Rome's executioner

CHAPTER IIII

The rain had not let up for two days and nights and had now turned into a thick, slushy sleet. The column had started to ascend the winding road that led up to the Succi Pass over a thousand feet above them. The men’s morale was not good; apart from being soaked and chilled to the bone the spectre of unseen killers lurking close by unsettled them as much as had the mutilation of their comrade. The scout had been able to tell them very little as he could not write; however, he could nod and was able to confirm, before he died from blood loss, that there had been only two attackers, they had both been mounted and that they had indeed been wearing trousers. Vespasian had recalled the other scouts, deciding that it was pointless risking any more men to locate an enemy that could so easily kill twice their number from a distance. He had thought about sending out his Thracians but their lives were more valuable to him than those of the Illyrian auxiliaries — whom he wished were horse-archers to match these ethereal hunters, even though to his way of thinking that method of fighting seemed dishonourable. He reasoned, however, that if the Getae were still tracking the column they would no doubt show themselves sooner or later and then safety would lie in speed of reaction and in numbers; but it was nonetheless a humiliation that just two men could strike such fear into a column of over forty.

As they climbed higher the sleet thickened into snow and the column was forced to slow to a walk to protect their horses from laming themselves on unseen rocks beneath the rapidly thickening white carpet. Vespasian brushed away the snow that had settled uncomfortably in his lap and turned to Magnus, who rode, head bowed, next to him and asked: ‘How have you been getting on with our four legionaries?’

‘They’re a good bunch of lads. It turns out that Lucius — the one who drew the long straw and is fucking lucky to be here and knows it’s down to you that he is — well, he used to be a stable lad for the Greens back in Rome before he signed up. He still has a lot of contacts with them and has promised me some introductions when he gets back to Rome, could be very useful for tips and suchlike before the race days, then I can get advance bets down at better odds than you get at the track.’

Vespasian smiled despite the pain it caused his cracked and chapped lips. ‘He sounds like a useful friend to have,’ he replied with more than a hint of sarcasm, ‘if you’re intent on wasting your money gambling.’

‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t understand, would you? I don’t think that I’ve ever seen the inside of your purse. Anyway, suffice it to say that he knows that he owes you, as do Varinus and the two other lads, Arruns and Mettius. None of them bear any love for Caelus, so if it comes to a confrontation they’ll be with you.’

‘That’s good to know, although our friend seems to be keeping himself to himself.’

Magnus looked back to Caelus, who was shrouded in his cloak and hunched over his horse. ‘Perhaps the weather has taken the fight out of the centurion.’

‘I doubt it, but for the moment it’s certainly taken the centurion out of the fight.’

By the time they had reached the entrance to the pass the snow was falling thick and fast. Their misery was compounded by a howling northwesterly gale that was funnelled down its length creating blizzard conditions. Vespasian paused the column and leant across to Tinos beside him. ‘What do you think, decurion?’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the roaring wind. ‘Do we pull back and find some shelter in the lee of the mountains and wait for it to die down, or should we press on?’

‘This could carry on for a couple of hours or a couple of days,’ Tinos shouted back. His eyelashes and nostrils were covered with small icicles. ‘If we wait we could get snowed in and in all likelihood be frozen to death; we either go all the way back down or we have to press on. The pass is only five miles long; with luck we could make it through in less than two hours.’

Vespasian cupped his purpled hands to his mouth and blew into them as he looked ahead into the teeth of the blizzard; it was almost a total white-out, but he knew that the pass was straight and never more than thirty paces wide so they would not get lost. He made his decision. Tinos was right; it was just a question of keeping going. ‘We go on,’ he ordered. Tinos nodded and moved off.

Vespasian urged his reluctant horse follow with a couple of sharp kicks. Its ears flattened back in displeasure but after a few more kicks it begrudgingly consented to move forward.

After a few hundred paces of unremitting freezing torture he became aware of a rider trying to catch up with him. He turned in the saddle; it was Caelus.

‘This is madness,’ the snow-covered centurion shouted. ‘We should turn back now.’

‘You can if you want to, centurion, but we’re going on.’

Caelus had managed to draw level. ‘Why? What’s the hurry? We could get back to the camp and try again when the snow stops and the pass is clear.’

‘The pass might not reopen again for days, maybe even a month,’ Vespasian bellowed, pushing his horse on through the driving snow. ‘We have to take this chance to get through.’

