False God of Rome (42 page)

‘No, for somebody else.’

‘You want me to whore myself to somebody else?’

Vespasian closed his eyes and took a deep breath; the conversation had not got off to the best of starts. ‘Listen to me, will you? We…I need you to distract a guard for long enough
to get Ziri past him.’

‘What guard?’

‘A guard in the Temple of Alexander.’

‘Why?’

‘So that he can get down to the burial chamber.’

Flavia looked at him suspiciously and sat up in the bed; sunlight filtering through the half-closed shutters dappled her fair skin and glistened on her ruffled, loose hair. ‘What are you
planning?’

Vespasian realised that he would have to be totally honest with her to stand any chance of getting her co-operation.

‘Caligula wants you to act as his thief?’ Flavia said once he had explained the situation. ‘He really is mad.’

‘Yes, but unfortunately he’s also the Emperor.’

‘And if you don’t steal this thing for him?’

‘He’ll never forgive me; or worse.’

‘Why don’t you just take him the replica that you’re having made?’

‘I’ve thought about that but Caligula saw the real one close up when he visited Alexandria with his father; I daren’t take the risk that there’s a mark on it or something
that we haven’t seen and he can remember.’

‘If there is then the priests will discover the fake.’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘That’s a risk I have to take; anyway we’ll be back in Rome by then.’

‘We?’

‘If you want to come back with me, then yes, we.’

Flavia looked down at him and smiled. ‘Does that mean that you want me to be your mistress or your wife?’

Vespasian swallowed, realising that for the second time in the conversation honesty would be best. ‘I already have a mistress in Rome whom I will never give up.’

Flavia looked at him warily. ‘Then what do you want from me?’

‘I want sons, so I was thinking more of the second option.’

‘And what if you get your mistress pregnant? Divorce me and marry her?’

‘I could never do that, she’s a freedwoman.’

‘So she’s no threat to my position, then?’

‘No, Flavia.’

‘What I want from you is security.’

‘You will always be my wife and the mother of my children.’

Flavia fell on him and kissed him passionately. ‘In that case I’d be happy to, Vespasian,’ she said between kisses. ‘I’ve been so worried recently.’

‘About me leaving you here?’

‘No; about me always being a mistress and never having the children that I pray for every day to Mother Isis.’

Vespasian’s footsteps echoed in the grand stairwell as he made his way down from his suite to the ground floor of the Royal Palace. He had made no attempt to conceal his
progress through the well-lit corridors of the upper storey; any slaves whom he had met in passing he had ignored as they bowed their respects to him. He paid no heed to the two legionaries on
guard at the foot of the stairs who snapped to attention as he passed, choosing instead to act as if he had every right to be walking around the palace in the dead of night, which, indeed, he did.
Acting with the confidence expected of his rank in society, he had reasoned, would be the best way to avoid any suspicion.

Turning left past the guards he walked down a wide corridor punctuated on either side by niches in which were housed the busts of previous prefects, set upon pedestals; the flickering glow of
torches played on the features of the carved stone faces and reflected off the polished marble floor. Drifting in with the moonlight through a window at the far end of the corridor, overlooking the
Royal Harbour below, came the shouts and cries of many voices and the unmistakeable rasping of oars being shipped as if a large vessel were in the process of docking. Turning right at the window,
Vespasian glanced down to the palace’s private port in the eastern corner of the Great Harbour, and glimpsed a trireme in the pale light being made fast to the quay as a small group of people
waited at the top of the gangplank to disembark. He briefly wondered why a ship should arrive in port in the middle of the night, and then realised that that was the advantage of the Pharos: its
light could guide a ship into harbour at any time.

