5th of October – Massilia
Nine days. An impressive achievement. Fronto had travelled the coast from Massilia to Tarraco and back more than once, and by his estimate it would usually take a legion, even at a forced march pace, ten or eleven days to cover the distance. Of course, Caesar had not brought his artillery and siege train, for that was already here. And he had little need for wagons, as he was following his own supply lines back from Hispania. Still, though, they had come faster than Fronto expected.
If anything was likely to finally tip the scales in Massilia it would be this sight. Fronto stood at the gate of what had once been his homely villa, now functional and drab, and watched the spectacle as the wind whipped and lashed at him, pulling at his cloak and tunic. Autumn had come to Massilia and it had brought storm winds to announce its arrival.
Under the grey slab of sky, Fronto peered at the column. Caesar was accompanied by three legions. The general and his staff rode to the fore in the grey, threatening air. Behind them came the Praetorian cavalry under Aulus Ingenuus, then the legions, one at a time, in perfect formation, impressive and gleaming despite the dullness of the day, with their own cavalry keeping pace, their standards aloft and powerful, their musicians cascading notes and the legions chanting one of their traditional marching cadences.
The moment the column had appeared over the hill some mile and a half away, the walls of Massilia had thronged with spectators. Fronto could see even now the subtle himations and chitons of the Massiliots of higher station, and the dull red and burnished bronze of the Roman garrison and, interspersed among them, the colourful tunics and trousers of the Albici tribesmen. Anyone of import or power was on the walls to watch the arrival of their enemy.
How many of those watching now regretted closing their gates to Caesar? He had seemed the poor choice to them. Denied by the senate of Rome. Challenged by the great Pompey. Trapped between an Italia and a Hispania both garrisoned against him. And yet now here he was: master of Rome and Italia, of Gaul, and of Hispania. The victor, undisputed.
The Massiliot predicament had just increased drastically. Their enemy had doubled in size, but had quadrupled in stature for, as Fronto was well aware, there was a weight carried just by the general’s name that was worth a number of legions.
‘They have to capitulate now,’ Galronus said next to him.
Fronto nodded. ‘The time has come. But nothing is ever quite that simple. Look.’
He gestured to the ramparts where the city gate stood facing the camp of Trebonius – the gate through which the enemy had sallied on several occasions, and through which their deputations had come. Rising to either side of that great portal were two heavy, square towers, and atop one of them some sort of disagreement had broken out between Massiliots and Romans, involving a great deal of clear gesticulation, even if the words were inaudible at this distance.
‘Remind you of anyone?’
‘Petreius and Afranius,’ nodded Galronus. ‘Two men sharing command is never a good idea, is it?’
‘Three,’ corrected Fronto, as the argument between the city’s civilian council and the Roman commander was interrupted by a noble of the Albici waving his hands like a windmill in a storm. The argument raged on, with more men becoming involved as they watched.
‘Ahenobarbus is trying to get them to fight, isn’t he?’ Aurelius mused, standing a few feet from them.
‘And failing, I’d say, by the look of it.’
Now, only a quarter of a mile away across the open ground, Caesar and his companions drummed their heels on their mounts and rode out ahead of the column, bearing down on Trebonius’ headquarters and the gate of Massilia. The senior officer gestured to his officers and strode out to meet the new arrivals. Fronto and Galronus joined them, leaving the three singulares at the villa’s boundary wall.
The general reined in, Antonius and Varus alongside him, Plancus, Fabius and numerous others Fronto recognised behind. They looked bright and impressive, but Fronto had been through enough forced marches in his time to see the hidden signs of fatigue about their features. Caesar inclined his head to Trebonius.
‘Massilia holds out still?’
Trebonius nodded in return. ‘After a fashion, General. We have them by the throat. A truce of non-aggression is currently in effect. There was an unpleasant incident a week or so ago when they broke the truce and burned some of our siege works…’
Fronto caught the sudden sourness cross Mamurra’s face off to the side of the gathering.
‘…but it would seem that was the decision of the Roman commanders and not the boule of the city. The locals immediately pleaded to reinstate the truce. Ahenobarbus, as I understand it, was not happy.’
‘Good. I do not wish the man the greatest of happiness. The terms of your truce?’ Caesar asked.
‘The Massiliots claim they are willing to capitulate and surrender their city, but only to yourself, General. It seems your reputation for magnanimity knows no bounds, at least compared to mine.’
Caesar smiled. ‘It must have been difficult maintaining such a tense situation without mass violence erupting on both sides.’
Both Trebonius and Fronto turned to look at Salvius Cursor, who stood with the more junior officers to the rear. He failed even to flinch at their glances, his expression steady and alert. The tribune had not once apologised for his actions, and had maintained that it had been the right thing to do.
‘There were a few incidents,’ Trebonius rumbled, ‘on both sides of the walls. But despite them the peace has been maintained and with the exception of one tower the city, as far as we are aware, remains intact.’
‘Good work, Trebonius. And Mamurra and Fronto were of use to you?’
‘Yes, General.’
‘Good. Hispania is settled. I have left trusted men there in control, and two loyal legions now maintain the peace in the peninsula, the Pompeians disbanded and settled appropriately. Once Massilia is dealt with, we can return to Rome for the winter and prepare to move on Pompey in the spring. All is coming together. First, though, we must deal with Massilia and its troublesome commander. Shall we?’
Trebonius nodded and called for his horse. The equisio and his staff hurried forward with the horses of the senior officers, who grasped their reins and pulled themselves up into the saddle, some requiring a little help in the process. Somewhere, a few miles off, a peal of thunder portended dire things ahead. Fronto noted that, alone of all the tribunes, Salvius Cursor seemed to assume he was invited and mounted his beast. Gesturing to Galronus, Fronto suggested that his companions mount up and keep pace with them, ready. Massilia was about to fall, and Fronto was determined to solve Balbus’ little problem before others interfered.
