‘Do you really think I am that stupid?’ he growled, his eyes two slits of hate. ‘That I, Coronus, don’t know how my people behave, and don’t make arrangements accordingly? Of course they were going to get drunk, of course you would try and escape, and of course you would need horses. It amused me to watch you try. So ten sober, trusted men waiting for you here, away from the temptations of the main camp, were all I needed to ensure that you would still be here tomorrow, when I have plans for you. Tie them up.’
Vespasian felt rough hands pull his wrists behind him; leather twine was wrapped tightly round them. He didn’t resist; it would have been futile. Magnus and Faustus were hauled in from the horses; blood streaming from a cut on Faustus’ left arm told of a less clean arrest.
‘Until tomorrow, then,’ Coronus crowed, ‘when you will learn that the blood-money for my sons is very high indeed.’
They spent the rest of the night tied to the horse-lines. Vespasian did not sleep. Rage burned within him, rage at being toyed with. To be allowed to escape, and then to be recaptured by being second-guessed by a savage was humiliation enough; to be gloated over by him was intolerable. They would have done better staying put, but that would have been a humiliation of another sort. Coronus would have known they had not attempted to escape, and would have sneered at them for cowardice. These thoughts whirled around his head and by morning he was exhausted, but he had resolved in the future, if he had one, never to do the obvious, because if it was obvious to him it would be obvious to all.
Soon after dawn they were cut loose and hauled to their feet. Looking around he could see that the others all looked as tired as he felt; none of them had had any sleep.
They were dragged towards the centre of the camp, where a circle had been cleared of tents and fires; around it stood hundreds of cheering warriors.
Their guards pushed a way through the crowd, who aimed kicks and punches at the prisoners as they passed. The residual smell of stale alcohol, vomit and sweat from a night of debauchery hung over the Thracians, who were all eager for some diversion to help them forget their terrible hangovers.
‘Looks like we’re to be the entertainment,’ Magnus muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I’m not sure that I’m in the mood,’ Vespasian replied, dodging a blow from a sword hilt aimed at his temple.
They passed out into the centre of the arena where Coronus waited for them. The young warrior who had led the war band stood next to him. Vespasian could see a family resemblance and realised that he must be Coronus’ elder son, and therefore brother to the man killed at the river a few days before.
Coronus raised his arms and the noise around the arena stopped immediately. He began to speak; his words were unintelligible but, from the harsh tone of his voice and the aggressive gesturing, Vespasian guessed that they were being condemned for all sorts of crimes. The speech ended with a huge roar from the crowd, and then a guttural shout that didn’t need any translation. It meant death.
Coronus turned and addressed them in his fluent Latin. ‘You have been condemned to death by the tribal assembly—’
‘On what charge?’ Corbulo shouted. ‘And who defended us?’
‘The charge was defiling our gods and there is no defence against that.’
Corbulo was about to argue but realised that it was pointless and held his peace.
Coronus continued. ‘As their chief it is my task to choose the manner of your deaths.’ He smiled a cheerless smile, and then turned back to the assembly and shouted. Their response indicated approval of his choice. Coronus switched back to Latin. ‘A sword and shield each, the last man standing gets a horse and a half-hour head start before we come after him. If he is caught he will be impaled, if not then he is lucky.’
Four swords and shields were placed at even intervals around the edge of the arena. The Romans were herded into the centre, where their bonds were cut.
‘Should any of you decide not to fight then you will all be impaled. My advice is to put on a good show worthy of Rome, and one of you may get to see her again.’
Coronus took his place in the crowd. The four Romans were left standing back to back in the middle of the arena.
‘What do we do?’ Faustus asked.
‘We fight,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And we fight well, so one of us has a chance of surviving.’ He bent down to wipe earth on to the palms of his hands. ‘The others get clean deaths. It could be worse.’
‘Who fights who?’ Vespasian asked; he did not want to have to fight Magnus.
