Rome’s Fallen Eagle (9 page)

The second debt was a more ignominious memory and Vespasian still felt the shame of it. At the Lady Antonia’s behest he and his aristocratic friend Corbulo had murdered Poppaeus Sabinus, who had been financing Sejanus’ successor, Macro’s, bid for power. The deed had taken place in Claudius’ house, with Narcissus and Pallas’ help, during the exchange of Claudius’ debt of fourteen million denarii to Poppaeus for seven of his valuable estates in the province of Egypt. Claudius had been left very wealthy, retaining both the debt marker and the seven estates. This was the favour that Vespasian hoped Narcissus would repay. Although Narcissus had acknowledged his obligation to him at the time, Vespasian knew that there was no way that he could force the issue as it was completely deniable – for they had made it seem Poppaeus had died of natural causes.

These thoughts played around Vespasian’s mind as they trudged up the Palatine, in foreboding silence, until they arrived at the front of the palace complex.

Vespasian was shocked by the sight that greeted them: in the open space before the building, now very cramped owing to Caligula’s ill-considered extensions to Augustus’ once grand house, milled hundreds of senators and equites, stamping their feet and hunching their shoulders in the miserable weather. ‘What are they all doing outside in the cold?’ he wondered. ‘The atrium can’t be full yet.’

‘All of Rome wants to know how they stand with the new regime,’ Gaius suggested. ‘Magnus, stay here with Sabinus and the lads, we’ll go and see what’s happening.’

Vespasian and Gaius eased their way through the disgruntled crowd, offering greetings to rivals and acquaintances, until they saw the cause of the impasse: arranged in front of the main doors was a century of Praetorians, still, outrageously, in full military uniform. In front of them were four desks manned by imperial clerks to whom senators and equites alike were giving their names to be checked against a list of people due to be admitted that day. The look on the faces of those who had been turned away told of the indignation and humiliation felt by those of the highest classes being refused access to their Emperor by mere slaves.

‘Not even Caligula went this far,’ Gaius fumed quietly. ‘In fact, he positively welcomed people coming to greet him every morning.’

‘That’s because, being an immortal, he had no fear of assassination.’

Gaius and Vespasian turned round to see Pallas who had once more managed to catch them unawares.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, again putting an arm around their damp shoulders. ‘I’ve been waiting for you in order to help Sabinus circumvent Narcissus’ new admittance policy. Where is he?’

Vespasian pointed through the crowd. ‘Back there with Magnus in a handcart; he can’t walk too well.’

‘I’ll have my men take them through a side entrance.’ Pallas signalled to a couple of clerks waiting on him to come closer. After a brief muted conversation, during which Pallas seemed to reiterate a particular point, they went off on their errand. ‘They’ll take him to my new quarters where he can wait until the interview. Now we should get you through.’

‘Is this going to happen every day?’ Vespasian asked as they moved towards the nearest desk.

‘Yes, only those with appointments will get through and then they will be searched for weapons by the Praetorians.’

‘Senators searched?’ Gaius huffed.

‘Julius Caesar would have done well to follow that policy,’ Vespasian observed, trying to lighten his uncle’s mood. ‘If he had we might be living in a different world today.’

Pallas remained expressionless. ‘I very much doubt it.’

Half an hour later, having finally got through to the expansive and imposing atrium – designed by Augustus to overawe foreign embassies with the sombre dignity and majesty of Rome – Vespasian was surprised by how few people were waiting to be seen. Their quiet conversations were almost inaudible above the splatter of the central fountain and the slapped footsteps of an excessive number of imperial functionaries walking to and fro with wax tablets and scrolls. He was relieved, however, to notice
that in the two days since Caligula’s assassination most of the more vulgar decor that had so pleased the brash young Emperor had been replaced by the original, more subtle but exquisitely manufactured furnishings, ornaments and statuary that he had so admired when he had first seen the chamber.

‘I will leave you here, gentlemen,’ Pallas said, indicating to a pair of chairs either side of a table, beneath a much idealised statue purporting to be of Claudius. ‘You will be called in due course. One of my men will alert me as you go in and I will bring Sabinus. Good luck.’

‘Thank you, Pallas,’ Vespasian said, offering his arm, ‘for all your help.’

Pallas stepped back. ‘I can’t take your arm, my friend, not in public. If Narcissus hears of it then he will think of you more as my man, not his. For your sake you should cultivate him now; he’s the real power here; Callistus and I are secondary.’ He turned to go, before adding quietly: ‘However, Claudius is only fifty-two and has a good few more years to live.’

A slave offered them a tray of assorted fruit juices as they sat down and watched Pallas disappear through the columns.

‘I’m beginning to think that we might have been better off under Caligula,’ Gaius said, taking a cup.

Vespasian kicked his uncle’s shin under the table as he selected his drink and waited for the slave to leave. ‘Careful what you say, Uncle. We’re loyal supporters of Claudius, remember? That’s the only viable option at the moment. At least he’s not setting himself up over us as a god.’

Gaius smirked. ‘Even if his favoured freedman is beginning to act like one?’

Vespasian looked away so as not to laugh and saw an unwelcome sight walking through the main doors: Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus, the man who had, by abducting Clementina and delivering her to Caligula, knowingly set in motion the train of events that had led to Caligula’s assassination and his sister, Messalina’s, rise to empress. His striking, patrician face had an expression of immense satisfaction on it as he strode through the atrium as if he owned the place.

Vespasian had first encountered the man whilst serving as a quaestor in Cyrenaica and they had become enemies. Now he turned his head to avoid being seen; but too late.

