Tribune of Rome

CHAPTER XXIII

For two days they bumped along in the cart. Their bonds were checked regularly; any progress that they had made in loosening them was discovered and cruelly repaired. Occasionally the inside of the cart was sluiced out with water, washing away the refuse that they were forced to lie in. They received no proper food, only sheep’s milk, which temporarily sated their hunger, or the odd crust of dry bread unceremoniously stuffed into their mouths. Their joints ached and they grew weaker.

Unable to sleep for more than short periods at a time Vespasian passed the days and nights by writing letters to Caenis in his head, vowing that he would live to write them for real. He wrote of his love for her and how he first felt that love the moment he saw her outside the Porta Collina. He wrote of his fear for her when he heard that she was Livilla’s captive, and his pride at being a party to her rescue. He promised her that he would win enough money to be able to buy her freedom. But most of all, he promised to love her for ever. When he ran out of things to write he composed her replies; they were full of love for him and pride at his achievements and successes, and always written on wax tablets that he imagined to be somehow imbued with her scent.

And so he passed the time in his head. The others did likewise, conversation being pointless, as it only ever led to one subject – that of escape – and the hopelessness of their situation would again be reinforced. So with an unspoken common consent they remained silent in order to preserve what morale they had.

They left the Rhodope Mountains behind and passed down into a wide valley through which ran the slow-flowing Hebrus. Although fertile, much of the valley was uncultivated and covered with forest, the inland Thracian tribes being more interested in banditry than husbandry. The burnt-out settlements that marked the course of the war band’s advance, a few days earlier, attested to the fact.

Once in the valley their course changed to due east. They plunged into trackless forest. Scouts were sent out ahead through the thick undergrowth to spring any ambushes set by the tribes still loyal to Rome, wanting revenge for land that had been ravaged. But none came.

On the morning of the third day the trees thinned out and gave way to a narrow area of scrubland, beyond which flowed the Hebrus. Its slow brown water, laden with the sediment that its fast-flowing tributaries had washed down from the mountains in the spring thaw, cut a meandering path through the flat land on either side, ever eating away at the earth on its banks. Groups of small brush-covered islets ranged in gentle sweeps near the shore; the water between them was filled with reeds.

On the far bank, one hundred paces away, was a fishing village. As the Thracians appeared out of the wood a flotilla was launched. Over fifty small fishing boats and log rafts, crewed by boys, began to paddle across the river; the boys whooped as they raced with each other, all vying to be the first across.

‘So that’s how they crossed,’ Corbulo said quietly. ‘When we come back on a punishment raid we’ll destroy every boat we find; not that I plan on leaving anyone alive to use them.’

Vespasian smiled to himself; he had guessed how Corbulo had spent the time in his head.

The first boats arrived and the whoops of some of the boys turned into wails of grief as they learnt of fathers or elder brothers who would not be returning.

The Thracians began to embark. Sacks were pulled over the mules’ heads and the prisoners’ cart was loaded on to what felt like a very unstable raft. The boys crewing it glared at the prisoners. One had tears in his eyes. Vespasian wondered if he had killed the boy’s kinsman, and found himself hoping that he had.

The raft cast off and Vespasian, knowing that they would not stand a chance in the water, still bound as they were, prayed to Poseidon, who, although Greek, he felt was the most suitable god in the circumstances, to keep them afloat.

All around them the small boats bobbed in the river, heavily laden with seven or eight men in each. Some of the men were in high spirits, pleased to be going home, but the rest were quiet, mindful of the friends and kinsmen that did not share their luck.

The blindfolded mules brayed mournfully all the way across.

The flotilla made three trips before the crossing was complete; there were no accidents. Vespasian couldn’t help but admire the efficiency with which it was carried out. It was a far cry from the ramshackle way in which these people fought.

Once they were all assembled on the east bank, thirty or so men, who came from the village, bade farewell to their comrades and returned home with the boys. The rest of war band moved off. The grim journey continued across the seemingly endless flat grassland of the eastern bank of the Hebrus.

At intervals, small groups of warriors split off from the column to make their way home, to the north or south, to the villages and small homesteads that could be seen scattered in the distance. By mid-afternoon there were fewer than four hundred left in the war band.

‘This is more like it,’ Magnus said, his spirits raised by the dwindling number of warriors that surrounded them. ‘If it carries on like this it’ll be just us and the guards left, then we’ll see how tough they are.’

