The guard by the door nodded his permission to enter, and Facilis did so quietly.
It was a small room, really, but well-appointed for all that. Perhaps fifteen feet by ten, the walls were painted with red and yellow and hung with maps of the region and the locale, as well as a small wooden board painted with Minerva, and a portrait of the commander’s wife and sons. The only seat was his, positioned behind the plain desk.
Legate Lucius Cornelius Viator was one of very few men in the legion taller than Facilis and his general manner and shape always reminded the legionary of a stork as he plodded around the fortress, head lowered forwards, hands clasped behind his back. In this instance, however, Viator sat relaxed in his chair, pulling himself forward as the legionary entered, snapping off a sharp salute and standing rod-straight.
‘Ah, Facilis. Your centurion informs me that you are his most diplomatic and trustworthy man. Is this the case?’
Facilis felt a frown crease his brow and quickly ironed it flat. He would not stay a legionary for long – there was a whole world of promotions out there awaiting a man who fitted them well, and the centurion had already put him down on the list of potential immunes for the next round of advancements. But Viator might as well be Jupiter himself where the legion was concerned, and even an accidental frown might scupper any chance of advancement if this man took a dislike to you.
‘If the centurion believes so, sir.’
‘Very diplomatic,’ murmured the legate. ‘You have heard about our visitor, I presume?’
‘Yes, sir. Imperial Procurator Severus and his entourage, sir.’
‘And what is your opinion of them, diplomatic and trustworthy legionary Facilis? Speak freely.’
Facilis fought to stop the frown coming back. What was this? Other than a clear opportunity to wedge his boot in his mouth and end a promising career in one shot, of course. It was said that Viator was truly the governor’s man. Soldiers, no matter their rank, usually were. The governor had far more concern and interest in the welfare of the province’s military than did the procurator, whose eyes were permanently filled only with the glint of gold coins. And the governor and the procurator of a province were rarely on close terms. If the legate was Governor Lucullus’ man, then that made him almost by definition an opponent of the procurator.
A gamble, then, but a well-reasoned one.
‘Freely, sir? The presence of a procurator is never a good thing for the region, only for the emperor’s treasury.’ Was that a hair’s breadth close to treason? The appreciative nod from the stork-like man behind the desk was encouraging. ‘I do not trust German guards, and I do not trust financiers,’ he added.
The legate leaned back in his chair. ‘Spot on, Facilis. I do not like an imperial accountant poking his nose into my command. And Governor Lucullus is of a mind with me on that count. Moreover, I do not like the idea of a group of honourless mercenaries in my fortress in a position where I cannot simply treat them as the barbarians that they so clearly are. And, over and above all of this, we are expected to put them up in the mansio and the fortress at our own expense. No, Facilis… this stinks worse than the fishermen’s wharf. Had he come straight here, I would have suspected some political motive, but this snake, Procurator Severus, has already slithered through Glevum and Venta Silurum on the journey north and word is that Eboracum is next on his list of targets after us.’
Facilis stood silent and straight as the legate apparently wandered off in an internal landscape and after a while, Viator pursed his lips and focused on the legionary before him again.
‘Where was I? Oh yes. The procurator. He expects to wander freely around Deva and its surroundings, spreading his corruption. And yes, he has his bodyguards and does not need a legionary escort. But I want you to act as his guide and mediator in his dealings in my region. He has the authority to do almost anything in the sphere of finance, but procurators often overreach and attempt to dabble in military and civil matters too, and with Governor Lucullus so distant, he might not feel restrained.’
This time, Facilis could not prevent the frown.
The legate noticed his expression and gave a sly smile. ‘Indeed. I would like you to keep your eyes and ears open. I would like to know what he’s up to. Why this tour of the border regions, especially while the Governor is away? Why does he have to come personally? He will be on the take, of course. It is almost expected of such a man. But it is possible that his corruption spreads far beyond that. I will be most grateful for anything you can bring to my attention – especially any kind of wrong-doing. Most… grateful. Do you understand?’
Facilis felt his heart began to pound faster. An opportunity like this didn’t just fall into your lap, and if it did, it certainly wouldn’t do so more than once.
The legate nodded and reached for a sealed vellum roll on his desk, tapping it reflectively on the surface for a moment before proffering it to Facilis. ‘Your orders, signed by myself and sealed with my own seal. With this there is nowhere in the fortress or its surroundings, be they military or civilian, that you cannot go. You can even use it to claim my authority, though only in the direst of circumstances. Use it sparingly and carefully, for I will not have my orders misused.’
With a straight face, the legionary took the offered note and saluted.
‘Good. Go and get to work. I will have your standard duties reassigned for the duration. And remember: anything you find should come to me directly, and to me alone.’
* * *
If Legate Viator put Facilis in mind of a stork, then there was something distinctly toad-like about Procurator Severus. His sallow-skinned jowls were pock-marked and moved independently when he turned his head. His eyes looked jaundiced and burned from deep recesses. He was a short man, perhaps four and a half feet which, when placed against Facilis’ unusually tall six and a half foot frame made him look like some sort of squat creature of nightmare. When they had stopped after their brief tour of the fortress and its workings and had a light lunch in a native-run yet higher-class establishment near the bridge over the river, he had had to fight the urge to rest his mug on the man’s strangely flattened skull. Not a good career move with the second most important man in the province!
