The Broken Lance

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The Broken Lance Page 19

by Jess Steven Hughes


  Sabinus gestured to Crispus and to me. “Senator, they go with me.”

  Vitellius scrutinized us closely. He locked his eyes onto the Corona Civica, hanging from my new articulated armor and raised his eyebrows. “Are you the one who saved his commander’s life?”

  “Yes, your Excellency.”

  “Good man. Rome needs more like you, even if you are a Spaniard,” he commented with a sneer.

  Sabinus frowned at the mention of my race, but did not respond to the remark.

  “Thank you, Excellency,” I answered. You pompous sack of wind.

  Vitellius invited Sabinus to join him in his litter, and we departed for the emperor’s estate on Palatine Hill. Crispus and I rode horses provided by the Praetorian Guard.

  As we moved out, Crispus guided his mount beside me. He leaned over and whispered in a sarcastic voice, “Welcome to Rome, friend, what next?”

  I shrugged. “Probably nothing more today.”

  We left the riverfront and turned onto the narrow lane, Vicus Portae. Immediately, a horde of shaven-headed beggars, dressed in filthy rags, besieged us. “Da! Da!─Give! Give!” they shouted. In spite of the heavy guard, the party was swallowed by a sea of ragged caps and dirty hands thrust toward our faces.

  A stinking, pocked-face woman in a greasy, long tunic, who carried a baby with an abnormally large head, slipped past the guards and ran to me. “Please, Lord, a few coppers so I can feed my baby.” Wrapped in a woolen blanket riddled with holes, the baby reeked of urine and seemed barely alive.

  My horse snorted. Turning to one side, the gelding used its shoulder to shove the woman away. Out of pity, and against my better judgment, I tossed her a copper as. She snagged it out of the air with a practiced hand. Why she hadn’t exposed the pitiful creature to the elements in the hills as customary, I couldn’t understand.

  “Get out of here, woman!” a guard snapped.

  She darted into the noisy crowd and over to another beggar. He carried a raggedy cloth picture of a storm at sea, a beggar’s ploy. Supposedly, he had been a shipwrecked sailor, who had taken vows to the God Neptune to lead a life of poverty if he survived. After a lot of wild gesturing, the woman gave him the coin and ran farther up the street to beg again.

  Meantime, the same scruffy charlatan snaked through the mass of humanity and approached me. He reached out with a hand missing two middle fingers. “Please, Lord, a few coins for a poor, crippled, starving sailor.”

  “Get out of my sight, you scummy bastard,” I snarled and gave him a swift boot to the chest, knocking him to the street. He rolled to one side just as my horse was about to stomp him with a front hoof.

  The cursing guardsmen regained control and sent the vagabonds crashing into nearby walls and tufa stone gutters. The rest scattered.

  “Sneaky bunch of dogs, aren’t they?” I said to Crispus.

  “If that piece of dog meat you kicked is a sailor, then I’m governor of Baetica.”

  I turned my head back and forth on guard for more trouble. The Praetorians ahead of us were doing the same. “I doubt if he’s stepped foot in a dinghy.”

  “Aye,” Crispus muttered. “It’s like Sabinus said during the voyage.”

  The beggars we encountered were professionals. Some went to such extremes as mutilating themselves rather than working for a living.

  “I’d wager they get the dole, too,” Crispus added with a snort.

  “That’s what Sabinus complained about. He discussed the matter with the emperor when he was in Britannia, and suggested removing them from the city relief roles.”

  “What did he say?”

  “No.”

  Crispus bared his big teeth and spat, “Why?”

  I scanned the onlookers watching from the narrow sidewalks as the retinue moved along the trash-filled lane. “He fears the mob, and needs their support. After all, a fat mob is a happy mob.”

  “He’s not afraid to shed our blood so the leeches of Rome can have free bread and entertainment!”

  I shook my head in disgust.

