The Imperial Triumph

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Thank you, Magnus.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll leave you a couple of dozen lads; you can start by being in charge of this shipment that we’re about to take possession of. You take it through the gates after dark, get it into the stable yard behind the house and start unloading and get the smithies working. I’ll see you at Pomegranate Street once I’ve attended to our business on the Vicus Longus.’

  ‘You can rely on me, Brother.’

  ‘I know I can – now; and there’s the man we have to rely on to help us get them back into the city.’

  ‘Ah, Magnus,’ Pallas, the imperial secretary to the treasury, said, his voice flat and his expression behind his full Greek-style, silver-flecked beard, unreadable; his pale blue tunic, under his toga, was of the finest spun wool. ‘These passes will get the vehicles through the gate after sundown.’ He handed six wax tablets to Magnus, who passed them on to Tigran. ‘Have you got covers for them?’

  ‘They’re with the lads outside,’ Tigran replied.

  Pallas nodded his approval. ‘Good, because as soon as it gets dark those wagons have to disappear.’

  ‘Won’t people see us taking them out of here, though?’

  ‘Indeed they will and that’s why they have to believe that they’re seeing something else.’ Pallas indicated to a substantial pile of clothing lying nearby; its reek was palpable. ‘I had many of the prisoners stripped; scatter the captives’ clothes over the wagon covers.’

  Magnus chuckled. ‘Perfect. No one’s going to look twice at that let alone want to rummage in that stinking pile.’

  ‘Quite.’ Pallas pulled out a scroll from within the fold of his toga. ‘Senator Pollo told me that you needed this.’

  ‘That’s, er …’

  ‘It’s a certificate stating the date that you took possession of a certain property in Pomegranate Street on the Quirinal.’

  ‘And it’s, er …’

  ‘Yes, it is, signed and dated by the aedile who would have dealt with that at the time.’

  ‘It’s amazing how such a document can turn up after being mislaid for so long.’

  ‘I thought so too; but with a little pressure on the man who’s very anxious to follow up his aedileship with a praetorship in the very-near future his memory was soon much improved; he went into his study and very quickly managed to find not only the relevant document but also his duplicate copy should it ever be needed in court.’

  Magnus unrolled the scroll and perused it. ‘Not that I can read at all but to me this looks to be the exact same document that he gave me – and I have since lost – to confirm that we had not taken possession of an abandoned house illegally. Give him my thanks, Pallas.’

  ‘I already have. Now, Magnus; get these weapons processed as quick as you can and you will find yourself well rewarded.’

  Magnus transformed his face into a mask of solemnity. ‘My patron’s gratitude is reward enough.’

  ‘Shall I tell him that?’

  ‘Er, no; best we keep that to ourselves.’

  Pallas almost smiled and then turned to go to oversee the offloading of the heavily guarded bullion carts into strong boxes.

  ‘Well, Tigran,’ Magnus said, looking over to the malodorous pile of old clothes, ‘it’s always best to lead from the front; enjoy disguising the carts whilst I’ll take the rest of the lads over to the Vicus Longus.’

  The feasting had already begun and chaos abounded in the streets of Rome. With the greed of the deprived offered limitless sustenance for free, the people of Rome glutted themselves on the bread, wine and roasted meats that were their reward for glorifying their emperor. And they seized it with gusto as if it were their last night in this world – which, for more than just a few, it was – gorging themselves without care, vomiting and fornicating freely; and, as the sun went down over Rome and the city’s shadows lengthened into night, all sense of law and order began to dissipate.

  ‘Perfect,’ Magnus muttered to himself as he and thirty of his brethren arrived at the junction of the Chainmakers’ Street and the Vicus Longus; the public slaves manning the kitchens were still cooking meat and baking bread whilst others distributed amphorae of wine to an increasingly inebriated populace. The pairs of soldiers of the Urban Cohorts that had been assigned to guard each kitchen were fast losing their discipline as the temptations of the evening began to outweigh their sense of duty. Whores plied their trade openly without shame, as to take a client away to find privacy would lead to precious time being wasted in which a few more small bronze coins could be earned. ‘Marius, take a dozen lads and freshen up the trails; if you need more oil there’re always the kitchens.’

