Tribune of Rome

CHAPTER XXIV

For five days they followed the course of the Hebrus River northwest, stopping only to eat or sleep, pushing their horses as much as they dared. Coronus had given them an escort through his lands, but they had turned back once they’d reached the territory of the Odrysae. Although not in revolt, there was still a bitter resentment of Rome after its violent quelling of that tribe’s rebellion four years previously. Vespasian and his three comrades kept well away from settlements, relying instead on the ample supplies that they had been given by the Caenii and water from the murky but drinkable Hebrus.

His companions took it in turns to quiz Vespasian about how he had come to be in possession of an amulet that guaranteed the protection and friendship of the Caenii, despite the fact that they had been in part responsible for the deaths of hundreds of their warriors and the chief’s youngest son. But Vespasian was unable to tell them any more than he had told Coronus, forcing each man to come up with his own theory.

‘Luck,’ Magnus said, ‘pure and simple luck.’

‘The will of the gods,’ Corbulo opined. ‘It shows us that they have a destiny for every man and enjoy teasing us until it is fulfilled.’

‘Caenis must have the power of foresight,’ Faustus theorised. ‘She saw where you would come into danger and gave you the amulet because she knew it would save you.’

‘And by luck she just happened to have it on her.’ Magnus felt that his case rested.

Vespasian smiled to himself. Each of these theories was in part correct, but there was one thing that overrode all of them: love. Whether it was the will of the gods, luck or foresight, without her love for him Caenis would never have given up her only memento of her mother.

Vespasian, however, had his own concerns. He had no doubts that the chest of denarii had come from Sejanus, using the imperial seal. And that Asinius and Antonia were right: Sejanus was financing the rebellion for his own ends. In destroying the relief column he would be able to go to the Senate, in the Emperor’s name, and demand a more robust approach in Thracia, more legions to punish the Caenii, and no doubt to slyly retrieve his chest of money. This would in turn create more resentment and incite more tribes to revolt, thus escalating the problem and giving him more time and space to seize the purple while the army was looking the other way.

Corbulo would be duty bound to report the chest of denarii, where it had come from and what it had paid for, to Poppaeus. The conversation would be recorded by a secretary, and then copied by others. It would not be long before news of the discovery spread and reached the ears of Sejanus’ agent, who would undoubtedly send a message to his master warning him that the conspiracy risked being uncovered. The agent would then, in all probability, lie low until he received further instructions, which could be two or three months, months in which he, Vespasian, would be unable to get any closer to discovering the his identity.

Feeling sure that Corbulo wouldn’t have been party to a plan that involved his own death at the hands of the Caenii, he decided to partially confide in him one evening, whilst Magnus and Faustus were away watering the horses.

‘Have you given any thought as to who might have paid to see us and our men dead, Corbulo?’

Corbulo looked at him over his long thin nose, his angular face illuminated on one side by the small fire that they had set.

‘Nothing troubles me more, not even how you came to have that amulet in the right place at the right time.’

‘What conclusions have you come to?’

Corbulo looked around to make sure that they were still alone.

‘I cannot believe that it was the Emperor, even though the messengers bore the imperial seal. What would he have to gain by killing two of his own cohorts?’

‘My thoughts entirely. But if it was not the Emperor, who else has access to the imperial seal, and to that amount of newly minted money?’

Corbulo looked down and shook his head.

Vespasian decided to change tack. ‘What do you propose to do once we get to Poppaeus?’

‘I shall report all that we saw, of course.’

‘Would that be in our best interests? After all, whoever paid the Caenii to kill us may well have someone close to Poppaeus, and then he would find out that his conspiracy has been uncovered and, more to the point, who uncovered it.’

Corbulo stared at Vespasian in the firelight as if reappraising him.

‘You’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘And I had you down as a snotty-nosed little thin-stripe tribune; I can see that there is more to you than I thought, Vespasian. So if we’re to avoid the attention of…’ He paused and looked Vespasian in the eye. ‘Sejanus?’

Vespasian nodded.

‘Then I should make my report to Poppaeus in private, no records and no witnesses,’ Corbulo concluded.

‘I think that that is a good idea of yours, Corbulo.’

Corbulo continued staring at Vespasian. He had the odd feeling that it hadn’t been his idea at all.

When Magnus returned later, he sat down next to Vespasian. ‘Did you have a nice little chat with the arsehole, sir?’ he whispered.

‘What do you mean? And he’s not so much of an arsehole as I thought he was. His actions saved a lot of men back at the crossing.’

‘Point taken. I mean what did you persuade the not-so-much-of-an-arsehole to do about that chest of denarii?’

‘How did you know that I was going to talk to him about that?’

‘Stands to reason, don’t it? The more people who know that we know about it, the worse it may go for us. I hope you told him to report in discreetly, if you take my meaning?’

