by Jack Whyte
“You’re not being dense, Thaddeus,” Strabo said straightforwardly. “You’re being young. And you are thirsty. I think we’re far enough along now to be able to have some more wine.” He looked at Valerius. “Gaius, would you?”
Valerius rose immediately and crossed to the table that held the chilled wine.
“Regulus,” Strabo said, “can you help Thaddeus?”
“Aye,” the primus pilus growled, almost to himself. “Mayhap I can…Human nature at work, you said. Seems to me, after spending all my life in this empire’s army, that every time I dream up a system to ensure that everything runs smoothly for a time, in whatever billet I’m posted to, there’s always some know-it-all who’ll spend whatever time is needed to figure out a way to outwit me and my system and to profit from it. And every other officer I know, in every other unit, says the same thing. There’s always a rodent in there who’d rather steal than work. It seems to be a part of human nature, if you can call Rome’s legionary grunts human. Am I right?”
Strabo smiled. “Go on,” he said.
Culver turned his head slightly to watch as Gaius Valerius filled his cup with more of the rich, amber wine. “But that was only in the confines of my own camp,” he continued. “You were talking about a system that was empire-wide. A system that delivered empire-wide. And so I’d guess that somebody had devised a way to get around the system and get rich by infiltrating it and robbing it without being caught.”
Strabo clapped his hands together. “Bravo, Brother Culver. I couldn’t have described it better myself. Diocletian’s new system of logistics was being pillaged by a highly organized group of criminals who had at their disposal what seemed like limitless funds for criminal activities throughout the empire. They were operating far and wide, intercepting shipments and stealing entire trains of wagons filled with military supplies, which they then sold in nearby markets. It was outrageous. It was successful. It was highly secretive. And it soon gave birth to the ‘us’ you were curious about earlier, Thaddeus. The ‘us’ that started all this.”
Thaddeus Galban picked up his cup and held it out straight-armed to Regulus Culver, who touched it with the rim of his own, and then he said to Strabo, “Fine. Now tell us who we are and what you’ll be expecting of us.”
Alexander Strabo laughed, a brief burst of sound that reflected the amusement and pleasure in his eyes. “We’ll expect everything from both of you as new recruits, and then we’ll demand more. That should be no surprise to either one of you. You’ve both been in the legions long enough to know how all the scut jobs go to the newest recruits. It’s an article of legionary faith.”
Galban twisted his mouth wryly in agreement, but as the others laughed at his discomfiture, the humour leached from Strabo’s face, replaced by a blank, solemn mask. The others fell silent and turned as one man to face their commander.
“As for who we are,” Strabo resumed, “that’s another matter entirely. We are the syndexioi, brethren of the fourth level of the sacred mysteries of Mithras. And in the eyes of the world, we do not exist.”
“But we do exist,” Galban said. “That’s why we are here.”
“Correct, Brother. We do exist, and we are here.”
Galban’s brows wrinkled. “Correct,” he repeated. “We do exist, even though the rest of the world doesn’t know it…I know that, for I had never heard of the syndexioi until tonight. So how does this connect to the breakdown of Diocletian’s system?”
“I was beginning to think you might never ask me that. If you really think about what we have been discussing here tonight, the connection might come to you.”
He waited, watching the younger man’s face, then prompted him. “Corruption,” he said. “Corruption and secrecy. Each one makes the other necessary.” His eyes flicked sideways. “Can you see that, Regulus?”
The primus nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s understandable. Corruption can’t survive after being exposed, and that means it needs secrecy.”
“Exactly.” Strabo looked again at Thaddeus Galban. “Listen closely, both of you,” he said. “Diocletian was a fine emperor. But he was an emperor, and for that very reason he had many enemies. But one thing no one could say about him, whether friend or enemy, was that he was stupid. Nor was he indecisive. This was the man who rejuvenated the legions with nothing more than his own integrity and his own will.
“As soon as they brought him proof that his system had been penetrated and that thieves were undermining his work, he arrived at two conclusions. First, the rot was thriving. He had to find it and destroy it. Second, in order to succeed, he would need help—help from large numbers of loyal, experienced, dedicated, dependable, and trustworthy people.
“And at that point, Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus, emperor of Rome, reached what any sane man would have considered a dead end. The empire was filled with men who would rush to do his bidding, but finding men who could meet all his criteria—loyalty, experience, dedication, dependability, and trustworthiness—well, that was another matter entirely.”
“Aye.” The assent emerged as a bass rumble from the primus pilus, who was unaware that he had even uttered it.
Strabo continued. “He had a solid corps of veterans with whom he could start—those very officers who had designed his system in the first place. But right at the outset, he couldn’t use them, because he was faced with the simplest problem facing anyone who ever attempts to stamp out corruption. Can either of you tell me what that is?”
Galban nodded. “He didn’t know who to trust.”
“Precisely. How could he even begin to guess who was trustworthy? Where was he to start, knowing that a single word in the wrong ear could result in the enemy finding out that he was now aware of them and preparing to move against them? Bear in mind that the problem was deeply rooted by that time, and he had to assume that those wrong ears could be anywhere, and listening.”