‘The men’s request to Pomponius can wait another month; why are you risking all these lives for such a small thing?’

Vespasian realised that he had no logical answer that would satisfy Caelus; he could only resort to rank and bluster. ‘You will stop questioning my orders and motives, centurion, or by the gods below I will see you busted, whoever may be protecting you.’

Caelus glared at him, full of suspicion. ‘Don’t give me that shit.’ His hand went for his sword. ‘Just what are you up to, Vespasian?’

‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Caelus,’ Magnus yelled from behind Caelus, pressing the freezing flat of his sword against the centurion’s thigh. ‘There’s nothing to hold me back if you draw that sword; I ain’t under military discipline.’

Caelus spun round to face him. ‘Then you keep out of this, civilian, this is a military matter.’

‘It may well be, but I’ve still got my sword on your thigh, and if it were to slip and I cut your leg open, you know, just at the place where the blood always squirts out thick and fast, then at this temperature you’d be dead before we could get you to a surgeon.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, just like you weren’t threatening the tribune.’

Caelus pushed his half-drawn weapon back into its scabbard and turned back to Vespasian. ‘I shall be making a report about your recklessness to Poppaeus if and when we get to Moesia,’ he spat as he pulled his mount away.

‘I’m sure you will, centurion,’ Vespasian called after him, ‘no doubt the first of many, but it’s the legate of our legion, Pomponius, you should report to, unless of course you have other allegiances.’ Whether Caelus heard him or not as he retook his place in the column, Vespasian did not know or care; he cursed himself for making it so obvious to Caelus that he had an ulterior motive.

‘When I saw him come up to you I thought I’d better come and keep an eye on him,’ Magnus shouted against the wind, sheathing his sword.

‘I had the situation under control,’ Vespasian yelled angrily.

‘Well, I won’t bother next time if you think that a centurion drawing a sword on a tribune is a situation in control.’

Vespasian turned away, furious with himself and regretting taking his frustration out on his friend. Gritting his teeth and squinting his eyes against the biting wind, he concentrated on keeping his horse moving forward. The snow was now well above the fetlocks and approaching the animals’ knees; they were all starting to struggle in the worsening conditions. Vespasian pushed his horse up next to Tinos.

‘How far do you reckon we’ve gone?’ he shouted, his voice now barely audible in what had become a gale.

‘About a mile I’d guess.’

‘With four miles to go and the snow getting deeper all the time I’m beginning to have serious doubts about making it through.’

‘One thing’s for certain: if the snow gets too far above the horses’ knees we’ll be forced to dismount and lead them whichever way we go.’ Tinos jerked savagely and then looked down in surprise at the arrow embedded in his chest. Blood began to seep from the corners of his mouth and nostrils; he slid to the ground.

Vespasian spun his horse around. ‘Get back; ambush!’ he bellowed, sensing rather than seeing or hearing another arrow pass a hand’s breadth to the left of him. Magnus and Sabinus needed no urging to turn, having been close enough to see Tinos fall but behind them the column was in chaos. Caelus, the four legionaries and the first of the Illyrians had obeyed the order to turn but were being prevented from falling back by a press of horsemen pushing forward from the rear out of the cloud of snow.

‘Turn around, spread out and go back,’ Vespasian cried as he tried to force his horse through the confusion. An arrow hammered into a legionary propelling him forward off his horse, which reared up on its hind legs, terrified by the escalating panic; its forelegs thrashed in front of it knocking an auxiliary trooper senseless. Vespasian could see that they were getting nowhere; the rear of the column was still pushing forward. He pulled out his hunting bow, notched an arrow and looked desperately around above him for the source of the attack; he could see nothing but driving snow. Sitalces appeared through the chaos, bow in hand.

‘Why the fuck aren’t you turning around?’ Vespasian shouted.

‘We’re being attacked from the rear, sir, I can’t see from where; I’ve lost one of my men already.’

It then became horribly clear to him: they were trapped in a defile by just two unseen archers, and were unable to move quickly enough in either direction to avoid losing a lot of men.

‘Dismount and get to the sides of the pass,’ he ordered at the top of his voice, leaping to the ground. The command filtered through the disordered column and men jumped from their horses and ran towards the relative shelter of the steep walls of the pass.

Vespasian’s back slammed against the bank next to Caelus and the three surviving legionaries in a flurry of snow, his breath steamed from him after the exertion of running through knee-deep drifts.

‘I hope you think this is worth it,’ the centurion spat, ‘we’re losing a lot of men because of your impatience.’

