Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (4 page)

Drusus
sighed as he walked down the corridor with some reports in hand for his father, the Emperor. He worked to stifle a cough, his health still weakened by a recent illness. It was this very illness that had brought about the death of a man named Caius Lutorius Priscus, who had in recent years rewarded by Tiberius for a stirring poetic tribute he had done to the memory of the Emperor’s nephew, the late Germanicus Caesar. Drusus coughed once more before knocking on the door to his father’s study.

“Enter!” the voice inside boomed. Taking another deep breath, Drusus walked in and saw Tiberius seated at his desk, hands folded in contemplation.

“Message from Lepidus,” Drusus said, handing a scroll to the Emperor. Tiberius scowled as he read the message. He set the scroll on his desk and walked over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The more the senate tries to please me, the more they earn my displeasure,” he said at length. “At least Lepidus had the good sense to try and save us from an unnecessary slaying.”
The issue at hand was that Priscus had written another poem of remembrance as a precaution in case Drusus succumbed to his illness. He had then read said poem in the presence of a number of ladies of rank, who were then frightened into testifying against him when an informant appeared and accused Priscus of seeking the death of the Imperial heir in order to fatten his own purse. The Senate, hastily trying to show its solidarity with the Imperial family, invoked the death penalty on the accused. Haterius Agrippa, the consul-elect, had made the motion for the maximum penalty. Of all the senators present, only Marcus Lepidus showed any common sense and spoke against the sentence with the following speech:

“Senators,
if we look to the single fact of the infamous utterance with which Lutorius
has polluted his own mind and the ears of the public, neither dungeon nor
halter nor tortures fit for a slave would be punishment enough for him.
But though vice and wicked deeds have no limit, penalties and correctives
are moderated by the clemency of the sovereign and by the precedents of
your ancestors and yourselves.

“Folly differs from wickedness; evil words
from evil deeds, and thus there is room for a sentence by which this offence
may not go unpunished, while we shall have no cause to regret either leniency
or severity. Often have I heard our emperor complain when any one has anticipated
his mercy by a self-inflicted death. Lutorius’ life is still safe; if
spared, he will be no danger to the State; if put to death, he will be
no warning to others. His productions are as empty and ephemeral as they
are replete with folly. Nothing serious or alarming is to be apprehended
from the man who is the betrayer of his own shame and works on the imaginations
not of men but of silly women. However, let him leave Rome, lose his property,
and be outlawed. That is my proposal, just as though he were convicted
under the law of treason.”
1
Only a former consul named Rubellius supported Lepidus. The rest voted to have Priscus dragged off to prison and instantly put to death.

“Priscus was a fool,” Drusus observed, “but he was a harmless fool. He was a great poet and orator, and it saddens me that he was executed for simply trying to find the words to console his Emperor should the worst have happened to me.”

“His conduct was still inexcusable,” Tiberius replied, turning to face his son, “though I still concur with Lepidus’ assessment. Mere words should not have warranted a death sentence. I will have words with the Senate and see if we can correct this type of rash behavior.” There was a pause as Tiberius felt that the issue was done. He raised an eyebrow as Drusus still remained in the room
waiting patiently.

“Father, there is another issue I wish to discuss.” Drusus dreaded the pending argument he knew he could no longer av
oid. He had thought of ways he could bring Tiberius to see reason regarding his Praetorian Prefect without making it seem personal. Unfortunately, Drusus knew he had taken things with Sejanus too far and too publicly. Indeed, he had earned the nickname
Castor
, or “brute” after he physically assaulted Sejanus following a heated argument.

“Well let’s hear it,” the Emperor replied. Tiberius hoped that whatever it was that troubled his son it had nothing to do with Sejanus. He had recently severely reprimanded both men and made clear to them that he would not have his right and left hands fighting each other.

“It’s about the realignment of the Praetorians…” Drusus started to speak before Tiberius cut him off.

“By the Divine Augustus, why must you question every decision my Prefect makes?” he interrupted, a scowl creasing his hard face.

“Father, please hear me out,” Drusus persisted, raising a hand in emphasis. The Emperor made it a point of hearing his son out, no matter what the issue; for whatever lack of communication there may have been between Tiberius and the Senate, he needed to stay close to his son who would become Emperor when he was gone.

“Believe me when I say that my concerns are in no way connected to my personal antipathy towards Sejanus,” Drusus continued.
“I know he stated to you that by placing the scattered cohorts into one barracks it would strengthen their numbers and resolve; and it would allow them to receive their orders simultaneously. While these points are not without merit, the end result is far different. If you have been out in the city in recent weeks you would know that the populous is terrified of the Praetorians. And did you know he hand-picked the Centurions and Tribunes himself? No other organization within the whole of the Empire, military or otherwise, is so directly controlled by one man.”

