Chapter Ten

 

FRONTO reached down and picked up the exquisite coloured glass containing the expensive Chian and took a sip. Barely watered at all, it warmed as it coated his mouth with a rich, velvety taste. He smiled.

‘If you want to just give me money, then give me money. You don’t have to muck about with all this.’

‘This?’ Balbus raised an eyebrow inquisitively and Fronto grinned at his old friend and, more recently, father-in-law.

‘You buy the best wines I can import at the standard full price I charge the unwitting and you save them for when Lucilia or myself visit. I’ve noticed this. Even Pamphilus and Clearchus have commented on it, and neither of them could outthink a milestone. You know I would just bring a good amphora when I visit anyway.’

‘You don’t think I save all of it for you, do you?’ Balbus chuckled. ‘My favourite Greek medicus in the city tells me that thick red wine is actually good for my heart, and the less water I add the better. Imagine that? And so, if I’m not watering it down, of course I’m going to choose the very best. I’ve had trouble with the heart for years, but I’m currently in rude health and I intend to remain that way long enough to watch my grandsons take the toga virilis and get enslaved by some Roman girl with swaying hips and fluttering eyelashes.’

Again, Fronto grinned, though with a touch of sadness at the core of the smile. Balbus was perhaps two decades older than Fronto, and he himself was no glowing youth, long past the age when most Romans fathered their children. He hoped the old man’s heart would hold out that long. He made a mental note to take a jar of this very same vintage to the temple of Aesculapius… Asklepios, damn these Greek naming conventions… and use it as a libation in favour of the old man’s health.

‘Anyway, what were we talking about?’

‘You were worrying about your slaves,’ Balbus smiled, taking another pull on his wine and smacking his lips appreciatively.

‘Lucilia keeps pointing out that you have no issues with keeping slaves.’

‘Lucilia looks a lot but sees little.’

Fronto frowned. In his experience it was much the other way around. ‘Go on?’

‘There is not a single slave in this house, Marcus. Many of them were brought here as slaves, but I paid a good weekly stipend and set manumission at an easy target to reach. Of the slaves I have bought since I settled in Massilia, only two did not work hard, do me proud, and buy their own freedom within the year. And both of those two I sold in the end to the fishing concerns. One was lazy and one was greedy and neither had a future with my house, so now they work hard gutting fish, when they could have had an easy life here. I have seven former slaves, now freedmen and –women, working in my household and lands. And they all continue in their former roles, but for a decent wage. You’d be most surprised I expect to hear that the best paid of them all was a totally unbroken Aedui girl, who it turned out has an affinity with horses. She now manages my stable and has three lads working for her. I’ll not introduce you to her, given your history with comely Gauls…’

Fronto gave his father-in-law a black look.

‘And the other fourteen staff I have here,’ Balbus went on, ‘are all ex-military, hired after they received their honesta missio, or in one case released early with a missing arm. He turned out to be an excellent cook. He made that fine meal you just ate, in fact. I trust my ex-legionaries, and it saves me having to hire guards like yours. Any pair of hands in my villa could pick up a sword with at least some skill and put the pointy end in an interloper, regardless of their daily duties.’

Fronto nodded at his friend’s sense and wondered how Lucilia would take it if he explained that her father didn’t really trust slaves in his household either. He sighed.

‘Anyway, it’s this Andala woman that bothers me. Her and Lucilia are starting to get very close. They act far more like giggling girls together than mistress and slave and it’s making me very nervous. It’s like living with a crocodile and a bear and finding the pair of them shaking paws and eyeing you up while they lick their lips. It’s only a matter of time before Lucilia embarks on another of her ‘I have to change Marcus campaigns.’

‘Really, Marcus. My daughter can be a handful, but she knows what she’s doing running a household. She learned from the best.’

‘She gives that Bellovaci girl far too much freedom.’

Balbus chuckled again. ‘This from the man who doesn’t like keeping slaves.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Did you know that the day before yesterday I came in late and found that while Lucilia and the boys were fast away in the arms of Morpheus, Andala was sitting in my office polishing my best gladius? I wanted to rant at her, but that would have woken Lucilia and I somehow know that I’d come off at the end as the loser in that encounter. But I took the sword from its customary place on the wall and hid it under my bed with the old campaign tunics and cloaks. And the girl is always in our rooms now. Lucilia seems to have promoted her to looking after the boys. Wouldn’t you be nervous?’

'I say again, Marcus: she knows exactly what she's doing.'

Fronto sighed and sat back with his glass of Chian, giving it an appreciative sip. ‘The only bright side is that one of my former soldiers, Aurelius - you remember him?'

'The one with the bats, yes?'

'That's the one. He seems to have something of a torch burning for her, and I've noticed the odd look when she observes him that reminds me of the German cavalry when they spot a small, poorly-armed patrol. Guarded hunger. I'm going to try and foster the thing from both sides - see if I can pair them off and get her out of my hair, but that in itself is difficult as it means I'll have to spend time at the villa instead of hiding out in the warehouse.'

Balbus snorted.

'Have you had any news from Gaul?'

