Vespasian: Tribune of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  An hour before dusk they came finally to Poppaeus’ camp. It had been built on the last piece of level ground before the Rhodope range rose from its foothills. Vespasian gawped: it was huge; one mile square, surrounded by a six-foot-deep ditch and ramparts, half turf and half wood, ten feet high. Along their length, every hundred paces, were thirty-foot-high wooden towers, housing ballistae capable of firing bolts or rounded rocks over a quarter of a mile. Barracked within it were the IIII Scythica and the V Macedonica, plus five auxiliary cavalry alae, three auxiliary infantry cohorts, ten smaller units of light archers, slingers and javelin-men and the slaves to serve them all. Two hundred paces in front of it ran the line of the four-mile-long defensive trench and breastwork, constructed to pen the enemy in. It curved away and headed up the mountain, until soft earth gave way to hard granite and sheer cliffs, preventing it from reaching any higher. This too had towers along its length. One hundred paces to either side of the main camp were two smaller constructions, about the same size as Vespasian’s column had built the night before the river battle.

  ‘What are they, Paetus?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you know your Caesar, my dear chap? Build smaller camps within artillery range of the main one and the enemy cannot surround you without being threatened from the rear; not that they’ve got enough men left to surround us, there’s no more than twelve or thirteen thousand left up there.’ He pointed towards the mountains; they looked up. About a thousand feet above Vespasian could see the Thracians’ stronghold surrounded by a sea of tents. It looked comparatively small at a distance but he surmised that up close it must be formidable if it contained all those men and their women and children.

  ‘That would be a tough nut to crack,’ Magnus mused. ‘I can see why the general is happy to sit here and wait for them to come down.’

  ‘But for how long, eh?’ Corbulo said. ‘If the tribes behind us rise we could find ourselves surrounded here by enough men to besiege all three camps, hundreds of miles from the nearest legions in Illyria. That would be a nasty situation.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so,’ Paetus agreed. ‘Very unpleasant indeed.’

  They entered the camp by the Porta Praetoria. Paetus greeted the centurion of the watch’s salute with a cheery wave.

  ‘Good evening, Aulus. Tribune Titus Flavius Vespasianus and his freedman Magnus, Tribune Corbulo and Centurion Faustus, whom you already know, I believe.’

  Aulus’ eyes widened. ‘Faustus, you old dog, we’d given you up for dead, captured by Thracians we heard. In fact we’d already cashed in your funeral fund and had a whip-round to send home to your people in Ostia. We’d better get our money back.’

  Faustus grinned. ‘I want a list of who gave what, that’ll tell me who my friends really are.’

  ‘I’ll do it right now. It won’t take a moment, it’s not long.’

  ‘Sheep-fucker!’

  ‘Sailor’s tart!’

  ‘Nice as it is to stand here exchanging pleasantries with old friends,’ Paetus interjected, ‘we do need to report to the general. Where is he?’

  ‘In the praetorium, sir. Good to see you back, Faustus.’

  As they moved off Vespasian noticed that apart from a perfunctory salute Aulus did nothing to register his pleasure at Corbulo’s return.

  Inside the camp the bustle of military life was progressing on a greater scale than Vespasian had ever seen before; there were literally thousands of men. In the hundred paces between the gate and the first of the two thousand or so tents centuries were being drilled, the shouts and screams of their centurions and optiones ringing in their ears. Fatigue parties were filling in old latrines and digging new ones. The night patrols of light infantry were being assembled and briefed by their officers. Cavalry turmae, just arrived in from day patrolling, were unsaddling their mounts as slaves waited to take them to the horse-lines for grooming.

  Vespasian eagerly took in all he saw whilst trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. They followed the Via Praetoria down through lines and lines of eight-man papiliones. To their right were billeted the IIII Scythica and on their left the V Macedonica. Outside each papilio the contubernium’s slaves were busy making fires in preparation for the evening meal. Groups of legionaries, already dismissed for the evening, sat polishing armour, cleaning weapons and gear or playing dice. All around their voices could be heard arguing or jesting; the occasional fight that broke out was quickly stopped by the optiones. Vespasian saw at least two miscreants being led off, with hands tied behind their backs, to the jeers of watching soldiers.

