CAVARINOS felt his spirits sink as he looked ahead through the open gate of Alba. Like all the Romanised settlements of the Roman province, this city of the Helvii was something of an odd mix. Still boasting a traditional wall in the form of the old oppida, the interior had obviously been completely redesigned at some stage following the tribe’s inclusion within Rome’s ever increasing territory. The grid of streets was a standard Roman form Cavarinos had seen before on visits to Narbo and other large ‘Gallo-Roman’ towns. And the Helvii there were still wearing trousers as they had centuries ago, but more often than not with a Roman style tunic above. There were as many clean-shaven faces as moustached or bearded.
But it was not the oddness of the cultural clash that had plunged his mood into darkness. That was the fault of the commotion. In the main street leading from the gate, perhaps two dozen locals were arguing in a rather urgent, panicked manner. And among their number, at the centre, sat a cart. Though he could not pick out the detail at this distance, the bundle on the cart was wrapped in a red cloak, and that identified it better than anything. As if that was not bad enough, between the occasional moving of the men’s’ legs, he could see the dark pool that had formed beneath the cart.
Casting a black look at the sky and mentally cursing Toutatis for bringing him such ill luck, Cavarinos rode on into Alba Helviorum. He was surprised at how quiet the town was, despite the commotion in the street. A place like this normally hummed with life, from the ringing of hammer on anvil to the calls of street hawkers and children playing their games underfoot.
This place felt surprisingly empty. As he neared the arguing crowd one of the Helvii looked around and saw him, shaking his friend to stop the argument. A heartbeat later, the small ruckus had fallen quiet and each of them was looking at the approaching rider, silent and expectant. It occurred to Cavarinos that they might well think him one of their own nobles. For all his Arverni heritage, Cavarinos wore his face clean-shaven and had stopped wearing his serpent arm-ring or any other obvious identifying items. Moreover, despite their rising against Rome last year, the Arverni had been trading across the border with their recent enemies for decades, and the cut and material of their clothing owed much to Roman influence. Likely they thought him a Helvian noble.
He sighed. ‘What happened to him?’
He gestured at the cart with its morbid burden. The local he had asked frowned in confusion. Cavarinos’ accent was most certainly not Helvii. ‘He has been killed.’
‘I gathered that,’ said Cavarinos, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s an officer. Passing through was he?’
The man shook his head. ‘Head of an engineering detail that’s designing the aqueduct,’ he replied quietly. ‘What they did to him…’ he shuddered.
Cavarinos nodded grimly and walked his horse over to the cart where he leaned across and lifted the corner of the red cloak. Beneath, the pink of the flayed muscles was crusted with dark red, though the body still leaked through the boards of the cart. Cavarinos tried not to breathe in too heavily as the flies emerged in a small cloud from beneath the cover. It had been quite recent. Within a day. Hours, in fact. His enquiring mind could not help but ask where the skin had gone.
‘Did you see the killers?’
‘No,’ the man replied and opened his mouth to say something, but his friends shot him a warning glance and he clamped his mouth shut. Cavarinos sucked his lip in suspicious interest.
‘Let me guess. He’d been tortured and left in his room. And any soldiers guarding him had been dispatched quickly and efficiently.’ The men nodded.
‘I’m not going to enquire as to what’s going on here. Your secrets are yours. I’ll be on my way.’
‘But,’ the first man said urgently, ‘you know something about this?’
‘I know who the killers are. If you value your life, don’t press this.’
‘But what will we do? The authorities will blame us!’
Cavarinos scratched his neck absently. ‘I think you’ll find the authorities will have more to worry about. This isn’t an isolated incident. In fact, it’s happened all over. I was hoping to have outrun it by now, but it seems they’re ahead of me. Perhaps their arrival in Roman territory will slow them. They will have to be more careful now.’
The man looked at him oddly, and Cavarinos realised he’d spoken out loud what was essentially an internal monologue. ‘Burn him and pot the ashes, then deliver him to the authorities and tell them the truth.’ With a last glance at the unfortunate Roman, he trotted on through the town, heading for the Rhodanus River, which would lead him most of the way to Massilia.
They were ahead of him. His mind helpfully superimposed Fronto’s face on that ruined body on the cart, and he automatically picked up his pace.