Fronto tried to fight the all-too-familiar sense of loss as he ran over the list of friends now passed who would have been the ones to send him all the news. Now only Atenos remained in the Tenth, and Atenos was about as likely to write a letter as he was to paint his backside blue and dance on a table asking for a 'Syrian Surprise'. In fact, the only person who had sent Fronto a missive since the day he left Caesar's camp had been Varus, and the cavalry officer had been brief and terse.

'Little. But I hear rumours. I tend to spend time down with Caesar's supply officer in the town, and news leaks through. Sounds like there are numerous small revolts breaking out across the north.'

'Nothing dangerous, though?'

'No,' Fronto shrugged. 'Just last ditch attempts from a defeated people. After Alesia even their best were beaten, and they knew it. Only idiots and lunatics will hold out now.'

'Have you given any thought as to what will happen when the proconsul finishes his term and heads back to Rome?'

Fronto blinked, and Balbus smiled oddly. 'You fool no one, Marcus. You can play the wine merchant for a while. You might even turn out to be good at it. But we all know that one day you'll go running back to the military. You are the oddest imaginable Roman patron, you know? All the others use the military as a stepping stone. Not you. Sooner or later, once he's made consul, Caesar will find a new front upon which to fight, and as soon as he does, you'll go running.'

'Not again.'

Balbus barked out a short laugh. 'Don't be absurd, Marcus. Of course you will. If I hadn't collapsed in action years ago I'd be racing back myself. Hell, despite any arguments I might have with Caesar, I'd be heading to his command tent now if I could. You're not a home body. You never were.'

'Life's full of surprises, Quintus. My acceptance of the quiet life might just be one of them.'

Both men took a quick sip of the exquisite wine and looked up at the sound of the commotion outside. A moment later, as they both sat up, Balbus' doorman, a former legionary of the Eighth, stomped in, bowing and saluting, clearly unsure whether he should be following military or civilian protocol. Balbus nodded encouragingly.

'Beg pardon, sir.'

'Yes?'

'There's a foul-mouthed barbarian at the gate demanding to speak to master Marcus Falerius Fronto. I would have automatically turned him away other than the fact that he has half a dozen of master Fronto's men with him.

Balbus raised an eyebrow, and Fronto turned to the former legionary. 'What did the 'barbarian’ call you?'

'I'd rather not say, sir, but it'd make a whore blush and my mother will be spinning in her urn. And he threatened to flatten my face, too.'

'Catháin,' smiled Fronto. 'Might be important.'

Balbus gestured to the legionary. 'Let the man in, Scortius.'

'Yessir.'

Another brief altercation at the villa's door was followed by the slap of soft leather boots on marble as the strange northerner made his way through to the triclinium, Balbus' doorman scurrying along behind, trying to get in front to lead the way and failing dismally.

'Fronto, we've got a problem.'

'And good evening to you, too, Catháin. This is my father-in-law, Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth.'

Catháin gave a brief nod in Balbus' direction and clapped his hands together in a business-like manner. 'You know that Helvian wine that we're shipping to Rome?'

Fronto nodded and noted Balbus' curious expression.

'It's a big deal. Two hundred amphorae of the stuff bound for a gladiator ludus in Rome. The stuff tastes like something that leaked out of a badger's arse, but the lanista is willing to pay good silver for it regardless. It's the deal of the year. Something like a thousand percent profit.'

Balbus nodded appreciatively.

'Well there's a problem, Fronto,' the northerner grunted, slapping his fist into his palm. 'I got a message from Antidorus the teamster and rushed down to the port. The shipment was due to be loaded onto a trireme called the Demeter, but the captain's refused to take the load on board and won't tell us why. All he said was I should take it up with the logistics and quartermaster office in the city. I went to see Fabius Ambustus, given that he and I now have something of an understanding, but the guards at the office tell me he's too busy and won't let me see him. Meantime the Helvian wine moulders on the quayside. If it could smell any worse I'd wonder if it was going off. If we can't get it loaded this afternoon, I'm going to have to put it back into storage and hope for the best.'

'Shit.'

'Just that,' agreed Catháin. 'If that shipment doesn't sail in the morning, we'll be late with the delivery. At the very best we'll be looking at a daily-increasing fee for the delay. If we're really unlucky, he'll cancel the deal altogether and we'll be left with undrinkable wine to shift suddenly - enough of it to float a trireme, ironically.'

Fronto nodded. 'And every day's delay will drop our profits enough that a week or so will put us in danger of making a loss.'

'Quite so.'

He turned to Balbus and sighed. 'Sorry to interrupt our afternoon, but this is something I need to take care of urgently. I might be back if I can sort things out fast enough.'

Balbus smiled indulgently.

'Go. Play merchant and play it well. I shall see you in due course.'

Nodding his thanks, Fronto turned and grasped Catháin's hand as the man offered to help him up. 'Come on. I need to quickly change and then we'll head down to the office.'

'Change?' the man asked curiously.

'The uniform of a senior officer still carries a lot of weight in military circles even when you've retired, and I keep everything pressed and clean, just in case. I just hope Andala's not been messing with it all while she's looking for my sword again.'

