Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (63 page)

Through the gate and into the villa grounds.

The garden had flourished and, though autumn was now pulling in, the care with which it had been planted and tended suggested Balbus’ involvement. Rose bushes and flower beds complemented neat green lawns and gravelled paths, with marble benches and a trickling fountain. Even as Fronto and Galronus passed into the courtyard, the front door of the building opened and three slaves scurried out into the dim evening light. The pair reached the wide gravel area before the door and the three men rushed across, heads bowed.

‘Welcome, Dominus.’ The first of the three reached out for the reins of Fronto’s horse, while the other two ran off behind to the rest. ‘Your men will have to bunk for the night in the outbuildings. We will have proper rooms prepared for them in the morning, but the Domina was not warned of your arrival, and so we are not prepared.’

Fronto looked around at Palmatus and Masgava, who both nodded, dismounting.

‘Fine.’

‘And master Galronus, I believe?’

The Remi officer nodded his head in answer.

‘The Domina bids me tell you that the lady Faleria is at the Villa Balba along the road.’

Fronto frowned at Galronus, who simply shrugged and turned his beast. ‘Women have their reasons, Fronto. I will see you in the morning.’

As his friend made his way back out onto the road and the singulares were led by the other two slaves around the villa’s side to where a variety of solidly-constructed buildings stood, Fronto found himself alone in the gathering dusk, with only the slave and Bucephalus for company.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Amelgo, Dominus.’

‘Hispanic?’

‘ Yes. Sedetani, Dominus. You have a sharp ear.’

‘Heard the accent a lot in my time. Well, Amelgo… this is Bucephalus and he’s been with me a long time. Look after him.’

‘Naturally, Dominus. I shall see to the stabling myself. If you head into the atrium, Aridolis will take you through.’ The Spanish slave gestured to the door and waited patiently for Fronto to dismount before leading the big black steed from the courtyard. Fronto stood silent for a moment, his eyes on the glowing gold rectangle of light, before taking a deep breath and putting one foot mechanically in front of the other until he passed from the evening shade and into the well-lit atrium.

The painters had been here, as had every other type of decorator and fabric salesman. Fronto couldn’t even estimate how much the atrium had cost to get it into this warm, wealthy, elegant state. A short, swarthy man with glistening black-blue hair cut to mid-length and held back from his face with thong, bowed his head.

‘Follow me, Dominus.’

Fronto, his tension refusing to dispel, wandered across the atrium and followed the Greek slave through into a warm and inviting chamber decorated in reds and browns and golds and with deep red drapes. The slave bowed and retreated from the room as Fronto took in the large, comfortable looking bed and the numerous piles of linen and other ‘womanly stuff’ around the room, which was seemingly partitioned with drapes.

‘Shhhhh…’

Fronto’s heart jumped at the sibilant hiss in his ear, and a hand landed on his shoulder, gently, like a falling leaf.

‘Bloody hell, Lucilia, you nearly scared the shit out of me!’

‘Marcus, hush.’

Fronto, his pulse racing, looked at his wife. She wore a large, fairly shapeless gown of thick white wool, voluminous to hide the bump that was not as large as he’d expected, but was clearly there as evidence that so far nothing had gone wrong.

‘Lucilia…’

‘Hush, Marcus. Come.’

She wrapped his rough soldier’s hand in her pale, smooth one and led him across the room, where she pointed down. Fronto frowned and looked in among the piles of linen.

‘What’s that?’

‘That, you big numb ox, is a baby.’

Fronto blinked.

‘Your son: Marcus. Named for you in the traditional manner.’

‘But…?’ Fronto stared, his brow furrowed. Something shuffled behind him, and he turned in surprise to see beside the wide bed a second small cradle stuffed with white linen. He frowned and turned back to Lucilia.

‘And that is your second son: Lucius, named for your father. He is a grand quarter hour younger than Marcus but already more mature, which I fear says a great deal.’

Fronto blinked, his mouth flapping open and closed.

‘Have you nothing to say?’

‘But… bump?’ he gestured at her midriff, where it bulged beneath the white cassock.

‘Marcus, women do not go from orca back to sylph immediately. It takes time. Especially with twins.’