‘And just how do you plan untie yourself?’ Corbulo asked, coming back to the main problem.

‘Ah, yes.’

They lapsed back into a silence that was disturbed, a few moments later, by the sound of horses galloping. From out of nowhere twenty or so horsemen had materialised. The column halted.

‘Where the fuck did they come from?’ Faustus asked, seeing no sign of close habitation.

The horsemen arrived at the head of the column where they greeted the chief; after exchanging a few words one of them rode back to the cart.

He stared at the four prisoners with piercing blue eyes. The tip of his nose was missing. A long, ill-kempt, ginger beard that completely hid his mouth covered his lower face; the rest of his head was bald. Huge gold rings hung from his ears. He picked out Corbulo as the most senior and addressed him in good Latin.

‘Are you the man who is responsible for the death of my youngest son?’

Corbulo was taken aback, he had no idea who or how many he had killed in the battle.

‘I am responsible for no deaths. It was not I who attacked.’

‘But it was you who commanded the Roman column. It was you that led it on to Thracian soil.’

‘Thracia is a client of Rome, and we have every right to be here. You would do well to remember that in your dealings with me.’

The Thracian laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. ‘The arrogance of you people amazes me; even when prisoners, tied up in your own shit, you still talk down to anyone not of your kind. Well, I will tell you this, Roman, I hold you responsible and you will pay.’

He spat in Corbulo’s face, turned his horse and sped off; the other horsemen followed. A couple of hundred paces from the column they disappeared down into a depression, invisible in the sea of grass. The column followed. They descended into an almost round basin about two hundred paces across and fifty deep. At the bottom was a large camp of over five hundred tents. It was so well hidden that an army could march within a quarter of a mile of it and not see it.

Night had fallen. Fires, not allowed in the camp during the day because of their smoke, had now been lit. Sheep were being roasted whole on spits; the smell of cooking mutton wafted over the camp. The drinking had started, and the Thracians’ mood began to change from the sombreness of defeated men to one of intoxicated bravado. Heroic deeds were recounted and embellished, boasts were made and vows of vengeance sworn. Fights broke out, screaming slave girls and boys were brutally tupped and more rough wine drunk. The seriousness of the fights intensified and the drinking became reckless. The noise steadily escalated.

Vespasian and his companions sat at the centre of this chaos. They still wore their uniforms over their stained and filthy tunics. Their feet remained bound but their hands had been freed so that they could eat from the plate of gristle and semi-gnawed mutton bones that had been placed before them. Four guards, drinking steadily from wineskins, watched over them.

‘It’s like a market-day night in the Subura,’ Magnus commented through a mouthful of half-chewed fat.

‘Except it doesn’t smell so bad,’ Corbulo pointed out truthfully.

Vespasian lifted the hem of his soiled tunic. ‘We’d fit in very well there wearing these, I imagine.’

‘We wouldn’t smell out of place at all, in fact we’d smell a lot better than most of the whores,’ Faustus put in.

Magnus grinned and carried on chewing; he was determined to get that lump of fat down.

A blind-drunk Thracian tripped over one of their guards’ legs and fell towards Vespasian, vomiting.

‘Watch yourself, sir.’ Magnus pulled his friend from out of the man’s path. The Thracian crashed to the ground, convulsing as he brought up the contents of his stomach.

Vespasian recoiled from the stench; then his eyes widened slightly as he noticed the man’s dagger had become unsheathed in the fall; it lay on the ground only a foot away from his thigh. The guards dropped their wineskins and rose unsteadily to their feet, casting shadows over where the dagger lay. They shouted at their comatose comrade, who, naturally, didn’t respond. Magnus, who had also seen the opportunity, waved at the guards and made good-humoured drinking motions with his hands. The guards laughed. Vespasian edged his leg slowly towards the dagger. A guard stepped over him to heave the man away. He trod on the dagger but failed to notice it; as he stepped forward to lift the drunk he pushed the dagger backwards, closer to Vespasian. Magnus started pointing at himself, gesturing to the other guards to give him a drink; one of them shrugged, picked up a wineskin and lobbed it over to him. Vespasian lifted his thigh and flicked the dagger underneath.

