False God of Rome Page 3

  ‘And you take it, I hope?’

  ‘I didn’t at first but I do now. I remember being shocked when my uncle told me that he took bribes while he was Governor of Aquitania, but now I understand the system better and realise that it’s expected of me. And anyway, most of the wealthy locals are so unpleasant it’s a pleasure to take their money.’

  ‘Sounds much like Judaea judging by Sabinus’ descriptions of it,’ Magnus mused as they passed into a crowded agora surrounded by dilapidated ancient temples dedicated to the Greek gods and overlooked by civic buildings cut into the hill above.

  ‘It’s worse, believe me,’ Vespasian replied, recalling his conversations with his brother upon his return from the East, concerning the utter ungovernability of the Jews. They had overlapped for two days in Rome before he had sailed for Creta at the end of March. ‘There you only had to deal with the Jews; they could be kept in line by their priests and by offering them small concessions. But here if you were to offer a concession to one group, then every bastard would want one until you’d find your-self giving the whole province away and hauled up in front of the Senate, or worse, on your return to Rome. That’s why I give nothing away to any of them unless I’m well paid for it; that way the other factions can’t complain that I’ve showed any favouritism because they know that I was bribed. Surprisingly, that seems to make it all right for them.’

  ‘I’ll bet that you wish you were back in Thracia,’ Magnus said, admiring the exertions of the slave boy who was managing to keep a constant flow of air moving around his master and maintain his footing despite the bad state of repair of the paving stones; the city had seen better days.

  ‘At least we had some decent troops to threaten the locals with. Here all we’ve got is one cohort of local auxiliary infantry, made up of men who are too stupid to earn their living by thieving; then there’s the city militia, which comprises men too stupid to be an auxiliary; and finally an ala of local auxiliary cavalry, who are meant to protect us from the nomads, which is a joke because most of them have camels.’

  ‘What’s a camel?’

  ‘It’s like a big, brown goat with a long neck and a hump on its back; horses hate the smell of them.’

  ‘Oh, I saw some of them at the circus once; they made people laugh but they didn’t put up much of a fight.’

  ‘They don’t need to – according to the cavalry prefect, Corvinus, they can run all day across the desert; our cavalry hardly ever get near them.’

  They passed through the city’s gates, guarded by marble lions to either side, and started the gentle eight-mile ascent to the city of Cyrene, set on the limestone plateau above. Vespasian sank back into a maudlin silence, contemplating the futility of his position in this part of the combined province of Creta and Cyrenaica. During the seven months he had been there he had achieved nothing, mainly because there was hardly any money to achieve anything with. For centuries the wealth of Cyrenaica had been in silphium, a bulbous-headed plant with a long stalk, whose resin was much prized as a rich seasoning and as a cure for throat maladies and fever; the meat from animals that grazed on it was also sold at a premium. It grew along the dry coastal plain – the Cyrenian plateau being more conducive to the cultivation of orchards and vegetables. However, in recent years the crop had mysteriously begun to fail to the point where it was no longer fed to livestock, thus killing off the meat industry; and over the last couple of years the quality of each crop had deteriorated no matter how intensively it was farmed.

  Vespasian had tried to persuade the local farmers to produce other crops, but the thin nature of the soil and the paucity of rain on the plain, combined with the farmers’ fervent belief that if enough gods were sacrificed to on a regular basis the silphium would return to health, had thwarted him. Consequently the tax revenues were drying up as those with money hid it away and spent very little buying goods from those with even less. With very little money in circulation, grain, imported from the more fertile neighbouring provinces of Egypt and Africa, had reached sky-high prices as a consequence of greedy speculation by the merchants who controlled the trade. They had all denied it, when he had called them into his presence to explain themselves, and had put the blame squarely on the reduced amount of grain being received from Egypt in the past year; yet there had been no mention of a failure of the Egyptian harvest. The result was that the poor, whether Greek, Jewish or Libu, were always on the verge of starving and civil unrest was a constant threat.