* * * * *
Fronto laughed as young Lucius tottered about on the grass, chasing the red and black butterflies that were a common sight around Massilia in the winter. He chuckled out loud as Lucius fell headlong on the grass and let out a strange shout. It was almost words, but not quite. Lucilia would have run across to him, all concern that he had hurt himself, but Fronto was becoming accustomed to Lucius’ noises, and that one was frustration. Indeed, the boy was up again in moments, wobbling a little before ploughing on, laughing, after another butterfly that had crossed his path.
Fronto leaned back on the wall, resting his head against the gatepost. It was nice to live in such a climate again. He’d grown up by the sea at Puteoli and had spent most of his career around Rome and Puteoli or over in Hispania, where the heat was similar though considerably drier. But the last seven years up in Gaul had been rather eye-opening. He’d not believed that so much rain was possible. Parts of northern Gaul couldn’t have been much wetter if you submerged them.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his eyelids.
‘Civilian life clearly suits you.’
His eyes snapped open at the comment and he had to look around in confusion for a while before he spotted the figure by the tree at the side of the drive. Recognition was instant, but his mind fought him for a while, insistent that he was wrong and this couldn’t be who he thought it was.
The Gaul smiled. ‘I have to say that I’m relieved. I was half expecting to get here and find you peeled and pinned to a tree.’
Fronto simply stared. Behind him, Lucius let out a squeak of triumph that quickly turned into a howl of frustration, and then slid back into giggling and the thumping of tiny feet on turf.
‘I’d not thought to see you again,’ he said, recovering from his surprise a little.
‘I had never really intended to come,’ Cavarinos replied, walking his horse towards the gate. ‘However, events in the wide world, as usual, drive the course of my life and despite everything I find myself in Roman lands, seeking out Romans in defiance of my own. It never ceases to amaze me the strange twists and turns our lives take.’
Fronto gave him a sour look. ‘Shouldn’t you be with the Arverni, planning to rise against us? From the news I catch that seems to be the fashion.’
Cavarinos laughed with not a trace of humour. ‘There are visionless lunatics all over the land who are trying to push along a dead horse called freedom and make him run. They only drag out the inevitable and bring upon the tribes yet more woe. And that is partially why I’m here. I hadn’t realised it until I found a flayed centurion up in Alba Helviorum. Until then I was coming purely out of respect for a former opponent. But somehow I think it’s become bigger than that now. What’s happening needs to be stopped, not just to save your sorry hide, but for the future good of the tribes.’
Fronto slid from the wall and opened the gate. ‘You are speaking in riddles, Cavarinos. Have you been hanging around with druids?’
‘It’s been a long and very unpleasant journey, and I had to ride down into town to find out where you lived. If you are, as I seem to remember, a wine merchant, it would be appropriate, I think, to offer some of your wares to a tired guest.’
Fronto snorted and closed the gate behind the Arverni noble. He turned to the house. Aurelius was standing by the door. He’d been there for half an hour now, cleaning his nails with the tip of a knife and other such sundry pastimes. Clearly he had recognised Cavarinos as no enemy, if not a friend, but even then he had his hand on the pommel of his gladius as he watched intently. The former members of his singulares had taken their duties very seriously since the attack on Hierocles’ building, fearing reprisals, and one of them was never far from his side, armed and ready.
‘We’re fine, Aurelius. Would you do me a favour and walk Cavarinos’ horse round to the stables and leave it in their hands.’
Aurelius came across, nodding a greeting at the Gaul as he took the reins and walked the horse around the side of the house, his eyes never leaving the new arrival. Fronto paused to pick up Lucius who was struggling to pull up a weed in the lawn and then led his friend to the front door.
‘This is no social call then?’
Cavarinos rubbed his arms and hands as they entered and smiled sadly. ‘I am some way from enjoying a social life yet, Fronto. But it does make me happy to see you well, if clearly tired.’
‘Business is more tiring and more complicated than warfare, Cavarinos.’
‘Which is one reason why the tribes make poor traders, but have been fighting each other for centuries. We were never a complex people.’
Fronto stopped in the atrium, casting a prayer across to the altar of the household gods as Lucilia came strolling in at the far side of the small pool, carrying young Marcus, asleep in her arms.
‘I see you had luck getting Lucius to sleep, then?’ she noted archly. ‘Honestly, Marcus, you could at least try. He’ll be awake all afternoon now, and he’ll play merry Hades with us tonight.’ She noted for the first time the figure behind him and smiled warmly. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
Fronto lowered Lucius to the floor and steered him away from the shallow impluvium pool before straightening. ‘Lucilia, this is Cavarinos, a prince of the Arverni and formerly one of Vercingetorix’s most trusted generals.’
