The Furies of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘A policy that I too follow; especially as I’m making every effort to ingratiate myself with our multi-talented Emperor.’

  ‘Oh, why so?’

  ‘Well, apart from the usual reasons, he is in the process of considering appointing me as king of the eastern client kingdom in Britannia after the legions pull out.’

  ‘Pull out? Nero’s not serious, is he?’

  They carried on walking down the line of horseflesh examining muscle tone and hoofs. ‘Yes, he is; the freedman Epaphroditus, Nero’s new secretary, approached me about it yesterday. His belief is that if Suetonius Paulinus can destroy the druids on Mona and kill Myrddin himself then an honourable peace can be achieved. That’s what Venutius’ release was about, to send him back to Britannia, in the Emperor’s debt, and use him as a counter to his ex-wife’s ambitions; either he or she will have the northern kingdom, Cogidubnus will be king in the south and either Prasutagus of the Iceni or myself will get the east. But seeing as Prasutagus is in increasingly poor health and with only a wife and daughters to inherit from him, I think that I should be in luck.’

  ‘So he would restore you to the Catuvellauni throne and everything will be as it was before.’ Vespasian had completed his inspection of the teams and doubled back to four bays that had caught his eye. ‘Who else knows this?’

  ‘Just Seneca at the moment. Nero’s made his final decision, but is yet to make the announcement; that won’t happen until next year when the legions begin to withdraw. What a waste of blood the whole exercise would have been once he does pull out.’

  ‘We should never have gone in in the first place. Augustus always maintained that your fog-bound island was not worth even one drop of legionary blood; it was just selfish politics that caused it.’

  ‘And now it’s selfish politics that ends it, so that Nero has more money to spend; did you see his new baths that he’s constructing next to Agrippa’s old ones?’

  Vespasian had passed the building site on his way to the Vatican. ‘The finest of everything, Nero boasted as we went past; not at all cheap.’

  ‘But cheaper than maintaining four legions and their auxiliaries in Britannia.’

  Vespasian had made his choice. ‘I shall take these, Princeps,’ he called to Nero.

  Nero looked pleased. ‘A fine choice, Vespasian; we shall prepare.’

  ‘It was a good choice,’ Caratacus affirmed, ‘they might have a chance of beating your Arabs; not that you would let them, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Vespasian looked Caratacus in the eye. ‘If Nero did make you Rome’s client king, would you stay loyal?’

  Caratacus inclined his head a fraction. ‘Technically, yes, just so that Rome had no reason to come back. As you say, things would go back to how they were before the invasion. We would still trade with the Empire; we would still be at peace with the Empire and we would still send our sons to Rome for education. The only difference would be that we’d go back to fighting amongst ourselves, otherwise we’d get bored.’ Caratacus grinned and slapped Vespasian on the shoulder. ‘Good luck losing your race.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend; and good luck winning your kingdom.’

  Vespasian steadied his team, with the reins wrapped round his waist, as they waited on the starting line in front of the circus gates, about fifty paces from the start of the spina. Unlike the Circus Maximus, Nero’s circus did not have starting boxes; the race, therefore, would start at the drop of Nero’s handkerchief, which, seeing as Nero had already taken his team up to a canter and was now ten lengths away, seemed delayed. Vespasian waited, trying not to think about the money.

  As Nero neared the spina he dropped the handkerchief; Vespasian whipped his team forward and enjoyed the surge of energy created by the four bays as they eagerly accelerated after the Arabs. From the small group of spectators there were cheers of varying enthusiasm, more because they felt that it was expected of them rather than for any tension or excitement generated in a race whose conclusion was in no doubt.

  But Vespasian was not going to trail meekly behind the Emperor, shadowing him in the fifteen-length lead that he had given himself by his blatant cheating; no, the contempt he felt for that pathetic manoeuvre of Nero’s had decided him to make a race of it and then to lose in the last lap. He cracked the whip over the withers of his team and screamed encouragement at them as they stretched their necks, their nostrils flaring and their eyes wild. On Vespasian urged them up the track, towards the first turn, spitting out the dust kicked up by Nero as he yelled and bawled. Despite the fact that he was only an amateur, he knew well enough how to handle a team he had never driven before, and he quickly had them in hand so that they worked and responded as one. By the time Nero had rounded the far end of the spina, Vespasian had almost halved the lead, whooping and grinning broadly as the wind pulled at his tunic and flicked grains of sand into his face. With the deft tugs on the reins that he had learnt to perfect in the past years, he slowed the team in precise order so that they glided with grace around the turning stone placed at the extreme of the spina.

