Vespasian: Tribune of Rome (Vespasian 1)

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘I cannot believe that it was the Emperor, even though the messengers bore the imperial seal. What would he have to gain by killing two of his own cohorts?’

  ‘My thoughts entirely. But if it was not the Emperor, who else has access to the imperial seal, and to that amount of newly minted money?’

  Corbulo looked down and shook his head.

  Vespasian decided to change tack. ‘What do you propose to do once we get to Poppaeus?’

  ‘I shall report all that we saw, of course.’

  ‘Would that be in our best interests? After all, whoever paid the Caenii to kill us may well have someone close to Poppaeus, and then he would find out that his conspiracy has been uncovered and, more to the point, who uncovered it.’

  Corbulo stared at Vespasian in the firelight as if reappraising him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘And I had you down as a snotty-nosed little thin-stripe tribune; I can see that there is more to you than I thought, Vespasian. So if we’re to avoid the attention of . . .’ He paused and looked Vespasian in the eye. ‘Sejanus?’

  Vespasian nodded.

  ‘Then I should make my report to Poppaeus in private, no records and no witnesses,’ Corbulo concluded.

  ‘I think that that is a good idea of yours, Corbulo.’

  Corbulo continued staring at Vespasian. He had the odd feeling that it hadn’t been his idea at all.

  When Magnus returned later, he sat down next to Vespasian. ‘Did you have a nice little chat with the arsehole, sir?’ he whispered.

  ‘What do you mean? And he’s not so much of an arsehole as I thought he was. His actions saved a lot of men back at the crossing.’

  ‘Point taken. I mean what did you persuade the not-so-much-of-an-arsehole to do about that chest of denarii?’

  ‘How did you know that I was going to talk to him about that?’

  ‘Stands to reason, don’t it? The more people who know that we know about it, the worse it may go for us. I hope you told him to report in discreetly, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact; I got him to agree to report in private to Poppaeus.’

  ‘Well done, sir. That was a good idea.’

  Vespasian peered at Magnus through the darkness and couldn’t help wondering just whose idea it really had been.

  On the evening of the fifth day they arrived at the walled town of Philippopolis, the seat of the Thracian King Rhoemetalces and his mother Queen Tryphaena. Here they learnt from the commander of the small Roman garrison, a much-decorated old centurion in his last few months of service, that Poppaeus’ victory had been impressive but not decisive, his field camp was another hard day’s ride west, and that Gallus had brought the column of recruits through four days earlier.

  They decided to spend the night with the garrison, and availed themselves of the pleasures of the small but fully functioning bath house, the first that they had seen since Philippi fourteen days before. The garrison commander provided them with a decent hot meal and some decent women, again their first since Philippi, before they retired for a decent night’s sleep.

  At dawn on the following morning, feeling much refreshed in body and spirit, they were about to leave with an escort of a turma of Illyrian auxiliary cavalry, commanded by an amiable round-faced young patrician cavalry prefect, Publius Junius Caesennius Paetus, when the garrison commander rushed into the stable yard.

  ‘Tribune Vespasian, sir, there is a messenger here from the palace. Queen Tryphaena requests that you visit her before you leave.’

  ‘Minerva’s tits,’ Corbulo spat. ‘That could delay us all day. Lead the way, centurion.’

  ‘The messenger was very clear, sir. Only the tribune.’

  Corbulo glowered at Vespasian.

  ‘What could she want with me?’ Vespasian was intrigued.

  ‘You watch yourself, dear chap,’ Paetus chuckled. ‘She’s a feisty creature, and very good-looking. Partial to strong young bucks like yourself, so I’m told. Good luck.’

  Vespasian decided to play along with him. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘In that case we’ll hardly notice your absence.’

  Vespasian left smiling to the sound of laughter and ribald jokes at the expense of his prowess, about which, after the previous night, he had no concerns.

  The messenger led him through the narrow streets of the ancient town, older than Rome itself, to the royal palace on the top of the largest of the three hills upon which the town was built.

