‘Yes. He accused me of usurping the priests’ power and defying the gods.’
‘Fucking Thracians,’ Magnus grunted. ‘That seems to be their favourite charge. The death sentence and no defence against it, I suppose.’
‘In our law there can be no defence against that charge.’
‘Don’t we know it?’
‘Check him for any concealed weapons, then let’s get this sack of shit to Asinius,’ Vespasian said, aiming another kick at the still gasping priest, cracking a couple of ribs. ‘You’d better come with us,’ he added, nodding at Rhoemetalces.
Asinius had washed away the dust of travel, and was having his purple-bordered toga arranged by his body slave by the time Vespasian and his companions arrived in his tent. They threw the now terrified Rhoteces at his feet. The priest lay there moaning, holding his fractured ribcage.
‘Well done, gentlemen,’ Asinius said, dismissing the slave, who withdrew into the private sleeping area to the rear of the tent. ‘I trust that none of you were hurt?’
‘No, but we got him just in time,’ Vespasian replied. ‘He was about to assassinate his King.’
‘Rhoemetalces, thank the gods that you’re safe. I wouldn’t have recognised you.’ Asinius offered his arm to the young Thracian. ‘I have not seen you since you were a boy, in the Lady Antonia’s house. How is your mother?’
‘She is well, senator, thank you.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. I intend to pay my respects to her on my return journey; I was in too much of a hurry to do so on my way here.’
A loud moan from the floor drew his attention back to the priest.
‘Centurion, have your men stretch this creature out on his back.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Faustus snapped a salute and issued the orders.
Asinius drew his dagger and forced it into Rhoteces’ mouth. The priest struggled fiercely, but was no match for Faustus’ two lads who had him securely by his ankles and wrists.
‘You have two choices, priest, either use your tongue to answer my questions or lose it.’
Rhoteces’ eyes filled with terror; he had never been on the receiving end of administered pain. He nodded his head gingerly in acquiescence.
Asinius withdrew the dagger. ‘Who supplied the money that you used to encourage the tribes into rebellion against your King and Rome?’
The priest answered immediately, speaking slowly. His fractured ribs were clearly making breathing difficult. ‘A Roman of high standing, I don’t know his name. It was done last year through intermediaries.’
‘Not good enough.’ Asinius forced the dagger back into the priest’s mouth and slit the corner of it a thumb’s width. Blood flowed freely from the wound down Rhoteces cheek. ‘Try again.’
‘The intermediaries said they were acting for the Consul, Marcus Asinius Agrippa.’
Asinius hesitated, unable to believe what he’d heard.
‘That’s-’ Vespasian started, but Asinius cut him off.
‘Who were these intermediaries?’ Asinius continued, regaining his composure.
‘Three were Praetorian Guardsmen, but their leader was a civilian, a big man with dark skin and long hair.’ Tears were now flowing down Rhoteces’ cheeks, intermingling with the blood.
‘Did they tell you why Asinius wanted a rebellion here?’
‘They said something about destabilising the Emperor. There were going to be rebellions all over the Empire, and while the legions were busy dealing with them the Republic would be restored.’ Rhoteces’ words were slurred; the wound to his mouth made control of his lips erratic.
‘And they assured you that your rebellion would be successful?’
‘Yes, they said that there would be an uprising in Moesia, and that the two legions there would be pinned down and unable to come to Rhoemetalces’ aid. We would have a free hand.’
‘And you believed them?’
‘Yes. Recruiting officers had come from Moesia demanding that our men serve in the Roman army there. It sounded as if the legions were already under pressure. I saw it as an opportunity to rid ourselves of the oppressive monarchy and return to the old ways, of independent tribes united under our gods.’
‘And you as their chief priest would be the King, in all but name?’
‘I wanted what was best for Thracia and its gods,’ Rhoteces almost shouted, despite his pain.
‘So when the legions arrived, and the rebellion started to falter, you came and offered your services to Poppaeus – why?’
