Masters of Rome (20 page)

Vespasian glanced in concern at Sabinus, on the couch to his left, whilst their commanding officer's attention was devoted to the contents of his filled cup; Sabinus put his hand to his mouth, understanding that he should not join in a conversation that was approaching the realms of treason.

‘The Senate still administer their provinces,' Plautius continued, ripping more flesh from the thigh, ‘but increasingly their appointments have gone to the Empress's worn-out lovers who now outnumber those in that
august
body who haven't had the pleasure of ingress into one or all of the imperial orifices. And what's worse is that the Emperor's provinces now seem to be the personal fiefdom of Narcissus and his cronies and to receive an appointment in one of those you have to denounce a supporter of Messalina's in open court.' He paused to down the rest of his cup and signal for a refill. ‘And anyone who has the stupidity to complain about the situation
is immediately charged with treason by both Messalina's faction and the supporters of that idiot Emperor's freedm—' Plautius stopped himself and looked with alarm at the two brothers; he put his full cup down on the table, careful not to spill a drop. ‘Forgive my foolishness, gentlemen, I've been too long on campaign with you and my tongue has grown loose.' He glanced at Hormus now back in his position in the shadows.

‘My slave is loyal, sir,' Vespasian assured him, relieved that Plautius had stopped his tirade before he had suggested a solution to the situation; his voice may well have been loud enough to carry outside the tent. ‘I too am aware from letters of the situation back home.'

‘Quite so; and it's best not to dwell on it. It's always hard to return to being a politician after a few years of being a blunt, plain-speaking soldier.'

And that very thought had been revolving around Vespasian's mind repeatedly for the last couple of months as his inevitable return to Rome approached: how would he adapt back into the narrow confines of imperial politics, keeping his opinions to a minimum and well hidden whilst being subject to the will of others? How would he cope after so long in the field commanding his own legion and auxiliaries? That he would be sucked back down into the schemes of Claudius' freedmen upon his return as they struggled for the mastery of Rome, he was in no doubt. Their plotting had even followed him to the very limits of the Empire by way of Pallas' letter, the previous year, demanding – in the form of a polite request – that he send Paetus back to Rome. However, this time he would not just be acting to further the ambition of others; this time he would have an objective of his own in mind; this time he would have a price and that price would be the removal of Flavia and the children from the imperial palace and out of the reach of the Empress Messalina and her brother, Corvinus. But he knew that the transition from soldier to politician would be difficult and he inclined his head to indicate to Plautius his sympathy. ‘I imagine that keeping one's political thoughts to oneself after four years of saying exactly what you think militarily will be a challenge.'

‘Thank you for your understanding, Vespasian.' Plautius looked at Sabinus. ‘And yours too, I hope, Sabinus.'

A scratching on the leather door prevented Sabinus from replying immediately; Vespasian signalled Hormus to find out from the guards who wanted to see him.

‘I think that it is fair to say that it would be hypocritical of my brother and me to condemn the views that you may have expressed, sir,' Sabinus observed as Hormus glanced around the door.

Plautius burst into laughter. ‘And when did hypocrisy stop anyone from doing anything?'

With a relieved glance at Sabinus in thanks for defusing the situation, Vespasian motioned to Hormus to speak.

‘Theron, the slave-trader,' Hormus said with palpable tension in his voice.

‘Show him in.'

Hormus pulled the door aside and ushered in his former owner.

‘Greetings, most noble Vespasian,' the Macedonian crooned, bowing unnecessarily low whilst keeping his eyes raised, taking in everyone else in the room. As they rested on Plautius they widened in alarm and his body became rigid, frozen mid-bow.

‘Good evening, Theron,' Vespasian said, suppressing his amusement. ‘Have you brought that contract for me?'

Pulling himself upright, Theron did his best to cover his consternation at having the Governor, the Emperor's representative in the province, overhearing their conversation. ‘Er, yes, your honour …'

‘Just address me as “legate”!'

‘Y-y-yes, legate. And greetings to you, most exalted Governor Plautius; may I say what an honour it is to meet you again?'

Plautius looked at the slave-trader with abject disgust and disdained to give an opinion as to whether he was at liberty to say that or not.