‘We do a free-for-all. Get your swords, we’ll start back here.’
They turned and looked at each other; there were no words to say. They each knew that they had a responsibility to the group to fight and die well; there was no other way.
Vespasian grimaced at the irony of the situation as he walked to the arena’s edge to pick up his sword and shield. He had never been to a gladiatorial show. He had always wanted to, but now that he had the chance it was he who was to fight. It would be his first and last show; he knew he would die. There was no way that he, a sixteen-year-old youth, would be the last man standing, but before he went he would do his best to give one of his comrades a clean death.
The noise of the crowd was growing as more and more money changed hands in bets. He wondered idly what odds were being given for him winning. He thought of Caenis and pulled out the silver amulet that she had given him. He held it tightly in his fist and prayed for Poseidon’s protection.
He let go of the amulet and it swung free as he bent to pick up the sword. A Thracian near him tugged at his neighbour’s sleeve and pointed. He picked up the shield. The noise around him changed to a low murmur; more people pointed. They’re betting on the first man to die, he thought. He tucked the amulet back under his tunic, turned and walked back towards his comrades.
They each stopped five paces from the middle. Corbulo looked at them one by one. ‘Do not ask for quarter. Deliver a clean death. It is now in the hands of the gods.’
They saluted each other and then crouched into position.
The crowd had gone very quiet.
Vespasian breathed heavily, his palms started to sweat and his heart raced. He looked from Magnus to Corbulo to Faustus, their eyes just visible over shield rims. They started to circle each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.
Behind him he heard a couple of individual shouts from the crowd. Something was happening. We’ve not started fighting quickly enough, we’ll all be impaled, he thought, and then sprang forward, crashing his shield against Corbulo’s. He thrust his sword at his throat, Corbulo parried, the blades met with a clash of iron and screeched as they slid down each other to lock together at the hilt. Vespasian felt something slice through the air behind him as he pushed down on Corbulo’s sword with his own. Magnus going at Faustus, he thought; but where’s the noise, where’s the cheering? Corbulo stepped to the left, pulling his sword away, causing Vespasian to overbalance. He fell to his left but had the presence of mind to bring his shield up to block Corbulo’s back-handed cut to his neck.
He hit the ground and rolled. Corbulo pounced towards him, shield up, sword arm extended, pointing at his throat.
‘Stop!’
The command was easily audible, for by now the only noises were the sound of their exertions and the clash of their weapons. The audience was completely silent.
They froze, Corbulo over Vespasian, Faustus squaring up to Magnus.
Vespasian looked round. Coronus and his elder son had pushed their way out of the crowd and were striding towards them, escorted by a dozen armed warriors.
‘Drop your weapons,’ Coronus shouted.
Four swords fell to the ground, followed by four shields.
He pushed Corbulo aside and leant over Vespasian. ‘Show me what you wear around your neck.’
Vespasian pulled out the silver amulet.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘My woman gave it to me when I le
ft Rome.’
‘Where did she get it?’
‘Her mother left it to her; she said it was a symbol of her tribe.’
Coronus hauled Vespasian to his feet and pulled him close. ‘It is a symbol of a tribe,’ he snarled. His eyes bored into Vespasian’s. ‘My tribe, the Caenii.’
‘My woman is called Caenis.’ Vespasian said quickly, convinced that he was going to be killed most painfully for sacrilege. ‘She told me of the story of Caeneus, but she said that he came from Thessaly, not Thracia.’
‘He was from Thessaly, but it was to this land that his son, my namesake, Coronus, fled after Caeneus was killed fighting the centaurs.’
‘I saw your men re-enact Caeneus’ death at the river.’
‘We do that when any man of our royal house dies,’ Coronus said quietly. He relaxed his hold on Vespasian. ‘My youngest son was also called Caeneus. My eldest here . . .’ he pointed to the young leader of the war band ‘. . . is also called Coronus, and so it has been since the original Coronus founded our tribe and named it after his father.’
