Emperor of Rome Read online

  Caenis kissed him back. ‘Then you had better not tell anyone, had you?’

  A cough from the doorway interrupted Vespasian as he went to return the kiss with interest; he looked up. ‘What is it, Hormus? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘I’m sorry, master,’ his freedman replied. ‘Titus sent me to tell you that the officers are assembling.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ Vespasian said, quite unnecessarily, as he stepped into the area of the praetorium housing the Eagles of the three legions present and the images of the Emperor, surrounded by an honour-guard, that was used for briefings; no one would ignore a summons from the commanding officer.

  ‘All present, sir, apart from Prefect Calenus of the Second Cappadocian,’ Titus barked in fine military fashion. ‘I’ve left orders for him to report straight here as soon as he gets back.’

  Vespasian acknowledged this with a curt nod before turning his attention to his prefect of the camp for the whole army, Fonteius. ‘Well? Are the defences complete yet?’

  Fonteius snatched a quick glance of disgust towards the legate of the V Macedonica. ‘No, sir; the Fifth still had a couple of hundred paces to go when I left to come here.’

  ‘What’s the delay, Vettulenus?’ Vespasian asked the legate. ‘That’s the second day in a row that your legion has been last, by a long way, in completing its share of the defences.’

  Sextus Vettulenus Cerialis squared his shoulders. ‘There’s no excuse, sir. I’ll have Primus Pilus Barea kick a few arses.’

  ‘If I were you I’d order him to kick every arse in the fucking legion, including his own and yours, come to that! Otherwise he won’t be a primus pilus any longer in my army.’ He pointed to Marcus Ulpius Traianus, the legate of the X Fretensis. ‘Traianus’ legion is at three-quarters strength and it can still do its share faster than the Fifth; perhaps it’s because they spend more time with shovels in their hands rather than their centurions’ cocks!’

  ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’

  Vespasian allowed himself a few moments glaring at the man. ‘Good, Vettulenus, see that it doesn’t.’ He looked around the room full of the legates of the three legions, the prefects of the auxiliary cohorts and the commanders of the contingents donated by local client kings as well as his own personal staff. ‘I will not have slackness on this campaign; every one of you will get the maximum amount of effort out of each one of your men at all times, even when they’re taking a shit. A soldier with too much time on his hands becomes ill-disciplined and a menace to his comrades and a threat to morale and the cohesion of his century. I’ll not have it in my army; do I make myself clear?’

  Everyone in the briefing understood the point perfectly.

  Vespasian deflated his chest and allowed his countenance to mellow. ‘So, gentlemen, to business. That was a good start, this afternoon; my congratulations on the showing of your men, Prefects Virdius and Gellianus. Over the wall and the town taken in less than an hour with only thirty-three dead and one hundred and twenty-five wounded between you; excellent work. Please pass on my congratulations to your officers.’

  The two prefects stiffened to attention, their expressions full of pride.

  ‘What news of Yohanan ben Levi?’ Vespasian asked Titus.

  ‘Not good, sir. It seems that he wasn’t amongst the dead; I’ve had every corpse examined. Somehow, and I don’t know how yet, he got out of the town just before it fell.’

  Vespasian slammed his fist into his palm. ‘That’s not good enough. We can kill as many of these people as we like and it won’t make a scrap of difference if their fanatical leaders get away and take their poison to another town. They’re the cause of this, not the average carpenter or shepherd. It’s the minority of religious fundamentalists; kill them and the problem solves itself.’

  ‘I’ve got patrols out scouring the country for Yohanan, sir; I hope we shall strike lucky.’

  ‘I hope so too, but somehow I doubt it; any man who can get out of an encircled town just as it’s falling is unlikely to let himself be caught out in the open.’ Vespasian glared at his son for a few moments before turning to Petro. ‘Your archers were exemplary, prefect; they saved a lot of our lads’ lives by keeping the battlements so clear with very accurate shooting. Only one dead and he was shot from behind by one of your own men, you said in your report; how was that?’

  ‘It was a feud; I’ve had the murderer executed. The idiot tried to make out it was an accident and it was a tragedy that he’d shot his own centurion.’

