The Fateful Day

THIRTEEN

I was expecting to be escorted through the arch and into the lower offices of the guard tower, where I had been taken several times before. There is a familiar bench beside the window-space in the dim-lit room downstairs where visitors are often asked to wait, and I was preparing myself for a another lengthy period of twiddling my thumbs — no doubt under the incurious gaze of several junior officers. There was generally an octio or two, sitting at one of the tables in the room, writing up reports or calculating requisitions and supplies, or simply warming their chilled hands beside the fire.

But to my surprise my escort led me past the guard tower and out towards the range of buildings in the very centre of the garrison compound. This was the heart of the whole establishment, where the central administrative building, the principia, lay, and — directly opposite — the commander’s private quarters, with its own kitchen, courtyard and latrine. So that was where my guide was taking me? I had been invited to the residence before, but I hadn’t been expecting to visit it today. Perhaps the chief officer was in there talking to the town councillors?

I was about to murmur something of the kind when a shouted order and the stamp of half a hundred feet in unison drew my attention to the exercise ground nearby. This was where the soldiers’ daily training sessions took place, mock skirmishes with wooden swords, javelin contests, and endless rehearsals of field manoeuvres like the testudo — the creation of a ‘tortoise’ by close formations interlinking shields.

Obviously, something of the kind was happening now — over the palisades I could see the helmet tops of serried ranks of soldiers as we passed. Almost the whole contingent, by the look of it. That explained the absence of troops elsewhere, but instead of engaging in any military drill, they seemed to be listening to a fat centurion, who was standing on a makeshift dais at the end — obviously reading something from a scroll — under the metal standards of the signifers.

I was not allowed to linger. ‘This way, citizen,’ my guide said, in a tone that brooked no argument. But instead of going to the praetorium where the commander lived, I found myself following him towards the administration block.

I had never been in the principia before. It is not a place civilians would expect to be. Its contents are a mystery to mere citizens like me, but I’ve heard that it contains the regimental shrine, as well as its treasury, and record scrolls. So it was a complete surprise when the soldier led me straight inside the portico and tapped at the door of a little ante-room that gave onto the entrance lobby.

A muffled voice replied, ‘Who’s there? Identify yourself.’ It did not sound like anyone I knew.

‘Auxiliary Lucus Villosus, returning with the citizen as commanded, sir,’ the soldier shouted back. He contrived to holler deferentially, though still addressing the stout wood of the door.

‘Very well. Enter.’

Villosus — the name means ‘shaggy’ and it suited him — pushed the door open and stood back to let me in. ‘This is the individual, with your permission, sir.’ He gave a smart salute. There was no attempt at the customary rigmarole of invoking the Emperor by all his titles first. Perhaps my escort wasn’t used to carrying messages to senior officers. I blinked in the cool gloom of the ante-room, trying to make out how senior this one was.

I did not have long to wonder. The man who rose to meet me from the desk was none other than the commandant himself. ‘Libertus! You may leave us, soldier.’ He waved a dismissive hand at Villosus, who gave another hesitant salute and sidled out again.

‘So citizen, we meet again,’ the commander said, without enthusiasm. He was as elegant as ever, his armour gleaming in the light of the candles burning on the desk, but his lean and weather-beaten face was drawn and lined and his air of easy authority had abandoned him. ‘You insisted you must see me. Something about a messenger to your patron, I believe.’ The accent was patrician, as it always was, but the voice was flat and near-expressionless — not a bit like his usual light, educated tone. No wonder I had not recognised it earlier. ‘I trust this is a matter of some consequence. I’m not in general seeing anyone, though I have made a special exception in your case. I am occupied with urgent business, as no doubt you can see.’

He gestured to the table-top, which was littered with half-opened vellum scrolls and rolls of bark-paper. The pots, which had obviously contained them, lay strewn around the floor, though it was clear where they had come from: there were shelves of similar containers ranged around the walls, some of them with empty spaces here and there. Evidently this was a storage room for records of some kind and he had been taking them out and sifting through them with some haste.

I made a deepish bow — more than the token inclination of the head which etiquette required. I was still reeling with surprise. I had been expecting an interview with a centurion, at best, and here I was with the most senior-ranking officer in half Britannia. I recognised that this was a compliment to Marcus, rather than myself, but I did appreciate that it was done at all. Besides, I have learned a personal respect for this tall, athletic man. ‘I’m sorry if I disturb you at an inconvenient time, commander,’ I began, apologetically. ‘But thank you for agreeing to see me anyway.’