  Passing through the Trigamina Gate, in the old Servian Wall, we entered the city proper. The retinue proceeded up the dismal way, surrounded by dark and ugly multistory tenements, their thin, sagging walls propped up by numerous support beams jutting into the lane. Scattered among the wooden apartments were busy shops and drab industrial buildings with barely enough room to ride at a walk through the noisy crowd. Hordes of people jostled and darted around market wares. Countless aliens mingled with the sharp-eyed Italians, who gestured incessantly as they bartered in open shops. Everyone shouted to make a point. A hawk-nosed Arab in white robes argued vehemently about the price of myrrh with a wizened, gray-haired woman. A delicate Egyptian, wearing a colorful mantle, cautiously crossed the stepping stones, at a street corner. A Nubian slave boy, his skin almost purple-black, trailed him holding an umbrella above his master’s head. The stream was endless.

  “I see we’re not the only foreigners in Rome,” I said.

  “Gods, look at all of them,” Crispus added, “there’s more of us than Romans.”

  Mixed with heat and humidity, the pungent smells of the slum nearly gagged me. Yet I had glimpsed but a small area of the city squeezed on the side of one hill against the Tiber. Not until we had left that dismal area behind and encountered the giant Circus Maximus and Temple of Hercules was I overpowered by the city’s enormity and magnitude. Before us spread an endless canyon of vaulting brick and concrete buildings, grandly covered by a thin veneer of marble, creeping up the sides of Rome’s hills.

  Thousands of citizens and aliens passed to and fro pouring in and out of enormous government buildings and temples built on a phalanx of brightly painted columns. The reflection from their gilded roofs and stately domes was blinding. Scattered in even greater numbers among them were the wooden apartments of the poor, and the blackened rubble from the city’s many fires.

  Dead ahead, in a tiny valley among a mountain of buildings and temples, squatted the Forum, a plaza cluttered with countless statues of Rome’s heroes and those who pretended to be. The adjacent porticoes and stalls, in the Basilicas of Opimia and Sempronia, were crowded with vendors selling wares of all sorts.

  “By Melkart, have you seen anything like this?” Crispus shouted above the noise of the mob. “It’s incredible. I knew Rome was big but this . . .”

  “Aye, Lugdunum and Messalia are squalid mud villages in comparison.”

  “Now I know what they mean by the old saying, ‘country bumpkin.’ That’s how I feel, but don’t tell anyone I said so.” Crispus laughed.

  I grinned. “I won’t.” I didn’t volunteer that I felt the same way.

  I continually twisted my head and observed the people and buildings. But it was impossible to absorb everything.

  We passed between the imposing temple of the twins, Castor and Pollux, and Temple of Augustus. To the right and looming above perched our final destination, Palatine Hill, with the magnificent palaces of the Caesars.

  It wouldn’t be long before Crispus and I knew Rome better than ourselves—Rome, in all her glory, was filled with omens of treachery to come.

  Chapter 23

  After handing our weapons to the Praetorians at the main entrance, Sabinus, Vitellius, Crispus, and I were ushered into the Court of Tiberius, where Emperor Claudius conducted affairs of state. Sabinus had looked forward to this day since we departed Britannia. Proudly, he strode, shoulders back, through the cavernous hall as we passed among hundreds of dignitaries. Senators and knights, wealthy citizens and freedmen, decked in their finest togas or embroidered tunics of soft wool, mingled with foreign emissaries dressed in a rainbow of clothing.

  Costly sheets of blue and green marble covered the stone walls lining the great audience room. Eight large niches contained as many colossal statues, wrought from Adamantine basalt, including those of Hercules and Bacchus. Around the circuit rose twenty-eight Corinthian columns of intricate workmanship. At the far end sat Emperor Cl
audius, as immobile as one of his statues. Dressed in a finely knit white and purple striped toga and wearing gold sandals, he sprawled upon a low dais in a silk-cushioned, ivory curule chair. Next to him, on a gilded table, sat a large black-lacquered wine amphora, and a dish of apples and rare and expensive oranges from the East. Behind the emperor stood another freedman, Pallas, his advisor and secretary of finance.

  My eyes darted about as I attempted in vain to take in our surroundings. At the same time my stomach churned and muscles tightened as Crispus and I walked behind Sabinus. Sweat ran down my back beneath my uniform. In the past, I had felt uneasy when standing before generals such as Sabinus and Vespasian. Now, I was in the presence of the most powerful man on earth. I was determined not to show any fear.

