Saviour of Rome

XLVI

Marcus Atilius Melanius bit back a groan and tried to rearrange his vast bulk in the saddle with the least possible discomfort. Every part of him was either scraped, scratched, rubbed raw, aching or on fire. His armour, which had shone so proudly when he’d ridden through the streets of Asturica with the cheers ringing in his ears, was covered in dust and cut into his shoulders and his hips. It was impossible to find a comfortable position for his sword. His splendid helmet with the red horsehair crest seemed to have a mind of its own no matter how tight he strapped it beneath his chins. All his meticulous planning and now this.

Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He knew the answer, of course: pride, simple foolish pride. He’d been determined to depart from Asturica a hero, and if a man wanted to be a hero he must look like a hero. At the outset a scarlet cloak had covered his ample form. It was long discarded, but sweat still poured from his brow, stinging his eyes and drenching his tunic. More streamed down his legs. It had been years since he’d done any serious riding. Why hadn’t he ordered Severus to provide a carriage? Still, perhaps it wasn’t too late.

‘You have a carriage, if I remember, Severus,’ he hinted. ‘A fine, well-sprung affair with a cushioned interior. We have done our preening, but we are sensible men, not peacocks driven by vanity.’ His horse tossed its head and he hauled at the reins with a muttered curse, sawing the bit across its delicate mouth. ‘We’re also not as young as we were. Too old and too senior, certainly, to spend our days eating dust. It would be no shame to take turns in the saddle and for one of us to show himself while the other rested for the rigours which are undoubtedly to come.’

Severus, who’d been sunk in misery contemplating the endless days and weeks ahead, shot him a tight smile. ‘I would agree entirely, my dear Melanius, if only Calpurnia hadn’t taken the accursed thing a couple of days ago to visit her sister. I’m afraid the saddle it is unless you feel it would not be beneath us to requisition a farmer’s cart or some such until we reach Legio. I’m sure Proculus will be able to provide something in the comfort line when we reach the fortress. Shall I send someone to bring him forward?’

Melanius groaned inwardly. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He doubted very much whether Proculus would go out of the way to find anything that would diminish his agony. In fact, he suspected the prefect would probably revel in it. That was one reason Proculus was at the head of his First cohort instead of in the vanguard with the command party. The other was that, quite frankly, the presence of the veteran soldier made Melanius nervous. His time with the legions in Germania seemed very long ago. A process that had felt relatively simple then now appeared devilishly complex. There were so many things to remember. It was only right that Proculus, as nominal legate of the Sixth, should bear part of the burden, but Marcus Atilius Melanius commanded, and he must be seen to command. He also had to show strength in front of the likes of Severus and Piso, who were already showing signs of strain.

Mars save him, how had it ever come to this? He’d been in Asturica Augusta five years, patiently building a network of suitable contacts and waiting for his opportunity. It had presented itself in the form of Aurelio, who rode, ever watchful, a few paces behind his right shoulder. At the time he’d been working in some vague and shadowy capacity for the department of the praefectus metallorum. Melanius suspected he’d been an enforcer who kept the mine workers and their families in their place, some employment that required a potent mix of subtlety and extreme violence. Certainly there had been a hint of menace about the man when he’d appeared unannounced at Melanius’s house. Melanius’s first instinct had been to have the cocksure peasant thrown out, but something had made him hesitate.

Aurelio had information Melanius might be interested in – it turned out Melanius was not the only person with contacts. Like the fox he was, Aurelio had somehow scented his intent and now he suggested an arrangement. Julius Licinius Ferox, the Emperor Nero’s esteemed and trusted praefectus metallorum for Asturica, was not just taking bribes for handing out licences, he was also skimming off small amounts of the Emperor’s gold. The former was so widespread a practice as to be almost a benefit of office, but the theft? No one had any doubt what the feared and unpredictable Nero’s reaction would be. A team of experienced torturers would descend on Asturica. Ferox would die screaming and what was left fed to the feral dogs who patrolled the city walls.