‘That is rough,’ Magnus grimaced, having taken a slug of wine. He leant over and passed the skin to Corbulo, asking under his breath. ‘Did you see that?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Corbulo took a sip. ‘We’ll wait a while, until they’ve all drunk themselves senseless – which won’t take long if this is what they’re drinking.’ He passed the wine to Faustus who took a mouthful and almost choked.

When they had finished eating the guards retied their hands. Vespasian managed to keep his leg firmly pressed down on the dagger beneath it, even though it meant his foot rested in the pile of vomit.

They settled down to wait their chance. For the first time since their capture a sense of optimism prevailed over the group. They feigned sleep, surreptitiously watching their guards steadily drink their way through their wineskins. All around the sound of fighting, arguing and fornicating gradually abated as, one by one, the Thracians drank themselves into a stupor and collapsed next to the dying fires. Eventually the last of the guards rolled on to his back and started to snore, his wineskin resting, almost empty, on his chest.

Vespasian lay on his side and carefully worked his tied hands down to the dagger. His fingers soon found the hilt and closed around it. Rolling over on to his other side he wormed his way closer to Magnus, holding the dagger firmly in both hands.

‘You’ll have to help me here; bring the binding to the blade.’

Magnus pulled his arms up until he felt the cool blade just above his wrist, then eased himself forward until it rested on the leather binding.

‘There you go, sir, can you feel it?’ he whispered.

‘Yes. Now stay still and don’t shout if I cut you.’

Magnus made a face to himself: as if.

They lay back to back while Vespasian sawed away with the dagger. Corbulo and Faustus kept a wary watch, but no one was moving in the camp. It didn’t take long. As soon as his hands were freed Magnus took the dagger and cut the bonds of his comrades. Within moments they were all free.

‘What now?’ he asked.

Corbulo rubbed his wrists. ‘Kill the guards, take their swords and cloaks then get the fuck out of here. Any better suggestions?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

One of the guards stirred in his sleep. They froze. He rolled over on to his side, lifted his tunic and pissed where he lay. He fell back to sleep without bothering to adjust his dress.

‘Let’s get on.’ Corbulo reached out his hand to Magnus. ‘Give me the dagger.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but this is my sort of work – if you want it done quietly, that is.’

Corbulo nodded; just by looking at Magnus anyone could tell that he was no stranger to administering swift and silent death.

Magnus crawled quietly to the exposed guard. Within an instant his eyes were bulging, his throat torn open and his mouth firmly clamped shut by Magnus’ strong left hand. He struggled momentarily and then fell limp.

Soon the other three had gone the way of their colleague.

Wrapped in their newly acquired cloaks, and with swords at the ready, Corbulo led them stealthily through the camp. Staying low they weaved between the fires, keeping, as much as possible, to the shadows. They despatched any Thracians that they came across who had been too drunk to make it to a fire or a tent, slitting their throats where they lay. Gradually the fires thinned out and they reached the edge of the camp.

‘We need horses if we’re to make it back to the river before our absence is noticed,’ Corbulo whispered. ‘We’ll skirt around the perimeter. There must be some close by.’

Outside the camp they were able to move far quicker: the moon had set and their cloaks blended in with the inky slopes of the basin. They jogged sure-footed across the even grass, keeping a wary eye out for any pickets posted in the darkness. There were none.

A quarter of the way round Vespasian stopped. ‘Sir,’ he hissed, ‘over there.’

Twenty paces away on the fringe of the camp, silhouetted against the dim glow of the fires, were the horse-lines. The dark shapes of four or five tents could be made out just beyond. Nothing moved around them; the guards, if there were any, were sleeping.

‘We don’t have time to saddle them up but we do need to find some bridles,’ Corbulo whispered. He peered at Vespasian through the darkness. ‘Tribune, you come with me, they must be in one of those tents. Faustus and Magnus, get us four horses, we’ll meet back here.’

They crept down to the horse-lines.

Leaving Magnus and Faustus untying the nervous creatures, Vespasian followed Corbulo in search of the livery tent. The snorting and stamping of the jumpy horses behind him made him very uneasy.

‘How the fuck do we know which tent they’re in?’ he murmured.

‘We’ll just have to look in each one,’ Corbulo replied, creeping up to the nearest tent. He took the right-hand flap and indicated to Vespasian to take the other. Very gently and with swords poised they parted them.

‘Good evening.’