  They were admitted without hindrance. Vespasian was shown immediately through to the private quarters and then into a small east-facing room on the first floor. The low, early-morning sun flooded through its solitary window, illuminating the surprisingly sparse room with golden light. The walls were whitewashed and the floor was of waxed wooden boards. Under the window stood a simple wooden desk of such antiquity that Vespasian thought it would collapse if so much as a scroll was laid upon it. In the centre of the room were two chairs and a table of more recent manufacture.

  Vespasian went to the window and gazed out to the east towards the rising sun.

  ‘That is the same view that Alexander looked upon every morning he awoke here,’ came a soft voice from behind him.

  Vespasian spun round and stepped back from the window. In the doorway stood a tall, slender woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a plain ivory stola that highlighted, but did not flaunt, the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. Her thick black hair was dressed high upon her head. Three ringlets hung down to her shoulders on either side of her pale face, which was dominated by full lips painted with red ochre. Her clear blue eyes, delicately rimmed with kohl, sparkled in the soft sunlight.

  ‘This was his room when he came to muster my people for the invasion of the great Persian Empire. He chose it because it looks east.’

  She walked gracefully across to the ancient desk and brushed her hand lightly over it.

  ‘He sat at this very desk each morning, dealing with his correspondence and looking out towards the lands that he would conquer.’

  Vespasian looked down at the simple desk with awe and felt the closeness of history within the room. She shared his quiet reverence for a moment before moving away from the window to the chairs behind them.

  ‘But I haven’t brought you here for a history lesson, Vespasian. I am Tryphaena, nominally the queen of this country but in practice the puppet of the Emperor and Senate.’

  ‘Domina, I am honoured to meet you,’ Vespasian said, grateful for the small history lesson that she had given him.

  ‘It is as well that through my great-grandfather, Marcus Antonius, I am firstly a Roman citizen, otherwise I might also be hiding up in the mountains with the rebels.’

  Tryphaena sat down and motioned that he should do the same.

  ‘My people have been forced into this rebellion. When Alexander came here looking for troops he brought money to pay them and asked only for volunteers. Over five thousand answered his call; most of them never came back. Now, almost three hundred years later, we have a new master: Rome.

  ‘Up until last year Rome was content for our warriors to serve in our army, under our own commanders, keeping the peace within the borders of the kingdom. Then two things changed: firstly, recruiting officers arrived from Moesia demanding that our army be formed into auxiliary cohorts for service in Moesia; and then our priests started to rouse the tribes in rebellion against this new measure, encouraging the chiefs with money, Roman denarii, that they suddenly seemed to have in abundance.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘From what my informants tell me it was distributed by Rhoteces, the leader of our priests, but from whom he received it I don’t know, I can only guess.’

  ‘Why would he encourage your people into a fight that they were bound to lose?’

  ‘The Thracians are a proud, warlike people. They have only ever served other nations as mercenaries, never as conscripts; they see that as a
nother form of slavery. It wasn’t difficult to get them to rebel. Why Rhoteces did it is an easy question: he hates me and my son. He hates the monarchy because we rule Thracia – in Rome’s name, granted, but nonetheless we rule. He thinks that if we were to disappear then power would pass to the priests, who, like us have no tribal loyalties, and Rhoteces is the chief priest.’

  ‘But Rome would still be supreme.’

  ‘Of course it would, and this is what that idiot doesn’t understand; my son and I are all that stand between an autonomous Thracia and annexation by Rome.’

  ‘So if the rebellion were to succeed, Rome would annex Thracia, and its people would be subject to conscription, and if it fails Rome gets its conscription anyway. Either way the legions will be busy here for some time pacifying the country.’

  ‘Exactly, and Rhoteces has unwittingly been the architect of this disaster through his lust for power and inability to understand politics. Sejanus has played him well.’

  ‘You are sure that he is behind this, domina?’

  ‘Antonia is my kinswoman and friend, we correspond regularly and I am aware of her fear of Sejanus. She has told me what she believes he would gain by destabilising Thracia.

