The Imperial Triumph

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘I have a question,’ said a brother with a dyed, pointed beard, sporting a pair of embroidered trousers and a knee-length, eastern-style tunic.

  ‘Yes, Tigran.’

  ‘Would you say that you’ve shown good judgement in this affair?’

  Magnus stiffened; it was a well-phrased question from one of the more ambitious of his brethren. To answer truthfully would be to invite a challenge to his position and yet how could he bluff it? ‘I bought those slaves at a good discount; we will see a profit from them yet.’

  Tigran’s eyes hardened just a fraction. ‘But not for some time; meanwhile we’re not much better than paupers.’

  Magnus thought he detected a low murmur of agreement but couldn’t be sure. ‘As I said: we will make our money and, in the meantime, I will put the slaves to work in the most profitable way possible. When this is over then perhaps that will be a good time to ask me if I consider my judgement to be sound.’

  That got the support of the vast majority of the brethren, forcing Tigran to back down with an eastern bow, hands across his chest.

  Magnus took a deep breath as he felt the threat recede. ‘Sextus and Marius, you’ll both come with me in the morning; I want to be at the senator’s house before dawn.’

  *

  ‘Magnus, my friend, you’re back,’ Senator Pollo boomed as Magnus took his turn to greet his patron, along with a couple of hundred other clients of the influential ex-praetor, in his atrium. ‘How good it is to see you.’ With jowls and chins wobbling, Senator Pollo heaved his bulk up from his chair and did Magnus the honour of grasping his forearm in welcome, to the obvious envy of many in the room.

  ‘It’s good to be back and to see you, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Senator Pollo cuffed away a tonged ringlet of dyed black hair from a heavily kohled eye. ‘I was wondering when you were going to turn up because there is a bit of business that I need you to do for me.’ He turned to an extremely attractive flaxen-haired youth, brandishing a stylus and a wax tablet and wearing a tunic that would have had difficulty fitting a boy two or three years younger than him. ‘Siegimerus, I’ll see Magnus last of all, as we’ve much to discuss.’

  ‘So why has it taken you almost half a month to present yourself at my salutatio, old friend?’ Senator Pollo leaned across his study desk; both his carefully plucked eyebrows were raised quizzically. A tray of freshly baked honeyed cakes filled the room with a mouth-wateringly sweet aroma.

  Magnus swallowed. ‘I … er … how did you know, sir?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Magnus. First of all I get letters from Vespasia’s steward in Aventicum telling me the deal that you and he have reached over a dozen Germanic slaves; he writes to me because I’m dealing with my sister’s affairs in the absence of Vespasian and Sabinus in Britannia. So I knew when you left Germania Superior and, therefore, roughly when to expect you in Rome. Then, of course, when you do get back it’s not too easy for you to keep a low profile on the Quirinal, and seeing as this is my neighbourhood also – although I do frequent higher circles, I grant you – the return of the leader of the local brotherhood will always reach my ears.’

  Magnus cleared his throat and prepared himself for the unpalatable truth.

  ‘But don’t worry,’ Senator Pollo continued before he could speak, ‘I know exactly what the problem is and it’s all to do with Claudius flooding the slave-market, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, yes, sir, it is and I’m fucked, I ain’t got the money.’

  Another chuckle sent quivers through the excess skin around the senator’s neck. ‘Well, you should have come to me earlier, old friend, because I’m sure there is a way that we can resolve the situation to mutual gain.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so because I find myself in a delicate predicament. You see, the Imperial Triumph in a couple of days has a lot of other ramifications other than just the tumbling price of slaves – which, incidentally, will correct itself within a few months as we all know how much Claudius likes to see generous amounts of blood spilt in the arena. But the captives aren’t the only things that will be paraded: there’ll be all the booty as well, including skins, furs, grain, hunting dogs and gold, silver, tin and iron from the mines.’ The senator paused to reach for a honeyed cake and bit into it with obvious delight. ‘Now, all these things will be sold off, apart from the precious metals, which will go to the treasury to help pay for what has been a very expensive campaign; the person in charge of the sale will, naturally, be our old friend Pallas, the imperial secretary to the treasury.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Magnus said with a creeping smile. ‘And I suppose you have had a quiet word with Pallas?’