‘Now is not the time for recriminations, centurion; we need to work together if we’re going to get out of this mess.’

‘And a right fucking mess it is too.’

Vespasian could not argue, he had led them into this thinking that the Getae would be just as hampered by the conditions as they were; well, they were not and now it was down to him to save as many of the column as possible.

Sabinus, Magnus and a couple of auxiliary troopers joined them as another trooper fell to the ground just short of safety; blood from his skewered neck seeped into the powdery snow turning it bright red. Judging by the direction of the shot Vespasian could tell that it came from almost directly above him.

‘They have to be fucking close to be able to pick targets through this blizzard, so if they can see us why can’t we see them?’ Magnus puffed trying to regain his breath.

‘I saw these conditions sometimes when I was serving in Pannonia,’ Sabinus replied, as Sitalces, Artebudz and the surviving Thracians came running in, using their terrified horses as cover. ‘It’s a lot easier seeing down into a snowstorm than up or through it, there’s less glare and the snow doesn’t get in your eyes as much.’

‘Then we have to somehow get above them,’ Vespasian reasoned. ‘Sitalces, you and your men get your bows. From which side did the shots that hit the rear of the column come?’

‘From the other side, sir,’ Sitalces replied, attaching his quiver to his belt as his men did the same and removed their sleek recurved bows from the cases on their saddles.

‘Bugger it, the bastards have thought this through. We’ll have to split up. Sabinus, I’ll take Artebudz, Sitalces and Magnus and deal with the man on the other side, you take the other three Thracians and get the bastard above us.’

Caelus looked at Vespasian quizzically; he started to say something but thought better of it.

Sabinus grinned. ‘All right, little brother, it’s going to be a race, is it?’

‘Think of it in whatever terms you like, Sabinus, but we need to do it quickly before we’re snowed in; we’ll meet back here and I can assure you that there’ll be no prizes for being last.’ Vespasian allowed himself a grim smile at his brother before turning to Caelus. ‘You take the legionaries and go forward; find those bastards’ horses and bring them back here. They must be further up the pass somewhere as we didn’t pass them and they can’t have taken them up above with them, it’s too steep.’

Caelus did not argue and started to lead his men forward, hugging the bank. The two auxiliary troopers looked at Vespasian expectantly waiting for their orders.

‘You two, find as many of your comrades as you can, then send out parties to round up our horses.’ Vespasian gestured to the group of horses that was milling aimlessly around what had been the killing ground. ‘Don’t worry about those, you’ll get shot. They’re not going anywhere, just the ones that have run off forward or back, understand?’

The two Illyrians saluted and started to make their way forward.

Vespasian turned in the opposite direction. ‘Come on, let’s get this done.’

It was easier making their way back down the pass with the wind and snow howling in from behind them but their lower limbs were starting to suffer; although they were all wearing woollen socks with their sandals and had smeared a liberal amount of pork grease over their legs that morning before making the ascent to the pass, their feet were achingly cold. After a couple of hundred trudging paces, accompanied by the fear of an arrow thudding in from the opposite bank, they passed the last dead horse, just visible as a dark form through the snow; Vespasian judged that they had gone far enough to outflank the rear man. They left the semi-protection of the bank and made the crossing to the far side in an undignified manner: taking long strides and pulling their feet up as high as possible in order to move as quickly as they could over the deep powder-snow; now fearful all the time of an arrow from either direction. After a short search they found an area of the bank less steep than the rest and climbable.

‘I’ll go up first,’ Vespasian said.

Artebudz stepped forward. ‘Sir, I come from the mountains in the province of Noricum. I know about climbing and hunting in mountains, I should lead.’

Mightily relieved, Vespasian acquiesced. ‘Good man; we need to get up high enough so we can’t see the pass, then we’ll know that we’re above him and we’ll start to work our way back at different levels in pairs.’

Vespasian followed Artebudz up the treacherous incline. His teeth were chattering and his fingers numb; he was finding it very difficult to keep up with the nimble ex-slave as he expertly negotiated his way from one foothold to the next. As they climbed the wind grew stronger and buffeted him, tugging at his cloak, which billowed out like a loose sail, pulling him to his right and threatening to unbalance him. He gritted his teeth and forced the stiff muscles in his arms and legs to keep working as they pulled and pushed his body ever higher. Occasionally he risked a downward glance, past Magnus and Sitalces, but although the opposite bank was soon obscured the track down the middle of the pass stayed visible for what felt like an age; Sabinus had been right, it was easier to look down through a snowstorm. As he climbed, he marvelled at the skill of the Getic archers being able to hit targets below them with such a strong crosswind. Then he realised that it had been the crosswind that had saved him; the first arrow had been meant for him, not Tinos. He muttered a prayer of thanks to Fortuna for her continued protection.