A short while later the cream of the Caesarian officer corps descended into the dip before the great Arelate gate in the walls of Massilia. Hurrying alongside, Caesar’s attendants moved to place a curule chair on a small dais for the general, but Caesar waved them aside and remained in his saddle. Fronto smiled as lictors rode forth on either side of the group, holding their fasces proudly, declaring the legitimacy and power of their master. Beyond them, forming an outer cordon, were Ingenuus’ cavalry as always, and on the periphery: Galronus with Fronto’s singulares. It had to be an impressive sight. As they sat waiting, Fronto noted the artillery on the towers above the gate disarming. They had to be just out of range here anyway, which had clearly been the general’s design, but someone up there was taking no chances. The walls and towers here were now lined with just Massiliots and Albici. Fronto could see neither legionaries nor Roman officers up there. As he was contemplating the potential reasons for that, the gates of Massilia opened.
The boule of the city emerged on foot as if in procession, cool and stately, civilian and unarmed. They traipsed along the road from the gate to a position some thirty paces from the general, at which point Ingenuus’ cavalrymen lifted their spears, preparing to defend their commander should anything untoward occur.
One man with saggy jowls and unruly hair despite the money he had clearly spent on attempting to style it, stepped forward, shivering in the winds that became more chilling and troublesome with every passing moment.
‘Mighty Caesar, son of Venus and Proconsul of Gaul, I bring greetings from the city and boule of Massilia, for whom I am elected spokesman on this day.’
Caesar nodded – a slight incline, nothing more. There was an odd, uncomfortable silence.
‘The honour of conveying our offer of surrender has been given to me,’ the man went on.
Honour. Fronto rolled his eyes at politicians’ need to embellish even their failures.
Still silence reigned.
‘We…’ he tried again, croaking into silence. ‘I mean, the Roman governor…’
‘Where is he?’ Caesar interrupted.
‘Proconsul?’
‘Where is Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus?’
‘I cannot say, General. He would have no part in the capitulation of the city and departed our council in anger. The walls of Massilia are free of Roman personnel.’
‘I can see that.’ The general’s voice was cold, business-like. ‘This city closed its gates on me and took up Pompey’s banner. I am, however, a man inclined toward peace and leniency. I may yet offer you generous terms. Those terms are, however, based in part upon the delivery of my enemies in the city. Bring me Domitius Ahenobarbus.’
The man looked distinctly uncomfortable now, sweating despite the cold.
‘General, the commander… he has good veteran troops. I cannot say for certain where he has gone. It would take time to search the city for him, and then the city’s garrison would have to extricate him. This will all take time.’ He was blustering, floundering.
The general nodded. ‘Trebonius? Can you bring me Ahenobarbus?’
His lieutenant straightened in his saddle. ‘I have men champing at the bit, awaiting that very task, General.’
Caesar gestured to the boule’s spokesman. ‘In the absence of my enemy who has held your walls against me, I will accept the unconditional surrender of Massilia. There will be no terms requested by its council, military or population. Such conditions as are laid down in due course will be done so entirely at my discretion. Do you understand?’
The man nodded hurriedly, caught half way between panic and relief.
‘On behalf of the boule, the garrison and the people of Massilia, I hereby surrender the city to Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul.’ His companions wore a number of different expressions, though not one made to counter his statement.
The general nodded again. ‘All your men under arms will stand down and report to the largest open space in the city – the agora, I imagine. The boule will convene in their chamber one hour before sunset to hear my terms in full. All ships will be debarked and left empty. The population of civilian Massilia will return to their homes and remain there for the duration. This last is not a punishment, but a precaution. My legions have suffered their own privations during the siege and we are all, I’m sure, aware of the nature of victorious armies. Orders for peace and clemency will be given, and failures to adhere to those orders will be punished, but troubles are inevitable. Let us attempt to keep them to the minimum.’
The entire boule of the city bowed to the general.
‘I shall now return to our camp and make preparations. You will go back to your city and see that my instructions are carried out. My legions will not move into the city until three hours before sundown, when I shall carry out my inspection of Massilia. Until then the city remains in your hands to prepare. Just one century of my men will be permitted to enter, however, with instructions to bring Ahenobarbus and his officers to me. You will accord them any aid they require in this task or you will forfeit any hope of clemency from me.’
Again, a bow from the boule.
‘Good. See to your tasks, gentlemen.’
And with that, the general turned his back on the embassy, wheeling his horse and walking her toward the camp as the officers followed suit. The boule scurried back to the gates, rushing to prepare for the hand over of the city to the proconsul. There was another crack of thunder, distant, somewhere inland, perhaps near Aquae Sextiae over the hills.
Trebonius edged his horse toward Fronto and, once they were side by side and moving back toward the camp, the lieutenant cleared his throat.
‘You wanted to be the first into Massilia? You heard the general: take one century of men and bring back Ahenobarbus.’
Fronto nodded and steered aside from the column, toward where Galronus and the others waited as Salvius Cursor emerged from the crowd and converged on them. Six men. Fronto looked at his companions. A prince of the Remi, a Greek archer, a Numidian gladiator, a superstitious former soldier and a tribune he despised. A stranger bunch of bedfellows he could hardly imagine.
‘Where would Ahenobarbus go?’ Salvius questioned as they moved off toward the camp of the Eleventh.