  Vespasian rubbed his chin. ‘Have that century excluded from the camp for ten nights to encourage others to keep an eye on their comrades to ensure that things like that don’t get so out of hand.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Titus, make sure the whole army knows what happened and what the consequences were to the man’s century. I will not have soldiers with a grievance killing their officers; every man in every century is responsible for his unit’s morale and feuds like that need to be reported and stopped before they go too far.’

  Titus nodded and made a note on a wax tablet.

  ‘Jotapata, gentlemen,’ Vespasian said, changing the subject and turning to a map pinned to a board behind him. He pointed to a place halfway between the coastline and an inland lake. ‘We’re here outside Gabara.’ His finger moved southwards. ‘This is Sepphoris, which has declared for us and accepted a garrison.’ His finger went north to a point between Gabara and Sepphoris. ‘And this is Jotapata; without it and the much smaller Japhra just to the east of Sepphoris, we cannot move forward to Tiberias, here on the Sea of Galilee,’ he indicated to the inland lake, ‘without our supply line to Ptolemais on the coast being threatened. Once we have Tiberias then Galilee is ours and we can concentrate our efforts south into Judaea itself advancing down the Jordan. So, as you can see, Jotapata is strategically vital. Having received no communication from the town elders I have to assume that it is hostile and will need to be taken by force; the Second Cappadocia are having a look at it as we speak. Now, the road there is almost non-existent, no more than a track; so at dawn tomorrow, Vetullenus, send the three most deserving of your cohorts ahead to level it enough for us to be able to get our siege train along. I think that might help with your legion’s lack of enthusiasm for manual labour and give your admirable primus pilus an ideal opportunity for the kicking of arses.’

  Vetullenus grinned. ‘A perfect opportunity for him and me, sir.’

  ‘Good. Traianus, I want you to take the Tenth and your auxiliaries and put on a show of strength at Sepphoris just to remind them who’s in charge and then move on to Japhra; take it and destroy it if it doesn’t open its gates to you. You may keep the women and children to sell, if you wish.’

  ‘Very good, sir; we’ll move at first light.’

  ‘Sir?’ came a voice from the door.

  Vespasian turned to see Tribune Lutatius. ‘What is it, Lutatius?’

  ‘The Second Cappadocia has just come back in.’

  ‘Well, tell the prefect to report to me at once.’

  ‘He can’t, sir; I’m afraid he’s dead, as are over forty of his men. They were ambushed on the way to Jotapata and were only just able to fight their way back.’

  Vespasian looked around his assembled officers. ‘Well, gentlemen, I think we have our answer; rather than our friendship, Jotapata has chosen total destruction.’

  CHAPTER II

  VESPASIAN HAD KNOWN that Jotapata was built on a high promontory but no amount of briefing by Titus’ informants could have prepared him for just how precipitous it was. Th ree sides of the town fell away, almost sheer, into scrubland between fifty and a hundred feet below, making a concerted assault all but impossible whilst leaving it just about accessible to a determined climber. The northern approach was defended by a twenty-foot wall that ran across the lower slopes of the mount upon which Vespasian had built his camp overlooking the town and thereby, he hoped, overawing the populace with the size of his force.<
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  It was shortly before dusk on the fifth day after the fall of Gabara as Vespasian and Titus stood, looking down on the town that was, despite whatever obstinate opposition it put up, doomed. It had to fall for if it did not, it would not yield up the prize that, once again, was believed to be within its walls.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Titus said, gesturing to a manacled Jew being escorted, without much consideration, by four legionaries commanded by an optio.

  ‘Is this the one that first told us the news?’ Vespasian asked, squinting as the westering sun hit the corner of his right eye.

  ‘No, this is another one; we caught him just now trying to get through the ring that we set up as soon as we heard Yosef had arrived.’