‘After the Caenii failed to stop Poppaeus’ reinforcements from getting through I realised that we could not win, so I came here to try to negotiate a surrender, before things went too far.’
‘Very noble. Why did Poppaeus trust you?’
‘I told him about Asinius’ money. I agreed to come to Rome with him to testify in the Senate against Asinius, in return for my life.’
Asinius shook his head. ‘Perfect,’ he whispered, smiling, before returning his attention to the priest. ‘So Poppaeus is only too pleased to have you, his new friend, negotiate with the rebels for him?’
‘He makes things difficult, too many demands and conditions; I don’t think he wants a surrender, he wants a victory.’
‘And you still want your King dead?’
‘If anything good can come out of this it would be Rhoemetalces’ death,’ Rhoteces hissed, glaring at the King, his bloodied weasel face contorted with the hatred of a fanatic.
Asinius stepped back and looked at Magnus and the two legionaries.
‘Knock him cold, then tie him up in my sleeping quarters and stay with him.’
They did as they were asked with relish.
‘It would seem that Sejanus and Poppaeus have been too subtle even for me,’ Asinius said to Vespasian. ‘To have set me up as the instigator of all this is a masterstroke that I did not foresee. It’s obvious now why they used coinage; it’s much easier to link to me than silver bullion.’
Vespasian stared at him, unable to decide what to think.
‘Oh, come now, you don’t believe him, do you?’ Asinius demanded.
‘No, I suppose not,’ Vespasian replied, remembering that Coronus had said that Rhoteces had been accompanied by Hasdro and some Praetorians on his visit to the Caenii.
‘Good,’ Asinius huffed, ‘because I don’t have the time to defend myself against spurious charges to lowly tribunes.’
‘What about to kings, Asinius?’ Rhoemetalces asked.
‘Or kings. I shall defend myself in the Senate, but if you want some proof, ask yourself why I didn’t have Magnus kill that little shit, eh? He’s going to testify against me if he gets a chance, and what’s more, as far as he’s concerned his testimony will be the truth, so if he’s tortured, as I expect he will be, it will be the same story. So what do I gain by keeping him alive?’
Rhoemetalces looked at Asinius and shrugged.
Asinius gave a look of despair and slumped down on the couch. ‘In order to back up the priest’s story Sejanus will have forged documents, proving that I authorised money to be taken from the treasury. If the priest is dead those documents could still be enough to convict me. If I take him before the Senate they will see that I am not afraid of his accusations. I will be in control of the situation, and will be able to get him to identify the intermediaries as Praetorians and Sejanus’ freedman Hasdro, people over whom I have no control, as every senator well knows. Sejanus’ star witness will be turned against him. So I need to take him to Rome, alive.’
Rhoemetalces looked chastened. ‘I will accompany you and speak on your behalf.’
‘That won’t be necessary; a letter will suffice. You should return to Philippopolis and start to heal-’ Asinius stopped abruptly. There was a commotion outside the tent, and then the flaps flew open. In walked Poppaeus, brushing off the lictors’ attempts to stop him.
‘Good evening, Asinius,’ Poppaeus crooned. ‘This is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company here?’
‘Messages for the King and this young tribune, no doubt?’
‘King Rhoemetalces and Tribune Vespasian are, as you know, personal friends of mine.’ Asinius paused; faint shouts and cries were coming from the direction of the fortifications. ‘They are here to pay their respects.’
Vespasian saluted the general, who ignored him and the distant shouting.
‘And Centurion Faustus is also an old acquaintance?’ Poppaeus asked, eyeing Faustus suspiciously.
‘Don’t be absurd, general.’ Asinius was indignant. ‘The centurion is providing a guard for the King, whose bodyguards seem to have gone missing.’
The explanation seemed to satisfy Poppaeus. ‘What news have you brought me from Rome that’s so important that an ex-Consul, no less, is the bearer?’
‘I had hoped for a formal interview, general.’
‘I will have my secretary make an appointment for the morning; in the meantime I would appreciate a verbal summery.’
Asinius looked in the direction of the noise that was now unmistakably the sound of battle.
