Brasus wondered whether Decebalus had ordered the fat man taken to the ceremony to frighten him. Yet that was a risk. There were three captives because there were three Messengers prepared to carry word of the world of men to the Lord Zalmoxis. Yet there was risk, for as many captives were fated to die as Messengers, and the Second might have failed the test so that Brasus would become the Third, which meant that he would end his life on this earth to travel to the Heavens and also that the merchant would have been killed.
Less than fifty paces from the old gateway one of the Romans stopped, holding both the riderless horses, as his comrade trotted forward.
Brasus wanted to believe that fate and the will of the Lord Zalmoxis had decided that night, but the doubts kept bubbling up as the months had passed. The merchant was too valuable to the king to be killed, unless he wanted to prove his devotion by the worth of the offering. Brasus had liked to think that he was chosen by the god because of his own merit. Although only twenty, he was a chieftain, a proven warrior and leader of men, head of a family loyal to the king and pure of life and heart. He had been flattered to be chosen as Messenger, and though passion was vanity, he had to admit that there had been a thrill at the thought of transcending this body to join the god. Such a death was more blessed even than a death in battle.
The Roman was coming closer. Brasus saw his men waiting, weapons in hand. One was an archer and as he watched the man reached into his bag for an arrow. If there was a fight, then Brasus would shout down to him to shoot the one left behind and stop him getting away.
Brasus knew the tower well, which made it a shame to see it abandoned and in disrepair. His father had held this place for the king for many years. He remembered parting with the old man and sensing how strongly he yearned to defend it against the invaders in the last war with Rome. For the first year he was frustrated, until in the second the Romans came and his father fought them and held them for seventeen days before they breached the wall. As his men died fighting, his father had taken his own life in devotion to the god. That too was a good death.
Fate and the will of Zalmoxis, those were the drivers of men’s lives, and the pure accepted this truth and embraced their destiny. Yet now he struggled. He had been chosen as Messenger and yet not chosen to go to the god. The other two men were brave warriors, but neither was pileatus, neither a noble or leader of a clan. As reward the king favoured him, even promising to give Brasus one of his daughters in marriage. Instead of passage to the Heavens, he would receive land and power and a royal bride. Accepting this as his just fate might have been easier if it had not seemed so convenient. A loyal nobleman was honoured and rewarded, his devotion to the king confirmed, and the only Roman of value was spared to serve Decebalus. Was that simply the will of the god? If so, then the Lord Zalmoxis was very obliging. The thought was disturbing, gnawing away at his old certainties like a worm burrowing into fruit, but would not go away. He had seen too much in battles and all the little fights of the last war to be certain about anything. So many of the pure failed to act as they should, while other lesser men outshone them like comets – and even Rome and its creatures sometimes showed true purity.
The rider was almost at the rubble piled outside the breach in the wall where the gate and its towers had once stood. He had a yellow crest on his bronze helmet and that was the mark of a junior officer. Still there was no sign of anyone else. If they were not alone, then these men were taking a great risk.
‘We are friends!’ The man shouted in Latin. He had a strong accent, which Brasus did not recognise, and then he switched to a dialect of the Keltoi, so perhaps he was from one of the tribes of Gaul. ‘Friends!’ he tried in guttural Greek. The man held his sword high and then dropped it into the snow. ‘Friends!’
Brasus could see no sign of a trap, and revealing his own presence did not betray his men. He leaned forward out of the window and shouted down. ‘Friend!’
The cavalryman started at the reply, having probably decided that the tower was empty. Brasus gestured to him. ‘Dismount and come in! Slowly!’ Whether or not he understood the words the Gaul or whoever he was saw the beckoning arm. He swung down from his horse, dropped his shield to lie by the sword and walked up the rubble, arms spread wide to show that they were empty and that he was no threat.
‘Call the other!’ Brasus pointed at the distant rider and beckoned again. The man nodded, and shouted something back at his comrade, who came on. Then he gasped as warriors appeared on either side of him.
‘Just watch him!’ Brasus shouted to his men. ‘And wait for me.’
By the time he had come down the second cavalryman had come in. One of the warriors held their horses while the rest watched the prisoners.
‘Says his name is Ivonercus and this is his servant,’ the oldest of the warriors told him. He spoke the Celtic language and they had managed to communicate a little. ‘They’re both Britons and have run from the Roman army.’
‘Why have you come?’ Brasus asked in Latin.
‘To serve Decebalus,’ Ivonercus told him. ‘And to fight for him.’
The king always welcomed deserters. If their story was true then they would be taken into his service, but that was for another day. For the moment he explained that they were prisoners and would be guarded until they crossed back through the pass and reached safety. Only then – if they answered all questions satisfactorily – would they be given back their weapons.
‘I understand,’ Ivonercus assured him. The man seemed desperate to please.
‘Take them there,’ Brasus ordered, pointing at one of the out-buildings that still had most of its roof, ‘and guard them. Bring their horses inside so that they cannot be seen.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The older warrior did not say anymore, but the question was obvious from his expression.