  They neared the centre of the camp and the tents became larger as they entered the realm of the staff officers and tribunes. At the junction of the Via Praetoria and the Via Principalis in the centre of the camp stood the praetorium, a fifteen-foot-high, fifty-foot-square red-leather tent, decorated with black and gold trimmings, where Poppaeus had his headquarters.

  Paetus dismissed his turma, then he dismounted and walked up to the two legionaries guarding the entrance. Vespasian and his comrades followed. The guards saluted.

  ‘Cavalry Prefect Paetus, Tribunes Corbulo and Vespasian and Centurion Faustus request an interview with the general,’ Paetus reported.

  One of the guards went inside to announce them.

  ‘I think that means that you’re not invited,’ Vespasian whispered to Magnus.

  ‘Suits me, sir, I was never too fond of generals. I’ll get the horses stabled.’

  Shortly, the guard came back out with a well-dressed slave.

  ‘Good evening, sirs, I am Kratos, the general’s secretary. The general will see you presently. Please follow me.’

  He ushered them into a short leather-walled corridor, and then turned left through a door into a small, marble-floored antechamber illuminated by a dozen oil lamps. A number of chairs were laid out around the walls.

  ‘Please take a seat, sirs.’

  Kratos clapped his hands twice, sharply, and from another entrance four more slaves, of a much lowlier rank, appeared, each bearing a bowl of warm water and a towel for the visitors to wash their hands and faces. That done, two more slaves appeared with cups, wine and water. Once they had been served Kratos bowed.

  ‘My master will not keep you waiting long,’ he said, and left the room.

  Vespasian sipped his wine and stared at the marble floor, resisting the urge to touch it to check its authenticity.

  ‘The whole praetorium is floored with marble,’ Corbulo said. ‘Poppaeus likes his creature comforts. It breaks down into five-foot squares that are laid on a wooden frame. It takes five ox-carts to move it around, but he won’t do without it. It would be beneath his dignitas to conduct business on skins or rugs.’

  ‘It must cost a fortune,’ Vespasian replied.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, the general’s filthy rich. New money, though,’ Paetus said cheerily. ‘Silver mines in Hispania. He’s got nothing to worry about.’

  Kratos reappeared when they were halfway through their wine. ‘Follow me, sirs.’

  He led them back out into the corridor, which they followed to its end, then they went through another door. They stepped into the main room of the tent, but it was as if they had stepped into a palace lit by a plethora of oil lamps. The poles that supported the roof were marble columns with beautifully finished bases. The walls were adorned with finely woven tapestries and frescoes mounted on boards. Luxurious furniture, from all over the Empire and beyond, was scattered around, forming various different-sized seating areas, but leaving the centre of the room clear. In the far left-hand corner was a low dining table surrounded by three large, plush couches and, in the right-hand corner a solid, dark wooden desk stood at an angle, covered with scrolls.

  Kratos left them standing in the middle of the room as he went and sat discreetly behind a small desk, just to the left of his master’s, and began sharpening a stylus.

  A door at the far end of the room opened and in walked Gaius Poppaeus Sabinus. Vespasian managed to
suppress a gasp as he snapped to attention, helmet cradled under his left arm. Poppaeus was barely five feet tall. Although greying and in his mid-fifties, he looked a child in a general’s uniform. It was no wonder that that he worked so hard on the external appearance of his dignitas.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen, this is a surprise – not you obviously, Paetus, you’ll only surprise me when you stop being such verbose clot.’

  ‘Indeed, general.’ Paetus showed no sign of rising to the insult. Vespasian wondered if Kratos had noted down that remark.

  ‘Come forward, please,’ Poppaeus said, seating himself behind the desk.

  They stepped forward and stood in a row in front of the diminutive general. He didn’t ask them to sit down; if he always had to look up at people he obviously preferred to do it from a position of power, seated behind a big desk.

  ‘Make your report, prefect, and make it brief.’

  ‘We patrolled between here and Philippopolis yesterday, saw nothing unusual, came back today, saw nothing unusual, apart from four men who were supposed to be dead, sir!’ Paetus managed to walk the fine line between mocking insolence and military brevity.