“I’ve seen the lists of Centurions and Tribunes of the Praetorians,” Tiberius remarked. “They are all good men of status and merit.
Indeed his Deputy Prefect, Pontius Pilate, served under your brother, Germanicus, and came to us with the highest recommendations for his valor and conduct.”

“I do not deny that Pilate was an honorable soldier,” Drusus conceded
, though in his mind he believed Pontius Pilate had become little more than a political pawn for Sejanus. “And speaking of Pilate, what is this I hear that he is being sent to the east?”

“I was not aware of this,” Tiberius replied, “though if Sejanus thinks it would be useful…” Drusus threw his hands up in the air in exacerbation before the Emperor could finish.

“Father, when will you open your eyes?” he asked. “Now he seeks to expand his influence to the legions!”

“Enough!”
Tiberius barked, slamming his fist onto the table. “I will not have the man who has been my right hand for all these years talked to in such a slanderous tone; not even by my own son!” Drusus nodded quietly and backed out of the room. He knew when he had gone too far with his father; and further discussion on the issue of Sejanus would be counterproductive. He would have to find another way of dealing with the man he was convinced wished to sit where his father sat. His head hurt and he decided to head home. He hoped Livilla would be home; she always had a way of making him feel better after one of his bouts with the Emperor. She never would tell him what it was she put into his drink to make him sleep so well, but he was grateful for it.

“Legio XII, Fulminata,” Pilate read aloud. He looked up from the scroll bearing his assignment orders and looked at Sejanus, puzzled.

“It’s only a temporary assignment,” the Praetorian Prefect reassured him. “There have been some issues with the eastern legions, and I need to get a set of reliable eyes on them for a little while. Don’t worry, you will still hold the billet of Deputy Praetorian Prefect, and I don’t imagine you will be gone for much more than a year or so.”

“What do you mean ‘need a set of reliable eyes on them?’” Pilate asked, his face betraying his concern.

“Legio VI sent a certain Optio to act as a liaison for the eastern legions,” Sejanus answered. Pilate shrugged in reply.

“Yes, Justus Longinus; he’s an old friend of mine. What of it?”

Sejanus gave an audible sigh and gave Pilate a pat on the shoulder. “You have much to learn, my friend. Justus was sent to keep an eye on us, well at least
me
at any rate. There have been many grumblings coming from the east ever since the death of Germanicus four years ago.”

“Does the Emperor know of this?”

“Of course,” Sejanus lied. “Nothing that goes on within the Empire gets past Tiberius; I see to that personally. Right now we need a direct Imperial influence to restore some order to the eastern legions. I could go, but the Legates would see this as a personal affront to their authority. By sending my Deputy they won’t feel so threatened. It will show that we are not out to undermine their positions; however, it also lets them know that the Emperor is watching and will not tolerate any lapses in order, discipline, and loyalty.” Pilate nodded.

“Whatever I can do to serve the Emperor,” he asserted.

“Know that Tiberius will reward those who prove their loyalty,” Sejanus emphasized. It was coming together all too easy. Pilate would be his eyes and ears in the east and through him he would extend his reach to the farthest corner of the Empire. All the while Pilate would be under the assumption that he was directly serving the Emperor. Sejanus would reward him, of course; and it would be in such a way that Pilate could continue to do his bidding.

In Sejanus’ opinion he needed to keep Pontius Pilate away from Rome as much as possible. Pilate was in the unique position that he had served most of his adult career thus far with the legions, instead of doing the mandatory six months and then moving on to more politically advantageous assignments. The frontier legions had a sense of nobility, almost a naivety about them.
The longer Pilate stayed in Rome, the more questions he would ask. During his time in the legions he had developed a strong sense of right and wrong that Sejanus found irritating. Still, he had found a use for Pilate’s sense of ethics, as long as he did not keep him around too long. As long as Pontius Pilate felt that he was serving the Emperor, Sejanus could manipulate him into doing just about anything.

Chapter III:
Out of the Shadows

The Mauritanian coast and the city of Caesarea were in sight; however Heracles would wait until dark before disembarking. Like always, no questions were asked. From here it would be but a short journey south to Zucchabar.

The voyage had been disagreeable t
o Heracles. He hated the sea, though he was choice less when it came to the trip to Mauretania. The seas had been reasonably calm, and Heracles had stayed in the back of the ship, in a small cabin. A few coins to the ship’s captain and no questions were asked. Thankfully he had been able to hang his head out the stern window every the swells played havoc on his stomach. He lay down on the hammock strung across the cabin and closed his eyes. He did not recall falling asleep, but yet he was awoken by a quiet knocking at the door.

