Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (37 page)

Masgava wandered across the room and peered in the gloom at one of the cuirasses.

"This was yours?"

"My father's. The left-hand one was mine."

"Your father was a better soldier than you."

Fronto blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"There are fewer marks on his armour. You were hit a lot."

"I stood in the press with my men. Dad just sat on a horse at the back. The same way I was always supposed to. You're a deadly man in the arena, but you've no experience of the army. In fact, I'd guess if you were little more than a boy when you were taken you've never experienced war?"

"I have fought a small army as part of a group at Carthage."

"In the amphitheatre - with rigid organisation and rules. Carefully controlled. You've not experienced the chaos of war. You could put down any man I know, but facing me with a cohort at your back, I wouldn't wager a bent dupondius on you. It's a different game. You will always exceed me in your killing skills, but I could show you a thing or two about warfare."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the courtyard, broken by a cough. Galronus had finished his bath and strolled out to watch the progress.

Masgava nodded in a business-like fashion. "This sword means something to you." A statement rather than a question.

Fronto looked at the former tribune's blade in the Numidian's hand. "Yes. I told you. It killed-"

"No. That one." A thick ebony finger gestured at the blade in Fronto's hand.

"Sort of. It belonged to a friend a long time ago." He almost dropped the blade as Masgava tossed the other gladius over to him, forcing him to juggle for a moment with sharpened edges until he had one in each hand.

"Now you will show me how you handle two weapons and I will judge your left."

* * * * *

Fronto lit the oil lamp in the tablinum and sank into one of the seats, reaching for the jug of fruit juice Masgava made sure he always had once he'd cleaned up from training. The room flickered with an orange glow as darkness took hold outside. With an aching arm Fronto tipped the juice into the glass beaker before him and stared at the deep red result. Galronus, at his side, smiled with startled surprise as he reached for the small snack bowls.

"Masgava?"

"I thought you trained well today. You deserve a treat."

Fronto was too overcome with relief and gratitude to complain at being treated like a child.

"Besides," the big man went on with a wide grin, "since I've tipped the rest of your secret stash into the sewer, I thought you might want to make the most of your last jug."

Galronus burst out laughing while the fires of ire flickered in Fronto's eyes, but he was simply too weary to fight now. That was a battle he would wage tomorrow when he felt fresh. He took a sip of the neat wine, savouring its thick, sweet, heady taste and sat back.

"Tell me how you ended up in the arena."

Masgava fixed him with a dark look and then helped himself to a glass of the wine, watering it to a half and half mixture. "Why?"

"Indulge me. There's only the three of us in the house for days on end and Galronus and I already know one another well."

The gladiator's expression softened and he shrugged. "It is not an exciting story."

"And…?"

"There was a fight between my tribe and our neighbours when I was a boy. They won, and to make sure their mastery was complete they sold all the King's family and the tribal elders to Roman slavers. I had begun to learn the way of the blades and so Largus sold me on to a Lanista in Utica."

"You were of a royal line?" Galronus asked with interest, reminding Fronto out of the blue that the Remi warrior was himself a prince of his tribe.

"Well I wasn't one of the elders." He sighed. "I was a distant sister-son. Peripheral at best, which is why I was sold off to die and not kept in case I was valuable."

"Did the slaver teach you Latin or did you learn it in the ludus?" Fronto asked curiously. "It's almost flawless, which is unusual for a man without his letters."

"I was always clever.
Too clever
, my father used to say. But regardless, I knew Latin long before I was taken in chains; Greek too. You will find many ordinary merchants in Numidia that do so let alone nobles. The world is full of buyers for our kilim and other crafts, but there are few merchants operating south of the sea who are not Roman or Greek. They are the languages of trade."

Fronto nodded his understanding. "Starting tomorrow I'm going to teach you to read and write in Latin and Greek as well."

"I may not wish to learn."

"Then you're not as clever as you think you are."

An uncomfortable silence fell across the room, broken finally by Masgava. "Tell me about the army."

Fronto frowned. "Big subject."

"You said this afternoon that as much as I could teach you about fighting, you could teach me about warfare."

