Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Very clever,’ Vespasian said admiringly. ‘No wonder we couldn’t see them. Let’s get back and see how Sabinus has done.’ With his toe he lifted the blanket and flicked it back over the man’s face. As he turned to leave, something poking out from beneath the blanket caught Vespasian’s eye. He knelt down and pushed the blanket further back. Beneath was a cylindrical red-leather case about a foot long.

  ‘What the fuck’s he doing with this?’ Vespasian exclaimed, picking the tube up.

  ‘That’s a military despatches case, isn’t it?’ Magnus said, equally surprised. ‘What good would it be to these savages? They can’t read.’

  ‘Neither can you.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘It must be from the couriers that were intercepted; Paetus told me about them, poor buggers. We’ll look at it later. Let’s go.’ He slipped the case under his belt and started to make the steep, snow-ridden descent.

  The snow had completely stopped and the clouds were breaking up by the time they got back to the rendezvous point. The surviving Illyrian troopers had finished rounding up the horses and Caelus and the three legionaries were already back with the Getae’s mounts: squat, hardy-looking beasts with thick, rough coats.

  Artebudz set about cleaning and dressing Vespasian’s wound. He had just finished binding it with a bandage when Sabinus and the other Thracians came in.

  ‘All done?’ Vespasian asked his brother through chattering teeth; the adrenalin-fuelled heat of close combat had worn off and they were all now freezing again, despite the sun breaking through.

  ‘Yes, just; but as I always say, just is good enough. Tricky bastard though, he very nearly had Bryzos here,’ Sabinus replied, pointing to Sitalces’ ginger-bearded mate, who grinned viciously.

  ‘Drenis and Ziles need a bit of target practice,’ Bryzos said. His two dark-haired compatriots looked suitably sheepish. ‘Only one of them managed to hit the bastard before I took him from behind; he was barely wounded and he fought like a lion. I got the stinking heathen, though.’ He lifted a bloody scalp that hung from his belt.

  ‘Heathen?’ Vespasian looked at Bryzos quizzically. ‘I thought all the Thracian tribes had the same gods.’

  ‘Not the Getae,’ Bryzos replied, spitting on the ground. ‘They rejected all our gods except one, Zalmoxis. The fools, how can there be just one god?’

  ‘What’s your chief priest doing with them, then?’

  ‘We don’t know or care,’ Sitalces said, also spitting on the ground, ‘but the fact that he is makes him an apostate in our eyes and so we no longer fear him.’

  Vespasian nodded and gave orders to strap the dead, seven in all, on to the spare mounts; they would cremate them when they got down from the pass. As he mounted his horse he felt relieved of one of his concerns: he had been secretly worried that when it came to the final reckoning Rhoteces would put the fear of the gods into the Thracians and they would prevent him from being captured. From what Vespasian knew of the Thracian gods they were a pretty grisly lot and not to be crossed.

  The column moved out and, with the ever-brightening conditions, began to make good headway along the pass as it cut straight through the snow-covered mountains, which were now bathing majestically in dazzling, clear sunlight under an azure sky.

  As they approached the far end Vespasian, riding between Magnus and Sabinus, remembered the despatch case and pulled it from his belt.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sabinus asked.

  ‘I don’t know, we found it on the archer,’ Vespasian replied, slipping off the lid and shaking it upside down; a scroll fell into his lap. He picked it up and looked at the seal.‘Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus,’ he read out loud. ‘Shit, that’s Antonia’s son.’

  ‘And an idiot from all accounts, or at least he pretends to be,’ Sabinus informed him, ‘but the consensus of opinion is that you have to be an idiot in the first place to be able to play the idiot; at least that’s what Antonia says.’

  ‘Who’s he writing to?’ Magnus asked, leaning over to look at the seal.

  Sabinus looked at Vespasian. ‘There’s only one way to find out, are you up to opening private letters from a member of the imperial family, little brother?’

  Vespasian contemplated that for a moment. ‘If we don’t open it we won’t know who to deliver it to.’ He broke the seal, then scanned the scroll and whistled softly.