‘I did, as a matter of fact; I got him to agree to report in private to Poppaeus.’

‘Well done, sir. That was a good idea.’

Vespasian peered at Magnus through the darkness and couldn’t help wondering just whose idea it really had been.

On the evening of the fifth day they arrived at the walled town of Philippopolis, the seat of the Thracian King Rhoemetalces and his mother Queen Tryphaena. Here they learnt from the commander of the small Roman garrison, a much-decorated old centurion in his last few months of service, that Poppaeus’ victory had been impressive but not decisive, his field camp was another hard day’s ride west, and that Gallus had brought the column of recruits through four days earlier.

They decided to spend the night with the garrison, and availed themselves of the pleasures of the small but fully functioning bath house, the first that they had seen since Philippi fourteen days before. The garrison commander provided them with a decent hot meal and some decent women, again their first since Philippi, before they retired for a decent night’s sleep.

At dawn on the following morning, feeling much refreshed in body and spirit, they were about to leave with an escort of a turma of Illyrian auxiliary cavalry, commanded by an amiable round-faced young patrician cavalry prefect, Publius Junius Caesennius Paetus, when the garrison commander rushed into the stable yard.

‘Tribune Vespasian, sir, there is a messenger here from the palace. Queen Tryphaena requests that you visit her before you leave.’

‘Minerva’s tits,’ Corbulo spat. ‘That could delay us all day. Lead the way, centurion.’

‘The messenger was very clear, sir. Only the tribune.’

Corbulo glowered at Vespasian.

‘What could she want with me?’ Vespasian was intrigued.

‘You watch yourself, dear chap,’ Paetus chuckled. ‘She’s a feisty creature, and very good-looking. Partial to strong young bucks like yourself, so I’m told. Good luck.’

Vespasian decided to play along with him. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘In that case we’ll hardly notice your absence.’

Vespasian left smiling to the sound of laughter and ribald jokes at the expense of his prowess, about which, after the previous night, he had no concerns.

The messenger led him through the narrow streets of the ancient town, older than Rome itself, to the royal palace on the top of the largest of the three hills upon which the town was built.

They were admitted without hindrance. Vespasian was shown immediately through to the private quarters and then into a small east-facing room on the first floor. The low, early-morning sun flooded through its solitary window, illuminating the surprisingly sparse room with golden light. The walls were whitewashed and the floor was of waxed wooden boards. Under the window stood a simple wooden desk of such antiquity that Vespasian thought it would collapse if so much as a scroll was laid upon it. In the centre of the room were two chairs and a table of more recent manufacture.

Vespasian went to the window and gazed out to the east towards the rising sun.

‘That is the same view that Alexander looked upon every morning he awoke here,’ came a soft voice from behind him.

Vespasian spun round and stepped back from the window. In the doorway stood a tall, slender woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a plain ivory stola that highlighted, but did not flaunt, the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. Her thick black hair was dressed high upon her head. Three ringlets hung down to her shoulders on either side of her pale face, which was dominated by full lips painted with red ochre. Her clear blue eyes, delicately rimmed with kohl, sparkled in the soft sunlight.

‘This was his room when he came to muster my people for the invasion of the great Persian Empire. He chose it because it looks east.’

She walked gracefully across to the ancient desk and brushed her hand lightly over it.

‘He sat at this very desk each morning, dealing with his correspondence and looking out towards the lands that he would conquer.’

Vespasian looked down at the simple desk with awe and felt the closeness of history within the room. She shared his quiet reverence for a moment before moving away from the window to the chairs behind them.

‘But I haven’t brought you here for a history lesson, Vespasian. I am Tryphaena, nominally the queen of this country but in practice the puppet of the Emperor and Senate.’

‘Domina, I am honoured to meet you,’ Vespasian said, grateful for the small history lesson that she had given him.

‘It is as well that through my great-grandfather, Marcus Antonius, I am firstly a Roman citizen, otherwise I might also be hiding up in the mountains with the rebels.’

Tryphaena sat down and motioned that he should do the same.

‘My people have been forced into this rebellion. When Alexander came here looking for troops he brought money to pay them and asked only for volunteers. Over five thousand answered his call; most of them never came back. Now, almost three hundred years later, we have a new master: Rome.

‘Up until last year Rome was content for our warriors to serve in our army, under our own commanders, keeping the peace within the borders of the kingdom. Then two things changed: firstly, recruiting officers arrived from Moesia demanding that our army be formed into auxiliary cohorts for service in Moesia; and then our priests started to rouse the tribes in rebellion against this new measure, encouraging the chiefs with money, Roman denarii, that they suddenly seemed to have in abundance.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘From what my informants tell me it was distributed by Rhoteces, the leader of our priests, but from whom he received it I don’t know, I can only guess.’