Two spear points pressed against their throats. They froze. Nausea flooded Vespasian’s throat.

‘I’d drop those swords if I were you.’

They slowly lowered their blades and let them drop. Behind them Vespasian felt the arrival of more men.

‘Now step back.’

They eased backwards, the spear points biting into skin, drawing blood. The warriors holding them stepped out of the tent and behind them emerged the bearded, bald horsemen from the day before.

‘Do you really think I am that stupid?’ he growled, his eyes two slits of hate. ‘That I, Coronus, don’t know how my people behave, and don’t make arrangements accordingly? Of course they were going to get drunk, of course you would try and escape, and of course you would need horses. It amused me to watch you try. So ten sober, trusted men waiting for you here, away from the temptations of the main camp, were all I needed to ensure that you would still be here tomorrow, when I have plans for you. Tie them up.’

Vespasian felt rough hands pull his wrists behind him; leather twine was wrapped tightly round them. He didn’t resist; it would have been futile. Magnus and Faustus were hauled in from the horses; blood streaming from a cut on Faustus’ left arm told of a less clean arrest.

‘Until tomorrow, then,’ Coronus crowed, ‘when you will learn that the blood-money for my sons is very high indeed.’

They spent the rest of the night tied to the horse-lines. Vespasian did not sleep. Rage burned within him, rage at being toyed with. To be allowed to escape, and then to be recaptured by being second-guessed by a savage was humiliation enough; to be gloated over by him was intolerable. They would have done better staying put, but that would have been a humiliation of another sort. Coronus would have known they had not attempted to escape, and would have sneered at them for cowardice. These thoughts whirled around his head and by morning he was exhausted, but he had resolved in the future, if he had one, never to do the obvious, because if it was obvious to him it would be obvious to all.

Soon after dawn they were cut loose and hauled to their feet. Looking around he could see that the others all looked as tired as he felt; none of them had had any sleep.

They were dragged towards the centre of the camp, where a circle had been cleared of tents and fires; around it stood hundreds of cheering warriors.

Their guards pushed a way through the crowd, who aimed kicks and punches at the prisoners as they passed. The residual smell of stale alcohol, vomit and sweat from a night of debauchery hung over the Thracians, who were all eager for some diversion to help them forget their terrible hangovers.

‘Looks like we’re to be the entertainment,’ Magnus muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

‘I’m not sure that I’m in the mood,’ Vespasian replied, dodging a blow from a sword hilt aimed at his temple.

They passed out into the centre of the arena where Coronus waited for them. The young warrior who had led the war band stood next to him. Vespasian could see a family resemblance and realised that he must be Coronus’ elder son, and therefore brother to the man killed at the river a few days before.

Coronus raised his arms and the noise around the arena stopped immediately. He began to speak; his words were unintelligible but, from the harsh tone of his voice and the aggressive gesturing, Vespasian guessed that they were being condemned for all sorts of crimes. The speech ended with a huge roar from the crowd, and then a guttural shout that didn’t need any translation. It meant death.

Coronus turned and addressed them in his fluent Latin. ‘You have been condemned to death by the tribal assembly-’

‘On what charge?’ Corbulo shouted. ‘And who defended us?’

‘The charge was defiling our gods and there is no defence against that.’

Corbulo was about to argue but realised that it was pointless and held his peace.

Coronus continued. ‘As their chief it is my task to choose the manner of your deaths.’ He smiled a cheerless smile, and then turned back to the assembly and shouted. Their response indicated approval of his choice. Coronus switched back to Latin. ‘A sword and shield each, the last man standing gets a horse and a half-hour head start before we come after him. If he is caught he will be impaled, if not then he is lucky.’

Four swords and shields were placed at even intervals around the edge of the arena. The Romans were herded into the centre, where their bonds were cut.

‘Should any of you decide not to fight then you will all be impaled. My advice is to put on a good show worthy of Rome, and one of you may get to see her again.’

Coronus took his place in the crowd. The four Romans were left standing back to back in the middle of the arena.

‘What do we do?’ Faustus asked.

‘We fight,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And we fight well, so one of us has a chance of surviving.’ He bent down to wipe earth on to the palms of his hands. ‘The others get clean deaths. It could be worse.’

‘Who fights who?’ Vespasian asked; he did not want to have to fight Magnus.

