S. Turney: Caesar's Vow

‘Dearest, divine Fortuna, who I have loved and graced with my devotions these past decades, if you see fit to just drown me now and put me out of my misery, I will consider it your last blessing.’

The ship bucked once more in answer and Fronto felt his foot slip for a moment.

‘I wouldn’t beg to drown now, Fronto. The worst of it’s over.’

The sea-sick officer turned from the rail to examine the speaker and immediately wished he hadn’t. Marcus Antonius was striding up the deck as though out for an afternoon stroll in balmy sunlight. He had no grip on the rail, despite the dangerous rise and fall of the boards, since one hand was wrapped tightly round a greasy chicken leg and the other clutched a goblet that slopped and splashed with rich, unwatered wine.

‘How in the name of Bacchus you can drink anything while this ship jumps up and down like a startled horse is beyond me. And how you can…’

His voice tailed off as the very thought of chewing on the wobbly, dripping chicken leg made every organ inside him turn over and pucker. By the time he had finished emptying himself of nothing yet again, Antonius was leaning beside him, watching the waves rise and fall as though it were a comic play. Damn the man.

‘Wine inures one to the motion of the ocean’ Antonius grinned. ‘And anyway, you should be thanking the Gods for our passage. See those lights ahead?’

Fronto blinked against the salt spray.

‘Frankly, no.’

‘Well I can. That’s Ostia, with its welcoming wharves, whorehouses and taverns. In less than an half an hour we make landfall and then we’ll be able to make the most of a thriving port town for the night before we move on.’

‘If we make it to the dock, just lie me down on the stone and turn me over every now and then so I don’t drown when I throw up.’

Antonius laughed aloud and slapped Fronto on the back, bringing on a fresh bout of retching. ‘Keep your eyes locked on those lights and watch them grow as we approach. I’m going back inside to finish this rather delectable chicken, empty the last of the amphora and win all that remains of Rufio’s sparse coin before we dock and the thieves can try their luck on him.’

He straightened, somehow miraculously staying upright as the ship crested a wave, hovered almost as though floating in the air, and then suddenly crashed back down into the brine with a jolt.

‘Want me to send out your wife? She’s complaining that she’s hardly seen you all voyage.’

‘Then she should have agreed to go by horse with me.’

Again, the senior officer laughed and, turning, strode back towards the stern, where the party of travellers sheltered from the chilling, salty winds within the ship’s sturdy rear housing. Fronto watched him go with irritation.

Antonius was an engaging and eminently likeable man. He had been good to Fronto and the ladies during the journey, and was a fine wit and a shrewd gambler, despite the fact that he was rarely to be seen without a cup in his hand and Fronto had yet to see him add water to his wine.

Really, they would have been a good bunch to be travelling with, had he not spent the journey either standing at the rail and emptying his stomach contents into Neptune’s garden, or in the port taverns where they stayed the night, wishing he was dead and avoiding all temptation of food.

Lucilia and Faleria travelled with them, as well as the sad and silent young Balbina, her father — the ageing former legate Balbus — keeping the girls safe and busy. Palmatus, Galronus and Masgava had largely kept themselves to themselves, not wishing to intrude their selves into the business of the Roman nobility on board. In fact, the three seemed now to be as tight a group of friends as could be found anywhere, and Fronto somewhat resented his sea-sickness keeping him from their circle. Masgava seemed to be recovering from his dreadful stomach wound with disturbing alacrity. Apparently the sea air was helping. It wasn’t helping Fronto, that was for sure. It would be months yet before the big former gladiator could comfortably ride a horse or undertake any form of physical exercise, but he had been proclaimed safe and out of danger, and the big man had grinned like a lunatic when he’d learned he would now have a scar twice the size of any other on his much-battered torso.

Most of the others were the usual bunch of Roman nobiles, stiff and formal and not greatly forthcoming. Volcatius, Basilus, Aristius, Sextius, Calenus, Silanus and Reginus had all passed the time of day here and there with Fronto, and Antonius had assured him that every man in the party of new officers was a highly competent military mind, but they had yet to make any sort of impression on Fronto, other than that of bored nobles.

Rufio was a little less ordinary. Apparently the son of a freedman, he was a world apart from the nobs aboard, and yet he seemed to have found his place among them with consummate ease. Still, despite that, he managed to retain something curiously low-born in his manner that put Masgava, Galronus and Palmatus at ease in conversation with him too. Fronto had found him engaging and clever, and had quickly formed the opinion that if the man was as good a commander as Antonius claimed, he would go far in Caesar’s army.

Caninius was one of the ‘new men’ of Rome — a self-made noble in the vein of Crassus or Caesar himself. By all rights, Fronto felt he should dislike the man, but found nothing about him that was wanting. Indeed, Caninius seemed not to miss a trick. He was aware of his surroundings to a level that surprised the others, and Fronto noted to himself that he would have to watch the man. If Fronto said the wrong thing at any time — something he was well aware that he was wont to do — he felt sure Caninius would retain the words.

The other figure aboard had come as something of a surprise to Fronto. Cita, the former senior quartermaster of Caesar’s army, who had retired the previous year, had somehow been persuaded by Antonius to return to the general’s service. A year in the Campanian sun seemed to have done the man good. He had lost the worry lines, the darting eyes and the numerous twitches that had marked him throughout his former service, and seemed more at ease with himself. It had, however, made Fronto smile how the mere sight of him had brought back one little facial tic to Cita’s otherwise carefree face.

Including himself, that made twelve veteran officers making their way back to Caesar’s service — more than enough to revitalise the army that Priscus had apparently found flagging. Of course they were still in discussion with Balbus as to his position. The old legate had stated his intention to stay at Massilia with the families and not proceed north to the army. Antonius had been very persuasive, and Fronto had found himself hoping that his old friend would change his mind, but a small part of him was grateful that when he went north a trustworthy friend — his father-in-law in fact — would have a watchful eye on the womenfolk.

What Palmatus and Masgava intended to do was more of a mystery. The former legionary had shrugged and admitted that a return to his fairly impoverished lifestyle in the Subura would be dull to say the least, and had decided to accompany his employer north. The former gladiator still felt honour-bound to serve Fronto, despite having been granted his manumission some time back. Fronto felt sure that both men, solid martial characters that they were, would find a good place in the army. He would do everything he could to make sure that happened.

Of course, given his recent history with Caesar, it remained to be seen whether he would succeed in securing a good place in that army for himself. Antonius had assured him he would take care of it, but with every mile that brought them back towards the general, Fronto felt his doubts grow that little bit.