THE SUCCESSION
Also by Robert Fabbri
THE VESPASIAN SERIES
TRIBUNE OF ROME
ROME’S EXECUTIONER
FALSE GOD OF ROME
ROME’S FALLEN EAGLE
MASTERS OF ROME
ROME’S LOST SON
THE FURIES OF ROME
ROME’S SACRED FLAME
ARMINIUS: THE LIMITS OF EMPIRE
SHORT STORIES
THE CROSSROADS BROTHERHOOD
THE RACING FACTIONS
THE DREAMS OF MORPHEUS
THE ALEXANDRIAN EMBASSY
THE IMPERIAL TRIUMPH
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Robert Fabbri, 2018
The moral right of Robert Fabbri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitt ed in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978 178 649 3576
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ROME, AUGUST AD 51
‘Marcus Salvius Magnus, it has been a long while since I last begged a favour from you as the patronus of my local brotherhood.’ In her early twenties, the supplicant stood, wringing her hands, before Magnus’ desk in the back room of the tavern that was the headquarters of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood. Even in the dim light of an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling, and another on the desk, next to a jug of wine and three cups, it was obvious that she had a black eye and a cut to her lower lip.
Smoke from the lamps made the already stuffy atmosphere unpleasant but Magnus was not about to open a window, even at the height of summer, for fear of someone on the street outside eavesdropping on brotherhood business. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and gestured to the chair opposite. ‘Sit down, Tacita.’
Stepping forward, Tacita did so and nodded in gratitude, automatically checking her raven hair, piled high on her head and studded with cheap jewellery in imitation of the coiffure of the rich; her attire similarly aped her betters, although her palla and stola were cut from cloth of lesser worth. With her coming further into the light, Magnus could see that her face had a pleasing, girlish quality despite the liberal application of makeup, again in an attempt to raise her perceived status.
A woman to whom appearance is everything, Magnus mused to himself, mentally stripping her and admiring her curvaceous, womanly figure.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the agreeable thought, Magnus took a sip of wine and then glanced at the old man sitting next to him, his eyes milky and his fingers gnarled with arthritis. ‘What have we done for Tacita in the past, Servius?’
Servius, wheezing with every breath, scratched the loose skin hanging beneath his chin as he cast his encyclopaedic mind back. ‘Four years ago last May we arranged for the then aedile of the Quirinal Hill to clear her husband, Tuscus, of the accusation that he was a practising astrologer.’
‘Yes,’ Tacita agreed, ‘and he swore an oath never to practise again. Since then he has built up a candle-making business, which has become a great success, with high-profile clientele such as the current aedile himself and many of the senators and equites living on the Quirinal. Again, it was thanks to you, Magnus, for recommending the business to such people.’
‘I did?’ The question was directed more at Servius who, as his counsellor and second-in-command, knew all the brotherhood’s affairs.
‘You asked Senators Pollo and Vespasian as well as the imperial freedwoman Antonia Caenis to have their stewards purchase from Tuscus as he is the only candle-maker in our territory. People of quality from the Quirinal and also the Viminal, as the business is close to our border, have joined the fashion, thereby boosting Tuscus’ income and thus the contribution he makes to us, which is over ten denarii a month.’
Magnus scratched at the stubble on his battered, ex-boxer’s face and looked back at Tacita. ‘So trade is good then?’
Tacita nodded. ‘Very good; but maybe that’s the root of my problem.’
Magnus leant forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his fists, staring with his one good eye at Tacita as the glass replica in his left socket looked blankly over her head. ‘Go on.’
A series of rasping, painful-sounding coughs obliged Tacita to pause as Servius’ chest heaved. As his gaunt frame shook, Magnus was forced to hold his shoulders to prevent him from falling off the chair. After a few more convulsions Servius hawked up a large gobbet of phlegm into his hand.
‘That’s got blood in it,’ Magnus said, looking at the resulting mess.
‘I know, brother; I can taste it.’
‘Here,’ Tacita said, handing over a rag handkerchief that she produced from within her palla.
Magnus took it and wiped the gunk from Servius’ hand. ‘How long have you been coughing up blood, brother?’
‘The last few months, but it’s been getting worse recently.’ Servius took a large swig of wine and swallowed with evident relief. He gestured in Tacita’s direction. ‘I’ll be all right; carry on.’
Tacita looked to Magnus, who nodded. ‘Well, since my husband’s business has become successful he’s naturally had quite a bit of spare cash once he’s paid the rent for the premises and our accommodation, as well as making his contribution to the brotherhood, of course.’
‘And a very fine contribution it is,’ Magnus acknowledged, ‘which is why we will be more than happy to help you both out in any way we can.’
Tacita did not look suitably pleased by this statement. ‘Yes, well, it’s for myself alone that I’m here, not on behalf of my husband, as he’s the reason why I’ve come. You see, with all this spare cash he has, rather than save it so that we could buy a new slave to help with the business, he fritters it away on whoring and wine along the Vicus Patricius on the Viminal.’
