Rome's Executioner (11 page)

M
OESIA
, A
PRIL
AD 30

‘T
HANK YOU FOR
your reports, gentlemen,’ Pomponius Labeo said, eyeing Vespasian and Caelus with a look of mild amusement on his jowly face. ‘I’ve given some thought to your request and I will grant it. As soon as the siege of the castle at Sagadava has been brought to a successful conclusion I will send the third and eighth cohorts to relieve the Thracian garrison.’

Vespasian and Caelus snapped a salute in grateful acknowledgement of their commanding officer’s decision. They were closeted in Pomponius’ study in the newly constructed fortress of Durostorum on the banks of the Danuvius, which had only recently been occupied by a small detachment of the IIII Scythia. The main building work having been finished towards the end of the previous year, the room still smelt of newly waxed wooden floorboards and freshly whitewashed walls. The sounds of hundreds of slaves working on the final stages of the construction and the shouts of their overseers floated through the unshuttered window.

‘I can only assume,’ Pomponius went on, resting his pudgy arms on the desk and leaning towards them, ‘that the marked difference in your accounts of your journey here is down to a personal animosity that in my opinion did not unnecessarily put the men’s lives in danger and therefore, in view of Tribune Vespasian’s imminent recall to Rome, I am willing to overlook it.’

Vespasian breathed a sigh of relief; during the twenty days that it had taken them to find Pomponius, having been told by the garrison commander at Oescus that the IIII Scythia was campaigning against a Getic raiding party of at least three thousand men that had been ravaging the east of Moesia, he had fully expected to be seriously reprimanded for his impetuousness in taking the column through the Succi Pass in a blizzard. In an effort to protect himself, when he made his verbal report to Pomponius, which, owing to his rank, he had been able to do before Caelus, he had taken care not to mention Caelus’ insistence that they should turn back, stressing instead the supposed urgency of placing the garrison’s request before Pomponius. He had also augmented that urgency with an exaggerated assessment of the men’s dissatisfaction, which he knew would reflect badly on Caelus, as their senior centurion and therefore responsible for their discipline, for allowing things to get that far, and well on Paetus and himself for quelling a potential mutiny.

‘Permission to speak, legate,’ Caelus barked.

‘You will remain silent, centurion,’ Pomponius snapped, causing his jowls to quiver. ‘You had your say when you made your report to me upon your arrival this morning. The matter is closed. On your way back to Thracia you will take the three legionaries that Paetus has sent for transfer to the siege lines at Sagadava where you will hand them over to Primus Pilus Faustus; they wanted to avenge their comrades, well, they’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so in the first century of the first cohort when they storm the castle. My secretary has their transfer orders as well as some despatches for Paetus; pick them up on your way out. You’re to leave immediately; understood, centurion?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. Take the Illyrian auxiliaries with you and get them back to Thracia as soon as possible. Dismissed.’

Caelus saluted, turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the room, burning with ill-concealed rage.

As the door closed behind him Pomponius smiled grimly. ‘He was always Poppaeus’ sneak and he’ll have a lot to say to him when he gets to Sagadava.’

‘Poppaeus is at Sagadava?’ Vespasian blurted out, forgetting that he was still at attention and therefore should not speak unless he was addressed directly.

Pomponius overlooked the offence. ‘At ease, tribune, sit down. Yes, he arrived four days ago, the slippery little bastard. I spent the last two months chasing the Getae around eastern Moesia and I finally managed to corner them at Sagadava, whilst they were waiting for their transports to ship them back across the river. Then, three days ago, as soon as the siege lines were completed and it was obvious the horse-fuckers were going nowhere without a fight, he turns up with four cohorts of the Fifth Macedonica aboard two squadrons of the Danuvius fleet, takes overall command and orders me straight back here to sit and wait whilst, again, he grabs all the glory. He even had the temerity to accuse me of failing in my duty to Rome for not stopping the Getae’s raids, as if it were that easy against an enemy that can move thirty or forty miles a day as opposed to our fifteen, if we’re lucky. Pluto’s balls, we need more cavalry in this province.’ Pomponius slumped back in his chair and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow that, despite the cool temperature in the room, had accumulated there.