  ‘We’ve had much to discuss recently, I will admit. One of the points of mutual interest was what would happen to the wagon-loads of weapons, helmets and shields that are going to be paraded as they’re of little use to anybody, apart from the best examples, which will be lodged in the Temple of Mars.’

  ‘And you suggested to Pallas that you might be able to do him a favour and take them off his hands.’

  ‘Not surprisingly there were quite a few people offering to help but in view of the past connection between Pallas and our family he agreed that I was the obvious choice to take receipt of all that iron – for a small consideration of the profits, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  The other half of the honeyed cake disappeared between moist lips. ‘So after the Triumph more than a few wagons will fall into my hands, filled with thousands of blades of no use to anyone unless they’re reforged into legionary swords and daggers and sold to the army quartermasters back in Britannia, who are desperate for new equipment considering the hard campaigning that’s still going on there.’

  ‘And no doubt Pallas, as chief secretary to the treasury, will facilitate a favourable deal for the sale.’

  The senator took on a solemn countenance and reached for a replacement cake. ‘He is ideally placed to do so; I’m fortunate to have him as a business partner.’

  ‘What about the helmets and shields?’

  ‘Mainly iron and some bronze that needs to be sorted and then melted down so that we can sell it, again through Pallas’ good services.’

  Magnus began to comprehend where he fitted in. ‘But …’

  Senator Pollo’s porcine eyes glinted in the lamplight. ‘Oh, Magnus, you understand so well. But, indeed; and it’s a big but …’

  ‘But senators aren’t allowed to participate in trade or at least be seen to participate in trade.’

  ‘There you have it, Magnus: I need someone I can trust to dirty their hands in my place and I believe that you would be an ideal choice as this has to be done with secrecy. I don’t want it to get out that I’m about to produce thousands of swords and daggers as well as plenty of iron bars and bronze ingots and we have the same resulting crash as with the slave-market.’

  ‘I can see the point, sir; I’m certainly your man.’ Magnus adjusted his face into what he took to be an innocent countenance. ‘And as to my little problem …’

  Senator Pollo waved a conciliatory hand. ‘I don’t think that we need to worry ourselves unduly about that until we’ve processed all this weaponry, for which you’ll be needing a business premises and quite a large one; preferably close to here so I can look in on it.’

  ‘The closer the better. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Not that I would know but I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an empty house just around the corner in Pomegranate Street; it has two shops to its front, one of which used to be a blacksmith’s, and would be easy to convert into a foundry that could deal with the volume of metal; the other shop I’m sure you could do the same with, obviously with a little more effort involved. And then the very spacious living accommodation behind we could use to store all the weapons and resulting ingots. It also has a large stable yard to its rear that would be perfect for discreet loading and unloading. I believe it’s owned by a certain Lucilius Celsus, an equestrian
of questionable integrity and unquestionable greed.’

  ‘A businessman then. I shall look into it on my way back to the tavern, sir.’

  ‘Good, Magnus. Secure it by the morning of the Triumph and hire me a couple of blacksmiths who have worked as military armourers.’

  ‘I don’t know, Magnus, we haven’t seen him for some time,’ the baker at the corner of Pomegranate Street and the Alta Semita informed Magnus.

  ‘And your rents are collected by an agent, are they, Anistius?’

  ‘That’s right; and even if I were interested in Lucilius Celsus’ whereabouts I doubt the rent-collector would tell me.’

  Magnus looked back up Pomegranate Street to where Marius and Sextus were examining the security of the boarded-up property, standing empty just fifty paces away; tables were being set out, by public slaves, at various intervals up the hill in preparation for the feast after the Triumph. ‘How long have the two business premises been empty?’

  The baker scratched his head and frowned. ‘Well over a year; probably more than two, I should say. One was a blacksmith and the other made candles; both moved out when Celsus’ agent put up the rents.’