‘I shouldn’t worry about that, Asinius,’ Poppaeus assured him. ‘It’s just another raid by the few rebels that are left up in the hills, nothing serious.’
‘Very well. In recognition of your glorious recent defeat of the Thracian rebels, the Senate has voted you triumphal honours, which the Emperor has been pleased to confirm.’ Asinius paused as a Poppaeus gave him a self-satisfied smile. ‘The Emperor has requested that you return to Rome immediately to receive the honours.’
‘Return to Rome immediately?’ Poppaeus exploded. ‘Why?’
‘Your report stated that the rebellion was crushed. A little premature, I would say,’ Asinius said, indicating the ever-growing noise from beyond the camp. ‘The Emperor felt that there was evidently nothing left for you to do here, so he has ordered you return to Rome. Pomponius Labeo is to take over your command, with immediate effect.’
‘Pomponius Labeo replaces me! You have done this,’ Poppaeus spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Asinius.
‘Me? I am only the messenger, delivering the good news on my way to my province.’ It was Asinius’ turn to look smug. ‘I have no power over the Emperor’s or the Senate’s wishes. I rather think that it was your exaggerated report that has caused your good fortune.’
Poppaeus clenched his fists and looked for a moment as if he would strike Asinius.
Corbulo’s sudden arrival broke the tension.
‘Sir!’ he said breathlessly. ‘Thank the gods that I’ve found you. Our defensive wall is under attack in four or five places, and has been breached in at least one. It seems that the Thracians have thrown all their remaining troops at us in a final bid to break out.’
Poppaeus looked aghast. ‘Have the men fall in. Senior officers to the praetorium immediately.’
Corbulo snapped a salute and ran out.
‘Tribune, centurion, return to your legion,’ Poppaeus barked, turning towards the exit.
‘It’s too late to really earn those honours, general,’ Asinius purred. ‘You have been relieved of command.’
Poppaeus stopped in the doorway and gave him a black look. ‘Bollocks to your orders! We’ll resume this conversation later.’
He swept out as the bucinae sounded the call to arms throughout the camp.
Asinius shrugged. ‘Disobeying a direct order from the Emperor and the Senate – I do hope he knows what he’s doing. It will be an interesting meeting later.’
He quickly dismissed Faustus and his two men, and then summoned the rest of his lictors. They were not long in arriving.
‘However, this attack is an extraordinary piece of luck,’ Asinius said, beaming at Vespasian. ‘Get Magnus in here.’
Magnus appeared from the sleeping area, having been relieved of his guard duty by two burly lictors.
‘Are we off now, sir? It sounds like we’ve got a bit of a fight on our hands.’
‘You’re staying with me, Magnus,’ Asinius ordered. ‘I have an errand that will suit your skills admirably.’
Vespasian cut off Magnus’ protest. ‘I’ll be fine, my friend; I don’t need you to always nursemaid me around the battlefield. Do as he asks.’
‘If you say so,’ Magnus replied gruffly.
‘I do.’
‘What do you want done, sir?’ Magnus asked grudgingly.
‘I want any letters that link Poppaeus to Sejanus. With the camp almost empty, apart from the slaves, now is the perfect time to break into the praetorium.’
CHAPTER XXVI
Vespasian and Magnus stepped out into the night. It had started to rain. The bellowed orders of the centurions and optiones forming up their men echoed around the camp. The Via Principalis and Via Praetoria were full of legionaries, standing in centuries, buckling on armour and securing helmets, some still chewing on the last mouthfuls of their interrupted dinner. Most of the men knew their places, having been through the drill many times before; it was only the new arrivals who suffered the beatings from the centurions’ vine sticks as they struggled to find their stations in the torch-washed shadows of the camp.
‘Break into the fucking praetorium,’ Magnus grumbled. ‘It’s easy for him to say, but how the fuck am I meant to do that?’
‘His personal correspondence will be locked in a chest in his sleeping area at the back, so cut a hole in the rear of the tent and you should be right there,’ Vespasian suggested.