Not surprisingly, Ferox had proved amenable to suggestion, and a percentage of his profits found its way into an iron-bound chest in Melanius’s library. Aurelio now enjoyed a valued place in Melanius’s household and, little by little, Ferox had been induced to make small increases in his appropriations.

But the great opportunity came with the civil war. Melanius sensed an opportunity presented by Servius Sulpicius Galba’s accession to the purple. Galba had been killed before he could take advantage, but the state of paralysis at Tarraco that followed his death couldn’t be ignored. It was now they enlisted the aid of Severus and Fronton. An army of phantom workers doubled the workforce in the mines and the cost to the Imperial treasury. The profits were split equally between the conspirators and Claudius Harpocration, recruited by Aurelio to supply a force which ensured obedience from anyone who had doubts. The figureheads in turn disbursed their own gifts to oil the wheels of the conspiracy, and Aurelio or Harpocration would remind the recipients of their responsibilities from time to time. They had stolen a fortune.

They should have stopped immediately Vitellius’s forces defeated Otho at Bedriacum and the Emperor of only a few months committed suicide. In the chaos that followed likely no one would have noticed. If they had, the losses could have been explained away as the fortunes of war.

But somehow the time had never been right. Fronton would have been happy to bring things to a close, but he had little say in the council. Harpocration enjoyed the power of his position – by then Melanius had suborned Proculus and made the auxiliary the true authority at Legio – and saw no reason to change it. Ferox had long been under the thrall of the metal he ripped from the earth. Severus had an insatiable wife and an insatiable greed for the luxuries of life. And he, Melanius? He had been seduced by his ability to control all these disparate elements of a crime on a scale never witnessed before. Blinded by his vanity. By the time he’d realized he’d placed his head in a noose it was too late.

That was when he’d persuaded his fellow conspirators to place a portion of their great wealth in trust with him. If the time came to run, the gold would ease their path. Even then he understood Rome’s long reach would find them wherever they fled. They would never be free of the fear of poisoners and backstabbers. It was only gradually that another possibility dawned. A plan so outrageous it might be called insane, but at least it gave them a chance. Gamble all on one final throw of the dice.

Petronius’s investigations had supplied the opportunity. Melanius had even provided a little help that allowed him to increase the pressure on the others. He knew they would never act unless they could feel the blade tickling the back of their neck. Now he was able to offer them the possibility of salvation. Win, and advancement and more riches would be theirs. Lose? The end was inevitable in any case. Of course they’d been reluctant; so terrified he’d found it almost amusing. It had taken months of persuasion, but finally he’d won them round. All except Fronton, a man who spent each day frightened of what was going to happen on the next, and who’d preferred death to the chance of making a name for himself that would live through the ages. But Fronton, most opportunely, was gone. Everything was in place and going exactly to plan.

So why did Melanius’s gut feel as if it was clenched in the grip of an icy fist?

Calpurnius Piso rode up to his side. The young tribune glanced nervously over his shoulder at Aurelio before he spoke.

‘I still think I should have ordered the Tenth to hold their positions east of Emporiae and cover the Pyrenean passes. What happens if Vespasian hears of their defection and sends another legion, perhaps more than one, in pursuit? It would-’

‘We have discussed this,’ Melanius interrupted curtly. ‘We need the Tenth at Tarraco to consolidate our position there. Not everyone will see the benefits of removing Vespasian. The Emperor will still have his supporters among the aristocracy and the civil service. I have the names of those likely to be open to persuasion and of those who may well require to be eliminated. With the Tenth we can place a cordon round the entire city while we weed them out. Only then will they be sent to defend the passes. Do not concern yourself, Calpurnius. If any of the legions on the Rhenus move I will hear of it.’ He mitigated any implied criticism with a false smile. ‘When we have Tarraco we will send out detachments to demand allegiance of the other cities, gather hostages and recruit young men for a new legion which you will lead. You will be a new Quintus Sertorius. I see much of him in you. He was brave, noble, eloquent and a brilliant soldier. He took and held Hispania.’