  Brandishing the four-lash whip and shaking the reins, he pressed his team on to greater efforts and, coming out of the turn exactly in line with their hoofs beating virtually in time, they shot forward, each free to exert itself to the utmost, unimpeded by its fellows. Down came the distance between him and Nero and, in inverse proportion, up went the volume from the few senators and stable hands watching.

  They were willing him on to win, he was sure of it; although it could never really be proven that they had not been cheering for Nero.

  But Vespasian, despite his excitement, was not about to oblige them with a victory. Yet still he gained on the Emperor and, as the first of the seven bronze dolphins dipped its nose and the second lap began, Vespasian was less than ten lengths behind. Up the back straight they surged, Nero whipping his Arabs and casting glances over his shoulder, paying little heed to the performance of his team, which had now begun to lose the rhythm that a successful combination so needed if they were to be able to act in unison. Vespasian continued to chase down Nero as they approached the far turn for the second time; the Arabs bundled round, the light chariot slewing behind them, spraying sand up at forty-five degrees in a great arc before just righting itself. Without any thought for harmony between beasts and vehicle, Nero whipped his team on, looking nervously behind. His wheels bounced once and then twice, up off the track, as the team accelerated without the chariot being in perfect alignment; but as Vespasian came out of the turn, now just seven lengths behind, Nero’s vehicle was running smoothly once more.

  Vespasian felt the joy of the chase well up within him, and the fear of Nero that dwelt in the hearts of every one of his subjects seemed to dissipate as he slowly gained on the Emperor, who had now let his Arabs’ discipline degenerate to the extent that their heads were all moving in different times.

  On they powered, Vespasian’s bays, eating up the lead that his own Arabs, being so inexpertly handled, could not hope to maintain, despite the serious whipping that Nero was administering. They thundered past Caligula’s obelisk at the halfway point of the straight and careered on towards the second turning stone. Nero, once again, glanced backwards and then thrashed his whip cruelly down onto the Arabs’ withers as they went into the turn. The outside horse gave a shrill whinny and leapt forward as if it were attempting to jump a fence as its team mates curved off to the left, around the hundred and eighty degree turn; their weight pulled their airborne companion around with them but not so as it could keep its footing.

  Down the beast went in a mad flurry of beating horse-limbs, cannoning into its neighbour to bring it down, with disastrous consequences for the final two and sending Nero spinning from the disintegrating chariot, reins still wrapped about his waist. As the whole wreck skidded along the sand, quickly losing momentum, it became clear to Vespasian what he had to do, for he could not afford to pass Nero and be declared the winner. Grabbing the safety-knife from his belt, he steered
his team straight at what was left of the chariot as if he himself was having severe difficulty in making the turn at such speed. As his bays attempted to leap the wreckage, Vespasian cut the reins and jumped to his right just as the wheels of his chariot hit the first of the debris and were catapulted up into the air. He crashed to the ground, belly down and arms outstretched with his chin ploughing an agonising furrow in the sand as his team cleared the floundering Arabs and, dragging broken shafts and flapping canvas behind them, pelted off in terror up the straight. With his eyes tight shut, Vespasian felt himself grind to a halt; the bestial snorts and shrieks of terrified horses was all he could hear. After a few moments he opened his eyes and his vision was filled with one object just a hands’ breadth away: a foot; Nero’s foot. He stared at it for a few moments and then, with a shock, realised that it was not moving. He heaved himself up, dirt clinging to his sweat-slimed tunic and skin and clogging his mouth and nostrils as senators jumped down from the stands and raced across the track towards their prone Emperor. The reins were still wrapped about Nero’s waist but, fortunately, the Arabs were in no state to bolt and drag their driver to a red-raw death. He stumbled over to Nero as Caratacus and Burrus arrived and knelt down next to his head.