‘But… early?’

‘Yes. Definitely a little early, but the obstetrix says they are both fully healthy and all is in order and that I have suffered remarkably little given the healthy size of the pair.’

Fronto shook his head and collapsed onto the side of the bed, looking back and forth between the two.

‘When?’

‘Three days now. A shame you were not a few days early, though in truth I was not expecting you until the winter. The campaigning season is still in progress?’

Fronto waved it aside as meaningless. ‘Just some menial things to sort out. I’ve got the Tenth again, but not ‘til spring.

‘That’s good. Faleria is intending to seal matters with Galronus before next year, so they might have time over the winter. I assume he travelled with you?’

Fronto simply nodded. Young Marcus suddenly let out a squeak that sounded agonising and the stunned father leapt to his feet in a panic.

‘Calm, dear. It’s just wind.’

As Lucilia reached down gently for the distressed infant, the boy flapped his small, chubby arms and rapped his knuckles on the basket side, raising a new cry. Lucilia kissed the hand as she picked up the baby and smiled at Fronto. ‘He is so definitely
your
son. Accident prone to the limit. We shall have to watch this one. If he follows his father too closely, he will discover the wine cellar as soon as he can walk.’

Fronto simply stared as Lucilia rubbed the child until it issued a reverberating belch and settled with a comfortable smile.

Just when he thought he was getting the hang of things life, as usual, threw at him something new to experience. He shook his head and tried to back away as Lucilia proffered the baby, but she was insistent, moving his arms for him until she could slip the small bundle into them.

His jaw firmed as he looked down at his eldest son and he felt a resolution he’d never experienced before. That eagle would not fall. The building would stand and the fire be extinguished and to Hades with prophecy. His sons would grow up to live in a Rome of peace and security.

Smiling down at Marcus and with a warmth beginning to infuse his chilled body, Fronto made his vow silently, beneath his breath. To Fortuna and Nemesis both. He would move the heavens if he had to, but he would stop the crumbling of the Republic for the sake of his family.

He would do whatever needed to be done.

Epilogue

‘Carry out the sentence!’

The centurion in command turned and saluted Priscus and the camp prefect stepped back and took his seat on the benches along with the other officers. Caesar was conspicuous in his absence. Whether or not he had decided to leave for Aquileia this morning to throw further insult at the Carnutes and the Senones, or whether he truly cared so little to see his will done, Priscus did not know, but Antonius sat in the general’s chair, watching events unfold with a stony face.

The assembly had lasted for two days, and the Remi and the Aedui, apparently eager to display their loyalty to Rome, had delivered up Acco, the chief of the Senones, as the man behind the rebellious attitude of the tribes, and the chief architect of the troubles. The Carnutes and the Senones had almost come to blows with their old friends over the betrayal, but with ten legions breathing down their necks, they checked their weapons, held their peace, and produced the wretched Acco as requested.

The man was terrified. Priscus had in his mind an image of the architects of Gallic revolt. The Ambiorixes and the Vercingetorixes and the Indutiomaruses of the world.

Acco was not one of them.

As he had been led out into the dusty square before the council of his peers and the senior commanders of Rome, he had been slumped, defeated, broken. As Caesar had listed the crimes of which he was accused and summarily pronounced his judgement without even bothering to seek approval from the Gauls, Acco had stood shaking, with wide, frightened eyes, a pool of warm urine growing at his feet.

Rome needed a villain. Priscus understood. And with the major villains gone or unavailable, this poor sod was being raised as a mastermind, but he could not find it in himself to approve of this or to hate the man. He had nodded when Antonius had requested that he be the officer in charge of the execution of Acco. He’d disliked it, but he’d agreed. And after this brief, unpleasant duty, the legions would be sent to their winter quarters - two on the borders of the repeatedly troublesome Treveri, two with the Lingones, where they were within striking distance of much of the Gallic and Belgae lands, and six in Senone territory, close to what was now being perceived to be the heart of the troubles.

But Priscus would not be going with them. With a few centuries of veterans, Priscus would be making for Aedui lands, where he would continue to pull apart the web of deceit and rebellion and learn what he could of Vercingetorix without alerting the man to his suspicions.