  Marius grinned. ‘Right you are, Magnus; they won’t be having much use for it very soon.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth, Brother; When you’re done meet us at that kitchen a couple of hundred paces up the hill.’

  With a cheerful wave, Marius disappeared into the mayhem as Magnus turned to Sextus. ‘You stay here with Laco and half a dozen of the lads and discourage anyone who tries to interfere. I imagine that a lot of these are the new West Viminal tenants, seeing as they think that this is already their territory and I don’t recognise many of them.’

  ‘Discourage West Viminal interference, got you, Magnus.’

  ‘But don’t stop any of them running off; I want news of this to spread quickly.’

  There was a slight pause as Sextus took this in. ‘It’s to spread quickly, got you.’

  ‘Good lad; when it’s done, you wait by Martinus’ workshop.’

  This proved slightly too complicated for Sextus to digest immediately but eventually he got there and nodded slow understanding to his patronus. ‘Got you, Magnus.’

  Satisfied, Magnus slapped Sextus on the shoulder and then led the remaining brethren up the Vicus Longus, barging their way through the crowds who were now beyond recognising the leader of the local brotherhood and giving way to him.

  ‘Help yourselves, Brothers; just wine, no food,’ Magnus said as they reached a kitchen further up the hill. He pulled aside a couple of drunks leaning for support on the trestle table and signalled to the slaves to pass a few amphorae from their store to his waiting brethren; the Urban Cohort guards raised their cups to Magnus and slurred a greeting, the effort of which caused one to stagger and grab his comrade’s shoulder to prevent a total collapse.

  The wine was quickly distributed, more amphorae were requisitioned and, by the time Marius had made it back up the hill, half an hour later, the members of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood were feeling the effects of drinking on empty stomachs.

  ‘Perfect,’ Magnus again muttered to himself as he surveyed his men enjoying the juice of Bacchus.

  ‘All done, Magnus,’ Marius reported, taking the full cup that Magnus offered him.

  ‘Then let’s get on with it, Brother.’ At the top of his voice he broke into the most popular of the marching songs that had been sung about Claudius that day. It was an old song, concerning the necessity of locking up one’s daughters as the Triumphal general, who has the reputation of a billy-goat, returns; it had been made popular by Julius Caesar’s men back in his day but had had many lives since – although the subject of this incarnation was perhaps the most unlikely. But that made no matter as the tune was rumbustious and the lyrics boorish, perfect for alcoholically refreshed men, many of whom had served under the Eagles and, therefore, knew it well.

  Bellowing out the tune and pumping the air in time with his fist, Magnus began to lead his brothers back down the hill. As they progressed, other revellers took up the refrain, roaring out its many stanzas whilst slapping their thighs and rocking their cups back and forth in time to the beat and then making the requisite lewd gestures to the chorus. On down the hill Magnus led the impromptu choir, their number growing all the time as more and more joined in this homage to the generous provider of the day’s bounty. And who could deny that it was not appropriate? For was it not the most natural song to sing at the feast
celebrating a Triumph? The raucous crowd grew and began to sweep all aside; drunks were flung back into doorways; couples, mid-tryst, were scraped from walls and tumbled over; dogs, brave enough to scavenge for scraps, were kicked aside and kitchens were pushed over, crashing to the pavement in a shatter of amphorae accompanied by showers of sparks flung up from overturned ovens and braziers. But that did not deter Magnus; quite the contrary. He sang even louder and pumped his fist in the air even stronger and, as they approached the junction of the Vicus Longus and the Chainmakers’ Street, he moved to the left, then stopped and let the crowd surge around him as he watched the destruction of the kitchen Laco had moved to outside the two tenements that he had visited that morning.

  And it was immediate and spectacular. Down went the brazier, spilling its many red-hot coals onto the ground, a ground already slick with a viscous fluid; a flash, pale blue, then it travelled away, flickering as it ran, towards the door of the nearest tenement; through it went and then orange light began to glow within as the rags that they had scattered now caught. With a puff of flame the pile in the handcart flared and within a few heartbeats the stair was aglow, closely followed by the first-floor landing. With a feeling of great contentment, Magnus looked to the other side of the street and made out, above the heads of the singing mass still passing by, the unmistakeable glimmer of nascent flame in the tenement opposite.

