Rome 4: The Art of War

by M C Scott

  He opened the heavier of the two cylinders first and, after a moment, held it out so that we could both read the contents. The sparse lines on the rolled bark inside were written in a simple letter-substitution cipher he had created himself twenty years ago, which both of us could unravel in our heads as we read it.

  From Mergus to the emperor’s spy, greetings.

  We have met Vologases, King of Kings of Parthia, who promises peace between our empires when Vespasian rules. He has offered forty thousand archers to our cause. Vespasian will not accept foreign aid, but is grateful for the offer. Mucianus marches west with five legions. We are for Alexandria. Men seek you with ill intent. Take care.

  ‘Interesting?’ I asked.

  ‘Marginally.’ He laid the missive down on the table. ‘I didn’t know about the archers. It’s good to know the King of Kings is choosing Vespasian as his preferred emperor. It could mean peace in the east.’ He had been there, you see, to Parthia, or at least close. He had spoken to the King of Kings.

  The second message was from Mucianus, which was a surprise; I thought he only wrote to me. He used a more complex cipher of his own creation so that Pantera had to ask me for the key and then for a slate so he could transcribe it. It wasn’t impenetrable, don’t think that: a competent code-breaker on either side could have mastered it in a morning. With the key, it was effortless. Pantera transcribed it on the first pass.

  From Mucianus, to the maker of minds. We need Ravenna. It must come to our cause.

  Just that. Pantera stared at it, chewing his lip.

  After a while, I said, ‘Maker of minds? Does he always call you that?’

  ‘Never before.’

  I said, ‘He is not one to waste a bird.’ He knows the trouble we take to get them to him. He would never do that.

  ‘Nor to speak the obvious.’ Pantera raised a brow. ‘Have you a candle?’

  The candles were on the far side of the beaded curtain, with the bed and the cooing doves. I passed through, setting it chiming. When I returned, Pantera was holding one of the beaded threads, studying the beads. In wonder, he said, ‘I had thought these were painted wood.’

  He held in his hand a fortune threaded on a few feet of silk. The beads were of ivory, pearl, palest amber. The very lowest bead on each strand, which weighed the others down, was a nugget of raw gold.

  I said, ‘Mucianus sends me beads as he finds them, or things he thinks can be fashioned to be suitable. There’s a trader in the city, Ostorius – you’ll remember him from the rooftops? The black-haired half-Dacian with the smallest finger missing on his left hand? He’s a woodsmith now. He can carve anything into a bead, given time.’

  With every passing heartbeat, we were receding further into our shared childhood. We huddled together on a couch that seemed suddenly too big for what we had become. I passed him the candle in a silver stick and the kindling ember held in a small pot. He lit the wick.

  Heated, the thin paper crisped at the edges, but across the width of the page grew letters, darker than the darkening bark around them.

  Beware treachery. F & A not alone. One other: you his sole target. Now dead. Did not have a name to give, or a face.

  ‘F and A?’ I asked.

  His face was pinched. ‘Fundanius and Albinius. They were two centurions in Lucius’ pay who tried to assassinate Vespasian in Judaea. Fundanius said before he died that I had been his second target.’

  ‘And Mucianus has caught another who was sent to kill you alone.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘How do they know who you are?’

  ‘If I knew that, I would sleep better at night.’

  Pantera burned the two messages, dropping the last fragments into the ember-bowl where they charred and curled and became fine threads of sweet smoke.

  ‘I should go.’ Pantera stood. It didn’t seem likely to me that he had got all he came for, but he gave every sign of leaving. ‘If anything else comes in, the silver-boys will know how to find me.’

  ‘Are you back for good?’

  ‘I’m back for now.’ In two strides, he was at the door, and Cerberus had not moved to stop him.

  He paused in the process of leaving, as if struck by a thought. ‘Do you still have dealings with Tiberius Nisens at the palace?’

  This, then, was why he had really come.

  ‘The bath-master?’ I had to think about that. ‘What kind of dealings do you mean? He’s not a client of the House; he can’t afford it.’

  ‘But you see him still?’

