Magnus and the Crossroads Brotherhood

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘She is indeed, Brother,’ Magnus readily agreed, examining the wound torsion springs, made of animal sinew, in which the bow arms were set. ‘There should be ample power in these for our purposes. Are you ready, Tigran?’

  The easterner grinned and slipped off his tunic leaving only his trousers and a small sack hanging from his belt. ‘The less weight the better, I would say, Magnus.’

  ‘You’re the lightest we’ve got and you’ll be fine, Brother; the pace with which this thing will thump into that wood over there will make it impossible to dislodge the bolt. I’ve seen these things pass through two barbarians in a row before getting stuck in a third. Very pleasing to the eye it was too.’ He tested the stability of the weapon standing on four splayed legs as if perched atop a pyramid. ‘Perfect. All right, Cassandros, wind her up.’

  The Greek attached the engine’s claw to the bowstring and then wound a pair of winches at the rear of the weapon to ratchet it back tight against the counter tension of the torsion springs.

  ‘Sextus, the bolt,’ Magnus said as the weapon reached maximum draw.

  ‘Right you are, Brother.’ Sextus picked up the two-foot wooden bolt, as thick as his thumb, with a vicious-looking iron head and three leather flights at the other end. Tied to it, with a good tight knot, was a hemp rope; a nail was driven into the bolt just behind the knot.

  ‘The sharp end goes at the front,’ Magnus said helpfully when Sextus appeared confused. ‘And make sure that the nail is upright.’

  The bolt in place, Magnus looked along its length, sighting it up towards its target. He made a couple of adjustments to the weapon and then, when satisfied, hit the release mechanism.

  With a crack that echoed off the surrounding buildings, the two bow arms, set in straining sinew, blurred forward and whacked into the restraining uprights, sending the bolt fizzing through the night, pulling the fast-uncoiling rope behind it. An instant later a resounding hollow thump announced its piercing of the wooden structure on the opposite roof, closely followed by the vibrating thrumming of the missile juddering, lodged firm in its target.

  Magnus took hold of the rope and gave it a couple of test tugs before putting all his weight against it; it held. ‘Tie that off with a nice tight knot, Sextus.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Brother, I’ll do it myself,’ Tigran insisted. ‘Then I’ve only myself to blame if I end up splattered all over the street below.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Magnus said as Tigran fastened the rope to a roof beam exposed by the removal of a couple of tiles.

  When all was secure, Tigran dangled himself from the rope upside down with his legs curled around it. He shifted his weight; the rope bounced slightly but held. ‘No time like the present.’ He grinned and began to move his hands one over the other, hauling himself up the gradient. As he came to the edge of the roof he muttered a short prayer before pulling himself out over the void whence came the rumble of night-time traffic and the jollification of drunkenness.

  Magnus held his breath as he watched the silhouetted figure ease along the rope, taking care not to make it swing and loosen the bolt. Little by little he progressed over the twenty-foot-wide drop until, with a suddenness that caused Magnus’ throat to constrict so that he almost chocked, Tigran let go of the rope and fell a few feet on to the other roof.

  ‘Done it,’ Magnus blurted in relief.

  A few moments later the rope slackened off as Tigran detached it from the bolt. The tension came back to it as he fastened it to something more secure.

  ‘Good lad,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Now open the door.’ The cracking of wood being worked at with a crowbar confirmed that that was indeed what Tigran was doing, and very shortly Magnus could see the door to the West Viminal’s private gaol swing open and a couple of shadows stalk out. ‘Well, they can either stay or come over here, it makes no odds to me,’ Magnus informed the brothers watching with him.

  Both the men, having by now been acquainted by Tigran of his objective, decided to risk the crossing rather than stay where they were. As the first man climbed on to the rope, Magnus saw orange glimmers come from inside the wooden structure; soon it was a constant glow. By the time the first man had made it over, flames flickered from the structure and, Magnus hoped, would be now catching on the roof beams beneath the tiles that Tigran had, hopefully, removed from the floor of the gaol with his crowbar.

  The fire grew and Magnus rubbed his hands together. ‘Sempronius will never suspect that it was us who started it; he’ll think that the prisoners did it somehow – if he escapes being condemned to the arena, that is.’

