Vespasian looked dubious. ‘I suppose he’s right.’
‘Course he is, sir. He knows the workings of Claudius’ court as well as anyone; he’s convinced that if Flavia was to live in fear then she could well do something stupid and offend someone important. As it is she sometimes dines with Messalina because Titus and Britannicus have become such good friends.’
‘Yes, she mentioned that in her last letter – she was full of it. I wrote back trying to explain that it’s not such a good thing for our son to be too friendly with someone who could become emperor, even though he’s only six. A lot of future emperors never fulfil their promise and their friends can suffer too.’
‘Well, there ain’t anything that you can do about that at the moment; worry about it when you get back to Rome.’
‘That could be another two years at this rate.’
‘Two more years to get rich in.’ Magnus drained his cup and then rummaged in his bag; he brought out five scrolls and placed them on the table. ‘I’m off to find a spare tent; I’ll leave you with these. There’s one from Flavia, Caenis, your uncle, your mother and Pallas.’
‘Pallas! What does he want?’
‘How would I know? The letter’s addressed to you.’
Vespasian lay on his camp-bed, perusing the last of his letters in the flickering light of the single oil lamp on a low table next to him. The first four had been much as expected: words of love and reassurance from Caenis; news of dinner parties and a request for more money from Flavia; complaints about Flavia’s attitude to parenthood from his mother, Vespasia; and advice from his uncle as to which political factions to pretend publicly to support and which to really support privately upon his return to Rome. It was the fifth letter, which he was now rereading, that had caused him some surprise.
It had seemed odd that Pallas had chosen to send his letter via Magnus rather than use the official couriers that daily set out from Rome on the long journey to the new province; but when he had seen the content of the letter he realised that Claudius’ powerful freedman had been frightened that the missive would be intercepted. As a veteran of imperial politics, Pallas was forever embroiled in intrigue and as Vespasian finished the letter for the second time he shook his head, chewing on his lower lip, his expression strained; even here on the fringes of the Empire he was not beyond the reach of the schemes and plots of his masters back in Rome.
Hormus slipped through the entrance to Vespasian’s sleeping quarters with his breastplate, helmet and greaves all freshly polished and hung them on his armour-stand. ‘Will there be anything else, master?’
Vespasian glanced at the letter again. ‘Yes, Hormus; ask Paetus to report to me an hour before dawn. Wake me by then.’
The slave bowed and went about his errand. Vespasian rolled up Pallas’ letter, placed it with the others on the table, and then blew out the lamp. In the dark of the tent he closed his eyes to the sound of almost ten thousand men settling down for the night and the scent of the smoke spiralling up from the smouldering wick.
The lamp was burning when Vespasian opened his eyes; he shivered despite being well wrapped in woollen blankets. Feeling more tired than when he went to bed, he sat up; the flap to his sleeping quarters was swinging as if someone had just passed through. ‘Hormus!’ He waited a few moments, yawning deeply; there was no reply. ‘Hormus?’ Untangling himself from the blankets he sat on the edge of the bed, stretching.
‘Yes, master,’ his slave said, walking in, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
‘Bring me some bread and warmed wine.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Is Paetus here yet?’
‘I’m sorry, master?’
‘You heard me.’
The slave shook his head looking nonplussed. ‘No, master, he’s not; I only got back a couple of hours ago. It’s at least five hours until dawn.’
‘Then why did you wake me?’
‘What do you mean, master?’
‘The flap was swinging when I woke up – you’d just gone through it.’
Hormus was looking increasingly confused. ‘I was asleep in my bedding-roll just the other side of the entrance.’
‘Then who came in?’
‘No one; they would have had to step over me; I would have woken.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, master, no one came in.’
‘Then who lit the lamp?’
Hormus looked at the spluttering flame and shook his head mutely, his eyes wide.
Vespasian felt another chill. The hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms bristled.
‘The wick must have just reignited,’ Magnus asserted, looking down at the offending item four hours later.
Vespasian shook his head, his expression again strained. ‘Impossible, it was completely out; I remember smelling the smoke from it.’
‘Perhaps Hormus is lying; perhaps he did light it and then pretended he didn’t to scare you.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
Magnus hunched his shoulders, spreading his hands. ‘I don’t know; perhaps he just doesn’t like you. Or perhaps he’s been planted by the enemy to distract you, take your mind off the campaign.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t need to do that; he could kill me in my bed any night.’
‘How long have you had him?’
‘I bought him soon after you left for Rome, so May last year. I’ve had him nearly a year; he’s placid, meticulous, unobtrusive and, I believe, honest, as nothing has ever gone missing.’
‘What is he?’
‘He’s a slave.’
‘Yes, I know that; I mean what was he?’
‘He was born a slave, that’s why I chose him; he’s never known anything else so I wouldn’t have to tame him. I think he said that his mother was originally from somewhere around Armenia; he doesn’t know who his father was but I suspect that he was his mother’s owner. She never told him and died when he was ten. That’s all I know about him.’
‘So you’re sure he wasn’t lying?’
‘Yes. So if he didn’t do it, who did?’
‘Well, I don’t know, sir; does it really matter?’