He cut me off impatiently. ‘Spare me the formalities, just tell me what you want.’ This brusque response, like the disorder in the room, was most untypical. I knew him to be aesthetic, calm and disciplined, but now tension was etched in every feature of his face and his thinning, but normally neatly barbered hair was all awry — he kept running his fingers through it as I watched. I began to feel distinctly uneasy about this interview.

‘It concerns my patron, Worthiness,’ I began. ‘You know he’s gone to Rome?’ I was almost sure he did. He often dined with Marcus, both at the villa and my patron’s apartment here in town — and travel arrangements were certain to have been discussed.

A curt nod answered me.

‘Well, there has been a terrible incident at his country house. Somebody who clearly knew he was away.’ I outlined the grisly details of today’s discoveries.

The commander stood with his hands behind his back, and heard me out, his face expressionless. I had hardly expected exclamations of dismay but this complete impassiveness was not what I’d anticipated, either.

‘So most of my patron’s valuables are gone and all his household slaves are dead,’ I finished, to re-emphasise the facts. ‘It’s fortunate his land-slaves have escaped. This loss will be a dreadful blow to him — not just financially. You can see that this is a meticulously plotted fraud, by someone who knows him fairly well.’

‘Lot’s of people knew that he was going away.’ The voice continued to be emotionless.

‘But not the details of what he had in every room,’ I pointed out. ‘It had to be someone familiar with the house. And Marcus should be told as soon as possible. That’s why I’ve come to you, in the hope that you could send a message with the imperial couriers — and one to his wife Julia in Corinium as well.’ He remained impassive, and I said urgently, ‘I understand it’s probably too late for that today. But there’s just a chance that we could intercept that ship …’ I paused, expectantly

For a long moment the commander made no reply at all. Then he made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘“We”, Libertus? What do you expect that I can do to help?’

I stared at him in honest disbelief. ‘But, surely, commander, even if you can’t spare the men yourself, a single word from you and the dock authorities would search the hold for us. Even a sealed letter that I could take down there myself would be enough — your seal alone would ensure that it was done. Marcus is likely to lose a fortune otherwise.’

He sat down heavily on the small three-legged stool. It was much too low for him, and it occurred to me to wonder — belatedly — why he had chosen to come here and read the scrolls instead of having them sent to him in his usual upstairs office in the guard tower. Not that the room there was luxurious at all. It was so masculine and soldierly it bordered on the austere (this one, if anything, had more amenities), but it suited his nature. He’d chosen that unconventional location for himself, and its contents were designed for him, including a handsome desk-table, efficient oil lamps and a stool of better height. So why was he sitting in discomfort here?

And why was he looking through the scrolls himself? Usually there’d be a dozen octios to search out what he required. Surely there could be no lack of personnel — the whole of the garrison was at his command.

I would have liked to ask him, but I did not dare. In any case, before I could say anything at all, he got to his feet and began to pace restlessly around the shelves. When he spoke it was still in that strangely neutral tone.

‘I’m afraid he is in danger of losing more than you suppose. And as for sending messages, I have no communication to relay to Rome today. It’s probably too late to reach him anyway. When is he scheduled to reach the capital?’

It was such an unexpected question that I shook my head. Surely the commander knew that sort of thing. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Worthiness. I only know he set off before the Nones of Mars — and we are well into Aprilis now. How long it takes him will depend on roads and weather, I suppose — and whether the rivers are in spate or not. If the mountain tracks or bridges are impassable it could take the best part of another moon, but with favourable conditions he could be there by now.’

The commander had paused by the table and was staring into the candle flame like someone in a trance. I heard him mutter, almost to himself, ‘That would make things very difficult.’

‘Forgive me, Worthiness. I don’t mean to contradict, but you’ll remember that he still has property in Rome. I believe a distant cousin is occupying it, but there is always accommodation there awaiting him, so whenever he arrives that’s where he plans to stay,’ I explained, although I was fairly sure that the commander was well aware of this. ‘So it shouldn’t be hard to locate him once he’s there.’

I glanced at the officer for some acknowledgement, but he made no reply, just went on frowning at the candle flame.

Something was clearly troubling him, but what? Perhaps Marcus had really not discussed his plans and I was foolish to have come at all. I have never travelled outside of Britannia myself — the slavers who captured me had put me in ship, but only to bring me to Glevum from my homeland in the south — but I understand that Gaul is very big indeed. There must be a score of roads that lead to Rome, so if he really didn’t know which one Marcus planned to use, how could a courier hope to intercept him on the way?