Facilis was surprised to see a small group of local business owners approach the procurator in the tavern, and more surprised at the manner in which the official waved them away with a careless hand as though they were rabble, urging his German guards to get rid of them. Then, after that brief lunch, the procurator had rubbed his hands together in a business-like manner, summoned his six censors and laid out their lists and tablets on the table. The procurator looked up at Facilis, who was standing quietly, observing, and then around at the common room in which they lounged.
‘Be a good fellow and ask the owner to keep this room private until we leave. Slip him a few coins for his trouble.’
Facilis carefully held back his feelings and nodded, stepping off to have a quiet word with the inn’s owner and donating the man three coins from his own purse. The legate would surely see him reimbursed later, for clearly Procurator Severus simply expected the legion to cover his small expenses. Facilis had had a good day at the games earlier in the month, but even then it was closing on payday, so hopefully the sickly official would not expect him to dig too deep into his purse.
The innkeeper agreed readily – hurriedly even. Impressing an imperial procurator might mean a serious boost in revenue, after all. Moments later they were alone in the room, the door fastened tight, the only windows looking out over the river and the German guards outside, keeping potential eavesdroppers at a distance. As if he were little more than an animated wall-painting, the finance officials ignored him as they began to run over facts and figures, lists and maps. Occasionally, one of them would look up at him with a frown and ask a local-knowledge question.
How many inns, bars and brothels would you say there are in Deva?
How often is the entire legion in garrison?
; How long does it take to bring in the local grain harvest to storage?
What ores and natural resources do you see traded most often in the markets?
Are the prices generally considered low or high?
How far away is the nearest…
And so on.
After an hour, Facilis had come to the conclusion that the civilians cared not a jot whether he stood at attention, and simply sank into a chair as he reeled off figures as they were required. He was almost drifting into a statistical stupor, in fact, when one particular comment from the procurator dragged his attention back.
‘I’m sorry. Did you say eight percent?’
The official looked across in surprise as though he had forgotten that Facilis was there.
‘Yes. Eight.’
‘On lead mining?’
Severus’ yellowed eyes narrowed. ‘On all base production. We are not in the business of penalising skilled manufacture and artistry, but raw materials can be heaved out of the ground by slaves or beggars or even trained animals. Four percent standing tax is ridiculously low for such a business.’
Facilis tried not to splutter. Four percent was the standard province-wide, and even beyond, into Gaul. Eight? Was the man mad?
‘Respectfully, procurator, eight seems an unprecedented rise.’
‘Be grateful then, that you are well paid by the army,’ grunted one of the lesser censors flatly. Another nodded. ‘Be grateful indeed that you are not in the salt business.’
Facilis was out of the chair now, his face concerned.
‘What?’
‘Salt production between here and Salinae and Condate is more concentrated than elsewhere in the province. Indeed, it appears to account for a sizeable part of local trade and production. Consequently, salt tax is to be raised to ten percent.’
Images of public outcry wafted through the legionary’s mind’s eye. Ten percent was not only unprecedented, it was unheard of. Unfair.
‘Respectfully, Procurator, that could cause unrest.’
The official frowned at Facilis. ‘You may not be aware of this, Facilis, being only a soldier, but the imperial treasury has never been lower than during the reign of our current blessed Domitian, may the gods shine on his reign for a thousand years. His father and his brother, worthy emperors though they might have been, were not widely regarded for their fiscal leanness. They left the treasury almost empty and while the emperor has done his best to rebuild Rome’s finances, there is still a long way to go. And it cannot always fall to the wealthy families of Rome to shore up the empire. Some of the burden must fall on the provinces. Do you see?’
Facilis was beginning to feel a sense of unease suffusing him. ‘What I see, Procurator, is a hundred angry salt workers hammering on the gates of Deva and demanding to speak to the legate.’
‘Then you will have to do your job, legionary, and keep the peasants in line. Where do you think the gold in your pay chest comes from? Do you believe that Mercury drops it from the sky in winged bags for your paymasters to collect up? No. It comes from taxes. You want the pressure off the local economy? Tell your legate to hitch up his carts and head north. Join your comrades in the hills and valleys of the barbarian lands, where the Caledonii still barely recognise the Roman eagle. Take your wages from them in plunder and save the salt workers their six percent raise. Think you can do that?’
Facilis stood silent, though shaking slightly. There was simply no answer to that kind of logic. And no matter how bright he was, he had no doubt that the procurator and his censors would have little difficulty in talking him in circles with their tax facts if they wished to.