‘We do a free-for-all. Get your swords, we’ll start back here.’

They turned and looked at each other; there were no words to say. They each knew that they had a responsibility to the group to fight and die well; there was no other way.

Vespasian grimaced at the irony of the situation as he walked to the arena’s edge to pick up his sword and shield. He had never been to a gladiatorial show. He had always wanted to, but now that he had the chance it was he who was to fight. It would be his first and last show; he knew he would die. There was no way that he, a sixteen-year-old youth, would be the last man standing, but before he went he would do his best to give one of his comrades a clean death.

The noise of the crowd was growing as more and more money changed hands in bets. He wondered idly what odds were being given for him winning. He thought of Caenis and pulled out the silver amulet that she had given him. He held it tightly in his fist and prayed for Poseidon’s protection.

He let go of the amulet and it swung free as he bent to pick up the sword. A Thracian near him tugged at his neighbour’s sleeve and pointed. He picked up the shield. The noise around him changed to a low murmur; more people pointed. They’re betting on the first man to die, he thought. He tucked the amulet back under his tunic, turned and walked back towards his comrades.

They each stopped five paces from the middle. Corbulo looked at them one by one. ‘Do not ask for quarter. Deliver a clean death. It is now in the hands of the gods.’

They saluted each other and then crouched into position.

The crowd had gone very quiet.

Vespasian breathed heavily, his palms started to sweat and his heart raced. He looked from Magnus to Corbulo to Faustus, their eyes just visible over shield rims. They started to circle each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.

Behind him he heard a couple of individual shouts from the crowd. Something was happening. We’ve not started fighting quickly enough, we’ll all be impaled, he thought, and then sprang forward, crashing his shield against Corbulo’s. He thrust his sword at his throat, Corbulo parried, the blades met with a clash of iron and screeched as they slid down each other to lock together at the hilt. Vespasian felt something slice through the air behind him as he pushed down on Corbulo’s sword with his own. Magnus going at Faustus, he thought; but where’s the noise, where’s the cheering? Corbulo stepped to the left, pulling his sword away, causing Vespasian to overbalance. He fell to his left but had the presence of mind to bring his shield up to block Corbulo’s back-handed cut to his neck.

He hit the ground and rolled. Corbulo pounced towards him, shield up, sword arm extended, pointing at his throat.

‘Stop!’

The command was easily audible, for by now the only noises were the sound of their exertions and the clash of their weapons. The audience was completely silent.

They froze, Corbulo over Vespasian, Faustus squaring up to Magnus.

Vespasian looked round. Coronus and his elder son had pushed their way out of the crowd and were striding towards them, escorted by a dozen armed warriors.

‘Drop your weapons,’ Coronus shouted.

Four swords fell to the ground, followed by four shields.

He pushed Corbulo aside and leant over Vespasian. ‘Show me what you wear around your neck.’

Vespasian pulled out the silver amulet.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘My woman gave it to me when I left Rome.’

‘Where did she get it?’

‘Her mother left it to her; she said it was a symbol of her tribe.’

Coronus hauled Vespasian to his feet and pulled him close. ‘It is a symbol of a tribe,’ he snarled. His eyes bored into Vespasian’s. ‘ My tribe, the Caenii.’

‘My woman is called Caenis.’ Vespasian said quickly, convinced that he was going to be killed most painfully for sacrilege. ‘She told me of the story of Caeneus, but she said that he came from Thessaly, not Thracia.’

‘He was from Thessaly, but it was to this land that his son, my namesake, Coronus, fled after Caeneus was killed fighting the centaurs.’

‘I saw your men re-enact Caeneus’ death at the river.’

‘We do that when any man of our royal house dies,’ Coronus said quietly. He relaxed his hold on Vespasian. ‘My youngest son was also called Caeneus. My eldest here…’ he pointed to the young leader of the war band ‘… is also called Coronus, and so it has been since the original Coronus founded our tribe and named it after his father.’

Coronus stepped back, letting go of Vespasian’s tunic. ‘What was the name of Caenis’ mother?’

‘I don’t know.’ Vespasian didn’t take his eyes off Coronus; he knew that he was talking for his life. ‘I only know that she was a slave in the household of Antonia, the sister-in-law to the Emperor Tiberius. She died when Caenis was three. Antonia brought Caenis up in her household; she is like a mother to her.’

