‘Naked again, Roman. But not so small this time, eh?’
Fronto’s blood chilled and he turned to Lucilia to see that her own questioning look had fallen upon him.
‘Gods, it cannot be.’
‘Marcus, who is this woman who seems to know you?’
‘She… err. She was a Bellovaci woman who almost gutted me in a river in Belgae lands – what? – six years ago now? Seven? How in the name of Fortuna did she end up here?’
He gave up trying to disentangle the clothes and simply wrapped them round himself and over his shoulder as he strode over to the cell. She was older, perhaps thirty summers now, and wearing rags, and his memory was not what it once was, but there could be no mistaking those eyes. It was the woman who had grabbed his blade while he bathed in a cold river and who had latched on to him like a puppy seeking a home until he’d managed to palm her off on Crispus.
‘Why is she in her own cell?’ he asked the functionary.
‘She’s trouble, that one, Kupios. She looks good, but she keeps going out and coming back. No one wants to keep her. Some have beaten her, but they say it makes her all the more defiant. She seems impervious to pain. Sethos the trader loves her. He keeps selling her for a good profit, and she comes back to him cheap to sell again.’
Fronto felt Lucilia’s interrogative gaze on his back and shivered. ‘This girl was not taken as a slave. She was in the care of an officer.’ His helpful memory chose to remind him that Crispus had died years back on a Gallic spear. What would have happened to a girl in his care? His family in Rome would probably not want such a rough barbaroi in their house.
‘I should have checked up on you when Crispus died.’ He turned to Lucilia. ‘She was, I think, a girl of good family among her tribe. She was under our protection, but the Fates seem to have been unkind to her.’
‘We should get her out of here then, Marcus.’
Fronto stared into Lucilia’s gaze and tried to separate the strands of emotion therein. His wife was intrigued, suspicious, perhaps even jealous? But there was a healthy dose of compassion there too.
‘Lucilia, you heard the man. She’s trouble.’ He turned to the functionary. ‘How much does she stand to make at auction?’
‘Between one hundred and one hundred and fifty drachma, Kupios.’
Fronto sighed. ‘We can’t go doling out that kind of money, Lucilia. Not for someone we don’t desperately need.’
‘You said the other day that Captain Irenaeus had saved you quite a bit of money. Marcus, you said she was under your protection. You can’t leave her in this place.’
‘Lucilia…’ he peered into his wife’s eyes, but he knew that look all too well. ‘If you want her, then we can’t get that little redhead you liked the look of.’ It was a long-shot, but worth a try.
‘Fine.’
He sighed, and strolled over to the cell. ‘I never did learn your name?’
‘They call me Annia.’
‘I’m sure. What do you call you?’
‘My name was Andala.’
‘Then it still is,’ Lucilia said firmly. ‘Glykon, find this Sethos and haggle him down as low as you can. For every two drachma you save on the hundred and fifty, you can have one of them.’
Glykon smiled and Fronto looked at the straight-backed, pretty young woman who had once held him at knife-point. He could hardly wait for Helladios the goldsmith to finish his new Fortuna pendant. He needed a bit of good luck for a change, and this, while extremely coincidental, did not smack of good luck.
Quarter of an hour later the small party of five left the slave markets, Fronto grasping a sadly very thin purse, Lucilia with a satisfied smile. She’d come away with the redhead too, after all. ‘I think I would like to spend an hour in the markets, Marcus. Our new staff will need clothing and bedding.’
Fronto sighed. He could really do without spending yet more money he didn’t really have on material, but there would be no arguing with Lucilia when she was in this mood. Besides – his gaze strayed across the road – the Artemis tavern was still calling him. ‘Alright, dear. But this place is not safe at the moment. My opposition are not above taking those things I love, even in public, so Masgava and Aurelius can go with you.’ The two former bodyguards nodded their approval and understanding.
He smiled. ‘And I’ll…’
‘I know, dear. I’ll look for you in the tavern when I’m done. Try to be able to talk when I get back. The new slaves are being delivered this afternoon and it would look bad if you can’t address them clearly.’
Fronto smiled and kissed his wife, watching her stroll off towards the busy market area, Aurelius and Masgava hovering around her protectively. He was confident that nothing would happen to her. There were no two men in the world he would trust more to protect her.
Turning, he gestured for Glykon to follow and strode into the doorway of the Artemis. It was a tavern he rarely got to – he never seemed to be in the south of the city, where there was no connection to his business or his private life. He’d been in a couple of times over the past year or more, though, and had found the place to be largely patronised by workmen, teamsters and sailors from the port buildings and shipyards that loomed on the far side of the potters’ quarter. It had a curious smell, derived from the various industries that surrounded it and from the smoked meats hanging behind the bar.
Fronto heard a strangled noise and turned to see Glykon with a look of haughty disapproval.
‘You don’t like this place?’
‘It is not a place for man of quality, Domine.’
‘Despite appearances, I’m not a man of quality,’ grinned Fronto, indicating his ruffled and badly-settled chiton and himation.
‘Perhaps I should return to the villa and prepare for the new staff?’
Fronto frowned, then shrugged easily. ‘If you want.’
‘Then I shall see you upon your return, Domine.’
He watched the odd Greek bow, turn and leave, making his way northeast, through the heart of town towards the gate that gave access to the hills upon which the villa sat. With a chuckle, Fronto turned to the tavern. Strangely, it seemed already quite full of life, and no table was entirely unoccupied. In the end, he strolled to the bar, bought himself a cup of medium quality Lemnian, and then made for a table near the door where a man sat alone with his cup. A man, Fronto had noted, who had been watching him with interest as he and Glykon had conversed in the doorway.
The fellow was tall, broad-shouldered and had the build of a manual worker but the face of a thinker. He was clean-shaven, but his dark hair was odd, cut short at the front but long at the rear with braids behind each ear, keeping strands from his face when he leaned forward. His chiton was cut from strong, functional material, and the green and blue container that sat beside his chair had the look of a traveller’s kit bag. His features were strange; hard to place. If he had to, Fronto would put him as a northern Gaul, or perhaps a German.
‘Mind if I sit?’ he asked politely in good Greek.
‘By all means,’ the man replied in a curious accent that did nothing to help clarify his oddness.
Fronto slumped into the chair with a grateful sigh and threw down a mouthful of wine. ‘My name is Fronto. Marcus Falerius Fronto.’
‘Yes,’ the man smiled. ‘Fronto the wine merchant.’
‘You know me?’
‘Everyone in the port knows Fronto the wine merchant. You’re rapidly becoming infamous, my Roman friend. Besides, I’ve watched you and your lot at the jetties many a time.’
Fronto suddenly felt very uncomfortable again. Today seemed to be catching him on the back-foot rather a lot. ‘So who are you?’
‘My name is Catháin. Well, the bit you’ll pronounce is, anyway.’
‘You’re in the wine trade?’
‘Not quite. I was foreman of Eugenios’ olive oil business, though he and I had a little disagreement over wages. It seems foreigners are starting to work at something of a disadvantage in Massilia.’