  It did not take long and when it came it was a joy to hear. The first shout of ‘Fire!’ was sudden and shrill, like the crack of a slingshot ricocheting off an iron helm; rapidly others took up the cry and the ribald song was soon forgotten. Then, as the first flames began to lick out of the windows and rise into the air, panic seeded itself in the crowd and, apart from Magnus’ brethren, it began to disintegrate; some ran forward and others back but a large majority funnelled their way left, along the Chainmakers’ Street. Narrow as it was, the street was soon bottlenecked and the final kitchen was kicked to the ground causing yet more panic as it too spawned flame in the tenement that Tigran had visited that morning and Marius had refreshed just recently.

  ‘Back up the hill, lads!’ Magnus shouted once he had seen the tell-tale glow emerging from the Chainmakers’ Street. And back up they pelted along with many others, unremarked in the mass, as near neighbours of the affected buildings called for the Vigiles. But the Vigiles were, as yet, nowhere to be seen for the streets were congested beyond normality, and, besides, Servius’ gift had been put to very good use, making their reaction time less than acceptable.

  By the time the fires had really taken hold Magnus, looking back down the hill, could see by their light what he was waiting for. ‘Off we go, lads; and with a sense of urgency expected of a civic-minded organisation like ours.’

  Back down he led his brethren at a run to arrive as if it had been the first time they had been on the scene that evening. ‘Quick, Marius!’ Magnus shouted, the earnestness in his voice mightily exaggerated. ‘Find buckets and get the lads to form lines.’

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice close by shouted.

  Magnus turned to see a middle-aged man who would have been deemed to be expensively attired had it not been for the state that his evident consternation had brought him to. ‘I am the man trying to put out these fires: Marcus Salvius Magnus, the patronus of the local brotherhood; who are you?’

  ‘I’m the man who owns these buildings: Lucius Favonius Geminus.’

  Magnus did his best impression of a surprised man. ‘Well, that is fortuitous. How much are you willing to pay me and my lads to put out these three fires seeing as the Vigiles seem to be otherwise engaged?’

  Geminus stared at Magnus in horror. ‘Pay you? Just do it, otherwise the whole neighbourhood will go up and it’s your area, your responsibility.’

  Magnus made a show of thinking for a few moments. ‘You’re right, Geminus: it’s more important to save the area than to try and squeeze a little profit out of a desperate owner.’ He turned to see Marius running up to him with a few lads with buckets. ‘That ain’t going to be enough, Brother; there’s no way we can do all three with that. We’re going to have to take drastic action: firebreaks. We’ve got to tear down the buildings to either side and stop the flames spreading.’

  ‘Right you are, Magnus; what do you suggest?’

  ‘There will be plenty of stuff we can use in the Chain-makers’ Street: chains with grappling hooks, crowbars, you name it. Get the lads to break the shop doors open.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Geminus cried as Marius ran off to do as he was bid.

  ‘It’s the only thing to do to save the area, as you pointed out.’

  ‘But I own the buildings to either side too!’

  Magnus looked incredulous. ‘All of them? All six buildings either side of the three ablaze?’

  Geminus nodded, his eyes wide.

  ‘Well, that is unfortunate; but what can we do?’

  ‘You can stop acting so innocent for a start, Magnus,’ a new voice said. A huge figure emerged out of the night behind Geminus with the shapes of many more beyond him.

  Magnus’ eyes narrowed at the sight of the West Viminal patronus. ‘Sempronius! What are you doing on South Quirinal territory?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question: what are you doing on West Viminal territory?’

  ‘This has always been South Quirinal.’

  ‘Until my brother bought these tenements.’ Primus stepped from Sempronius’ shadow, all bulging muscle and furred with body-hair. ‘Tenements that you’ve just torched and will now pay for.’ He reached under his cloak, unsheathed the knife he kept in the small of his back and then spun it in the air, catching it without looking; its blade gleamed gold with flame.