  The second man was halfway across when Tigran came racing out of the gaol and back to the rope, flames sheening his naked torso. ‘Hurry up, you bastard.’ The escaping prisoner quickened his movement; as soon as he dropped down on to Magnus’ roof Tigran clambered onto the rope and all but slid back down.

  ‘Eh? Look what we have here, Magnus,’ Marius said, grabbing the newly escaped prisoner by the wrist. ‘You little bastard, where’s my money?’

  ‘Ah! So that’s how they knew the way through our tavern,’ Magnus said, recognising the man’s face. ‘Did they hurt you, Postumus, or did you just offer free directions to be friendly, like?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Magnus, they caught me in one of their whorehouses; I was stupid to go in. They chucked me in their gaol and Sempronius threatened me with a red-hot poker, he did. I didn’t like it.’

  ‘You liked it well enough the other night.’

  ‘Not to be on the receiving end, though. Anyway, I didn’t think that telling them the layout of the tavern would do much harm; it was only directions they wanted.’

  One flick of Magnus’ head was enough for Marius and Sextus to lift a screaming Postumus up. Marius looked briefly down into the street before nodding at his brother. With a diminishing howl Postumus hurtled streetwards to slap on to the stone as Tigran arrived safely back with the roof ablaze behind him.

  ‘What happened to him?’ the easterner asked as he handed the jar of the River-god’s fire to Magnus.

  ‘He’s been giving people directions that he shouldn’t; so we gave him directions for the quick way down to the street. The rest of you lads had better join him but I recommend using the stairs, even though it takes slightly longer.’ He took a rag and smeared the Scorpion all over with the remains of the jar’s contents. ‘Quick as you like, Cassandros.’

  With a few deft strikes of his flint, Cassandros got a cascade of sparks falling into his tinderbox which, coaxed with gentle breaths, caught into a small flame. Lighting his rag from the kindling, Magnus lobbed it at the Scorpion’s feet. Flames jumped from the wood and raced up to the main body of the weapon, along the bolt groove and then left and right to the bow arms and up and down the torsion springs.

  Magnus looked at the raging Scorpion with regret. ‘Pity, but it would be unwise to break a promise to Vespasian, however expensive.’ Beyond it the West Viminal’s roof was an inferno and shouts of panic issued from the building as the flames spread. ‘Still, she did a good job. Time to go, Cassandros.’ Cradling the empty jar so that it was safe, Magnus turned and sped down the stairs. From across the street came the crash of the first roof beams collapsing onto the floor below.

  ‘On a grain ship? Me? It’s an …’ Philo began spluttering, his outrage such that he could not even spit the word out as he stared in horror at the hulking monstrosity of the flagship of the Egyptian grain fleet.

  ‘It’s all that’s available,’ Magnus replied, trying not to show his irritation. ‘The first grain convoy of the season has almost filled the harbour, and of the few other ships berthed here, none is destined for Alexandria. Take it or leave it, but that’s what the port aedile said.’

  ‘Then we shall wait until a vessel more suitable to my standing arrives.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, Philo,’ Vespasian said from his seat on a folding chair set beneath a makeshift awning. ‘Firstly, you don’t know how long you might have to wait for so f
ine a ship, and secondly,’ he indicated around the crowded, bustling port and the clogged streets leading off it, ‘where would you stay? I doubt that you’d find anything that you would consider suitable here.’

  ‘We’ll go back to the Gardens of Lamia.’

  ‘No you won’t, Philo. I can’t allow you back into the city.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t guarantee your safety, and because of my friendship with your brother I would not wish to put you at risk.’

  ‘But yesterday the Emperor …’

  ‘What the Emperor does one day bears no relation to what he might do the next. Indeed, if he did hear that you were back in the city he might very well forget that he has already questioned you as to why you don’t recognise his divinity.’

  ‘Then I’d have another chance to put the case against Flaccus and the Greeks to him.’