Coronus stepped back, letting go of Vespasian’s tunic. ‘What was the name of Caenis’ mother?’
‘I don’t know.’ Vespasian didn’t take his eyes off Coronus; he knew that he was talking for his life. ‘I only know that she was a slave in the household of Antonia, the sister-in-law to the Emperor Tiberius. She died when Caenis was three. Antonia brought Caenis up in her household; she is like a mother to her.’
‘How old is Caenis?’
‘Eighteen, I think.’
Coronus nodded slowly. ‘That would mean her mother would be in her thirties, if she still lived. Skaris!’
The older man with the grey forked beard, whom they had seen arguing with the priest at the river, stepped forward. Coronus turned to talk with him privately. His escort surrounded the Romans, spears held at the ready. Vespasian noticed for the first time that each man wore the same image around his neck, only made of wood or stone. Coronus turned back to Vespasian, apparently satisfied with what Skaris had said.
‘Get up, Roman. It would seem that you speak the truth.’
Vespasian got to his feet and looked at his companions, all of whom were standing stock-still, trying to follow the course of events, not daring to believe that they might have a way out of this situation.
Coronus told his men to stand down and then addressed a few sentences to the crowd. As he spoke they murmured their assent and began to disperse. When he had finished he held out his arm to Vespasian, who took it.
‘My youngest sister and her infant daughter were taken as slaves over thirty years ago. As a member of our royal house she would have been wearing a silver image of Caeneus; the one that was given to you must be it. Your woman Caenis is my sister’s granddaughter, my great-niece. She gave you this amulet with love, to protect you. We will not harm you or your friends. You have the protection of the Caenii and are free to go.’
Vespasian stared at him in disbelief. ‘I will not forget this, Coronus, and I will be sure to tell Caenis who her people are; she will come back to thank you one day.’
‘If the gods will it, so be it. But before you go you will eat with me.’
He led them through the camp to his tent. All around people stared at the four Romans as they passed, shouting out in their strange language and making gestures of welcome and friendship.
Once they were seated with food and drink before them Coronus proposed a toast.
‘May Poseidon hold his hands over his people, the Caenii, and protect them and their friends.’ He drank. Vespasian, Magnus and Faustus followed, Corbulo did not. Coronus looked at him and shook his head. ‘I believe you will not drink because you wish to come back and fight us, am I right?’ he asked.
‘You are an enemy of Rome, it would be my duty.’ Corbulo put down his cup. His friends exchanged worried looks, afraid that this arrogant young aristocrat would land them back in the arena to fight again.
Coronus smiled. ‘Enemy of Rome, you say? That is not so, I only do Rome’s bidding and they pay me handsomely for it.’
‘They paid you to attack her soldiers,’ Corbulo sneered.
‘They paid me to attack the Caeletae, and then to attack your column in their territory. Why? I do not know. But I will prove it to you.’
Coronus said a few words to a couple of guards who bowed and went off to do his bidding.
‘Just over a month ago,’ he continued, ‘the priest came with four Romans and an escort of Greek cavalry. They brought me a chest, and told me that I could keep the contents if I did as Rome asked. As you know I did, and it cost me many men, including a son. It was a high price to pay, too high, but it would have been higher if I had refused. The Romans made that perfectly clear.’
‘Who was this priest?’ Vespasian asked, feeling sure that he wouldn’t be surprised by the answer.
‘His name is Rhoteces, a slippery little shit, but he has the favour of the gods and the respect of the tribes. He was with my men at the river.’
‘So this priest is also Rome’s agent?’ Corbulo asked, unable to believe that such an outlandish-looking creature could be working for Rome.
‘He’s a priest, he can go anywhere in Thracia, no one will harm him or his companions. Who better to carry messages and gifts?’
‘Who sent him?’ Vespasian asked.
‘Rome.’
‘Yes, but who in Rome?’
‘Does it matter? The Romans with him bore the imperial seal; that is authority enough for me.’