After a couple more turns, and meeting no one else, he arrived at the unlit corridor where the statues of the Ptolemys stood like a long line of silent sentinels, still and strangely forbidding
in the gloom. Putting all ghostly thoughts to the back of his mind, he quickly pulled back Ptolemy Soter’s heavy cloak and started working on unbuckling the breastplate, which proved to be a
fiddly task owing to the lack of light and the stiffness of the buckles and leather straps. After an agonising few moments, while his heartbeat gradually quickened, the stiff leather straps finally
came through the buckles and the plate was free; Vespasian placed it on the ground and removed the replica from under his cloak and began to attach it to the statue. As he secured the last strap a
flicker of orange light glinted in the corner of his eye; he turned and, looking back up the corridor, saw a torch appear at the far end accompanied by the sharp sound of hardened leather soles
striking marble. In the dim light he could make out three people, two men and a woman, walking directly towards him. He quickly slipped the statue’s cloak around him, picked up the cuirass
and stood pressing his body hard up against the stone Pharaoh and prayed that the approaching party would not notice in the dark that Ptolemy Soter had sprouted an extra pair of legs and a hunched
back.

‘I don’t care how long the prefect has been in bed for,’ a voice that Vespasian recognised but could not place said imperiously, ‘you will tell him that I have just
arrived from Rome and wish to convey to him, immediately, a message from our beloved Emperor.’

‘I will knock on his door, master,’ a servile, tremulous voice replied.

‘You will do more than knock, you will get him up! I shall be waiting in the triclinium where I expect to be served wine and food for my wife and me while we await Flaccus. Now go and
leave me your torch.’

As he heard the sound of a man scurrying back up the corridor, Vespasian put a name to the person walking, now not more than three paces away, past his hiding place: Herod Agrippa.

Once Herod and his wife had turned into the triclinum at the far end of the corridor, Vespasian peered cautiously from under the cloak; satisfied that no one else was coming towards him, he
quickly left his hiding place and, holding the breastplate to his chest, began to retrace his steps.

The legionaries at the bottom of the staircase snapped to attention again as he passed; he mounted the stairs as quickly as decorum would allow and hurried towards his suite.

‘What are you doing up, senator?’ a voice called out as he approached his door.

Vespasian turned to see a bleary-eyed Flaccus peering down the corridor at him.

‘I heard a ship docking and was curious as to who would be arriving at this time of night,’ Vespasian lied, holding the breastplate secure with an arm across his stomach.

Flaccus looked unconvinced. ‘You could have just looked down from your veranda.’

‘It doesn’t overlook the Royal Harbour,’ Vespasian replied, this time truthfully, ‘so I went to find a window that did.’

‘Was your curiosity satisfied?’

‘Yes, I saw that it was Herod Agrippa so I came back to bed.’

‘Back to the lovely Flavia, eh? Well, she’ll just have to wait a while longer for your attentions. Herod wants to see me and, seeing as you’re up, you can come along as a
witness because I don’t trust that oily oriental.’

‘I’ve got no intention of staying here a day longer than I have to,’ Herod declared, taking a sip of wine. ‘I intend to pay my respects to the Alabarch
tomorrow to return the money that he lent me, then make a couple of business arrangements before leaving the following day.’

‘That may be your intention, Herod,’ Flaccus replied, holding up the scroll with the imperial seal that Herod had just presented him with, ‘but you can’t just give me the
Emperor’s mandate confirming my position as prefect in private. It has to be done properly in front of the city council, the Jewish council of elders and delegations from the city councils of
Memphis, Sais and Pelusium, as well as those smaller ones nearby, in order that everyone can see that I rule here with the Emperor’s authority.’

‘Then organise that for tomorrow.’

‘Memphis is two days’ travel by fast ship, so the earliest we can do it will be in five days’ time.’

‘I’ll have left by then,’ Herod said flatly.

‘No, Herod, you’ll still be here.’

Herod looked at Flaccus with an amused smile on his face; he turned to his wife, sitting next to him. ‘The prefect seems to be getting above himself, Cypros, my dear.’

Vespasian had been watching the conversation seated next to Flaccus but had taken no part in it. Herod had been courteous to him in his greetings and Vespasian had felt much relieved when they
grasped forearms by the fact that he had been able to slip into his room and discard the breastplate before descending with Flaccus.

Cypros raised her thin black eyebrows; jewellery dripped off her ears, neck and fingers. ‘You are aware that the Emperor has made my husband a king, prefect?’

‘Lady, I am a Roman, whether your husband is a king or not is neither here nor there to me; he will leave this province only when I give him permission to do so.’