  ‘Sometimes. He’s a friend.’ He was almost a brother, once, but that doesn’t always lead to trust.

  ‘Do you still have sufficient connection to him to suggest subtly that he take on a new masseur?’ Pantera asked.

  ‘Probably. He won’t take you, though. Vitellius is a big man; he needs big hands on his body.’

  ‘Are Drusus’ hands big enough?’

  ‘Hades!’ I haven’t laughed in years the way I laughed then. And then I stopped laughing, because he was serious.

  ‘You’d have to pay gold,’ I said. ‘Drusus is not cheap.’ He was not for sale for any money, actually, but I knew that he would do what Pantera asked; there was a love between them that I had never been part of.

  Pantera said, ‘I have Vespasian’s writ. I have all the gold we need. But I need a man inside the palace, who hears what Lucius says when his guard is down. Drusus is one of the bravest men I know.’

  ‘If I tell him that,’ I said, drily, ‘maybe you won’t need gold. He worships you. I can’t think why. ’

  It was Pantera’s turn to grin like a boy. In truth he loved this place, the memories of it, the lifestyle, my company. He didn’t have to say so, it showed in his eyes.

  He said, ‘I can’t think why, either. And I will pay gold in any case. See if you can get Drusus into the palace. Leave word for me with Cavernus at the White Hare on the Esquiline.’

  Cavernus. And me. And Drusus. All the relics of his far gone past. I said, ‘Is there nobody newer you can call on?’

  ‘When my life is worth seven hundred denarii and rising? Only the distant past is safe from that.’

  ‘Then you might want to know that Julius Claudianus leads one of the gladiator schools now. He trains on the Capitol side of the Circus Maximus. Vitellius likes him. He may have access to the things Drusus can’t hear. And there’s—’

  ‘Stop.’ Pantera put up his hand. ‘What you are doing is already enough. And what you don’t know can’t endanger you. Do you employ the silver-boys still? The Marcuses?’

  ‘When they ask me to.’ The fact that he knew them by name told me all I needed to know. ‘I’ll send them with word if anything comes in.’

  Pantera gave a small salute, a lift of the finger that the street boys use to say the road ahead is clear. ‘Keep safe. I’ll whistle for Cerberus when I’m back.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rome, 4 August AD 69

  Borros, freedman, formerly slave to Cavernus of the White Hare

  I WAS BORN in the White Hare tavern and, until Pantera came, had never slept a night away from it.

  It was a fair-sized place, stuck halfway up the Esquiline, spreading over the whole of the corner between the carters’ street and the main thoroughfare; a good, clean hostel with good wine at good prices and food to go with it and by noon on most days we had all of our regulars in place: men who preferred our benches to their own, our gossip to their memories.

  They weren’t soldiers, as such. If I’m honest, we were the kind of inn that attracted soldiers who had gone to seed, not so much a legionary tavern, but rather a former-legionaries’ tavern, where men came to share stories of the life that they had lost.

  Tiberius Cavernus was the owner and bar-tender, a tall, big-built Rhinelander who said he’d been a duplicarius in the legions in the days of Claudius and had saved his pension just for this.

  He had straw-bright hair cut level with the lobes of his ears and he trimmed his nails onc
e a week as he had done in the legions. His whores were clean and went about their work cheerfully and no thieves hung around the tables, not for long. I had always been surprised that he didn’t serve a better class of client: real military men instead of the bitter has-beens who drank to forget.

  That day, I discovered the reason.

  I was tending to the beer stock when this little Berber trudged in and dumped his sack of dates on to the low pine table that served as a bar at the back. Cavernus was swiftly at his side.

  ‘Leave, stranger. We have no need of—’

  Cavernus’ expression didn’t change; I was watching him and I saw nothing, except that he had stopped speaking.

  After a short, stunned pause, he jerked his head to the small door that led to the latrines, and beyond them to the kitchens. Only his voice was strained as he said, ‘Dates, are they? Out the back with you, then.’

  He ushered the little man through ahead of him. I was a slave, I had to go out anyway; they barely noticed me following them as they passed the latrine trenches and went through another door to a small room where the food is prepared.