The winter looked like being a difficult, if interesting, time for Priscus.

The centurion startled him back into the present, calling out for the legionaries to perform their tasks. Acco was dragged, screaming like a defiant child, to the wooden ‘T’, where his wrists were lashed to the horizontal bar. The soldiers stepped back and the punishment officer walked across the dusty ground, his
flagellum
gripped tight. As he reached the mark in the dirt, he set his feet in position and let go of the barbed whip’s multiple tips, which fell to the ground and hung there ready, the leather thongs knotted around shards of glass, pottery, bone and iron. It was a brutal weapon. One of the worst ways imaginable to die, and reserved for the worst of criminals.

At the centurion’s whistle, the man pulled back his arm, tensed, and delivered the first blow.

Jagged fragments ripped across the man’s back, tearing flesh from it in chunks, fracturing bones and flaying the man in excruciating agony.

Acco screamed and his cry echoed around the valley and across the silent spectators. Priscus took a deep breath. It would be over soon. He’d seen a few ‘scourgings’ in his time, and even hardy condemned soldiers would be dead by the count of thirty. A weak man like Acco might not make it past a dozen. And in the absence of Caesar’s specific instructions, Antonius had declared that he be scourged to death, rather than the more common practice of stopping near death and then crucifying him for the end. Priscus knew Antonius well enough to know that this was no showing of weakness or compassion, though. It was simple expediency. He wanted the chiefs to watch Acco die and there to be no doubt as to his fate and no potential that he be saved from the cross by rebellious sympathisers.

No. Acco would die in the next dozen strokes.

He watched as a lung was exposed and then shredded with the third blow, and the man’s cries of agony quietened with his inability to draw in enough breath.

Around them, the Gallic council watched. Silent. Angry. Helpless.

* * * * *

Vercingetorix, exiled noble of the Arverni, both master and pawn of druids, pulled the cloak tighter about himself. There was no likelihood of anyone here recognising him, especially at the back and lost among the spectators, surrounded by the equally miscellaneous figures of his men, but there was sense in leaving as little as possible to chance. It seemed that Ambiorix had escaped Roman clutches and fled across the Rhenus to his German friends, and the druids were content with the result, but Vercingetorix’s men had not returned nor sent any word, and his suspicions kept him in a heightened sense of awareness of danger. He would not relax now until Rome was naught but a burning hole in the ground.

It was ironic, really. Here he was, standing watching the death of a poor fool who had - like Ambiorix - tipped his hand too early. He was surrounded by an assembly of the same chieftains who had condemned his own father to death for seeking to unite the tribes of Gaul under him. And the druids who had done nothing to help the father were now doing everything in their power to see that very thing happen to the son. Many of his father’s judges were now pledging their tribes’ swords to his command.

He would have laughed had he not been trying to maintain his anonymity.

‘The Senones and the Carnutes are straining at the leash now,’ the druid beside him muttered from the depths of his plain brown wool hood.

‘They will not move, though, until they are told to do so.’

‘They will not wait for long. This humiliation is the final one that they will suffer. Already their nobles plot and plan and gather their men.’

‘Tell them that if they move early they will simply follow Acco to the whipping post. If they seek what we all seek, they will wait until I give them the order.’

‘You are our figurehead and general, Esus. Remember that. Not our king.’

‘I am the man who will rid you of Rome and if you wish to succeed in your endeavour, you will do exactly what I tell you, and when I do so. You will tell the Carnutes and the Senones not to move until I give the word. The word will be given before the spring - you know that.’

The druid nodded. ‘It is said that their Crassus has died out in the east and that Rome teeters on the brink of disaster. It is said that Caesar will have to concentrate on Rome if he is to survive. The foretelling is that Caesar will be slow to move and mired in the workings of his webs in Rome.’

‘We will wait until the legions are settled in for the winter and believe themselves secure and in control. Until Caesar is in his palace and dealing with the failings of his own people. And then, when all is right and our people are ready, straining like the river against the dam, the word will be given, and the Senones can loose the fire arrow that signals the end of Rome.’