 

* * * * *

 

He'd expected it to feel entirely natural when he donned his Roman military tunic, cloak, belt and so on. He was, after all, a soldier born and forged in decades of war. And yet, as he and his small group of companions bore down on the office, he found he was shrugging his shoulders constantly, uncomfortable in the snug fit after the very giving and light Greek-style chiton and chlamys. The fact that it no longer felt normal disturbed him somehow and reinforced his refusal to consider a return to the martial life - a refusal that Balbus had clearly disbelieved.

He hooked a finger in his bronze-plated belt and turned it slightly so that the fittings for the dagger didn't catch on his cloak as it had so often done, evidenced by all the pulled threads in one small patch of cloth.

The two bored-looking legionaries by the door of the office building that had been granted to Caesar rent free by the city's boule eyed the small party approaching them with interest, but did not straighten to attention.

Behind Fronto, Catháin, Masgava, Aurelius and Arcadios walked, looking as strong and implacable as they could. Fronto himself was prepared for an argument. Everything seemed to involve an argument these days, whether at work or at home.

'I need to see Prefect Fabius Ambustus on a matter of the utmost urgency.'

The legionaries shared a look that contained surprisingly little respect, given Fronto's apparel.

'The prefect is very busy, sir. There's a waiting list for meetings, but he's not even considering granting an audience until after market day.'

Fronto ground his teeth and tried not to lose his temper. Market was still three days away. What was Ambustus doing? A decade of command coursed through Fronto's veins as he leaned towards the insolent legionary and brought his angry face so close his breath would fog the man's eyeballs.

'I may not be wearing the knotted belt of command, soldier, but you might recognise the stripe on my tunic denoting my former rank. I held, and still do hold, the ear of Gaius Julius Caesar, proconsul of Rome, and your commander's commander. I hold a rank of authority in both Massilia and Rome and served over a decade TRYING TO KEEP RUNTS LIKE YOU FROM GETTING THEIR HEADS TORN OFF BY GERMAN CANNIBALS!' As the soldier leaned back against the wall, away from the blast of fury that had burst from Fronto's maw, the former legate allowed a horrible smile to cross his face. 'Now I am going inside to speak to the prefect,' he announced, trying to demonstrate the gulf in rank that separated him from this entire outpost's staff in one stressed word. 'You can try and stop me, though I strongly recommend against it, or you can exercise that fat, blubbery useless arse of yours by running ahead to warn Fabius Ambustus that I'm coming.'

The soldier nodded hastily, clearly not trusting his tongue to words, and slipped in through the doorway. Fronto paused long enough to glare daggers at the other door guard. 'I do not wish to be disturbed, understand?'

The soldier quailed and nodded, and the officer turned from him and stumped into the building, his escort following close on behind.

Fronto had been to visit the man a few times. Like all military bureaucrats, Ambustus considered himself about three ranks more important than his uniform confirmed. He ran the office in Massilia like a despot of ancient times, but it was hard to argue with the efficiency with which he maintained Caesar's supply, transport and courier system through the port. Some of the value of his role had disappeared several years ago when the general had finally opened up the secondary trade route through the Helvetian territory from Vesontio, but during the summer sea and river transport was still by far the fastest way to move anything.

Each room in the building was occupied by a different actuarius or librarius, each surrounded by piles of writing tablets, sheaves of vellum and scrolls of parchment, each scribbling furiously or affixing their stamp to an official request or record. For a moment, Fronto was struck by an unusually high level of activity even for this place. On previous visits there had always been one or two rooms at least that lay dormant, their occupant off for the day or at midday meal. Not so, today. In fact, each and every one appeared fraught. Still, he resolved not to weaken his purpose. He would know why the offer of transport had been rescinded without a jot of notice.

Ambustus sat behind his desk, rubbing one hand through his thinning hair as he counted down a list with his other forefinger, his lips moving silently. The legionary who had run ahead was standing to one side of the room looking extremely nervous.

'Prefect?'

The man held forth a hand without looking up, his voice rising to a whisper as he counted over the top of the interruption. When he'd reached the bottom of the page, Ambustus scribbled his figure in a tally column on another sheet and straightened.

'Ah, the inimicable Fronto and Catháin and your small group of heavies. I see you have taken to intimidating my men now. What can I do for you? Nothing trivial, I hope?'

Fronto felt his ire rising again and Catháin's hand clapped down on his shoulder in warning. He allowed the anger to subside. Few bureaucrats reacted well to provocation.

'Prefect Ambustus, my sincere apologies for this intrusion, but the matter is of extreme import to my business. I shall not keep you long.'

The man leaned back in his chair. 'Go on, sir.'

'I have a large cargo of amphorae that are due to be shipped to Rome on the afternoon tide.'

'Poor timing, I'm afraid.'

'So I gather. The captain of the Demeter would not allow the loading of the cargo, despite the fact that my factor here tells me that the ship rides so high in the water she can only be empty, and all her rigging and crew appear ready to set sail. I had believed we had a deal in respect of my shipping cargo in any vessel that has space.'

Ambustus gave an exaggerated sigh. 'Would that such were possible, Fronto. I realise this might seriously damage your business. What vintage is the cargo?'

Fronto narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 'A poor native brew.'

