Rome's Executioner (2 page)

‘The tribune will see you shortly,’ the door guard said curtly. He was dressed in the uniform of the Praetorian Guard when on duty within the bounds of the city: a white-bordered black tunic, belted at the waist; and a white toga, under which a gladius hung from a baldric slung over his shoulder. ‘Your weapons please.’

Reluctantly they handed their swords and daggers to the guard who placed them, out of reach, upon the desk. Having not been invited to sit, Sabinus and Pallas stood in silence; the Praetorian walked over to the curtained doorway and took up position there, hand on gladius hilt, his blank, pale-blue eyes staring at them steadily from beneath a mono-brow.

From beyond the curtain came the unmistakable sound of a woman being pleasured. The guard showed no emotion as the soft moans gradually escalated, becoming shriller and longer, culminating in a loud cry of ecstasy that was abruptly cut short by a series of sharp, hard slaps; the woman started to sob but was silenced by a crashing blow that evidently knocked her out cold. In the ensuing quiet Sabinus looked nervously at Pallas who remained as impassive as the guard; being a slave he was used to being treated as part of the furniture and knew better than to let his emotions play on his face.

The curtain was abruptly swept aside; the guard sprang to attention. Out of the doorway stepped Naevius Sutorius Macro, a huge, barrel-chested man, well over six feet in height, in his late forties, dressed only in a Praetorian tunic, belted at the waist. His thick, tightly muscled forearms and legs were covered in short, wiry, black hair, great tufts of which also sprouted from beneath the collar of his tunic. Square-jawed, thin-lipped with dark, calculating eyes and hair cut short, military style, he was a man who exuded authority and the desire for power.

Pallas remained inscrutable but smiled inwardly; he could see that his mistress had chosen the man well for what she had in mind. Sabinus found himself snapping to attention even though he was no longer under military discipline. A flicker of amusement passed over Macro’s face, he was used to having that effect on people and enjoyed the superiority that it made him feel.

‘At ease, civilian,’ he drawled, enjoying the young man’s discomfiture at having made a fool of himself. ‘You know who I am otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Introduce yourself and then tell me why the Lady Antonia has seen fit to send me a young man of no importance and a slave to bear her message.’

Sabinus choked back the rage that he felt at the deliberate insult and drew himself up and met Macro’s eye. ‘I am Titus Flavius Sabinus and this is—’

‘I know who the slave is,’ Macro interrupted tersely, easing himself on to the stool behind the desk, ‘it’s you that interests me; where’s your family from?’

‘We are from Reate; my father was the pilus prior centurion of the second cohort of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix and fought under our beloved Emperor in Germania before receiving a medical discharge. My mother’s brother, Gaius Vespasius Pollo, is of senatorial rank and was a praetor seven years ago.’ Sabinus stopped, pitifully aware of just how mediocre his family was.

‘Yes, I know Senator Pollo; I used to be his client but he was too weak and ineffectual for what I want from Rome, so I did him the dishonour of repudiating him. A family insult you might wish to address some day?’

Sabinus shook his head. ‘I’m here solely on the Lady Antonia’s business.’

‘Well, nephew of an ex-praetor, what are you to Antonia?’ Macro’s eyes bored into Sabinus’.

‘My uncle is in her favour,’ he replied simply.

‘So the little fish of an ex-praetor seeks the protection of the great she-whale and in return he does her dirty work and his nephew is promoted to the lofty rank of messenger. Well, messenger, sit and deliver your message.’

Sabinus took the invitation, grateful that he no longer was being made to feel like a naughty schoolboy having to explain himself to his
grammaticus
. ‘I do not bear the message, Tribune; I am here only to add authority to the voice of a slave. Pallas has the message.’

‘Authority?’ Macro scoffed. ‘I suppose the good lady thought that I would not listen to a slave? Well, she was right, with or without “authority” why should I listen to a slave?’

‘Because if you don’t you might miss an interesting opportunity,’ Pallas said quietly, looking straight ahead.

Macro stared at him in disbelief, a quiver of rage shook his body. ‘How dare you speak to me, slave?’ he said with quiet menace. He turned back to Sabinus. ‘An interesting opportunity you say, go on.’

‘I’m afraid that I can’t tell you, Tribune, it was to Pallas that she entrusted the message, you will have to listen to him or we shall leave.’ Sabinus’ heart raced as he felt that he had overstepped the mark by pushing Macro into a corner.

Macro remained silent, torn between wishing to know what the most powerful woman in Rome could want with him and not wishing to compromise his
dignitas
by listening to the words of someone so beneath him. His curiosity won. ‘Speak then, slave,’ he said finally, ‘and make it brief.’

Pallas looked at Macro and then flicked his eyes towards the guard standing behind him.

‘Satrius Secundus stays, slave,’ Macro said, understanding the gesture. ‘He won’t betray any confidences; he’s my man to the hilt, aren’t you Secundus?’

‘To the hilt sir!’ the Praetorian barked.

‘As you wish sir,’ Pallas agreed, making a mental note of the man’s name to give to his mistress upon his return. ‘The Lady Antonia sends her greetings and apologises for not inviting you to her house and doing you the courtesy of speaking with you in person, but she feels sure that you will understand that there should be no evidence to connect the two of you, for the safety of you both.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it,’ Macro said, disliking the smooth-talking Greek intensely.

‘My mistress’ feud with Sejanus is no secret to you, sir. She now feels that she has the ability to bring this feud to an end, and expose Sejanus to the Emperor as a traitor bent upon usurping the Purple.’

Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘That is quite a claim. What proof does she suppose she has to convince the Emperor of this alleged treachery?’

‘Although she has for some time now been collecting evidence of Sejanus’ disloyalty it does not amount to a full case against him; a few documents corroborated by hearsay and speculation, but nothing solid, no witnesses, until now.’

