‘Of course it is, child. Would I do anything less? Now go on. I’ve arranged everything with Marcus and food and comforts will be brought across shortly.’
Without pause for farewells — knowing he would be spending the next few weeks in his daughter’s constant company — Balbus nodded at Fronto and then kicked his horse forward towards the homely villa a little further along the road.
As the carriage rattled on once more, the cart full of goods following, Galronus, Masgava and Palmatus nodded and smiled at him as they passed. Though none of them said anything, Fronto had the distinct impression that they were silently laughing at him for some reason. He felt an irrational rush of irritation and, still gripping Bucephalus’ reins, strode into the courtyard in the wake of his young wife.
‘I don’t even know what to do with this big softie. No idea where the stable is and whether there’s food and water there.’
‘Father will send his equisio round to deal with it shortly, beloved, be sure of that. In the meantime the grass in this garden is horribly overgrown. Close the gate and let the poor beast wander and stretch his legs and eat for a while. If he’s half as sick of being cramped up on board ships as I am, he’ll need it.’
Fronto nodded and closed the gate, turning to the big black head with the glistening, intelligent eyes. He pointed his finger at the stallion’s forehead as he let go of the reins.
‘No jumping the wall and running away, and try not to eat the gate, you big numb bugger.’
Bucephalus neighed and turned, stomping off across the gravel and onto the deep grass. Fronto thought the noise sounded suspiciously argumentative, and glared at the animal as it set about demolishing the overgrowth.
‘Come on,’ Lucilia called from over by the door.
‘Wait there.’ Fronto jogged across and ducked between her and the portal, bending and putting his arms around her.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Picking you up to carry you across the threshold.’
‘I think not.’
‘But it’s tradition. What about the bad luck? Or the Sabine tradition?’
Lucilia huffed and folded her arms. ‘That’s for the newly married. We’ve been married best part of a year. Besides, I would rather not be carried right now.’
Fronto, deflated, stepped inside, noting with relief and a little gratitude the jars of wine and water standing on the table in the atrium and the two beautiful glasses that rested beside it. Quintus had apparently anticipated his initial needs.
‘Come on.’ he strode across to the table and picked up a glass. The house may be sparsely furnished, but there would be enough to keep them going for the night. Lucilia, smiling with happiness at her new home, shut the door behind her, lowering the level of light in the atrium to the glow of late sun that penetrated the open roof at the centre.
‘We should move through to the triclinium and see if there are lamps to be lit. It won’t be light for much longer and the dark just adds to the chill.’
‘In a moment,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s our new home, we’re finally here after a long trip, and I’ll have to move on in the morning. Right now I rather feel I need this glass of wine, and we should toast the house and welcome the lares and penates to the new home.’
‘Pour yourself a glass and bring it through with you.’
Fronto looked crestfallen once more. ‘Will you not raise a glass with me?’
‘Wine makes me feel nauseous at the moment.’
‘What is wrong with you?’ Fronto snapped grumpily, waving the empty glass in his hand at her.
‘Can you not guess, you great oaf?’ she replied with equal vehemence.
‘Stop talking in riddles, woman.’
‘I am with child, Marcus!’
Fronto stopped in the process of opening his mouth to argue further and let it hang wide in surprise. His glass slid from suddenly numb fingers and smashed on the floor next to the atrium’s small impluvium pool, sending glittering shards across the marble.
‘Wh…?’
‘I don’t know, Marcus, but I must be two months gone now. So do as I ask: use the other glass, pour yourself a wine — don’t bother with the water, I think you’ll need the full strength of it — and come through to sit with me in the triclinium.’
‘The…?’
‘Father’s slaves will clear up the mess when they come round. Just step carefully until then. Now come on. I feel the need for a sit down and I would rather like to talk to you properly. I had envisaged telling you the news in more luxuriant circumstances than standing in the cold empty atrium in our travelling clothes, but as usual you forced my hand until I was left with no choice.’
‘Bu…’
‘And when you have recovered sufficiently to recall more than a syllable at a time, we can discuss the speed with which you will carry out this year’s campaign so that you can rush home to my side in time to welcome your son or daughter into the world.’
Fronto stood gawping until Lucilia reached down and poured him an unwatered glass of wine, grasping his wrist with her free hand and guiding him between the shards of glass towards the triclinium beyond.
The Gauls had better behave themselves, Fronto found himself thinking. I want to be home before the autumn rains set in.
Before my child arrives!
Bibracte, in the lands of the Aedui of central Gaul
The druid stood within the nemeton — the sacred grove — and looked around with an expression of distaste and dismay. The palisaded site had been a thriving religious centre for the mysteries when last he had visited. Four years now there had been no druid here, in this city of a tribe that had welcomed the invader’s crushing heel to their throat and revelled in their servitude. Four years the shepherds of the people had lived in exile from their own tribes while fomenting resistance against the Roman dogs. Four years the once marvellous nemeton of Bibracte had been left to rack and ruin, overgrown with gorse, its stones green with moss and lichen, its shaped and tended trees grown into misshapen things.
Four years.
And even now, with many of the more powerful nobles of the Aedui actively inviting the Gods and their mysteries back into their lives, even now he had been escorted to the grove in secret in case that section of society that still lived in hope of scraps from the Romans’ table took offence at his presence.
All that would change, of course. All would change, and soon. Plans were building rapidly, with everything falling into place, barring a few mishaps and mistakes, the matter of which had brought about this meeting.
‘This is a disgrace.’ he snapped. ‘Do the Aedui not honour their spirits anymore? Could they not at least tend the sacred places even when they are not used?’
The small party of Gallic warriors, clad in mail and with bronze helms displaying wings or animals or ritualistic horns simply paid him no attention and talked among themselves. It infuriated him. Their chosen leader had been given everything he needed: support, power, goods — even the approval of the Gods and the secret ways of the druids — in order to free the land of the invader, and yet he and his men still went about their business as if the whole thing were his achievement — his doing — rather than theirs. He treated the shepherds of the people as an inconvenience. As though they were tantruming children!
‘What do you intend to do about Indutiomarus and his tribe?’
Vercingetorix circled his head, stretching his neck so that the bones clicked, and sighed.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
The druid clenched his free fist, the knuckles of the hand that gripped his staff whitening. ‘Something has to be done. Ambiorix lost us tribes we might sorely need in the next year, and now the dog-faced, idiot Treveri threaten to get themselves wiped out too.’