'Ah well. Sadly, I was going to offer to buy a portion of the cargo in recompense, but I cannot stomach the local wines. There is, then, very little I can do. My hands are tied.' He held up his hands open palmed to demonstrate the phrase. Fronto narrowed his eyes further.

'I suppose I could find a small cut to help ease your troubles, Ambustus...'

The prefect frowned and then, realisation dawning, lowered his hands again. 'You misunderstand me, Fronto. I am not seeking a bribe. This is not a matter of sweetening the pot until I relent. I simply cannot give you permission to load the Demeter.'

'Why not?' snapped Fronto.

Ambustus gave Fronto a pointed look, nodding at his companions meaningfully. The former legate pursed his lips in annoyance, but turned to Masgava and Catháin. ‘All four of you head back outside and wait for me there. I'll be along presently.'

The big Numidian gave him a disapproving look, but the four men backed out of the room and Fronto waited until he could hear nothing but the rhythmic work of the clerks. 'Alright. What's this about, Ambustus?'

The prefect sighed and gestured for Fronto to sit. When the former legate made it quite clear that sitting was not going to happen, he took a deep breath.

'It is not just the Demeter, Fronto. I cannot allow you to load any cargo on any Roman vessel in port.'

Fronto opened his mouth to shout something, but Ambustus pushed on.

'It is not my decision, before you threaten to have me beaten, Fronto. I am required by order of the proconsul himself to keep every Roman vessel in port empty and prepared to sail at short notice. Every ship that arrives will become subject to that order, and each ship already in port has been forced to empty itself of any cargo and cancel all shore leave for its crew.'

Fronto felt the wind taken from his sails at the realisation that the prefect was, in this case, completely powerless.

'Why?'

Ambustus leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'If I tell you this, it is told in confidence to a member of Caesar's staff, for all your retired status. I will hold you to your military oath and expect you not to breathe a word of it to another living soul. Do you understand?'

Fronto, rather taken aback by the vehemence of the man's words, nodded. 'Agreed.'

'There are small caravans of slaves and booty coming in all the time and being stored under guard in anonymous warehouses in Massilia, but I have been told to await one particularly large convoy, following which all goods in storage are to be combined with the new arrival and shipped to Rome in one fleet with solid military escort.'

'A big convoy, then?'

'The centurion who delivered the orders intimated that I would be able to buy most kingdoms with the proceeds from it. Booty the likes of which you will never have seen. So you understand why I cannot release the ship to you. You could ask the captain, but unless he is willing to defy the proconsul's orders, you will have no better luck there. It simply cannot be done.'

Fronto sagged slightly. The man was right. It mattered not how angry he became or what arguments he could marshal, no captain or officer in Massilia was going to defy Caesar's orders, even for a senior officer. No amount of honey could sweeten the pot enough for that.

'My apologies for wasting your time, Ambustus. I appreciate your candour.'

The prefect gave a troubled smile. 'I'm truly sorry, Fronto. I do hope you can find alternative transport until this matter is resolved, and rest assured that as soon as my hands are no longer tied by the proconsul's needs I will happily release any free space to you. In fact I wish I could help you defy the boule more than I can, given the stink they are raising over our blocking up of the port with so many ships docked without intention to sail.'

'Thank you, Ambustus. I'll take my leave and keep my tongue. Good luck with your task.'

Turning on his heel, he marched from the room and through the corridors until he emerged into the sunlight once more, where his friends had gathered in a small knot and were arguing. They fell silent as they saw him and waited impatiently as he strolled over.

'The prefect cannot help us and it's not his doing. No Roman ship is leaving port for the foreseeable future by order of the proconsul, and nothing will change that, We need to find an alternative transport for the Helvian wine as fast as possible.'

'Why are the ships impounded?' Aurelius asked curiously.

'I cannot relay that information, I'm afraid. I gave my word.'

'Caesar's treasure convoy,' snorted Catháin, and Fronto frowned at him.

'Keep your voice down, man. Where did you hear that?'

'In a bar yesterday. It's only rumour, but it's well-supported by visible evidence. They say a treasure convoy is coming to Massilia on its way to Rome.'

'And it's supposed to be secret,' murmured Fronto. 'I don't think even most of the army know yet by the sounds of it. Keep this to yourself, man. If word leaks to the wrong sectors of Gaul and that convoy is attacked, there could be a hell of a backlash at us.'

Catháin shrugged. 'The news is out there, Fronto. Perhaps you should tell the prefect, so he doesn't blame you?'

Fronto sighed again. 'I suppose it'll be common knowledge soon enough anyway. Since no Roman ships are moving, the Massilian boule are hounding Ambustus. When he's forced to explain why or lose his deal with the city, the council will know, and within a day word will be on every street. I suspect I'm safe. Safer than that convoy, anyway.'

'Regardless, my prime concern has to be finding another ship for the Helvian amphorae.'

Catháin nodded. 'There are two or three fairly friendly Baetican and Lusitanian traders in port today, all down at the shitty end of the docks. They're not popular because they trade almost exclusively with the Iberian ports and those around the Pillars of Hercules, and they have a monopoly there that most Massilian Greeks would eat their own grandmother to find a way into.'

