Of course, if he could only get rid of Hierocles, things might be different. But this was a lawful city and not subject to Rome, so Fronto had no real rights here, especially against a Greek who was a citizen of the town. The greasy arse-faced rat of a wine merchant had made Fronto’s life hell since his return to Massilia. The former legate of the Tenth had expected healthy competition, and was ready to have to push hard to carve himself a niche in the market. He had not been prepared for Hierocles. The old bastard had taken Fronto’s dip into the wine trade very personally and had publically decried him as a foreign agent trying to infiltrate free Massilia and bind her to the republic with ties of trade. When Fronto had responded calmly to the contrary, the man had taken his calm for weakness and had stepped up his campaign of defamation to actively accuse him of crooked dealings and various small criminal acts.
Though Fronto had argued his corner in the city’s agora like a good Roman orator and had managed to clear himself of any charge levelled, the stigma of a blackened name seemed to have stayed with him and nothing he could do had rebuilt his reputation. Moreover, being thwarted had simply set Hierocles off on a new path. Unable to remove Fronto through law, he had instead turned to his fellow Greek merchants in the town, further denigrating Fronto and gathering an informal cartel against the new Roman competitor.
Consequently, for the last month, Fronto had found himself repeatedly undercut for deals, passed over by ship captains and the target of seemingly accidental damage to his wares. Business was bad, but even that bad business was dwindling. Soon…
He looked deep into his own eyes in the mirror and was not surprised to see an unhealthy dose of defeat in them. He’d had such high hopes for this business. It was something strategic and real in which to immerse himself without diving into the political cesspools of Rome or the bloodbaths of the army. The military was out of the picture anyway. Even if he felt like going back, which in his current physical state would be truly dreadful, Caesar’s time in Gaul was coming to an end shortly and those legions would be stood down as their general returned to Rome to take up higher office. By the time he arrived in Caesar’s tent, there probably wouldn’t be a legion there to command. And that left Rome as an option. To take up a role in the government and be gradually ground down to sand between the rough edges of Caesar and Pompey. Lucilia had broached the idea once that perhaps he could grease a few palms in the senate and try to secure himself a governorship. Fronto had laughed at that until wine came out of his nose.
He wasn’t laughing now.
Who was that old man in the mirror?
‘Marcus?’
He turned and riveted a beaming smile on his face.
‘Don’t give me that,’ Lucilia snorted.
He let the forced smile slide from his visage and sighed.
‘You thrashed around like a windmill in a storm last night,’ she said quietly. ‘Worse than usual?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Same as usual. I was just finally actually settling and hoping to squeeze in another hour of slumber when Amelgo woke me. Got to get going early today, you see? Irenaeus is due in port this morning and he’s one of few Greek captains who’ll still give me the time of day. I need to get down to the port and get his mark on my contract before that po-faced bastard Hierocles gets to him and turns him from me.’
‘Marcus, you should have a man to do this for you.’
‘Who? Aurelius? The brothers? Masgava maybe? No. All our lads are workers, not spokesmen. This is a job for glib tongue and I’m the nearest thing here. Unless you want to take a turn at the steering oars of this enterprise?’
Lucilia gave him a look that startled him, as though she were actually considering it. Hurriedly, wanting to draw the argument to a close before it began, he waved concerns aside. ‘Do you know where my best chiton is? The blue one with the white edging.’
‘Must you dress as a Greek?’
‘When dealing with these people it is better not to over-publicise my Romanness. Irenaeus is a good man, but even he might be better disposed to a man in a chiton than in the red tunica of a Roman officer. Do you know where it is?’
Lucilia nodded. ‘Amelgo laid it out in our room, along with your best sandals and the white cloak. You will look quite the Hellenic gentleman.’
‘Thank you, my love. Are the boys up?’
‘And crawling about like a pair of rodents. Lucius is up on his feet, holding onto table edges and pulling himself round. Marcus, as usual, cannot be bothered to try and walk, and simply sits there drinking. I’m beginning to wonder if the very name is cursed?’ The harsh words were delivered with a sly upturn of the mouth to remind Fronto that she was as dry a joker as her father, and he chuckled. ‘He’ll stand up in his own good time. Never fret about him walking. Children always learn in the end. You don’t see many forty year olds still crawling about on the floor, do you?’
‘Only you and your friends on market day after a session in the Ox.’
Again the upturn, and Fronto laughed aloud. Gods, but it felt good to laugh.
His mood slumped again at the all-too familiar sound of a shattering amphora outside in the gardens. The distressing noise was followed by a verbal altercation between the recognisable Greek slur of Pamphilus and Clearchus and the angry Latin of Aurelius and Masgava. Odd though it was to hear a polyglot argument like that, the novelty had long since worn off.
‘Why did I put idiots and jugglers in charge of the best stock?’
And it was his best stock. The very finest of wines he’d managed to import into the city before Hierocles’ cartel of hate had interfered and soured the deal with the trader who had been set to buy it. After another ‘accident’ at the warehouse, Fronto had had the best stock moved to the villa, and had finally managed to line up another buyer, though for considerably less profit. And now it sounded like he’d have to speak to the buyer and apologise for being at least one amphora short.
‘You need more men,’ Lucilia said quietly. ‘And not ex-soldiers or surly Greeks. You need to get down to the slave market and get some bargains. Go early on the morning three days after market day, when the leftover stock has gone but the new slaves have come in.’
‘I don’t like buying slaves. I don’t really like owning slaves. Father always said a man who works for a wage you can trust, but a man you have to keep at the end of a stick will beat you with it the moment you turn your back.’
‘Your father, gods forgive me for saying it, was a hopeless drunk with less sense than a Scythian.’
‘Lucilia…’
‘Don’t snap at me. I’m quoting your sister. I’ve noted your aversion to owning them, and I know that there are those who won’t do it for fear of another slave war. I didn’t even argue when you emancipated Amelgo after only a week of being back. But those slaves who are treated well are happy with their lot, Marcus. Slaves are the norm. Good grief, even the Greeks keep slaves, and they consider themselves the masters of equality. Daddy has slaves. Everyone has slaves. And slaves will be careful with your stock out of respect, or at least fear.’
‘Listen Lucilia…’
He was interrupted by another muffled crash of pottery and further bellowing in two languages.
‘Alright,’ he sighed. ‘I take your point. I don’t like spending money we haven’t really got, but I suppose I could maybe buy three or four, if I can find them cheap enough.’
‘And another two for the house, Marcus. We’re woefully undermanned here.’
He winced, but nodded.
‘If money’s too much of an issue, talk to Father. I’m sure he would happily lend you a few sesterces.’
Fronto winced again and coughed to cover his nerves. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll take your advice on timing though. Five more days until the old stock’s gone and the new are in.’