Magnus spread his hands and tutted in sympathy, despite being of the opinion that this was a very sensible and worthwhile expenditure; although, he would have preferred that Tuscus frequented the brothels under his own control, but he refrained from mentioning it.
Tacita suppressed a sob. ‘We haven’t yet been blessed with children. I haven’t given up hope but he’s paying less and less attention to me, no matter how much effort I make, and when I try to talk to him about it he gets aggressive and shouts at me; and then, last night, when he came home drunk and reeking of stale whore, yet again, he, well, when I complained, he did this.’ She pointed to her black eye and split lip.
Magnus again tried to demonstrate his sympathy, though with less success this time. ‘Why have you come to us about this? It’s a domestic matter; what goes on between a husband and his wife is for them alone and nothing to do with the brotherhood. You are legally his property and he has the right to treat you as he will; he can kill you if he so wishes. I’m sorry but I have no reason to interfere.’
Tacita was unable to keep her sobs in; she held her face in her
hands. ‘But you must help me, Magnus; you’re the cause of this.’
Magnus sat back in his chair, unsure whether or not he had heard her correctly. ‘What? You’re saying that I’m responsible for your husband beating you after he’s been out drinking and whoring?’
‘Of course. It was you that persuaded all those important people to patronise his shop; if you hadn’t have done that then—’
‘Your trade might have struggled, we wouldn’t have got so much from it and you’d be poor.’
‘I’d rather be poor than live in fear of my husband.’
‘And not wear those nice clothes and have your hair and makeup done so you look much more than what you are?’
‘That’s my right; it’s not my husband’s right to hit me when I complain that he doesn’t give me enough money to dress really well because he spends it all on his cock.’
‘Ah, so that’s the real problem, is it? Not enough pretty things.’ Magnus had had enough; he got up, walked around the desk to the door and opened it. ‘Sextus, show the lady out.’
‘Show the lady out,’ Sextus repeated, as always digesting his orders slowly, as his huge, lumbering form darkened the doorway. ‘Right you are, Magnus.’
Tacita sprang to her feet, hissing and spitting and flinging herself, nails clawing, at Sextus as he approached her. ‘I’ll not go! I’ll not go until you’ve promised, Magnus!’
Sextus recoiled at first at the ferocity of the attack, his heavily muscled forearms scratched and bleeding, before clamping his bear-like hands on Tacita’s upper arms and lifting her off the ground so that her legs now became her main weapons. Magnus managed to grab them before they had done too much damage to Sextus’ shins. Struggling with the writhing woman, now shrieking like a lunatic, Magnus and Sextus manhandled her through the door and then right, out into the dim passage at whose end lay a staircase leading upwards, opposite a leather-curtained door on the left, beyond which came the sound of laughter and alcohol-fuelled chatter. Still grappling with the woman’s legs, Magnus pushed his way past the curtain and into the tavern. All eyes turned to him and conversation died as he barged through the crowded bar.
Magnus looked at a man of Eastern appearance, with a hennaed beard and embroidered trousers. ‘Tigran, clear a path.’
Tigran ran to the doorway and shoved a couple of freedmen out of the way, who had been lounging against it. Picking up speed with Tigran clearing people before them, Magnus and Sextus hurried along with their thrashing burden screeching like a harpy; through the open door they went and out, under the baking August sun, into the tabled area and then beyond that to where the Alta Semita and the Vicus Longus met at a sharp, acute angle. With little ceremony, Magnus and Sextus dumped Tacita in the road. Her hair awry and her eyes wild she sat, looking up and sobbing. ‘You must help me, Magnus; you must!’ She picked up a handful of filth and hurled it at Magnus, only to miss and splatter, instead, Tigran’s finely embroidered knee-length tunic. Without pausing to think, Tigran drew his knife, carried as much for fighting as for eating, and walked with intent towards the wailing woman.
Magnus clamped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t!’
Tigran shook it off and turned to Magnus. ‘She threw shit at me; no one does that and lives.’
‘And nobody kills anyone in my territory without my permission, and in this case that is withheld.’
They locked eyes.
‘Do I really need your permission?’
‘Be careful, Tigran; don’t forget I’ve made you very rich over the past few years. Don’t spoil it.’ Magnus felt the strength of the Easterner’s pride wrestling with the knowledge that if he went against his patronus in public he would not last out the hour. Tigran backed down and jammed his knife back into its sheath. Looking over his shoulder he spat at Tacita and then walked away along the Alta Semita. No one followed him.
Magnus looked down at Tacita, wiping the saliva off her face. ‘After that display I’m of a mind to completely sympathise with your husband and I can only marvel at his forbearance in giving you just the one black eye and splitting only your lower lip. I’ll do the rest of his work myself should you come back in here, if you take my meaning?’
‘Sempronius of the West Viminal wouldn’t let a woman down so, and his territory starts at the bottom of my street.’
Magnus sneered. ‘Sempronius of the West Viminal would take exactly the same attitude as I have, and what’s more he would have dragged you back to your husband and told him exactly what you have just done because, unlike me, he’s a real bastard. Now piss off!’
