S. Turney - Hades' Gate

"And too far for some of the guests to travel. The gathering this evening will be well attended, Marcus. Half the luminaries of Rome that are coming would not have done so if they'd had to travel all the way down the coast to your villa."

"The perfect reason to have it there."

Balbus took a deep breath. "Listen, Marcus." he said with quiet strength, a steely edge in his voice making Fronto turn and frown, "I know you're not a young man and that this is a very personal thing for you. I know that you think it should be as private and low key as possible and that you should be hidden away from public eyes. But Lucilia is a young woman — little more than a girl still, despite her strength of will. Young girls have few dreams and fears in life and one is the fear that they'll be married off to a sour old senator as a breeding machine. Lucilia has always known I would not do that, but she has, against all odds, actually achieved a match with someone she genuinely cares about and she wants to celebrate that; to shout it to the very halls of the Gods. If you turn this ceremony sour I personally will plague you for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?"

Fronto, his brow furrowed, nodded resignedly.

"Sorry, Quintus. You know I want this, but you know how much I hate pomp. I feel like a general returning to Rome for a glittering public triumph. It makes my skin itch; and that's just the ceremony. I can't think as far ahead as the evening's festivities. Best part of a hundred sycophants, megalomaniacs and hedonists drinking all our wine and eating all our food while they pass judgement on us."

"I know. But it's one day. You're not doing it for yourself — you're doing it for her. Now man up, rivet a smile on that sour cat's-arse of a face and straighten yourself. You look like a hunchbacked vagrant."

"It's the knee. Something's still not right with it. Whenever I stand still for an hour I start to sag to one side."

"I know. But that's because in six months you've carried out the exercises you were given — what? — three times? Wine and chariot races are no substitute for a health regime."

"Oh piss off Quintus. You sound like Faleria now."

He looked around at the garland strewn, drape-infested room.

"And you could have removed all the family death masks. Is that really appropriate?"

"Our ancestors have as much right to see this as I do. Pull that fake smile up a notch — the witnesses are here."

Fronto's smile passed from the forced to the genuine as the ten witnesses for the ceremony appeared in the doorway, escorted by Balbus' body slave. The rest of the household were all busy attending the women, leaving them with one decrepit gardener and the reedy Greek that Balbus treated like a family member.

Galba, the former legate of the Twelfth legion, had been a natural choice, having shared years of friendship and comradeship in the army and having returned to the city to take up the role of a Praetor. He wore the toga strangely naturally, given his military bearing and stocky form, and he headed the group as the very image of the Roman nobleman.

Behind him, Rufus carried his toga yet more naturally. The taciturn, quiet man had been a last moment addition to the list when Fronto learned of his arrival in the city. Rufus had resigned his commission in the Ninth in order to return to Rome and work through his father's estate, following the old man's passing in the winter. Despite the unhappy reason for his return, his presence was welcomed by Fronto. He added a certain gravitas to any occasion.

The same could not be said of the third figure. Galronus still shied away from the toga, despite having been officially granted citizenship just after Saturnalia and accounting himself the equal of any knight of Rome. His Gallic finery sat at peculiar odds to the rest, but somehow lightened the proceedings and helped Fronto relax just that tiny, necessary bit.

Faleria followed Galronus a little too closely, which brought the corners of Fronto's mouth up a tiny bit further. The Remi chief had made his intentions clear to Faleria at a family gathering with distant cousins and uncles at the villa in Puteoli during the Parentalia festival. Fronto had almost burst out laughing at the number of very serious relations who almost expired in shock at the audacity of the 'barbarian' as they saw him. Only Fronto, Faleria and their mother had managed to maintain their calm manner. The older lady had surprised Fronto by smiling and congratulating both the young Belgic warrior and her daughter, but the biggest surprise had been the complaint from Faleria that he had taken far too long in drumming up the courage to speak to her about it. Their betrothal was due to be announced at the wedding feast this very evening — a victory of Fronto's in the attempt to shift some of the focus from himself during the agonising parade of Rome's chinless, worthless upper class.

Behind Faleria came three of Balbus' relatives that Fronto had only met once during the arrangements, all of whom held position and property in the city.

After them, filling the final three places of the ten-person witness party, came three Roman luminaries that Faleria had secured: the orator Cicero, the poet Catullus and finally, surprisingly, Publius Crassus the younger, Monetalis and Augur of Rome and former commander of Caesar's Seventh legion. While Cicero and Catullus' presence could easily be sought and bought by anyone with the right name and offers, Fronto had snorted when Faleria had suggested Crassus. Despite a certain grudging respect for the young martinet of an officer who had done as much damage to Rome's cause in Gaul as he had to the Gauls themselves, he was not at all sure why the young man had agreed to attend. Crassus was on a star-strewn path to glory in the Roman administration. Next year he would join his father in their attempt to obliterate Parthia and after that: probably a consulship, knowing the family's luck and connections. Crassus had never shown any real affinity with Fronto, but he did have a history of social activity with the Falerii. Fronto resolved to spend as little time in the man's presence as possible today.

Faces were missing — faces that made him sad. His mother, for one: retired now almost permanently to the villa in Puteoli, her strength in a gentle if saddening decline. The letter from Priscus apologising for not being able to be present was still on his desk. He had read it several times, finding it hard to believe that one of his oldest friends would not be here. But Priscus was still an officer and had duties. He was seemingly involved in something that simply would not afford him the time to take leave. He had intimated big things, but it was his absence that Fronto had fixated upon. He would have liked Carbo here too. Even in the just two years the man had served as his second, he had come to trust and rely upon that jolly pink-faced centurion. But Caesar had denied all leave for anyone below staff rank — even Crispus, one of his dearest friends in the army was trapped with his legion in Gaul. Varus had accepted the invitation but had been struck down with a malady in the harsh Gaulish winter that had prevented him travelling.

Still, no use dwelling on the depressing absences. This was a 'happy occasion' as his sister had been drilling into his skull for the past two weeks of nightmarish organisation. Fronto had perfected his old trick of making himself so difficult and irritating that they sent him away and had managed to be ejected from the house by mid-morning every day to spend his time with Galronus at the races or in the taverns of the city.

He couldn't help but wonder whether that was a situation that would change in the next few hours. Lucilia was a strong-willed woman.

"Marcus, you look well. Almost blissfully, in fact." Rufus smiled warmly as he crossed the room.