Fronto scratched his chin. ‘He’s trapped, as far as I can see. The city is besieged, and Brutus has managed to keep ships from going in or out for months with the help of someone in the city, so where can he go? And he has something of a bloody minded disposition, too, so I cannot imagine him walking up to us and laying down his sword willingly. He is the sort of man who would find a way out if there was one, but who would fight to the bloody end, if not. Right to the last man, like the Trojans at Priam’s palace, tearing out bricks and throwing them at the Greeks.’
He sighed. ‘The question is: where would he make his stand? He cannot maintain the city walls with the small Roman garrison he brought with him, for the Massiliots and the Albici won’t aid him now. He has just under four cohorts as far as we know, so he will have to find somewhere very defensible. If he intends to hold anywhere against us, there are three sites separated from the houses and shops of the town, each on a prominence, he might consider. The temple of Athena is near the theatre and the agora. It’s the smallest of the three and has no perimeter wall, but being compact – just a temple on a hill – that would be my choice to defend with just a small force. The sanctuary of Artemis is larger, surrounded by a perimeter wall and atop rocks on one side. But it has a large number of attendants and a few buildings to secure. And the sanctuary of Apollo is the biggest, with six or seven buildings and its own perimeter wall.’
‘You think they’ll be at this temple of Athena?’
‘It’s a good bet,’ Fronto replied. ‘The civilian population will be very compliant right now, hoping for the best terms from Caesar. Take Pullo and his century to the agora and make a few reasoned and calm enquiries of the men you find there. If Ahenobarbus and his legionaries have settled into the temple of Athena, they’ll have been seen in the agora.’
‘Caesar gave orders that the citizens return to their homes.’
‘Yes,’ Fronto sighed, ‘but it will take hours for it all to happen fully. The agora will still be busy for a while, and Caesar also gave orders that the Massiliot defenders assemble there unarmed. And while you try and find out whether he is at the temple without storming a sacred site unnecessarily, I’ll take my guards and Galronus and quickly check the other two sanctuaries then catch up with you. I used to live here, and I know the quick ways through the city.’
Salvius Cursor nodded and geed up his horse, heading for the camp of the Eleventh. As soon as he was out of earshot, Fronto turned to the others.
‘Ahenobarbus will be at the port, the agora, or the temple of Athena, depending whether he’s trying to run, negotiate or fight. But before we go there, I want to find Catháin. He’s probably at the warehouse if he’s still in Massilia. Come on.’
* * *
It was strange, entering Massilia that day. Fronto had used the same gate for years now, sauntering from his villa’s grounds into the city and down through the streets to the warehouse or the agora or more often, he would have to admit, to the taverns. On occasion, he would use the main street that ran from this gate down to the port, but more often he would stray through the back streets, beneath the lofty heights of the two sanctuaries that stuck up like the vertebrae of Massilia.
He had never been the enemy. Well… strictly speaking he had never truly been a Massiliot either, and the city’s government, traders and nobles had been uniformly difficult with him, but he had never felt more out of place than now.
The grey cloud had lowered noticeably, streaks of steel in the sky, topped by rolling white thunderheads. That they moved so ponderously from the hills over the city was impressive, given the ever-increasing speed of the chilly winds.
The people of Massilia disappeared from view at the sight of the five Romans striding purposefully down the street. Women swept babies from their path as though Fronto might hold the slightest interest in someone else’s snotty offspring. The air was becoming close and unpleasant, though it remained cold, and the feeling of impending explosive doom was all around.
It did not take long to reach the warehouse, though, each of the four men with him familiar with the place. The main doors were shut tight, as was proper. Fronto approached them and drew a small ring of keys from his belt pouch, selected one and then reached out. He stopped.
‘What is it?’ Galronus asked.
‘There are two locks. I only put one in.’
‘Catháin has been busy, then.’
‘Good man, he knows what a besieged city is like. Saving what he can and protecting everything from looters and opportunists.’ Fronto gave the door an experimental push. ‘Barred from the inside, too. Come on. Let’s try the back way.’
Dipping into a side alley, Fronto led his friends to the rear of the warehouse and closed on the smaller, single door. ‘Two locks again,’ Galronus pointed.
‘This one’s always had two locks, and I have the keys.’ A moment later, he snicked each lock open and, lifting the latch, gave the door a shove. It opened inwards with a noise like a tomb cover grating aside, and stuck slightly on the gritty floor. Inside, all was dark. Fronto glanced questioningly at his companions and Galronus nodded, drawing his sword, an action followed by the Masgava and Aurelius. Arcadios unslung his bow from his shoulder and fished an arrow from his quiver.
He stepped inside.
The same preternatural sense that had saved him a dozen times on the battlefield visited him again now. As the hairs rose on the back of his neck, Fronto suddenly ducked. The stout ash club hummed through the space above him, parting his hair before thudding into the door edge with a deep, ligneous thump. Had the blow landed, Fronto would probably now have been searching the floor for his brains. He continued with his ducking motion and turned it into a roll, somersaulting forward and coming up into a combat-ready stance, sword grating out of its sheath.
The door suddenly burst wide open as Galronus and Aurelius hit it simultaneously, and light flooded into the darkness.
Catháin stood illuminated, blinking with one eye, club still in hand and still overextended. Fronto stared in shock. The strange northerner was disfigured. His mouth was swollen and lumpy. His left eye was a bulbous purple mass with a closed slit at the centre, and his nose was at a jaunty angle and surprisingly flat. A clump of hair was missing above one ear, with just raw flesh in its place. His left arm was tightly bound to his chest with a makeshift sling, the club in his right.
‘What in Hades’ own latrine happened?’ Fronto whispered.
Catháin shook slightly and made an odd purring noise. It took Fronto a moment to realise the man was laughing.