Piso looked sceptical. ‘But wasn’t Sertorius defeated in the end by Pompey?’

‘Not defeated, betrayed,’ Melanius insisted. ‘He believed his position powerful enough to deter any attack from Rome. We will not make the same mistake. This is not about Hispania, it is about seeing you hailed Emperor, by the Senate and people of Rome. When we march on Rome Vespasian is finished. An emperor needs the support of the army, the Senate and the mob. We have the Senate, he does not yet have the mob. We have the Sixth, the Tenth and the majority of the legions of Germania. All it takes is the defection of one or two more legions and we cannot be stopped. Caesar crossed his Rubicon. The moment we cross the Iberus, there is no turning back.’

The sentiment brought a sickly smile from Piso. He’d long dreamed of deposing Vespasian, winning the purple and of reclaiming his illustrious family’s destiny. Now he was on the brink of attempting it he’d begun to question whether he was up to the task. His lofty ambitions had provoked scorn from his friends and only Melanius seemed to understand. The older man had encouraged him, pointed out men who could help, and ways the dream might become a reality. Melanius had somehow won the cooperation of Proculus and the support of the Sixth, without which none of this would be happening.

Melanius provided the funds with which he had drawn tribunes from the legions on the Rhenus frontier into the plot. Melanius supplied the fortune that allowed him to win assurances of cooperation from the commander of the Tenth legion.

But what were those assurances truly worth?

He tried to remember the wording of the letters, letters that would destroy him if they ever found their way to the Palatine. But did it really matter? If they failed he would be dead anyway. A shudder ran through him at the thought. No, they could not fail. When ten thousand soldiers appeared at the gates of Tarraco, Gaius Plinius Secundus would have no choice but to surrender or flee. Piso saw himself being magnanimous in victory and his mood lifted. First Tarraco, then Hispania, and before Vespasian had the chance to react, on to Rome. To victory and immortality.

Claudius Harpocration nudged his horse a little closer to Melanius. ‘We will reach the river soon. Time to water the horses and allow the legionaries to catch up.’

Melanius nodded his agreement. He looked over his shoulder to where the cohort banner of the Sixth was barely visible. ‘I will talk to Proculus and insist the Sixth keep their position.’

Harpocration shrugged. It wasn’t for him to say that it would be much more sensible to dismount and walk their horses occasionally. Melanius was neither inclined nor suited to walking.

They’d ridden another half mile and the hills that marked the line of the river were in sight when one of the Parthian scouts rode up at the gallop and snapped out a report to his commander.

‘What is he saying?’ Melanius demanded.

Harpocration looked thoughtful. ‘It seems someone is trying to bar our way to the river.’

‘But why?’ Melanius shook his head. ‘No one can know … Could it be bandits?’

The tribune snarled a question at his scout. ‘Not bandits,’ Harpocration said when he’d listened to the reply. ‘Local tribesmen armed with axes and sickles. Perhaps a hundred of them.’

‘Should we talk to them?’ Severus looked shocked at this unexpected development.

‘You don’t talk to vermin, you slaughter them.’ Harpocration barked an order to the escort. ‘The only thing barring your way when you reach the river will be their dead bodies.’ He pulled his horse around and took his place at the head of the column of riders who’d formed up in fours at his command. ‘I’ll leave you half a squadron,’ he called to Melanius. ‘Wait here for the infantry to come up.’

Melanius watched them trot away. He looked back to the two legionary cohorts. They were still a long way off, but the little knot of Parthians gave him a feeling of security. Harpocration’s cavalry would soon deal with a few peasants. But the question of why they were there niggled at him. Finally a face swam into view, a beautiful face that always assumed an expression of contempt when she encountered him. He turned to Severus as a sudden flurry of rage rose in him. ‘You fool. You told your wife-’

‘No,’ Severus spluttered. ‘I-’

Melanius would have struck him, but for the warning shout from one of the escorts. ‘Look!’