Robert Fabbri - Tribune of Rome

They neared the centre of the camp and the tents became larger as they entered the realm of the staff officers and tribunes. At the junction of the Via Praetoria and the Via Principalis in the centre of the camp stood the praetorium, a fifteen-foot-high, fifty-foot-square red-leather tent, decorated with black and gold trimmings, where Poppaeus had his headquarters.

Paetus dismissed his turma, then he dismounted and walked up to the two legionaries guarding the entrance. Vespasian and his comrades followed. The guards saluted.

‘Cavalry Prefect Paetus, Tribunes Corbulo and Vespasian and Centurion Faustus request an interview with the general,’ Paetus reported.

One of the guards went inside to announce them.

‘I think that means that you’re not invited,’ Vespasian whispered to Magnus.

‘Suits me, sir, I was never too fond of generals. I’ll get the horses stabled.’

Shortly, the guard came back out with a well-dressed slave.

‘Good evening, sirs, I am Kratos, the general’s secretary. The general will see you presently. Please follow me.’

He ushered them into a short leather-walled corridor, and then turned left through a door into a small, marble-floored antechamber illuminated by a dozen oil lamps. A number of chairs were laid out around the walls.

‘Please take a seat, sirs.’

Kratos clapped his hands twice, sharply, and from another entrance four more slaves, of a much lowlier rank, appeared, each bearing a bowl of warm water and a towel for the visitors to wash their hands and faces. That done, two more slaves appeared with cups, wine and water. Once they had been served Kratos bowed.

‘My master will not keep you waiting long,’ he said, and left the room.

Vespasian sipped his wine and stared at the marble floor, resisting the urge to touch it to check its authenticity.

‘The whole praetorium is floored with marble,’ Corbulo said. ‘Poppaeus likes his creature comforts. It breaks down into five-foot squares that are laid on a wooden frame. It takes five ox-carts to move it around, but he won’t do without it. It would be beneath his dignitas to conduct business on skins or rugs.’

‘It must cost a fortune,’ Vespasian replied.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, the general’s filthy rich. New money, though,’ Paetus said cheerily. ‘Silver mines in Hispania. He’s got nothing to worry about.’

Kratos reappeared when they were halfway through their wine. ‘Follow me, sirs.’

He led them back out into the corridor, which they followed to its end, then they went through another door. They stepped into the main room of the tent, but it was as if they had stepped into a palace lit by a plethora of oil lamps. The poles that supported the roof were marble columns with beautifully finished bases. The walls were adorned with finely woven tapestries and frescoes mounted on boards. Luxurious furniture, from all over the Empire and beyond, was scattered around, forming various different-sized seating areas, but leaving the centre of the room clear. In the far left-hand corner was a low dining table surrounded by three large, plush couches and, in the right-hand corner a solid, dark wooden desk stood at an angle, covered with scrolls.

Kratos left them standing in the middle of the room as he went and sat discreetly behind a small desk, just to the left of his master’s, and began sharpening a stylus.

A door at the far end of the room opened and in walked Gaius Poppaeus Sabinus. Vespasian managed to suppress a gasp as he snapped to attention, helmet cradled under his left arm. Poppaeus was barely five feet tall. Although greying and in his mid-fifties, he looked a child in a general’s uniform. It was no wonder that that he worked so hard on the external appearance of his dignitas.

‘Good evening, gentlemen, this is a surprise – not you obviously, Paetus, you’ll only surprise me when you stop being such verbose clot.’

‘Indeed, general.’ Paetus showed no sign of rising to the insult. Vespasian wondered if Kratos had noted down that remark.

‘Come forward, please,’ Poppaeus said, seating himself behind the desk.

They stepped forward and stood in a row in front of the diminutive general. He didn’t ask them to sit down; if he always had to look up at people he obviously preferred to do it from a position of power, seated behind a big desk.

‘Make your report, prefect, and make it brief.’

‘We patrolled between here and Philippopolis yesterday, saw nothing unusual, came back today, saw nothing unusual, apart from four men who were supposed to be dead, sir!’ Paetus managed to walk the fine line between mocking insolence and military brevity.

Poppaeus scowled. That he hated this affable young patrician was obvious; that Paetus didn’t care was equally obvious. He knew that since he came from an ancient family like the Junii a New Man like Poppaeus would find it hard to touch him.

‘Very good, prefect,’ Poppaeus said with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Dismissed.’

‘Sir! Thank you, sir!’ Paetus bawled in his best centurion voice, turned on his heel and marched smartly out.

Poppaeus winced, then he gathered himself and looked slowly from Corbulo to Faustus and finally let his sharp, black eyes rest on Vespasian.

‘Well, tribune? Report.’

‘Tribunus Angusticlavius Titus Flavius Vespasianus, reporting for duty with the Legio Quarta Scythica, sir.’

‘Ah, Marcus Asinius Agrippa’s young protege. He wrote Legate Pomponius Labeo a very insistent letter recommending you. Why do you suppose he was so keen for him to take you on to his staff?’

‘I wanted a posting where there would be some fighting, sir, not just frontier duty.’

‘A young fire-breather, are you? From the country, judging by your accent. Well, you’ll see some action here, but you haven’t answered my question. Why did Asinius help you? What are you to him?’

‘My uncle Gaius Vespasius Pollo is his client,’ Vespasian lied; it would be a convincing enough reason for Asinius to promote his career.

Poppaeus stared hard at him for a moment and then, apparently satisfied with this explanation, nodded. ‘Very well, I am pleased to have you here, tribune. After you have been dismissed report to Pomponius Labeo, at the Fourth Scythica principia. He will assign you your duties, which will be minimal; you are here to learn, don’t you forget that.’

‘No, sir.’ Vespasian saluted.

Poppaeus then turned his attention to Faustus. ‘Well, centurion, I’m happy to see you, and I’m sure that Pomponius and the men and officers of the Fourth Scythica will be pleased to have their primus pilus back, apart from the acting primus pilus, of course.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Faustus snapped a salute.

Poppaeus turned to Corbulo. ‘Tribune, I’m intrigued to know how you all come to be still alive. Tribune Gallus was convinced that you had been taken prisoner. Begin your report, please.’

Corbulo started the story from the moment he’d left Poppaeus’ headquarters in Moesia to travel to Genua, six months previously. He made it as brief as possible, including only the important details. He did however mention Vespasian’s late arrival, which caused Poppaeus to raise an eyebrow and look shrewdly at Vespasian. He also commended Vespasian for his actions at the river, and detailed how Caenis’ amulet had saved them, although he did not mention that Caenis was Antonia’s slave. Neither did he mention the chest of denarii.

After almost half an hour he finished.

Poppaeus sat in silence for a few moments digesting the report, and then, to Vespasian’s surprise, dismissed them without asking any questions about the state of the Caenii’s revolt. As they turned to go Corbulo spoke.