Wolves of Rome

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  PART TWO

  14

  SEVERAL DAYS AFTER THE document that Augustus had sent to the Senate was made public, Arminius was summoned again by Taurus, along with his brother.

  The two of them walked to the centurion’s house early in the morning and were accommodated in his private study, where Thiaminus served them bowls of broth and toasted bread for breakfast.

  They ate with relish. Taurus dried his lips with a napkin, nodded to his freedman, who cleared the tables, and turned to Arminius: ‘What you did was noticed by everybody, including the emperor, but no one has really understood why you fled. Some even imagined that you’d fallen into the water and drowned. Caesar, however, had no doubts, and he summoned me last night.’

  Arminius did not say a word and Taurus continued: ‘“I owe my life to that young man,” he told me, “and I regret enormously that I cannot give him the public recognition he so amply deserves. You see, I can’t publically celebrate the young foreigner who saved me from the plot where my own daughter was a conspirator . . .”’

  As he spoke, using the emperor’s words, Taurus was reliving the scene of that dramatic dialogue: ‘ “Caesar . . . pardon my impudence, but perhaps it’s too soon to condemn her with such certainty. I’d invite you to—”

  ‘ “That’s enough, Centurion. You know how much I respect you and I’ve often had the pleasure of decorating you with the highest honours, but do not say another word now.” ’

  Arminius examined him and saw the eyes of the soldier hardened by infinite battles grow damp, and he heard his voice tremble. It had to be love. A secret, tormented love, unutterable, never confessed, not even to himself. Perhaps he had always loved that beautiful woman, the daughter of the most powerful man in the world. And perhaps he loved her still, as did her father, even now that she had been publicly disgraced. That phrase pronounced in front of the lifeless body of Phoebe, the humble, heroic maidservant who had chosen to take her life rather than betray her mistress – who knew with what pain Augustus had uttered such a thing.

  ‘What will become of her?’ asked Flavus.

  Taurus shook his head slowly, looking at the floor. ‘She’ll never be able to come back to Rome, unless a miracle occurs. A woman accustomed to her freedom, open-minded, as bold in love as she was in life, banished to that bleak island, with the company of no one but her mother. She’ll never be able to reconcile the splendour of her previous life with the miserable existence she has been condemned to. But you’re not here to listen to such words; this is a very important day for you, Arminius.’

  The boy didn’t dare ask what he meant by that and Taurus continued: ‘Enough of this sad talk! You are both here because I’ve been asked to give you a message from Caesar in person. Arminius, considering your merits, and despite your young age, you will henceforth command the entire corps of the Germanic Auxilia, with the cavalry rank of Praefectus. This might be the first step for you to one day becoming a Roman citizen, despite your foreign birth.

  ‘You’ll soon be assigned responsibilities in keeping with your rank, but for now the emperor has nothing on his mind apart from the drama that’s playing out in his home. He’s decreed Julia’s divorce without even notifying her husband; no one knows when Tiberius will be returning from his self-imposed exile.’

  He then turned towards Flavus: ‘Your help and support have also been recognized, and you too will be entrusted with an important position.’

  Arminius replied for both: ‘Please let Caesar know how grateful we are. We are both greatly honoured.’

  FOR MANY MONTHS, the situation in Rome remained difficult. Many important families had been accused of involvement, and Julia’s punishment seemed too severe to a great many citizens. The people were on her side and even considered her the victim of a cruel and self-serving manoeuvre of state. Livia, who was Augustus’s wife and Tiberius’s mother, was especially vehement in condemning her stepdaughter and everyone could be certain that for as long as she was alive, she would do everything in her power to prevent Julia’s return. Julia had a single hope: her own sons Gaius and Lucius, who had been adopted by Augustus and were being prepared to succeed him. They were the only ones who could perhaps, some day, liberate her.