  Vespasian still could not quite believe his luck; it had taken four days for Vettulenus’ men to level a road sufficient to allow passage for the great engines of war hauled by lumbering oxen. As soon as it was complete, Vespasian had sent two alae of horse under the command of Sextus Placidus, the thick-stripe military tribune of the V Macedonica, to seal off the town whilst Vespasian brought the main body of the army up behind. Placidus had interrogated the few deserters who preferred to chance their luck as prisoners rather than face a siege. It had been with amazement at the stupidity of the move that Vespasian had received the news that Yosef ben Matthias himself may have slipped into the town just before the cordon around it was completed. Stupidity or, perhaps, bravery, if it were true; for it sent a loud message, to both besiegers and besieged alike, that the leader of the rebellion in Galilee was prepared to sacrifice everything to keep Jotapata from the foe. The stakes may just have been raised and Vespasian was relishing it.

  ‘Tell him to repeat what he told you earlier, optio,’ Titus ordered as the prisoner was thrown into the dust before them.

  The optio kicked the Jew to get his attention and then shouted at him in what Vespasian assumed was Aramaic, the local language.

  The man stuttered out a reply from bleeding lips; his long hair, loose and matted, clung to the sweat dripping from his face as his gaze remained firmly on the ground.

  ‘Well?’ Titus asked as the prisoner fell silent.

  The optio stood to attention. ‘Sir! The prisoner says that the rebel Governor of Galilee, Yosef ben Matthias, is indeed within the walls organising the defence of Jotapata.’

  Titus looked down at the man. ‘And he’s completely certain of this?’

  The optio barked some more before the prisoner replied wearily.

  ‘He is, sir! He says that Yosef’s vanity would not let him be eclipsed by the likes of Yohanan ben Levi, the hero of Gabara.’

  ‘The hero?’ Vespasian said incredulously. ‘That’s an interesting way of looking at the man who presided over the deaths of thousands of his own people. Ask him why he chose to get out when Yosef arrived.’

  ‘He has a blood-feud with Yosef’s family,’ the optio translated. ‘He had little choice but to leave when Yosef arrived, otherwise he would have surely died.’

  ‘Just as surely as he’s going to die now,’ Titus said.

  Vespasian put his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Keep him alive; he knows the layout of the town.’

  ‘I’ve got agents in there who can tell us that.’

  ‘They’re more help to us on the inside; we may have use of an assassin.’ Vespasian contemplated the town for a few more moments. ‘What do we know about their supplies, Titus?’

  ‘The three agents whom I trust, in as much as you can trust anything that these people say, tell me that they have a good supply of grain but very little salt. There is no well in there and they have to rely on rainwater stored in a public cistern, and, as we know—’

  ‘There has hardly been any rain since we arrived,’ Vespasian cut in. ‘So the level in their cistern must be getting low. What do your double agents say?’

  ‘They say that there is plenty of everything and that they have just dug a well and could hold out for a year or more.’

  ‘Really?’ Vespasian looked down at the prisoner. ‘What does he say? Ask him if there’s a well in the town, optio, and how long he thinks that the supplies will hold out.’

  ‘There isn’t a well, sir!’ the optio announced, having shouted at the man for a while before receiving a muted reply. ‘Just the cistern, which is about half full. He doesn’t think that they’ve got food and water for more than forty days, sir!’

  ‘Forty days, eh? Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. In forty days I’d like to be negotiating the surrender of Jerusalem, not sitting and rotting in front of this shithole waiting for them to drop down dead. Bollocks to forty days; we attack at first light. Titus, you can win yourself some glory here; no point in giving it all to the auxiliaries: I want your legion to attempt an escalade; let’s see what these Jews have got.’

  ‘Thank you, Hormus,’ Vespasian said, handing back to his freedman four letters, newly dictated, that he had just signed, before taking a sip of wine.

  ‘Who are you writing to, my love?’ Caenis asked as she walked into Vespasian’s study, smelling of rosewater, having somehow managed to have a bath.

  ‘I’m surprised that you don’t know, seeing as nothing seems to escape your notice.’ He topped up his wine and poured Caenis a fresh one.

  ‘Oh, so we’re playing a game, are we?’ She accepted the proffered cup and took a sip, thinking theatrically. ‘Your brother, Sabinus, for one.’