  Without sufficient troops to quash an uprising among the almost half a million population of Cyrenaica’s seven major cities, and without the authority to act in his own name, Vespasian had felt impotent and frustrated throughout his tenure of office. This feeling was now compounded by the Emperor Tiberius’ refusal to grant him an entry permit to the imperial province of Egypt, a province so rich that senators were allowed to visit it only with express permission from the Emperor himself; to do so without would be a capital offence.

  Chiding himself for falling into a self-pitying reverie, he turned back to his companion trotting along beside him. ‘Did Sabinus finally manage to get himself elected as an aedile?’

  ‘Yes, just,’ Magnus replied. ‘But as your brother always says: just is good enough. Although he was relieved that he wasn’t contesting the praetor elections until next year – all those positions were filled by the sons of Macro’s cronies.’

  ‘So we’re back to having a Praetorian prefect who interferes with politics, are we? You would have thought Macro would have learnt a lesson from his predecessor’s untimely demise. I can’t imagine that’s endeared him much to Antonia: she believes that meddling in politics is the prerogative of the imperial family and, specifically, herself.’

  Magnus indicated to the litter-bearers.

  ‘Don’t worry about them, they don’t speak Latin,’ Vespasian informed him, ‘and the boy’s a deaf mute.’

  ‘Fair enough. Well, since you left in March some strange things have been happening; Antonia’s getting quite concerned.’

  ‘I thought that she didn’t tell you anything other than what to do.’

  ‘No, I get most of the inside gossip from your uncle, Senator Pollo; although she does occasionally let things slip, afterwards, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘You old goat!’ Vespasian smiled for what felt like the first time since he had arrived in Cyrenaica, enjoying the unlikely and unequal sexual relationship between his old friend and the most formidable woman in Rome, his patron Antonia, sister-in-law to the Emperor Tiberius.

  ‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t happen so much these days, I’m pleased to say; she’s getting on a bit, you know, sagging somewhat. Anyway, she’s concerned about Caligula’s relationship with Macro, or more precisely Caligula’s new relationship with Macro’s wife, Ennia, which Macro seems to be encouraging.’

  Vespasian smiled and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Caligula’s had his eye on her for some time; he’ll no doubt tire of her, he’s notoriously insatiable. Macro’s just being sensible about it; he’s well aware that if he makes a fuss about it now he’ll be in a very precarious position if and when Caligula becomes emperor.’

  ‘Perhaps, but your uncle thinks that there’s more to Macro’s behaviour than just being polite, he reckons that he’s trying to ingratiate himself with Caligula because he wants something from him if he does become emperor.’

  ‘As Praetorian prefect he’s the most powerful person in Rome outside the imperial family; what more can he want short of becoming his heir? Caligula may be a lot of things but he’s not stupid.’

  ‘That’s what’s worrying Antonia, she doesn’t understand what he’s aiming for; and what she doesn’t understand, she can’t control, which pisses her off considerably.’

  ‘I can imagine, but I wouldn’t call that very strange.’

  ‘No, the strange bit is the other person who Macro’s cultivating,’ Magnus said with a conspiratorial look in his eye. ‘Herod Agrippa. He used to be a friend of Antonia’s an
d used to borrow money off her but he never paid her back, thinking that because he was a favourite of Tiberius and a good friend of his son Drusus – they were educated together – he was owed a living. However, when Drusus died he fled Rome and his debts and went back to his homeland, Iudemaea.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Fuck knows, but close to Judaea, I should think, as he’s Jewish. Anyway, he soon had to leave there, debts again, and then spent his time pissing off every petty king and tetrarch in the East demanding a position of power or a loan just because he’s the grandson of Herod the Great. A couple of months ago he returned to Rome and managed to wheedle his way back into Tiberius’ favour. According to your uncle he’s organised an embassy of Parthian rebel noblemen to come to Rome next year; they want Tiberius to help them depose their king. As a reward Tiberius has made Herod Agrippa tutor to his grandson Tiberius Gemmelus.’

  ‘So what makes it strange that Macro and he should be friends?’

  ‘Because while Macro is trying to ingratiate himself with Caligula, he’s at the same time snuggling up to Herod, the person who has the most influence over another possible heir, Gemmelus.’

