Robert Fabbri - Tribune of Rome

‘General, I request a private interview. Completely private.’ He looked towards Kratos.

‘I see,’ Poppaeus said slowly. ‘This is most irregular, tribune.’

‘What I have to say is for your ears only.’

‘Very well. Thank you, Kratos.’

Kratos put down his stylus and showed Vespasian and Faustus out.

It was dark when they emerged from the tent. Magnus was nowhere to be seen.

‘We’d better report to Pomponius now, sir,’ Faustus reminded him. ‘The Fourth Scythica’s headquarters will be this way.’

An hour later, after a long wait and a brief interview with a half-drunk and extremely disinterested Pomponius, Faustus dropped Vespasian off at the IIII Scythica’s tribunes’ lines. Magnus was already there, having requisitioned him a tent, busying himself cooking the evening meal.

‘I managed to get hold of some fresh pork and some lentils and onions and this.’

He threw him a skin of wine. Vespasian sat by the fire and gratefully poured himself a cup.

‘How was the general?’ Magnus asked, dropping cubed pork into the hot olive oil in the pot, and stirring it as it sizzled.

‘He listened to Corbulo’s report and then dismissed us. He wasn’t interested in the Caenii’s revolt at all.’

‘Perhaps he got all he needed to know from Gallus.’

‘Yes, perhaps, but if it had been me I would have wanted to know as many details as possible.’

‘But it wasn’t you, and the general’s problem is here, not with the Caenii – they’re miles away.’

Before he could argue Corbulo joined them. ‘I need to talk to you, Vespasian.’

‘Sit down, then, and have a cup of wine.’

‘I mean alone.’

‘Magnus is fine, he knows all our business.’

Corbulo looked at the ex-boxer and, remembering how Magnus had dealt with the Thracian guards, managed to overcome his aristocratic prejudices. He sat down on a stool and took the cup of wine that Vespasian proffered.

‘I told Poppaeus about the Thracian denarii and how they got it,’ he said quietly, as if anyone would overhear them in the dull roar of twenty thousand men eating their evening meals. ‘I said that it was only me that saw it, the rest of you were all outside the tent, and I said nothing to you about it after.’

‘That was probably a good move, sir,’ Magnus said, adding the onions to the pot.

Corbulo scowled at him, unused to someone so lowly being a part of his conversations. ‘Yes, well, I thought it best. Poppaeus pushed me on this point but I think that he believed me because I had insisted on telling him about it privately, and after all why should I lie?’

‘So why did you?’ Vespasian asked.

‘I had just started to tell Poppaeus about the chest when a slave walked into the room from the sleeping quarters at the back. Poppaeus shouted at him to get out, and he ran out through the main door. As he left the room I glimpsed Kratos and another man through the door. They were eavesdropping. I recognised the other man from Rome. And then I remembered Coronus’ description of the fourth Roman who came with the chest: powerfully built, dark-skinned, with long black hair and a small beard. It had to be the same man – he’s Sejanus’ freedman, Hasdro.’

Vespasian shot Magnus a warning look; he nodded and began to add water to his pot. ‘Go on,’ he said to Corbulo.

‘Well, if Sejanus’ freedman did deliver the money to the Caenii, to pay them to kill Poppaeus’ reinforcements, why is he now here? And why did Kratos let him listen to my private conversation?’

‘So you think that Kratos is in league with Hasdro?’ Vespasian was intrigued.

‘It’s a possibility; Hasdro certainly seems to have access to enough money to buy the loyalty of a slave. If it’s true, then Poppaeus and I are in danger of being murdered for what we know. So I decided that the best thing to do to protect myself and you, knowing that Kratos and Hasdro were listening, was to say nothing about its link to Sejanus, and that I didn’t know who had delivered it to the Caenii, and that no one else saw it.’ Corbulo drained his cup.

‘That was good of you, Corbulo.’ Vespasian passed him the wineskin.

‘What did Poppaeus say about the chest?’ Magnus asked, adding the lentils and some lovage to the bubbling pot.

Corbulo sipped his wine and thought for a moment. ‘He made me swear to tell no one. He’s anxious that it should be kept secret whilst he pursues his own investigation, which won’t get far if Kratos has anything to do with it.’ He took a slug of wine and shook his head. ‘The Greek bastard,’ he exclaimed vehemently. ‘He is involved with Hasdro and Sejanus, I’m sure of it, and will try to cover up the attempt to have us all killed.’

Pomponius ’ morning briefing of the officers of the IIII Scythica was, true to its name, brief. Vespasian was detailed to accompany Paetus on a patrol beyond the trench and breastwork fortifications.

‘I’m surprised that he even remembered you were here,’ Paetus chuckled as they rode through the Porta Principalis at the head of two turmae of his Illyrian auxiliaries. ‘You must have made quite an impression on the drunken old fool last night.’

‘He barely looked at me,’ Vespasian replied. He didn’t mind; he was just pleased to be getting away from the smells and noise of the camp.

They rode the few hundred paces from the camp up to the main gate in the four-mile-long construction. Paetus gave another cheery wave to the centurion of the watch and showed his pass. The gates swung open and they rode through.

‘I don’t know what Pomponius thinks we can achieve here,’ Paetus said, slowing his horse to a trot as the ground became rougher. ‘It’s not cavalry country: too steep and too many rocks. Still, it will keep the men out of trouble and exercise the horses. We’ll ride up closer to the Thracians’ stronghold; it’s really quite impressive, worth a look.’

They continued climbing for a little over an hour, the stronghold looming larger and larger until its details could be clearly seen. The dark-brown walls, which Vespasian had assumed from a distance were wooden, were in fact stone, hewn from the mountain upon which it stood. Vespasian was impressed.

‘Lysimachus, one of Alexander’s generals, seized Thracia and became its king in the chaos that followed his death. He built the fort three centuries ago, to guard his northern borders from the incursions of the even more savage northern Thracian tribes, on the other side of the Haemus Mountains. They used to come over the Succi Pass, which is about ten miles to the north, to plunder the Hebrus valley. The fort stopped all that; they couldn’t take it and couldn’t advance without fear of being cut off by it.’

‘Why didn’t Lysimachus just take the Succi Pass and hold that?’ Vespasian asked.

‘It’s too high, very difficult to keep a fortification supplied up there.’

As they were talking, movement up at the fort, now just over a mile away, caught their eyes. The gates swung open and people began to emerge.

‘Now, that is strange,’ Paetus commented. ‘If they were mounting an attack they would have sent their cavalry out first, and we’d be running for our lives back down to our fortifications. But I can only see infantry.’

Vespasian stared hard at the ever-growing crowd swarming through the gates. ‘There are women and children amongst them as well, I think.’

‘You’re right. It looks like they’re surrendering. I’d better get a message down to the general.’ Paetus turned and gave a swift order in Greek; four of his troopers peeled off and headed back down the mountain.

The last stragglers appeared through the gates, which then closed behind them. At least three thousand people were heading towards them. At their head were two men riding mules. The taller of the two, an old man with short cropped white hair and a long white beard, held an olive branch in token of surrender. Next to him rode a figure that Vespasian recognised immediately.