‘Then I’ve got to break open the chest.’
‘Take a crowbar.’
‘You’re as bad as Asinius, but there’s one problem that neither of you have thought about: how will I know which letters are from Sejanus? I can’t read.’
Vespasian stopped still. ‘You’re joking?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I told you ages ago. Anyway it didn’t occur to me that it would be a problem until just now.’
The senior officers had started to file out of the praetorium. Vespasian shook his head. ‘I’ve got to go and report to Pomponius. Just take anything that has the imperial seal on it or is signed with a name beginning with the letter “S”. That’s the squiggly one that looks a bit like a snake.’
‘That’s a great help, that is. This is going to be a fuck-up.’
On the opposite side of the Via Principalis a tent flap flew open. Four figures emerged into the torchlight; three wore the uniform of the Praetorian Guard. The fourth was in civilian clothes; his hair fell to his shoulders.
‘Hasdro,’ Vespasian muttered under his breath.
The four men crossed to the praetorium and entered without even acknowledging the sentries.
‘Fucking great, now the place is crawling with Praetorians. What do I do now?’
‘I don’t know, just do your best. I’ll see you later. Good luck.’
‘Yeah, and you.’ Magnus slapped Vespasian on the shoulder.
Vespasian crossed the road, weaving through the centuries that were by now formed up ready to move out. He pushed through the IIII Scythica’s public horses, waiting outside the legion’s command tent to be issued to those officers requiring them, and slipped into the briefing just before Pomponius returned from the praetorium.
The assembled officers snapped to attention as their legate entered the tent.
‘At ease, gentlemen,’ Pomponius said, passing through the group. At the far end of the tent he turned to address them, resting his ample behind on the edge of his desk. ‘The bastards have finally plucked up the courage to fight.’ His red, jowly face broke into an excited, piggy-eyed grin. ‘We are to hold the wall to the right-hand side of the gate; the Fifth Macedonica will be on the left. The auxiliary cohorts will cover our flanks. No special orders; just react to circumstances and kill the lot of them. We need to move fast, so return t
o your units. Dismissed! Tribune Vespasian, get a horse and stay with me, you will act as my runner.’
Vespasian sat waiting on his public horse as Pomponius was helped up on to his mount. The rain had increased to a steady downpour, inveigling its way under armour, soaking tunics next to warm skin; steam from thousands of wet, sweating men replaced the smoke in the air from the cooking fires that the rain had doused. A steady series of grating screeches, twangs and thumps indicated that, despite the wet conditions, the artillery in the towers facing the attack had opened up. They fired iron bolts and rounded rocks blindly over the fortifications in the general direction of the enemy, knowing that only in the morning light would they be able to gauge just how successful they had been.
Poppaeus and Corbulo appeared out of the praetorium and swiftly mounted their waiting horses. Poppaeus raised his arm dramatically and threw it forward. A cornu blasted out the six deep, sonorous notes of ‘Advance’. Around the camp the call was repeated by each cohort’s cornicen. The gates on three sides of the camp swung open, the signiferi dipped their standards twice and the lead cohorts began to move forward at the double.
‘Pomponius, follow me,’ Poppaeus ordered, kicking his horse forward and accelerating past the columns of waiting legionaries. Vespasian raced after the command group, out of the camp and towards the defensive wall.
The Thracian attack was concentrated on a mile-wide front, centred on the gates. Despite the rain the wooden ramparts were on fire in several places, silhouetting tiny figures in life-and-death struggles in the sputtering light. In two places, to the right of the gate, there were bulges in the line where the Thracians had breached the wall and the two hard-pressed defending cohorts had been forced to use a couple of precious centuries to contain the breakthrough.
Poppaeus galloped up to the gate, dismounted and clambered up the steps up to the parapet. The wooden walls resounded with the thwack, thwack, thwack of repeated slingshot and arrow hits. The centurion commanding met him with a salute. Behind him his over-stretched men were running to and fro desperately pushing ladders away from the wall, hacking at ropes slung over the breastwork and hefting pila into the massed ranks below.
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