  ‘So he’s backing both chariots?’

  Magnus grinned and shook his head. ‘No, sir, it would seem that he’s backing all three. Herod Agrippa has another contact, a very good childhood friend of his who was educated alongside him and Drusus: the third possible heir from the imperial family, Antonia’s son Claudius.’

  The sun was beginning to dip in the west and the sea sparkled bronze below as Vespasian and Magnus passed under Cyrene’s principal gate into the lower city. The litter-bearers had to force their way through scores of beggars – refugees from the failed silphium farms hoping to receive alms from newly arrived merchants before they tired of being importuned by the countless destitute now obliged to rely on charity.

  ‘I’m getting to really hate this place,’ Vespasian commented as he pushed away supplicating hands. ‘It just rubs my face in the fact that my family’s standing in the Senate is very low; only the most insignificant quaestors get sent here.’

  ‘You drew it by lot.’

  ‘Yes, but only the insignificant quaestors go to the ballot; the ones from the great families get the plum jobs in Rome. Sabinus was lucky to draw Syria last year.’

  Magnus kicked away an overly persistent old crone. ‘I’ve got a letter from Caenis in my bag, hopefully that’ll cheer you up; you certainly seem to need it.’

  ‘It’ll help,’ Vespasian shouted back over the torrent of abuse that Magnus was receiving from the floored crone, ‘but I don’t think that I’ll feel cheerful until after the sailing season starts again in March and my replacement arrives. I need to get back to Rome, I need to feel that I’m making progress rather than festering in this arsehole of the Empire.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got four months to kill, I’ll keep you company. To tell you the truth, when Antonia failed to get your Egypt travel warrant I told her that I’d still come anyway to bring the bad news. Things are a little too hot for me at the moment in Rome; your uncle is going to smooth it all over while I’m away.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing, just a bit of business looking after the interests of my Crossroads Brotherhood; I’ve left my second, Servius, in command, he’ll look after things.’

  Vespasian knew not to pry into Magnus’ underworld life as the leader of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood; protection and extortion were the primary business of all the Brotherhoods. ‘You’re welcome to stay but there isn’t much to do.’

  ‘What about the hunting; what’s that like here?’

  ‘It’s not up to much close to the city, but apparently if you go south for a couple of days you might find some lions in the foothills of the plateau.’

  ‘It’s your birthday in a few days; we’ll kill a lion to celebrate,’ Magnus suggested.

  Vespasian looked at his friend apologetically. ‘You go and celebrate by yourself, I’m afraid that I can’t. I’m not supposed to leave the city unless it’s on official business.’

  Magnus shook his head. ‘I can see that this is going to be a very dull few months.’

  ‘Welcome to my world.’

  ‘What are the whores like?’

  ‘I’m told they’re nice and old, just as you like them, but rather sweaty.’

  ‘Now come on, sir, don’t mock, it’s not out of choice; I just do as the good lady tells me. And, as I said, it doesn’t happen much nowadays.’

  Vespasian smiled again. ‘I’m sure that Quintillius, my clerk, can procure something suitable to make up for that.’

  The street opened out into the busy main agora of the lower city.

  ‘What’s going on there?’ Magnus pointed at a large crowd of mainly Jewish men jeering at a tall, broad-shouldered young man standing on a plinth attempting to address them. Next to him stood a young woman carrying a one-year-old girl-child; a three-year-old boy squatted at her feet looking fearfully at the crowd.

  ‘Another Jewish proselytiser, I expect,’ Vespasian replied with a sigh. ‘There seems to have been an influx of them recently, preaching some new sort of Jewish cult. I’m told that the elders don’t like it, but as long as they don’t cause any trouble I leave them alone. The one thing that I’ve learnt here is that it’s best to keep out of Jewish affairs, they’re impossible to understand.’

  Unimpeded now by beggars, the litter-bearers made good progress along the lower city’s wide main thoroughfare, lined with the old and tatty, but still imposing, two-storey houses of the richer merchants, and they soon started the short ascent to the upper city.

