crouch and kiss it, concentrating instead on stopping the unmanly wobble in his legs. As he and his companions stood in a small knot on the dock in the rapidly emptying port, the others disembarked behind them, setting foot on the pier and moving away.

Pinarius wore an expression of happy and vacant excitement that immediately annoyed Fronto again.

“Ith tho much more thivilithed than I ecthpected. Thereth a monumen near the agora that commemorateth the great ecthplorer Pytheath, you know? He came from thith plath, and ecthplored ath far north ath a thip can go without freething tholid. Mutht we go north in the morning? Can we not thtay a day to thee the plath?”

Fronto winced as his brain tried to add a few solid consonants to the question.

“I think it would be unwise, my dear” replied tribune Hortius with a sad face that resembled one of the theatre masks for Greek tragedies. “Your beloved uncle wants us all with the army as soon as we can be there.”

Fronto kept his opinion of how desperately Caesar sought the company of his nephew in the privacy of his head. ‘Gods, please don’t let him be assigned to the Tenth!’ He resolved to be extra nice to the general on arrival, just in case.

Furius and Fabius alighted with the steady gait of men used to the sea, adjusting their stride easily to the dock and marching off into the town without a word to any of their former fellow passengers.

Fronto watched them go with lowered brows and grunted something under his breath.

“What was that?”

He turned to his sister.

“Pompeian turds” he repeated. “I think they were with Pompey when he led the navy too. Experienced marines, they are. What the hell is Caesar playing at?”

Galronus patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.

“You’ve lost a lot of centurions in the past two years, Marcus. The general can’t keep shuffling the ones you have left up each time and bringing in newly-raised officers at the bottom, or there’ll soon be no experienced centurions left. He has to bring in veteran officers if they become available, no matter their past.”

Fronto muttered something again in inaudible grunts.

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, the crew can unload the horses and baggage and send them on to the staging post. Let’s get up and see Balbus. My stomach seems to have flipped back over and is demanding wine and meat.”

“It’s a strenuous walk, Marcus” Lucilia reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for the horses?”

“My legs need the workout. They feel like knotted string at the moment.”

Behind them, the men of Caesar’s ship were already unloading the beasts and chests to the dock, where the port workers were consulting their orders, roping chains of beasts together and loading bags and crates onto carts, ready to deliver to their destinations. The cacophony of Latin voices from the ship, Greek tones from the dock, and Gaulish shouts from the immigrant workers rose and fell like the waves of the Mare Nostrum, threatening to make Fronto’s gorge rise again.

Turning his back on the havoc just as Fronto’s magnificent ck horse Bucephalus was walked slowly and carefully ashore, he led the small group up the street and out of the port. As they passed into the city itself, Lucilia was suddenly next to him and then past, as though drawn inexorably by the ever-nearing presence of her family. Sharing a glance, Fronto, Galronus and Faleria picked up their pace and hurried along behind. A local she may be, but no girl in her right mind travelled the streets of a port city on her own.

The journey was a tough one; exhausting, in fact. A mile through the rising streets of Massilia, back northeast away from the port, and then two more turning north on roads that led toward the villa district, rising through the hills behind the shore all the time. Barely half a mile from the edge of the great trade city, a solid, stable road of Roman construction ran along a carefully levelled terrace, stretching from
Cisalpine Gaul
in the east across to Narbo Martius in the west. A milestone claimed the road as Roman territory and marked the point where the local road from Massilia joined the republican highway.

The small group of travellers moved onto the strangely empty main road and walked some half a mile northwest until they found the familiar track that led off to the villas of the Roman nobles who had chosen to settle on the hills above Massilia.

And finally, their hungry eyes lit upon their destination.

The villa of Balbus had thrived since Fronto’s last visit. The garden and building itself were as neat as ever, but the complex also showed signs of growth. Four new buildings had risen to one side, including two bunkhouses for servants or slaves. Ordered rows of newly-planted vines, barely reaching above the soil, marched off down the slope toward the sea, their green tips catching the last of the light.

A slave rushed around the yard and the gardens, lighting lamps and torches where they would be most needed, as labourers returned wearily from the estate beyond, baskets and tools on their shoulders. Fronto smiled.

“Looks like your father’s turning into a farmer. Or a vintner.”

Lucilia grinned back at him. “
That’s
probably just to cater for your visits, my love. Come on.”

With Galronus looking around appreciatively, perhaps seeing for the first time the possibilities raised by the marriage of Gallic agriculture and Roman organisation, the four stepped into the garden. Newly acquired benches, arbours and a decorative dolphin fountain graced the frontage of the villa, and the walls had been freshly painted with red and white following the winter depredations.

Fronto frowned at the door, which stood open as slaves and servants rushed back and forth, settling everything for the night. He felt sure someone would have informed the villa’s master that a trireme had been seen docking in the port.

“Marcus, you look positively grey!”

Despite himself, Fronto jumped a little at the sudden words that issued from close behind him. Turning, he saw Quvilla Lucilius Balbus, former commander of the Eighth legion, lounging on a curved stone bench under a pergola, his arms folded and a sly grin on his face.

Fronto drank in the sight of his old friend. Balbus had aged more than he should have in half a year, but strangely it did not sit badly on him. While he looked a little older, he looked a great deal healthier and happier than he had last time they had met. He had bulked out a little and achieved the rosy complexion of a compulsive gardener. Laughter lines creased his face and he wore a straw hat that had seen better days and a tunic and breeches that, while cut to military pattern, were covered with the stains of fruit and soil.