Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

The whole business was a nonsense and Trajan’s anger a mystery. The emperor must have known that gossip throughout the empire, let alone among the aristocracy, was amused by his fondness for having lots of pretty boys in his household, just as they were by his habit of drinking heavily when he was the host at a dinner. Hadrian had nursed plenty of merciless hangovers as a result, for like most guests he felt obliged to match their leader. Yet he did not know for certain that Trajan had ever used any of the boys in that way, whether casually as slaves or with kindness. It was so hard to tell. Maybe this was all part of play-acting the tough soldier, and, realising his own appetites, the emperor rigidly exercised self-control, denying himself the slightest concession to human frailty and vice. Then again, maybe he was very, very discreet. Either way, the Roman aristocracy would approve. Excesses denied were admirable, indulgences concealed were pardonable, as long as the secret never escaped for such was the hypocrisy of the senatorial class. Trajan had never done anything unwise or acted badly while drunk, so that was also no weakness or flaw, and the same attitude stretched to the boys at court. If ever anything dishonourable happened, then no one saw it.

Hadrian did not know the truth, and after all these years could not claim to understand Trajan. That, indeed, was the root of the whole problem. Hadrian’s father was the emperor’s cousin, and when both his parents died, Trajan had become Hadrian’s guardian, back in the days when he was no more than a prominent senator. He had been efficient, stern and distant, and had softened only a little in more recent years.

Laberius kept alongside him, and they exchanged the usual empty pleasantries, asking after relations and friends. Hadrian sensed that the former consul wanted something, but manners dictated that they chat about nothing first.

‘You are off to the army soon.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I am.’ Hadrian was conscious that he slurred some words and cursed himself for doing it now, especially when Laberius gave a faint smile. Men said that it was the accent of Hispania, but since Hadrian had spent barely a year in the province and only when he was already fourteen, he doubted it.

‘You do not care for the courts?’

‘Acting as judge may teach a man something,’ Hadrian conceded, ‘although it seems largely a question of discerning which side is lying the least.’

This time Laberius’ smile had less mockery. ‘A good training for life, I should have thought. Still, soldiering may be a little more straightforward. The Minervia have earned a fine reputation in what is still a short history. It is a good command, albeit a scattered one at present, as you have no doubt learned from your investigations?’ He paused, and stared straight into Hadrian’s eyes. ‘That is unusual diligence – or something else perhaps? Still, I am sure you know your own business.’

Hadrian had expected the matter to be raised at some point during the evening, and wondered only how soon and who would bring it up. The emperor had surely learned of his visit to the camp of the foreigners before the day was out. It was probably better that someone was speaking openly to him about it.

‘I wish to serve the princeps and Rome well.’

‘Indeed, and such an honourable intent must be praised. But why talk to the frumentarii?’

This time Hadrian smiled. ‘Because I wonder whether we do not take sufficient advantage of their knowledge. Where else in Rome will you find men from every legion, recent arrivals most of them and sent back in due course? Apart from the lists of numbers, locations and supplies, those men have knowledge and news beyond the written reports of legates and procurators. They could all become eyes and ears, reaching out across the globe.’

Laberius was sceptical. ‘Common soldiers, though. I’ll grant they can all read and write in a good hand, but they are not selected for intelligence or insight.’

‘But they could be.’

The former consul nodded several times, his head moving slowly as if it confirmed an obvious truth, but Hadrian could tell that he was thinking. A lot of good ideas appeared so simple once someone had explained them, and there was no doubt that Laberius Maximus was now exploring the possibilities.

‘That is original,’ he conceded at last. ‘Although perhaps we should be cautious in turning so many simple soldiers into spies. The gods only know how much they might discover, and how inconvenient it might prove.’

‘For the good of the res publica.’

‘An expression frequently employed by the last of the Flavians – as even you may be just old enough to recall – so of meagre comfort. After all, we all have our little secrets, do we not?’ The stare was intense. ‘And would prefer that they remain just that, harmless indiscretions known only to ourselves. Trust is important. To trust the men picked by the emperor or appointed by the Senate to do their jobs to the best of their ability, without having to be told step by step how to go about them. A degree of ignorance does little harm if it fosters trust.’

The crowd had thinned and as they went downhill several senators joined them, hailing the emperor and then the rest of the party. Hadrian was always amused to see the slaves doing the same thing with the slightest of nods and gestures. Theirs was a small world as well in many ways, as attendants of great men.

‘You are in need of a new tribune,’ Laberius commented once they had resumed.

‘Yes.’ Hadrian had suspected as much, for the stripling in the post had done six months and on brief acquaintance had struck him as the sort never to do more than the barest minimum. No doubt Laberius was better informed.

‘Anyone in mind?’

That was surprisingly direct and strange for the matter was not really up to him.

‘I would guess that the legatus will find someone suitable.’ That was the usual way, with the governor of the province putting forward a name to the emperor for approval, more often than not recommending someone who had in turn been recommended to him.

‘Wouldn’t do any harm if you wrote to him with a suggestion.’

More petitioners clustered where the road turned, and this caused a little delay. In front of them, an older senator was telling a story about Augustus and a poet who had waited outside the palace for weeks, hoping that he could get the Caesar’s attention for long enough to recite a composition in his praise. ‘Well Augustus spotted the ragged fellow, and made sure to ignore him, always turning away. He wanted money, of course, they all do. When did you ever hear of a rich poet who did not inherit his wealth?’

Hadrian half listened, for the old senator had a carrying voice and either did not realise how loudly he was speaking or did not care. It took an effort not to chip in with half a dozen examples of poets whose verse had earned them considerable wealth.

‘Perhaps I could think of someone,’ Hadrian said softly. If Laberius wanted to play little games then why not make it hard for him.

‘Day after day it went on,’ the senator continued, half shouting. ‘Sun and rain, there the poor fellow was and each time the divine Augustus strode past. Took to coming earlier and earlier and finally to camping out to be closest to the edge of the road.’

‘Perhaps you could,’ Laberius said. ‘And perhaps even better you would consider Licinianus – I mean young Crassus Frugi, or Piso as he likes to be known.’

Hadrian had a good memory for names, even long names like Caius Calpurnius Piso Crassus Frugi Licinianus. It was a point of pride never to forget, especially if he had met someone, but even so it was a moment before he could picture the face. It was not a pretty face, speckled with moles, some of them large, the expression dull and sullen. ‘An admirable young man, I believe,’ he said, lying fluently. ‘I did not know that he was eager for service. He must already be twenty-two.’