Fronto snorted. 'I'm damn glad I've got your extensive knowledge working for me and not for them, then.'

Catháin gave him a look loaded with hidden messages, and Fronto made a mental note to raise the man's salary and buy him a gift before he decided that Spaniards might pay better.

'Come on. Let's go see these Baeticans, then.'

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto slumped against the doorframe as he entered his villa, pausing to kick off the soft leather boots and remove his cloak, tossing it towards the hook near the altar to the household spirits and missing by a wide enough margin to knock over the statues of the penates and scatter incense ash all over the marble floor. Waving a tired hand at it, he staggered into the atrium. It had been a tiring day and a bad one, too. Thankfully, Catháin had managed to pull his backside out of the flames once more with a personal introduction to a Baetican captain who knew the strange northerner well enough to call him 'arse-face'. Still, a potential thousand percent profit had been halved at best. And further trade deals going on looked to be troublesome with the lack of cheap transport.

Still, the Baetican had taken them at a price that Fronto knew to be more than reasonable, given the current situation. The man was making a rare journey to Rome instead of west, delivering cargoes of oysters and red ochre pigment from the Balearics that he'd collected en route. His appearance at Massilia at all was pure chance, since he had a small shipment of tin from Baetica that he'd failed to unload in the Balearics but would sell well in the Greek port.

His spirits flagged again as he heard Andala deep in discussion with Lucilia, both voices raised not in anger but in some sort of concern. That boded ill for Fronto. He edged quietly through the atrium on bare feet and peered around the doorway into the triclinium.

Lucilia lay on one of the couches, her hands weaving fretfully. Irritatingly, Andala reclined on the one next to her like some Roman matron at leisure. He started to move angrily, his mouth opening to shout, even as he registered two more sights that stilled his movement and his tongue both.

One was the fact that, despite his having hidden the fine gladius with the orichalcum hilt, Andala now had one of his more utilitarian military blades in her lap and was cleaning the leather binding on the grip.

The other was the sight of two of his men standing with their hands behind their backs, faces downcast. One was a recent acquisition whose name he couldn't yet remember. The other was Clearchus, one of the brothers who'd worked for him for months. Even a brief glance at distance drew his attention to the bruising on their arms and, as Clearchus raised his face to answer a question, Fronto was stunned at the damage to it. One eye was swollen shut, the nose twisted at an agonising angle and the lip swollen and raw. Both men were liberally spattered with blood.

Before he realised he was doing it, Fronto had stormed across the floor into the room.

'What in Hades happened?'

Lucilia looked up at him, her face grave, and answered before even Clearchus could get his painful mouth to work. 'Your men were set upon by armed thugs as they left the warehouse. Not thieves, either, since they smashed the jars of Alban vintage the pair were conveying and stole nothing. If it hadn't been for the timely interruption of a passing gentlemen and his guards, these two poor fellows would probably be dead now.'

Fronto felt the anger that had been muted and contained all day finally boil to the surface, unhindered. His lip curled up into a snarl that made it hard to speak.

'When was this?'

'Noph more phan an hour ago,' the second victim said through broken teeth. Fronto flexed his fists. 'Hierocles,' he grunted. A statement, rather than a question, but both men nodded painfully anyway. 'Enough is enough. The bastard has to be taught.' He paused, waiting for the warning against unnecessary violence from Lucilia, but she simply nodded her agreement, and he noticed now the bowl of pink water and the pink towel by her feet with which she had tended the men's worst wounds.

Wordlessly, Andala reversed her grip on the plain gladius in her hands and held it out, hilt first, to Fronto. He met her eyes and for the first time felt something akin to understanding pass between them. He nodded and took the sword.

He was a soldier, born and forged in decades of war, and he'd had enough pussy-footing around with petty criminals masquerading as merchants. Hierocles had to come down from his pedestal, no matter what the fallout with the boule of Massilia.

He turned and stormed out of the room purposefully, reaching out to swipe his cloak up from the altar in the vestibule.

'Masgava? Gather the men.'

 

* * * * *

 

‘What’s the plan, sir?’

Fronto glanced across at Aurelius. It was an excellent question. He had left the villa with his blood up, determined on a course of brutal action. He was still just as determined, of course, to pay Hierocles back for his actions and to end this trouble once and for all, but as the cold air of a Massilian evening bathed his ruddy face he had started to calm and think a little straighter. He could not kill Hierocles, no matter how much he might want to. This was not a Gallic battlefield, and murder was a capital offence in the city. Likewise, then, he would not kill any of Hierocles’ men. But he would hurt the man, and badly. Hierocles would hardly drag them through the courts for a beating, given how many counts of the same for which he was responsible. It would be opening a veritable Pandora’s Box of litigation that would harm Hierocles every bit as much as Fronto. So as long as he stopped short of actual killing, he felt safe from legal repercussions.

He turned to Masgava.

‘You’ve been training the lads in their spare time, I remember. Did you teach them straight combat, or some of your more subtle methods?’

The big Numidian shrugged. ‘I teach a man to fight in any way he can or must with whatever he can find. You know that.’

