S. Turney - Hades' Gate

"You think so? I think he looks uncomfortable and slightly sick" replied Galba with a grin that caused Rufus to elbow him sharply in the ribs.

"Glad you could come" Fronto replied weakly. He was starting to tremble slightly and had no idea how to stop it. He was also aware of the clamminess of his palms and hoped he would not have to shake hands with anyone. Perhaps he was ill? If he was properly ill, he might be able to delay proceedings?

Quickly, he ran a mental check over his body. Trembling. Sweaty palms. Churning stomach. Dry mouth. Headache. Sadly, nothing concrete for illness. They were all associated with nerves and there was nothing he could do about that. He had faced so many dangers in his time, from screaming, violent barbarians to murderous villains to collapsing buildings. But nothing brought the shaky fear to the surface like this.

"Time I moved away" Balbus said quietly. "Be strong." With a last gesture, he held up the small object he had been gripping the past hour. Fronto peered at the ring before reaching out and grasping it.

"A plain iron one would have done."

"Not for my daughter. Behave and don't whimper."

Fronto was about to deliver a cutting reply, but his old friend — future father! — had already stepped away into position near the witnesses. Time was almost up. With a shiver, Fronto shifted his weight to the other foot and faffed with the toga, trying to align it better and distribute the weight more evenly. How could a damn article of clothing weigh more than his armour?

But that was his lot in life now: No more cuirass and helm. Just a toga.

He squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the depression sinking in again. Any time he started contemplating the future he ended up in a grey miserable fog that lasted until he was safely drunk.

Aware that he probably looked deranged, standing with one leg slightly bent, shuffling and shaking and with his eyes squeezed shut, he straightened and opened them.

And remembered why he was doing this.

Lucilia was simply stunning. Fronto had seen dozens of weddings and dozens of brides in his time, and it was virtually impossible to tell one bride from the next until they changed out of the traditional garments, but somehow Lucilia managed to look individual, different and beautiful.

Her hair was bound up in the traditional six-locked cone shape, draped with the flame-coloured veil that shimmered and floated before her face, giving her features a gauzy, other-worldly appearance. Her white tunic, girdled with the double knot was somehow divine in its austerity. The saffron-shaded palla over her shoulders was quietly magnificent, cut in silk from beyond Parthia by an expert seamstress. Her golden sandals clicked lightly on the marble.

Fronto realised that his symptoms had almost entirely vanished, replaced by a speedily-thumping heart. He hoped he didn't look too vacant and reminded himself not to drool.

Corvinia and Balbina and the various women of the family came on in her wake, almost overshadowed by her stunning beauty. Fronto hardly noticed them as they moved from the open garden into the tablinum and greeted the witnesses with a simple nod. Fronto realised that he had started walking automatically, before his brain had even sent the message to his feet, keeping pace with the bride as she passed through the spacious room and into the atrium, where the altar had been placed next to the impluvium pool. From somewhere off to the left, an old man in the white robe of a haruspex shuffled into view, leading a thoroughly washed and deodorised pig, who snorted in a disgruntled manner. The old man almost fell over the pig which, Fronto knew, would be taken for a bad omen by many, but managed to right himself just in time. Old Bucco was Balbus' uncle and had the distinction of having been Pontifex Maximus for a brief stint following the Social war. How the doddery old lunatic managed to stay upright on his ageing bow legs was a matter of question for Fronto, but the man was undeniably the most qualified for the task.

Bucco raised his hands for a respectful silence and paused dramatically, the pig calmly standing by his leg, close to the altar and a smoking, glowing brazier.

"May the Gods look upon this union… phlaaaaw… and bless it. We seek their… phlaaaaw… benediction and the omens in the… phlaaaaw… entrails of this noble beast."

Fronto closed his eyes for a moment as he came to stand still beside Lucilia and in front of the spectacle. Balbus had warned him that Bucco had acquired an odd speech defect following the illness that had struck his left arm useless and made half his face slip, but Fronto had been unprepared for the strange exhaling, drooling drawl that punctuated his sentences. He tried not to laugh as the 'noble beast' left them the first gift of the day on the decorative marble floor.

Three of the house's slaves stepped forward and gently tipped the pig onto its side, holding it steady while Bucco brandished the knife, peering intently at it with one eye, while the other roved over the wall to one side.

Fronto raised his gaze to the doorway beyond and ran through a list of the upcoming charioteers at the circus in the next month and how much he was prepared to back each for, trying not to listen to the grotesque noises rising from the sacrifice before him. In fact, he became so involved in his mental list that he only realised the act was complete when Bucco rose into view, crimson to the elbows, holding something wobbly and purple that he dropped into the brazier beside the altar with a hiss and a smell that set Fronto's stomach rumbling.

"The organs are good" the old man intoned in a reedy voice. "The liver… phlaaaaw… is particularly good. The Gods bless this union. Let us now devote the heart to Venus and make the libation."

Fronto dutifully stepped forward and took the bronze jug offered by a slave, tipping some of the best quality wine in the city onto the altar's depression where it sat amid the purple stains of previous gifts. Handing back the jug he stepped away.

Quietly he stood, watching the altar as the wretched carcass was hauled away from near his feet by two slaves, leaving a long trail of red. He found he was humming one of the Tenth's favourite marching songs under his breath and forced himself to stop.

"Ring" hissed Lucilia next to him. With a start, he realised that Bucco was watching him intently. Flushing, he produced the gold band and slid it onto the waiting finger, noting the look of triumph and… ownership?… that crossed his new bride's face.

In almost a dreamlike daze he repeated by rote the vows Balbus and he had drafted with the aid of Faleria three nights ago, and only half listened as Lucilia spoke her own. He dutifully smiled whenever it appeared to be appropriate, though he had hardly heard a thing in truth. In fact, the following quarter of an hour passed in a blur of nodding and smiling and speech impediments as his subconscious threw him questions to keep his mind busy.

What was he going to do?

Now that was a question that had been plaguing him ever since he had turned his back on Caesar the previous autumn. Soldiering was all he had ever known, and certainly all he was good at. Faleria and Lucilia would expect him to take a post in the Roman administration. He could very easily fast-track to the senate, given his age and experience. He might even be made a governor. But that would involve politics every day of his life, for as long as he lived. The very thought sent a shiver along his spine.

Balbus had managed a sensible enough suggestion, offering the possibility of simple retirement to the country to manage his estate. Other men his age did it, after all, and with the family name he had it would be a respectable choice.

But soooo boring.

Balbus might be happy cross-breeding vines or snipping roses, but the idea failed to appeal to Fronto. He might as well drop dead now.