‘Yes, it does; it matters greatly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because last night someone got past the guards at the front, past Hormus sleeping outside my door, into my room and then for some strange reason lit my oil lamp and then walked back out.’
‘Or something did.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous again.’
‘Am I? You know what this island’s like; you heard the stories: the strange spirits, wraiths, old gods that have been here for centuries, from even before the Britons arrived. Things that we don’t understand. Ancient things.’
‘I’ll admit that this is a strange place. Sabinus talked to me about it when I saw him at Plautius’ briefing this winter; he told me about a legionary who had been found dead, with no visible wound and yet there wasn’t a drop of blood in him. Another had been flayed alive and yet was still wearing his uniform; apparently before he died he rambled on about spirits that sucked the skin from his limbs. I pretended to Sabinus that I didn’t believe it, that I thought they were just exaggerated legionary stories designed to frighten the new recruits.’
‘But you did believe them?’
‘I don’t know; I suppose there has to be some truth in them somewhere.’
‘The island is haunted, there’s no doubt. I never like being on my own, especially outside the camp at night. I always get the feeling that I’m being watched and it don’t feel like human eyes on me, if you take my meaning?’
Vespasian did but did not like to admit it.
‘Do you remember the power of the Germanic gods we felt in the forests of Germania Magna? It felt like our gods were weak there compared to them because we were so far away from their home. Here we’re even further away and, what’s more, we’re across the sea. What chance do our deities have to protect us here in
a country full of strange gods and daemons and the druids who seem to feed off their power? I spent my time constantly clutching my thumb and spitting to avert the evil-eye while I was last here and I’m sure that I’ll be doing the same thing this time.’
‘I’m sure you will. But whatever power there is in this land and however the druids harness it and whatever sacrifices they make to their gods to try to ensure that they keep them safe there’s one thing that I’m sure of: no god or daemon or spirit, wraith, ghost or whatever is going to waste its time coming into my sleeping quarters and lighting one little oil lamp.’
Magnus slumped down on the bed and heaved a sigh. ‘Then as I said: either it reignited because you hadn’t extinguished it properly or Hormus is lying to you.’
‘Master,’ Hormus said, standing in the entrance, ‘Paetus is here.’
‘Back to Rome immediately?’ Paetus looked confused as he stood in front of Vespasian’s desk an hour before dawn. ‘There’s nothing that I’d like more; but my replacement hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘As the senior decurion, Ansigar is more than capable of looking after the ala until he does.’
‘I suppose so; but why now, all of a sudden?’
‘Politics, prefect,’ Vespasian replied, aware as ever of the difference between the young man’s patrician accent and his Sabine country burr; he had always tried to lessen it when talking with Paetus’ father, his long-dead friend, but now he no longer felt the need to obfuscate his background.
‘But I’m not eligible to take my seat in the Senate until next year at the earliest; I’m not involved in politics yet.’
Vespasian turned Pallas’ letter over in his hands. ‘Every Roman of your class is involved in politics sooner or later, Paetus, and I’m afraid your turn has arrived now whether you like it or not. Sit down and I’ll explain.’
Paetus took a seat opposite Vespasian.
Vespasian unfurled Pallas’ letter and scanned it again before raising his eyes to his young subordinate. ‘This letter is from one of the most powerful men in Rome, one whom I am lucky enough to call a friend but upon whose friendship I cannot presume. So, when I get a request from him, I know better than to refuse it because, however it’s been worded, I’m well aware that it’s an order.’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘It’s from Marcus Antonius Pallas, freedman of the late Lady Antonia. Upon her suicide he, quite naturally, transferred his allegiance to her only surviving son, the Emperor Claudius.
‘Now, I don’t need to tell you what the Emperor is like; you have seen him for yourself and have no doubt formed your own opinion. I will not say anything treasonous about him to you nor will I get you to compromise yourself in that way by asking you to express your true opinion of the man. Do I make myself clear?’
Paetus nodded slowly. ‘As clear as you can, sir; I believe from the phrasing of that sentence that our opinions are broadly similar.’
Vespasian allowed himself a half-smile as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘We understand each other; good. So therefore it won’t surprise you to learn that Claudius is not much more than a figurehead emperor who is subject, in the main, to the will of four, normally conflicting, forces.’
‘I had heard that that was how the government worked at the moment although I don’t know the details – I haven’t been in Rome since before Caligula’s death and it’s not something to discuss in letters nor speak loosely about in the officers’ mess.’
‘A very wise precaution and one which we shall now ignore in the privacy of this tent. Three of these four forces are Claudius’ freedmen: Pallas, the secretary to the Treasury; Callistus, whose sphere of influence is justice and the law courts; and then there’s his chief freedman, Narcissus, who’s been with him the longest and was responsible for keeping him safe during the reigns of Caligula and Tiberius – he’s the imperial secretary, in charge of Claudius’ correspondence and diary. That means he has complete control over all foreign and domestic policy as well as access to the Emperor; no one can get to Claudius except by going through him. No one, that is, except for the Empress, Messalina. Neither Narcissus nor Messalina are happy with this arrangement – both feel that the other exerts too much influence on their malleable Emperor; Callistus and Pallas meanwhile both squabble for second place behind Narcissus whilst supporting him in his feud for the mastery of Rome with the Empress. Now, whatever you might think of this and however outraged you may be that the Senate has no influence in the matter, it is best to be pragmatic and accept the situation because there is nothing that you or I can do to change it. Would you agree?’
