‘What about the ship’s crew?’ Vespasian asked, earning a glare from Macro. ‘They would have seen us boarding and then going over the side.’
‘I was coming to them,’ Macro growled. ‘The crew all come from Puteoli near Misenum; before you sail, their families will be rounded up to ensure their good behaviour and silence. The crew will get their families back alive once they have taken you off the island the following night.
‘Two of Clemens’ men will be waiting for you at the cove; they will show you where to hide the boat and then lead you up a steep path to the cliff-top; from there it’s less than a mile to Tiberius’ villa.
‘The return journey, the following night, will be the exact opposite. The ship will be waiting half a mile off the cove, from midnight, burning one lantern; from the island it will look like a night fisherman. A few of my men will be aboard to keep an eye on the crew. They’ll take you back to Misenum where you can pick up your horses and the cart, in the unlikely event that you should still need it.’
Macro sat back in his chair having evidently finished. His audience sat motionless, waiting to hear the crucial details.
Antonia broke the silence. ‘Thank you, tribune. So, gentlemen, that’s how you get on to and off Capreae. No doubt you’re wondering what you will do whilst you’re there?’
There were a few nervous nods. Antonia smiled. ‘The truth is that I don’t know but in the last letter that Gaius managed to smuggle out he said that by the time you got there he and Clemens would have a plan.’
Everyone looked aghast. Macro was outraged. ‘I’m risking all this,’ he shouted, ‘and you’re telling me that these…’ He struggled for a word. ‘These boys might easily be caught by Sejanus’ men because there isn’t a plan? It would be just a matter of time until they reveal my involvement under torture.’
‘Tribune, please,’ Antonia countered, raising her voice, ‘we all have a lot to lose.’
‘A lot to lose? I have everything to lose. You, on the other hand, will just go back to your scheming and plotting safe from Sejanus within the walls of this house.’
‘You may have the most to lose, tribune,’ Antonia said in a reasoned tone, ‘but I would also say that, in terms of power, you also have the most to gain. I will just remove an enemy; you will be prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’
‘And what if I think that it’s too big a gamble to stake everything on an unfinished plan and decide withdraw my help? What then, eh?’
‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll do that,’ Antonia replied with a sweet smile.
‘Why not?’ Macro demanded, getting to his feet. ‘You’ve got nothing to hold me to you, nothing at all with which you could convince Sejanus that I’ve been disloyal to him. I’ve been most careful on that point. I could just withdraw and pretend that this never happened.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that you’re very wrong on that point, tribune; you see, I’ve got Satrius Secundus.’
Macro looked incredulous. ‘Bollocks! He’s dead; after he’d been missing for over ten days I had Albucilla questioned, she was convinced that he’d been killed doing some dirty work for Livilla.’
‘I think we can all agree that a wife never truly knows her husband’s whereabouts all of the time, tribune; I can assure you that Secundus is very much alive, with a fully functioning memory, and is secured in this house.’
‘Prove it, bitch!’
‘My dear tribune, if, when you become the Praetorian prefect, you’re hoping to have a better relationship with me than your predecessor enjoyed, I suggest that when you address me you moderate your language. But this time I’ll overlook your rudeness. Pallas, convince the tribune.’
Pallas walked across the room to the curtains concealing the small chamber, from where the brothers and Caligula had spied on Sejanus, and threw them open.
Macro gasped. Tied to a chair, securely gagged, evidently heavily drugged but obviously alive, was Satrius Secundus.
With a huge roar Macro leapt towards him, drawing a dagger from beneath his toga. Sabinus stuck out a leg and caught him as he passed. He crashed to the floor, spilling his dagger, which Vespasian quickly retrieved. Sabinus and Magnus pounced on his back and with some difficulty pulled his arms up behind it; Vespasian held the dagger to his throat.
‘Now, my dear tribune,’ Antonia continued as if nothing had happened, ‘I think that it’s in everyone’s best interest to carry on as planned, don’t you?’
Macro struggled fiercely but, between them, Sabinus and Magnus managed to subdue him.
‘Let him go,’ Antonia ordered.