‘Why would he encourage your people into a fight that they were bound to lose?’

‘The Thracians are a proud, warlike people. They have only ever served other nations as mercenaries, never as conscripts; they see that as another form of slavery. It wasn’t difficult to get them to rebel. Why Rhoteces did it is an easy question: he hates me and my son. He hates the monarchy because we rule Thracia – in Rome’s name, granted, but nonetheless we rule. He thinks that if we were to disappear then power would pass to the priests, who, like us have no tribal loyalties, and Rhoteces is the chief priest.’

‘But Rome would still be supreme.’

‘Of course it would, and this is what that idiot doesn’t understand; my son and I are all that stand between an autonomous Thracia and annexation by Rome.’

‘So if the rebellion were to succeed, Rome would annex Thracia, and its people would be subject to conscription, and if it fails Rome gets its conscription anyway. Either way the legions will be busy here for some time pacifying the country.’

‘Exactly, and Rhoteces has unwittingly been the architect of this disaster through his lust for power and inability to understand politics. Sejanus has played him well.’

‘You are sure that he is behind this, domina?’

‘Antonia is my kinswoman and friend, we correspond regularly and I am aware of her fear of Sejanus. She has told me what she believes he would gain by destabilising Thracia.

‘In her last letter she asked me to look out for you on your way to Poppaeus’ camp, and to give you any assistance I could.’

‘She is most kind, domina.’

‘Indeed she is – to her friends.’ Tryphaena smiled. ‘I am unable to help you in any material way but I can give you a warning: three days ago four men passed through. They stopped only briefly to change horses; they were bearing an imperial travel warrant. They were Praetorian Guardsmen – well, three of them were. The fourth could not have been as his hair was too long.’

Vespasian nodded. ‘And did this fourth man also have a small beard and very brown skin?’

‘I believe he did. You know him?’

‘We met briefly. It wasn’t the friendliest of encounters. His name is Hasdro. Should he return this way I believe Antonia would thank you for killing him. He placed a spy in her house.’

‘I will see what can be arranged,’ she replied, looking at him in a different light. She admired a man who could, with good reason, so easily order another’s death.

She stood and clapped her hands. A slave girl entered with a small scroll and handed it to her mistress.

‘Her letter also contained this.’ Tryphaena gave him the scroll. ‘I will leave you to read it. When you have finished someone will escort you out. May the gods go with you, Vespasian.’

‘And also with you, domina.’

She left the room, leaving Vespasian alone with his letter, the first that he had ever received. His heart pounded as he broke the seal; he looked quickly for the signature: Caenis.

Vespasian left the palace a short while later feeling as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Caenis’ letter had been all that he had hoped for, and more, as he had composed her replies to his imaginary letters in his head on the long, unpleasant journey in the mule cart at the hands of the Caenii.

On his return his companions mistook the look on his face.

‘It would seem that your friend enjoyed the meeting with Queen Tryphaena,’ Paetus laughed. ‘By the looks of him I’d say that Venus was there too.’

Vespasian shrugged, said nothing and mounted his horse.

As they passed through the town gates Magnus drew level with Vespasian.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Hasdro passed through here three days ago, with three Praetorians.’

‘So that’s why you’ve got that love-struck look on your face. One squeeze of his balls and you’re his for ever.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I thought so. So the Queen was quite a looker, then?’

‘She was, and she also had a letter for me from Caenis.’

‘Ah, that would do it.’ Magnus grinned at his friend.

Vespasian was in no mood for conversation. He kicked his horse and accelerated away.

The morning was clear and cold; a strong breeze blew down from the snow-capped Haemus Mountains to the north, forcing them to keep their cloaks wrapped tightly around their shoulders. The condensation of their horses’ breath billowed from their nostrils as they made their way across the steadily rising ground, sometimes trotting, sometimes cantering to their destination. Ahead was the northern end of the Rhodope range where Poppaeus had the rebels holed up.

‘Will there be another battle, Paetus?’ Vespasian asked.

The cavalry prefect smiled, his bright eyes shining in the strengthening sun. ‘Poppaeus has been trying to draw them out for a month now, but they won’t budge. Our spies tell us that they’re divided into three factions. There are those that want to throw themselves on our mercy, which may or may not be forthcoming; then there’re those who want to charge out of their stronghold, after killing their women and children, and die fighting, taking as many of us with them as possible; and finally there’s a completely fanatical faction that wants to kill their women and children and then commit mass suicide.’ He laughed; the others joined in. ‘But seriously, Poppaeus is trying to avert the last option; it’s not good to create too many fanatical martyrs. He’s in secret negotiations with a chap called Dinas, who is the leader of the first faction, trying to get him to talk some sense into the others. The trouble is that he can’t offer complete clemency, that would send a bad message; some have got to be nailed up on crosses or lose hands or eyes, otherwise anyone with a petty grievance will rebel, thinking that if they lose they’ll be free to go back to their villages, with their wife’s virtue intact and all their limbs in place, to carry on as before until their next opportunity comes along.’