‘Good.’ He turned back to Aurelius. ‘We’re going to drop in on Hierocles. He has a number of tough men, but not as tough as us, with former soldiers and gladiators.’ He raised his voice to catch the whole group. ‘But the important thing is there must be no killing. Preferably no blades, even, though that might be unavoidable. But unless his men draw swords on you, keep your blades sheathed. Punch and kick, bite and thump. No one is to go in too heavy handed, got it?’

The twelve men around him nodded.

‘You two are fairly new. I need eyes on the street. The city guards patrol these streets irregularly, and I don’t want to suddenly find myself up to the armpits in local law enforcement. When we go in I want you to stay by the entrance. If anyone approaches, step inside, whistle loud and close the door. Got it?’

The two new men nodded, looking rather relieved.

‘How do we get in in the first place?’ asked Aurelius.

‘Leave that to me. As soon as we’re in, I need each of you thinking on your feet. We don’t touch women, children, slaves or other civilians. Arcadios and Dyrakhes, you two are in charge of rounding up any non-combatants. The first room we come across that’s securable, you hustle them all into and keep them safe. Anyone who comes at us with fists or weapons is fair game. Any of his men – and after the last few months, we can recognise most of them – are fair game. If you happen to find Hierocles, shout me.’

‘It’s not much of a plan.’

‘It’s good enough. Everyone set?’

The gang rounded the corner of the Street of Golden Arcades which, in typical non-Roman-linear style, wound like a snake up the hill towards the temple of Apollo. Hierocles’ house sat slightly back from the road, a narrow path leading to the door between well-tended gardens, the frontage between the next two buildings sectioned off with a high wall and a gate with its own little guard house. Hierocles was wealthy and careful.

As they approached, Fronto gestured to his men to move to the side of the street, keeping only Masgava with him, the rest out of sight of the gate unless the guard stuck his head out into the street. As the others moved up the incline along the fronts of other houses, Fronto and Masgava strolled out ahead, straight for the gate, their cloaks hiding the weapons at their sides, but the hoods down to allow easy recognition.

‘Stay there,’ snapped a voice in thick Massiliot Greek as they neared the door, and Fronto came to a halt, with the big Numidian at his shoulder. After a moment, a hatch in the gate opened and a pale face emerged, beady, glassy eyes peering out into the evening.

‘Fronto. What do you want?’

‘I wish to see your master.’

‘He won’t want to see you, Roman.’

Fronto put on his most humble face, despite the irritation with which that filled him. ‘He might. I find I am in difficulty sourcing transport once more and your master can help me.’

The man blinked in surprise. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because I have two deals to conclude, and in return for his help he can have one of them. Both are good deals. Better for me to make Hierocles richer than for my business to fold.’

The man laughed. ‘I suspect my master will think differently, but I’m sure he will enjoy laughing at your misfortune. The big dark animal has to stay outside, though.’

Fronto turned to Masgava, who was almost radiating the desire to cause violence. He tried to look undecided and then with exaggerated reluctance, nodded. ‘You wait for me here, Masgava.’

The big man nodded, still glaring at the gate guard. The pale face grinned and there was a rattle and click as the gate was opened from within. Fronto stepped forward, making to enter as the gate began to swing inwards. Then, without warning, he took a long step and slammed his shoulder against the gate, which hammered back against the man opening it, knocking him against the wall of his little guard house. Fronto heard with gratification the whoosh of air from the man’s lungs as he hit. Entering, Masgava waved the others in and slid through into the dark, tree-shaded garden. As his men moved into the house’s grounds, Fronto pulled the winded guard from behind the door.

‘Poor decision there, but I’m grateful.’

Even dazed and winded, the man tried to bring up a knife from his belt. In response, Fronto smacked the man’s head back against the stone wall of his hut and watched the eyes roll up white accompanying the satisfying clunk. Before the man fell, Masgava was there. With a quick grab and twist, he broke the man’s knife arm at the elbow. The forearm hung limp at a horrible angle and the knife fell away. Fronto stared.

‘He’ll live,’ sneered Masgava. ‘But he won’t use a knife until he retrains with his left.’

‘Shit, I’m glad you’re on my side.’

The men were already across the grass and path now, closing on the house. Behind Fronto, the two new lads took control of the gate, one standing just inside and one out. A brief squawk caught his attention and he turned back, jogging across the garden to catch up with his men. His gaze fell upon the source of the noise and he boggled. A roving guard in the grounds had appeared from somewhere and tried to shout an alarm, but Catháin had hit him like a rolling boulder, knocking him to the ground. Even as Fronto opened his mouth to hiss a reminder about not killing, he saw the strange northerner deliver three blows to the man’s face and then jab down with his fingers, putting out the guard’s eyes. The man tried to scream, but Catháin’s hand was over his mouth and with simple casual violence, the northerner slammed the man’s head back to the gravel of the path, driving the blind guard’s wits from him. Before he stood, he took the unconscious man’s blade and stood, examining it. A fine, curved xiphos, probably of Cypriot manufacture, looking at the colours and shapes. Fronto hurried over.

‘Was the blinding strictly necessary’

‘Are you wanting to send Hierocles a message, or tickle his arse with a feather, Fronto. Gods in ale, but the blind bastard’ll live.’