‘Give it to Hormus and I'll look at it later; come back at dawn.'

Theron handed the scroll to Hormus who trembled visibly. ‘I trust that you are getting, er,' he smiled knowingly, ‘
satisfaction
from this fine specimen that I sold to you at such generous terms, legate?'

Vespasian jumped to his feet and hurled his half-full wine cup at the slave-dealer, staining his saffron cloak red. ‘Get out, you filth! And take your contract with you. If you want me to sign it then bring it back in the morning with ten per cent crossed out and replaced by twelve.'

Theron looked in horror at Vespasian. ‘My humblest apologies, most noble legate, I meant no insult, I was merely making pleasant conversation.'

‘Hormus, you have permission to physically kick the man out.'

Hormus looked from his master to his former owner with timid uncertainty all over his face. Theron grabbed the contract from the immobile slave's hand and bowed his way backwards from the tent with a flurry of unctuous apologies.

‘You'll regret doing business with that man, Vespasian,' Plautius informed him. ‘I was forced to use some rather persuasive methods to extract what he owed me for allowing the slave-traders to act as a cartel and fix the price they pay for new stock. All the others paid up reasonably promptly. I ended up throwing him out of the province last year once I got my money. I didn't know that he was back.'

‘He turned up this morning and offered me a business proposition, which I accepted.'

‘Very wise; four years serving Rome with no reward other than the satisfaction of doing one's duty – despite one's lack of
military prowess
– can be a drain on the coffers and we don't have long left to refill them. Just keep an eye on him, that's all.'

‘Oh, I will, in fact I'll do—'

A bucina's blare from outside cut him off; the door was suddenly pushed open and Camp Prefect Maximus burst in. ‘You'd better come quickly, sir; there's at least two dozen small boats in the estuary. They're trying to torch the biremes.'

CHAPTER VIII

‘G
ET
G
LAUCIUS AND
his Hamians down to the river now, Maximus!' Vespasian shouted, sprinting out into the camp, slinging his sword's baldric over his shoulder. ‘And then have Ansigar and three turmae of his Batavians meet me at the gates.'

In amongst all the tents, legionaries and auxiliaries, some still chewing on their last mouthfuls of supper, were struggling to tie on their
lorica segmentata
or wriggle into their chain mail, cramming helmets on their heads, fastening belts and then grabbing weapons and shields before forming up by centuries and then cohorts along the hundred-foot gap running between the palisade and the tent lines. Burnished iron glinted with torchlight, steam wafted into the air as slaves poured water onto cooking fires; centurions and optiones, themselves trying to remedy their various states of undress, bellowed at their men for more urgency as bucina calls rent the air, unnecessarily resounding the alarm.

Vespasian sprinted the length of the Via Principalis, through the gates, past the two guard-duty centuries forming up beyond them, and cursed vociferously as he came out into the golden, flickering glow of a bireme burning like a beacon in the middle of the estuary. Silhouetted by the flames, scores of figures struggled in the water, splashing to stay afloat or, if capable, swimming to shore away from the ship in which they rowed and slept, and that had now become a blazing tomb.

Small boats, fifteen to twenty feet long, under oars, circled around the next two biremes in the line, their crews lobbing lit torches onto the decks and through the oar-ports and hurling fire-spears into the hulls. Sailors fought with buckets of water to
prevent the flames catching the dry planking and the pitch-sealed horsehair with which they were caulked. Other oarsmen heaved javelins, broken out from the weapons boxes at the base of the mainmasts, at their attackers, driving them off but not before many of their incendiary weapons had struck their mark.

In the few moments that Vespasian surveyed the scene, flames burst forth from the bow of a second bireme, next in line; the faint-hearts amongst its crew dived into the water whilst the steadier members renewed their fire-fighting efforts – to little visible effect.

‘Centurions, with me!' Vespasian roared at the officers of the two guard-duty centuries. He set off down the slope towards the triremes under construction along the riverbank, just a hundred paces away. Easily outpacing the men doubling behind him, Vespasian arrived at the skeletal frames of the great ships; a dozen of the attacking boats now steered towards them. With five or six sweeps pulling on either side their speed gradually increased as they closed on their objective. Standing at their bows and sterns, fire-wielding warriors roared their rowing comrades on, eager to spread destruction through the makeshift shipyard.