After they had ascended a hundred feet or so the pass eventually disappeared into the white-out and Vespasian called a halt. ‘Right, that’s enough,’ he wheezed as he sucked in the razor-sharp, frozen air that his body craved after so much effort. ‘Artebudz and I will go up a little further and then start working our way back. Magnus, you and Sitalces stay on this level and keep slightly behind us.’

Magnus looked less than pleased to be left alone with the huge Thracian on a slippery steep slope. Sitalces picked up on it and grinned maliciously at him. ‘Don’t worry, Roman, you’re safe until this is over; besides, I might need you to grab on to if I fall.’

‘I won’t be able to help you if you do.’ Magnus smiled back innocently. ‘I’ve seen how quickly and heavily you go down.’

Sitalces grunted, trying not to enjoy the banter.

‘I can see that you’ll be best of friends by the time we’re finished,’ Vespasian observed, getting up stiffly. ‘Now let’s get going before our balls freeze off.’

With a monumental effort he followed Artebudz up another fifteen feet and then they started to make their way stealthily towards the ambush point. Artebudz held his bow ready drawn, continually pointing it in different directions as he traversed the sharp incline; his natural agility and obvious familiarity with hunting in mountainous terrain enabled him to keep his footing without the use of his hands; Vespasian, who was not so sure-footed, used his right hand to steady himself whilst holding his undrawn bow with a ready notched arrow in his left. He looked down behind him and could see that Magnus and Sitalces were having just as much difficulty negotiating the traverse.

After they had gone about fifty stumbling paces the wind suddenly started to drop and the snow became less horizontal; visibility began to clear so that the opposite slope and the dead bodies down in the pass soon became discernible. After a few more paces Artebudz stopped abruptly, squatted down on to his haunches and pointed to his nose.

‘I can smell him,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘He must be directly upwind.’

Vespasian signalled Magnus and Sitalces to halt and get down, and then sniffed the calmer air; he suddenly caught an unmistakable whiff of the same heady stench that had emanated from the dead Geta in the forest. ‘How far away?’

Artebudz pointed directly ahead. ‘What’s that there, about thirty paces away?’

Vespasian followed the line of Artebudz’s finger; at first he could see nothing through the now gently falling snowflakes, then he noticed a small movement as if the settled snow itself had twitched. After a few more moments he could make out, next to a large boulder five paces across embedded in the hillside, a smaller hump, about the size of a man, comprised of two different shades and textures of white, one of snow and the other, slightly darker, of white dyed wool.

Vespasian nodded at Artebudz; they took aim and released. The arrows flew directly at the centre of the hump and disappeared right through, dislodging most of the snow that had collected on it and exposing it as a makeshift shelter made of a white woollen blanket draped over an upright pole.

‘Shit!’ Vespasian spat; then, in a moment of clarity, he realised that they had just announced their presence to the unseen danger that must be lurking behind the boulder. ‘Down!’ he roared hitting the ground as the Getic archer, in a blur of motion, appeared over the boulder and released an arrow that disappeared into the snow just where Vespasian had stood an instant earlier.

Caught on the open slope with no cover Vespasian knew there was only one course of action. ‘Keep your bow aimed at where he appeared and cover me,’ he whispered to Artebudz. ‘I’m going forward.’ Leaving his bow on the ground, he eased his gladius from its scabbard and, signalling to Magnus and Sitalces to skirt around below the boulder, started to make his way, at a crawl, towards it.