Surprise flashed across her face, but recognition soon replaced it. ‘Cavarinos? The one to whom you gave your precious Fortuna?’ She chuckled as she crossed the room to them. ‘You have no idea how miserable he’s been without his precious goddess. In the end he spent a small fortune on a replacement.’
Fronto cast her a withering look. ‘I was suffering for want of luck. It was basic common sense to replace it.’
Cavarinos smiled and pulled out the figurine hanging at his neck, worn but recognisable. ‘I’m not sure how much luck it’s brought me.’
‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’ Fronto sniffed. ‘A third of the people of Gaul aren’t.’
‘And this would be your lovely wife, then, Fronto? I don’t believe you ever told me her name?’
Fronto snorted again. ‘The only times we’ve ever talked we were enemy leaders in the middle of a war. I didn’t tell you my shoe size or my favourite colour either.’
Cavarinos gave him an indulgent smile, and Lucilia glared at him before turning a wide smile back on the Gaul. ‘Lucilia, daughter of Quintus Lucilius Balbus and wife of a mannerless brute. Pleased to meet you, Prince Cavarinos.’
‘I think the title is rather moot now, my lady. But it is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Shall we retire to the triclinium, then?’ Fronto asked, but Cavarinos nodded pointedly at Lucilia.
‘Somewhere private, then?’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, my lady, but there is a private matter we must discuss first, before I can afford to relax.’
Lucilia acquiesced and bowed, retreating from the atrium in the wake of the slapping footsteps of Lucius. ‘Then I shall have cook rustle up something appropriate for, say half an hour?’
Fronto nodded. ‘Thank you, dear. We’ll be done shortly.’
Gesturing for Cavarinos to follow, he headed towards his tablinum – the small office that he still occasionally used in his villa. As the two entered, he shut the door behind them, noting the fact that Masgava had appeared silently in the atrium, armed and watchful. As the door closed, he nodded at the big Numidian, trying to convey the message that he was fine. Turning, he strode across to one of the two chairs in the room and sank into it, the cushion expelling a puff of dust beneath him.
Cavarinos looked around at the room with interest. The walls were covered with maps showing major trade routes and wine-growing regions, seasonal tide charts and so on. The desk was piled at one side with writing tablets. And five amphorae of different sizes sat by a wall. The floor was a mosaic that showed Bacchus cavorting. ‘This looks just like a Roman headquarters. You make me smile Fronto. Even as a merchant you approach your business as if it were war.’
‘You have no idea how close the two can be. Right down to the shedding of blood in fact.’
He reached out and picked up a small jug from a low side table and unstoppered it, filling two fine, painted glasses showing birds in flight. ‘Ever had Alban wine?’
Cavarinos frowned. ‘Possibly. Years ago we did good trade with Roman merchants. I had excellent Roman wines in those days.’
‘Not like this.’ Fronto added roughly the same amount of water to his wine and slid the jug across to Cavarinos. ‘Now, tell me what it is that brings you to Massilia.’
The Arverni noble took a sip of the wine, tasting it before watering it, and then took a small swig, nodding appreciatively. ‘That is good. Alban? That’s from close to Rome, yes?’
‘Just south. Maybe fifteen miles along the Via Appia.’ He fell silent, expectant.
‘You’re in danger, Fronto. Or at least, I think you are.’
‘I’m always in damn danger. Who from this time?’
Cavarinos rested his elbows on the table. ‘What do you know of our gods, and of the leaders of last year’s revolt?’
‘To the former, a little. I can name a few and tell you what they do, I suppose. And your commanders? Well I saw a lot of them at the surrender, of course.’
‘My people are tenacious,’ Cavarinos sighed. ‘Even long past the horizon of common sense. It will be years before the tribes resign themselves fully to Roman rule. Some will be quicker than others. But there will still be troubles and arguments. For some, last year’s war is not yet over. Those with little vision see our catastrophic defeat as a mere setback.’
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re not suggesting there’ll be another revolt, surely?’
‘Smaller ones are already happening, Fronto. And they will gradually combine and escalate, bringing everyone who can grip a spear into the fold. The only reason it hasn’t happened yet is that it takes something very special to bind the tribes together. We are permanently in a state of war. It is the nature of the tribes. Vercingetorix, with the help of the druids, managed to do the impossible. Even then, with him in command, there were dissenters and naysayers. If they had all joined in with their whole heart, your general would have lost at Alesia.’