‘What did these Romans look like?’ Vespasian asked.
‘Three of them were wearing fine uniforms, very ornate, the fourth was a civilian, a big man with darker skin and long black hair and a small beard; he did the talking.’
Vespasian exchanged a glance with Magnus.
The tent flaps opened and four slaves came in carrying a very heavy-looking chest. They put it down and left.
‘See for yourselves, my friends; look at what Rome paid me to take your lives.’
Corbulo walked over to the chest. It was not locked; he opened it and drew his breath. Vespasian joined him and looked in. His eyes widened. It was full of silver denarii, more than he had ever seen. He dipped his hand in and brought out a handful, letting them clatter back down on to the pile. Each coin had Tiberius’ head on it; each one was as clean and unmarked as the day that it had left the mint.
CHAPTER XXIV
FOR FIVE DAYS they followed the course of the Hebrus River northwest, stopping only to eat or sleep, pushing their horses as much as they dared. Coronus had given them an escort through his lands, but they had turned back once they’d reached the territory of the Odrysae. Although not in revolt, there was still a bitter resentment of Rome after its violent quelling of that tribe’s rebellion four years previously. Vespasian and his three comrades kept well away from settlements, relying instead on the ample supplies that they had been given by the Caenii and water from the murky but drinkable Hebrus.
His companions took it in turns to quiz Vespasian about how he had come to be in possession of an amulet that guaranteed the protection and friendship of the Caenii, despite the fact that they had been in part responsible for the deaths of hundreds of their warriors and the chief’s youngest son. But Vespasian was unable to tell them any more than he had told Coronus, forcing each man to come up with his own theory.
‘Luck,’ Magnus said, ‘pure and simple luck.’
‘The will of the gods,’ Corbulo opined. ‘It shows us that they have a destiny for every man and enjoy teasing us until it is fulfilled.’
‘Caenis must have the power of foresight,’ Faustus theorised. ‘She saw where you would come into danger and gave you the amulet because she knew it would save you.’
‘And by luck she just happened to have it on her.’ Magnus felt that his case rested.
Vespasian smiled to himself. Each of these theories was in part correct, but there was one thing that overrode all of them: love. Whether
it was the will of the gods, luck or foresight, without her love for him Caenis would never have given up her only memento of her mother.
Vespasian, however, had his own concerns. He had no doubts that the chest of denarii had come from Sejanus, using the imperial seal. And that Asinius and Antonia were right: Sejanus was financing the rebellion for his own ends. In destroying the relief column he would be able to go to the Senate, in the Emperor’s name, and demand a more robust approach in Thracia, more legions to punish the Caenii, and no doubt to slyly retrieve his chest of money. This would in turn create more resentment and incite more tribes to revolt, thus escalating the problem and giving him more time and space to seize the purple while the army was looking the other way.
Corbulo would be duty bound to report the chest of denarii, where it had come from and what it had paid for, to Poppaeus. The conversation would be recorded by a secretary, and then copied by others. It would not be long before news of the discovery spread and reached the ears of Sejanus’ agent, who would undoubtedly send a message to his master warning him that the conspiracy risked being uncovered. The agent would then, in all probability, lie low until he received further instructions, which could be two or three months, months in which he, Vespasian, would be unable to get any closer to discovering the his identity.
Feeling sure that Corbulo wouldn’t have been party to a plan that involved his own death at the hands of the Caenii, he decided to partially confide in him one evening, whilst Magnus and Faustus were away watering the horses.
‘Have you given any thought as to who might have paid to see us and our men dead, Corbulo?’
Corbulo looked at him over his long thin nose, his angular face illuminated on one side by the small fire that they had set.
‘Nothing troubles me more, not even how you came to have that amulet in the right place at the right time.’
‘What conclusions have you come to?’
Corbulo looked around to make sure that they were still alone.
Vespasian: Tribune of Rome (Vespasian 1) Page 28