  Some time passed before Arminius was summoned for an assignment: he was ordered to go to Brindisi, an important port from which many vessels sailed eastwards. His final destination was unknown to him and he was not told who he would be travelling with. Flavus would be staying in Rome with Taurus for the time being, but they had hopes of departing together for another mission, perhaps in Germania.

  The two brothers said goodbye with an embrace.

  ‘Be careful where you put your feet, wherever you end up,’ said Flavus.

  ‘You too. If they should send you to Germania, see if you can meet up with Father. Let him know that we haven’t forgotten him.’

  ‘I will,’ replied Flavus, ‘but he’s always known that.’

  Arminius mounted his horse and, with a group of soldiers, headed off towards the Via Appia, the oldest paved road in Rome, which crossed over the swamps, traversed the Apennines, and ended at the port of Brindisi. The journey would only take one week, because they were carrying little baggage and they’d be able to change their horses at every station along the road. They slept no more than five hours at a stretch, just what was strictly necessary, travelling from first light to last.

  The group was made up of ten Germanic auxiliaries, ten Roman soldiers and two officers: Sergius Vetilius, military tribune of the Twelfth Legion, and Rufius Corvus, prefect from a cavalry branch of the same legion. As they rode, Arminius tried to make conversation with his travel companions. ‘Seeing that we have a long journey ahead of us, it’s best if we introduce ourselves, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ replied Vetilius and he introduced himself with all three of his names, Sergius Vetilius Celer, his rank, his cohort and the legion he belonged to. As did Rufius Corvus Afer.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Rufius.

  ‘I’m the commander of this unit,’ replied Arminius.

  ‘What?’ said Sergius Vetilius.

  ‘The commander of this unit,’ repeated Arminius. He showed them his credentials, signed by Centurion Taurus on behalf of the imperial house.

  ‘But who are you?’ insisted Rufius. ‘You can’t be higher in rank than I am.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m not,’ replied Arminius. ‘I’ve been given this commission by order of Caesar. If that’s a problem for you, once we’ve arrived you can consult the commander of the port. He’s already been informed.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ said Sergius Vetilius. ‘You must be the one everyone’s talking about.’ And the matter did not come up again.

  During their journey, they always had their meals together. This gave them the opportunity to get to know one another, to exchange ideas and to talk about the mission that awaited them.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ asked Rufius at a certain point.

  ‘Why, is it important?’ asked Arminius.

  ‘It’s not,’ replied Rufius. ‘Just simple curiosity.’

  ‘There’s no hurry then, is there?’ observed Arminius.

  The ship waiting for them was a navy vessel; the group boarded early one morning. Seeing a huge battleship weigh anchor and cast off was always an emotional experience, especially for Arminius, who had never even seen the sea before coming to Italy. His men made themselves comfortable, since there was an entire crew managing the ship. They stretched out on the folded spare sails or on the cots they’d been given to sleep at night. Only the two officers stayed in motion, walking back and forth on the ship’s sides or positioning themselves aft at the helm or forward to watch the horizon or the crew’s manoeuvring, or simply to listen to the beat of the drums that set the pace for the one hundred and seventy oarsmen rowing in unison.

  As soon as the wind was in their favour, the rowers pulled in the oars and the crew raised the mains
ail and the foresail. A monster was depicted on the huge sail: it had the body of a lion, the tail of a snake and a second head, a ram’s head, on its back. Underneath was the name of the vessel: CHIMAERA.

  What most impressed Arminius during the ship’s transit was that the machine was a kind of extension of the men; the men were the energy that moved the machine and made it work. He thought he remembered his father saying something similar regarding the experience he’d had on board General Drusus’s flagship on the Rhine, but no story could get close to the reality that he was seeing with his own eyes. Even the force of the wind itself was tamed by the helmsmen who gathered it into the sail and set the ship going in the right direction. The speed that the vessel could pick up using the full force of the wind was very high, but the ship couldn’t travel as fast as it could if the sea wouldn’t tolerate it. If the waves were too high, they acted as obstacles for the prow and the hull, which made horrible creaking noises, alerting the crew that they had to take in the sails before the ship was damaged. And so there was this incredible balance of wind, hull, sea and men. It also occurred to Arminius that the ships used by General Drusus, made to sail down a river, had little in common with the Chimaera, designed to ride the waves of the sea.