A nervous look passed between Sabinus and Magnus; then, with a degree of trepidation, they slowly eased their grip and stood up. Vespasian backed off, keeping the knife pointed at the prostrate Macro, who slowly rose to his knees. He looked up at Vespasian and glared at him.
‘That’s the second dagger you’ve had off me, boy,’ he snarled to hide his humiliation. ‘Keep it, like you kept the last one; one day I’ll give you the third to make up the set.’
‘There’ll be no need for that, tribune,’ Antonia snapped as Macro pulled himself to his feet. ‘He’s under my protection. You can hate him as much as you like but if you touch him you’ll find that I’ll be removing another Praetorian prefect.’
Macro glowered at her, hatred burning in his eyes; he began to say something but then thought the better of it and readjusted his toga instead.
‘So we’re all agreed then, tribune,’ Antonia stated, her voice now full of harmony.
‘My men will be there,’ Macro said, drawing himself up and resuming his arrogant air. ‘Make sure these boys are too, and pray to the gods below that Caligula comes up with an idea.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’ Antonia smiled. ‘He was born cunning.’
Macro grunted, spun on his heel and walked briskly out of the room.
Vespasian looked down at the dagger in his hand and groaned.
‘You’ve got to get out of the habit of nicking that man’s daggers, sir,’ Magnus said with a wry grin. ‘It ain’t a healthy hobby, if you take my meaning.’
Vespasian gave his friend a sour look. ‘I’ll try and remember that.’
‘Before we eat, gentlemen,’ Antonia said, sitting back down, ‘and we can enjoy lighter conversation, there’s one other thing that I want to say about this affair: should it become necessary for Tiberius to hear the priest’s evidence the name of Poppaeus Sabinus is bound to come up. I want you to play down his involvement with Sejanus.’
Corbulo got to his feet, bristling with aristocratic indignation. ‘Domina, it’s to get my revenge on that treacherous little new man that I offered my services.’
‘I understand that, Corbulo,’ Antonia replied patiently, ‘and at the time you offered them I was very grateful; but things have changed now. I don’t want anything to deflect Tiberius’ attention from the very real evidence that I’ve got against Sejanus. I know him; he’s lost his decisiveness. If he has other traitors to think about he’ll prevaricate; he will pick off the easier, smaller ones in the mistaken belief that in doing something he’s dealing with the problem. I must keep his focus on Sejanus.’
‘My honour demands revenge on the man who tried to kill me,’ Corbulo insisted.
‘And you will have it — on both of the men who tried to kill you, but Sejanus first. I will deal with Poppaeus and all of Sejanus’ confederates in time. I find that revenge is best served regularly. If you’re not content with that then I’d quite understand you wishing to withdraw; however, your testimony relating to the silver received by the Caenii may be of use.’ The hardness of her expression did not match her conciliatory words.
Corbulo held her gaze for a few moments and then sat back down. ‘No, domina, I won’t withdraw.’
‘Good. Let’s eat. You will all stay here tonight so as to be ready to leave an hour before dawn; I want you out of the city and on the road before it’s light.’
CHAPTER XVI
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br /> A soft but insistent tapping on the door woke Vespasian from a deep, untroubled sleep. Caenis lay next to him, curled in the crook of his arm. He opened his eyes; it was still the dead of night.
‘Who is it?’ he asked in a projected whisper.
‘Me, sir.’ Magnus opened the door a crack and peered into the gloom. ‘It’s time we was going; I’m afraid that you’ll have to leave that nice warm bed and its contents.’
‘I’ll be right out,’ Vespasian replied as Caenis stirred beside him.
‘We’re meeting in the atrium; I’ve got your bag. See you there.’
Magnus closed the door leaving the room in complete darkness.
‘Shit,’ Vespasian said to himself, sitting up.
‘What is it, my love?’ Caenis whispered sleepily.
‘I’ve got to go.’ He leant down to kiss her, wrapping an arm around her warm body.
She responded and then gently pushed him away with a giggle. ‘That’s not going to help you get up.’
‘It is.’
‘I meant up and out of bed. Come on, I need to get up as well; my mistress will be wanting to see you off. I’ll get some light.’
She slipped out of the bed and over to the chest. Vespasian heard her taking something out of a drawer and then striking a flint; within a few moments a glow softly illuminated her face, shortly after a flame burned at the end of the thin wick of an oil lamp.