‘We will wait another day for the messenger. Perhaps two if nothing else seems wrong.’ Brasus smiled. ‘One man watches the prisoners and another on guard – in the tower during daylight. There won’t be a lot of sleep.’
‘Two awake, two resting,’ the old warrior said. ‘It could be worse.’
‘There are five of us, and I shall take my turn like everyone else.’
‘My lord.’
V
Rome
Tenth day before the Kalends of Martias
‘PLEASE, MY LORD, read this!’ The old woman thrust a writing tablet out in her right hand, while her left elbow jabbed into a man trying to push her out of the way to present his own petition. For all her grey hairs, she was plump and powerful, and the victim dropped his rolled papyrus as he doubled over. One of the toga-clad praetorians scooped to pick the scroll up and then took the woman’s tablet as well. Other guardsmen in cloaks and tunics, but carrying big oval shields and pila, formed a cordon to mark the line beyond which the crowd was not permitted. A good princeps ought to be accessible, so like the divine Augustus, Trajan walked whenever possible, even on occasions like this when he was to dine at a friend’s house, itself another mark that he was servant of the res publica and not a tyrant. The journey was unannounced, a social call rather than for some ceremony or to attend a session of the Senate, so the crowd was not as big as on other days. These petitioners were only the ones who had waited hour after hour and sometimes day after day outside the main doors of the Domus Tiberiana, the house of the princeps, on the off-chance that he would appear.
The procession did not stop, everyone taking their cue from Trajan, who whenever he went into the city took pride in maintaining the steady, regulation drill pace of the army. Hadrian could almost hear the instructor calling out the time and tapping his stick or the butt of a spear onto the parade ground as he did so. It had amused him in Dacia to note how often all the comites, the senators like himself who accompanied Trajan to war to advise and serve him, unconsciously fell into step alongside their leader. The emperor had his toga carefully draped over his left arm, his back was as straight as a spear shaft, and you could see the effort as
he forced himself to glance around him now and then rather than striding on, concentrating only on the task in hand.
Hadrian wondered whether the divine Augustus had been more affable, at least until his great age and poor health meant that he had to be carried in a litter on all save the shortest journeys. Trajan often invoked Augustus, and even when he did not acknowledge the fact tended to make the first princeps his model for his decisions and behaviour. Yet his love was for the camp rather than the city, militiae rather than domi – and deep down he wanted everyone to see this. In his youth, long before anyone could have guessed that he would be raised to the purple, Trajan had served more than the usual spell with the army, much more, but Hadrian guessed that his former guardian felt that this was not enough and still needed to prove to himself that at heart he was a soldier. Hence the steady pace, and acting always as the bluff, no nonsense military man, who demanded even greater discipline from himself than his subordinates, and pretended to less education than he possessed. Perhaps after all these years the act was all there was, and that made Hadrian wonder about the nature of a person or thing, and whether it could be changed by circumstance or desire. The deepest joy of philosophy for him was that there would never be a final answer, only further speculation. Still, one thing that was certain was that there would be another great war, and the only question now was when. Hadrian believed that he already knew where, and hoped that his own appointment had this in mind.
A slave walking behind the emperor took the petitions from the guardsman, scanning through them quickly. He whispered something to Trajan, who nodded, and a boy doubled back with a coin for one man and a little purse for the old woman. This slave was about thirteen or fourteen, with a dark complexion and smooth unblemished skin. He was also quick, moving well, if without the polish provided by training in the gymnasium. A lot of the imperial slaves were good looking like this one, and a fair few encouraged to preen and think highly of themselves.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ a voice said from just behind his shoulder.
‘Good evening, noble Laberius,’ Hadrian replied, as the former consul came alongside. They kissed on the cheek in greeting and smiled with everything apart from their eyes. Until now Laberius Maximus had been near the rear of the little procession, talking with men of his own age.
‘We do not want any more awkwardness, do we?’ Laberius gripped Hadrian’s right arm just above the elbow, a gesture that always annoyed him. ‘Good, good,’ he went on. ‘Youthful indiscretion is one thing, but you are a praetor now.’
Hadrian smiled. Just before the first campaign in Dacia he had taken one of the imperial boys as a lover. It was not rape, or even coercion beyond the fact that one was a slave and one was an aristocrat. He had wooed the boy, given him presents as an older man should, and been kind. Yet Trajan’s rage had astounded him and for a while he feared that he might be sent home in disgrace, favour forever denied. Men closer to the emperor had placated him, mature men with good military records like Laberius, the sort of men Trajan liked and trusted, and in the end Hadrian had been forgiven, at least publicly. There was no need for reminders, for he was not a man to make the same mistake twice, but it had put him under obligation to Laberius and the rest.
The whole business was a nonsense and Trajan’s anger a mystery. The emperor must have known that gossip throughout the empire, let alone among the aristocracy, was amused by his fondness for having lots of pretty boys in his household, just as they were by his habit of drinking heavily when he was the host at a dinner. Hadrian had nursed plenty of merciless hangovers as a result, for like most guests he felt obliged to match their leader. Yet he did not know for certain that Trajan had ever used any of the boys in that way, whether casually as slaves or with kindness. It was so hard to tell. Maybe this was all part of play-acting the tough soldier, and, realising his own appetites, the emperor rigidly exercised self-control, denying himself the slightest concession to human frailty and vice. Then again, maybe he was very, very discreet. Either way, the Roman aristocracy would approve. Excesses denied were admirable, indulgences concealed were pardonable, as long as the secret never escaped for such was the hypocrisy of the senatorial class. Trajan had never done anything unwise or acted badly while drunk, so that was also no weakness or flaw, and the same attitude stretched to the boys at court. If ever anything dishonourable happened, then no one saw it.