  Crispus and I remained at the front of the assemblage when the emperor motioned for Sabinus to step forward. All eyes turned to the general as he carefully strode to the dais, his image reflecting like a shadow in the polished, white marble floor. Upon saluting the emperor, he mounted the pedestal, bent down, and kissed the emperor’s veiny cheek, a sign of homage, and stepped back.

  “Welcome, n-noble Sabinus,” Claudius stuttered, salivating at the side of his mouth. Spittle dripped down his cheek. He patted Sabinus’s shoulder, a great sign of Imperial favor, soiling the kilted white sleeve with orange juice from his hand. “We are most pleased to receive you. The exploits of Legion Second Augusta and bravery of its soldiers have preceded you—they have served Rome well.”

  “My thanks, Great Caesar,” Sabinus answered, “but much of the credit belongs to my brother, Vespasian.”

  “N-Nonsense, dear General. Our reports say otherwise, and you are not here to discuss your brother.”

  Pallas leaned over and whispered something in Claudius’s ear.

  The emperor nodded and gulped wine from a golden goblet before belching. “We wish to hear your report from Britannia.”

  Sabinus recited. “The campaign against the Britons . . .”

  Claudius grabbed an apple from a bowl and munched loudly as Sabinus spoke. A few minutes later he twisted his bulk onto a haunch and farted. Pallas crinkled his nose, and Sabinus momentarily stopped in mid-word before continuing.

  I glanced toward Crispus who arched his thick eyebrows, and then looked about the hall. Officials, including Vitellius, who stood to one side of us, shook their heads and bit their lips in a painful attempt to keep from laughing. Others barely hid their disgust. Suddenly, the emperor’s head bobbed, and he fell asleep. His snoring echoed through the cavernous room.

  Apparently used to the emperor’s habits, Sabinus raised his voice. “Therefore, Great Caesar . . .”

  Immediately, Claudius awoke. “Go on, we are listening,” the emperor commanded.

  Sabinus proceeded. “I gave a detailed written report to Narcissus for Caesar to read at his leisure,” he concluded.

  “Excellent. We are pleased with the report you have given us today.”

  Again, Pallas leaned over and whispered to Claudius.

  There was a long pause, and the emperor’s face began to twitch, one of his tics. “That is all, Noble Sabinus. You have Rome’s gratitude and leave to go home and see your family. No doubt they are eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

  A gasp resounded through the chamber, as the onlookers murmured among themselves. Sabinus froze, stunned by Claudius’s remarks. From our shipboard conversations, I knew he looked forward to this day. Did the emperor have a change of heart about his new position, or was this another one of his absent-minded spells?

  “Well?” the emperor asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  “But Caesar,” Vitellius interceded, “the appointment.”

  “Which one?”

  Vitellius gesticulated excitedly, his triple chin bouncing up and down. “Titus Flavius Sabinus’s appointment to city prefect. Don’t you remember, Caesar, you promised him? That’s why you sent me to the docks to welcome him.”

  Claudius turned to Pallas and Narcissus then back to Vitellius. “We have changed our mind. Our dear friend, Senator Anicius Cestius Gallus, brought to our attention the loyal services of Senator Lucius Pedanius Secundus.” Near the entourage, the emperor nodded to a short, squinty-eyed character, wearing a senatorial toga, who bowed in return.

  Internally, I flinched. So this was the elder Gallus. Besides the warning, I had received from the young Gallus, Sabinus had given me further details about the old man on our journey to Rome. I had then revealed the feud between my family and his. A shrewd man of wealth, the senior Gallus made his fortune in construction, trade, and joint stock companies.

  I listened again.

  “We have decided his greater seniority in the Senate warrants his appointment to the post,” the emperor said.

  “But Caesar,” Vitellius protested, “you promised!”

  Claudius’s face darkened. “We are not accountable to you, Senator Vitellius, for our every decision. You stand in jeopardy of losing our friendship.”

  Vitellius’s blubbery lower lip dropped, stung by the emperor’s rebuke. He glanced at Sabinus.

  “Of course, the will of Caesar is mine,” Sabinus interjected diplomatically, “and I shall step aside. Secundus is a good man, and I know he will serve Caesar well.”

  Claudius’s head twitched again a couple of times. “We are pleased you understand our position, Noble Sabinus.”