  ‘Why didn’t they come to see me about it? I could have explained how things are to this Celsus.’

  ‘You were in Britannia so they took the problem to Servius, your counsellor, but he couldn’t do anything about it because Celsus was away on business at the time and the agent said he didn’t have the authority to go back on his master’s ruling – even after Servius had him roughed up.’

  ‘Hmm, I see. Well, thanks, Anistius. Business been good?’

  The trader grinned. ‘Not good enough for you to justify a rise in what I pay in protection.’

  ‘But with all the people coming into the city for the Triumph it’s sure to get much better.’

  ‘It is. The Triumph is going to be good for everybody.’

  Magnus scowled. ‘Not necessarily, Anistius, not necessarily.’ Tucking the fresh loaf of bread under his arm and calling to Marius and Sextus to follow, he stalked off.

  ‘I couldn’t get a thing more out of him, Magnus,’ Servius confirmed as they sat on a bench outside the tavern enjoying the warm, September midday sun. Sextus and Marius were feeding the fire kept constantly burning on the altar of the Lares of the crossroads, whose worship was the original reason for the formation of the brotherhoods, centuries back. Up and down the Vicus Longus and the Alta Semita more public slaves were hard at work making ready for the celebrations, setting up kitchens, decorations and awnings; all around the carnival atmosphere grew with country folk coming through the Porta Colina, just two hundred paces away, to grab their share of the emperor’s largesse. ‘I believe he told us all he knew.’

  ‘So, Celsus let his house on the Esquiline before he left for Gaul, a year before the invasion of Britannia, in order to supply army sandals to the legions?’

  ‘That’s all he knew; even with a couple of broken fingers.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A distraction in the street caught Magnus’ eye; he nodded to a young brother playing dice at the table next to him and pointed to a wealthy-looking family progressing down the Alta Semita. ‘Festus, go and introduce our services to those good people who seem to have come to the city unaccompanied by bodyguards. I think they look like they can afford a denarius a head to avoid any nasty accidents, if you take my meaning?’

  The young brother beamed with pride at being given the task. ‘I do, Magnus.’

  As Festus walked off, Magnus signalled to a late-middle-aged brother, bearded in the Greek style, with a gash down his left cheek. ‘Go and make sure that he doesn’t fuck it up, Cassandros.’

  ‘My pleasure, Magnus.’

  ‘And keep your dirty Greek hands off him.’

  Cassandros grinned and flexed his fingers. ‘And out of him?’

  Magnus shuddered, shaking his head. ‘Nasty Greek habits; it ain’t natural.’

  ‘You need to watch him, Magnus,’ Servius said, lowering his voice, ‘he showed some sympathy for Tigran’s point of view last night.’

  Magnus looked at the useless milky eyes of his counsellor, confused. ‘How could you know?’

  ‘I may be blind but other senses sharpen. There was a short, low murmur of agreement with Tigran last night; very slight, I agree, but nonetheless it was there and to me it sounded like Cassandros.’

  Magnus looked over to the Greek as he stood behind Festus, leering with menace at the waylaid family; money was changing hands. ‘I’ll keep my eye on him.’ He scratched his head to bring himself back to the discussion before he had been distracted. ‘So this Celsus hasn’t been heard of since?’

  ‘What?’ Servius took a moment to return to the subject. ‘No, he hasn’t. I’m surprised he isn’t back for the Triumph; only a fool would miss the opportunities of such wealth flowing into the city.’

  Magnus clapped his second-in-command on his shoulder. ‘Well, he ain’t, so we’ll just have to take matters into our own hands.’

  ‘Magnus!’

  Magnus turned in the direction of the shout; Quintus Martinus was running up the Vicus Longus. ‘What is it, Martinus?’

  ‘The two lads who you posted at my tenement sent me to get you. They’re holding the landlord’s slave.’

  Magnus took one look at the slave sitting in the corner of Martinus’ workshop with a sack over his head and his hands and feet bound and then turned on the two brothers who had caught him. ‘What the fuck are you doing holding him here?’