  ‘No, Philo, you won’t; but Caligula might come to a different conclusion than he did yesterday. So forget Flaccus, forget all the outrages that you have been subjected to and get on that ship.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Philo,’ Vespasian said, rising to his feet to emphasise his earnestness. ‘Just get on board, go back to Alexandria and write to Caligula protesting about Flaccus. Meanwhile, if I get the chance, I will remind the Emperor that Flaccus would not hand over Alexander’s breastplate to me and mention to him how rich Flaccus has become whilst serving as prefect of Egypt. That’s the best way to deal with a god who needs all the money he can find for his Germania campaign.’

  ‘But he’s not a god.’

  ‘Yes he is, Philo, and you’d be wise to remember that. If the Emperor, who has the power of life and death over us all, considers himself to be a god then a god he is, and I for one will be the first to keep up that pretence.’

  ‘So you don’t really believe that he is a god.’

  ‘What I believe is irrelevant. Now go.’

  Philo stroked his beard, considering his position. ‘Very well, I’ll take your advice.’ He signalled to his fellow ambassadors to board the waiting vessel and then approached closer to Magnus and Vespasian. ‘I would thank you for the help that you have both given us – me. I have found it hard not to be treated according to my rank and that has led to a few outbursts of frustration, so that you haven’t, perhaps, seen me in the best light.’ He produced a weighty purse from inside his mantle. ‘As a token of thanks and in anticipation of what you will do to aid us in bringing Flaccus down I would like to give you the last of the money we have set aside for bribes.’ He offered the purse to Vespasian. ‘Take it, there are a hundred and fifty-three aurei in it.’

  Vespasian pushed it away. ‘I can’t be seen to take money off you in public like this, but there is absolutely no reason why Magnus should not accept the gift and we’ll share it out later.’

  ‘Very good,’ Philo said, handing the purse to Magnus who took it with a grave face. ‘I bid you both farewell and will carry your greetings to my brother and his sons.’

  ‘Do that, Philo,’ Vespasian said with feeling, ‘and tell him that someday Magnus and I will come back to Alexandria and he can repay the debt he owes us with hospitality.’

  Philo bowed and then turned and walked up the gangway.

  ‘Did I hear you right, sir?’ Magnus asked as they watched him go. ‘I could have sworn that you said we’d share the money out.’

  ‘I did. I thought a third for you and two-thirds for me.’

  ‘Fifty-one aurei – that’s very generous.’

  ‘Not really; it just puts you back into my debt, which is where I like you to be.’ Vespasian turned away. ‘Come on, let’s get back to Rome – if there’s any of it still left standing, that is.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ Magnus asked, feeling the comforting weight of the purse in his hand.

  ‘I mean that I heard that a chunk of the Viminal burnt down last night. Oddly enough it was the same building that the Urban Cohorts raided the day before.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, it’s amazing just how viciously a Scorpion can burn.’

  ‘I hope that I never have the opportunity to find out, and so does the Urban Prefect, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘I do, sir; and I can promise you that no one will ever get one into the city again and life will go back to how it was.’

  ‘Good. Make sure that everyone understands that.’

  ‘Oh, he will, sir, he will.’

  ‘Tatianus, what a lovely surprise,’ Magnus said in a voice that conveyed the exact opposite; he did not get up as the middleman was shown into his room at the rear of the tavern by Marius. Servius sat next to him. ‘This must be a social visit as I know you never discuss business outside your establishment.’

  ‘In normal circumstances that would be the case,’ Tatianus said as he sat opposite Magnus and placed a strongbox on the table between them.

  ‘But not today; why’s that?’

  Tatianus bared his teeth in a snarl. ‘You know perfectly well why that is, Magnus, so let’s stop the play acting and get down to business: you said that you have the power to keep my name in or out of this Scorpion and the River-god’s fire affair. Well?’

  Magnus leant forward and rested his elbows on the table, pressing the tips of his steepled fingers to his lips. ‘Hmmm. Tricky. After all, you did swindle me.’

  ‘No I didn’t; I just used my normal business practice and you well know it.’