“That must have cut the heart from him,” the primus pilus said, “if he was as proud as you say he was of what those men had achieved. But he must have found someone to trust, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about this. Where did he start looking?”
“He started,” Strabo said, “the same place you did.”
The primus blinked slowly. “I don’t follow,” he said.
“You do. We all follow. Think, Regulus!”
Culver’s frown slowly gave way to amazement and he said, in awe, “The brotherhood! Diocletian was one of us? One of the syndexioi?”
“He was. And why should that surprise you? He started out as a common grunt like every other conscript. He fought his way up through the ranks the same way all of us did. He became a member of the brotherhood as soon as he was fit to qualify, and went through the three levels of the Mithraic mysteries when all his friends did. But Diocles had always been exceptional in everything he did, and because of that he was soon invited to join the fourth level, the brethren of the handshake. He had been a brother for years, but he had never made much use of his entitlement. At that critical time, though, he recognized that all the virtues that he needed most—all the attributes he required in those who would undertake this task with him—were already there, in place among his own brotherhood.
“At a plenary session of the syndexioi, he laid out to his brothers the difficulties facing the empire and its armies. He pointed out how immensely well organized the thieves were, and made it clear that they could not operate without help from people within the armies, people who knew the details of the shipments being raided and were no doubt profiting enormously from feeding off their own.”
“I’d crucify all of them,” Culver muttered, but Strabo ignored him.
“He then requested permission to proceed against this criminal organization under the auspices of the Mithraic brotherhood, and with the full benediction of the syndexioi, stressing the need for absolute secrecy and trust.”
“And?” Galban jumped in. “What happened?”
“The brotherhood gav
e him its blessing. How could it not? It is the brotherhood of the mysteries of Mithras the Unconquered Sun, and Mithras is the god of soldiers. Diocletian was calling for Mithras’s divine aid directly, asking for his assistance to defend Rome’s soldiers against iniquity. And so we were born when Diocletian created a new entity, the like of which has never existed in Rome’s history—a specialized secret force within the military, dedicated to eradicating corruption within the legions. And to ensure its absolute security, its membership would be drawn solely from the ranks of the syndexioi, bound by the sacred oaths they have sworn to Mithras Himself.”
Culver shook his head in ungrudging admiration. “Forming a new group like that would have posed no difficulty for the emperor. He already knew how to do it.”
“Did he?” Culver’s comment was clearly unexpected, and Strabo frowned. “How?”
“From his early days.” The primus pilus appeared surprised that Strabo would have to ask him that. “He was in the prefecture of Illyricum—in Lesser Moesia, in fact—when he was young. Didn’t you know that? That’s where he first made his name, fighting under Probus when he was emperor. It’s where he was invited to join the Invincibles.”
“The Invincibles.” Strabo sounded nonplussed. “Who are they?”
Culver frowned. “You don’t know? Hmm…I think that’s their name. In fact I’m sure it is. They’re some kind of elite group within the old Illyrican army—which is now, be it said, a very large part of the Roman army. They’ve been around for something like eight hundred years, and they’re very jealous of their history and traditions. They run their own operations and in military matters they’re apparently a law unto themselves in Moesia. They’re something like us, now that I come to think of it—very private, highly self-sufficient, and they take themselves very seriously. The story I heard is that Diocles was invited to join them while he was in Moesia with Probus—one of the few Romans ever to be invited directly.”
“I see,” Strabo said. “And did you wish to make a point from that?”
“No,” Culver said. “I simply thought that if all I’ve heard about Diocles is true, he would have studied what set these Invincibles apart, the things they had and did that marked them as elite. He would have taken it all in and stored it away in his head for some future time of need.”
“I see what you mean,” Strabo said. “And you might very well be right, but the emperor’s been dead for nearly a year, so we’ll never know, will we? All we can be sure of is that he established our force.”
“So did he preside over this new force in person?” This was Galban again, and Strabo grimaced ruefully.
“No, how could he? He had an empire to govern and protect. He set the force up strongly, though. Arranged its funding so that it would operate as an autonomous entity funded by the imperial treasury—an obscure and appropriately opaque entity, mind you. He also ensured that its commander would be equally autonomous, free of restrictions and answerable only to the emperor himself. He then placed complete authority for the whole thing in the hands of one of his oldest and most trusted associates, Titanius Varrus, who had been born in the same town, perhaps in the same villa, as the emperor himself.”
“Titanius Varrus,” Galban said. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“I have, but I never met him, though he’s far from dead, apparently. He’s quite the ancient Roman, I’ve been told. Noble, upright, virtuous, the very embodiment of dignitas. Among his own circle, he’s generally known as Tertius, and he was Diocletian’s closest friend, perhaps his only one. The two grew up as close as brothers—closer, in fact, since they chose each other as friends—and they joined the legions together in Italy when they came of age. I’ve heard that Varrus had the higher rank at first—Diocles’s father was apparently Varrus’s father’s chief clerk—but he chose to follow Diocles once they joined the legions and his friend’s inborn abilities began to show themselves, and he served him faithfully thereafter, throughout his life. A fine, upstanding man who proved worthy of the trust placed in him.”