‘Murff ee mugga lou.’
‘What?’ Galronus asked.
‘He said “you should see the other fellow”,’ Fronto snorted, rolling his eyes. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘Armans.’ Catháin paused, breathed slowly through his wrecked nose. He dropped his club and crossed to a small stool, picking up a cup of wine and taking a careful sip through his cracked lips. He hissed at the pain.
‘Hurts,’ he said slowly. ‘Talking. Hurts.’
‘Keep it to a minimum,’ Fronto said. ‘Romans did this?’
Catháin nodded. ‘I… was sneaking onto walls. Signalling your navy. Caught me.’
‘You’re the one who’s been signalling Brutus?’ Fronto stared. ‘You mad sod. That’s about as dangerous a job you could ever choose. Ahenobarbus is not a forgiving man.’
‘I know. They were… going to crucify me. But I got away.’ He paused, wincing again and took another painful sip. ‘Tribune hurt my face… broke my arm. Arsehole didn’t bother with my legs, though. More fool him. I know how to run.’
He grinned and then whimpered as the motion brought fresh blood through the splits.
Fronto frowned, a suspicion creeping over him. ‘A tribune? A tribune did this?’
A nod.
‘Looks like a corpse? Sneers a lot?’
‘Sounds like the one.’
‘I am going to tear that bastard’s spine out through his nose,’ snarled Fronto. He suddenly remembered the reason they were both here. ‘Balbus. Balbus sent you to find some papers for him…’
‘Burned,’ Catháin sighed. ‘Days ago. Couldn’t get them out of the city. Once I’d been caught and escaped I knew the Romans would be looking for me. Couldn’t let them find the papers, so I burned them all. Balbus’ papers. Yours. All the business. Everything. Sorry.’ He stopped and rested his sore mouth, wincing at the pain of continued conversation.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Fronto said, through a wave of relief. ‘The business is probably done with now, anyway. We’ll start it up again in Tarraco, but I think our time in Massilia’s ended.’
Catháin nodded his emphatic agreement.
‘What do you know about Ahenobarbus? Do you know where he is?’
Catháin sighed painfully, took another swig of wine, and braced himself for more soreness. ‘Probably gone.’
‘What?’
‘He’s had three ships in dock readied for more than a week now. The fastest ones in Massilia. He’s known it’s over for a while – that the boule would ignore his demands and seek peace. He’s probably already gone. I went to warn Brutus about it, and that’s when they caught me.'
Fronto realised he was trembling slightly. ‘I saw Ahenobarbus on the walls this morning, arguing. If he’s gone, he’s only just left. Will you be alright?’
Catháin nodded painfully. ‘Plenty of wine. Dulls pain.’
‘Help yourself,’ Fronto urged. ‘And keep the door locked.’
Moments later, he was out of the warehouse again into the bitter wind of the grey afternoon and hurrying down the street followed by the others. ‘The docks?’ Masgava asked.
‘The docks.’
This time, they were running. Salvius Cursor would be nearing the agora by now with a century of men. The port was close to the agora. If Ahenobarbus was fleeing Massilia, running back to Pompey, then he might still be there. They could still catch him. Feet pounding on dry, dusty cobbles they ran, slipping here and there with the inherent difficulty of hobnails on smooth stone.
Shops and bars hauntingly familiar to them whizzed past, and Fronto jinked around a couple of corners before his eyes locked on the tall masts he could see rising above the roofs against the grey, boiling sky. Breath coming in heaved gasps, the five men burst from a narrow side street out onto the port, peering off along the dock as the wind whipped makeshift covers from piles of goods.
They were too late.
The jetties of Massilia were more than half empty, and those ships that remained tied up were poor excuses for vessels, hastily patched and barely-seaworthy. The three good ships were busy pulling out of the harbour even now. The battering storm winds were troubling them a little, forcing them to carefully control the sails, but even as Fronto came to a stop, his chest rising and falling at speed, he could see the small flotilla already moving out through the arms of the harbour, past the ruined tower by the swamp and across the water.
Ahenobarbus had fled.
Impotent frustration tore through Fronto, and he could see similar in the eyes of his companions. All this, and the bastard had got away. Oh, they had secured Massilia but, just as he had at Corfinium, Ahenobarbus had escaped, whole and at liberty to seek his master, which he almost certainly would now do.
‘Will Brutus be able to catch him?’ Galronus asked quietly.
‘Doubtful. These winds are coming from inland. They favour Ahenobarbus, but not Brutus. And Catháin said these were the fastest ships in Massilia. They’re pretty swift. No, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’ll be off and bound for Pompey and the east now.’
But even as he watched, something was happening. The lead ship had cleared the harbour and was making for open sea, but the second of the three had drifted oddly. There was a tiny, distant noise. They could hardly hear it over the general hum of the city, but it was a sound with which Fronto was thoroughly familiar. His eyes rose to the tower above the port entrance. The great bolt thrower atop it loosed again, the missile dropping and thudding into that second ship with the accuracy of a master artillerist who knew his weapon. Even as Fronto marvelled, tiny orange lights flared on the tower’s parapet and then arced down at the ship.
Fire arrows.
There was no way Salvius had made it to that tower already. And his men wouldn’t even know how to nock an arrow. That had to be the city garrison and the Albici. There would, he realised, be no love lost now between them and Ahenobarbus. The Roman had led them to naught but defeat and then fled in the face of the city’s fall. Their best chance of good terms with Caesar was to hand over Ahenobarbus – the man now trying to leave the harbour.
