Sons of Taranis (35 page)

CAVARINOS felt his spirits sink as he looked ahead through the open gate of Alba. Like all the Romanised settlements of the Roman province, this city of the Helvii was something of an odd mix. Still boasting a traditional wall in the form of the old oppida, the interior had obviously been completely redesigned at some stage following the tribe’s inclusion within Rome’s ever increasing territory. The grid of streets was a standard Roman form Cavarinos had seen before on visits to Narbo and other large ‘Gallo-Roman’ towns. And the Helvii there were still wearing trousers as they had centuries ago, but more often than not with a Roman style tunic above. There were as many clean-shaven faces as moustached or bearded.

But it was not the oddness of the cultural clash that had plunged his mood into darkness. That was the fault of the commotion. In the main street leading from the gate, perhaps two dozen locals were arguing in a rather urgent, panicked manner. And among their number, at the centre, sat a cart. Though he could not pick out the detail at this distance, the bundle on the cart was wrapped in a red cloak, and that identified it better than anything. As if that was not bad enough, between the occasional moving of the men’s’ legs, he could see the dark pool that had formed beneath the cart.

Casting a black look at the sky and mentally cursing Toutatis for bringing him such ill luck, Cavarinos rode on into Alba Helviorum. He was surprised at how quiet the town was, despite the commotion in the street. A place like this normally hummed with life, from the ringing of hammer on anvil to the calls of street hawkers and children playing their games underfoot.

This place felt surprisingly empty. As he neared the arguing crowd one of the Helvii looked around and saw him, shaking his friend to stop the argument. A heartbeat later, the small ruckus had fallen quiet and each of them was looking at the approaching rider, silent and expectant. It occurred to Cavarinos that they might well think him one of their own nobles. For all his Arverni heritage, Cavarinos wore his face clean-shaven and had stopped wearing his serpent arm-ring or any other obvious identifying items. Moreover, despite their rising against Rome last year, the Arverni had been trading across the border with their recent enemies for decades, and the cut and material of their clothing owed much to Roman influence. Likely they thought him a Helvian noble.

He sighed. ‘What happened to him?’

He gestured at the cart with its morbid burden. The local he had asked frowned in confusion. Cavarinos’ accent was most certainly not Helvii. ‘He has been killed.’

‘I gathered that,’ said Cavarinos, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s an officer. Passing through was he?’

The man shook his head. ‘Head of an engineering detail that’s designing the aqueduct,’ he replied quietly. ‘What they did to him…’ he shuddered.

Cavarinos nodded grimly and walked his horse over to the cart where he leaned across and lifted the corner of the red cloak. Beneath, the pink of the flayed muscles was crusted with dark red, though the body still leaked through the boards of the cart. Cavarinos tried not to breathe in too heavily as the flies emerged in a small cloud from beneath the cover. It had been quite recent. Within a day. Hours, in fact. His enquiring mind could not help but ask
where the skin had gone
.

‘Did you see the killers?’

‘No,’ the man replied and opened his mouth to say something, but his friends shot him a warning glance and he clamped his mouth shut. Cavarinos sucked his lip in suspicious interest.

‘Let me guess. He’d been tortured and left in his room. And any soldiers guarding him had been dispatched quickly and efficiently.’ The men nodded.

‘I’m not going to enquire as to what’s going on here. Your secrets are yours. I’ll be on my way.’

‘But,’ the first man said urgently, ‘you know something about this?’

‘I know who the killers are. If you value your life, don’t press this.’

‘But what will we do? The authorities will blame us!’

Cavarinos scratched his neck absently. ‘I think you’ll find the authorities will have more to worry about. This isn’t an isolated incident. In fact, it’s happened all over. I was hoping to have outrun it by now, but it seems they’re ahead of me. Perhaps their arrival in Roman territory will slow them. They will have to be more careful now.’