  ‘Well?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘It’s to Poppaeus, and it’s not signed by Claudius but by someone called Boter, and apart from the greeting and the signature it seems to be all in a code of some sort.’

  ‘Now that is interesting,’ Sabinus mused. ‘Boter is one of Claudius’ freedmen; I’ve not met him, but Pallas knows him. A few years back he got Claudius’ first wife pregnant. Surprisingly, Claudius didn’t do anything to Boter at the time, but now I think I can see why: with that sort of hold over the man Claudius can use him to do his dirty work, then if it goes wrong he can distance himself from it by saying that he’s been set up by a resentful member of his household. Boter goes down and Claudius has his revenge and is in the clear at the same time. Very crafty.’

  ‘Do you think that he could be going behind Claudius’ back?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘He could be; Pallas says that he’s very ambitious.’ Sabinus stopped and thought for a few moments. ‘No, he wouldn’t have used Claudius’ seal if he was; this letter must have been written with Claudius’ knowledge. However, as it isn’t signed by Claudius but bears his seal it’s at the same time both authentic and deniable. Perhaps he really isn’t the idiot that everyone takes him for. I think we had better hang on to this and show it to Antonia when we get back; Pallas will probably be able to break the code.’

  ‘Why he should be writing to Poppaeus in code unless he’s working in league with him and Sejanus?’ Vespasian asked, replacing the scroll in its case. They had reached the end of the pass and started their descent; far into the distance, below them and the snow-line, stretched the heavily wooded, rolling hills of Moesia.

  ‘That is a real possibility; as the nephew of the Emperor and the brother of Germanicus, Tiberius’ original heir according to the terms of the deal that he did with Augustus, Claudius is technically very well placed to inherit the Purple, especially if Sejanus helps him.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he probably thinks that Claudius is a weak fool whom he can control, which he already seems to be doing.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, after she bore him Boter’s daughter Claudius divorced his first wife, Plautia Urgulanilla, for adultery. Then two years ago Tiberius insisted, no doubt on Sejanus’ advice, that he get married again, this time to a woman called Aelia Paetina.’

  Vespasian frowned; he didn’t know the name. ‘So?’

  ‘So nobody thought much of it at the time because Claudius is considered such a booby. But Aelia’s parents had died when she was very young and she was brought up by her maternal uncle, Lucius Seius Strabo.’

  Vespasian’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Shit, not Sejanus’ father?’

  ‘Yes, little brother, Sejanus’ father, which makes Aelia Sejanus’ adoptive sister and Sejanus Claudius’ brother-in-law and therefore, should Claudius become Emperor, a legitimate heir.’

  PART II

  MOESIA, APRIL AD 30

  CHAPTER V

  ‘Thank you for your reports, gentlemen,’ Pomponius Labeo said, eyeing Vespasian and Caelus with a look of mild amusement on his jowly face. ‘I’ve given some thought to your request and I will grant it. As soon as the siege of the castle at Sagadava has been brought to a successful conclusion I will send the third and eighth cohorts to relieve the Thracian garrison.’

  Vespasian and Caelus snapped a salute in grateful acknowledgement of their commanding officer’s decision. They were closeted in Pomponius’ study in the newly constructed fortress of Durostorum on the banks of the Danuvius, which had only recently been occupied by a small detachment of the IIII
Scythia. The main building work having been finished towards the end of the previous year, the room still smelt of newly waxed wooden floorboards and freshly whitewashed walls. The sounds of hundreds of slaves working on the final stages of the construction and the shouts of their overseers floated through the unshuttered window.

  ‘I can only assume,’ Pomponius went on, resting his pudgy arms on the desk and leaning towards them, ‘that the marked difference in your accounts of your journey here is down to a personal animosity that in my opinion did not unnecessarily put the men’s lives in danger and therefore, in view of Tribune Vespasian’s imminent recall to Rome, I am willing to overlook it.’