  The women took one look at Cavernus’ face and backed out. I remained at the door, peering through the gap at the hinge. My mother always said I was overly curious, but when you’re a slave you either learn things or you learn nothing; there’s no in-between place.

  Cavernus was looking worried. His gaze roamed the small room with an air of regret. ‘That’s some disguise,’ he said. ‘I barely knew it was you. Have you come to claim what is yours?’

  The little Berber date-man shook his head. ‘This is your inn; it has never been mine. I gave it to you and I will never take back a gift freely given. But I have a favour to ask.’ He spoke like a Roman, not at all like a Berber.

  ‘Of course.’ Cavernus wasn’t as relieved or cheerful as I’d have thought. He still looked wary. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Tell me, has anyone been here asking for me by name?’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Cavernus laughed, shortly. ‘Before this morning, nobody spoke your name in my hearing in the past fifteen years. This morning, more men than I can count have asked for you and each with his blade sharp and ready.’ My master’s hands worked at the cloth at his belt. He looked ashamed. ‘I haven’t had time to send word to you.’

  ‘You couldn’t have done that; you didn’t know where I was. I’m not blaming you. I bring my misfortunes on my own head. I just needed to know if there was anyone asking here in particular. If they knew that I knew you. It seems not. In which case …’ Pantera opened his sack. ‘Since I’m here, you’d better look at these.’

  Cavernus chose one of the dates from the second layer, bit it, rolled it round his mouth before he swallowed.

  ‘Good enough for the White Hare.’ He sounded more like his usual self.

  Pantera said, ‘You can have half. The rest I need to take on.’

  Sticky-fingered, they began to scoop the fruit out into a wooden barrel at the side.

  ‘There must be something else,’ Cavernus said as they worked. ‘You didn’t come here in the day’s heat only to ask if anyone knows I am your man.’

  ‘Ever wise, Cavernus.’ Pantera flashed him a smile that was all yellowing teeth with gaps at the side. ‘I want you to listen. To find a man, or men, who were officers, but left the legions in poor regard. Someone bitter enough to take silver to betray the current emperor. They don’t have to be overly discreet; just willing.’

  I began to understand, then, that this was why Cavernus had chosen to ply his trade to the has-beens when he could have aimed so much higher: because once, a long time ago, this little Berber had thought it might one day be useful. And now it was.

  Cavernus said, ‘There are two or three who fit that bill; the trouble will be finding one who doesn’t drink from dawn to dusk. When I have the right man, do I use the old ways of sending a message?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m not sure they’re all safe. For now, send one of your men to the market to buy dates. He’s to ask for the big Syrian ones he got last week. Ask all the date-sellers. I’ll hear it.’

  Pantera picked up his sack. He paused at the doorway, half hunched, lame again.

  ‘Do you still own Borros?’ he asked. The hairs stood up on my neck then, I can tell you. I didn’t know whether to keep looking or to press my ear to the hinge to make sure I heard every word. In the event, I didn’t need to do that. I could hear it easily and still see.

  ‘That mad fuck of a Briton?’ Cavernus pulled a wry face. ‘He died in the fire, trying to save his wife and three of his children.’ A flash passed between them of shared sorrow and memories best forgotten. We are all like that, who knew the fire.

  Cavernus brightened. ‘Young Borros lived, though; the son. He’s grown well.’

  ‘Is he reliable?’

  ‘If you can call it that. He’s twice the size of his father, and twice as mad. He hasn’t actually killed any of us in our beds yet, but I wouldn’t put it past him, if he— You’re not serious?’

  Three gold coins had just materialized on Pantera’s palm. They jumped and spun and when they fell they were one atop the other.

  Cavernus’ laugh billowed out into the bar room. ‘You’re as mad as he is. I’d be lucky to get half a silver for him at auction, even if I spent a month polishing him up.’

  ‘Will you sell him to me?’

  Something passed between them, some remembering I couldn’t know, for nothing was said, but Cavernus rolled his eyes, wildly, the way men do to show madness. ‘You’re crazy. He’ll cut your throat and get on the next boat home.’