  ‘In her last letter she asked me to look out for you on your way to Poppaeus’ camp, and to give you any assistance I could.’

  ‘She is most kind, domina.’

  ‘Indeed she is – to her friends.’ Tryphaena smiled. ‘I am unable to help you in any material way but I can give you a warning: three days ago four men passed through. They stopped only briefly to change horses; they were bearing an imperial travel warrant. They were Praetorian Guardsmen – well, three of them were. The fourth could not have been as his hair was too long.’

  Vespasian nodded. ‘And did this fourth man also have a small beard and very brown skin?’

  ‘I believe he did. You know him?’

  ‘We met briefly. It wasn’t the friendliest of encounters. His name is Hasdro. Should he return this way I believe Antonia would thank you for killing him. He placed a spy in her house.’

  ‘I will see what can be arranged,’ she replied, looking at him in a different light. She admired a man who could, with good reason, so easily order another’s death.

  She stood and clapped her hands. A slave girl entered with a small scroll and handed it to her mistress.

  ‘Her letter also contained this.’ Tryphaena gave him the scroll. ‘I will leave you to read it. When you have finished someone will escort you out. May the gods go with you, Vespasian.’

  ‘And also with you, domina.’

  She left the room, leaving Vespasian alone with his letter, the first that he had ever received. His heart pounded as he broke the seal; he looked quickly for the signature: Caenis.

  Vespasian left the palace a short while later feeling as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Caenis’ letter had been all that he had hoped for, and more, as he had composed her replies to his imaginary letters in his head on the long, unpleasant journey in the mule cart at the hands of the Caenii.

  On his return his companions mistook the look on his face.

  ‘It would seem that your friend enjoyed the meeting with Queen Tryphaena,’ Paetus laughed. ‘By the looks of him I’d say that Venus was there too.’

  Vespasian shrugged, said nothing and mounted his horse.

  As they passed through the town gates Magnus drew level with Vespasian.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Hasdro passed through here three days ago, with three Praetorians.’

  ‘So that’s why you’ve got that love-struck look on your face. One squeeze of his balls and you’re his for ever.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I thought so. So the Queen was quite a looker, then?’

  ‘She was, and she also had a letter for me from Caenis.’

  ‘Ah, that would do it.’ Magnus grinned at his friend.

  Vespasian was in no mood for conversation. He kicked his horse and accelerated away.

  The morning was clear and cold; a strong breeze blew down from the snow-capped Haemus Mountains to the north, forcing them to keep their cloaks wrapped tightly around their shoulders. The condensation of their horses’ breath billowed from their nostrils as they made their way across the steadily rising ground, sometimes trotting, sometimes cantering to their destination. Ahead was the northern end of the Rhodope range where Poppaeus had the rebels holed up.

  ‘Will there be another battle, Paetus?’ Vespasian asked.

  The cavalry prefect smiled, his bright eyes shining in the strengthening sun. ‘Poppaeus has been trying to draw them out for a month now, but they won’t budge. Our spies tell us that they’re divided into three factions. There are those that want to throw themselves on our mercy, which may or may not be forthcoming; then there’re those who want to charge out of their stronghold, after killing their women and children, and die fighting, taking as many of us with them as possible; and finally there’s a completely fanatical faction that wants to kill their women and children and then commit mass suicide.’ He laughed; the others joined in. ‘But seriously, Poppaeus is trying to avert the last option; it’s not good to create too many fanatical martyrs. He’s in secret negotiations with a chap called Dinas, who is the leader of the first faction, trying to get him to talk some sense into the others. The trouble is that he can’t offer complete clemency, that would send a bad message; some have got to be nailed up on crosses or lose hands or eyes, otherwise anyone with a petty grievance will rebel, thinking that if they lose they’ll be free to go back to their villages, with their wife’s virtue intact and all their limbs in place, to carry on as before until their next opportunity comes along.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Corbulo agreed. ‘It’s a tricky situation. How is he putting pressure on them? Has he dug siege lines around them?’