By the time he was halfway his clothes were soaked with freezing slush and his bronze breastplate felt like a huge lump of ice sucking what little warmth remained in him out through his chest. Vespasian was close enough now not to be seen by the archer unless the man stood up, exposing himself to Artebudz’s bow and certain death; so he risked a slouched run for the last fifteen paces. He reached the boulder as a double twang of bowstrings told of another exchange of fire between Artebudz and their quarry. Magnus and Sitalces were ten paces below and almost level with him, they drew their bows and slowly crept forward to try for a clear shot behind the boulder. The wind had now completely stopped and the hillside had descended into the eerie silence that accompanies gently falling snow. The stench of the Geta was overpowering. Vespasian held his breath and started to inch his way silently downhill around the huge rock. At the point of rounding the boulder he paused, mentally preparing himself for close combat. He tightened his grip around his sword hilt and nodded to Magnus and Sitalces; they leapt forward, releasing two quickly aimed shots before throwing themselves down into the snow. An instant later the Getic archer’s bowstring thrummed in reply; Vespasian hurtled around the corner and pounced on the man just as he was pulling another arrow from his quiver. With no time to go for his dagger the Geta thrust the barbed tip of the arrow at Vespasian’s chest. It connected with his breastplate and, as Vespasian pushed himself forward so that his weight forced his sword up under the archer’s ribs, the arrow slid off the metal and embedded itself in his left shoulder. A violent shiver of pain rushed through Vespasian’s body as the razor-sharp arrowhead struck bone but he pressed home his attack, driving his sword on up and into his opponent’s heart, which exploded with a rush of hot blood over his sword arm. The archer let off a gurgling scream, his rank breath clouding Vespasian’s senses as they fell, coupled by iron, to the ground.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Magnus puffed as he and Sitalces pulled Vespasian off the dead Getic warrior.

‘Apart from this thing in my shoulder, yes, I think so,’ Vespasian replied as Artebudz joined them. He examined the arrow and then gave it a sharp tug. It came out easily, but not without pain; the bone in his shoulder had prevented it from burying itself deep enough for the barb to have become entangled in flesh.

Blood seeped gently from the wound. Artebudz took a handful of snow. ‘Hold that there until we get back down and I can dress it properly,’ he said, pressing it on the opening. Vespasian did as he was told and for the first time that day felt comforted by the snow as it took the heat out of the wound and gradually numbed the area, easing the pain. He looked down at the stinking, dead man at his feet. His sea-grey eyes stared sightlessly up at the falling snow; snowflakes settled on his eyelashes; his lips, just visible through a long and bushy black beard, had already started to turn blue. Over his clothes he wore a white blanket, now stained with blood, with a hole cut in the middle for his head; the circular waste material had been stitched on to his cap, camouflaging him almost completely.

‘Very clever,’ Vespasian said admiringly. ‘No wonder we couldn’t see them. Let’s get back and see how Sabinus has done.’ With his toe he lifted the blanket and flicked it back over the man’s face. As he turned to leave, something poking out from beneath the blanket caught Vespasian’s eye. He knelt down and pushed the blanket further back. Beneath was a cylindrical red-leather case about a foot long.

‘What the fuck’s he doing with this?’ Vespasian exclaimed, picking the tube up.

‘That’s a military despatches case, isn’t it?’ Magnus said, equally surprised. ‘What good would it be to these savages? They can’t read.’

‘Neither can you.’

‘Fair point.’

‘It must be from the couriers that were intercepted; Paetus told me about them, poor buggers. We’ll look at it later. Let’s go.’ He slipped the case under his belt and started to make the steep, snow-ridden descent.

The snow had completely stopped and the clouds were breaking up by the time they got back to the rendezvous point. The surviving Illyrian troopers had finished rounding up the horses and Caelus and the three legionaries were already back with the Getae’s mounts: squat, hardy-looking beasts with thick, rough coats.

Artebudz set about cleaning and dressing Vespasian’s wound. He had just finished binding it with a bandage when Sabinus and the other Thracians came in.

‘All done?’ Vespasian asked his brother through chattering teeth; the adrenalin-fuelled heat of close combat had worn off and they were all now freezing again, despite the sun breaking through.

‘Yes, just; but as I always say, just is good enough. Tricky bastard though, he very nearly had Bryzos here,’ Sabinus replied, pointing to Sitalces’ ginger-bearded mate, who grinned viciously.

‘Drenis and Ziles need a bit of target practice,’ Bryzos said. His two dark-haired compatriots looked suitably sheepish. ‘Only one of them managed to hit the bastard before I took him from behind; he was barely wounded and he fought like a lion. I got the stinking heathen, though.’ He lifted a bloody scalp that hung from his belt.

‘Heathen?’ Vespasian looked at Bryzos quizzically. ‘I thought all the Thracian tribes had the same gods.’

‘Not the Getae,’ Bryzos replied, spitting on the ground. ‘They rejected all our gods except one, Zalmoxis. The fools, how can there be just one god?’

