Fronto, his jaw slack, shuffled his chair backwards and used his bare hand to sweep the spilled drink from the side of the table where it dribbled and spattered to the floor. His eyes narrowing, he refilled the cup and drank the contents in one open-gulletted mouthful.
“You what?”
“You do not agree?”
Fronto shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I just… When…? Why hasn’t Faleria mentioned this to me?”
Galronus shrugged nonchalantly. “I haven’t told her yet.”
Fronto dropped his cup again, but caught it this time before the worst of the spillage.
“Listen, Galronus: Faleria might not be interested. She’s had a bit of a… past. She…”
“I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She’s interested.”
Fronto shook his head again, not so much in disagreement, as in astonishment. “Well, I don’t know…”
He suddenly became aware of a shadow falling across the table and looked up sharply.
“What?” he snapped at the two men standing above him. The Gallic barman looked nervous and apologetic, but that was hardly a surprise. The surprise was that the expression was mirrored in the face of Lucius Silvanus, former cornicen of the Eighth legion and proprietor of the establishment. The burly veteran leaned forward.
“You’re senior officers, right, sir?”
Fronto frowned and flashed a glance at Galronus. “We’ll pick up on that little problem again later.” Turning back to the innkeeper, he pursed his lips and nodded.
“I’m the legate of the Tenth, and this is Galronus, commander of the Belgic cavalry contingent. What’s the problem?”
Silvanus looked around conspiratorially.
“Can I ask you to come with me for a few minutes, sir?”
Fronto shared a look with Galronus and the pair shrugged, standing and gathering their packs. Silvanus gave a small, hurried salute and, beckoning, scurried off toward the side door. Curious, the pair followed him out into the courtyard again, where he approached a set of cellar doors in the floor near the inn’s back wall. Crouching, he removed a heavy key and unlocked the doors, revealing a sloping ramp for beer casks, down which he trod carefully.
Fronto put his hand on the pommel of the gladius at his side as he glanced once at Galronus and then shuffled down into the dark space beneath the inn. The big Gaul followed. With the deep cerulean sky of late evening behind them, they could see very little within and it came as a surprise when they touched level floor again. A moment later there was a spark and Silvanus lit a small oil lamp, passing it to Fronto before lighting another and holding it high to illuminate the cellar.
Carefully, picking his way around the goods stored in the room, the innkeeper led them round a corner to where the other half of the cellar was divided into three parts with partition walls. Two doors remained closed, but the left-hand side, with a wide stable-style door, stood open, revealing a log store, the chunks of heavy, seasoned wood casting strange shadows as the lamplight danced across them.
“We found it yesterday. I didn’t know who to tell until you arrived.”
Fronto frowned and stepped in through the low door, ducking his head. Galronus was behind him again instantly.
The legate straightened in shock, cracking his head on the beam above the door and cursing sharply, rubbing his head.
“You see, sir? Not something to shout about.”
Fronto nodded, his eyes wide as he crouched over the body of Publius Pinarius Posca, senior tribune and nephew to Julius Caesar. There were contusions everywhere, caused by his hasty burial beneath the heavy, sharp logs, but it was clearly him. Even without the uniform tunic, Fronto would have recognised the high forehead and receded chin. His heart racing, he turned over the body. A dark stain of dried blood bloomed on his back around a wound, half way down the ribcage, slightly left of the spine.
“Murder. Plain and simple. No accident and not a fair fight.” Handing the lamp to Galronus, he used both hands to tear the crusted, hard tunic and open up a bare patch of pale, almost translucent skin beneath. The wound was neat; narrow and flat, expertly placed and professionally executed. Reaching down to his belt, Fronto slid his military-issue pugio dagger from the sheath and laid it next to the wound for comparison.
“I’d say that’s pretty convincing. And he’s been dead… three days, I reckon? Two at least, and not more than four.”
Fronto stood again and shared a look with Galronus.
“Travelling with the tribunes you think?”
The big Gaul nodded and Fronto turned to the innkeeper. “Best get him seen to by the priests in town and then arrange for him to be shipped back to Massilia and then Rome. I’ll leave you coin to cover the whole thing. We’re going to go up and have enough wine to float a trireme, but if I were you, I’d have a couple of your slaves dig through that log pile and just make sure there aren’t two effeminate junior tribunes in there too. Pinarius couldn’t have been travelling alone.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Normally I would remember senior officers passing, but there have just been so many on their way to the army that it’s been a bit of a blur.”
Fronto glanced once more at the body and then shivered.
“Come on. I need a drink.”
Galronus helped him out of the log store and the pair made their way back through the cellar and up the shallow slope to the courtyard above. Before they entered the busy main room again, Galronus grasped Fronto’s shoulder and pulled him up short.
“You think the same as me, I suspect?”
Fronto nodded.
“Two new centurions, eh? Caesar’s not going to be happy at this.”
Chapter 3
(Divoduron, in the land of the Mediomatrici)
Fronto couldn’t help but wonder what it said about him in that he felt profound relief that the brutal murder of a Roman officer had at least changed the subject of their sparse conversations from the subject of marriage and Faleria. Had he become so jaded with his own society that even needless violence was a preferable alternative to the social niceties?
He felt sure Faleria would say yes.
But in answer to what?
Shaking his head in irritation, Fronto glanced across at Galronus, sitting astride his horse with a serene and even happy face. It seemed that he couldn’t even keep off the subject within the seclusion of his own skull.
His eyes drifted back ahead to the tribal capital of the Mediomatrici that loomed ahead of them. Having spent most of the preceding hours riding across a refreshingly flat plain, Divoduron showed the signs of having been founded by a man with an eye for tactical advantage. Curved like a misshapen horseshoe, the huge oppidum occupied the heights of a small range of high, wooded hills that rose like a barrier, crossing the great plain. The only clear pass in view from left to right marched directly through the huge fortified settlement. The Mediomatrici controlled the gateway to the flat lands on either side; a powerful position.
The Roman officers who had brought the army here from winter quarters as an assembly point had wisely avoided the crown of hills and settled for the flat land below for their numerous temporary camps. But the presence of eight legions and their endless support units, supply trains, cavalry corrals and suchlike seemed to have sparked this powerful oppidum into a frenzy of mercantile activity. The winding road that snaked up the pass to the Gallic settlement was dotted with small groups of pack animals — trade caravans taking advantage of the demand created by so many thousands of men. Here and there, a glittering, silvery glint betrayed the presence of Roman troops moving up and down the hill. Clearly Caesar had been magnanimous and allowed his men the luxury of utilising the oppidum’s stores, taverns and women of low repute during their off-duty time.