‘I understood he had your letter of authority to use the military inns for accommodation and fresh horses when he needed them,’ I supplied, to fill the silence.

The commander still said nothing.

Perhaps an open letter was all that was required and Marcus had not identified the towns where he hoped to stay. ‘It’s the same route that he took when he went to Rome before.’

I knew that I was burbling, but my companion made no remark at all.

‘He’s travelling fairly lightly. He’s arranged with an old friend in Gaul to hire a travelling gig, and a couple of slaves to ride aboard the luggage cart, plus he’s taken a four-man mounted escort of his own in case of any bandits or brigands on the way,’ I blundered on. ‘He’ll travel by river where that’s possible, I suppose, but otherwise he’ll have to stick to major military roads, and even a little retinue like that will attract a certain amount of attention as it passes by. Any mansio he used would know where he was heading next, so a messenger could easily track him through the inns. It should not be hard to trace him, if he’s still travelling.’

‘I wonder if we can catch up with him in time?’ the commander murmured, as if talking to himself.

I stared at him. I did not dare point out the obvious — that even a light gig and single baggage cart would obviously take much longer than one man on a horse — let alone a skilled imper-ial courier with a change of horses every hour or two and automatic priority over everyone on the roads, including the Roman army, where it was on the march. The commander knew that better than I did myself.

‘I think it’s likely that he’s still somewhere on the road,’ I said. ‘If he’d got to Rome already, he would have sent a message back.’ That sounded foolish, as I saw at once, and I added hastily, ‘Though of course it would take a little time for that letter to arrive.’ Then I fell silent. Really, there was nothing more that I could add.

There was a pause so long it seemed to fill the room. The commandant had moved to the far side of the table now, and was standing with his back to me, examining the painted frieze of wild beasts on the wall. At last I heard a murmur. ‘I wish I could be sure exactly where he was.’ One thin hand clasped the other by the wrist. ‘I have had no letter from him since he left.’

‘Last time we had word from him, he was just leaving Gaul,’ I proffered, helpfully, but was obliged to add, ‘though admittedly that was written days and days ago. Before the Kalends of Aprilis, I believe.’

The commander turned round sharply and fixed his gaze on me. ‘But he did send at least one message back from the Gallic provinces? So, there might have been some substance to that letter to the steward, after all?’ He had obviously been listening carefully, despite appearances. ‘It did come under his personal seal, I think you said. And you mentioned that he had acquaintances in Gaul. So he may indeed be planning to set up a villa there.’ He sounded almost hopeful.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe so, Worthiness. In fact it has just occurred to me, that the message saying so was suspect from the start. Marcus has been writing mostly to his wife, sending messages with anyone he can — and she sends them on to the villa where appropriate. I was shown one by the steward a day or two ago. It was the most recent, but there was no mention of any change of plan.’ It was mostly about vines, although I didn’t mention that. ‘I did not see the fake — I’ve only heard of it — but I am doubly certain now that it was a forgery. If it had come through Corinium, as it should have done, Julia would have sent some communication with it, I am sure — the contents were so unexpected and so startling. But the steward didn’t question it, because it bore my patron’s seal.’

‘And that does not convince you?’

I shook my head. ‘Someone contrived to steal his ring, or make a counterfeit.’

Another uncomfortable silence fell.

I felt I had to fill it. ‘If the thieves had been content to simply steal the goods, or even sell the servants in the slave-market, I might have been persuaded that my patron ordered it — though I would have expected to have heard something of his plans myself, from Julia, at least. But murdering the household? And contriving to have the land-slaves quartered somewhere else meanwhile, then keeping them busy collecting useless wood? Why go to all that trouble, if not to ensure there were no witnesses?’

He nodded. ‘You are quite right, of course. Marcus would never have countenanced the slaughter of his slaves. He was very proud of how well they’d all been trained and how valuable they had become as a result.’ There was not a vestige of irony in his words. ‘He wouldn’t have ordered their destruction, he’d have had them sold. So I fear that your suspicions are correct. But I’m afraid I cannot help you very much.’ He went back to his desk and sat down on the stool, making a little pyramid of his fingertips. ‘Citizen Libertus, I will not mince words with you. I was prepared to see you because I thought that you might know where Marcus was by now, and whether he was staying somewhere with a trusted friend — in which case I would have sent a courier with your message willingly. I wanted to send him a warning letter of my own.’

‘A warning, commandant? You mean you knew some trouble was afoot? Perhaps you know who did this — or could make a guess? All the more reason, surely, to send a messenger — even if it only reaches him in Rome.’