  ‘He’s done his best. We’ve constructed over four miles of trenches and ramparts around them, but their stronghold’s too high, you could never completely encircle it. So we send out patrols and try and stop any supplies getting in, but they slip through at night. Water is the one thing that they’re short of: they’ve only got one spring up there. But even so they could stay put for months, and the longer they’re there the more chance there is of other tribes joining them, then we could find ourselves surrounded.’

  ‘What about storming it?’ Vespasian asked.

  Paetus burst out laughing; Vespasian reddened.

  ‘My dear chap, forgive me.’ Paetus managed to get his mirth under control and reached out to touch Vespasian’s arm in a conciliatory gesture. ‘That’s exactly what the bastards want. They’ve spent the winter fortifying the walls and digging ditches and traps, nasty things with sharpened stakes in. Nearly fell into one myself last time I was up there scouting. No, it’s damned near impregnable, you’d lose four cohorts just to get to the gate, then two more to get through them. And behind it are sheer cliffs. Even if you could get down those, it would be with so few men that you’d be massacred once you’d got to the bottom.

  ‘We’ve just got to keep them there and hope that either they see sense and come out to surrender or fight; or start fighting amongst themselves and do our job for us.’

  ‘At least we’re not too late.’ Corbulo sounded relieved; the thought of arriving too late for any action had plagued him all the way from Italia.

  ‘No, no, you’re not too late; but what you’ve arrived in time for is anyone’s guess.’

  They rode on in silence for a while, eating up the miles, climbing higher and higher into the hills. After a short break at midday to eat some bread and smoked ham and allow their horses to graze on the thinning grass, they came across a series of thirty or forty large scorch marks on the ground.

  ‘This is where we beat them,’ Paetus said with pride. ‘These are what are left of their pyres; we killed over half of them, losing no more than six hundred of our lads all told. There must have been thirty thousand of the bastards to start off with,
all yelling and hollering and showing their arses and waving those vicious long blades of theirs.’

  ‘Rhomphaiai,’ Corbulo said unnecessarily.

  ‘Indeed. Nasty things, one took one of my horse’s legs off, would have had mine too if the poor beast hadn’t fallen on the savage wielding it. Pinned him down, it did. I managed to jump clear and skewered the bastard. I was furious; it was a horse from the gods.’ Paetus patted the neck of his present mount, as if to show that he meant no offence.

  As they progressed across the field Vespasian spotted signs of a recent battle all around: spent arrows, discarded helmets, broken swords, javelins and shields. Here and there lay an unburnt corpse almost stripped of flesh by wolves or buzzards, strips of rotting clothing clinging to its tattered limbs. Away in the distance on either side there were countless dark mounds like large molehills. Paetus caught his gaze.

  ‘Horses,’ he said. ‘We’re roughly at the centre of our line; there were fierce cavalry battles on both flanks. We didn’t capture enough prisoners to burn all the dead horses, so we just left them. Mine’s out there somewhere, poor thing; a horse from the gods.’ He shook his head mournfully and patted his mount’s neck again.

  They passed over the battlefield and came to an abandoned camp.

  ‘That was our first camp, when we moved up to the present position we gave it to King Rhoemetalces for his army of loyal Thracians. Though why we didn’t just send them home I don’t know, they did nothing but pillage and get pissed. Fucking useless, they were.’

  ‘Were?’ Corbulo asked.

  ‘The rebels saw them as a greater enemy than us. A few nights after the battle they launched a small attack on one of our support camps. We all ran around trying to beat them off, not realising that it was only a diversion. The main body of their army had circled around us and fell on the loyal Thracians, who of course were all too drunk on that disgusting wine of theirs to do anything about it. It was a massacre. Almost all of them were slaughtered, over ten thousand of them and their families, no prisoners taken. Still, it won’t affect the course of the war. Rhoemetalces was having dinner with the general at the time so they didn’t get him, which had been their primary objective. He’s still lurking around in our camp, too scared to leave and make it back to Philippopolis. Mind you, I don’t suppose his mother will be very pleased to see him, having lost an army.’