The man looked at him oddly, and Cavarinos realised he’d spoken out loud what was essentially an internal monologue. ‘Burn him and pot the ashes, then deliver him to the authorities and tell them the truth.’ With a last glance at the unfortunate Roman, he trotted on through the town, heading for the Rhodanus River, which would lead him most of the way to Massilia.

They were ahead of him. His mind helpfully superimposed Fronto’s face on that ruined body on the cart, and he automatically picked up his pace.

* * * * *

Fronto laughed as young Lucius tottered about on the grass, chasing the red and black butterflies that were a common sight around Massilia in the winter. He chuckled out loud as Lucius fell headlong on the grass and let out a strange shout. It was almost words, but not quite. Lucilia would have run across to him, all concern that he had hurt himself, but Fronto was becoming accustomed to Lucius’ noises, and that one was frustration. Indeed, the boy was up again in moments, wobbling a little before ploughing on, laughing, after another butterfly that had crossed his path.

Fronto leaned back on the wall, resting his head against the gatepost. It was nice to live in such a climate again. He’d grown up by the sea at Puteoli and had spent most of his career around Rome and Puteoli or over in Hispania, where the heat was similar though considerably drier. But the last seven years up in Gaul had been rather eye-opening. He’d not believed that so much rain was possible. Parts of northern Gaul couldn’t have been much wetter if you submerged them.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his eyelids.

‘Civilian life clearly suits you.’

His eyes snapped open at the comment and he had to look around in confusion for a while before he spotted the figure by the tree at the side of the drive. Recognition was instant, but his mind fought him for a while, insistent that he was wrong and this couldn’t be who he thought it was.

The Gaul smiled. ‘I have to say that I’m relieved. I was half expecting to get here and find you peeled and pinned to a tree.’

Fronto simply stared. Behind him, Lucius let out a squeak of triumph that quickly turned into a howl of frustration, and then slid back into giggling and the thumping of tiny feet on turf.

‘I’d not thought to see you again,’ he said, recovering from his surprise a little.

‘I had never really intended to come,’ Cavarinos replied, walking his horse towards the gate. ‘However, events in the wide world, as usual, drive the course of my life and despite everything I find myself in Roman lands, seeking out Romans in defiance of my own. It never ceases to amaze me the strange twists and turns our lives take.’

Fronto gave him a sour look. ‘Shouldn’t you be with the Arverni, planning to rise against us? From the news I catch that seems to be the fashion.’

Cavarinos laughed with not a trace of humour. ‘There are visionless lunatics all over the land who are trying to push along a dead horse called freedom and make him run. They only drag out the inevitable and bring upon the tribes yet more woe. And that is partially why I’m here. I hadn’t realised it until I found a flayed centurion up in Alba Helviorum. Until then I was coming purely out of respect for a former opponent. But somehow I think it’s become bigger than that now. What’s happening needs to be stopped, not just to save your sorry hide, but for the future good of the tribes.’

Fronto slid from the wall and opened the gate. ‘You are speaking in riddles, Cavarinos. Have you been hanging around with druids?’

‘It’s been a long and very unpleasant journey, and I had to ride down into town to find out where you lived. If you are, as I seem to remember, a wine merchant, it would be appropriate, I think, to offer some of your wares to a tired guest.’

Fronto snorted and closed the gate behind the Arverni noble. He turned to the house. Aurelius was standing by the door. He’d been there for half an hour now, cleaning his nails with the tip of a knife and other such sundry pastimes. Clearly he had recognised Cavarinos as no enemy, if not a friend, but even then he had his hand on the pommel of his gladius as he watched intently. The former members of his singulares had taken their duties very seriously since the attack on Hierocles’ building, fearing reprisals, and one of them was never far from his side, armed and ready.

‘We’re fine, Aurelius. Would you do me a favour and walk Cavarinos’ horse round to the stables and leave it in their hands.’

Aurelius came across, nodding a greeting at the Gaul as he took the reins and walked the horse around the side of the house, his eyes never leaving the new arrival. Fronto paused to pick up Lucius who was struggling to pull up a weed in the lawn and then led his friend to the front door.