  They rounded Cape Maleas and set course east and south, passing from one island to the next. Some were barren and craggy, others were covered with pines and palm trees, like little solitary paradises. Arminius had never seen an island before and he was amazed at those tiny lands made of rock and water, with their little bays and towering cliffs that rose up like dragon’s scales from the waves. But the light was the thing that filled him with awe: the way that the sky and the water reflected it in such a myriad of nuances. Every wave was a mirror with thousands of fragments and the moon at night left a long silvery wake that stretched all the way to the horizon. He understood how that sea had given birth to so many kingdoms and civilizations and he realized what an abyss separated his ancestral land, so dark and swampy, from these dazzling places. How could he ever think of returning to the long, frosty winters of the north and abandoning that world of light and infinite colour?

  After seven days of navigation the ship set ashore in Rhodos. Before the passengers disembarked, the ship’s commander gave Arminius a small leather-encased coffer that he was to give to the man who would be waiting for him at the port. The same man would accompany him to his destination, to ensure that he reached the house of the illustrious person who it was his mission to meet with.

  The person that the captain had spoken of was waiting at the port. He was a Greek freedman named Antemius who appeared to be a servant from a very distinguished household. Arminius handed him the coffer which the man opened at once; there were only letters inside. He had the house seal impressed on a wax tablet to acknowledge receipt. Communication was difficult: Antemius’s Latin was weak and Arminius only knew a few words of Greek. Four of his men, including Rufius Corvus and Sergius Vetilius, followed them, serving as an escort although there was no need to assume a particular formation. They were also useful as interpreters.

  They made their way up a winding road and after they had circled around a large temple, they found themselves staring at a spectacular sight that left Arminius speechless. A bronze giant, whose legs up to his knees were the only parts remaining erect, lay in bits and pieces scattered over the surrounding area; the crowned head had rolled on its side, and the hollow inside of the torso looked like a cavern and was vast enough to hold thirty men. The arms were enormous, the hands alone so big that no man, no matter how well he was built, would be able to encircle the thumb with his arms. This must be the Colossus of Rhodos that his teacher Diodorus had told him about, but seeing it with his own eyes filled him with amazement. How had they ever managed to raise such a giant?

  Sergius Vetilius broke into his thoughts: ‘He was built in an age when anything seemed possible. But they say that the sculptor made a fatal error in designing him, and that he killed himself in despair.’ In fact, it was an earthquake that felled the giant.

  There were many things that Arminius would have liked to ask, but he didn’t want to appear ignorant. He was fascinated by such a marvel and continued to ponder it as they walked. There had to be some kind of mysterious reason behind the fact that all the peoples and nations living around that sea had finally joined, whether willingly or not, the single Empire of Rome, which kept them linked to a common destiny. That Empire must surely last for centuries. Only a cataclysm or the hammer of Thor could possibly bring her down, like the giant of bronze scattered in chunks that recalled his original greatness. If Rome were to collapse, the world would be plunged into a long era of darkness.

  He thought back to the moment in which he’d decided to throw the spear that stayed the hand of the man who was preparing to strike Caesar with the deadly bolt of his ballista. And he thought that he’d done the right thing, even if no one had ever discovered that it was him.

  When they reached their destination – a beautiful villa surrounded by a garden of palm, myrtle, pine, fig and pomegranate trees – he was led into the atrium by Antemius and he waited there until a man walked in. He had an imposing build and a serious expression on his face. Antemius whispered to him, ‘This is Tiberius Claudius, son of Livia Augusta, brother of Drusus, commander of the imperial armies.’