  Nero’s eyes flickered open and focused on Vespasian; he raised himself up, shaking the sand from his sunset hair and beard. He looked at Vespasian less than favourably as he rested an arm on Burrus’ shoulder. ‘You should get rid of that team; I’ve never driven one so lacking in unity and discipline. I find it extraordinary that they win any races in the Circus Maximus; no wonder I always beat you, as I would have done again today had you not crashed into me.’

  ‘Indeed, Princeps; but you did, nonetheless, win again today and with the inferior team, such is your skill.’

  ‘I did?’ Nero’s face brightened fractionally.

  ‘Of course, you were in the lead when I crashed into you; therefore at the moment the race ended you were winning.’ Vespasian swallowed hard and forced himself to carry on through gritted teeth. ‘I shall get the twelve thousand I owe you from the Cloelius Brothers immediately.’

  Burrus whispered a few words in Nero’s ear.

  Nero’s mood seemed to change again, this time for the worse. ‘Yes, do that, Vespasian, and bring it up to the palace where we shall discuss whether you deliberately collided with me in order to cause harm to my person.’

  Burrus smiled at Vespasian with cold pleasure as he turned and helped the limping Emperor from the track.

  ‘Yes, Princeps,’ Vespasian said to Nero’s back.

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Caratacus observed.

  ‘I know,’ Vespasian muttered, looking behind him to where his Arabs were being led away, all seemingly none the worse for their ordeal. ‘Especially as I did collide with him intentionally.’

  Caratacus nodded. ‘And everybody saw that you did and will bear witness to the fact.’

  Vespasian rubbed his chin; it was badly grazed and ingrained with sand. ‘But they also saw that I hit him after he had gone over, in order that he should still win.’

  ‘Do you think that will make any difference if Nero decides it was otherwise?’

  Vespasian spat a curse as he felt the joy of the chase being replaced, again, by the fear.

  ‘Twelve thousand denarii immediately?’ Tertius Cloelius came as near to showing any sign of humour as he had ever done in his life; short, portly, bald and with sallow skin he was a creature of arithmetic and fact. ‘We don’t keep a sum like that just hanging around; you have to give us advance notice, fill in a request form, sign it, have it counter-signed and approved and then stamped with mine or one of my brothers’ seals.’ He held up his chunky signet ring to emphasise the point. His younger brother, Quadratus, nodded sagely as he listened to his brother’s description of correct banking procedure, with a vague smile on his face as if he were relaxing to sublime music. ‘It all takes time, you know.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Tertius,’ Vespasian said as calmly as he could manage in the circumstances, ‘but I do need it now as my life might well depend on it, seeing as I owe that amount to the Emperor himself and he is expecting it this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, that is no concern of mine.’

  ‘Is either Primus or Secundus here? Perhaps I could talk with them.’

  ‘Both my elder brothers are away on business at the moment; and, anyway, they would say exactly the same as me, as would Quintus and Sextus who are busy upstairs.’

  Again Quadratus nodded in agreement with Tertius’ assessment; none of the Cloelius Brothers would ever go against banking protocol.

  ‘Very well,’ Vespasian said, getting to his feet and remembering what Caenis had told him. ‘I have more than one banker in Rome; I shall try elsewhere and they can be the recipients of a very interesting piece of news. Good day, gentlemen.’ He walked to the door.

  ‘What news?’ Tertius asked quickly.

  Vespasian turned back to face Tertius. ‘Beneficial news that you will now not know until long after one of your competitors does and so therefore you will find yourself at a severe disadvantage.’

  ‘You’ve been with the Emperor, haven’t you?’

  Vespasian inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘And Caratacus.’

  Tertius shared a fleeting look with his brother. ‘It’s Britannia, isn’t it? Are we in or out?’

  ‘That request form for the twelve thousand, Tertius?’

  Tertius waved a dismissive hand; there was just one exception to the Cloelius Brothers’ insistence that banking procedure be adhered to: when it got in the way of making more money or, potentially and worse, losing it. ‘I’m sure that this one time the formalities can be dispensed with.’ He clapped his hands and a clerk appeared in the door. ‘Send down to our deposit for twelve thousand denarii immediately. I want the amount here within the hour.’

