S. Turney - Sons of Taranis

‘I somehow expected a fight,’ Antonius frowned.

Varus cocked an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t voice that sentiment near Atenos and the men of the Tenth and Fifth if I were you.’

‘You know what I mean,’ grumbled Antonius.

Caesar smiled and slapped his friend on the back, raising a shower of rain droplets. Above, the rumble of thunder had moved off, southeast. ‘Not every season need end with an earth-shaking contest of arms, Marcus. Be grateful that we have thwarted their army here and now. Gaul, my friends, is pacified. We will be forced to make an example, of course, to prevent further risings, but I do believe that this winter we can begin the grand task of turning this place into a province.’

Varus nodded wearily. By autumn, there was every chance that many of the legions would be disbanded and settled strategically in colonies among the Gauls. And where would that leave the officers? Where would that leave him? Back to Rome to climb another rung of the Cursus Honorum, chasing on the heels of his little brother Publius, who had flouted the family’s ties to Caesar and thrown in his lot with Pompey? To be rewarded for his long service to this army with a comfortable provincial governorship, where he could grow fat and slow as slaves fed him peeled grapes and rich, red Rhodian? After eight years of cavalry service in Caesar’s army, it would take a decade to remove the constant smell of horse-sweat and oiled leather from his nostrils.

He laughed at the thought of Varus the Senator.

‘Something amuses you?’ mumbled Antonius.

‘Oh nothing really. Just pondering on the vagaries of the future, picturing myself joining the ranks of men like Fronto the wine merchant and living the peaceful life.’

The three men smiled at the thought.

Ostia steamed in the early summer heat. Despite its coastal location, no matter how much Rome seemed to drown under spring and autumn rains, Ostia had seemed universally parched and warm whenever Fronto passed through. The trierarch of the Black Eagle , which had brought them from Massilia as part of the military escort, was bellowing commands to his crew as the vessels prepared to unload Caesar’s huge convoy. Ten huge, wide, shallow-bottomed barges waited to take the precious cargo on upriver to Rome, where the larger military triremes would have difficulties navigating. The Black Eagle was an escort – a trireme with little space for cargo – and thus had only a tiny fragment of the entire convoy to unload. The great trader vessels that formed the bulk of the flotilla carried the lion’s share of the loot and slaves. Three sailors carried the small party’s gear down the boarding ramp and deposited it close by. There was little of the usual array of bags and boxes that followed Lucilia whenever she left home. They travelled light.

‘I do not like this,’ Masgava said for the fifth time that morning.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Fronto sighed. ‘There are ten of us and we are all good men, Masgava. You trained most of us, after all. Seven of them in an unfamiliar and hostile city. Ten of us, a number of who know every guardhouse, courthouse, storehouse and whorehouse in Rome.’

He caught a look from Lucilia and grinned weakly. ‘Or some of those, anyway.’

Masgava continued to look unconvinced.

‘Lucilia’s safety is more important than my own, and so is that of the boys. You and Arcadios have a responsibility to them. With half a dozen of the lads I expect you to take good care of them.’

‘Andala is competent with a blade, also,’ his wife added with a warm smile, ‘and Galronus will be there.’

Fronto felt a sad little tug for a moment that he was continuing on into peril in the heart of the republic, and not with this small group who would soon be reunited with his old friend the Remi prince, as well as his mother and sister. ‘We’ll come to Puteoli as soon as we’re finished in Rome. Perhaps we’ll even stay for the autumn and winter. It’s been some time since I enjoyed a Campanian break.’

Across the dock, Catháin came scurrying lop-sidedly, still unable to shake off the rolling gait of the practised sailor. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, grinning, and Fronto couldn’t help but smile. For days now the strange northerner had been almost vibrating with excitement at the chance to reorganise the very root of Fronto’s business at the wine production centres of Campania. Catháin coughed. ‘The captain of the Cassiopeia will take us for a very good low fee. He is stopping at Antium to unload a cargo, but otherwise is straight to Puteoli and then Neapolis and Pompeii.’

Fronto nodded his satisfaction. Nowhere would be safer for the others than the family villa.

‘Sure I can’t persuade you to join them?’ he murmured, glancing across at Balbus, who was busy settling his heavy, bulky toga in place.

‘Hardly. A threat to Rome is a threat to all Romans. And I owe these animals for what they did at my villa.’ The old man cupped Lucilia’s chin in his large hand. ‘Be safe, daughter. We will join you soon.’ Stooping, he reached out and hugged Balbina who remained silent as usual, though the pain in her eyes at his departure was almost tangible. ‘Look after your sister and your nephews. Don’t let that reprobate Galronus have you drinking his nasty Gaulish drinks.’

Straightening, he nodded to Masgava, who reached out to Fronto and clasped his hand. ‘Be careful. These are not Hierocles’ muscle. They’re dangerous and, to have got to Rome intact, they must be clever and careful. Don’t underestimate them, and remember: you may not be able to carry a sword in the city, but to a gladiator anything can be a weapon in the right circumstances.’

Fronto smiled and let go as Catháin waved the small party on towards a Greek merchant ship that wallowed at one of the jetties, loading cargo as efficiently as possible in a harbour filled to the gills with Caesar’s fleet, another twenty ships still waiting out at sea for their turn. Fronto watched his wife and children and their eminently capable guards make their way across the wide dockside, ready for the next leg of their journey south to safety, three of the hired hands from Fronto’s small but trustworthy force carrying the bags on their backs and shoulders.

‘They will be safe,’ Cavarinos said, as if reading his innermost thoughts. ‘Greek sailors know the Middle Sea like no others, and each man with them – and the women, in fact – are strong and trustworthy.’

‘I know.’

‘Then stop looking at them with such sad eyes, as though they were leaving you forever. They have a Bellovaci woman with them sworn to your wife’s protection and a warrior prince of the Remi awaiting them. Oh, and some Romans, too.’

Fronto turned a scathing look on the Arvernian, who flashed him a tight smile. ‘You need to focus on the task at hand.’

He nodded and, as the men from the ship unloaded the last of their kit, looked around at the men who had come with him – some through loyalty, some for pay, others for vengeance or some indefinable Gallic motivation Fronto couldn’t quite follow.

Balbus. His father-in-law, old friend and former peer in the legions. Despite the heart trouble that had seen him leave the Eighth half a decade ago, Fronto would say that the old man looked fitter and leaner than he had for years and was, of course, every bit as wise and clever as he had always been.

Cavarinos. To all intents and purposes, the man was one of the enemy, or at least had been so quite recently. But the Arvernian was an enigma. Concerned with the survival of his people more than their ascendance, he had quickly become as close to Fronto as any Roman he could name. The former legate would have no qualms over having Cavarinos at his back. Would that be the same, he wondered, when the men they faced were the Gaul’s countrymen?