Tales of Ancient Rome

by S. J. A. Turney

  Trying to conceal his nerves, Melicos strode purposefully into the room and bowed, scanning the table.

  His heart sank.

  The empty silver platter stared back at him, mocking his tardiness.

  Halotus the taster stood at the side of the emperor’s couch, gnawing on a dormouse in honey. Agrippina smiled at her husband, the white lead straining and ready to crack. Claudius was frowning, but very much alive, stroking the witch’s cheek. Melicos heaved a sigh of relief and crossed the room, producing the silver dish of suilli with a flourish and sweeping away the empty platter, replacing it smoothly.

  “Why Melicos” the emperor smiled. “More? You spoil me.”

  The chef took a deep bow, his mind racing. Perhaps the emperor had been feeling unusually generous and had shared them all around, administering a mild dose to everyone? Or perhaps this was all a mistake and Banathes had not reached for the wrong jar. Whatever the case, Claudius seemed happy.

  With a smile, Melicos turned and strode across the room toward the exit.

  Behind him there was a loud gurgling and rumbling, like the noises that issued from the drains of the Cloaca Maxima as it heaved and groaned under the weight of a heavy storm flow; like an archway about to collapse after a tremor; like a man’s digestive system trying to cope with enough poison to kill a hundred vermin.

  All conversation stopped and Melicos found that he had halted mid-stride.

  The emperor’s voice was shaky and a little high.

  “Oh dear. I think I shat myself.”

  Aftermath in the Ludus

  Tarentius sat up slowly.

  It was still dark and he was hungry. So hungry. When was the last time he ate? Must have been before the last bout. The lanista had given them all a good solid meal of pork, bread and vegetables to help build both strength and courage for the fight. And the fight finished hours and hours ago. Sometime in the early afternoon. It must have been half a day ago; no wonder he was so ravenous.

  Throwing off his scant cloth cover, he climbed off the pallet and stumbled in the darkness. He knew the layout of the ludus intimately and could easily find his way to the kitchens with his eyes shut. This late into the night, all the others would be asleep in their cots and the only lights burning would be the torches and lamps in the lanista’s apartments and office. Perhaps in the kitchens too if it was more ‘early’ than late, the slaves preparing the gladiators’ morning meal.

  Shuffling with a tired gait out into the hall, he could hear the rumbling snored of Braxus the Thracian, a sound like a collapsing insula. Beyond was the familiar wheezing, whistling snore of Paris and then the strange whimpering, dog-like night noises of the two young Numidians retiarii. Even with bad direction sense, and old hand here could navigate just by the sounds.

  He must have been absolutely exhausted after that last bout, to have fallen asleep early and missed the evening meal. He couldn’t remember falling asleep or being shouted, but then the bastards who ran the place would hardly fall over themselves to make sure he got his meal. Even with five successful fights under his belt, he was still a slave, and any meal they didn’t have to cook was money saved.

  Tarentius growled as he pondered on the unfairness of the situation. One day he might emulate Spartacus and give the lanista a taste of his own lash.

  After supper, though.

  Grinning, he saw the flickering torchlight from the kitchen doorway as he turned the corner. Someone was busy doing food for the morning. He wondered if they had something tasty to spare?

  Rounding the corner, Tarentius entered the kitchen, fixing his gaze on the young Gaulish cook and licked his desiccated, shredded lips.

  “Mmmm… braaaaaiiiinssssss….”

  The cook fainted.

  The Palmyrene Prince

  Vaballathus, son of Odaenathus and Zenobia, crown prince of the Empire of Palymra, sat impatiently on the small, highly-decorated silk stool. His four guards stood by the outer door to the chamber, armoured but denied the right to wear their weapons within the palace. It galled him, as a member of one of the most noble royal houses in the world and heir to the throne of an ancient land, to be kept waiting in the entrance chamber by a fellow independent ruler.

