Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (5 page)

So what was a man to do?

"Feliciter!" barked the old auspex before sagging and making a strange keening sound, drool dripping to his toes.

Fronto blinked, suddenly aware that the witnesses were cheering him.

It was over. He was a married man.

Lucilia was facing him, her face displaying a curious look which reminded him of that expression Faleria always had while buying slaves. Ah well. From a commander in Gaul to one in Rome. At least there would be fringe benefits from this campaign. Now all he had to do was survive the party and he and Lucilia could retire in peace.

* * * * *

"Have you given any more thought to the life of a country gentleman?"

Fronto felt that nagging itch that settled on him at formal occasions and took a sip of his extremely watered wine.

"Quintus, I'm no farmer."

"Shame. See, I have a gift for you; for you and Lucilia actually."

Fronto's eyes rose to the gathering in the large triclinium. Music wafted across the room along with the scented smoke from the braziers that kept the room lit and warmed. The guests had been doing a good job of keeping out of his way so far, possibly because of the look on his face that Balbus had told him was inappropriate for a newly-married man.

"A gift? It's me who gives the gifts to Lucilia."

"I know. But still. You see I've been hoping you would decide to take up the life of a retired gentleman, and I thought that, to that effect… well the long and the short of it is: there's a villa waiting for you on the hill behind Massilia, adjoining my own estate."

Fronto blinked. "What?"

"I got the land very cheap as I know some of the city's council and they're eager to take Roman noble settlers. Gives the city a bit of security and legitimacy in Rome's eyes you see. I've had the same people constructing it as built my own villa, though that was a long time ago. It won't be finished until late summer at the earliest… possibly even next year, if the weather turns bad in summer, but it's yours. You need somewhere to go that's away from the rat race of the city and, let's face it, Faleria needs the villa at Puteoli. Her or your mother anyway."

Fronto stared. "It's… generous."

"It's sensible. Have you given any thought to your future, then?"

"Almost nothing but. I love Lucilia, Quintus, and I'm happy as can be with the marriage, but there's this cloud hanging over me at the moment that I just can't shift. I'm no farmer or politician. As long as I've served with Caesar's guard or the Ninth or Tenth I've been absolutely certain of my place in the world. Now it feels like I've been set adrift on a raft and there's no sight of land. D'you understand?"

"Of course I do. I was lost for my first half year after I left the legion. I knew little else. You'll find a path, but you need to be patient. You need to be patient with the others too. Everyone has your best interest at heart and I know my daughters can be a little fearsome, but they love you - Lucilia especially. Take your time and relax. Treat this summer like an extended period of leave - that way you won't feel quite so lost. And remember that I'm always here to help."

"That is actually surprisingly comforting, Quintus. Thank you."

"Stop worrying about the future for the moment and concentrate on tonight. Your sister deserves your support and approval. There are a number of people who want to talk to you, probably to offer you opportunities, and Galba and Rufus are waiting for you to have time to reminisce. Even Crassus is waiting for a chance to talk. First thing's first, though. Catullus has asked me to introduce you properly."

"Really? Can't imagine what the warbling fellow would want with me."

"Be good. Catullus is in great demand and that 'warbling' was a composition in honour of you and my daughter. He gave of his time and skills as a gift to you and that deserves recognition."

"I suppose. Come on, then."

Balbus smiled and strode across the room to where a thin, well-dressed man sat quietly on a comfortable couch while three heavily white-leaded harpies gushed at him. He looked distinctly uncomfortable at the attention of the three women and that fact warmed Fronto towards him a little. As they approached, the poet turned to look up at him and Fronto was momentarily taken aback.

Catullus was a handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties with a clear - if pale - complexion and short, neat blond hair. He was clean shaven and unadorned apart from a single ring of gold. His toga was plain and old fashioned and he sat at ease, but his eyes almost stopped Fronto in his tracks. They were a glittering emerald colour and girls likely swooned over them, but they carried a hopeless hollowness in them that Fronto recognised all too well. It was a look he had seen in his bronze shaving mirror for years after the deaths of Vergilius and Carvalia. He understood what caused it and what it would do to a man. He also knew how dangerous it was.