  Arminius observed this sad prince closely. He had been exiled for years in a golden prison, far from Rome, unwelcome in the capital of the Empire. Perhaps the coffer that Antemius was handing him now contained a letter from his mother with the latest news. Tiberius opened it at once and rapidly scanned one of the scrolls, his face darkening as he read. ‘So you are the man who saved Caesar’s life,’ he said coldly.

  Arminius merely gave a nod.

  ‘You’re very young . . . perhaps in time you’ll regret what you’ve done.’

  Arminius did not know what to answer and he chose silence.

  ‘You’ll wait here for me to give you the replies to those who have written to me.’

  Arminius remained there for nearly two hours. He was served drinks and fresh fruit as he waited.

  Tiberius finally returned, followed by a servant who carried the coffer with the answers for his correspondents.

  ‘The man who has you at his side in combat is a fortunate man,’ Tiberius said. ‘Antemius knows who these should be delivered to, before you set course again for your destination. I wish you a safe voyage.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander,’ said Arminius. He left with Antemius and rejoined his men. Once at the port, the freedman led Arminius on board a swift open-sea vessel which would soon set sail for Ostia, with a number of deliveries for the imperial house. Arminius handed over the letters and then asked to return to the trireme on which he had been travelling.

  He was rather shaken from his encounter with Tiberius, an experience that had left him feeling light-headed. He had arrived this close to the highest levels of powers in such a short time, making acquaintances that he had never dreamed of. He’d also learned how to behave around such people: speak as little as possible and only if requested to do so. Men of Tiberius’s ilk were always surrounded by a flock of adulators, spies and courtiers, whose company they usually couldn’t stand. Especially a serious, reserved person like Tiberius, a man with an old-fashioned upbringing, a keen soldier, a reluctant expert in the matters of family politics and in the hypocrisy that reigned sovereign. The latest events, which he certainly had been informed of, must have surely disgusted him even further. He did not let on how much he knew about what had happened, but certain aspects must have left him feeling troubled indeed.

  It was before dawn the next morning when Arminius’s men, under the command of Tribune Sergius Vetilius, went off to fetch a person who was to join them, while Arminius stayed aboard the ship, waiting to receive this mysterious passenger. He watched them as they made their way back, a little procession of shadows coming from one of the twisting roads that descended the hillside overlooking the por
t. He let down the gangway when they were close and he assembled the men remaining on board, both Romans and Germanic auxiliaries, to welcome the newcomer and render honours.

  Arminius maintained his position within the honour guard as the guest was escorted to the stern where he’d been assigned quarters. Dawn was just breaking, so the light was still too low for Arminius to make out the man’s features.

  On his feet at the prow, Arminius scanned the horizon, veiled by a light mist which would dissipate as the sun rose. The wind was east and north, promising good sailing. A voice rang out at his side: ‘You must be the man in charge of my escort.’ Arminius startled; he hadn’t heard the slightest noise, not a single footfall. In fact, the person standing next to him was barefoot, and wore only a long-sleeved tunic.

  ‘I am Publius Quinctilius Varus,’ he said. ‘I governed Syria until the new governor was installed a year ago.’

  ‘Hail, Legate,’ replied Arminius. ‘I am indeed in charge of your escort and will be assisted by Tribune Sergius Vetilius and Cavalry Prefect Rufius Corvus. We are at your disposition. We’re expecting fine weather and the crossing should be smooth. We will land in Laodicea in six or seven days, depending on the wind.’

  ‘You seem like a born sailor,’ replied Varus. ‘How many times have you been to sea?’

  ‘This is my first time, Legate, in a position of command, although I was instructed for several months at the base in Ravenna.’

  ‘Very good,’ replied Varus. ‘On the other hand, if what they say of you is true, there’s little to be surprised at. You are a young man of great intelligence and you have a strong spirit of initiative. Is it true that you brought letters to Tiberius Claudius?’