Vespasian shifted uneasily in his seat, wondering how he was going to find out whether Rhoteces was with the besieged raiding party and, if he was, how they were going to get through the Roman lines, into the castle, apprehend him and then get him back out without it coming to the attention of Poppaeus.‘Why have the Getae started raiding the province so often?’ he asked. ‘It’s not as if there’s a lot to plunder here and if they carry on it will surely just provoke the Emperor into extending the Empire over the river.’

Pomponius looked up from the self-pitying reverie into which he had sunk. ‘What? Oh, I know; strategically it’s pure madness on their part. But it seems that their king, Cotiso, who’s the grandson of the king of the same name that we defeated over fifty years ago, has been encouraged to exact revenge for that humiliation to his people.’

‘By whom?’

‘That disgusting priest that had the ear of Poppaeus; you might have seen him when he led Dinas’ people down to surrender – you were there, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, I was,’ Vespasian replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘So he’s been with the Getae ever since the revolt was put down?’

‘I don’t know if he went to them immediately but he’s certainly been with them for the last year or so; he’s been seen with them during some of their raids.’

‘Was he spotted on this one?’ Vespasian asked innocently.

Pomponius was about to answer, but then stopped himself and peered at his young tribune with his piggy eyes. ‘Ah, I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Your brother’s with you, isn’t he?’

Vespasian’s pulse quickened. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yet he doesn’t hold a military commission at the moment, does he?’

‘No, he’s a civilian.’

‘Has he recently arrived from Rome?’

Vespasian knew that it was pointless denying it. ‘Yes, sir, at the end of March.’

Pomponius nodded thoughtfully and raised himself to his feet. Vespasian stood immediately.

‘I have other business to attend to now, tribune,’ Pomponius said, indicating that the interview was over, ‘but I would be pleased if you and your brother would dine with me this evening.’

‘I think you’ll find this dish to be particularly fine,’ Pomponius enthused as a huge platter of river perch, topped with a thick brown sauce, was placed upon the table. ‘This is my cook’s speciality, his honeyed-wine and plum sauce is second to none and he understands exactly how to poach a fish so that the flesh peels perfectly off the bones. He’s a marvel; I bought him twelve years ago and, like a good wine, he gets even better as the years pass.’ To emphasise the point he took long draught of the excellent wine, belched, and then set his cup down whilst greedily eyeing the beautifully presented dish.

Vespasian glanced across the table to Sabinus, who was showing no sign of fatigue, and then smiled politely at his host. ‘It does look most appetising, Pomponius,’ he managed to say, half-truthfully.

It would indeed have looked most appetising if it had been the second or third course; however, it was the eighth. Vespasian had assumed, judging by the girth of his host, that the dinner would be an arduous affair, and not for the faint-hearted, so he had paced himself over the first four courses, thinking that the pastries and fruit would surely come soon after; but he had been sadly mistaken. He had since been obliged to contend with a roast suckling goat, a plate of various game birds and a haunch of venison, all swathed in sundry rich sauces. It would be the height of impoliteness to refuse a portion of any of the courses set before him even though the words full, replete, stuffed and bloated were echoing around his head. His only respite had come from emulating Pomponius’ habit of breaking wind freely from both ends – a practice that he did not normally approve of at the dinner table. However, by the sixth course he had put his scruples to one side and had since, on numerous occasions, followed his host’s lead and eased his straining innards. Feeling very envious of Magnus, whom they had left carousing with Artebudz and the Thracians and an inordinate amount of wine, he uncomfortably adjusted his position on the couch as Sabinus helped himself to an unnecessarily large portion of perch and spooned a copious amount of sauce over it.