That second ship was in trouble now, its sail on fire and men rushing around to put out various other small flames. The third ship was turning. Whether because of the threat from the tower, or perhaps the threat posed by the burning ship in the harbour entrance, the third trireme turned as sharply as it could, quite masterfully really, and began to plough its way through the water back toward the jetties.
‘Pray that’s Ahenobarbus,’ Fronto shouted as he ran once more, moving to intercept the ship as it ploughed on toward the dock. The others pounded along behind him and, as the crowds dispersed rapidly in the face of potential fresh troubles, Fronto spotted legionaries jogging toward them. For a moment, he panicked that somehow the enemy had managed to outflank them, but he swiftly realised it was Pullo and Salvius with the men of the Eleventh.
The three groups were converging on the same jetty: Fronto and his friends, Salvius and his legionaries, the trireme and its fugitives. Beyond it, Fronto could see that the second trireme had now managed to put out the fires on its deck and had cut away the sail, turning and following its mate back toward the jetties. Two of the three ships had turned back.
Fronto quickly patted the figurines hanging around his neck – Fortuna and Nemesis, luck and vengeance. Perhaps both were at work right now.
‘Three cohorts of legionaries at the agora,’ Salvius Cursor shouted as they closed. ‘All surrendering, but no sign of their commanders.’
Fronto nodded. ‘One ship made it out. The others are coming back.’
‘Centurion,’ Salvius turned to the Pullo, ‘take half the men and secure that intact trireme. The rest are with us.’
The centurion called off the names of five tent party leaders and forty men followed him along the jetty to the ship that was closing on it, while the rest followed Salvius Cursor in the wake of Fronto toward the next clear jetty. The ship that was limping back toward this one was scorched and missing its sail now, but was still largely intact and of good quality. Fronto cast up a quick prayer to Fortuna. A full trireme’s crew would number around two hundred, and if they all turned out to be legionaries, confronting them belligerently might be the last mistake he and his small force made. But belligerent they were going to have to be. There was a one in three chance that the ship carried Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, and the man was ‘required’ by Caesar.
With three cohorts surrendering in the agora, there wouldn’t be much more than a cohort left of legionaries. Four hundred or so men at most, split between three ships. They had to be using non-legionary crew for the oars. Still, if they were defiant and truly loyal to Ahenobarbus, Fronto and his forty five companions could be facing almost four-to-one odds.
‘Follow my lead,’ Fronto told the men on the jetty as they watched the fire-blackened trireme close on the jetty. Sailors threw looped ropes from the ship to the posts on the jetty, expertly lassoing them and hauling on them to pull the trireme up against the timbers. The ship came to a halt with a thud that shook the jetty and had every man on it staggering to retain his footing. No boarding ramp was run down from the rail that towered above head height.
The first pregnant drops of rain blatted against the wood by the Romans’ feet. As Fronto looked up at the deep grey, leaden clouds, there was a staccato battering of rain on the wood. A sudden flash of white amid the clouds starkly illuminated the ships, and a boom tore the sky apart.
The storm had begun.
‘We seek terms with the forces of the proconsul,’ called a refined voice from the ship.
‘The same terms will be offered to the cohorts as to the native garrison, provided their officers are willing to submit themselves to our prior judgement,’ Fronto answered carefully.
‘That is highly irregular,’ announced the voice.
‘That is my offer,’ Fronto replied calmly, flatly, with finality.
A figure approached the edge of the ship and rose into view. He wore a sky blue tunic with dark purple edging, marking him as a man of rank. His cloak was of good quality wool, dyed dark blue. The trierarch of the ship, Fronto assumed.
‘I will submit myself and the crew of the Laocoon to your mercies,’ the man said in that same, clear voice. ‘My passengers, I fear, will be reticent.’
Even as he spoke, the boarding ramp was run out and a number of burly, sun-bronzed men with numerous tattoos began to descend. Back across the ship several voices were raised in anger at the surrendering sailors. They were labelled cowards, women and deserters. Fronto gestured to his men, and the legionaries shuffled aside to make way for the sailors.
‘You,’ Fronto pointed at his optio – the ranking officer within this century. ‘Take ten men and escort these sailors and their trierarch to the agora to join the rest of the surrendering forces.’
He watched as more than a hundred men disembarked and shuffled along the jetty to the port. Assuming the galley were fully crewed there would still be nearing a hundred Pompeians on board. Another quick plea to Fortuna, and he took a deep breath and marched to the boarding ramp, the others following on behind. Thirty six men, he had. Two to one odds at best, perhaps even three to one. And a fight now seemed inevitable, else the rest would have disembarked at the same time as the trierarch.
The ramp was already slippery with the rain and Fronto ascended carefully, rain blatting his armour in large heavy drops. He emerged onto the deck and cast his gaze about. The rest of the occupants – yes, seventy or so – were gathered near the steering oars at the stern, and along the twin decks at the sides toward the aft end. Even decked for war, the space for a fight was tight.
‘Depart my ship and I will not have you skinned and used to patch the sail,’ a voice called.
All thoughts of leniency evaporated at the sound of that voice. A voice Fronto had heard making insolent demands as his allies burned the Musculus. A voice whose owner had burned down a tower full of legionaries during a truce. A voice that had sneered as it beat the lifeblood out of Catháin. No quarter. Fronto found himself troubled as the rain continued to dong from his helmet and splat onto his clothes. Caesar needed to maintain his reputation and therefore the need for clemency with Massilia and its defenders. And though he had wanted Ahenobarbus brought to him, Fronto was fairly certain he would not harm the man. In the absence of the commander, who had probably fled on that first ship, Caesar would want the second in command delivered to him, and not just his head. But Fronto had vowed every night since the tower burned that he would end the man responsible. He cleared his throat.