He shook his head all the more emphatically. ‘What happened at the villa is no part of it. I can see that it has disturbed you very much, and another day, perhaps, I would have felt the same. But frankly, citizen, I have no time to deal with such minor incidents today.’

‘Minor?’ The protest escaped me before I could resist.

‘Forgive me, Citizen Libertus.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair again. ‘Minor in comparison — that is all I meant.’ He raised one eyebrow at me. ‘I know that you are greatly in your patron’s confidence. I imagine that he told you why he went to Rome?’

I shrugged. ‘He thought the Emperor needed his advice. Said Pertinax was far too honest to succeed. That he would cut out the excesses of the previous Emperor and he wouldn’t try to bribe the Praetorian Guard.’

‘That is exactly what he said to me. And it turns out he was right. So if you have any care for him at all, you will not repeat what you’ve just told me, outside of this room. Marcus will have enemies enough under the new regime. It must not be thought that he was party to the plot.’

‘Plot!’ I cried out in astonishment. ‘The new regime?’ The Roman must have seen the dawning horror on my face. ‘Something has happened to the Emperor Pertinax?’

‘Pertinax is no longer Emperor. We received a messenger from Rome first thing today — there have been horsemen riding day and night across the Empire with the news.’ Suddenly the neutral tone had disappeared. There was a bitter anger in his voice and I almost thought it trembled as he spoke.

‘He’s been deposed? Imprisoned? Exiled?’

‘He’s been assassinated — by that same Praetorian Guard, and for the very reasons that your patron had foreseen. They were his personal protection and they turned on him. It’s the story of Galba all over again — only worse, if anything.’

I had only the vaguest notion of Roman history from a century before, but I knew what they said of Galba — ‘one of the finest Emperors of Rome, if he had never ruled’. And I knew about his fate. ‘You mean that both Galba and Pertinax were assassinated for the same thing: refusing to pay the guard the excessive bonus that their predecessors had done?’

A nod. ‘Apparently Pertinax attempted to reason with the men. Insisted on going to face them and trying to explain that he really could not pay because there was not enough money in the treasury. Commodus had spent it all on luxury, he said. Typical of him to take a brave and rational approach. But reason did not help him, in the end. It almost did. He was beginning to persuade them, so our informant said. But not all the guards were swayed by argument. One man lost patience and threw a spear at him. Then all Dis broke loose. Pertinax fell wounded to the ground and, at that, all the other guards surged up and stabbed at him as well. And these are the chosen men who take an oath that they’ll defend the Emperor until their dying breath! What has become of the old Roman values, citizen? Duty, bravery, honour and rational debate?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe it.’ I couldn’t. It was scarcely three moons since Pertinax was hailed as Emperor by all the populace around the Roman world. More than hailed — joyfully acclaimed. Celebrations everywhere had lasted half a moon, and there were grateful sacrifices to the gods because we had an honest Emperor at last, and the corrupt and cruel Commodus had been overturned. ‘The entire Empire had such hopes of him!’ I said. ‘And now …?’

‘So swiftly passes the glory of the world — as the old adage says.’ The commander spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘I could not believe it, either. In fact when the first intelligence arrived, I refused to send on the messenger to the Iscan settlements till the news was confirmed by someone I could personally trust. But now it has been — several times — and more disturbing details are emerging all the time. The last courier reports that when he left the Imperial capital, the soldiers had cut off Pertinax’s head and were carrying it in triumph around the city on a pole.’

I could hardly take it in. ‘So, who has been acclaimed as Emperor in his place? His son will not be old enough to take the purple yet. And I suppose they wouldn’t want his family anyway.’

‘That, citizen, is almost the worst news of all. It almost happened that his influence went on. Pertinax’s father-in-law looked likely to succeed — he was prepared to offer the praetorians what they were asking for — and that would at least have kept a semblance of propriety. He was the Chief Prefect, promoted to the post by Pertinax himself, and would have been the obvious successor. But while he was in the palace making his offer to the guard, another candidate announced himself outside the gates — shouting that he would pay a higher sum. The two of them began to make promises of gold — bigger and bigger promises — to the praetorians.’

‘All this in public — so that anyone could hear!’ I don’t know Rome, but Marcus has described the Imperial court to me and I could visualise the scene — even though I could scarcely credit it.

‘All this in public, citizen, as you rightly say. It seems that our rulers have no shame or dignity at all. In the end Didius Julianus made a bid that his rival could not match, and his succession has been ratified.’ He looked at me and for the first time I could see that he was close to tears. ‘They auctioned the Empire, citizen — and we who supported Pertinax have lost.’