  Poppaeus scowled. That he hated this affable young patrician was obvious; that Paetus didn’t care was equally obvious. He knew that since he came from an ancient family like the Junii a New Man like Poppaeus would find it hard to touch him.

  ‘Very good, prefect,’ Poppaeus said with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Dismissed.’

  ‘Sir! Thank you, sir!’ Paetus bawled in his best centurion voice, turned on his heel and marched smartly out.

  Poppaeus winced, then he gathered himself and looked slowly from Corbulo to Faustus and finally let his sharp, black eyes rest on Vespasian.

  ‘Well, tribune? Report.’

  ‘Tribunus Angusticlavius Titus Flavius Vespasianus, reporting for duty with the Legio Quarta Scythica, sir.’

  ‘Ah, Marcus Asinius Agrippa’s young protégé. He wrote Legate Pomponius Labeo a very insistent letter recommending you. Why do you suppose he was so keen for him to take you on to his staff?’

  ‘I wanted a posting where there would be some fighting, sir, not just frontier duty.’

  ‘A young fire-breather, are you? From the country, judging by your accent. Well, you’ll see some action here, but you haven’t answered my question. Why did Asinius help you? What are you to him?’

  ‘My uncle Gaius Vespasius Pollo is his client,’ Vespasian lied; it would be a convincing enough reason for Asinius to promote his career.

  Poppaeus stared hard at him for a moment and then, apparently satisfied with this explanation, nodded. ‘Very well, I am pleased to have you here, tribune. After you have been dismissed report to Pomponius Labeo, at the Fourth Scythica principia. He will assign you your duties, which will be minimal; you are here to learn, don’t you forget that.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Vespasian saluted.

  Poppaeus then turned his attention to Faustus. ‘Well, centurion, I’m happy to see you, and I’m sure that Pomponius and the men and officers of the Fourth Scythica will be pleased to have their primus pilus back, apart from the acting primus pilus, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Faustus snapped a salute.

  Poppaeus turned to Corbulo. ‘Tribune, I’m intrigued to know how you all come to be still alive. Tribune Gallus was convinced that you had been taken prisoner. Begin your report, please.’

  Corbulo started the story from the moment he’d left Poppaeus’ headquarters in Moesia to travel to Genua, six months previously. He made it as brief as possible, including only the important details. He did however mention Vespasian’s late arrival, which caused Poppaeus to raise an eyebrow and look shrewdly at Vespasian. He also commended Vespasian for his actions at the river, and detailed how Caenis’ amulet had saved them, although he did not mention that Caenis was Antonia’s slave. Neither did he mention the chest of denarii.

  After almost half an hour he finished.

  Poppaeus sat in silence for a few moments digesting the report, and then, to Vespasian’s surprise, dismissed them without asking any questions about the state of the Caenii’s revolt. As they turned to go Corbulo spoke.

  ‘General, I request a private interview. Completely private.’ He looked towards Kratos.

  ‘I see,’ Poppaeus said slowly. ‘This is most irregular, tribune.’

  ‘What I have to say is for your ears only.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you, Kratos.’

  Kratos put down his stylus and showed Vespasian and Faustus out.

  It was dark when they emerged from the tent. Magnus was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘We’d better report to Pomponius now, sir,’ Faustus reminded him. ‘The Fourth Scythica’s headquarters will be this way.’

  An hour later, after a long wait and a brief interview with a half-drunk and extremely disinterested Pomponius, Faustus dropped Vespasian off at the IIII Scythica’s tribunes’ lines. Magnus was already there, having requisitioned him a tent, busying himself cooking the evening meal.

  ‘I managed to get hold of some fresh pork and some lentils and onions and this.’

  He threw him a skin of wine. Vespasian sat by the fire and gratefully poured himself a cup.

  ‘How was the general?’ Magnus asked, dropping cubed pork into the hot olive oil in the pot, and stirring it as it sizzled.

  ‘He listened to Corbulo’s report and then dismissed us. He wasn’t interested in the Caenii’s revolt at all.’

  ‘Perhaps he got all he needed to know from Gallus.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps, but if it had been me I would have wanted to know as many details as possible.’

  ‘But it wasn’t you, and the general’s problem is here, not with the Caenii – they’re miles away.’