‘Any legionary, centurion, optio or sailor here who disembarks and makes his way to the agora will receive the same terms as the surrendering garrison. Your commander, however? No terms for you, Tribune.’
Legionaries parted at the rear of the ship and the tribune came into view at the end of the gap between decks. He did not look perturbed. Two huge guards stood beside him. His skeletal features regarded Fronto in the same manner that a cat regards a mouse.
‘I remember you.’
‘Good.’
‘Last chance, Caesar’s lapdog. Leave my ship or you will regret your decision.’
Fronto’s confidence wavered for just a moment as more than seventy swords were drawn with a collective rasping hiss, but it returned with an answering scrape of iron on bronze behind him. As though the gods acknowledged the importance of what happened here, the storm chose that moment to break fully, the clouds opening and dropping swathes of water on them, which came down like watery pila, bouncing on the deck to knee height.
Fronto peered through the downpour. This could be ended with the tribune’s death – he was sure of that. Their reason to resist would melt away. The enemy were gathered largely on the twin decks at the ship’s sides and the small poop deck to the stern. His eyes dropped to the narrow sunken walkway between the two decks, some ten feet below and only five or six wide. It was the walkway along which water was delivered to the oarsmen beneath the decks, and where the aulete played his pipes. It led almost directly to the tribune at the rear, where the stairs rose to meet the stern deck. And it was empty. Of course it wouldn’t be for long, and it would be incredibly dangerous to run along, open to pila and swords from above at either side.
‘Two squads,’ he barked over his shoulder. ‘One on each deck. Remember you’re the fighting Eleventh, heroes of the Nervii, Avaricum, Alesia and Ilerda. Make your blows count. There are two or three for each of you, so don’t get greedy.’
Dark chuckles rippled behind him as the forty men split into two units, half of them heading over to the mast and using the bridge there to cross to the other deck. Two sets of hardened legionaries eyed one another.
‘The pit?’ Masgava rumbled under his breath.
‘Yes. The tribune’s the goal.’
‘Last chance, legate,’ called the Pompeian officer from the rear deck.
‘Charge,’ Fronto shouted as another dazzling flash of silver tore through the clouds and a deep boom rolled across Massilia. The water was hissing all around the ship now as the rain ripped into it. Shouts and the clang of iron on iron were just audible from the other vessel two jetties over, where clearly things were going just as well.
Chaos broke out. The legionaries in Fronto’s party ran, brandishing weapons. The legate kept his hand up, holding his companions back. Let the chaos settle in first…
The two forces met on both decks with a noise like gods at war. Clangs and thuds and shouts and screams. The rain battering the wood of the ship with a constant drumming and the hiss of the water created a symphony that threatened to drown out all else. Fronto could barely see the tribune now through the torrents of falling water, the deep gloom of the storm and the shadows of the two melees aboard the side decks.
‘Now.’
Without further pause, he dropped into the narrow walkway between the decks. Only as he landed and his knee reminded him that it would never be truly right again did he realise quite how far down ten feet was. He paused long enough to whimper, wipe the tear from the corner of his eye and test the strength of his leg, and then he was moving again. He had jarred it, but his knee would hold up. The thuds behind him announced the arrival in the walkway of Salvius, Galronus, Masgava and Aurelius.
Fronto was running. It was perhaps forty feet to the stairs and the poop deck where the tribune waited. A gauntlet to run. With his companions following on, the legate pounded along the timbers between the rows of oar benches toward his target at the rear. His nailed boots slipped and skidded across the sodden, slick timbers, but momentum kept him pressing forward. With a scream, a legionary fell into the narrow walkway, clutching a bloody rent in his chest, links of chain and gouts of blood falling through the air in his wake. The body hit the walkway and Fronto hurdled the thrashing shape without pause. Twenty feet…
With a defiant roar, a legionary dropped into the gap, shieldless but brandishing a sword and bracing himself. Fronto raised his own blade to try and remove the obstacle at speed, but the legionary suddenly sprouted an arrow from his face and fell backwards with a shriek and a gurgle. Arcadios had found his vantage point, then.
Moments later arrows were flying as though a whole unit of archers were present, the impressive speed of the little Greek putting shaft after shaft into the enemy. It was still not enough to clear the way. Ten feet from the stairs and the gauntlet had finally closed in. Here, the enemy legionaries to each side were from their rear ranks, not busy fighting Fronto’s men and, as they became aware of the five men pounding along the walkway below them, they began to react.
Swords lashed out, swung downwards, mostly too high to hit home, but close enough to cause concern and make the runners duck instinctively. And men were starting to drop into the gap again. The first disappeared with a cry and an arrow in the throat, but there was already a snarling legionary immediately behind him. Fronto didn’t stop. His sword lashed out. He missed, but barged the man aside and Salvius, savage that he was, stabbed the man twice in the gut before running on. The stairs were just a couple of paces away now.
A legionary hit the deck before Fronto and the legate feinted left. The man was still a little disoriented from the drop and fell for the slight jig, not watching Fronto’s eyes or feet. The legate dodged right at the last moment, slammed the point of his gladius into the gap beneath the raised sword arm and felt it punch through flesh into the vital space inside. The man gurgled and fell aside. Fronto reached the first step and began to climb. For just the blink of an eye, he risked a look back.
Salvius and Galronus were with him. Aurelius and Masgava were snarled up in the walkway, cutting a bloody swathe through the ever-increasing mass of enemies there. Fronto turned back in time to see a big man with expensive mail and an elaborate helmet appear at the top of the stairs, roaring. Before Fronto could consciously react, the soldier was punched back with an arrow to the chest. Bless you, Arcadios.