"Wait a moment. I'm paying you to train me, and I'm going to teach you your letters, and now you want me to teach you soldiering too? Just who hired who here?"

Masgava shrugged. "I told you I don't care about reading or writing. Tell me about the army instead."

"A whole lifetime of military experience isn't something I can pass on in a month."

The big Numidian leaned back and relaxed into his seat. "In the past ten weeks you have become a warrior again. You still have a lot to learn, but you no longer need to build muscle; now you have only to keep it - to train little and often.  Now it is all about acquiring skills, and your regime should change accordingly. We will have more free time and you are house-bound anyway. Teach me."

Galronus gestured with a glass. "I can help too, Marcus. Might be fun, since we're both missing the life."

Fronto frowned. It seemed like a waste of time and he had little idea of how to begin, but they were right, really. It was not as if they had much else to occupy them.

"Alright then" he said, placing his glass on the floor beside him with a clink and swiping the table clear of miscellanea, handing the various dishes and platters to the others. Dipping his finger in his wine, he drew two wavering lines across the table. "These are the rivers Lureta and Trebia." Swiping a handful of pine nuts he began arranging them on one side in piles. After some shuffling and apparently satisfied with the results, he scoured the nibbles Masgava had produced. Settling with a frown on a bowl of olives, he arranged them on the other side.

"Alright. We might as well start now, and this'll be good for you too, Galronus. Strategy is of prime importance in any military engagement and is harder to pick up than the technical side. We'll start with a cautionary tale. The olives are the Roman force of Longus. The nuts are Hannibal and Mago. This, gentlemen, is a cautionary tale…"

* * * * *

Balbus sat in the 'Grapevine Tavern' with his back to the cold brick wall, wondering why in the name of Vulcan the proprietor insisted on having a roaring fire going on one of the hottest days of the year. He had already removed his toga and sat in just his tunic and sandals, flapping the hem up and down beneath the table occasionally to waft air round his warmer parts. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead from the sparse, greying hair.

For the past hour he had sat here alternating a well-watered dry Alban wine - a surprisingly quality find in such a place - with cups of barley water to keep cool and hydrated. Corvinia and Balbina were in the market doing the endless rounds of fabric stalls and jewelry traders. The effort had become too much for the ageing ex-soldier and after only a quarter of an hour or so he had removed himself to his favourite tavern in the subura, only a short walk from the forum, where Corvinia knew to find him once she had finished. It was a comfortable arrangement and one that had been going on for some time.

On the table before him, next to the nearly-empty cup, sat a coin: a denarius of Aemilius Scaurus. Issued in the year of the consuls Piso and Gabinius - the very year Caesar took the Eighth and marched them under Balbus' command into Gaul. Funny how it seemed so long ago now. It had been two years since he'd even served in the army.

His mind turned once more to the subject he'd been contemplating the past hour.

Fronto.             

The man - along with Galronus and the pet gladiator - had been holed up inside the Falerii house on the Aventine for a month now. Occasionally the Gaul or the Numidian left to stock up on food and drink, but as far as Balbus was aware Fronto himself had not left the building at all.

Upon hearing tell of the endless string of accusations Pompey's people had leveled at the Falerii, and as the man's father-in-law, Balbus had taken it upon himself to visit Fronto as soon as possible. He had been met at the door by Galronus, who had explained in no uncertain terms that he was to visit no more. When pressed, the Remi noble - who had served with Balbus and considered him a friend - had explained unhappily that close association with Fronto in these trying times was a dangerous proposition and that Fronto wished to keep his friends at a distance for their own preservation. Balbus had argued that he could hardly appear disassociated given their familial connection, but Galronus had been adamant, apparently at the insistence of Fronto.

It had been a surprise to learn that Lucilia and Faleria had gone south to Puteoli and it was that more than anything that led to Balbus acquiescing and accepting Fronto's decision. If the former legate of the Tenth - a man who was no stranger to peril - felt the danger strong enough to send away the women, then Balbus should respect that.

But it had been a month! A
month
!