Vespasian looked back; the centuries were arriving. ‘Form up on the bank; we must stop them from landing!'

The legionaries funnelled through the gaps between the partially constructed hulks and fanned out two lines deep at the water's edge.

‘Prepare to release!' Vespasian shouted as the line was completed. The attacking vessels were barely ten paces out.

Gauging the distance to their target, one hundred and sixty legionaries slung their right arms back, feeling the weight of their pila.

‘And release!'

Black against the glowing background, the sleek, weighted weapons tore towards the oncoming boats and punched into the upper bodies of the men within or ripped through the hide-covered hulls and on into the crews' legs. Warriors were flung back and overboard, oarsmen were skewered to the backs of the
men in front of them; the rapid changing of the weight distribution caused many of the craft to rock violently. Four of the vessels immediately capsized, spilling their screaming crews into the water; but the rest righted themselves and came on with foolhardy valour, their crews intent upon firing the ships that would make Rome masters of the sea in these waters.

‘Hold them off, Placidus,' Vespasian ordered the centurion nearest him, recognising the man's face in the increasing glow; out in the estuary a third bireme, adjacent to the other two, now spouted flames from three of its oar-ports. ‘I'll send you reinforcements as soon as they're available, in case more boats come.'

With no time to acknowledge his legate, Placidus roared at his men to prepare to receive as Vespasian turned and, with confidence in the men, left the two centuries to beat off half their number.

‘I brought you a horse, sir,' Magnus shouted, bringing his mount to a halt, ‘but I didn't have time to saddle it, I just threw a bridle over it.'

‘Thank you, Magnus,' Vespasian said, raising his voice over the familiar clamour of mortal combat behind him. ‘Ride along the bank to the jetties and start untying the boats.' Vaulting onto the animal's bare back, he turned it with a vicious tug of the reins and kicked it away back up the hill as Magnus headed off along the bank.

The Hamians streamed out of the gate in an eight-man-wide column as Vespasian approached; wheeling his mount to the right he accelerated along the formation of bow-armed auxiliaries to their prefect riding at their head. ‘Send a century of your lads down to the jetties and have eight loaded into each of the boats. You know what to do then, Glaucius.'

‘Get as close to the bastards as possible and then do what my boys are best at, sir.'

‘Exactly; and be quick about it.' He pulled away and headed back towards the gates. Ansigar was waiting for him with ninety of his troopers. ‘I hope these lads can row, Ansigar.'

‘They're Batavians, sir,' Ansigar replied with a grin. ‘They swim, row, ride and kill Britons.'

‘Hopefully they won't need that first talent tonight; follow me.'

Magnus and the Hamian centurion were supervising the archers' embarkation into ten boats as Vespasian arrived with the Batavians at the jetties. Ansigar needed no orders and, shouting in his guttural language, assigned his men eight to each craft; the remainder he left minding the horses. Along the bank the main body of the Hamians had begun loosing volley after volley towards those attacking boats clear of the biremes; hundreds of shafts hissed into them, annihilating entire crews in moments and churning up the flame-red water around them as if a brutal hail storm had hit.

Jumping into the lead boat as soon as it was loaded, Vespasian grabbed the steering oar. He looked up at Magnus. ‘Coming?'

‘What, get in a boat when I don't have to? Bollocks!'

Vespasian shrugged and cast off.

The nearside Batavians pushed their oars against the jetty and, once clear, all eight of them pulled a stroke as one without a word of command; the wooden craft surged forward.

Out in the estuary the few surviving Britannic boats were seeking relative safety in the lee of the burning biremes out of sight of the Hamians. Along the bank, Placidus' men had beaten off the attempt to fire the shipyard; all down their line empty boats bobbed amongst the dark shapes of their former crews floating in the shallows. Just three of the erstwhile attackers' boats had the manpower remaining to flee back out into the estuary; the Hamians used them for target practice and ceased their volleys as the last one capsized.