Galronus, Faleria and Lucilia stood at the bow, their gaze locked on the great port ahead. Lucilia had gradually become more animated and excited as she neared her family, and the feeling had rubbed off on her companions. Somewhere on the hills a couple of miles back from the city — nominally within the Roman province of Narbonensis but close enough to allied Massilia to spit a peach stone at — stood the villa of Balbus; former legate of the Eighth Legion, future father in law to the grey, shaking figure leaning on the rail.
The two tribunes, who Fronto had now discovered were named Menenius and Hortius, were apparently being reassigned to serve on the staff of the Fourteenth, which Caesar still treated more as an auxiliary unit than a full legion and which he believed needed bringing up to scratch. Fronto had met a number of the men and centurions of the Fourteenth now and his own opinion was of a powerful legion, strong in body and spirit, carrying both the efficiency of the Roman officers who had trained them and the sheer battle-sense of the Gauls who had supplied the bulk of the manpower. What the great, bluff, hairy monsters of the Fourteenth would make of the two fops who actually called one another ‘darling’ in front of the sailors and hurried off in a panic if their tunic was dirtied, he simply couldn’t imagine.
Even the clerks would eat those two alive.
The only person on board who Fronto feared for more was Caesar’s nephew, Pinarius. The man was clearly too weak in both mind and physique to competently direct a music recital, let alone a battle. The elegantly inscribed rail where Fronto had spent much of the journey had been specifically chosen as the place with a flat leaning surface and standing space that was furthest from Pinarius’ grating lisp and nasal laugh as it was possible to be without walking on water. It was no surprise to find that Caesar had granted a commission to his sister’s son, but Fronto could only picture the general trying to deal with this chinless moron. Hopefully he would only be there for one campaigning season and then gone to ruin the economy in Rome.
Morons like those three almost made him miss Crassus, who was now ensconced in his new position in Rome, regularly attending meetings of the senate and guiding the future of the republic.
Almost… but not quite.
Very much the other side of the coin — a coin now probably authorised to mint by the very same Crassus — was the centurions. Furius and Fabius had spoken to their fellow passengers precisely as much as the courtesy due their social highers and military superiors demanded, and no more. The two men claimed to hold Caesar in very high regard both as an officer and as a tactician, and neither made mention of Pompey or their former commissions. Fronto had planned to turn the conversation around enough to pry into their past, but the constant illness and battering of his senses had made it practically impossible, and so Furius and Fabius remained somewhat mysterious.
One thing was certain: he would trust an oak-bark-sucking druid before he would let one of those two stand behind him with a knife.
Furius and Fabius had remained quiet and apart for most of the journey, talking among themselves and eying the three fops, Fronto and Galronus with equal distain.
Fronto watched with a surly temper as the dockside of Massilia closed on them. Hopefully the other five passengers would be in a hurry to travel north and he wouldn’t be forced to accompany them on the journey. Caesar had apparently already disembarked in Massilia on the previous trip of the Glory of Venus, and most of his officers would now be converging on the army in preparation. Fronto and Galronus wouldn’t be far behind, but there was something that had to be done first.
Despite the best efforts of the port officials of Massilia, there was simply so much traffic that the great trireme commissioned by Caesar had to sit in the glassy waters of the harbour for almost two hours before enough mercantile traffic had unloaded their wares and cleared the queues and jetties to make room for a warship.
In a Roman port, the simple appearance of a military vessel and the name of Caesar would be enough to ensure priority and the dispersal of mercantile traffic. But Massilia was still nominally independent and, at this point, Rome still obeyed her harbour rules.
The sun was already sliding into the western horizon, leaving a fiery shimmer across the water and casting the hills and mountains to the north and east in a deep purple tone when the trireme finally began its approach to the jetty.
Fronto braced himself for the first bounce and yet still lunged at the rail like a novice when it happened, recovering as quickly as he could and hurrying off down to the boarding ramp that was being run out, converging with the ladies and their Gaulish escort. The other centurions and officers had politely stepped aside to allow the ladies to disembark first, and Fronto took advantage, leaping in front of them and hurrying down after his three companions.
Alighting on the solid stone of land, Fronto resisted the urge to crouch and kiss it, concentrating instead on stopping the unmanly wobble in his legs. As he and his companions stood in a small knot on the dock in the rapidly emptying port, the others disembarked behind them, setting foot on the pier and moving away.
Pinarius wore an expression of happy and vacant excitement that immediately annoyed Fronto again.
“Ith tho much more thivilithed than I ecthpected. Thereth a monument near the agora that commemorateth the great ecthplorer Pytheath, you know? He came from thith plath, and ecthplored ath far north ath a thip can go without freething tholid. Mutht we go north in the morning? Can we not thtay a day to thee the plath?”
Fronto winced as his brain tried to add a few solid consonants to the question.
“I think it would be unwise, my dear” replied tribune Hortius with a sad face that resembled one of the theatre masks for Greek tragedies. “Your beloved uncle wants us all with the army as soon as we can be there.”
Fronto kept his opinion of how desperately Caesar sought the company of his nephew in the privacy of his head. ‘Gods, please don’t let him be assigned to the Tenth!’ He resolved to be extra nice to the general on arrival, just in case.
Furius and Fabius alighted with the steady gait of men used to the sea, adjusting their stride easily to the dock and marching off into the town without a word to any of their former fellow passengers.
Fronto watched them go with lowered brows and grunted something under his breath.
“What was that?”
He turned to his sister.
“Pompeian turds” he repeated. “I think they were with Pompey when he led the navy too. Experienced marines, they are. What the hell is Caesar playing at?”
Galronus patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.
“You’ve lost a lot of centurions in the past two years, Marcus. The general can’t keep shuffling the ones you have left up each time and bringing in newly-raised officers at the bottom, or there’ll soon be no experienced centurions left. He has to bring in veteran officers if they become available, no matter their past.”
Fronto muttered something again in inaudible grunts.
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, the crew can unload the horses and baggage and send them on to the staging post. Let’s get up and see Balbus. My stomach seems to have flipped back over and is demanding wine and meat.”
“It’s a strenuous walk, Marcus” Lucilia reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for the horses?”
“My legs need the workout. They feel like knotted string at the moment.”
Behind them, the men of Caesar’s ship were already unloading the beasts and chests to the dock, where the port workers were consulting their orders, roping chains of beasts together and loading bags and crates onto carts, ready to deliver to their destinations. The cacophony of Latin voices from the ship, Greek tones from the dock, and Gaulish shouts from the immigrant workers rose and fell like the waves of the Mare Nostrum, threatening to make Fronto’s gorge rise again.