  He sighed and rubbed his knees. The ride from Palmyra, better part of four hundred miles to the west, had been a swift, desperate and uncomfortable one, with fewer in the entourage than he would have liked, but time was of the essence and the Palmyrene army had few enough men to spare at this point.

  Standing, he strode along the walls of the great guest chamber, decorated with silk and gold, murals depicting Kings of Persia from the days of antiquity; faces long forgotten stared back at him from under glittering crowns and ruffled their huge beards grandiosely.

  He ground his teeth.

  “Erabas? What did the lackey say when you spoke to him?”

  “Sire, he said he would consult with his master and find us upon his return.”

  “Who does he think I am?” snarled the young prince, kicking the elaborate stool’s leg and chipping the beautiful carving.

  Erabas swallowed nervously and steeled himself.

  “Respectfully, your magnificence, your mother, may she bathe in the light and magnificence of a thousand suns, did make it clear that we were to be as polite as possible. Much rides on our success.”

  Vaballathus’ head snapped round angrily. No one spoke like that to the son of the great Zenobia; yet the man was right. For all his insolence, they must maintain perspective on why they were here. Palmyra was not the power it had been when they freed themselves from Rome over a decade ago. Back then, the foolish Romans had neither the wit nor the power to prevent their cessation; now, with that strict and clever bastard Aurelian in the purple, they had all but brought Palmyra to its knees again. Hammered by the legions at Immae and Emesa, the shattered remains of the Palmyrene army had drawn itself protectively around the capital, preparing to fight to the last, for that was all that was left to them.

  Unless Vaballathus could persuade the Persian King to send them more men; to support their ongoing resistance to Rome.

  He ground his teeth again and snarled at the guard.

  “Be grateful that we are here and not at home in a time to peace. The next time you presume to dictate to me I will have you flayed and then boiled.”

  “Yes, your magnificence. A thousand apologies.”

  It was an empty threat, of course. There was a very real possibility that when they returned to Palmyra they would find Aurelian sitting on the throne in his mother’s palace, heating up the oil for Vaballathus and his family.

  He wandered impatiently around the walls. Prizes from a hundred campaigns filled this great chamber, placed here deliberately in the waiting room to impress and intimidate visitors. Roman standards were bolted to the wall in their dozens. No eagles, but many others, including a prized image of a long-gone emperor. There were jewelled weapons and silks and more from the peoples of the Indus to the east and a few furs, all that was worth taking from the nomad riders in the north. But Roman prizes were many.

  His eyes settled once again on the most impressive and by far most grizzly of all prizes and he wandered over to examine it.

  The body stood as though to attention on a wooden plinth, a post rising up from the base and entering the backside, rising to the head and forming a replacement for the man’s spine. Lifeless empty hollows stared out from beneath once-noble brows. Either the man had had bulky jowls, or the head had settled a little over time.

  Valerian, once Emperor of Rome, had little to say these days. Having been taken in battle by the Persian King Sapor, he had served as Sapor’s footstool and mounting block for the next fifteen years until finally old age had rendered him incapable of performing menial tasks. When his bones grew too old, his muscles seized and his joints froze, Sapor had had him cut into pieces, emptied, preserved in the manner of the ancient Aegyptian Kings, and then stuffed and mounted as a palace decoration.

  The E
mperor Publius Licinius Valerianus Augustus stared desperately at Vaballathus with empty eyes, his jaw sagging. The decoration clearly needed re-stuffing before it sagged too much.

  Vaballathus stepped back, his eyes taking in not only the ghastly emperor, but the many Roman standards, officer’s helms, flags and cuirasses. He smiled for the first time since their arrival three tedious hours ago. Sapor would have helped Palymra fight the Romans off. He would have made Aurelian eat his own lips. Sapor was a King to be reckoned with.

  But Sapor had died almost two years ago, his renowned son following soon after. This new Persian King was an unknown quantity.