  ‘Well, Tatianus, I’ll tell you what I know: the Urban Cohorts did raid Sempronius’ place yesterday and they did take away a Scorpion as well as Sempronius himself. The Urban Prefect knows all about your business but turns a blind eye because he can control it much better if he knows how and when items arrive in the city. However, a Scorpion was a step too far and he’s a bit cross, to say the least, and if I was to give the jar of the River-god’s fire to my patron to pass on to him then your days would be up, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘I do. So what do you propose?’

  ‘I propose that you give me back the deposit that you cheated me out of and in return I’ll give you back the jar. And then, secondly, I’ve been asked to convey this message: you undertake never to bring in anything more dangerous than swords, slings, bows and those sorts of things, and then the Urban Prefect will be very happy and let you carry on in business.’

  ‘That’s easy enough.’

  ‘There is one exception, though.’

  Tatianus eyed Magnus across the table. ‘And that is you, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed, Tatianus. You will bring me anything I ask for – except for a Scorpion, of course – because I’ll be able to get it into the city without the authorities finding out.’

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘That’s what tame senators are for.’

  Tatianus looked down at his strongbox and then pushed it across the table to Magnus. ‘You have a deal. One thousand denarii paid in gold.’

  Magnus opened the lid and counted the coinage. ‘Fifty aurei, very nice, Tatianus. Servius, give the gentleman his jar back.’

  Servius leant down and produced the jar from under the table; Tatianus took it greedily and then pulled the top off. ‘It’s empty!’ His eyes squinted accusingly.

  Magnus shrugged and leant back in his chair. ‘Of course it is. The deal was for me to give you back the jar; I made no promise as to whether or not the contents would still be in it, did I? It’s just such a pity for you that you took it for granted that it would be. Sempronius has that, or at least, he had it smeared over his roof beams until someone carelessly dropped a flaming rag on them. Now he’s just got a gutted shell of a building which is going to cost him a lot more than the thousand denarii he stole from me if the Urban Prefect ever lets him go.’

  ‘You fire-raising bastard!’

  Magnus’ smile got nowhere near his eyes. ‘I may well have kept enough of the River-god’s fire to prove that statement right on your house, Tatianus. As you said, I am known for my arsonistic tende
ncies. You can go.’

  Tatianus picked up the jar and hurled it across the room to shatter on the far wall. Without a word he turned and stalked out.

  ‘I’ll call for you when I need you,’ Magnus shouted after him. ‘I much prefer doing business here, on my terms.’ Magnus grunted with satisfaction as he listened to Tatianus stomp down the corridor. He tipped the fifty aurei onto the table and then looked at Servius. ‘Fifty aurei from him and fifty-one from Philo; it would seem, brother, that we’re one aureus up on the deal.’

  ‘I’ll record that in my ledgers.’

  ‘You do that, Brother; and meanwhile I’ll try and work out another way of getting into Tatianus’ strongroom without using a Scorpion.’

  THE IMPERIAL TRIUMPH

  This story comes between Rome’s Fallen Eagle and Masters of Rome and covers what Magnus was doing in his trip back to the Imperial city after the initial invasion of Britannia and the reason why he had to leave Rome in a hurry and return to Vespasian.

  Set against the backdrop of Claudius’ Triumph for his ‘subjugation’ of Britannia the story concerns the ramifications of the tumbling price of slaves due to the market being flooded with so many Britannic captives. Both Magnus and Senator Pollo have their own concerns in the run-up to the Triumph and once more work together to their mutual interest.

  Again, it also has modern themes, in this case property speculation and gerrymandering. It also provides the explanation as to how Vespasian came to own the house in Pomegranate Street that Suetonius tells us of; I was very interested to learn about Roman property law!

  I wrote this after I had written Masters of Rome and Rome’s Lost Son and thoroughly enjoyed tying in all the loose threads and setting up the backstory to Magnus finally relinquishing control of the South Quirinal to Tigran.

  The opportunity to describe Claudius’ faux-Triumph was too much to resist even though I had already written about Plautius’ Ovation and knew that I still had Vespasian’s and Titus’ joint Triumph to come. The idea that most people knew that Claudius had done next to nothing, personally, during the invasion and yet everyone went along with the conceit that he conquered the whole island almost single-handed leaving only the odd mopping-up operations amuses me still; but that is the art most dictators use for holding on to power; just look at North Korea.