"Ladies, may I introduce you to two veteran commanders of Caesar's legions" Balbus said expansively at the three women, who looked less than pleased about the possibility of being dragged away from the famous, handsome poet, but who recognised the barely concealed order from the house's master. As Balbus steered the women away from Catullus, the poet lifted a plain-sandaled foot and pushed another chair towards Fronto.

"Many congratulations, master Falerius."

"No one calls me that. I'm Fronto to most; Marcus to friends."

"I am as yet unaware as to my position in that hierarchy. It is good to meet you… Fronto. You have something of a reputation as a direct man - a man of action rather than words."

"That sounds surprisingly double-edged for what I presume is a complement."

Catullus laughed and once more Fronto noted the hollowness to the sound. It was mechanical and devoid of true feeling. "I apologise. I am known for my somewhat cutting and edgy compositions, as your former commander will be well aware."

"I think Caesar pays little attention to such lampoonery when he's got men like Cicero around bad-mouthing him. Apologies if I puncture your ego, Catullus, but you're only a small fish in that particular pool."

Catullus snapped out the mechanical laugh again.

"Good. Straight talking as I was told. I have a question for you."

"Go on."

"I am informed," the poet said, stretching, "that you are one of very few men indeed who have had dealings with Publius Clodius Pulcher and come out on top; that he in fact is a little afeared of you."

"Slimy, shit-ridden filthy catamite damn well
should
be frightened of me. If we ever cross paths again, he's going to be a shadow of his former self. In fact, I'd say there's probably only one man that hates him more than me, but that's another story."

Catullus simply nodded at this sudden display of bile and invective.

"Good. Not that you hate him, particularly, but rather that you bested him. You see, I need information on something, and I am fast running out of avenues to search. Clodius is the only real source that I have not yet tapped and he has been the most likely possibility throughout, given his proximity to the subject. It seems that the events of the past few years have made him a very careful and defensive person, though. He never shows his face in public without a small army surrounding him. He even has a shield bearer beside him in public in case of disgruntled archers."

"Again, much of that is my fault, but not all. I know of someone who's been waiting over a year for the opportunity to put a blade between those shoulders. Clodius would probably have been picked off months ago by any one of his enemies if he wasn't cocooned in the centre of an army and shielded. What's the son of a whore done to you then?"

"Not so much a 'what's he done', Fronto. More of a 'what might he know'. You see his sister and I were something of an item."

Fronto felt his stomach turn over. Perhaps a handful of people in the whole Republic knew what had become of the meddlesome Clodia: her untimely, if well-deserved death at the hands of the renegade officer Paetus. Official reports simply had her down as a disappearance. A brief and inexpensive memorial had been staged by her brother, during which he had hardly even paid attention, keeping himself busy with his murderous debt ledgers.

Catullus? This callow young poet had been romantically involved with the poisonous siren? There must be some steel in the man then, else she would have likely eaten him alive.

"Clodia?" He managed to say, hopefully without any unusual inflection. "She disappeared over a year ago. I'm afraid I see very little hope in pursuing her now."

"Regardless," the poet responded quietly, "I must do so. To not know… well let me try and put it poetically. She was the rosy fingers of dawn that began my days and the gentle shroud of night that closed them. She was the lamp that lit my way and the blanket that warmed me. Without her I am a shell, Fronto. A mere shell. I have to know."

Fronto shook his head slowly. "Don't get involved with her brother. The man is poison incarnate. Everything he touches withers. If you draw his attention he'll turn on you, and a year from now someone will be knocking on my door looking for the poet that vanished in mysterious circumstances. You understand that?"

Catullus simply nodded his understanding.

"When I ran out of worldly contacts to pursue, I started to seek the advice of oracles and soothsayers."

"Always a laugh."