‘I always wondered how the house-’ Vespasian stopped midsentence, feeling desperately uncomfortable.
‘How the house slaves light the first oil lamp?’ Caenis said, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘It’s all right, Vespasian, you don’t have to be coy about my status; we both know that I’m a slave. I accept it; so must you.’
Vespasian grinned sheepishly and got out of bed. He knew that she was right; it was an unassailable fact, which, although it divided them socially, should never be allowed to come between them in private.
He took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I’m sorry, my beautiful slave girl.’
Caenis smiled up at him. ‘There’s a big difference between acceptance and rubbing it in my face,’ she chided him gently.
A short while later Vespasian arrived in the sparklingly lit atrium; Magnus and Pallas were already there and Sabinus and Corbulo joined them almost immediately.
‘Good morning, masters. We should get the priest and then leave at once,’ Pallas said, taking command, despite his slave status. The brothers and Magnus did not question it but Corbulo bristled.
‘As a senator and a member of the most noble family present, I should be giving the orders,’ he said huffily. ‘I’m certainly not taking them from a slave.’
‘And so you shouldn’t, master,’ Pallas agreed smoothly. ‘You will give the orders, but I’ll decide what to do because I am acting in the Lady Antonia’s name.’ He held up his right hand; on the little finger was Antonia’s seal ring.
Corbulo looked at the brothers. ‘Do you accept orders from him?’
‘I think that he knows better than any of us what is required,’ Vespasian replied diplomatically.
Corbulo, realising the ludicrousness of a situation whereby he would just repeat Pallas’ words like a herald, drew himself up and swallowed his pride. ‘Very well then, Pallas leads.’
‘Pompous arsehole,’ Magnus said, not altogether under his breath.
Corbulo turned and glared at him but could not bring himself to acknowledge the insult. It was bad enough taking orders from a slave — he was not going to compound that by demanding an apology from an urban ruffian. He turned and followed Pallas out of the room.
‘That didn’t help,’ Vespasian hissed at Magnus as they trailed behind.
Marcus grinned. ‘I know, but it felt good.’
At the rear of the house they descended a stone staircase into a long, damp corridor lit by flaming torches in holders down one side of the wall; their acrid smoke partially obscured the low ceiling, staining it and the wall behind them black. On the opposite side were a series of sturdy-looking oak doors with grills in them at head height. The stench of urine, sweat and fear hung in the air. The clatter of their sandals reverberated off the walls and ceiling.
‘Antonia has her own private prison, it seems,’ Magnus observed as Pallas stopped outside one of the doors and inserted a key into the lock.
Vespasian chuckled. ‘I suppose this is where you’ll end up if you stop performing for her.’
With an echoing, metallic clunk the lock turned; Pallas pushed open the door, walked in and reappeared an instant later dragging a filthy, naked, skeletal body by the ankles: Rhoteces. His long, straggly hair and beard were matted with shit. He had evidently been asleep because, as he was pulled into the light, his head jerked up and his eyes opened. He immediately started screaming, grabbed the doorframe and held on whilst trying to kick Pallas away.
‘A little help would be appreciated, masters,’ Pallas requested politely, ‘but don’t knock him out, I need him to swallow.’
None of them reacted for an instant, unwilling to go too near to the disgusting creature.
‘Fuck it,’ Magnus said, stepping forward and grabbing Rhoteces’ wrists he hauled them away from the doorframe.
The commotion had disturbed the other prisoners in the corridor and shouts emanated from behind rattling doors.
‘Master Vespasian, would you mind taking these?’ Pallas’ voice rose against the noise as he offered Vespasian the ankles.
Vespasian took hold of the spindly joints; they were so thin they felt as if they would crack if he held them too hard. A couple of sharp twists from Rhoteces disabused him of that notion and he gripped them with all his strength. He felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction that the man who he had witnessed so happily sacrificing Roman prisoners in Thracia four years previously had been reduced, during the past eight months, to nothing more than an animal.
‘Sit him up,’ Pallas said to Magnus as he pulled a vial out of his shoulder bag. ‘Master Corbulo, grab his head and force his mouth open; Sabinus, hold a knife to his throat.’