  Oh, Bahram had sent troops initially to help his mother hold the Romans off, but they had been too few; too small a gesture, and the Persian contingent had been slain at Emesa with the rest of the Queen’s army. But he could yet do so much more. It was said that Bahram modelled himself on the great Sapor; that he wanted to be Persia’s next great ruler. Clearly there was only one solution: Bahram would have to send an army to save Palmyra. The Queen would repay him with riches beyond belief, and the Persians would acquire wealth and glory both. Aurelian’s body would soon stand next to Valerian’s… unless Bahram was kind and let them keep it in Palmyra as a prize.

  That’s what he would do when…

  He was interrupted as the main door opened.

  Four servants scurried in, one of the numerous palace officials hurrying along behind them and pausing to close the door. The servants bowed deeply to the guest before rushing across to the wall. The minor functionary in his silks and robe of office, his beard combed and intricately plaited, inclined his head respectfully and smiled.

  “Forgive our interruption, eminence.”

  Vaballathus frowned.

  “You have not come for us?”

  “I regret no, sire.”

  The Palmyrene prince watched in confusion as the four servants grasped the sagging body of the Roman emperor, his frozen rictus vaguely comical, and hurried across the floor with it. The official bowed once more and then the five opened a previously unnoticed door at the far end of the room and passed through it carrying their strange, macabre load. Vaballathus stared at the door as it closed.

  “What in the name of Baal?”

  Almost as the second door closed with a quiet click, hiding the strange procession, the first door opened once again and the vizier who had first greeted them hours ago entered with a deep bow.

  “Good morning once again, Prince Vaballathus. I must apologise for the delay. I have been consulting with my master.”

  The prince turned and strode toward him angrily.

  “And will his majesty be joining us now?” He tried to keep the irritation from his voice. Everything depended upon their success, which would require patience and a show of respect.

  The vizier stepped back, giving a strange, oily smile.

  “I am afraid not. His majesty is tied up with affairs of state. In the meantime, though, his majesty would very much like me to introduce you to our other visitor.”

  The four guards reached for their sword hilts, remembering too late that the scabbards were empty. Vaballathus’ eyes widened as a full century of Roman legionaries stomped into the room, their hob-nailed boots clattering as they chipped the delicate marble flooring. The horn-players and standard bearers stepped to one side as their fellow soldiers surrounded the four Palmyrene guards. The centurion followed his men in and stood beside them as they came to attention in ordered rows in the hall.

  A man appeared behind them in the doorway; a tall man with aquiline features and severe, iron grey hair. He wore the decorative breastplate and Hercules knot of a senior officer in the Roman army, his crimson cloak settling as he came to a halt.

  “Gaius Attius Severinus at your service, Prince Vaballathus. I must say, the Imperator Aurelian is very much looking forward to meeting you.”

  He smiled.

  “You are looking well, highness. Let’s see if we can change that.”

  Temple Trouble

  (A short story set ten years before the events of Marius’ Mules)

  Marcus Falerius Fronto rolled over to stare into the eyes of the girl next to him. Vibia smiled back at him, her voluptuous lips framing her perfect teeth. She languished in the bed next to him, half-wrapped in light, wispy garments that did little to hide her shape and…

  Fronto swallowed and his eyes bulged dangerously.

  “You’re a what?”

  Vibia smiled in an astoundingly relaxed way to Fronto’s mind.

  “Relax, Marcus. I’m not actually a vestal virgin.”

  Fronto, still staring, allowed himself to heave a deep sigh of relief. Last night’s debauchery among the taverns in the subura had left him with a dull thumping in his head, a number of gaps in his memory of the night before and an otherwise entirely unfamiliar young lady at his side. He’d been out to celebrate his assigning to Spain, where he’d join the new quaestor, taking ship from Ostia in a few days’ time. And things had become a little blurred. He distinctly remembered losing a number of wagers and chasing a number of young women along the street with Geganius. The end of the night was still shrouded in mystery, though.