  A slobbery smile came to the emperor’s mouth as he leaned forward. “Take heart, dear friend, you shall be appointed by us to another high office shortly, we promise.”

  Sabinus took a short bow. “Thank you, great Caesar, for your generosity.” Sabinus hid his emotions well, but no doubt he was disappointed, if not angry. Promises!

  The emperor added a few more consoling remarks and departed through an almost hidden exit at the rear of the throne.

  When Sabinus turned to leave, a crowd of sympathetic senators and knights surrounded him, expressing their dismay over the emperor’s change of heart.

  “I’m shocked,” Vitellius said, “I don’t understand why Caesar changed his mind. It’s not like him to break a promise to a friend.”

  “I appreciate you speaking on my behalf, Lucius,” Sabinus said, “but I’m afraid he listened to a stronger voice than yours.”

  “Indeed, he did, Titus Flavius Sabinus,” a dour, balding senator rasped, “Secundus is the rightful candidate.”

  “So the emperor has deemed, Anicius Cestius Gallus,” Sabinus answered facetiously. “However, both of us know differently, don’t we?”

  “Be specific, Flavius Sabinus,” Gallus demanded.

  “He is a puppet dangling by your bidding strings. Am I clear enough?”

  “Secundus is his own man, and the right man.”

  “I noticed the right man has conveniently disappeared. I have never known Secundus to take charge of any office so enthusiastically. If it is like his previous endeavors, his tenure as city prefect will be a disaster.”

  I glanced from Sabinus to the old senator waiting his response.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?” The elder Gallus sniffed.

  A cynical smile crossed Sabinus’s lips. “His construction in bridges that collapse, his trade in horses with defaced brands, and his joint stock in repossessed tenements is an open secret to all.”

  The old senator glowered at Sabinus.

  Crispus nudged my shoulder and motioned with his head toward Gallus, who turned in my direction. He studied me for a couple of seconds as I stood to Sabinus’s side. Liver blotches covered much of his wrinkled forehead, and a large, crooked nose dominated his jowly face. He had a small mouth and natural smirk, as did his son, and the identical chilling, blue eyes, whose sharpness had not diminished with age.

  As the elder man faced Sabinus, he gestured to me with a crooked finger that seemed to point towards whatever his crossed eyes followed. “Who is this young centurion?”

  “My retainer,” Sabinus replied.

  The s
enator glared at me, his wrinkled mouth hardened. “You must be the one my son wrote about. Are you the son of Marcellus Reburrus the Elder, from Abdera, in Baetica?”

  “Yes, your Excellency.” I focused on the bridge of his nose instead of his wayward eyes.

  Gallus stepped closer, “Yes . . . there is a resemblance, although you are taller. Ten years ago, your father took me, or rather my agents, to court, here in Rome.”

  My face grew warm. I sensed where this subject was heading and didn’t like it.

  Sabinus raised his eyebrows. “Oh, on what charge?”

  Gallus’s nostrils flared. “The thief accused me of defaulting in the payment of four black race horses I had purchased from him.”

  Calling my father thief, how dare he? I wanted to strike him, but held my temper. From what I had heard there was no bigger one than old Gallus.

  “There must have been a reason,” Sabinus said.

  “Reason indeed! He sold me lame animals, and I refused to pay the balance until they were replaced. He accused my trainer of mistreating and injuring them on the voyage to Rome from Baetica.”

  “My father was an honest man, sir,” I said, keeping my voice as even as my anger would allow.

  “Unfortunately, the court agreed,” Gallus growled. “Magistrates agree to anything for the right price!”

  Tension raced through my body. I balled my fists tightly but kept them at my side. My father would have fallen on his sword before bribing anyone.

  “I see my words have disturbed the young centurion, Flavius Sabinus. His face is red.”

  “Enough, Anicius Cestius Gallus,” Sabinus warned. “You have insulted the memory of his dead father. Were he a senator, he would have right to seek redress, and I would be the first to advise him.”

  “You would,” Gallus answered, a sneer crossing his lips.

  “Be sensible, Gallus. Centurion Marcellus Reburrus was a boy when the dispute occurred. Why drag him into something not of his doing?”

  “Because he may take up his father’s cause,” Gallus retorted. “Now I understand why my son was so angry when he wrote me. You are as ambitious as your father.”

 

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