‘I can picture that,’ Fronto said, remembering the large relief army on the second hill.
‘But while a second rising would be bad for Rome, it is my inescapable conclusion that it would be very final for the tribes. A repeat of last year, dragging in every last able body, would still not win the war against Rome, and the main result would be that my entire culture, our people and our world would disappear forever. We would become names in your dusty Roman history books.’
‘I tend to agree with you there. Your people never want for heart or courage, but common sense can often be lacking. One day I will introduce you to a special case called Atenos.’
Cavarinos chewed on his lip for a moment.
‘There is a group of very, very dangerous men and women in your lands right now, wielding a dual purpose, neither of which is good for you.’ Noting Fronto’s intent, alert silence, he continued with a sad note in his voice. ‘One of Vercingetorix’s generals who survived among the relief forces, Lucterius of the Cadurci, is busy trying to rebuild the army of united tribes. He had a trusted man who fought at Gergovia and Alesia and who was horribly wounded – disfigured, in fact – at the latter. He is fanatically loyal to his king and the only thing I fear might drive him more than his loyalty is his utter hatred of Rome.’
‘And he is in Massilia?’
‘He and eleven others, masked and cloaked, have been rampaging around the land, torturing Roman officers to try and locate the great Arverni king. They have discovered that he has been taken back to Rome, and they are bound for the capital, via this very port.’
Fronto scratched his head. ‘A dozen killers in masks are going to Rome to try and rescue Vercingetorix? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘In short, yes.’
‘They’re mad. They’ll never succeed.’
‘Don’t be too sure, Fronto. I don’t know what Rome is like, but these dozen are very dangerous indeed. And very secretive. They identify themselves with twelve of the gods of our peoples, and I have seen their handiwork. They butchered a legate.’
Fronto blinked in shock. ‘A legate? Who?’
‘I think his name was Reginus.’
Fronto pictured the legate of the Fifteenth and rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘As I say, do not underestimate them. I do not know who they all are, but I have seen two or three of them without their masks. They are all deadly. And they all hate Rome with a passion. Moreover they had been moving for months about the land butchering Romans and still no one knows about them.’
‘Other than you.’
‘Other than me. And while they will be coming through Massilia on their way to Rome, given their activity so far I cannot see them failing to take action when they learn that one of the legates who was responsible for their defeat at Alesia is in the city. And your name is well enough known that it will happen.’
Fronto nodded slowly. ‘And you think they’re in the city now, then?’
‘They may be, though you may have time yet. They were hours ahead of me at Alba, but they will have to move very cautiously through Roman territory, while I simply rode fast and openly. I almost certainly passed them on the way. Besides, there is a huge Roman supply column a day or so north of here. I passed them without too much trouble, but a dozen armed and masked killers will have to be very careful. They will probably have to wait until the column enters the city before they can move south.’
Fronto took a swig of his wine. ‘Sounds like Caesar’s treasure train is almost here then. Good. The port has been at a standstill for weeks waiting for it. Once that’s in Rome and the ships are moving again, my business will heave a sigh of relief.’
‘And I will be able to move on.’
In the strange silence that followed, Fronto found himself speculating. ‘I…’ he paused to rearrange the words in his head. ‘Wherever you are headed, might I offer an alternative?’
Cavarinos raised his brow in interest.
‘Stay with us. I have good men here. And a prince of the Remi is close to my family. You seem to be a man with no place. Why move again?’
Cavarinos shrugged and drained his glass.
‘I have no intention of being tied up in a fresh war, so the north is lost to me. But I am not a Roman, Fronto. I am Arverni. There is somewhere out there for me, but Massilia is not it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yet I have no intention of letting a dozen maniacs rekindle a dead rebellion. These Sons of Taranis need to be stopped, so I will stay for now.’
He smiled. ‘Now pour me another glass of that excellent Alban before we go and join your lovely wife while I catch you up on what I know is happening in the north and you fill in the blanks for me.’
* * * * *
Fronto pointed angrily at the slave girl. ‘I don’t give a hair from Jove’s left bollock what her intentions were, I distinctly and very clearly said I did not want her touching my swords!’
Lucilia reached out with a calming hand and patted him on the arm. ‘I gave her permission, Marcus. She has been complaining for weeks that you don’t take care of them and that there are spots of rust on the blades.’