  “Shit, girl! You can’t go round saying you’re a vestal. You’ll get in serious trouble, and you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.”

  He saw the amusement flickering in her eyes and growled.

  “Where the hell are we, anyway? Last thing I remember was that little bar below the Tabularium.”

  Vibia’s mouth split into a wide grin.

  “We’re in the house of the vestals, Marcus.”

  “What?”

  Fronto shook his head. Was the girl deliberately trying to break his brain, or was he just plainly beyond simple understanding this morning?

  Vibia sighed lightly.

  “I’m the most unusual girl you’ll ever sleep with, Marcus. I was chosen late to be one of the vestals. I’m not a girl any more, despite what they all think, but I haven’t taken the vow as yet.”

  Fronto frowned.

  “I wasn’t aware there was a delay?”

  “There usually isn’t but they had trouble finding someone quick to replace one of the priestesses who just passed on, and I was what you might call a ‘last-minute find’ by the pontifex maximus. Normally they would deliberate for a lot longer, but the public opening of the temple for the festival is in two days and they need a full complement of novices and priestesses.”

  She grinned.

  “I was on the way to the temple last night when you and your friend found me. I will be taking the vows in…” she frowned and tried to judge the light outside the window, “… about two hours.”

  Fronto shook his head madly.

  “That’s insane! Why would you do such a thing? You might not be official yet, but you might as well be. If they catch us they’ll bury you alive anyway, and they’ll whip me to death in the forum!”

  He bit his lip and pulled the covers up to just below his eyes as though people could see him already. Grumbling, he pointed a finger accusingly at the girl beside him.

  “You had no right to go marching around the backstreets of the city unescorted at night. You might as well have been inviting it. It’s your father that should be whipped!”

  Vibia laughed a light laugh.

  “For Vesta’s sake, Marcus…”

  “Don’t say that!” interrupted Fronto, a panicked look in his eyes.

  “Marcus, I wasn’t alone. Your friends sort of ambushed my escort and you promised to walk me on. You’re a patrician with a good name, Marcus. And as for ‘why would I do such a thing?’: well, you were fairly insistent, Marcus. I hardly think all the blame can be laid at my door, now can it?”

  Fronto’s eyes were darting back and forth nervously.

  “Oh shut up!”

  Again Vibia laughed. Her lightness was really starting to grate on him.

  “How the hell do I get out of here?”

  “Do
you remember how we got in?”

  “Vibia,” Fronto growled, “the state I was in last night I’m lucky I woke up in Latium with two legs and not chained to some Cilician slaver and rowing for my life!”

  Again that gratingly happy laugh. Fronto growled once more and slowly slid sideways out of the bed, closing his eyes and wincing until his feet fell to the cold marble with a ‘plop’.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “The way you flung them off last night, they could be anywhere.”

  Fronto grunted, once again vastly unhappy with his own inability to think past the present. His sister had always said that wine would be the death of him. He’d always assumed she meant through ill health rather than stupidity and girls.

  “Never mind… I think I can smell them!”

  Vibia laughed quietly as her erstwhile lover hunted around the small room in the shadows, the only light from the high window that he daren’t get too close to. The only noise was the gentle background hum of the forum not too distant, interrupted by the slapping of bare feet on marble.

  The quiet was split sharply as Vibia snorted at the sight of Fronto standing, holding his tunic in one hand as though it might wriggle to escape while he gave a tentative sniff to the breeches in the other. He squinted and shook his head at the offensive odours that issued from the garments.

  “What in the name of Bacchus did I do last night? My clothes smell like the shit-shovellers at the circus!”

  Without expecting a reply and with a look of mixed disgust and fear, Fronto climbed into his breeches and pulled on the tunic. The white linen was a mottled grey and yellow colour.

  “Aren’t you forgetting your underwear, Marcus?”

  Fronto stared down at the floor and prodded something she couldn’t see with his foot. As she collapsed into a fresh bout of laughter, Fronto growled.