  Heartened somewhat by the prospect of reading Caenis’ letter, Vespasian turned his thoughts to his lover whom he had not seen for over seven months. Still a slave in the Lady Antonia’s household, she would be thirty in three years’ time and he lived in hope of her being freed upon attaining that age, the youngest allowed by law for the manumission of slaves. Although it was against the law for a man of senatorial rank to marry a freedwoman, he hoped to take her as his mistress as soon as she was able to make decisions in her own right. He planned to set her up in a small house in Rome with the money that he was quite quickly accruing from the bribes and gifts that naturally came his way from provincials anxious to have the favour of the highest ranking Roman official in the area. Now that he had put his scruples to one side and was taking the bribes he hoped that by the time he got back to Rome he would have enough not only for a house for Caenis but also for himself and the wife he must soon take to fulfil his duties to his family. A series of letters from his parents, now living in Aventicum, in Germania Superior, where his father had purchased a banking business, had impressed upon him the need to produce an heir for the security of the family.

  They soon reached the street of King Battus in the upper city; at its eastern end was the Roman Forum, beyond which stood the Governor’s Residence – a much more modern building that had been purpose-built by the Romans one hundred years previously after Cyrenaica had become a Roman province.

  Vespasian’s litter was set down in front of the Residence and, brushing off his bearers’ attempts to help him, Vespasian stepped down, adjusted his toga and mounted the steps.

  Magnus followed, grimacing at the quality of the four auxiliary guards beneath the portico as they brought themselves haphazardly to attention. ‘I see what you mean,’ he commented as they passed through the doors and into a large atrium with clerical staff working at desks down one side, ‘they’re a fucking shambles; not even their mothers could be proud of them.’

  ‘And they’re among the best from the first century,’ Vespasian replied. ‘There’re a couple of centuries who can’t even dress themselves off into a straight line; the centurions are getting through vine-sticks at an incredible rate.’

  Before Magnus could express his opinions on the effectiveness or otherwise of beating discipline into sub-standard soldiery, a well-groomed, togate qua
estor’s clerk approached them.

  ‘What is it, Quintillius?’ Vespasian asked.

  ‘There’s been a woman waiting to see you for three hours now; I tried to get her to make an appointment to come back at a more suitable time but she refused. She said that as a Roman citizen it’s her right to see you as soon as you return. And also that it’s your duty to see her as her father was your uncle’s clerk when he was a quaestor in Africa.’

  Vespasian sighed. ‘Very well, have her shown to my study. What’s her name?’

  ‘That’s the odd thing, quaestor, she claims to be a kinswoman of yours; her name’s Flavia Domitilla.’

  ‘And it’s now a month and a half since he went southeast and he promised me that he wouldn’t be gone more than forty days.’ Flavia Domitilla sobbed into a silk handkerchief, then dabbed her eyes carefully so as not to smudge the thick line of kohl that outlined them.

  Whether she was genuinely upset or just using her feminine wiles to the full, Vespasian could not tell, nor did he very much care; he was transfixed by this elegant and immaculately presented young woman. Tall with curved hips, a thin waist and high, rounded breasts, her body was sumptuous. Her intelligent, sparkling, dark eyes, a slender nose and a full mouth were framed by a mound of high-piled black hair with braids falling to her shoulders on either side. Apart from a few slave girls he had not had a proper woman since he last saw Caenis; and Flavia Domitilla was undoubtedly a proper woman. Her clothes and jewellery spoke of wealth and her coiffure and make-up told of the time that she had to enjoy it; she was exquisite. Vespasian stared at her, inhaling her feminine scent, heightened by the heat and augmented by a delicate perfume, as she whimpered softly into her handkerchief. He felt the blood pulsing in his groin and, to cover any embarrassment, adjusted the folds of his toga, grateful, for the first time since arriving in the province, to be wearing the garment. In an effort to tear his mind away from carnal thoughts, he raised his eyes to study her features. Other than a slight roundness of the face he could make out nothing that would suggest a close kinship; however, her name was irrefutably the feminine form of Flavius.