somewhere way south of town for the night.”
As they peered down the corridor and confirmed no one was watching, Fronto locked the door once more and started to climb out of the window. Galronus cleaned his blade on a piece of the assassin’s tunic he’d ripped off, and sheathed it.
“You think it’s your tribune friends?”
“I can’t really think who else it could be. This was deliberately targeted at us; not just aimed for the first Roman officer that came past. They even put an amphora of expensive Sicilian in plain view just to occupy my thoughts and stop me noticing things out of place or wondering about Silvanus. Of course he wouldn’t have gone to Nemausus for stuff — he’d have
Fronto padded across the roof of the extension and slid down, dropping to the courtyard.
Galronus followed suit with more dexterity, landing easily as Fronto winced in pain and rubbed his knee.
“You’ve got to sort that out” Galronus scolded him.
“The first chance I get to give it a month’s rest I’ll do just that. Now let’s get the horses and get out of Vienna before we discover that Menenius and Hortius bought every thug in the place.”
Fronto and Galronus slowed their tired mounts and reined in outside Poseidon’s Palace, the most grandiosely named inn in Massilia. The large building with two wings of accommodation had done its Greek owner extremely well since Caesar’s push into Gaul, being selected as the official stopping point for all officers and couriers passing through the independent city and boarding or disembarking ships. In fact, the Roman traffic through the inn, for which the owner was paid a healthy monthly stipend, had all but driven the free trade from its doors as few locals or merchants could afford to rent a room. Even the decor and the food and drink were now thoroughly catered to Roman tastes.
The groom, a young man with one leg slightly longer than the other, lurched from the wide gateway of the stables and greeted the two officers pleasantly, his accent that strange mix only found in the former Greek trading colonies of the west.
The two men nodded and handed their reins over to the servant, patting the steaming flanks of the beasts that had carried them the last leg from Glanum and wishing them well as they ended the horseback segment of their journey. It had been ten days of tense desperation, saddle-sores, constantly changing mounts and rough cots in the small, stockaded way-stations set up by Cita to provide the enormous supply system that flowed from Narbonensis, Massilia and Cisalpine Gaul.
Ten days of trepidation.
The incident at Vienna had pushed them to a new turn of speed, having gained them a night with no rest and therefore a further thirty miles under their belts. Neither man had spoken of the attack after they had left the Vienna area almost three days earlier, hurrying through the night to be free from the danger of assassins. That the two tribunes were prepared to take the risks and spend the money paying off local bandits and even murdering settled veterans spoke eloquently of the lengths to which the men were willing to go in removing Fronto from the picture.
Though neither man voiced it, both Fronto and Galronus had come quickly to the conclusion that the tribunes would have been successful had they themselves sprung the trap, and the fact that they did not and instead entrusted it to the unknown quantity of paid killers suggested that they were otherwise engaged in a task that was too important to delay even for that. Such a task was worrisome indeed.
His bag of personal kit slung over his shoulder, Fronto strode into the ‘Palace’, Galronus at his heel. The main chamber of the inn, mostly given over to tables for eating, with a fire at the more open end that warmed the room, was thriving, though here and there were spaces still available at tables.
Their eyes strayed across the occupants — more than ninety per cent of whom were Roman, and rested on the long bar with the innkeeper and his slave working like mad to tend to the custom. They had a more urgent appointment than that, though. Feeling their muscles loosen at the warm and cosy atmosphere, the two officers strode across to the table close to the fire which was stacked with tablets, sheaves of writing wood, styluses and the endless accoutrements of the bureaucracy. The man sitting on the only chair at the desk was the mirror of every mid-level administrator across the Republic: well-dressed above his station and full of self-importance. And yet who could deny him deference, given the vital role he played in the support of Caesar’s campaign?
Flavius Fimbria was the man with a stranglehold on all travel and goods in or out of Massilia, a man with a plethora of slaves and functionaries, to whom every Roman who passed through the city must speak if he wished to arrange sea passage, horses, a cart, or supplies.
“Master Fimbria” Fronto greeted him formally, approaching the table.
“Can I help you, soldier?”
Fronto felt Galronus stiffen at his side, bridling at the lack of deference to officers of their rank. The legate himself knew that despite their lofty positions they resembled nothing more than a travel-worn legionary or junior officer and a somewhat Romanised Gaul.
“Yes. Please arrange for the
Fimbria narrowed his eyes. “You have the authorisation for this?”
Fronto dropped one of Caesar’s tablets to the table in front of him, the others having been well used, but this still fresh and sealed. The administrator examined the seal for a moment, seeming surprised to find it genuine, and then snapped it open and perused the contents.
“Very well, legate Fronto — I presume — I will send to the ship and have your arrangements made. The first sailing will be just past dawn. Could you arrange to be at the seventh jetty in the port by sun-up?”
The legate nodded and reached for the tablet just as Fimbria swept it away. “I’m afraid I shall need to retain this to pass on to trierarch Sura to confirm your authorisation. You understand?”
Fronto shrugged. “Just have it ready.”
Turning their back on the administrator they strode across the room to the bar and caught the attention of the innkeeper.
“Officers?”
“We need two rooms for the night, an evening meal and a morning call an hour before dawn.”
“You have the relevant documents?” The man held out a hand expectantly and Fronto handed over the well- worn travel authorisation sealed by Caesar. Every man wishing to partake of the inn’s hospitality would need a stamped pass or would be required to pay upfront. The innkeeper peered at the tablet, an eyebrow raised at the seal of the proconsul of Illyricum and Cisalpine Gaul. He nodded as he snapped it shut and passed it back. “Please find yourself a table and I will have food and drink brought to you.”
Fronto rubbed his eyes wearily and gestured to the bag on his shoulder questioningly.
“Leave your kit here and I’ll have one of the boys take it up to a room for you, sir.”
Galronus glanced uncertainly at Fronto, remembering the troubles at Vienna, but Fronto simply dumped the bag gratefully on the bar and turned to stride away.
“Will they be safe?” the Remi officer asked quietly.
“Here? Nowhere safer. The place is built on Roman coins and too high-profile for anyone to buy trouble in. Come on.” They made their way to one of the tables near the open space and therefore within the reach of the fire’s welcoming warm glow. The tables on the edge here were busy; legionaries and lesser officers, functionaries of Cita’s supply system, occupying each bench and seat.
“Any room for two tired officers?” Fronto asked pointedly, in response to which a number of soldiers shuffled away, shifting their drinks, platters, dice and small piles of cash, leaving two stools at the end of a table, opposite one another.
The two men sank gratefully to the seats nodding their thanks to the men who had moved up to make room.
“Our pleasure, sir. You just come from the north, sir?”
Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose. He could really do without chatting to the passing soldiery at this juncture, but politeness cost nothing and the man was simply being hospitable.
“Hot-foot as it were from the north coast and bound for Rome, soldier. And you?”
“Escort for a wagon full of furnishings and other goods for the legate of the Fourteenth legion, sir. To ease