‘A witness?’ Macro was intrigued. ‘What testimony will he be able to supply?’

‘My mistress naturally hasn’t taken me into her confidence on that matter.’

Macro nodded.

‘However,’ Pallas continued, ‘he is not a citizen; he won’t be testifying under oath, his testimony will be extracted under torture in front of Tiberius himself.’

‘How does she imagine she can get this man to the Emperor when we Praetorians control all access to him?’

‘This is where the Lady Antonia needs your help and she has this proposition for you: help her to bring down Sejanus and in return she will see to it that you become the next prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’

Macro’s eyes gleamed momentarily; he brought himself under control and smiled thinly. ‘How can she guarantee that?’

‘If the word of the Emperor’s sister-in-law is not enough then consider this: when Sejanus falls, and fall he will, the new prefect of the Guard will have to step in immediately to control the rank and file and to execute officers who remain loyal to old regime. This will have to be set up in advance and will cost money, a lot of money, which you don’t have. The Lady Antonia will provide you with what you need to buy the loyalty of key officers for when the time comes; meanwhile you work out who you will need to buy and start to cultivate them.’

Macro nodded his head slowly. ‘What about the problem of getting your witness to the Emperor?’

‘With all due respect sir, my mistress considers that to be your problem; she suggests that somehow you get yourself transferred to Capreae.’

‘Oh, does she now?’ Macro sneered. ‘As if it could be easily done just by putting in a transfer request.’ He fixed Pallas with an icy glare and studied him for a few moments; the Greek remained, as always, unreadable. ‘What is to prevent me’, Macro continued slowly, ‘from going to Sejanus now and telling him all that you have said? I wouldn’t give much for your life or the lives of this ex-praetor’s nephew and his family, would you?’

‘No, sir, but then I wouldn’t give much for your life either after you told him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that the very fact that you agreed to see us will give him cause to doubt your loyalty; he will assume that this time you were just not offered enough, but next time you may well be. I think that we will all be dead if you go to him.’

Macro stood and slammed his palm down on the desk.‘Secundus, sword!’ he shouted, grabbing a sword from the desk. The guard instantly drew his gladius and rushed at Sabinus and Pallas.

‘Ennia!’ Pallas shouted.

Macro raised his hand to stop his man. ‘Hold,’ he commanded. Secundus obeyed. ‘What has my wife got to do with this?’ Macro growled.

‘Nothing at the moment sir,’ Pallas replied flatly. ‘She is in very good company and no doubt enjoying herself.’

‘What do you mean, slave?’ Macro was becoming visibly agitated.

‘Soon after you left your house this evening the Lady Antonia sent a litter for your wife Ennia with an invitation to come and dine with her and her grandson Gaius; of course she could not refuse such an honour. We left as she arrived, and she will stay there until our safe return, so it may be advisable to have Secundus escort us.’

Macro tensed as if ready to fling himself at Pallas and then flopped back down on to his stool. ‘It seems that you leave me little choice,’ he said softly. He looked up at Pallas with hatred burning in his dark eyes. ‘But believe me, slave, I will have the balls off you for this insolence.’

Pallas knew better than to express an opinion on that subject.

‘Very well,’ Macro said, collecting himself. ‘Secundus will escort you back. Tell your mistress that I will do as she asks, but I do it for myself, not for her.’

‘She did not expect anything else from you, sir; she is well aware that this is an alliance of convenience. Now, with your permission we shall leave.’

‘Yes, go, get out,’ Macro snapped. ‘Oh, one question: when does Antonia want to get the witness before the Emperor?’

‘Not for at least six months.’

‘At least six months? You mean he’s not in Rome?’

‘No, sir, he’s not even in Italia. In fact he hasn’t even been captured yet.’

‘Where is he then?’

‘Moesia.’

‘Moesia? Who’s going to find him there and bring him back to Rome?’

‘Don’t concern yourself about that, sir,’ Pallas replied, turning to go, ‘it’s all in hand.’

PART I

P
HILIPPOPOLIS
, T
HRACIA
, M
ARCH
, AD 30

V
ESPASIAN EASED HIS
weight cautiously on to his left foot, trying not to rustle the dead leaves or crack any of the twigs that carpeted the snow-patched forest floor. He had covered the last few dozen paces with hardly a sound, his breath steaming in front of him as he tried to lower his heartbeat after a long chase. He was alone, having left his companions, two hunting slaves borrowed from the royal stables, a couple of miles back to follow on slowly with the horses as he stalked his wounded prey on foot. His quarry, a young stag, was close now; the trail of blood from the arrow wound to its neck he had inflicted earlier seemed fresher, a sign that he was gaining on the slowing animal, weakened by loss of blood. He pulled back the string of his hunting bow and brought the fletched end of the arrow to his cheek, ready to release. Hardly daring to breathe, he took another couple of steps forward and peered around, looking through gaps between the crowded trees for any sign of dun-coloured fur in amongst the umber and russet hues of a forest in winter.

A slight movement in the corner of his eye, off to the right, caused him to freeze momentarily. He held his breath as he slowly turned his stocky frame to face the source of the distraction. About twenty paces away, half-hidden in the tangled undergrowth, stood the stag, motionless, with blood-matted withers, staring dolefully at him. As Vespasian took aim it collapsed to the ground, making the shot unnecessary. Vespasian cursed, furious at being denied the excitement of the kill after such a long chase. It seemed to him to be a metaphor for the past three and a half years that he had spent in Thracia on garrison duty, since the quashing of the rebellion. Any promise of action would always fizzle out to nothing and he would return to camp, frustrated, with an unbloodied sword and sore feet from chasing a few brigands around the countryside. The harsh truth of the matter was that the Roman client kingdom of Thracia was at peace and he was bored.