  The men glanced at one another confused and then looked around the workshop, hung with lengths of chains and tools, trying to find fault with it or its décor.

  ‘Servius told us to grab him the next time he came round, Magnus, and keep him blindfolded,’ the older of the two explained, jutting out his chin in defence of his actions.

  ‘And where did he tell you to keep him, Brother, eh?’

  ‘Close by; but we thought that—’

  ‘Thought? When was the last time anyone trusted you to think? Servius chose you for your muscle not your intellectual capacity, which is so limited that even Sextus might stand a chance at outsmarting you.’

  The brother lost a bit of his defiance; his head lowered and his face furrowed into an injured scowl. ‘That ain’t fair, Magnus; we did as we were told.’

  Magnus tensed as if he were about to launch an attack and then took a deep breath and spoke with exaggerated patience: ‘That’s the second mistake.’ He pointed to the prisoner. ‘Now he knows my name; so he might as well know yours, Laco.’ He walked over to the slave and ripped the sack off his head. ‘In fact he might just as well know what we all look like, for that matter; what difference would it make now?’

  Laco looked down at the frightened slave who was barely out of his teens. ‘Well, none, I suppose, seeing as I did mention your name, Magnus.’ He looked at his patronus, contrite. ‘I’m sorry; that was stupid of me.’

  ‘Yes, it was, but not as stupid as keeping him here in Martinus’ workshop as he will report back to whoever owns him that Martinus was involved, which was why Servius told you to keep him close by.’

  ‘I won’t say anything, master, I promise,’ the young slave protested. ‘Just let me go and I won’t mention it to my owner.’

  ‘Oh? And who might that be?’

  The slave paused and then decided that he had nothing to lose. ‘Lucius Favonius Geminus.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s a wealthy businessman who invests in properties all over the city.’

  ‘Oh yes? Where does he live?’

  ‘Down on the coast at Antium.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have a house in Rome?’

  ‘Many, master, all around.’

  ‘So which one does he stay in when he’s in town?’

  ‘That depends; they’re all rented out so he stays with one of his tenants, most of whom are also his clients.’

  Magnus thought for a few moments and then pointed at the slave. ‘Where d
o you live then, if not with your master?’

  ‘I’ve got a small room in one of his tenement blocks.’

  ‘And he sends you messages there, telling you what he requires?’

  The slave nodded, his eyes still wide with fear. ‘Yes, he sent me a message this morning, asking how the eviction is going; I’m due to reply at the second hour of the night.’

  ‘Someone will come round and pick up your reply?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Where’s your block?’

  ‘In the Subura; on the Fullers’ Street. It has a tavern, with the sign of the moon on its door, on the ground floor; my room’s just behind it.’

  Magnus nodded and scratched the back of his head. ‘Right; Laco, deal with him.’

  The slave tried to leap to his feet but his bonds constrained him and he tumbled onto his face. ‘But, master, I’ve helped you!’

  ‘I know, but I can’t let you go. Blame Laco; he sentenced you to death the moment he decided to keep you here. Be kind to him and do it quick, Laco; and try to dispose of the body without fucking up.’ Magnus spun on his heel and walked out of the workshop deep in thought.

  The thoroughfares of Rome were filling up as night began to creep over the city. The carnival atmosphere prevailed and was reflected in the amount of vomit and urine in the streets as the country folk spent their savings in the many drinking establishments, all of which had taken care to stock up for what they knew would be the busiest few days for many a year. Magnus leant against the open street-bar of the Moon tavern, sharing a jug of wine, a plate of roasted pork and a loaf of almost fresh bread with Marius and Sextus. Resting on his right elbow he kept his eyes on the shabby entrance of the four-storey tenement block in which the tavern took up half the ground floor; he sipped his wine constantly to help counter the faecal reek that pervaded the dimly lit street.

  ‘We need to find a couple of blacksmiths good with blades,’ Magnus said, never taking his eye off the entrance door.