dragging his companions with him.
“I’ve stayed in Ostia. There’s only a limited supply of insect-free beds. I’m not losing out to two traitorous centurions, two ostriches and a man who’s left his chin behind. Come on.”
Unable to hold their friend back, the other three hurried along in Fronto’s wake, converging with the people of Ostia and the small group of soldiers as they made for the street entrance.
Suddenly, almost as if choreographed, the general population opened up and made a space around the mouth of the street. Men in senior military uniform had a way of opening such spaces, regardless of their true value. The only people who failed to melt out of the way were the crippled soldier, whose uniped nature made it difficult, and the whore, who saw an opportunity and bared her chest at them, grinning with all nine teeth.
And Fronto.
Into the sudden open space, Fronto almost dragged Lucilia, with Galronus and Faleria at his heel.
“Hold!” called a reedy voice high enough to be a woman, but that issued from the mouth above the receding chin. Fronto was so taken aback by the voice that he actually stumbled to a halt, blocking the access to the street, Galronus ambling to a stop next to him.
The two bristly centurions who had been behind the senior officers came round the side, slapping their vine staves meaningfully against their greaves.
“In thivilithed thothiety, peathenth and barbarianth thtep out of the way of their theniorth!” snapped chinless in a feminine register.
Fronto grinned and opened his mouth, a thousand insults fighting for prominence on his tongue, but no sound made it out, thanks to a breath-stealing rabbit-punch to the kidney from Galronus.
“Ahem…” said a high, calm voice, with a hint of smugness. Fronto recovered quickly, straightening with a glare at Galronus, to see Menenius step forward to address Chinless.
“With respect, my lord, the ‘barbarian’ is one of your blessed uncle’s senior cavalry commanders and the…” the tribune smiled unpleasantly “… the one that looks like a vagrant would be Marcus Falerius Fronto, staff officer and current commander of the Tenth Equestrian Legion.”
The junior tribune’s faultless moment was ruined slightly as he finished his words with a girlish titter that he tried to hide behind his hand, failing dismally. Fronto frowned, but noticed with some satisfaction the two centurions straighten, their staves dropping to their sides.
“His uncle?” Fronto said, narrowing his eyes.
“Of course, Fronto, you overgrown poppet” said the other junior tribune in a squeaky tone. “This is Publius Pinarius Posca, the son of Julia the elder, nephew of the general. He comes to take a tribunate in Gaul.”
Fronto sighed as the chinless one opened his mouth again.
“Are you thure thath who he ith? He lookth half dead, and dretheth like a… I don’t know. I’ve never theen anyone drethed like that.”
Menenius smiled. “And the ladies, I fancy, would be the lovely sister of master Fronto, and his paramour?”
Fronto’s sour look turned on the speaker before returning to Galronus and the girls.
“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
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 commemorative 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
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 to their 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
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