‘How old is Caenis?’

‘Eighteen, I think.’

Coronus nodded slowly. ‘That would mean her mother would be in her thirties, if she still lived. Skaris!’

The older man with the grey forked beard, whom they had seen arguing with the priest at the river, stepped forward. Coronus turned to talk with him privately. His escort surrounded the Romans, spears held at the ready. Vespasian noticed for the first time that each man wore the same image around his neck, only made of wood or stone. Coronus turned back to Vespasian, apparently satisfied with what Skaris had said.

‘Get up, Roman. It would seem that you speak the truth.’

Vespasian got to his feet and looked at his companions, all of whom were standing stock-still, trying to follow the course of events, not daring to believe that they might have a way out of this situation.

Coronus told his men to stand down and then addressed a few sentences to the crowd. As he spoke they murmured their assent and began to disperse. When he had finished he held out his arm to Vespasian, who took it.

‘My youngest sister and her infant daughter were taken as slaves over thirty years ago. As a member of our royal house she would have been wearing a silver image of Caeneus; the one that was given to you must be it. Your woman Caenis is my sister’s granddaughter, my great-niece. She gave you this amulet with love, to protect you. We will not harm you or your friends. You have the protection of the Caenii and are free to go.’

Vespasian stared at him in disbelief. ‘I will not forget this, Coronus, and I will be sure to tell Caenis who her people are; she will come back to thank you one day.’

‘If the gods will it, so be it. But before you go you will eat with me.’

He led them through the camp to his tent. All around people stared at the four Romans as they passed, shouting out in their strange language and making gestures of welcome and friendship.

Once they were seated with food and drink before them Coronus proposed a toast.

‘May Poseidon hold his hands over his people, the Caenii, and protect them and their friends.’ He drank. Vespasian, Magnus and Faustus followed, Corbulo did not. Coronus looked at him and shook his head. ‘I believe you will not drink because you wish to come back and fight us, am I right?’ he asked.

‘You are an enemy of Rome, it would be my duty.’ Corbulo put down his cup. His friends exchanged worried looks, afraid that this arrogant young aristocrat would land them back in the arena to fight again.

Coronus smiled. ‘Enemy of Rome, you say? That is not so, I only do Rome’s bidding and they pay me handsomely for it.’

‘They paid you to attack her soldiers,’ Corbulo sneered.

‘They paid me to attack the Caeletae, and then to attack your column in their territory. Why? I do not know. But I will prove it to you.’

Coronus said a few words to a couple of guards who bowed and went off to do his bidding.

‘Just over a month ago,’ he continued, ‘the priest came with four Romans and an escort of Greek cavalry. They brought me a chest, and told me that I could keep the contents if I did as Rome asked. As you know I did, and it cost me many men, including a son. It was a high price to pay, too high, but it would have been higher if I had refused. The Romans made that perfectly clear.’

‘Who was this priest?’ Vespasian asked, feeling sure that he wouldn’t be surprised by the answer.

‘His name is Rhoteces, a slippery little shit, but he has the favour of the gods and the respect of the tribes. He was with my men at the river.’

‘So this priest is also Rome’s agent?’ Corbulo asked, unable to believe that such an outlandish-looking creature could be working for Rome.

‘He’s a priest, he can go anywhere in Thracia, no one will harm him or his companions. Who better to carry messages and gifts?’

‘Who sent him?’ Vespasian asked.

‘Rome.’

‘Yes, but who in Rome?’

‘Does it matter? The Romans with him bore the imperial seal; that is authority enough for me.’

‘What did these Romans look like?’ Vespasian asked.

‘Three of them were wearing fine uniforms, very ornate, the fourth was a civilian, a big man with darker skin and long black hair and a small beard; he did the talking.’

Vespasian exchanged a glance with Magnus.

The tent flaps opened and four slaves came in carrying a very heavy-looking chest. They put it down and left.

‘See for yourselves, my friends; look at what Rome paid me to take your lives.’

Corbulo walked over to the chest. It was not locked; he opened it and drew his breath. Vespasian joined him and looked in. His eyes widened. It was full of silver denarii, more than he had ever seen. He dipped his hand in and brought out a handful, letting them clatter back down on to the pile. Each coin had Tiberius’ head on it; each one was as clean and unmarked as the day that it had left the mint.