"You may not put much stock in such matters, Fronto, but some things are a little hard to discredit. I heard the same thing from three different sources: that I
would
find her, but then I would die. Frankly that end is the most appealing for me now. Better to be reunited in death than alive and apart."

"I note that doesn't say whether you'll find her alive or dead. Would you be happy to find she lives and then drop dead? I think not. Soothsayers cannot be trusted. I went to the oracle at Cumae once. Not exactly a satisfactory experience in any way."

"I was told something else, Fronto. I was told that Rome was coming to an end. I was told prophecy, Fronto, and I suspect that if I depart this life with my Clodia found, I will be the lucky one."

"Prophecy is all crap" Fronto replied flatly, though one eyelid jumped a little at the lie.

"I will be the first of four to die, they said. And those four will snap the threads that hold the republic together. The first by Socrates root, they said, so I think I can safely assume I will not pass peacefully in my sleep. The second, they said, would be by the Vulcan's fury, the third by the arrival of the sun, and the fourth by the Parthian shot. I'm no expert in these things, but I can't say it sounds good."

"Don't put so much stock in this mumbo jumbo. And steer clear of Clodius. Nothing good will come of it."

"I suspect otherwise. Are you saying you will not help me gain access to Clodius?"

Fronto shrugged. "I'm saying I
cannot
help you gain access to him. There's no way but to walk up to his army and ask to speak to him, and I would heartily advise against that. Broken fingers and ribs are not pleasant. You're a celebrated man. For you to show up bobbing in the Tiber would be a shame."

Catullus fixed Fronto with his sharp, emerald gaze and finally nodded and sat back. "Then thank you for your time, Fronto. I hope the composition was up to expectations."

"Lovely. Thanks."

Turning from the poet, Fronto strode across the room and out into the peristyle garden. It was still early in the year and the evening air had a bite to it, though the rain had stopped blessedly a few days ago. It could be worse, though. Priscus' letter had told of an abominable winter in northern Gaul. Taking a deep breath, he strolled around the sides of the garden beneath the portico, breathing in the jasmine and marjoram.

"You look troubled, my love."

Pausing, Fronto turned to see Lucilia standing in the doorway.

"I just spoke to your poet friend. He's a strange one."

"Perhaps. You've had this pall hanging over you all day. I've not mentioned it, though many a bride might take offence at such an atmosphere on her wedding day."

"Sorry, Lucilia. It's just the…"

"Future. Yes, I know. I'm well acquainted with how your mind works, Marcus." She strode forward and hooked her arm through his, urging him to walk on. "Put all of that aside. We can work it out in due course. For now, we have a summer coming that the auspices tell us will be a good one, and we have the city to play in, your villa in Puteoli to adjourn to and, of course, the new house in Massilia to visit. Think of it as a year-long leave break from the army."

Fronto laughed.

"Sometimes I see so much of your father in you. Lucilla."

"Hopefully not the baldness."

Fronto sighed. "I have this horrible feeling that we're heading for a fall again."

"You and I?"

"The republic in general. Like the Social War. Troops in the streets; despots and proscriptions; blood and fire. I keep getting a whiff of it for just a moment and then the wind changes."

"All the more reason to enjoy the time we have now. Anyway, I was coming to tell you something."

"Go on."

"You remember Julia? Atia's niece?"

Fronto's spirits sank a little again. Caesar's daughter - his only direct issue and the young wife of Pompey. The glue that bound the two politicians together.

"Yes" he replied apprehensively. "She's an old friend of Faleria's."

"I know. She's pregnant, you know?"

"I am aware."

"Well she's determined to go to a performance in that monstrous new theatre her husband has built before she's too bulky to move, and she's asked if Faleria, Galronus, you and I want to join them. It's being organised now for a show in two or three weeks and I said we'd love to go. I hope you've nothing planned instead?"

Fronto's spirits sank ever further, rustling around in the soles of his boots. He had never yet sat through a theatre performance sober. Indeed, he had been forcibly ejected from the theatre in Tarraco twice in his time for drunken and lewd behaviour - when he was younger. Drama was anathema to Fronto. He sagged.