  Magnus took a glance over his shoulder to see that his brethren were now gathering. ‘If you prefer to fight rather than try and save the area, then that’s fine by me; as a matter of fact this is exactly what I was hoping for.’ He turned to Marius, who now stood next to him. ‘Are we ready?’

  Swinging a heavy length of chain before him, the one-handed brother gave a grim smile. ‘Not one missing link, Brother.’

  ‘I take your meaning, Brother; very good, very good indeed.’ Laco handed him a three-foot length of chain; he took it and wrapped one end around his fist. ‘I think we’re ready, Primus; what about you, Sempronius?’

  The patronus of the West Viminal baulked at the sight of more than thirty adversaries suddenly whirling chains, glinting in the firelight, and retreated a couple of paces behind Primus. But Magnus was not going to let Sempronius’ hesitation spoil a well-laid trap; he leapt forward and, swinging low, caught Geminus around the shin. With a brutal yank, he pulled him off his feet.

  The brethren of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood surged forward, flailing fearsome weapons about their heads as Magnus slammed his chain-entwined fist into the side of Geminus’ head, knocking the senses from him.

  As the first heavy links thrashed into the faces and bodies of the West Viminal, jaws cracked and skulls dented; an eye, trailing dark gobbets of blood, flew, silhouetted, across the ever-rising flames as cheeks were gashed asunder to expose the stumps of broken, bloodied teeth that parted, revealing frothing gorges whence howls of pure agony issued. Without qualms they slashed into their foes, sending them back or down in a welter of blurred violence that none could withstand; Sempronius slunk further back behind Primus and then ran. Magnus bounded up from the prone body of Geminus towards his twin; Primus stood, rooted to the spot, aghast at the scale and suddenness of the violence that had erupted. Having never before faced lashing chains he knew not how to defend himself; his knife was certainly not up to the task. He turned and fled in the footsteps of his patronus; but as he did so Magnus flicked the chain so that it no longer encircled his fist and swung it above him, letting go as the flaying end aligned with Primus’ head. Round it went, hissing horizontally through the air, revolving around the centre of its own axis, heavy in flight, to wrap itself about Primus’ skull with a dull c
lacking of chain-links furling. Primus screamed and, with arching back and arms flying, fell forward to hit the street, knees first with the rest of his body crumpling after; with one bounce he was still.

  His brethren could take no more and they fled, leaving the dead and unconscious behind.

  ‘Call the lads back, Marius! Get them fighting the blaze!’ Magnus shouted above the victors’ roar as from up the hill a new force appeared on the scene. ‘Ah! I wondered when they would finally get through.’ Picking up a discarded chain he knelt down beside the unconscious form of Geminus as ten groups of eight Vigiles jogged down the hill, wheeling a few hand pumps and pushing equipment carts. He slapped Geminus about his bloodied face a few times and stirred him back into lucidity. ‘Now, you gerrymandering cunt, you’ve got a choice: either accept my offer of a hundred denarii per tenement block, which is generous seeing that they’re all either going to be burnt to the ground or pulled down by our gallant friends in the Vigiles, or to never have any need for money again, if you take my meaning?’

  Geminus looked at Magnus, his eyes slowly focusing as Marius began to marshal the brothers into fire-fighting teams. ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Me the bastard? I ain’t the one trying to muscle into another brotherhood’s area. Now, what’s it to be? If I understand property law correctly, a verbal agreement made in front of five citizens is a legally binding contract; or would you prefer a casual slash around the head with this rather heavy chain?’ Magnus raised the item in question.

  Geminus looked at the links dangling just in front of his eyes and sighed. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Two hundred, though.’

  ‘Just a hundred. But I’ll be generous.’ He pointed at the building to the left of the tenement that gave access to the courtyard; neither yet burnt. ‘There’s one building that we perhaps can just save, and even with the Vigiles arriving we’re going to be hard-pushed fighting all the fires, seeing as we wasted so much time in arguing. If you can help us save it, I’ll let you keep it and I’ll give you a nominal ten denarii each for the other nine fire-damaged plots.’