Fronto glared in exasperation. ‘You do realise that means that she’s been unsheathing them when you aren’t looking anyway?’
‘You of all people should know better than to let your kit get rusty, Marcus. You may not intend to join Caesar again, but that’s no reason to let things go to ruin.’
His glare darkened. ‘Don’t change the bloody subject!’ He turned to Andala who, he noted, did not look remotely cowed and showed not a breath of remorse. In fact, she looked thoroughly defiant and even slightly angry. By gods sometimes she actually reminded him of Lucilia. Could there be shared blood between the Belgae and the Lucilii?
‘Masgava, would you be good enough to take all three of my gladii and my daggers and put them in a locked box?’
‘They’ll be no use there if you get in trouble,’ the big man rumbled.
‘For the love of Jove is there no one in this household who actually has any intention of doing what I ask?’ Fronto bellowed in vexation.
‘Not if what you ask is not in your best interests,’ Masgava replied calmly.
Fronto glared at the three of them, feeling a little like a retiarius with a torn net and a broken trident facing three armed opponents in the arena. He spun and stomped angrily across the room to where Cavarinos stood peering at a large map of the republic on the wall.
‘You see the sort of crap I have to put up with?’
Cavarinos turned with an indulgent smile. ‘Roman women, I fear, are not that different from Arverni ones. Accept defeat gracefully, Fronto, and rally your men for future battles.’
Fronto glared at him, and Cavarinos laughed, pointing at the map. ‘Your people call our tribes Gallia, correct?’
Fronto nodded, still irritated.
‘Then I think your map makers have been toying with you. Look at this place.’
Fronto peered at where he was pointing, out to the east, past the border of the Republic in Anatolia. ‘Galatia?’
Cavarinos nodded, and Fronto smiled. ‘That is another land, ruled by a king called Deiotarus. He’s a client king of Rome, and they’re strong allies of ours.’
‘But the name?’
Fronto nodded. ‘I am given to understand that they are related to your tribes, going back a number of centuries. Pompey used to say they have their own Gaulish language. Probably not unlike yours, I imagine.’
Cavarinos frowned and tapped his lip. ‘I am interested in Galatia. It is on the other side of the world, yet you say it is a land of my people with its own king? Independent?’
‘I believe so.’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘I think, then, it is for Galatia that I am bound when this is over.’
The room’s five occupants turned in the silence that followed, listening to the sound of several footsteps in the atrium outside. Moments later, Aurelius appeared in the doorway.
‘You have another visitor, Domine.’
Fronto frowned. His guards never used such a noble term, mostly calling him by name. As Aurelius backed aside, bowing, three more figures appeared in the doorway. He didn’t recognise the men to either side, though they were clearly tribunes. But the man in the middle…
‘Brutus!’
A genuine smile spread across his face as he hurried across the room to the tired-looking officer in the doorway. He caught sight of his major domo standing respectfully some distance behind them, waiting for orders, while he held the three officers’ cloaks.
‘Amelgo? Have a meal prepared and plenty of wine. Could you have extra cushions brought in too? And a bowl of warm water for our guests to give themselves a quick clean up?’
As the servant dashed off, Fronto grinned at the three officers. ‘You’re welcome to use my baths of course, but from the looks of you you’ve just dismounted and you’ll probably want a seat and a cup of wine first, yes?’
Brutus gave him a tired smile. ‘A drink would be most welcome, Marcus. These two, by the way, are Pontius and Gamburio, tribunes of the Twelfth who have come with me all the way from the north.’ The two officers bowed.
‘Good to meet you. A fine legion, the Twelfth. I remember their formation. Come on. Sit yourselves.’
Brutus sank to a cushioned seat with gratitude.
‘I presume this means that Caesar’s wagon train has arrived?’ Fronto hazarded. ‘I guessed someone important would be commanding it. Glad it’s a friend. And maybe, since you’re a friend’ you’ll be able to squeeze a little shipment of mine aboard the triremes you’re taking to Rome?’
Brutus shook his head. ‘Sorry, Marcus. I’ve been down into town with the wagons and talked to the man in the offices. Sounds to me like we’ll fit most of the cargo on board, but there’s not even enough room for my full load. I’m going to have to do a deal with the more reputable local captains. Or send the other wagons around the coast and down through Italia, though that will mean having to temporarily reassign a cohort or two from the Twelfth. It’s all a bit of a headache, to be honest.’
Fronto was pleased enough to see his friend that he ignored the irritation over the fact that his business would continue to stagnate for a week or more yet.