‘This is no social call then?’

Cavarinos rubbed his arms and hands as they entered and smiled sadly. ‘I am some way from enjoying a social life yet, Fronto. But it does make me happy to see you well, if clearly tired.’

‘Business is more tiring and more complicated than warfare, Cavarinos.’

‘Which is one reason why the tribes make poor traders, but have been fighting each other for centuries. We were never a complex people.’

Fronto stopped in the atrium, casting a prayer across to the altar of the household gods as Lucilia came strolling in at the far side of the small pool, carrying young Marcus, asleep in her arms.

‘I see you had luck getting Lucius to sleep, then?’ she noted archly. ‘Honestly, Marcus, you could at least
try
. He’ll be awake all afternoon now, and he’ll play merry Hades with us tonight.’ She noted for the first time the figure behind him and smiled warmly. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’

Fronto lowered Lucius to the floor and steered him away from the shallow impluvium pool before straightening. ‘Lucilia, this is Cavarinos, a prince of the Arverni and formerly one of Vercingetorix’s most trusted generals.’

Surprise flashed across her face, but recognition soon replaced it. ‘Cavarinos? The one to whom you gave your precious Fortuna?’ She chuckled as she crossed the room to them. ‘You have no idea how miserable he’s been without his precious goddess. In the end he spent a small fortune on a replacement.’

Fronto cast her a withering look. ‘I was suffering for want of luck. It was basic common sense to replace it.’

Cavarinos smiled and pulled out the figurine hanging at his neck, worn but recognisable. ‘I’m not sure how much luck it’s brought me.’

‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’ Fronto sniffed. ‘A third of the people of Gaul aren’t.’

‘And this would be your lovely wife, then, Fronto? I don’t believe you ever told me her name?’

Fronto snorted again. ‘The only times we’ve ever talked we were enemy leaders in the middle of a war. I didn’t tell you my shoe size or my favourite colour either.’

Cavarinos gave him an indulgent smile, and Lucilia glared at him before turning a wide smile back on the Gaul. ‘Lucilia, daughter of Quintus Lucilius Balbus and wife of a mannerless brute. Pleased to meet you, Prince Cavarinos.’

‘I think the title is rather moot now, my lady. But it is a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Shall we retire to the triclinium, then?’ Fronto asked, but Cavarinos nodded pointedly at Lucilia.

‘Somewhere private, then?’

Cavarinos nodded. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, my lady, but there is a private matter we must discuss first, before I can afford to relax.’

Lucilia acquiesced and bowed, retreating from the atrium in the wake of the slapping footsteps of Lucius. ‘Then I shall have cook rustle up something appropriate for, say half an hour?’

Fronto nodded. ‘Thank you, dear. We’ll be done shortly.’

Gesturing for Cavarinos to follow, he headed towards his tablinum – the small office that he still occasionally used in his villa. As the two entered, he shut the door behind them, noting the fact that Masgava had appeared silently in the atrium, armed and watchful. As the door closed, he nodded at the big Numidian, trying to convey the message that he was fine. Turning, he strode across to one of the two chairs in the room and sank into it, the cushion expelling a puff of dust beneath him.

Cavarinos looked around at the room with interest. The walls were covered with maps showing major trade routes and wine-growing regions, seasonal tide charts and so on. The desk was piled at one side with writing tablets. And five amphorae of different sizes sat by a wall. The floor was a mosaic that showed Bacchus cavorting. ‘This looks just like a Roman headquarters. You make me smile Fronto. Even as a merchant you approach your business as if it were war.’

‘You have no idea how close the two can be. Right down to the shedding of blood in fact.’

He reached out and picked up a small jug from a low side table and unstoppered it, filling two fine, painted glasses showing birds in flight. ‘Ever had Alban wine?’

Cavarinos frowned. ‘Possibly. Years ago we did good trade with Roman merchants. I had excellent Roman wines in those days.’