“The sun has set,” a voice said from the other side, “time for you to leave my ship.” While the captain liked Heracles’ coin, the man made him very nervous and he was glad to be rid of him.

“So it is,” Heracles replied. He secured what few belongings he had brought with him; threw the hood of his cloak over his head and quickly walked out the door almost running into the captain. A few deckhands stared in curiosity at this strange man they had brought to the coast of Africa. None could see his face, and in truth they wondered if they wanted to. Rumors had abounded that the man they had given passage to was not a man at all, but a demonic spirit. Heracles had overheard some of the talk and he had smiled inside wickedly at it.

If only they knew,
he thought to himself.

Dry land had never felt so good to Heracles though he had to steady himself on against a pillar in order to regain his balance. The docks were fairly quiet, aside from the cargo being offloaded from the ship he had just disembarked. Panic gripped him when he saw a Roman warship a few docks down; dozens of legionaries disembarking. His eyes wide, he grabbed a passerby and pointed towards the Romans.

“Who are they?” he asked. The man shook him off, indignant at being grabbed by a complete stranger.

“
Who are they
, he asks,” the man retorted. “That’s elements of Legio IX, Hispania; here to help put down the rebellion.”

Rebellion?
Heracles thought to himself. Of course! He had forgotten that over the last three years numerous Mauritanian and Numidian tribes had become mutinous. Rarely was an empire so large ever fully at peace.

“Seems the Third Legion severely botched things a couple years ago,” the man continued. “Cowardice ran rampant and they got punished by decimation for it. Hispania’s been sending troops to clean up their mess.” With that the man went on his way.

Heracles gave short, mirthless laugh at the mention of decimation. This was the most severe punishment utilized by the Roman army, where one man in ten, regardless of guilt or innocence, was summarily executed. Because of the extreme nature of this punishment, it was almost never used, so the offenses and cowardice committed by Legio III must have been severe indeed!

“If only the legions we faced in Gaul had been so,” he said to himself in a low voice.

It was overcast, which was a blessing for
Heracles. Spring rains kept the dust down as the cart made its way along the dirt road that led to the sulfur mines. A wheeled cage was towed behind them; his quarry would need to still give the appearance of being slaves once they were bought. The Greek kept his cloak around him tightly, Sacrovir’s spatha concealed in its folds. His pouch of gold was heavy, though he knew better than to trust his riches to any man while he travelled. The old man at the tavern had promised to keep his room for him, though Heracles knew it would be picked clean before his return.

“Here we are then,” the cart driver said as they gazed upon the depressing sight that was the sulfur mines. There was nothing but barren rock, with few outcroppings of vegetation. Heracles dismounted without a word and walked briskly towards the small group of buildings which housed the slave drivers and the offices of the mine owners. He paid little heed to the row of newly-arrived slaves who were being accounted for by the shift foreman. A pity for them that it was overcast that day
; they would not even get a final glimpse of the sun. Heracles found the main office and pushed open the door. A bored clerk was busy writing sales receipts for customers.

“Here to pick up merchandise or dropping off slaves?” he asked without looking up.

“Neither,” Heracles replied. “I’m here to purchase a couple slaves.” The clerk raised his eyes to assess the Greek and gave a short laugh.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” he stated, his eyebrows furrowed. “This is not a place one comes to
buy
slaves. This is where slaves get dumped off because they are of no use to anyone else.”

“Yes, well there are a couple in particular that I am interested in,” Heracles replied.

“Ah, family members, or lost friends perhaps?”

“
You could say that,” Heracles answered, his expression never changing. “Mind if I look at your prisoner rolls for those brought in, oh say around September and October of last year?”

“Sure,” the clerk replied with a shrug. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to a shelf lined with scrolls. “Have a look over there, if you wish. Just don’t go messing up the order of the books!”
Heracles gave a nod and the clerk went back to his work. He grabbed a couple of scrolls and started to read through them. Most of the names were lined through, with the words “deceased” written over them. He gave a mirthless snort at that. Not many survived more than a few months in the hell of those mines. Accidents were common, the sulfur burned the eyes until one went blind, and the very air was a poisonous fume. Indeed even the slave drivers who returned to the surface after their shifts put their lives and their health in great peril by working in such conditions.