Corbulo winced but did as he was asked. Vespasian suppressed a grin guessing that Pallas had saved the most unpleasant job for him.
With his head held back, mouth forced open, baring his pointed, filed teeth, and with a knife at his throat, Rhoteces went still. Pallas approached him and opened the vial. ‘This won’t kill you if you drink it but that knife at your throat will if you don’t. Understand?’
Rhoteces wild eyes showed he had. Pallas tipped a quarter of the brown, viscous contents of the vial into his mouth and quickly held it shut, pinching the priest’s nose. He swallowed.
‘That will keep him sedated for twelve hours or so once it’s kicked in,’ Pallas informed them, ‘it’s what was used on Secundus yesterday. Let’s get him upstairs.’
Rhoteces had evidently accustomed himself to whatever fate was in store for him and had ceased to struggle.
As they pulled the priest along the corridor Vespasian noticed behind one of the grills a pair of eyes pleading with him from beneath a mono-brow.
He ignored them.
Out in the stable yard Rhoteces was pushed into the two-horse, covered cart that had transported him from Ostia; because he was drugged no one had to have the unpleasant job of travelling with him.
Antonia appeared in the torchlight on the steps leading up to the house. Caenis was behind her; she clutched her medallion and blew Vespasian a surreptitious kiss.
‘Gentlemen,’ Antonia said, ‘Macro has sent eight men of his previous command, the Vigiles, to escort you to the Capena Gate. I will pray and sacrifice every day for your success in this task. May the goddess Fortuna travel with you.’
She took each of them briefly by the hand and then they mounted up. Pallas climbed on to the front seat of the covered cart and took up the reins. The gates were hauled open to reveal the eight Vigiles, all holding flaming torches aloft; heavy clubs hung from their belts. With a click of his tongue an
d a flick of the reins Pallas urged the cart’s horses forward; the iron-rimmed wheels grated over the paved floor of the stable yard. Vespasian kicked his mount forward to follow the cart out. As he reached the gates he turned in his saddle and caught Caenis’ eye; he raised his hand in farewell, and she returned the gesture as he passed through the gates and out of sight.
The Vigiles led the way down the Palatine Hill and turned left on to the Via Appia as it ran alongside the huge, shadowy facade of the Circus Maximus and then passed under the inelegant but functional arches of the Appian Aqueduct to exit the city by the Capena Gate. The official escort and Antonia’s ring were enough to persuade the centurion of the Urban Cohort to let them pass without question. Now deprived of the Vigiles escort, who had left them at the gate, they had to push their way through the throng of farmers making their way to the city to sell their produce. Passing the public reservoir on their right they came to the junction of the Via Appia and Via Latina, close by the tomb of the Scipios; here they took the right-hand fork, staying on the Via Appia, and headed southwest as the first glimmers of dawn broke up the absolute darkness of the cloud-ridden night sky.
Progress was easy along the dead straight road and, in just two and a half days, staying at comfortable inns along the way, paid for by the generous travelling allowance that Antonia had given Pallas, they covered the almost seventy miles to Tarracina, where the road arrived at the coast on the edge of the Caecuban wine district. Here the road turned east and they followed it through the seemingly endless fields of neatly tended rows of vines. Sumptuous-looking villas on hills overlooking the crops that provided the money to build them demonstrated the wealth of the wine-producing families of the region.
Vespasian spent much of the journey time contemplating the problems of the transfer of power between generations or dynasties and how it had been effected by other peoples in the past. The history books that he had inherited from his grandmother had originally inspired his interest and then, in the last three months at Gaius’ house, he had belatedly taken up his uncle’s offer of the use of his good-sized library. With not much else to do in the evenings he had made his way through Homer, Herodotus and Thucydides as well as Callisthenes’ account of Alexander’s conquests — curtailed owing to the author’s execution by his subject. He had finally read Caesar and the more recently published History of Rome by Titus Livius. All these and more had widened his knowledge and understanding of politics and confirmed a truth in life: power and glory for their own sakes were the only motivations needed for the men who had sought them, to keep them; history was not littered with men like Cincinnatus.
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