Fronto slipped and slithered up the treacherous steps and emerged onto the deck with his two close companions hurrying to catch up.
The tribune stood facing him, his two bodyguards at his flanks. A fair proposal under most circumstances, but the rear ranks of the legionaries on either deck were now turning to face the threat to their commander. Any moment the three of them would be swamped by soldiers.
‘How many can you kill?’ Salvius shouted at him.
‘Er… two?’ hazarded Fronto.
‘Good. Get to it.’
Even as Salvius spoke, he leapt forward. One of the bodyguards bellowed and stepped forward to meet him, but the young tribune was quick as a striking cobra. His sword seemed to whisper past the guard’s head harmlessly, and then he was turning and racing back across the deck to hold off the tide of legionaries. Taking his cue from the blood-mad Salvius, Galronus dipped across to the other side and began to swing his long, Gallic blade, holding off the legionaries on that deck.
The side decks narrowed at the end to accommodate the stairs between them. As long as Salvius and Galronus were careful, they could hold the tide of humanity for the precious moments Fronto needed.
He faced the cadaverous tribune and his bodyguards.
Three. He’d said two, hadn’t he?
Then, suddenly, as the right hand of the two guards turned his head slightly, the gash in his neck opened up and a jet of crimson burst from it across the deck. Salvius had far from missed, after all. Horrified, the big bodyguard dropped his sword and clutched at the wound, the blood spraying out in fine jets between his fingers. He was out of the fight, and not long for the world.
The other bodyguard – a bulky man with an old-fashioned helmet and torcs and medals hanging all over him – stepped forward. His sword flickered out a few times, experimentally. Fronto stood still, facing him. A few months ago in Hispania, the goading bitter words of the young officer now fighting alongside him had driven Fronto into trying to prove himself, to prove he was still vital and strong. Realisation had come slowly, but it had come. He was vital and strong. He just wasn’t young any more, and no amount of exercise and danger was going to solve that problem. But where he lacked the spry agility of the tribune and could no longer leap into the fray as Salvius had done, experience and wisdom filled the gaps left by youth.
He watched the bodyguard’s blade.
Lance… lance… dance… twist… lance…
The blade moved left in the next part of this repetitive sequence and Fronto simply stepped inside the reach of it and slammed his blood-slick sword into the man’s throat. As the bodyguard, astonished and in agony, staggered, his eyes wide and his sword falling away from desperate fingers, Fronto almost casually jerked his hilt first left and then right, then withdrew it, the ruination of the initial wound adequate to prevent sucking flesh fighting the pull. Gore and blood poured through the jagged hole and the man fell instantly, his legs thrashing and hammering on the timber.
Fronto stood silent, watching the tribune. Around him, the incessant downpour hammered the timber deck, washing the pools of blood into one great greasy pink lake across the whole ship. One thing to be grateful for with the storm was that the rain suppressed the stink of offal and bowel that accompanied any real fight. All he could smell was the salty air and the tinny overtone of the storm. A flash illuminated the tribune and made him look more skeletal than ever. Even as the crash of thunder rolled above them, Fronto found his conscience entirely clear. This wasn’t a man. This was a spirit of the restless dead who had somehow found a body.
‘I have information your general will want,’ the tribune said quietly. He didn’t looked afraid. It was a reasoned negotiation, not desperation.
‘No.’ Fronto was not a force of reason right now.
‘Then come, so I can kill you.’
The tribune drew his weapon finally. It was a nice sword – decorative hilt, but a proper soldier’s blade. The way he held it suggested he knew well how to use it.
Fronto felt an odd chill run through him. He was facing a Roman, preparing to kill him. Not in the cause of war, but in a very personal way. The conditions could hardly be more different, yet it dragged him back momentarily to another time. A chilly day here, in the battering rain, on a ship. Last time it had been hot and dry and sunny, in a quarry. He had been sorely wounded last year, and still felt the effects of it. Last year he had allowed it to happen, in a way. Verginius had been a friend. This was not. The tribune was a vicious bastard who burned men to death. Oh, Fronto had done terrible things in the prosecution of a war, but this had been during a truce. The men who had died in that tower had been innocent and settled in for the night. This had been murder, pure and simple.
The tribune’s blade sat still in his hand. No fancy plays. Nothing. Just ready to react.
There was something about the man’s eyes, though. Fronto squinted through the rain and realised that the tribune was not looking at him, but over his shoulder. He turned sharply. The legionary’s sword was already lashing out. It was the man with the arrow protruding from his torso, who had been at the top of the stairs, and there was no time for Fronto to bring his sword up in response.
He was going to die.
The legionary, teeth bared as he swung down for his kill, was suddenly thrown aside as a second arrow hit him, punching him left and sending him to the deck. Fronto stared. Right behind where the legionary had been about to kill him a moment earlier was Salvius Cursor with his sword lowered. The blood-soaked young tribune nodded.
‘Now we’re even.’
Fronto stared as Salvius swung his blade up to block an attack from another legionary. Masgava and Aurelius were emerging from the walkway now, the latter sporting a nasty wound to the upper arm. They filtered off to either side, Aurelius coming to support Salvius, and Masgava falling in beside Galronus, where the Remi prince was reminding the legions of Rome just how much reach a Gallic long sword had. A small pile of bodies was already mounting up before him.
Fronto turned back to the tribune.
The officer’s blade came up ready. Fronto took a step forward. He reckoned, just from looking in the man’s eyes, that they would be something of a match. The tribune was not young, but he was clearly a veteran who knew what he was doing. Fronto closed his eyes for a single heartbeat. This was now the work of the gods. He was not a legate of Caesar but a vessel for the wrath of Nemesis. He would have to trust to their care.