Heracles saw one group from the first part of October that gave him pause. There was an asterisk next to many of the names. At the bottom of the page was a note that said
“* - Prisoners of war, do not release under any circumstances!”
Most of these had long since perished as well, though one name stood out. Radek was not a name that Heracles recognized; however he figured the man must have been one of the debtors and thieves that Sacrovir and Florus had taken into their army. Many of the slaves had only one name listed; family names probably unknown to many.

“I want this one,” Heracles stated, pointing to Radek’s name; the rest of the prisoners of war having perished, quite possibly with some help from their new masters. The clerk laughed and shook his head.

“You can’t have that one,” he said with finality. “If we released a prisoner of war, the Roman governor would cast us down into those mines!”

“Oh I think I can have this one,” Heracles said with an equal air of determination. “Send for the foreman and I will discuss this with him.”

“Fair enough,” the man replied with a shrug. A few minutes later he returned with a rather burly and hairy man who looked as if he had not bathed in weeks. A short whip hung from his left hand.

“Hey, who in the bloody fuck are you, thinking I’m going to hand over a prisoner of war!” he spat with a vile sneer that exposed his blackened teeth.

“Someone willing to make it worth your while,” Heracles replied. He reached into his bag and pulled out a gold piece that he tossed nonchalantly towards the foreman. The coin was worth about seventy-five denarii and the grisly man gave a frown of comprehension while he turned it over in his hand.

“Well I’ll be
buggered,” he said. “I wouldn’t give a bottle of piss for any one of those scabs, but if he means that much to you…”

“He means nothing to me,” Heracles corrected in his calm but firm voice. “I’ll give you three gold pieces for the man; plus one more to each of you for keeping your mouths
shut
. You have never seen me; I have never been here. The prisoner Radek died of a fever on the twenty-second of April. Am I making myself clear?”

“Quite,” the foreman replied. Behind him the clerk licked his lips in anticipation.

“How are your men adjusting to their new accommodations?” Tiberius asked. Sejanus walked beside him through the shaded gardens, keeping a respectful half-step behind the Emperor.

“Very well, Caesar,” he replied. “Our reaction times to crises have improved ten-fold. Morale is high and the men feel more unified in a sense of common purpose.”

“That is good,” the Emperor said, feeling reassured. “And what is this I hear about you sending your Deputy to the east?”

“A mere courtesy visit to the eastern legions,” Sejanus stated. “There have been some grumblings in the east and I felt a direct representative from us would help to quell any misgivings the eastern legates may have.”
Tiberius frowned in contemplation.

“I have not heard of any such misgivings,” he said after a few moments of thought.

“Forgive me, Caesar; I did not wish to disturb you with what I am certain is a minor matter,” Sejanus responded quickly.

“Yes, well I’m certain you’ll take care of it,” Tiberius replied, waving his hand dismissively.
“You have yet to lead me wrong, my friend, and I trust you more than any.”

“Surely you don’t trust me more than your son,” the Prefect said with mo
ck surprise. The Emperor paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and continued his walk.

“Drusus does his best to serve me,” he said. “However, his judgment is constantly clouded by emotion, particularly his anger towards you. Did you know he came to me just the other day expressing his concerns about the new Praetorian barracks?”

“But surely Caesar, the reorganization of the Guard has been a resounding success!”

“I know that,” Tiberius replied. “Drusus sees it as a means of you consolidating your power and he somehow feels threatened by it.”

“I assure you,” Sejanus persisted, “that if the time comes while I am still in my post I will serve Drusus just as fervently as I serve you.” He was impressed by his own skills of persuasion. Tiberius
believed
him. All the same, Drusus was becoming more than a mere nuisance. Sejanus knew that should anything befall Tiberius, his own life would probably be forfeit; so deep was Drusus’ hatred towards him. It was now more than just a mere matter of consolidating his rise in power, his family’s very survival would depend upon the removal of Drusus Caesar.

Heracles hated being back at sea once again, though at least now he had some company. He had purchased a handful of other slaves from the mines along with that beast Radek. These particular men had not been prisoners of war; all the same such was their gratitude towards the man who had liberated them that they would follow Heracles into the gates of Hell itself.
He contemplated how best they could serve him. Men of such loyalty were not to be expended wastefully; however he knew that his ambitions would involve massive numbers of ‘expendable labor’ as it were.

Slaves,
he thought to himself,
I need large numbers of slaves
. Slave markets were ample in the region so acquisition would be simple enough. It was then that an evil thought struck him; one which would supply him with endless hordes and bring about disruption of the province. Slaves made up a large portion of the population; even the poorest plebeians possessed human property. Most slaves were fairly docile, having been born into their lot in life and they accepted it. Heracles also knew that within the deepest souls of each burned a desire for freedom. He would offer it to them…at a price of course!