‘Tuck in, little brother,’ he said with a malicious glint in his eye. ‘Our host has saved his best dish for last. We should do it justice.’ He popped a large, dripping hunk of fish into his mouth and started to chew whilst making appreciative sounds.

‘You are mistaken, Sabinus,’ Pomponius corrected him as he enthusiastically pulled the dish towards him and took an even larger portion. ‘It would surely be a mistake to save the best for last, we would be too full to enjoy it properly; I believe we’ve still got a couple more courses to come, and then of course the honeyed dormice just to fill in the corners before the sweet pastries.’

Sabinus blanched at the news; Vespasian felt sick. He braced himself and then manfully spooned the smallest piece of perch that good manners dictated on to his plate and then made a show of eating with gusto whilst discreetly dropping as much as he could on the napkin spread before him on the couch.

‘Poppaeus may travel with all the trappings that his new money can buy,’ Pomponius said, returning to his favourite subject of the evening, ‘a marble-floored tent, mobile frescoes, gaudy pieces of furniture and too many horses, but his lack of breeding prevents him from understanding the finer points of life.’ He began to mop up the excess sauce on his plate with a large hunk of bread. ‘Believe me, gentlemen, I know, I’ve had the misfortune to dine with him many times and, if it’d been down to me, I would’ve had his cook whipped for the paltry fare that he served up. Almost as bad as common legionary rations – it’s no wonder the general’s so small.’ He enjoyed his own witticism so much that he almost choked as he drained his wine cup. ‘On those pitiful occasions I always make sure that my cook has a proper meal waiting for me upon my return,’ he carried on, wiping away the wine that had come up through his nose. ‘It’s only the thought of that that gets me through his frugal little dinner parties.’ He held his cup out to be refilled by a waiting slave, adding, ‘And his wine, of course. I’ll give the man his due: he does serve a decent wine.’

‘As do you, Pomponius,’ Sabinus said, raising his cup, pleased that he had managed to get a word in. ‘Where does it come from?’

‘From my estates in Aventicum in the south of Germania Superior,’ Pomponius replied, taking another mighty slug. He looked wistfully at the brothers. ‘It’s a beautiful place, on the shore of Lake Murten in the tribal lands of the Helvetii. My grandfather, Titus Pomponius Atticus, bought a lot of land around there whilst he was extending our banking business into the province.’

Vespasian tried to look interested as Pomponius went on about his family’s business venture, bemoaning the fact that his lack of financial acumen meant that under his tenure it was beginning to fail and he was thinking of selling it. Another course came and went, followed by yet another, and he began to wish that he could call for the vomit bowl, another practice that he disapproved of but of which he would have happily taken advantage had Pomponius had not already made his views clear on the subject: a waste of good food.

At last his plate, with a half-eaten dormouse on it, was taken away, the pastries and fruit were laid out, two full jugs of barely watered wine were placed on the table and Pomponius dismissed the slaves.

‘So, gentlemen, to the matter in hand,’ Pomponius said as the last slave closed the door and they were left alone in the large, unadorned room, which had only just begun to take on an intimate air with the setting of the sun and the lighting of oil lamps and braziers. ‘I’d be very interested to know, Vespasian, why you led our conversation this afternoon so quickly, and with some degree of skill, to the subject of Rhoteces? I may be a plain soldier and administrator with no political aptitude and pickled in my own wine but I can tell when a man asks me three questions in quick succession to which he knows the answers and then asks a fourth to which he doesn’t, but desperately wants to.’

Vespasian found himself cornered. To deny that he had been trying to wheedle out information from Pomponius concerning the whereabouts of Rhoteces would be to insult his host’s intelligence; to confirm it would only leave him open to a series of questions as to why he, as a mere military tribune, wished to know whether the priest was with the Getic raiding party. Making a mental note to be more subtle in his questioning in future, he glanced over to Sabinus, who shrugged unhelpfully.