S. Turney: Caesar's Vow

The rapping on the door of his small quarters woke him in that fuggy, muzzy state that is the result of being only half way deep in sleep before being roused once more, and he blinked a few times, trying to remember where he was before he sat up and hastily pulled his tunic down a little for modesty.

‘Come.’

Priscus pushed open the door and grinned. ‘Tired? Oh you poor old fart. I’d heard the new commander of the Tenth was in here, but instead I find only an old man.’

Fronto’s own grin split his face. ‘Piss off, Gnaeus.’

‘So you won’t be wanting any of this jar then? A rather fine vintage that Cita’s men will be furiously trying to locate when he does his inventorying tomorrow.’

Fronto laughed and sat forward.

‘And we won’t be there to toast the new scion of the Falerii, after all,’ grinned Antonius pushing through behind Priscus, fetching a ‘you might not, but I will,’ from Galronus at the back. As they made themselves comfortable in the temporary officer’s quarters, Varus and Carbo fell in behind them, carrying an armful of mugs and a plate of meat cuts, and closed the door.

‘Careful,’ Fronto grinned. ‘I’m a lightweight these days.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Priscus rolled his eyes. ‘Antonius here more than makes up for that. I swear this man could work through a trireme full of Falernian and still get up for parade detail at dawn!’

Fronto sighed as Varus reached across and grabbed a cup, raising it to be filled. For all he was about to set off on weeks of travel to the south, right here and right now he felt at home for the first time in years.

* * * * *

It was with a sense of tense nervousness that Fronto waved farewell to Crassus and his escort, and he and Galronus turned to the villa on the hillside above Massilia. Unlike the last time he’d been here, this time the windows glowed with a welcoming amber and smoke rose from the flues, suggesting a nice warm interior. Some way beyond, Balbus’ villa displayed similar homely signs, and Fronto was surprised to find himself tensing further rather than relaxing.

The small party of singulares who accompanied him, along with the pack beasts at the rear, came to a halt behind their commander.

‘Why are we paused?’ Palmatus frowned.

‘I’m not sure,’ muttered Fronto.

‘You’re nervous?’

‘Actually, yes. I’ve not thought about this moment often, but it occurs to me that my family have never had a lot of luck with childbirth. It’s been a touch-and-go process for generations and we never have numerous issue. I was the fourth boy and the first to live past the night.’

‘You are a cheerful old sod, you know?’ grinned Palmatus.

‘Anyway, last I heard it was the women who did that bit, and Lucilia’s ten times as strong as you,’ laughed Galronus. Fronto gave them a look composed in equal parts of grumpy disapproval and mischievous acceptance, but still his heart felt encased in steel. Cold; defensive.

‘Come on,’ snorted Galronus and kicked his horse into movement again. Fronto paused for a moment longer and then followed, the singulares behind him. In the early evening air, Massilia’s first bad flittered, squeaking, overhead, and from the rear came the sound of Aurelius casting curses at the sky.

Through the gate and into the villa grounds.

The garden had flourished and, though autumn was now pulling in, the care with which it had been planted and tended suggested Balbus’ involvement. Rose bushes and flower beds complemented neat green lawns and gravelled paths, with marble benches and a trickling fountain. Even as Fronto and Galronus passed into the courtyard, the front door of the building opened and three slaves scurried out into the dim evening light. The pair reached the wide gravel area before the door and the three men rushed across, heads bowed.

‘Welcome, Dominus.’ The first of the three reached out for the reins of Fronto’s horse, while the other two ran off behind to the rest. ‘Your men will have to bunk for the night in the outbuildings. We will have proper rooms prepared for them in the morning, but the Domina was not warned of your arrival, and so we are not prepared.’

Fronto looked around at Palmatus and Masgava, who both nodded, dismounting.

‘Fine.’

‘And master Galronus, I believe?’

The Remi officer nodded his head in answer.

‘The Domina bids me tell you that the lady Faleria is at the Villa Balba along the road.’

Fronto frowned at Galronus, who simply shrugged and turned his beast. ‘Women have their reasons, Fronto. I will see you in the morning.’

As his friend made his way back out onto the road and the singulares were led by the other two slaves around the villa’s side to where a variety of solidly-constructed buildings stood, Fronto found himself alone in the gathering dusk, with only the slave and Bucephalus for company.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Amelgo, Dominus.’

‘Hispanic?’

‘ Yes. Sedetani, Dominus. You have a sharp ear.’

‘Heard the accent a lot in my time. Well, Amelgo… this is Bucephalus and he’s been with me a long time. Look after him.’

‘Naturally, Dominus. I shall see to the stabling myself. If you head into the atrium, Aridolis will take you through.’ The Spanish slave gestured to the door and waited patiently for Fronto to dismount before leading the big black steed from the courtyard. Fronto stood silent for a moment, his eyes on the glowing gold rectangle of light, before taking a deep breath and putting one foot mechanically in front of the other until he passed from the evening shade and into the well-lit atrium.

The painters had been here, as had every other type of decorator and fabric salesman. Fronto couldn’t even estimate how much the atrium had cost to get it into this warm, wealthy, elegant state. A short, swarthy man with glistening black-blue hair cut to mid-length and held back from his face with thong, bowed his head.

‘Follow me, Dominus.’

Fronto, his tension refusing to dispel, wandered across the atrium and followed the Greek slave through into a warm and inviting chamber decorated in reds and browns and golds and with deep red drapes. The slave bowed and retreated from the room as Fronto took in the large, comfortable looking bed and the numerous piles of linen and other ‘womanly stuff’ around the room, which was seemingly partitioned with drapes.

‘Shhhhh…’

Fronto’s heart jumped at the sibilant hiss in his ear, and a hand landed on his shoulder, gently, like a falling leaf.

‘Bloody hell, Lucilia, you nearly scared the shit out of me!’

‘Marcus, hush.’

Fronto, his pulse racing, looked at his wife. She wore a large, fairly shapeless gown of thick white wool, voluminous to hide the bump that was not as large as he’d expected, but was clearly there as evidence that so far nothing had gone wrong.

‘Lucilia…’

‘Hush, Marcus. Come.’

She wrapped his rough soldier’s hand in her pale, smooth one and led him across the room, where she pointed down. Fronto frowned and looked in among the piles of linen.

‘What’s that?’

‘That, you big numb ox, is a baby.’

Fronto blinked.

‘Your son: Marcus. Named for you in the traditional manner.’

‘But…?’ Fronto stared, his brow furrowed. Something shuffled behind him, and he turned in surprise to see beside the wide bed a second small cradle stuffed with white linen. He frowned and turned back to Lucilia.

‘And that is your second son: Lucius, named for your father. He is a grand quarter hour younger than Marcus but already more mature, which I fear says a great deal.’

Fronto blinked, his mouth flapping open and closed.

‘Have you nothing to say?’