  But the gold was gone, the deal sealed. Cavernus shrugged, wiped his hands clean, slid the gold into the pouch he kept round his neck, sucked in a breath and bellowed out my name. ‘Borros!’

  I couldn’t believe it. In that moment, all I could think of was my mother, my father, the brother and sisters I’d lost in the fire – and that the White Hare was my home. I had been born there, on a bed Cavernus had provided. I’d eaten from his table, drunk his ale, been beaten by him and learned not to weep. I never thought he’d sell me. But what could I do? I waited long enough for it not to look as if I was standing just outside the door, then pulled it open and went in.

  I saw Pantera properly for the first time, then; he had set down the dates and wasn’t stooping any more and had run his hands through his hair so it looked less like a crow’s nest and he had that look in his eye …

  I don’t know how to describe it, but I felt safe in his company. You know when a pack of hounds meets a strange dog and he just walks in and eats their food and lies in their sleeping places and they let him, because they know he’ll find them food? Pantera was like that, so I didn’t feel quite so broken, and then he opened his mouth and said, ‘Warrior, from today you are a free man. But if you want to hunt with me, I pledge my life for yours and ask only the same oath in return.’

  Only he didn’t say it in Latin, or even in Greek, which was what we all spoke except on formal days, he said it in the tongue of western Britain, with the accent of the Ordovices, my mother’s tribe.

  A child could have pushed me over then, with one fat little hand. I gaped at Pantera like an idiot and couldn’t speak. Cavernus, trying not to smile, pushed a stool up behind me and I collapsed down to sit on it and only then, seated, did I find the words to answer in kind. ‘My life for yours, of course.’

  It’s the old oath that warriors give one to another, and while I might have been born into slavery my mother taught me the ways of our gods, the honouring of oak and stream and the north wind and the sun, and how warriors pledged to each other before battle.

  Pantera took my arm, hand to elbow, and I read an honesty in his eyes that I was not used to in men. ‘You are surprised now. I won’t hold you to it. But if you wish to come with me, perhaps I can make it sound more attractive. If not, you may leave, a free man. I will sign your manumission papers in any case.’

  It was too much, too soo
n. I have never been a fast thinker.

  I heard Cavernus walk out muttering something about a fucking waste of good gold and Pantera, serious-faced, said, ‘You can always stay here if you want. Cavernus will take you back in a flash.’

  ‘No!’ I was on my feet then, my head spinning. I saw the world open before me, in new colours, with a new feel. ‘Show me what you said, and then I’ll decide.’

  ‘Good.’ A small smile flickered across his face, as if I’d done well, and was being congratulated; as if I was a good man. You don’t know how rare that was. ‘Do you have anything to bring?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ I had small things, but I didn’t want them; I was going forward into a new life.

  ‘Let’s go, then. If you could walk apart from me, as if you don’t know me, but watch to see if anyone else is following me, that would be good.’

  I did my best. I saw one of the small boys on a rooftop when now I know there must have been at least a dozen, but I didn’t see anyone more important and I am sure that’s because they didn’t know yet what guise he had taken.

  We criss-crossed the city twice in the day’s heat. Twice we stopped and Pantera went in somewhere. Once was to a tanner’s in a foul-smelling yard, once was to a scriptorium in the back of a block of small shops, a place where scribes rented out their skills.

  Each time, he came out with another man behind him, and each looked as dazed as I felt, as if their world had turned over and been shown to be other than they had thought it.

  The first, from the tanner, was a youth of barely twenty years, with a squint and dirty blond hair that looked as if it would shine like spun gold if only he washed it.

  He was a killer, I will tell you that now. I might not have grown up a warrior, but I have had my share of street fights and bar-room brawls and I know the type: they’re lean and lanky and slightly awkward and they look as if they couldn’t land a clean blow on a man if he was held still by six others and then you blink and look again and you find he’s got a knife in his hand and he’s cut the throat of a man you’d think he could barely reach and is heading for the next one. That was Felix. He was left-handed and quiet and deadly and he tagged along behind Pantera on the far side of the street and I barely saw him again until we stopped.