Hadrian did not know the truth, and after all these years could not claim to understand Trajan. That, indeed, was the root of the whole problem. Hadrian’s father was the emperor’s cousin, and when both his parents died, Trajan had become Hadrian’s guardian, back in the days when he was no more than a prominent senator. He had been efficient, stern and distant, and had softened only a little in more recent years.
Laberius kept alongside him, and they exchanged the usual empty pleasantries, asking after relations and friends. Hadrian sensed that the former consul wanted something, but manners dictated that they chat about nothing first.
‘You are off to the army soon.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I am.’ Hadrian was conscious that he slurred some words and cursed himself for doing it now, especially when Laberius gave a faint smile. Men said that it was the accent of Hispania, but since Hadrian had spent barely a year in the province and only when he was already fourteen, he doubted it.
‘You do not care for the courts?’
‘Acting as judge may teach a man something,’ Hadrian conceded, ‘although it seems largely a question of discerning which side is lying the least.’
This time Laberius’ smile had less mockery. ‘A good training for life, I should have thought. Still, soldiering may be a little more straightforward. The Minervia have earned a fine reputation in what is still a short history. It is a good command, albeit a scattered one at present, as you have no doubt learned from your investigations?’ He paused, and stared straight into Hadrian’s eyes. ‘That is unusual diligence – or something else perhaps? Still, I am sure you know your own business.’
Hadrian had expected the matter to be raised at some point during the evening, and wondered only how soon and who would bring it up. The emperor had surely learned of his visit to the camp of the foreigners before the day was out. It was probably better that someone was speaking openly to him about it.
‘I wish to serve the princeps and Rome well.’
‘Indeed, and such an honourable intent must be praised. But why talk to the frumentarii?’
This time Hadrian smiled. ‘Because I wonder whether we do not take sufficient advantage of their knowledge. Where else in Rome will you find men from every legion, recent arrivals most of them and sent back in due course? Apart from the lists of numbers, locations and supplies, those men have knowledge and news beyond the written reports of legates and procurators. They could all become eyes and ears, reaching out across the globe.’
Laberius was sceptical. ‘Common soldiers, though. I’ll grant they can all read and write in a good hand, but they are not selected for intelligence or insight.’
‘But they could be.’
The former consul nodded several times, his head moving slowly as if it confirmed an obvious truth, but Hadrian could tell that he was thinking. A lot of good ideas appeared so simple once someone had explained them, and there was no doubt that Laberius Maximus was now exploring the possibilities.
‘That is original,’ he conceded at last. ‘Although perhaps we should be cautious in turning so many simple soldiers into spies. The gods only know how much they might discover, and how inconvenient it might prove.’
‘For the good of the res publica.’
‘An expression frequently employed by the last of the Flavians – as even you may be just old enough to recall – so of meagre comfort. After all, we all have our little secrets, do we not?’ The stare was intense. ‘And would prefer that they remain just that, harmless indiscretions known only to ourselves. Trust is important. To trust the men picked by the emperor or a
ppointed by the Senate to do their jobs to the best of their ability, without having to be told step by step how to go about them. A degree of ignorance does little harm if it fosters trust.’
The crowd had thinned and as they went downhill several senators joined them, hailing the emperor and then the rest of the party. Hadrian was always amused to see the slaves doing the same thing with the slightest of nods and gestures. Theirs was a small world as well in many ways, as attendants of great men.
‘You are in need of a new tribune,’ Laberius commented once they had resumed.
‘Yes.’ Hadrian had suspected as much, for the stripling in the post had done six months and on brief acquaintance had struck him as the sort never to do more than the barest minimum. No doubt Laberius was better informed.
‘Anyone in mind?’
That was surprisingly direct and strange for the matter was not really up to him.
‘I would guess that the legatus will find someone suitable.’ That was the usual way, with the governor of the province putting forward a name to the emperor for approval, more often than not recommending someone who had in turn been recommended to him.
‘Wouldn’t do any harm if you wrote to him with a suggestion.’
More petitioners clustered where the road turned, and this caused a little delay. In front of them, an older senator was telling a story about Augustus and a poet who had waited outside the palace for weeks, hoping that he could get the Caesar’s attention for long enough to recite a composition in his praise. ‘Well Augustus spotted the ragged fellow, and made sure to ignore him, always turning away. He wanted money, of course, they all do. When did you ever hear of a rich poet who did not inherit his wealth?’
Hadrian half listened, for the old senator had a carrying voice and either did not realise how loudly he was speaking or did not care. It took an effort not to chip in with half a dozen examples of poets whose verse had earned them considerable wealth.
The Fort Page 6