Herod stood and helped his wife up. ‘This has been a most interesting conversation, prefect, but you have failed to convince me. My wife is tired so we shall retire to bed. I assume that
we can use the same suite that we had last time we were here.’

‘I’m afraid that Senator Vespasian is occupying that.’

Herod looked at Vespasian, frowning. ‘Your family makes a habit of inconveniencing me, does it not?’ He turned and walked briskly out of the room.

‘Arrogant shit!’ Flaccus said once the footsteps had faded down the corridor.

‘If you want a hold over him, I think that I know where to look,’ Vespasian said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think that I can guess what the business arrangements are that he wants to make while he’s here.’

‘Go on then.’

‘There is a price, naturally, for such information.’

‘You are not having Alexander’s breastplate.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I want you to arrest the preacher, Paulus.’

‘What, the bow-legged little preacher with half an ear missing? Why do you want me to do that?’

‘I want you to try him for sedition and preferably execute him.’

Flaccus smiled archly. ‘You mean the Alabarch wants me to do that. I warned you not to let him get you involved with his Jewish politics.’

‘Paulus is a dangerous fanatic; I came across him in Cyrenaica when he was persecuting the cult that he has now supplanted. If he is preaching it with the same fervour as he tried to
destroy the other one, then you may well have a big problem on your hands soon; he causes nothing but discord.’

‘You’re saying that the Alabarch’s interests and mine are the same in this matter?’

‘Yes, I believe they are.’

Flaccus thought for a moment. ‘Very well then, I shall give the order tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, prefect.’

‘So, what is this hold that I could have over Herod Agrippa?’

‘Grain. I would guess that the arrangements that he wishes to make are to get his illegal stockpile of grain shipped to his kingdom to buy the favour of his new subjects.’

‘How do you know about this?’

‘The Lady Antonia.’

Flaccus nodded. ‘She knew about most things. Where is this grain?’

‘I don’t know exactly; somewhere in this province.’

‘That’s not very helpful. If I can’t find it how can I impound it?’

‘I’m sorry, that’s all I know.’

‘Who did he buy it off?’

‘Claudius.’

‘Did he, now? In that case I know someone who will be very helpful in finding it: Claudius’ agent in Egypt, Thales.’

The morning had been very long and wearisome in the packed exercise arena at the heart of the Gymnasium complex. Every delegation had made an interminable speech of loyalty to
the Emperor before going on to praise Flaccus for his just rule in the Emperor’s name. Each delegation in turn tried to outdo the others with superlatives and rhetorical flourishes while
studiously ignoring the cries of rioters and the hobnailed clatter of legionaries chasing miscreants through the streets of a city that teetered on the brink of anarchy. Even as they filled their
lungs with air to spout their fawning tributes they could smell the acrid tang of smoke from the many burned-out Jewish homes and businesses.

Vespasian sat on the dais, facing the three-thousand-strong crowd, on Flaccus’ right, as befitted his rank; Herod Agrippa sat stony-faced on Flaccus’ left, still smarting from the
humiliation of being forced, by someone he considered to be beneath him, to stay for the ceremony against his will.

Once Thales had been informed by Flaccus that his mandate from the Emperor had arrived and that he was likely to be the prefect of Egypt for at least another two years, the banker had become
very accommodating and had provided the whereabouts of Herod’s illegal grain stockpile without the least coercion. He had even, of his own free will, given Flaccus his copies of the bills of
sale and certificates of ownership and offered him a large interest-free loan, which, after much insistence on Thales’ part, the prefect had reluctantly but gratefully accepted. Thales had
left the palace with a solemn undertaking that should anyone ever try to purchase grain illegally through him again, Flaccus would be the first to know about it; Flaccus had thanked him sincerely
and had promised to consider repaying a small part of the loan each time Thales came to him with that sort of information. They had parted understanding one another perfectly.

Flaccus had then managed to reach an equally perfect understanding with Herod: if he stayed for the ceremony, he could leave for his kingdom straight afterwards and, if he played his part well,
could even take half of his grain with him; the other half he would naturally donate to Rome in grateful thanks for his new crown.