  Vespasian raised his drink to her as she sat on a leather couch next to his desk, her skin glowing soft and her raven hair full of lustre in the lamplight. ‘Very good, but an easy guess.’

  ‘You want him to make subtle enquiries as to the mood of the Praetorian Guard prefects.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘It’s what I would do. The second is to Herod Agrippa refusing his demand that he join you and personally take command of his troops.’

  Vespasian inclined his head. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because you dislike him as much as you did his father and you don’t trust his motives for wanting to join the campaign.’

  ‘Yes, the slimy little shit is hoping that when the rebellion is put down Nero will make him King of Judaea like Claudius did his equally untrustworthy namesake of a father. I’ll not have him boasting to Nero that he sent troops to help and led them in person, putting himself in some danger; I’d rather have him sitting and festering in Tyre as he’s doing at the moment. I won’t have him trying to steal any of my glory and raising his standing in the Emperor’s eyes. It will be interesting to see if he accepts my refusal or writes again begging to come.’

  ‘He might just come anyway.’

  ‘He might, but I get the feeling that since he lost Tiberias to Yosef and his rebels, Herod Agrippa prefers to remain safe within the walls of Tyre. The letters are just for form’s sake so he can say to Nero that he wanted to join the campaign but I wouldn’t let him because of the enmity that has always existed between his family and mine. Third one?’

  ‘Mucianus?’

  ‘Oh, you are good. Yes, I felt that I should smooth over my relationship with the newly appointed Governor of Syria. We’re old friends, he was my thick-stripe tribune in the Second Augusta for a while, you know.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, I’ve apologised to him for not consulting him more about the coming campaign and asking his advice and that sort of nonsense, which should flatter him back to being amenable towards me after his lack of co-operation in handing over the Fifth and Tenth to my command.’

  ‘Very wise, my love; a friendly governor of Syria is far better than a hostile one. But I have to confess, I have no idea who the fourth letter is to.’

  ‘Hah! So you’re not a goddess after all, you are fallible. Well, it was to Tiberius Alexander.’

  ‘The prefect of Egypt?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘He could be useful to cultivate.’

  ‘I don’t need to cultivate him; he owes me his life.’
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br />   Caenis was intrigued.

  ‘When Caligula sent me to Alexandria to bring him back Alexander’s breastplate so that he could wear it as he rode over his ridiculous bridge across the Bay of Neapolis, tensions were very high between the Jews and the Greeks.’

  ‘When are they not?’

  ‘Quite. Well, I had some private business with his father, Alexander, the Alabarch of the Alexandrian Jews, and got to like him immensely. When the massacres started he appealed for my aid and I led a unit into the Jewish Quarter and got the Alabarch and most of his family out. They had already started to flay Tiberius alive, a fate that his mother died from, but I got there just in time and only a couple of strips of skin had been torn from his back. So, you see, he does owe me.’

  Caenis’ eyes widened. ‘That is most fortuitous. He has two legions in his province.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve just written to him to say hello and remind him, gently, of his debt.’

  ‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you, my love?’

  Vespasian shrugged and took another sip of wine. ‘I don’t know yet; but what I do know is that it doesn’t hurt to have people from whom you can call in favours.’

  ‘So true.’ Caenis placed her cup down upon a table and looked at him with invitation in her eyes. ‘And now, Vespasian, I’m pretty sure that you owe me a couple of favours and so I’m calling at least one of them in.’

  ‘You look tired,’ Magnus commented as Vespasian stepped out into the chill, pre-dawn air; Castor and Pollux, Magnus’ two fearsomely muscled hunting dogs, strained on their leashes as they tried to welcome Vespasian to the new day.

  ‘Really? Well, I don’t feel it,’ Vespasian replied, scratching the dogs’ heads as they slavered over his knees. ‘In fact, I’m feeling great.’

  ‘Ahh, I see: looking tired but feeling great; horizontal wrestling always has that effect.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can remember.’

  ‘Now, don’t mock, sir; there’s plenty of fight and fuck left in me, as I always say.’