Another step forward. Careful. Slow.
The enemy sword came out sharply, in a sudden jerk. Fronto stepped forward, taking the blow and praying that Fortuna and Nemesis still favoured him. The sword was well-aimed. It struck just below the bronze edging at the bottom of his cuirass. A bowel-opening blow. The sword sliced through two of the hanging leather pteruges and struck the second layer of them below. The angle was just slightly oblique and, unless a blow hit pteruges dead-on, boiled leather can turn a point. The blade, instead of lancing deep into Fronto’s gut as intended, sliced a long, angry line across the top of his hip and then slid off harmlessly to the side.
Fronto was not trying anything graceful. He was revenge now, pure and simple. His own sword slammed into the tribune’s corpse-like face, hilt first, breaking teeth and nose. As the enemy officer staggered back in shock, Fronto dropped his sword. He turned and grabbed the man’s extended sword arm, pulling it down as he brought up his knee and breaking it permanently at the elbow.
The tribune howled in agony through his broken teeth, lurching this way and that in the driving rain, his sword dropping. Fronto bent and swept up both the tribune’s sword and his own discarded one. Blade in each hand, he approached the tribune.
‘Ugh…’ snarled the man, unable to form proper words with his crippled face. Fronto jabbed out with the swords. The tribune leaned back out of the way, but Fronto had not been attempting to wound with them. As he leaned, the tribune collided with one of the steering oars and fell. Fronto strode like the shadow of Nemesis herself over to the prone man, who was gagging and trying to rise with his non-shattered arm. Using a sword point, Fronto pushed him back down to the deck. Once the man was prone again, Fronto raised his foot. There was another flash of bright white and a crack of thunder that hid the dreadful sound as Fronto stamped his hobnailed boot down on the tribune’s other elbow. The man screamed and rolled around, unable to stand without the aid of his two broken arms.
‘Those are for Catháin and for the men in the tower.
Straightening, he stamped once more, this time on the man’s knee, which shattered with a horrible bony crack.
‘That one’s for Nemesis.’
And then the final joint. The other knee splintered with an unforgettable noise. The irreparably crippled tribune howled unintelligibly through his ruined face as he jerked, unable to do anything else.
‘But the last one was for me, you piece of shit.’
He turned. The fight had gone out of the enemy. More than half were dead already, but the rest were dropping their weapons and raising their arms.
‘You’re a cold bastard, Fronto,’ Salvius Cursor said, eying the broken tribune.
‘From you, I’ll consider that a compliment.’
Salvius gave him a horrible smile and then turned to address the soldiers. ‘Get these captives to the agora with the others.’ He turned back to Fronto. ‘I’m going to see what happened on the other ship.’
Fronto nodded. He looked at Aurelius, who was bleeding well but seemed to be content and whole otherwise. ‘Make sure this one doesn’t die. I want him treated so that he’ll live as a cripple and delivered to the general. He said he had information.’
Aurelius shook his head as he walked past to the ruined man. ‘He’s right, Fronto. You’re a cold bastard.’
* * *
Marcus Falerius Fronto stood on the tower top above the harbour entrance with Salvius and Galronus. In the distance, Ahenobarbus’ ship was little more than a dot now, white sail against a dark grey sky, periodically lit by the flashes of lightning that were now moving out to sea. Brutus’ ships were pursuing, but there was clearly no chance of them ever catching the trireme, without the prior warning that Catháin had apparently been providing over the weeks. It seemed that Brutus had won two of the most unlikely sea victories in the history of the republic because he had been prepared in advance. Fronto doubted Catháin’s name would make it into records, but the man deserved recognition from him, at least.
Leaving their jetty, Salvius had confirmed that the only senior officer on the other ship in port had been an auxiliary prefect who had surrendered with little trouble. Some of his men had put up a fight, but most had capitulated with their commander. Ahenobarbus had fled Massilia and slipped their grip, racing away to join his master, the lone Pompeian senior officer to make it out of Massilia.
But they had to savour the moment anyway, despite losing Ahenobarbus. Ten months ago, they had been in Ravenna, with Pompey in command of Rome, the man’s legions in Hispania holding it for him, and Massilia treating with the senate in their favour. Now, as the season drew to a close, Italia, Gaul and Hispania were all settled in support of Caesar, with legions in position to maintain that situation. Pompey controlled the east with a massive army, but from being an outcast on the northern border with the enmity of the Roman aristocracy, Caesar was now the undisputed master of the west, legitimised by the senate.
And the unnamed tribune had claimed to have important information, so perhaps there was another victory yet to be savoured. The medicus had said it would be days before the man could be safely interrogated, but he was stable, and would live to talk to the general.
Victory.
‘Will you stay in Massilia now?’ Galronus asked quietly.
Fronto shook his head. ‘Tarraco, I think. And one day back to Puteoli and Rome, but not while Pompey’s shadow is still cast across Italia. In Hispania we are all as far away from the war as we can be. And you’ll be coming presumably? For Faleria?’
‘We’ll stop now? Go home?’ The Remi sounded surprised.
Fronto nodded. ‘I’ve no stomach for fighting Romans. We were lucky this year. We took almost all our victories without mass slaughter. But that time is coming. When Caesar meets Pompey it will be brutal, and nothing will stop oceans of blood flowing.’
Galronus nodded, but Fronto could see Salvius regarding him sidelong.
‘You disagree?’
Salvius Cursor shrugged. ‘I will fight until I hold Pompey’s still-beating heart in my hand.’
‘What did he do to you?’
Salvius ignored the question and returned his gaze to the grey sea.