  Before he could argue Corbulo joined them. ‘I need to talk to you, Vespasian.’

  ‘Sit down, then, and have a cup of wine.’

  ‘I mean alone.’

  ‘Magnus is fine, he knows all our business.’

  Corbulo looked at the ex-boxer and, remembering how Magnus had dealt with the Thracian guards, managed to overcome his aristocratic prejudices. He sat down on a stool and took the cup of wine that Vespasian proffered.

  ‘I told Poppaeus about the Thracian denarii and how they got it,’ he said quietly, as if anyone would overhear them in the dull roar of twenty thousand men eating their evening meals. ‘I said that it was only me that saw it, the rest of you were all outside the tent, and I said nothing to you about it after.’

  ‘That was probably a good move, sir,’ Magnus said, adding the onions to the pot.

  Corbulo scowled at him, unused to someone so lowly being a part of his conversations. ‘Yes, well, I thought it best. Poppaeus pushed me on this point but I think that he believed me because I had insisted on telling him about it privately, and after all why should I lie?’

  ‘So why did you?’ Vespasian asked.

  ‘I had just started to tell Poppaeus about the chest when a slave walked into the room from the sleeping quarters at the back. Poppaeus shouted at him to get out, and he ran out through the main door. As he left the room I glimpsed Kratos and another man through the door. They were eavesdropping. I recognised the other man from Rome. And then I remembered Coronus’ description of the fourth Roman who came with the chest: powerfully built, dark-skinned, with long black hair and a small beard. It had to be the same man – he’s Sejanus’ freedman, Hasdro.’

  Vespasian shot Magnus a warning look; he nodded and began to add water to his pot. ‘Go on,’ he said to Corbulo.

  ‘Well, if Sejanus’ freedman did deliver the money to the Caenii, to pay them to kill Poppaeus’ reinforcements, why is he now here? And why did Kratos let him listen to my private conversation?’

  ‘So you think that Kratos is in league with Hasdro?’ Vespasian was intrigued.

  ‘It’s a possibility; Hasdro certainly seems to have access to enough money to buy the loyalty of a slave. If it’s true, then
Poppaeus and I are in danger of being murdered for what we know. So I decided that the best thing to do to protect myself and you, knowing that Kratos and Hasdro were listening, was to say nothing about its link to Sejanus, and that I didn’t know who had delivered it to the Caenii, and that no one else saw it.’ Corbulo drained his cup.

  ‘That was good of you, Corbulo.’ Vespasian passed him the wineskin.

  ‘What did Poppaeus say about the chest?’ Magnus asked, adding the lentils and some lovage to the bubbling pot.

  Corbulo sipped his wine and thought for a moment. ‘He made me swear to tell no one. He’s anxious that it should be kept secret whilst he pursues his own investigation, which won’t get far if Kratos has anything to do with it.’ He took a slug of wine and shook his head. ‘The Greek bastard,’ he exclaimed vehemently. ‘He is involved with Hasdro and Sejanus, I’m sure of it, and will try to cover up the attempt to have us all killed.’

  CHAPTER XXV

  POMPONIUS’ MORNING BRIEFING of the officers of the IIII Scythica was, true to its name, brief. Vespasian was detailed to accompany Paetus on a patrol beyond the trench and breastwork fortifications.

  ‘I’m surprised that he even remembered you were here,’ Paetus chuckled as they rode through the Porta Principalis at the head of two turmae of his Illyrian auxiliaries. ‘You must have made quite an impression on the drunken old fool last night.’

  ‘He barely looked at me,’ Vespasian replied. He didn’t mind; he was just pleased to be getting away from the smells and noise of the camp.

  They rode the few hundred paces from the camp up to the main gate in the four-mile-long construction. Paetus gave another cheery wave to the centurion of the watch and showed his pass. The gates swung open and they rode through.

  ‘I don’t know what Pomponius thinks we can achieve here,’ Paetus said, slowing his horse to a trot as the ground became rougher. ‘It’s not cavalry country: too steep and too many rocks. Still, it will keep the men out of trouble and exercise the horses. We’ll ride up closer to the Thracians’ stronghold; it’s really quite impressive, worth a look.’