Fronto shook his head and moved over towards the house’s main door, where Masgava had taken control of the small band. Nine men. There would be at least as many inside, but blissfully unaware of what was coming. Fronto felt a moment of shame and fear at what they were doing. Sneaking around and invading people’s property was not really his way, and it galled him to be doing so, but he hardened himself. These very arseholes had tried to kill him more than once and had attacked his men numerous times, trying to beat the last two to death. He didn’t like this, but it was justified. He reached down to the figurines at his neck. Nemesis felt cold and reassuring. Fortuna would have her part to play tonight, for sure, but it was Nemesis’ raid beyond doubt.

Masgava gestured a couple of times at Fronto and then took Aurelius and ran off around the side of the building, leaving Fronto frowning and wondering what all the gestures had meant. Still, Masgava knew exactly what he was doing, and Fronto trusted him implicitly, so he ignored the disappearance of two men and reached for the door.

Once they were inside, all hope of subtlety would be lost. Surprise would quickly fade, and something would have to replace it for Fronto’s men to retain the upper hand. Confusion would be that thing.

Taking a deep breath in preparation and checking that the other six men were still with him, he reached out and threw open the doors to the house, stepping inside. In the short hallway that led to the central courtyard a young woman stopped in her tracks, alarm radiating from her as she dropped the armful of folded laundry she was carrying. She managed a brief muffled squeak before Arcadios wrapped himself around her, one hand across her mouth to cut off the cry. The Greek archer nodded to Dyrakhes and the two dragged her to the left side of the corridor where a doorway led to a darkened room. Fronto couldn’t see inside but, given its location, it was likely a storage room for cloaks and boots and the like. Being dark, it was clearly unoccupied, which was perfect to contain the civilians.

The archer and his companion shut the door on the panicked woman and locked it from the outside before moving across to search the room opposite. Fronto knew that the element of surprise was about to disappear, and stepped out of the corridor into the main courtyard, preparing to change the game. He didn’t understand Greek housing conventions particularly well, and knew Hierocles’ residence not at all. Easier than searching every room was to keep people off-balance and bring them to you.

‘Fire!’ he bellowed in good local Greek. ‘Fire in the balanea!’

He didn’t know where the bath complex was, of course, but it would probably be at the rear of the residence, which would drive the occupants to the front, where Fronto and his men were waiting for them. Moreover, a fire in the bath house was far from unbelievable. The furnace would be burning hot on such a chilly March night and, if he were to be truthfully uncharitable, the Greeks were considerably less conscious of the safety requirements of such edifices than stolid Roman engineers.

As Fronto moved out into the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by a colonnade that would have looked more at home in Corinth than this far west and containing a central altar to Hermes liberally scattered with offerings, he heard the cry of ‘fire’ being echoed across the residence. Chaos blossomed.

Fronto found himself moving towards the end of the courtyard, where two doors led off, but also a central passageway that had to lead to the rear sections of the house where the servants’ and guards’ quarters would be, as well as the kitchens, stores and bathing complex. Hierocles would likely be through one of those doors, since the house had a second storey at the rear side of the courtyard only, and the stairs up would be somewhere there. Hierocles, by his very nature, would automatically site himself higher than anyone else. Behind Fronto, the rest of his men were pushing open doors and either emerging quickly, empty handed, or struggling inside, laying flat those of the Greek’s thugs who opposed them. Occasionally Arcadios and Dyrakhes would appear, dragging a screaming slave off to the room where they were being kept out of danger. Even as he watched, Dyrakhes received a vicious bite to the forearm for his pains and, bless the man, he struggled on without taking it out on the girl.

Finally, in response to the fire alarm, people began to emerge from both doors and the passage ahead in a panic. Arcadios was there instantly, shouting in his native Greek, directing the terrified slaves and servants back towards the front door, away from danger. As they moved gratefully into captivity more of the thugs began to appear and Fronto’s men set to work, breaking noses and arms, concussing and brutalising with ruthless efficiency. Hierocles’ hirelings, still in panic and confusion at the supposed fire in the baths, ran straight into the arms of Fronto’s men, unaware that they were under attack until they were on the ground, groaning.

As Fronto stood apart from the fighting, keeping his eyes peeled for a sign of the master of the house, he heard a feral roar and Clearchus, still clutching his side from his earlier beating and with poor depth perception from his swollen-shut eye, charged past Fronto and slammed into a big blond man with a flat nose and a single eyebrow that almost circumnavigated his head.

‘Think you’re big and clever now, do you, shithead?’ the man howled through split lips as the two men hit the floor, the blond brute being winded as he struck the marble with the angered Greek atop him. Clearchus hit the man four or five times with bruised and lacerated knuckles until his former attacker’s face was covered with so much blood it was hard to tell which was his and which belonged to Clearchus.

Fronto nodded approvingly. Nemesis was truly at work tonight. Then his eyes caught a stray movement and he leapt forward urgently. His hand locked around Clearchus’ wrist just as the wronged man was about to bring down his knife into the blond ruffian’s face.

‘No!’