For the past few days Balbus had been toying with the idea of another visit. Despite the accusations leveled by Pompey, little was coming of any of them, most being disproved or turned aside by Galba and other cronies in the government of the city, and the general seemed to be losing some of his driving ire as the reality of the situation settled on him. Though his anger had been earth-shaking, it had now in large part given way to grief and he rarely left his own house, echoing Fronto's lack of activity half a city away. The defamation of Fronto's character and that of his family continued, though now under the supervision of lesser men on Pompey's behalf. Soon enough it would end and things might be able to get back to normal.

Now might be the time to visit Fronto again and try and talk the recluse out of his square brick shell.

A surge of noise outside drew his attention for a moment. Though it was loud, it was some way off and merited little more than casual interest. It was a sad state of affairs in such a once-great city that civil disobedience and random acts of violence and unpleasantness had so become the norm that few men even looked up from their drink unless it turned into a riot. And riots were more common than festivals these days.

Too many thugs with gangs and too many power-hungry politicians pulling their strings. Rome had become a board for a massive game of stones that was played just to decide which would-be despot had the biggest balls.

"To Hades with the lot of them."

"What was that?" asked a former-legionary sat at the next table, still in his military tunic and boots.

"Oh nothing" Balbus replied. He'd not even realised he had said it out loud.

"Sounds like there's trouble" the veteran at the next table said conversationally.

"Isn't there always these days?"

"I'll drink to that. When I signed up the only fighting was against bearded Pontic and Armenian megalomaniacs."

Balbus wondered for a moment why so little deference was being paid to him by a plebeian soldier, but remembered that he had removed his toga. A quick glance down confirmed that his own tunic was a mere plain green. He could as easily have been a pleb himself as a noble officer.

"You served out east? Under Pompey?" he asked casually.

"Lucullus. You?"

"Caesar. In Gaul."

"Shit. You're lucky. At least you got green fields. They say Gaul's verdant. I was out in bloody Armenia. All mountains and dust. Like living in your own armpit, it was."

Balbus chuckled and realised that the man was hovering over an empty cup. Reaching across with the jug from his table, he poured a healthy dose of wine for the soldier and slid his jug of water over.

"Cheers, mate. Got more cash, but it's at home. Only three streets away, but Milo's lot are out there today roughing people up and I'm buggered if I'm running that gauntlet for a cup of wine."

"Milo?" Balbus frowned.

"Yeah. It's always either his or Clodius' men. Or occasionally both lots of bastards at once. Best to keep your head down and stay indoors. It's about time the big nobs sent those pricks off to fight in the wars. That's keep 'em busy."

"I'll second that" Balbus agreed, taking a swig of wine.

"Sacred shit of Vesta!"

Balbus snapped up from his drink at the outburst from across the tavern. A bunch of lunchtime drinkers were staring at the door and pointing fingers. Following their gaze, Balbus saw a girl in a pale yellow chiton, covered with blood. As he watched, the innkeeper's wife ran across to the girl, cooing soothing noises that were somewhat spoiled by the desperate, panicked edge to her voice.

"Come, girl. Tell me what happened?"

The girl stumbled across from the door, her blood-matted hair slapping against her face and leaving crimson trails. As she grabbed a table corner to straighten herself and fell into the woman's ample bosom, her hair fell away to the side.

Balbus felt his heart freeze.

"
Balbina
?"

"You know this poor tyke, sir?" the bar-woman asked, her gaze switching to the big old man with the strangely military bearing who was already rushing across the room.

Balbus said nothing. He was not ignoring the woman - even managed a faint nod - but his voice seemed to have dried up and died. His whole body had chilled to freezing point and his heart felt like a ballista ball, weighing down his frame.

The girl, perhaps concussed, turned to face him, her eyes glazed. She looked confused for a moment and then Balbus was on her, scooping her up from the woman, taking care not to put any pressure on her. She must be hurt. Her arms and legs seemed to move freely and in the right direction, but that confirmed only an absence of broken bones. Carrying her pressed to his chest, he returned to the table. The former legionary had swept aside his wine and was on his feet now, hurrying across to help. Balbus waved him away, so the man hovered close by, unsure what to do as he watched the distraught father cradling his daughter.