“I’m sure he was,” Galban said. “I merely wondered that I have never heard of him.”
Strabo turned his head slightly to address his young subaltern more directly. “He rose through the ranks, serving with distinction alongside Diocletian,” he said mildly. “But then he moved deliberately into obscurity, and from there, for three decades starting before you were born, he ran an organization that is not supposed to exist, Thaddeus. Where would you have heard of him?” Galban looked suitably chagrined, and Strabo continued. “No matter. So Varrus, once given control, organized the new force as he would have organized a newly commissioned legion, save that it had no name and no official existence in the eyes of anyone outside the fraternity, and fro—”
“Wait, how could that—?” Galban subsided immediately, grinning sheepishly. “Of course,” he said. “Pardon me. The paymasters would all be brethren, too.”
“They are now,” Strabo said gently. “It took a few months, but it was achieved. Now, after decades in place, the officials necessary to the procurement of funding and facilities are all brethren. My own father ranks among the most senior of them.”
Regulus Culver flicked a hand and asked, “Who took over when this Varrus fellow died?”
“No one,” Cato answered. “Didn’t you hear what I said? He is still alive and well and as efficient as he ever was. He runs the organization from his home base in Dalmatia. He’s probably close to seventy by now, but he hasn’t lost one whit of his ability to do his job. My father is over there with him now, on our official behalf, accompanied by my wife and my mother.”
“Another question, if I may,” Culver said. “What are we called? We must have a name.”
“Why?” Strabo was smiling. “We don’t need a name, Regulus. We all know who we are and what we do. Having a name creates a danger that someone might drop it carelessly somewhere, creating difficulties for everyone. So we decided long ago not to have a name. We never talk about ourselves with anyone but our brothers anyway. And now that you have joined us, you’ll find out that while we communicate nothing of ourselves or our activities to the outside world, our internal communications are excellent—thorough and very precise.” He turned his head and spoke to Galban. “You’ve been handling them ever since you started working for me, Thaddeus. Do you think there’s anything obscure or inadequate about them?”
“No, sir,” Galban answered, looking slightly bewildered. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Precisely. So bear that in mind and don’t fret. It all seems overwhelming now, I imagine, but once you’ve had a few days to absorb what we’ve told you here, and you settle into the newness of it all, you’ll feel much better, I promise you.”
He sat back, bracing his shoulders against his chair, then stood up, clapping his hands together. “In the meantime, though—and I’m speaking to you two newcomers—we have arrived at the reason for your sudden advancement to the syndexioi, and it fits neatly into Cato’s unexpected delivery tonight of paymaster’s supplies to pay our troops. These people—thieves, brigands, pirates, call them what you will—are stealing more and more audaciously all the time, and they’re making us look foolish. They have to be stopped, and we are the ones who have to stop them.”
He glanced at each of the new initiates in turn. “So we are putting two new investigative procedures into place here in Britain immediately, and each of you will be responsible for one of them. Those of us assigned to watch you more than two years ago are convinced that you are both capable of doing what is required. We’ve been doing advance planning on your behalf ever since”—he smiled broadly—“and holding our collective breath fearfully in case you failed to qualify for raising.”
Strabo held aloft a long, narrow piece of scrolled parchment. “Regulus,” he said, reading from what he had written earlier, “as primus pilus of the Second Legion, you are required, on my authority as imperial legate, to launch a thorough investi
gation into logistical irregularities, including thefts and disappearances, that have been brought to your attention by sources inside your legionary quartermaster’s division. You will announce that investigation formally within the next few days, and issue written orders demanding the surrender and delivery to you of all records pertaining to the ordering, delivery, and distribution of all supplies assigned to, and shipped from, legionary premises and installations in the past five years—” He broke off and looked at the adjutant, wrinkling his nose. “Should that be three years, Gaius, or would that be too short a span?” He blinked, and answered his own question. “No, let’s make it the last four years. That should go far enough back to ensure that people see the seriousness of this, and it should be far enough back, too, to uncover any patterns that might emerge. We can dig back further after that, if necessary.”
Regulus Culver was about to speak, but Strabo cut him off with a raised hand. “Wait, if you will. Let me finish. Clearly you’re going to need an army of clerics, to examine everything that comes back to you.” He began to pace the floor, his hands clasped at his back, one of them still holding his notes. “They’re going to have to examine all of it meticulously, too. Meticulously…No stone left unturned.” He reached the end of the line he was pacing and turned back. “That means they’re going to have to know what to look for, where to begin—and that means, in turn, that you’re going to need some highly specialized help to put all that together, organize a training schedule, and then instruct your people on how to go about what we require of them.”
He reached the table again and stopped, unclasping his hands and reaching down to run his thumb over the flawless surface of the polished citrus wood. “Even were we to start tonight,” he said, looking at none of them, “that would still take at least a month, and probably closer to two, to put into place. Add another month to that, to train your new auditors, and we’ll be looking at starting the investigation three months from now.”