Magnus looked over to a table with four men seated around it playing dice. ‘Cassandros, make sure she stays clear of our property and pisses off in good order.’
A brother, in his early sixties like Magnus, with a silver-flecked full beard, Greek style, growing ragged on the left cheek due to a livid scar, stood grinning. ‘My pleasure, Magnus. I always enjoy slapping a bitch about.’
Magnus glared at him. ‘You will not slap her about; you will just make sure that she doesn’t step onto our property. If you slap her about, I’ll pay the next boy you bugger to bite your bollocks off.’
Cassandros held his hands up. ‘All right, all right, Magnus, I was just joking.’
Magnus swallowed a caustic remark as he saw a wealthy-looking couple walking along the Alta Semita ostensibly unguarded. ‘Lupus!’ he growled at a younger brother in his early thirties. ‘Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you offering our services to that man and his good lady? We wouldn’t want anything nasty to happen to them on South Quirinal territory, would we? Get to it, and make sure your South Quirinal Brotherhood amulet is showing so they understand just who they’re dealing with. If you come back with less than five denarii, it’ll be your arse that Cassandros gets his hands on next.’ Feeling thoroughly aggravated, Magnus watched Lupus approach the couple, pulling out the wolf pendant that advertised his allegiance, and then stop them as other brothers gathered around. Satisfied that trade was proceeding as normal, Magnus stomped back into the tavern, glaring at anyone who so much as glanced at him; few did, sensing his mood.
He kicked open the door to the back room. ‘What’s wrong with everyone today? It must be the heat, brother.’
Servius’ clouded eyes stared at him but his counsellor declined to comment.
Magnus grabbed a cup and drained its contents before pouring himself another. ‘That woman – what a fucking handful. Makes you wonder why some men are foolish enough to get married, eh, brother? Unlike people like us who very sensibly keep romance to a simple cash and bodily fluid transaction.’ He tossed the contents of his cup down his throat and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, feeling calmer. ‘So, brother, what do you reckon: should we tell her husband that she’s been here complaining about him or do you think that we should just keep out of it?’
Servius still made no reply.
Magnus squinted with his one good eye, leaning forward. He reached out a hand and touched Servius on the shoulder, shaking him. ‘Brother?’
With a suddenness that made Magnus jump back, Servius toppled forward, crashing onto the table, sending the wine jug tumbling to the floor to smash into jagged fragments. ‘Servius? Brother?’ Magnus put his fingers on his counsellor’s neck, closing his eyes and feeling for a pulse. There was none. ‘Oh fuck, brother, why did you have to go and do that just now?’
‘So brothers, I have come to this decision,’ Magnus announced to a packed tavern the following morning, after Servius’ dawn funeral; his audience of over sixty brethren was spilling outside but all were able to hear him as the bar was open to the elements. ‘I know that there are a couple amongst you who can claim longer service, but I’m sure they will understand.’ He caught Cassandros’ eye and then Sextus’. ‘It’s not a case of length of service but, rather, aptitude for the job that I deem to be the most important, and so I choose Tigran to succeed Servius and be my counsellor and second-in-command of our brother
hood.’
Magnus got down from the chair and embraced Tigran.
‘That was a very wise choice, brother,’ Tigran whispered.
Magnus pulled back, holding Tigran by the shoulders; they smiled at one another, cold and stony-eyed. ‘Wise or self-preservatory, my friend?’
Tigran’s false smile broadened. ‘Both.’
Magnus slapped his new counsellor’s shoulders. ‘I’ll move aside soon. In the meantime you can have Servius’ old room; I like my second to live on the premises.’
‘So you can keep an eye on them.’
‘No, brother – so you can keep an eye on the others and be there when I need your advice.’
Tigran nodded and then turned to be acclaimed with a series of cheers.
‘And why wasn’t it me?’ Cassandros asked in Magnus’ ear. ‘We go all the way back to the Fifth Alaudae together; we’ve fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank against all sorts of savages.’
‘I know, brother, and so has Sextus.’
‘Yes, but Sextus would have trouble counselling himself to sponge his own arse after a good shit.’
‘I don’t doubt it, which is why I didn’t even consider him for the position like I did you.’
‘Then why didn’t you give it to me instead of that Easterner? He only arrived in Rome, when was it?’
‘Twenty-five years ago, brother, and he’s been a member of the brotherhood ever since so he can’t be accused of not having the right to be patronus. What’s more, he’s started to challenge my authority, such is his ambition; something you well know because you supported him when he asked if I thought that my judgement had been right when I bought those Germanic slaves just before Claudius flooded the market with Britannic captives soon after his Triumph.’
Cassandros looked outraged. ‘I didn’t support him.’
Magnus shook his head. ‘You did, brother, and don’t try to deny it. I heard a small mutter of agreement from the crowd and so did old Servius. It was him that identified your voice; being blind he had sharper hearing. So what had Tigran offered you, eh? To be his counsellor? Was that your ambition?’
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