Clearchus struggled for a moment, trying to break Fronto’s grasp and finally the fight went out of him. He dropped the knife, submitting to Fronto, and instead delivered another half dozen violent blows to the man’s head. As the Greek rose unsteadily, his anger still simmering, Fronto paused for a long moment, watching nervously, but finally the big blond mess on the floor took a single breath, and then another. Satisfied that at least Clearchus hadn’t killed the man, he looked up.

It was fortuitous timing that he happened to glance around. Another heartbeat and he’d have missed Hierocles. The Greek merchant had emerged from the passage wrapped in a towel and otherwise naked, sweaty and wet. Fronto caught his eye even as the man recognised what was happening in his courtyard and turned, running back into the passage.

Snarling, Fronto gave chase.

In the dark corridor, someone took a swing at the Roman invader and caught him a blow to the side of the head, swinging him around. Then Pamphilus and Clearchus were there, restraining the attacker and laying into him with merry abandon. Fronto reeled for a moment until his head cleared and then ran on. He turned a corner and met two sets of doors both standing open – a store room and a kitchen complex. For a moment he peered into them until he decided they were almost certainly empty and ran on.

The corridor emerged into a small guard chamber and Fronto took in the situation with dismay. Hierocles had reached the house’s rear door and three of his thugs occupied the room with small clubs, protecting their master. Fronto pulled himself up short at the door. He was armed with a gladius if he cared to draw it, but this was still three to one, even if their master stayed out of it. And the three men were, if not professional fighters, then at least clearly gifted amateurs.

‘Shame for you, Fronto. All this effort. And me untouched. But rest assured that when I report this to the boule, they will know that you broke into my house with intent to kill.’ Even as he spoke, Hierocles slipped on his chiton and reached out for his cloak.

‘We’ve killed no one, you idiot. We’ve been careful.’

Hierocles laughed as he slipped into his light leather shoes and gestured at the three other men in the room. ‘When you beat Fronto senseless and toss him out, keep his sword and use it to kill one of the girls.’

Fronto’s eyes widened. As a foreigner in the city – and especially one who had already ranted at the city council in session – it would not take much for them to convict him of murder. His blade in a young girl would almost certainly seal his fate. He looked over his shoulder for aid, but the others were all busy back at the heart of the complex. He was alone and seriously outnumbered.

Shit.

‘Thank you, Fronto. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’ve been struggling for a way to take you out of the equation, but kept coming up blank. Then you do this and answer my prayers. When you meet the young girl in the next world, give her my apologies, won’t you?’

Laughing, Hierocles opened the door and stepped out into the darkness of late evening as the three thugs took a deliberate, menacing pace towards Fronto.

There was a resounding thud and Hierocles reappeared from the dark, spinning. Behind him, Masgava stepped into the room, blowing on sore knuckles, Aurelius at his shoulder, and the two men made their way in to face Fronto’s beaming smile. The big Numidian’s punch had almost killed the Greek merchant. As Hierocles floundered on the floor, groaning, blood began to leak from his nostrils, ear and mouth simultaneously, and bloody snot-bubbles appeared as he breathed through his shattered nose. The bruise began to come up almost immediately and covered almost a quarter of his head. Despite his long shared history with Masgava, Fronto was impressed with the blow.

The three thugs stopped moving. Leaving them to Aurelius and Masgava, Fronto strode over to the fallen Greek. For each step Masgava took, the three thugs took one back away from him towards the room’s corner. One of them dropped his club immediately and held up his hands in surrender, his eyes wide in panic.

Hierocles whimpered. Still dazed, he reached up to touch his bruised head and cried out in pain.

‘Yes. I think Masgava cracked your skull in more than one place. He has strong fists and he’s very quick.’

The man tried to focus on Fronto but one of his eyes seemed unwilling to move from some spot on the floor. ‘Aghhh… I… urgh…’

‘This is where our little competition ends, Hierocles.’

The man could do little but whimper in reply.

‘Know that I am no longer taking any shit from you. You will never again touch my men or my goods. I cannot stop you using mercantile and political practices against me and, while I consider that low and contemptible, there is no law against it. But any more theft or violence against my business will be visited back upon you tenfold. Take this as a friendly warning. There is nowhere you can go and nothing you can do to stop me getting to you.’

Hierocles groaned.

‘I shall take your silence as tacit understanding. The next time one of my men comes home wounded, you will be searching the sewers for your teeth. Final warning. Stay out of my way.’

As the man writhed in pain and panic, Fronto rose and gestured to Masgava and Aurelius. ‘Come on. Time to go home.’

He made his way back to the corridor from whence he came, the other two turning away, but the big Numidian sharply snapped back towards the three thugs and flashed them a smile. The one who’d dropped his club wet his chiton.

Moments later Fronto emerged from the house with his men at his back. A quick glance confirmed that they’d taken a few bruises and that Pamphilus had broken two fingers, but they had escaped successful and essentially unscathed.

With a chuckle, Fronto pulled the figurine of Nemesis from his neck, lifted it and kissed her full on the face. ‘Thank you, lovely goddess.’ Swiftly, he planted a second kiss on Fortuna and then tucked them back in his clothes.

‘Home time, lads. I’m in the mood for a small party and I know where there’s a good stock of wine.’