‘It would seem that we have little choice.’
‘Very little indeed. The only choice most of us have is which one of these four people to support in order to gain advancement; but I’m afraid that in your case you’ve had that decision made for you.’
Paetus frowned. ‘By whom?’
‘By me, and I apologise for that, Paetus. I promised your father, who was my good friend, that I would look out for you. It was a promise that I did not keep that well and I’ve compounded that fault by getting you involved in the feuding of those in power.’
‘When?’
‘When you reported to me, two years ago, that your scouts had told you that Corvinus had not stopped his Ninth Hispana on the northern bank of the Tamesis River as ordered, but had carried on. I told you not to tell anyone and that I would inform Plautius when I felt the time was right; in doing so I made you complicit in a plot against Messalina and her brother, Corvinus, which had been set in motion by Narcissus. They are no doubt aware of your part and so that makes you their enemy. Pallas is also aware of it and wants to use the fact to help bolster his position. If you don’t co-operate he will halt your career and that gives you no alternative other than to go to Rome and do his bidding.’
Around the camp bucinae sounded the general reveille, announcing yet another day under the Eagle of the II Augusta.
Paetus paused for a few moments’ reflection before acknowledging with a small hand gesture the veracity of his commander’s words. ‘What does he want me to do?’
‘He wants you to do what any man of your age and class would do: he wants you to go back and get elected as one of the quaestors. He will see to it that you don’t get posted to a province but, rather, serve as an Urban Quaestor, as your father did, so that you can take your seat in the Senate immediately.’
‘That’s what I was planning to do as soon as my replacement arrives; why the rush?’
‘Because Pallas wants you to be back in time for this year’s elections; he wants you to be in place in the Senate by next year, not the year after.’
Paetus leant forward in his chair. ‘In place to do what?’
‘In place to be prepared to act as a witness at a treason trial.’
‘Who’s to be prosecuted?’
‘Corvinus, of course, and you’re to be the star witness; a senator from the Junii, one of the oldest and most renowned families in Rome, who can swear that the Ninth Hispana carried on across the Tamesis without provocation and their legate thereby committed an act of treason.’
‘I could swear to that.’
‘I know and so does Callistus, which is why Pallas thinks that it will never come to trial, it’ll never get anywhere near a court.’
‘But Callistus is the secretary in charge of justice.’
‘Yes, and as you know from when he tried to have Sabinus, you and me killed four years ago he’s …’
‘And me,’ Magnus’ voice came from the shadows.
‘Yes, and you … he’s the most duplicitous, slimy piece of treacherous filth that ever walked the corridors of the Palatine Hill and that is saying something indeed.’
Paetus grimaced at the memory of Callistus’ treachery when he, Paetus, had helped Vespasian and Sabinus in the search for the lost Eagle of the XVII Legion.
From outside the murmur of thousands of waking voices gradually grew into a constant
hubbub, punctuated by bellowing centurions encouraging the less keen from their blankets.
Paetus’ face brightened. ‘If it means that I’m going to get a measure of revenge on him, then I’m willing to do whatever Pallas wants.’
‘It will. Callistus has made it a habit to change his allegiances at what he considers to be the right time. He used to be Caligula’s freedman but when it looked for certain that it was only a matter of time before Caligula fell to an assassin’s blade he decided to hasten that moment and join in the conspiracy against him by allying himself with Narcissus and Pallas.’ Vespasian glanced at the letter again. ‘Now, according to Pallas, it seems that he might be thinking about changing sides again and throwing his lot in with Messalina or, at the very least, backing both sides.
‘But apart from Callistus failing to report an outrageous infidelity of Messalina’s to the Emperor, Pallas hasn’t any positive proof of this matter. However …’ Vespasian paused to see whether the young man had the political acumen to finish the sentence; he was not disappointed.
‘… however, if a prosecution were to be brought against the Empress’s brother which would carry the death penalty if it were proven, then Callistus would be obliged to delay it or dismiss it out of hand if he was secretly supporting Messalina, thereby exposing himself.’
‘Exactly. But it gets better than that; it’s all about timing. Pallas is convinced that Narcissus will soon be in a position to bring down Messalina so the prosecution would be brought just before he presents the damning evidence to the Emperor and Callistus will go down with the Empress.’
‘That’ll suit me perfectly.’
‘Indeed, as it suits me.’
‘And me,’ Magnus put in.
‘Yes, and you. But more to the point it suits Pallas because he’ll secure his place as the second most powerful man in the Empire.’
Paetus raised his eyebrows. ‘Just one more step to negotiate, eh?’
Vespasian contemplated the implication of that remark for a moment, enjoying the mingled smell of woodsmoke and cooking, seeping into the tent. ‘I don’t know about that but he’s certainly thought this step through.’
Masters of Rome: VESPASIAN V (Vespasian 5) Page 6