‘Quite so,’ Corbulo agreed. ‘It’s a tricky situation. How is he putting pressure on them? Has he dug siege lines around them?’

‘He’s done his best. We’ve constructed over four miles of trenches and ramparts around them, but their stronghold’s too high, you could never completely encircle it. So we send out patrols and try and stop any supplies getting in, but they slip through at night. Water is the one thing that they’re short of: they’ve only got one spring up there. But even so they could stay put for months, and the longer they’re there the more chance there is of other tribes joining them, then we could find ourselves surrounded.’

‘What about storming it?’ Vespasian asked.

Paetus burst out laughing; Vespasian reddened.

‘My dear chap, forgive me.’ Paetus managed to get his mirth under control and reached out to touch Vespasian’s arm in a conciliatory gesture. ‘That’s exactly what the bastards want. They’ve spent the winter fortifying the walls and digging ditches and traps, nasty things with sharpened stakes in. Nearly fell into one myself last time I was up there scouting. No, it’s damned near impregnable, you’d lose four cohorts just to get to the gate, then two more to get through them. And behind it are sheer cliffs. Even if you could get down those, it would be with so few men that you’d be massacred once you’d got to the bottom.

‘We’ve just got to keep them there and hope that either they see sense and come out to surrender or fight; or start fighting amongst themselves and do our job for us.’

‘At least we’re not too late.’ Corbulo sounded relieved; the thought of arriving too late for any action had plagued him all the way from Italia.

‘No, no, you’re not too late; but what you’ve arrived in time for is anyone’s guess.’

They rode on in silence for a while, eating up the miles, climbing higher and higher into the hills. After a short break at midday to eat some bread and smoked ham and allow their horses to graze on the thinning grass, they came across a series of thirty or forty large scorch marks on the ground.

‘This is where we beat them,’ Paetus said with pride. ‘These are what are left of their pyres; we killed over half of them, losing no more than six hundred of our lads all told. There must have been thirty thousand of the bastards to start off with, all yelling and hollering and showing their arses and waving those vicious long blades of theirs.’

‘Rhomphaiai,’ Corbulo said unnecessarily.

‘Indeed. Nasty things, one took one of my horse’s legs off, would have had mine too if the poor beast hadn’t fallen on the savage wielding it. Pinned him down, it did. I managed to jump clear and skewered the bastard. I was furious; it was a horse from the gods.’ Paetus patted the neck of his present mount, as if to show that he meant no offence.

As they progressed across the field Vespasian spotted signs of a recent battle all around: spent arrows, discarded helmets, broken swords, javelins and shields. Here and there lay an unburnt corpse almost stripped of flesh by wolves or buzzards, strips of rotting clothing clinging to its tattered limbs. Away in the distance on either side there were countless dark mounds like large molehills. Paetus caught his gaze.

‘Horses,’ he said. ‘We’re roughly at the centre of our line; there were fierce cavalry battles on both flanks. We didn’t capture enough prisoners to burn all the dead horses, so we just left them. Mine’s out there somewhere, poor thing; a horse from the gods.’ He shook his head mournfully and patted his mount’s neck again.

They passed over the battlefield and came to an abandoned camp.

‘That was our first camp, when we moved up to the present position we gave it to King Rhoemetalces for his army of loyal Thracians. Though why we didn’t just send them home I don’t know, they did nothing but pillage and get pissed. Fucking useless, they were.’

‘Were?’ Corbulo asked.

‘The rebels saw them as a greater enemy than us. A few nights after the battle they launched a small attack on one of our support camps. We all ran around trying to beat them off, not realising that it was only a diversion. The main body of their army had circled around us and fell on the loyal Thracians, who of course were all too drunk on that disgusting wine of theirs to do anything about it. It was a massacre. Almost all of them were slaughtered, over ten thousand of them and their families, no prisoners taken. Still, it won’t affect the course of the war. Rhoemetalces was having dinner with the general at the time so they didn’t get him, which had been their primary objective. He’s still lurking around in our camp, too scared to leave and make it back to Philippopolis. Mind you, I don’t suppose his mother will be very pleased to see him, having lost an army.’

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

‘What are they, Paetus?’ he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sheep-fucker!’

‘Sailor’s tart!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the guards went inside to announce them.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please take a seat, sirs.’

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

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

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

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

‘It must cost a fortune,’ Vespasian replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well, tribune? Report.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, sir.’ Vespasian saluted.

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

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

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

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

After almost half an hour he finished.

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

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

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

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

‘Very well. Thank you, Kratos.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I mean alone.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘So why did you?’ Vespasian asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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