‘Well at least you’re here and safe,’ Fronto chuckled. ‘A target like your column must have been tempting for half the tribes of Gaul.’
Brutus nodded, scrubbing ruffled hair. ‘We almost fell foul of one attack, from the good and loyal Helvii of all people! But fortunately we were warned in time and the enemy retreated without an arrow loosed.’
Cavarinos stepped away from the wall now, rubbing his hands together.
‘Did you say the Helvii?’
‘Yes.’ Brutus narrowed his eyes at this strange Romanised Gaul who he didn’t recognise.
‘When was this?’
‘Three days ago now.’
‘That’s where they were, then,’ Cavarinos nodded to himself. ‘I wondered why Alba was almost empty. The Sons of Taranis must have been right behind them. Hopefully they got bogged down behind your column and delayed.’
Brutus frowned in confusion. ‘The who?’
‘A cult of killers. There are twelve of them, led by a disfigured man.’
Brutus’ brow furrowed further, and he turned and muttered something to the tribunes, who nodded their agreement.
‘A dozen, you say? This disfigured man… would he be wearing a mask?’
Cavarinos, coming vividly alert, stepped forward so forcefully that one of the tribunes dropped his hand to his sword hilt, but the Arvernian drew himself up in front of Brutus.
‘A cult mask? Gleaming glaze with a straight mouth and small horns?’
Brutus nodded. ‘He was a servant, they said, who’d been disfigured by the pox.’
‘He was disfigured by a cavalry sword at Alesia,’ Cavarinos said quietly, and turned to Fronto. ‘They’re here. They’re in Massilia now, and they had no trouble getting here. They had a Roman escort.’
Brutus looked across at Fronto.
‘Who are these people, then? These Sons of Taranis?’
‘Rebels, killers and lunatics,’ Fronto replied. Damn good job for you that you had the Twelfth around you, then. From what Cavarinos tells me, you’d probably be decorating a tree now if they’d found you on your own.’
Brutus’ frown deepened yet again as he turned to the Gaul.
‘Cavarinos? Of the Arverni?’
Cavarinos nodded.
‘I saw you at the surrender of Alesia. Fronto, you are keeping very odd company.’
‘Odd, but good. Brutus, do you know where those twelve will be now?’
The senior officer shook his head. ‘We parted ways at the city gate. They could be anywhere by now. Damn it. Something felt off about them all that way, but I just put it down to jumpiness, given what I was transporting. What are they doing here?’
Fronto opened his mouth to speak, but Cavarinos was there first. ‘Primarily trying to take ship, but while they’re in town I would be astonished if they don’t try and send Fronto here to meet his gods in person. And if you are, as you appear to be, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, Caesar’s cousin, then I would make very sure to keep a large guard of legionaries around you at all times. You will be every bit as tempting a target as Fronto.’
Brutus nodded. ‘The legion will be moving off towards Narbo when the ships depart, but after that we’ll have the marines to look after us. I think I’ll be safe. It’ll take a week to load the ships and prepare to sail, I reckon.’
‘I doubt the Sons of Taranis will stay in port that long,’ Cavarinos noted. ‘They will delay departure long enough to try and kill such valuable Roman officers, but their objective requires that they leave as early as possible, and they’ll want to get to Rome ahead of the convoy, as that will block up your port and draw a lot of gazes to incoming ships.’
Fronto crossed to stand in front of Brutus.
‘Alright, Decimus. You can’t take my cargo, but I tell you one thing. Once these bastards have run from Massilia, they’re heading for Rome, and I will follow them and put them down. So you’ll make space for me and mine on the ships or I will personally cripple enough of your men to make room.’
Brutus chortled. ‘Subtle as ever, Fronto. Alright. We’ll make sure to keep room for a few passengers. Just make sure you stay alive until we sail.’
Fronto smiled. ‘You stay safe with the Twelfth until we’re ready to leave, Decimus.’ He glanced across at Masgava. ‘In the meantime we need to secure the villa completely. No little shopping trips to the agora. No theatre visits or strolls along the coast path. Everyone stays in the villa under guard and everyone is armed. Even Catháin and the workmen. If a mouse farts in this place I want a man with a sword looking up its arse. Understood?’
As Masgava nodded his total agreement, Fronto turned to Cavarinos.
‘Meantime, you and I are going to spend a little time in the town and turn over a few rocks, see what crawls out.’