For the rest of the afternoon, the legionary did his duty, escorting the party around the locale, introducing them to various public figures but keeping his opinions to himself and trying to stay out of trouble. The last visit of the day was to the great market near the riverside. An hour of poring over the various ore-merchants’ stalls with their price lists and shipping quantities left Facilis feeling numb. As he listened to one of the censors produce an estimate of lead production across the various concerns, the median price at which it sold and the tax hike they were proposing, the legionary ran a quick mental calculation and was staggered by the figure he came up with. It surely wouldn’t take long to refill the imperial treasury at that rate. Of course, every denarius that made its way into the procurator’s custody was also another denarius slipping through the fingers of the people who worked the land here, and it was a short-sighted man who could serve at the great Deva fortress without noticing the borderline poverty all around. A four or six percent tax rise might not sound much in itself, but for many of these merchants and workers it would mean the difference between survival and starvation.
The day ended on a sour note for Facilis, who left his charges at the mansio outside the fortress walls and fell face-down into his cot in the barracks in morose exhaustion. Fronto, roused from slumber on the next bunk, blinked at him.
‘Bad day?’
‘You have no idea,’ Facilis sighed.
‘I might. If I had the energy, I’d tell you about mine. I’m sick to the back teeth of priests.’
Facilis waved him quiet with his free hand as he heaved in tired breaths full of pillow. ‘Keep your eyes open in the coming days, mate. The procurator’s causing trouble and we’re in for a hard time. The locals are going to get restless.’
Fronto shrugged. ‘The procurator will calm down tomorrow night. Word is that the legate’s arranged a feast for him and his cronies. And he’s confirmed the games for the day after, so that’ll settle the people. Always does.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Anyway,’ Fronto grumbled, ‘if the usual nutcases rattling on about the end of the world outside the arena are right, now’s a good time to be out of the fortress.’
‘Great.’
And with a tired shudder, Facilis fell asleep fully-clothed on his bunk.
* * *
The next day was no better. Worse, even. After an invigorating trip to the baths while the sun struggled from its own bed, Facilis dressed in his spare kit and made his way out to the mansio to collect his party of leeches. They were still breaking their fast and the legionary was made to wait not only for that, but also while signs were drafted up. He watched with a sinking heart as the placards were laid out to dry, each one announcing a tax rise or some other financial penalty or restriction. Five copies of every sign, one of the censors explained. One for the great market, one to go next to the fortress’s north gate, one for the river’s wharves, one for the south bridge and one on the wall beside the amphitheatre where public notices were traditionally displayed.
He watched with trepidation as that same censor took two of the German guards and the pile of notices to distribute. Then, half an hour later, Procurator Severus was ready, his other censors carrying his lists and ledgers as they prepared for day two of their financial odyssey.
Again, Facilis spent the entire day introducing them to merchants and lesser officials. Those in direct contact with Severus acted with obsequious sycophancy, and the procurator went away from each encounter with a smile of satisfaction. Facilis, on the other hand, kept his senses alert, and not once did he miss their interviewees’ expressions turning bitter as they left. Nor could he miss the seething air of resentment that hung over the market and the wharf like a miasma.
Trouble was definitely coming.
One thing he did notice above and beyond their financial dealings was the fact that after that initial tour of the fortress, not once did Severus request to speak to the legate, which seemed odd, Viator being the only man here who the procurator officially needed to keep in the loop. In fact, now he thought about it, the two men had not even met initially, as far as he could remember.
The small party was busy making its way back from the wharves again in the afternoon sun, when a voice called out from beneath the hanging eaves of a tavern.
‘Severus? Procurator Severus! I am not mistaken
.’
The remaining German guards were immediately on the alert, hands to sword hilts, eyes scanning the street and the various peasants and soldiers that filled it. Facilis’ eyes fell upon the source of the call. A well-dressed man with oiled, curled hair sat at a table in the tavern with his feet up as an olive-skinned slave rubbed his sore feet.
‘Crispinus?’ the procurator exclaimed with a strangely genuine grin that seemed out of place on his sickly face. Without waiting for his guards, Severus slid from the cushioned comfort of his litter and scurried across the street to the open-fronted tavern and the man sitting there. Facilis’ gaze picked out half a dozen other men in there who were clearly with the speaker. More slaves or servants, and two big, heavy bruisers at the back with their arms folded, watching protectively over the man.
‘I knew you were here somewhere, Severus, but I only thought to see you tomorrow. I’d assumed you would be tucked up in an office somewhere today.’
The procurator laughed an oily laugh. ‘Work proceeds apace, Crispinus. But tell me: what brings my favourite lanista all the way from Camulodunum to this unsavoury armpit of a place?’
Facilis filed the facts away silently as he watched and listened. The great colonia of Camulodunum in the south east. And a gladiator owner. What was it Fronto had said last night? Games tomorrow? Coincidence? Hardly.
‘Your sister came to see me, Severus. We heard about that dreadful showing they put on for you at Isca Silurum, and she suggested I might want to bring one of my best to entertain you up here – save you from the half-ape locals. I’ve brought Lupus with me. You know he won another match two weeks ago? Tore a man’s head from his shoulders, so he did. I look forward to seeing what he does to whatever they have on offer up here.’
Deva Tales Page 3