  Vespasian breathed a sigh of relief; during the twenty days that it had taken them to find Pomponius, having been told by the garrison commander at Oescus that the IIII Scythia was campaigning against a Getic raiding party of at least three thousand men that had been ravaging the east of Moesia, he had fully expected to be seriously reprimanded for his impetuousness in taking the column through the Succi Pass in a blizzard. In an effort to protect himself, when he made his verbal report to Pomponius, which, owing to his rank, he had been able to do before Caelus, he had taken care not to mention Caelus’ insistence that they should turn back, stressing instead the supposed urgency of placing the garrison’s request before Pomponius. He had also augmented that urgency with an exaggerated assessment of the men’s dissatisfaction, which he knew would reflect badly on Caelus, as their senior centurion and therefore responsible for their discipline, for allowing things to get that far, and well on Paetus and himself for quelling a potential mutiny.

  ‘Permission to speak, legate,’ Caelus barked.

  ‘You will remain silent, centurion,’ Pomponius snapped, causing his jowls to quiver. ‘You had your say when you made your report to me upon your arrival this morning. The matter is closed. On your way back to Thracia you will take the three legionaries that Paetus has sent for transfer to the siege lines at Sagadava where you will hand them over to Primus Pilus Faustus; they wanted to avenge their comrades, well, they’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so in the first century of the first cohort when they storm the castle. My secretary has their transfer orders as well as some despatches for Paetus; pick them up on your way out. You’re to leave immediately; understood, centurion?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Good. Take the Illyrian auxiliaries with you and get them back to Thracia as soon as possible. Dismissed.’

  Caelus saluted, turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the room, burning with ill-concealed rage.

  As the door closed behind him Pomponius smiled grimly. ‘He was always Poppaeus’ sneak and he’ll have a lot to say to him when he gets to Sagadava.’

  ‘Poppaeus is at Sagadava?’ Vespasian blurted out, forgetting that he was still at attention and therefore should not speak unless he was addressed directly.

  Pomponius overlooked the offence. ‘At ease, tribune, sit down. Yes, he arrived four days ago, the slippery little bastard. I spent the last two months chasing the Getae around eastern Moesia and I finally managed to corner them at Sagadava, whilst they were waiting for their transports to ship them back across the river. Then, three days ago, as soon as the siege lines were completed and it was obvious the horse-fuckers were going nowhere without a fight, he turns up with four cohorts of the Fifth Macedonica aboard two squadrons of the Danuvius fleet, takes overall command and orders me straight back here to sit and wait whilst, again, he grabs all the glory. He even had the temerity to accuse me of failing in my duty to Rome for not stopping the Getae’s raids, as if it were that easy against an enemy that can move thirty or forty miles a day as opposed to our fifteen, if we’re lucky. Pluto’s balls, we need more cavalry in this province.’ Pomponius slumped back in his chair and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow that, despite the cool temperature in the room, had accumulated there.

  Vespasian shifted uneasily in his seat, wondering how he was going to find out whether Rhoteces was with the besieged raiding party and, if he was, how they were going to get through the Roman lines, into the castle, apprehend him and then get him back out without it coming to the attention of Poppaeus.‘Why have the Getae started raiding the province so often?’ he asked. ‘It’s not as if there’s a lot to plunder here and if they carry on it will surely just provoke the Emperor into extending the Empire over the river.’

  Pomponius looked up from the self-pitying reverie into which he had sunk. ‘What? Oh, I know; strategically it’s pure madness on their part. But it seems that their king, Cotiso, who’s the grandson of the king of the same name that we defeated over fifty years ago, has been encouraged to exact revenge for that humiliation to his people.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘That disgusting priest that had the ear of Poppaeus; you might have seen him when he led Dinas’ people down to surrender — you were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ Vespasian replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘So he’s been with the Getae ever since the revolt was put down?’

  ‘I don’t know if he went to them immediately but he’s certainly been with them for the last year or so; he’s been seen with them during some of their raids.’

  ‘Was he spotted on this one?’ Vespasian asked innocently.

  Pomponius was about to answer, but then stopped himself and peered at his young tribune with his piggy eyes. ‘Ah, I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Your brother’s with you, isn’t he?’

  Vespasian’s pulse quickened. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yet he doesn’t hold a military commission at the moment, does he?’

  ‘No, he’s a civilian.’