  With a look of confusion the clerk nodded and scuttled away.

  ‘So, senator,’ Tertius almost purred, ‘in or out.’

  ‘Out.’

  The brothers both looked startled.

  ‘Surely not?’ Quadratus whispered.

  ‘Caratacus has been approached about being a client king after the legions begin withdrawing next year.’

  ‘Next year?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  Tertius looked with alarm at his brother. ‘We need to get messages to our agents in Londinium to call in all our loans before this becomes common knowledge and financial chaos ensues as every other Londinium banker tries to do the same thing.’

  Vespasian arrived, with the money loaded in boxes on a handcart, at the imperial residence accompanied by a heavily armed escort provided by the very grateful Cloelius Brothers. It had taken less than an hour to procure the cash; an hour during which Tertius and Quadratus had spent frantically dictating letters and making travel arrangements as they had both decided to journey to the province to make personally sure that they secured their considerable investment there before the news became public.

  Giving orders for his escort to wait with the cart outside, Vespasian climbed the steps and submitted himself to the now routine search of anyone who wished to enter the complex.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Caenis said as he walked into the cavernous atrium.

  ‘Have you been charged with taking receipt of my money?’

  ‘No, my love; although I’ve heard about that. I hear that Nero is furious with you and has begun to exaggerate the incident.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me; he already had a new interpretation of events moments after he regained consciousness; Burrus seemed to be re-remembering for him as a spiteful piece of revenge for our blackmailing him. Have you come to warn me?’

  ‘No; to fetch you. I’ve been charged with taking receipt of someone else’s money and he wants you to come with me and he points out that, with Nero fuming, it might be as well for you to get out of Rome for a while.’

  ‘But I’ll need N
ero’s permission so I have to face him.’

  ‘Don’t worry; Seneca’s had that attended to some time ago in preparation.’

  ‘In preparation for what?’

  ‘He’s sending us to Britannia; me because I know his business and can represent him; you because you know the province. Now that it seems definite that Nero is withdrawing, Seneca is desperate to call in all of his loans; forty million in total; the largest of which is five million sesterces made to Prasutagus, the King of the Iceni.’

  PART IIII

  Britannia, ad 60–61

  CHAPTER X

  ‘WITH THE GOVERNOR away dealing with the druids on Mona, I am the man to ask,’ Catus Decianus, the middle-aged procurator of Britannia, informed Vespasian, Sabinus and Caenis in the most unpleasant, smug manner. ‘And then, of course, there would be some form of recompense for my trouble in taking the time to consider the case.’ Plump, soft and pale, with a curled coiffure that was unmanly, he languished in his well-cushioned chair with an air of indolence enveloping him; he did not even bother to meet the eyes of the people he was addressing, seated on the other side of his desk. Behind him, through a window, could be seen the sturdy frame of the bridge across the Tamesis, the reason why Londinium had grown out of nothing and become so important in the seventeen years since the invasion.

  Vespasian leant forward in his chair and pointed an accusatory finger, sporting his senatorial ring, at Decianus. ‘Now listen to me, you—’ He stopped mid-flow as Caenis squeezed his arm.

  ‘I think what Senator Vespasian was going to emphasise, procurator,’ Caenis said with a sweet smile and a honeyed tone, ‘was that we don’t need permission to travel to the lands of the Iceni as we have imperial letters of transit to go wherever we wish in pursuit of Seneca’s business. We were just dropping in to ask permission of the Governor out of courtesy and, seeing as we have been shown none in return, we shall now leave.’ She got up and smiled again. ‘It’s been such a pleasure meeting you, procurator; unfortunately our business is such that we simply do not have the time to accept that kind invitation to stay for a few days and recuperate in comfortable accommodation that you would surely have extended us. We shall, however, be staying a couple of nights here anyway as we have an appointment to meet with Seneca’s financial agent in Londinium at the third hour tomorrow; I’ll have your steward show us to our suite. We won’t bother you for dinner either tonight or tomorrow but, rather, we’ll have it served in our rooms.’ With that, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly to the door, leaving Decianus with his mouth hanging slack and looking as if he had just been slapped.