Free Sons of Taranis by S. J. A. Turney Page B

and with a clear sea, even in winter Massilia made Rome look sedate, calm and organised.
    It had taken Fronto some time to get used to the utter bedlam that was the last free Greek city in the west. It had seemed to him that the place had no rules and no order, but long-term exposure was teaching him otherwise. Massilia had its rules and its order, but they were a far cry from the Pax Romana, and a foreigner could never hope to understand the workings of the city-state or the Hellene mind behind it in a year of market days.
    Slowly, though, he was unburdening his soul of Roman canker. If only Massilia would stop resisting his acclimatisation...
    ‘If you would let us come with you armed and in force, you would not have to fight your way through the crowd,’ the huge ex-gladiator grunted.
    ‘And my almost non-existent popularity would disappear into the cracks between the cobbles, Masgava. It’s all a game.’
    ‘Other merchants have bodyguards.’ The Numidian threw out a finger and pointed at a man in a yellow chiton, dripping with gold and jewels, surrounded by a gang of burly Gauls in mail shirts, their fingers dancing on the pommels of their swords as they eyed the crowd suspiciously.
    ‘He’s a Greek. He can afford to stand out because people don’t hate him for what he is.’
    Masgava eyed the ostentatious jewellery and snorted. ‘ I hate him.’
    ‘But here and now, sadly, your opinion counts for about the same as mine, which is to say: not at all. Today is about trying to foster good relations with our Greek neighbours, not asserting our Roman-ness with red tunics and blades. Come on, that looks like Irenaeus’ ship.’
    As the two men moved on through the crowd, pushing towards the port, Fronto kept his gaze intermittently on the tall mast, which he felt sure would be the friendly Greek’s ship. Very few of the port’s sailors would contemplate a black sail, for the ill luck associated with the colour, though Irenaeus allowed himself this little foible, since at the sail’s centre Apollo’s white raven theoretically overrode all misfortune.
    Fronto’s heart sank as he emerged from the crowd with Masgava at his shoulder to see the ship’s owner busily haggling with a Levantine merchant with a beard like the ancient Cypriots or Sumerians, tightly curled, oiled and falling to twin points at his collar bones. Gods, but the sailor was early. It had been said that Irenaeus would be in Tauroentum, a little way along the coast, and would not arrive in Massilia until the middle of the morning. He was, instead, already part unloaded as the height of the ship riding in the water confirmed. He must have arrived before dawn and, since no sailor in their right mind would try the rocky coast of southern Gaul in the dark, he must have actually put in at Massilia late last night.
    The Roman’s hopes of getting Irenaeus’ mark before any opposition got to him were almost shattered in that realisation. The only chance was that Hierocles and his fellow arseholes were equally unaware of the new arrival. And that the squint-eyed Levantine currently sealing a deal had not filled the hold with a proposed cargo already.
    ‘Make sure we’re not interrupted as soon as that Phoenician leaves, alright?’
    Masgava nodded and flexed his muscles. A moment later, Fronto was standing a disrespectful three feet behind the intricately-bearded merchant, hovering and trying to catch the eye of Irenaeus. The Levantine had clearly finished his actual business and was now passing the time of day with the Greek captain, and Fronto’s impatience was rising at a dangerous rate. His business was urgent and, while he had no intention of further alienating himself from the city’s Greek populace, he had no trouble arguing with another foreigner who got in his way.
    Noisily, he cleared his throat and the Levantine looked around in surprise. As he turned, his face creased into an angry scowl ready to unleash his feelings on Fronto, but the