‘What’s your chief priest doing with them, then?’

‘We don’t know or care,’ Sitalces said, also spitting on the ground, ‘but the fact that he is makes him an apostate in our eyes and so we no longer fear him.’

Vespasian nodded and gave orders to strap the dead, seven in all, on to the spare mounts; they would cremate them when they got down from the pass. As he mounted his horse he felt relieved of one of his concerns: he had been secretly worried that when it came to the final reckoning Rhoteces would put the fear of the gods into the Thracians and they would prevent him from being captured. From what Vespasian knew of the Thracian gods they were a pretty grisly lot and not to be crossed.

The column moved out and, with the ever-brightening conditions, began to make good headway along the pass as it cut straight through the snow-covered mountains, which were now bathing majestically in dazzling, clear sunlight under an azure sky.

As they approached the far end Vespasian, riding between Magnus and Sabinus, remembered the despatch case and pulled it from his belt.

‘What’s that?’ Sabinus asked.

‘I don’t know, we found it on the archer,’ Vespasian replied, slipping off the lid and shaking it upside down; a scroll fell into his lap. He picked it up and looked at the seal.‘Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus,’ he read out loud. ‘Shit, that’s Antonia’s son.’

‘And an idiot from all accounts, or at least he pretends to be,’ Sabinus informed him, ‘but the consensus of opinion is that you have to be an idiot in the first place to be able to play the idiot; at least that’s what Antonia says.’

‘Who’s he writing to?’ Magnus asked, leaning over to look at the seal.

Sabinus looked at Vespasian. ‘There’s only one way to find out, are you up to opening private letters from a member of the imperial family, little brother?’

Vespasian contemplated that for a moment. ‘If we don’t open it we won’t know who to deliver it to.’ He broke the seal, then scanned the scroll and whistled softly.

‘Well?’ Magnus asked.

‘It’s to Poppaeus, and it’s not signed by Claudius but by someone called Boter, and apart from the greeting and the signature it seems to be all in a code of some sort.’

‘Now that is interesting,’ Sabinus mused. ‘Boter is one of Claudius’ freedmen; I’ve not met him, but Pallas knows him. A few years back he got Claudius’ first wife pregnant. Surprisingly, Claudius didn’t do anything to Boter at the time, but now I think I can see why: with that sort of hold over the man Claudius can use him to do his dirty work, then if it goes wrong he can distance himself from it by saying that he’s been set up by a resentful member of his household. Boter goes down and Claudius has his revenge and is in the clear at the same time. Very crafty.’

‘Do you think that he could be going behind Claudius’ back?’ Magnus asked.

‘He could be; Pallas says that he’s very ambitious.’ Sabinus stopped and thought for a few moments. ‘No, he wouldn’t have used Claudius’ seal if he was; this letter must have been written with Claudius’ knowledge. However, as it isn’t signed by Claudius but bears his seal it’s at the same time both authentic and deniable. Perhaps he really isn’t the idiot that everyone takes him for. I think we had better hang on to this and show it to Antonia when we get back; Pallas will probably be able to break the code.’

‘Why he should be writing to Poppaeus in code unless he’s working in league with him and Sejanus?’ Vespasian asked, replacing the scroll in its case. They had reached the end of the pass and started their descent; far into the distance, below them and the snow-line, stretched the heavily wooded, rolling hills of Moesia.

‘That is a real possibility; as the nephew of the Emperor and the brother of Germanicus, Tiberius’ original heir according to the terms of the deal that he did with Augustus, Claudius is technically very well placed to inherit the Purple, especially if Sejanus helps him.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he probably thinks that Claudius is a weak fool whom he can control, which he already seems to be doing.’

‘How?’

‘Well, after she bore him Boter’s daughter Claudius divorced his first wife, Plautia Urgulanilla, for adultery. Then two years ago Tiberius insisted, no doubt on Sejanus’ advice, that he get married again, this time to a woman called Aelia Paetina.’

Vespasian frowned; he didn’t know the name. ‘So?’

‘So nobody thought much of it at the time because Claudius is considered such a booby. But Aelia’s parents had died when she was very young and she was brought up by her maternal uncle, Lucius Seius Strabo.’

Vespasian’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Shit, not Sejanus’ father?’

‘Yes, little brother, Sejanus’ father, which makes Aelia Sejanus’ adoptive sister and Sejanus Claudius’ brother-in-law and therefore, should Claudius become Emperor, a legitimate heir.’