  ‘Has he recently arrived from Rome?’

  Vespasian knew that it was pointless denying it. ‘Yes, sir, at the end of March.’

  Pomponius nodded thoughtfully and raised himself to his feet. Vespasian stood immediately.

  ‘I have other business to attend to now, tribune,’ Pomponius said, indicating that the interview was over, ‘but I would be pleased if you and your brother would dine with me this evening.’

  ‘I think you’ll find this dish to be particularly fine,’ Pomponius enthused as a huge platter of river perch, topped with a thick brown sauce, was placed upon the table. ‘This is my cook’s speciality, his honeyed-wine and plum sauce is second to none and he understands exactly how to poach a fish so that the flesh peels perfectly off the bones. He’s a marvel; I bought him twelve years ago and, like a good wine, he gets even better as the years pass.’ To emphasise the point he took long draught of the excellent wine, belched, and then set his cup down whilst greedily eyeing the beautifully presented dish.

  Vespasian glanced across the table to Sabinus, who was showing no sign of fatigue, and then smiled politely at his host. ‘It does look most appetising, Pomponius,’ he managed to say, half-truthfully.

  It would indeed have looked most appetising if it had been the second or third course; however, it was the eighth. Vespasian had assumed, judging by the girth of his host, that the dinner would be an arduous affair, and not for the faint-hearted, so he had paced himself over the first four courses, thinking that the pastries and fruit would surely come soon after; but he had been sadly mistaken. He had since been obliged to contend with a roast suckling goat, a plate of various game birds and a haunch of venison, all swathed in sundry rich sauces. It would be the height of impoliteness to refuse a portion of any of the courses set before him even though the words full, replete, stuffed and bloated were echoing around his head. His only respite had come from emulating Pomponius’ habit of breaking wind freely from both ends — a practice that he did not normally approve of at the dinner table. However, by the sixth course he had put his scruples to one side and had since, on numerous occasions, followed his host’s lead and eased his straining innards. Feeling very envious of Magnus, whom they had left carousing with Artebudz and the Thracians and an inordinate amount of wine, he uncomfortably adjusted his position on the couch as S
abinus helped himself to an unnecessarily large portion of perch and spooned a copious amount of sauce over it.

  ‘Tuck in, little brother,’ he said with a malicious glint in his eye. ‘Our host has saved his best dish for last. We should do it justice.’ He popped a large, dripping hunk of fish into his mouth and started to chew whilst making appreciative sounds.

  ‘You are mistaken, Sabinus,’ Pomponius corrected him as he enthusiastically pulled the dish towards him and took an even larger portion. ‘It would surely be a mistake to save the best for last, we would be too full to enjoy it properly; I believe we’ve still got a couple more courses to come, and then of course the honeyed dormice just to fill in the corners before the sweet pastries.’

  Sabinus blanched at the news; Vespasian felt sick. He braced himself and then manfully spooned the smallest piece of perch that good manners dictated on to his plate and then made a show of eating with gusto whilst discreetly dropping as much as he could on the napkin spread before him on the couch.

  ‘Poppaeus may travel with all the trappings that his new money can buy,’ Pomponius said, returning to his favourite subject of the evening, ‘a marble-floored tent, mobile frescoes, gaudy pieces of furniture and too many horses, but his lack of breeding prevents him from understanding the finer points of life.’ He began to mop up the excess sauce on his plate with a large hunk of bread. ‘Believe me, gentlemen, I know, I’ve had the misfortune to dine with him many times and, if it’d been down to me, I would’ve had his cook whipped for the paltry fare that he served up. Almost as bad as common legionary rations — it’s no wonder the general’s so small.’ He enjoyed his own witticism so much that he almost choked as he drained his wine cup. ‘On those pitiful occasions I always make sure that my cook has a proper meal waiting for me upon my return,’ he carried on, wiping away the wine that had come up through his nose. ‘It’s only the thought of that that gets me through his frugal little dinner parties.’ He held his cup out to be refilled by a waiting slave, adding, ‘And his wine, of course. I’ll give the man his due: he does serve a decent wine.’