S. Turney - Caesar's Vow

Palmatus shook his head with a curled lip. ‘In my experience nearly every noble in Rome is a little too closely related, if you know what I mean? Pale, with bulging eyes, a throat-apple the size of a cabbage and all the mental flexibility of a donkey with the shits.’

He turned and noticed in the low flickering light the glowering looks Fronto and Balbus were casting at him.

‘Present company excepted, of course.’ He grinned a wicked grin. ‘Anyone else itching to try the lad’s special wine?’

Fronto maintained his scowl for a moment longer before cracking and chuckling at the irreverent humour that he’d come to expect from the plebeian ex-legionary.

‘Why not. Let’s make libations to Aurelia Cotta and young Julia and drink a toast to the general and his great nephew’s generosity.’

As he crossed to collect the jar of rare and extraordinary wine the young Octavian had left them, he mused on family. Curiously, now that he’d tied himself by marriage to Balbus, and Balbus was Atia Caesonia’s cousin, that meant — he supposed — that there was a very distant familial connection between him and the general. He almost laughed at the realisation.

The morning would carry them north again towards war. But for today, the group would relax and enjoy what they could of Rome.

‘Galronus, you’d better go outside and bring Masgava and the girls in. Lucilia seems to have gone off wine these days, but Faleria will relish this vintage.’

* * * * *

Bucephalus whickered with irritation, apparently feeling the urge to run and stretch despite Fronto’s stern words and careful grip on the reins. He’d not ridden much in the past year or so, and his beloved horse — which Longinus had bequeathed to him a lifetime ago and a world away — had spent much of that time stabled and limited, run out only briefly by the equisio at Puteoli. Indeed, the journey below deck on first the liburna and then Caesar’s trireme from Ostia to Massilia seemed to have made the beast twitchier than ever.

‘Steady, you big black bastard,’ Fronto grunted through clenched teeth as he used both reins and knees to try and steer Bucephalus to the right. The carriage, lent eagerly by one of the more helpful of the city’s assembly, rumbled along behind bearing the three women, while Balbus rode ahead and the other three brought up the rear.

Fronto shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun and peered off across the hill at the line of horses and men disappearing at a tangent towards the north and the Rhodanus valley. Marcus Antonius had taken the bulk of the new officer corps straight for Samarobriva at his earliest opportunity, departing in the evening, hoping to make the mansio at Aquae Sextiae for the night. He had expected Fronto to go with them, as any extra delay would make the placation of Caesar all the more difficult, but Fronto had been adamant that he must see the family safely to their homes before he could consider riding north. Besides, Lucilia deserved at least one last night in a real bed with her new husband. He’d not announced that to Antonius, of course, but it was true nonetheless. And so he would follow on with Galronus, Masgava and Palmatus the next day. He would miss out on the escort of a hundred cavalry that Antonius had had waiting for them at Massilia, but he’d ridden the route to Samarobriva enough times now to know he was safe. Besides, he wore a Gallic torc and travelled with a prince of the Remi. Who would challenge him?

He tried not to list the answers to that, and failed until Bucephalus’ next attempt to take him for a long, leg-stretching run dragged all his attention back to the business at hand.

As they approached the road that led to Balbus’ beautiful rural villa with its cultivated vineyards and orchards, its sheds and stables and the view over the sea, breath-taking even in the changeable weather of late winter, Fronto first laid eyes on the new villa the old man had spent a year constructing in secret for his daughter and new son-in-law.

Almost a mirror of Balbus’ villa, and close enough to loose a scorpion bolt from the one to the other, the only visible differences between the two houses were the newness and cleanliness of the stonework and the lack of plant life and gardens about it. And the huge tracts of farmland, of course, but Balbus knew just how little Fronto saw himself as a farmer. The old man had apparently taken that into account.

‘By Fortuna and her golden tits that’s something,’ he muttered, drawing the big black stallion to a halt so that he could take it all in. Balbus paused slightly ahead and turned with a smile.

‘My villa is perfect, so I thought ‘why change a good thing?’ and had the new one built to the same design. The only difference is that yours might be a little more exposed to the sea winds, being closer to the slopes, so I’ve had hypocaust flooring put in all the downstairs rooms to keep the place warm, and the flues take the hot air up past all the upper rooms. The courtyard’s just overgrown grass at the moment, mind. I didn’t bother with any gardening, as I felt sure you’d want to personalise that — blooms and the like.’

Fronto pictured himself choosing flowers and positioning them just right. The image made him laugh. ‘Lucilia, perhaps.’

Balbus grinned in reply and the two men kicked their steeds into motion once more as the carriage rattled closer behind.

‘It’s just occurred to me that there’ll be no staff,’ Fronto said, slapping his forehead.

‘True. I can build the thing for you, but staffing it’s a different matter. You and Lucilia will have to do that.’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Actually, since I’ll be gone in the morning, it’ll have to be you and Lucilia. Is there a good slave market in Massilia?’

‘Where do you think all the poor buggers Caesar’s captured over the last five years end up?’ Balbus asked with a grim smile.

‘Hmm. Perhaps we’ll be selective and choose Greeks and Spaniards and so on. I can’t see the family of one of Caesar’s legates being a popular master for enslaved Gauls or Belgae. We don’t really want another Spartacus rising in southern Gaul, do we? Or another Berengarus!’ For a fleeting moment he wondered how the crippled giant was faring in his cave prison at Puteoli, fed scraps by the villa slaves. Hopefully he was suffering an eternity of torment for what he’d done. More likely by now he had given in to despair and starved himself to death. He became aware suddenly that Balbus was talking again, and refocused his ears.

‘… and I’m certain my daughter will be fairly sure of what she wants. In the meantime, I’ll send over a couple of the better slaves from my villa to see to your needs — get the furnaces stoked and all that — and I’ll have Agathocles double up on whatever he prepares for the evening meal and bring half of it round to you.’

‘Thank you, Quintus. It’s going to take some getting used to, though I spent a little time a few years back in the seaside villa of Longinus’ widow near Tarraco. It’s quite similar, really, apart from the precipitous slope, and that just reminds me of home. It’s the remoteness of the place from civilisation that worries me.’

‘You’ll be surprised when you explore Massilia a bit more just how urban it all is. It’s got a nice agora full of cheap taverns, a theatre — don’t pull that face, I know you don’t like plays — and a stadium that they use for foot races, but occasionally for the horses too. There’s good wine from Italia, Carthage and Greece — a lot of the latter — as well as olives and garum from Hispania and a lot more. And you’ll find a lot of it at only half the price you’d pay in Rome.’

Fronto grinned. ‘Alright, you’re starting to sell it to me now.’