‘I hear you there, brother.’
Catháin leaned forward, a questioning look on his face. ‘If you are the Fronto who is currently in the sights of Hierocles’ artillery, then what are you doing with his man?’
It was Fronto’s turn to frown now. ‘What?’
‘Glykon, the little shit weasel. What are you doing with him?’
Fronto felt as though a trapdoor had opened beneath him. ‘Glykon?’
‘Of course. He’s been Hierocles’ man since the dawn of the wine trade. I believe they’re distant cousins.’
Fronto blinked and took another slug of wine. Suddenly the reason for his employee’s presence in the warehouse the other night became startlingly clear. In fact, he’d be willing to bet that the commanding voice he’d heard from the leader with the sword was Glykon. And the man had switched sides and saved Fronto when he realised their ‘theft’ had gone wrong and the gang had been spotted. Damn it, how had he missed all this?
‘Shit. Why has no one told me before?’
‘Because you’re a Roman, Fronto. You’re about as popular as a turd in a bath to most of these people. I’ll bet the new taxes are squeezing you tight, eh?’
‘You have no idea,’ Fronto sighed.
‘You want my advice?’
‘Given the evidence so far, I’d be a fool to turn it down.’
Catháin grinned. ‘Have someone you trust check into all your employees. Hierocles is a devious bastard and he’ll get under your skin. Get rid of Glykon and vet the rest carefully. I’ve seen your workers down on the docks, too. Half of them are soldiers with no idea what they’re doing. Separate your guards, your household, and your workforce completely. The guards might think they’re being helpful, but your workers would actually be more efficient if the others stayed out of things altogether.’
‘Can’t really argue with you on any of that.’
‘Then, the only way you’re going to be able to beat the high tax legally is by improving your business. Secure cheaper sources, markets and transport and seek out buyers as yet untouched by Hierocles so you can carve out a niche from which to expand your influence.’
Fronto blew out a heavy breath and leaned back in his seat. ‘Are you for hire?’
‘That, my Roman friend, depends upon how much you’re paying.’
Fronto snorted. ‘My wife is busy spending a small fortune on rubbish at the moment. I’ll give you a standard teamster’s wage and Glykon’s pay on top as soon as I fire him. That should be about right for a foreman, I reckon?’
Catháin chuckled. ‘On one condition. When I start to make you money, I take an extra five percent cut of all profits.’
‘Done.’
Fronto grinned as he drained the last of his cup. ‘Now I shall go to the bar, buy a small amphora of Rhodian to seal the deal, and you can tell me about where you come from, since I cannot for the life of me place your accent.’
Chapter Four
Titus Mittius rubbed his hands together and blew into them to warm them. Irritatingly, he’d thrown dice with a fellow prefect over duty assignments two months ago and the other officer – the lucky bastard – had secured the supply depot at Arausio in the Rhodanus valley. Apart from the occasional strong wind, that area was a good Roman one, and close enough to the southern coast that the temperature was noticeably warmer. Here at Brivas, in the lands of the Arverni, the great Cevenna mountains kept any warmth at bay and locked the land in cold winter. Frost had formed on his saddle.
‘How many more do we have unhomed?’
‘Unhomed, sir? None. But many of the houses are near-ruinous. A winter of neglect, you see, sir.’
A winter of neglect.
Because a large portion of the former inhabitants of this Arverni town were now either in the burial pits at Alesia or the slave markets of Massilia and Rome. His job as ‘resettlement officer’ for the Arverni sounded extremely grand, and it certainly involved plenty of variety, travelling around the tribe’s lands and allocating property and trade from the dead to the living poor. Trying to build workable communities from the war-ravaged survivors, so that by spring there would be enough inhabitants to allow the town to live on. It sounded like the very best side of Rome. One might be tempted to consider the seedier side of it, of course. Because when the settlement had the best population manageable and everyone had a home, land and whatever else they needed to live, all those goods that went unclaimed were requisitioned by Rome and sent back to the quartermasters to sell or reassign. But on a practical level it worked for everyone. The Arverni benefitted from Roman organisation helping them rebuild, and Rome gleaned a little profit from the endeavour.
‘Very well, Aulus. Once the assignments and musters are complete, send the foraging parties out to the local area and gather stone and timber. Most of these places should be repairable and anywhere you find that isn’t, pull it down and reuse the materials. I want Brivas to be self-supporting by the end of Januarius. Then we move on to Revessio.’
The centurion saluted and marched away to his men.
Mittius sighed and looked about the oppidum of Brivas. It was not a defensive place, particularly. More of a civil settlement by the river. It had potential, mind. Reminded him rather of Falerii Novi, his hometown thirty miles north of Rome. In a time of peace, when the summer sun burned the moisture from the land, Brivas might even be described as pleasant.
He shivered in the icy breeze and led his horse around the shattered, ruinous remnant of a building. Not pleasant at the moment, mind.
Time to write a letter to Marcia. The couriers would be coming through tomorrow on their way east. He would receive any new orders from the proconsul’s staff, and the riders would take any missives on for Cisalpine Gaul and for Rome. He tried to think what he would say. He missed her. He was pleased with what he was doing and proud to be bringing civilisation and the Pax Romana to the world. He hoped the girls were being good and that young Sciavus had stopped sniffing around after them. Gaul was cold, and he was looking forward to…
Titus Mittius gasped as the cord slipped round his neck and tightened. He was no stranger to combat and his fingers immediately reached down to the sword at his side, but were smashed numb with something heavy and his sword was drawn from its sheath and confiscated. He tried to cry out. Aulus could only be on the other side of this damn building! But the cord around his neck was choking him. Powerless, he gave in and stopped struggling as each movement brought a slight tightening of the cord.
His assailants moved into view, and he felt a supernatural shiver run through him. Several of them, wearing voluminous, heavy, black cloaks with deep hoods, and each sporting a mask with a chillingly friendly expression. Identical masks. Somehow the slight smile in the visage made the figures all the more menacing. Two of them took his horse’s reins and moved the beast on. They were being so brazen in full daylight. Most of the populace and the soldiers were across the river, running through allocations and ledgers, of course, but there would still be occasional legionaries, and centurion Aulus Critus, up here in the settlement, while they catalogued and gathered everything for redistribution.
Knowing that he was helpless, Mittius allowed himself to be moved forward towards the house that served as his home and headquarters as long as he was in Brivas. In the most amazingly professional manner, given his predicament, he began to take mental notes. They were wearing trousers and leg wrappings that clearly labelled them Gauls, and probably locals. Either Arverni or other tribes nearby. They included women among their number, for one of the two leading the horse moved with the sway of hips that made her gender obvious. Their masks looked like the cult masks the Gauls used at some of their religious ceremonies. That last thought panicked him, for like every Roman in the army he had heard the horror stories of what druids did to Roman prisoners in their crazed, dangerous cults.