‘What are you doing here, bumpkin?’ Corvinus sneered, looking down his long, aristocratic nose. ‘I can’t imagine that there are any positions for foolhardy country boys who enjoy abandoning their social betters to slavers and losing over a hundred men in the desert.’

Vespasian got to his feet, his jaw rigid. It was true that his venture against the desert-dwelling Marmarides tribe had been foolhardy – he had undertaken it solely to impress Flavia – but he did not like being reminded of the fact. ‘My family still have a score to settle with you for what you did to Clementina, Corvinus.’

‘Really? I should say we’re equal.’

‘Not after what Caligula put her through.’

‘Would it help to know that it was mainly business? Although, I will admit there was a sweet mix of pleasure in it as well; I knew that the only person who stood a good chance of assassinating Caligula would be one of the Praetorian prefects. So Clementina was just perfect to have my revenge on you and to goad Clemens into clearing the way for my sister to become empress. Your idiot brother even unwittingly told me where she was; I was surprised he didn’t join with Clemens in the assassination – or is he happy being a dishonourable cuckold?’

‘You don’t want to make it any worse.’

‘An empty threat, bumpkin. I’ll speak to you any way I want; Messalina’s empress now and if you want my advice you should consider us square.’

Vespasian opened his mouth to argue as a clerk cleared his throat next to them. ‘The imperial secretary will see you now, sirs.’

Corvinus creased his nose as if he had trodden in something unpleasant and then turned on his heel and strolled away, seemingly without a care.

‘Follow me, sirs,’ the clerk said, turning to go.

‘That, my dear boy,’ Gaius whispered, ‘is a very wellconnected man whom you’d be wise to steer clear of.’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Vespasian snapped. ‘But I think that I’ve got more pressing issues to worry about at the moment; Sabinus’ life, for example.’

CHAPTER IIII

A
WAY FROM THE
atrium, the palace seemed almost completely deserted. They passed the occasional imperial functionary in the high, wide corridors as they snaked their way deep into the complex. The overcast day allowed for very little light or heat to enter through the few, high-set windows and the atmosphere was chill and gloomy; the clacking of the hardened leather soles of their red senatorial shoes echoing around them made Vespasian feel that he was being led to a place of incarceration rather than to the centre of power.

Eventually the clerk stopped outside a grand set of double doors; he knocked on the black lacquered wood.

‘Enter,’ a familiar voice ordered languidly.

The clerk swung the heavy door open, slowly and soundlessly, and then ushered Vespasian and Gaius into a room, predominantly decorated in deep red, awash with flickering golden light.

‘Good day to you, Senators Pollo and Vespasian,’ Narcissus crooned from behind a sturdy oaken desk littered with scrolls; he did not get up. Five chairs were placed opposite him in a semicircle; the left-hand one was already occupied.

‘Good day, imperial secretary,’ Vespasian and Gaius replied, almost simultaneously.

Narcissus indicated the slight, shaven-headed man already seated. ‘Do you know my fellow freedman, Callistus?’

‘Our paths have crossed,’ Vespasian confirmed.

Callistus nodded briefly to them. ‘Senators.’

‘Please, have a seat,’ Narcissus offered.

They walked forward. In each corner of the room, standing in front of a curved, polished bronze mirror, was an identical silver candelabrum. All had ten arms and were set on four legs ending
in perfectly formed lion’s feet; each was as tall as a man, and gave out a beautiful golden light.

Gaius and Vespasian took the two central unoccupied chairs and sat stiffly on the hard wooden seats; Narcissus evidently did not want his interviewees to feel comfortable. The scent of his lush pomade enshrouded them as they sat.

The freedman considered them for a while with his extravagantly ringed fingers steepled, resting against full, moist lips protruding from a neatly combed beard. He cocked his head slowly as if to get a better view; two weighty, gold earrings rocked gently, glistering in the magnified candlelight. Behind him rivulets of rain trickled down the outside of a window, crisscrossed with lattice work supporting the individual, almost translucent, glass panes. Next to it, a heavy curtain blocked the draught from a door leading to the outside world.

Vespasian had not seen Narcissus up close for two or more years and he noticed new lines of stress etched into his wellfleshed, fair-skinned face. He was also evidently greying as there were tell-tale signs of dye staining the skin around his hairline.

Vespasian and Gaius sat in uncomfortable silence as they were scrutinised, unsure of whether it was their place to open the conversation or not.

A merest hint of amusement flickered across Narcissus’ iceblue eyes as he sensed their unease; he linked his fingers and gently laid his hands on the desk. ‘So what is a life worth?’ he mused, almost rhetorically. He let the question hang in the air for a few moments before gazing directly at Vespasian.

‘That depends on who is buying and who’s selling.’

The corners of Narcissus’ mouth rose slightly and he nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes, Vespasian, market forces are always at work, especially in the commodity that we’re trading in at present. That’s why I find myself in such a delicate position in this case. There have been prior investments made by both parties in this deal and I’m forced to admit that one outweighs the other.’

Vespasian tensed inwardly; was Narcissus remembering his debts? A knock at the door ruptured the silence; Vespasian almost jumped.

‘Ah!’ Narcissus exclaimed with interest. ‘That will be the arrival of the object of our bargaining. Enter!’

Vespasian frowned; how did Narcissus know of Sabinus’ presence? Gaius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, which was too narrow to fully support his ample behind.

The door opened and Pallas walked in; Sabinus followed, supported by Magnus.

‘Secretary to the treasury, how good of you to bring the masked assassin.’

If Pallas was surprised that Narcissus was expecting them it did not show on his face. ‘I am glad to be of service in clearing up this matter, imperial secretary.’

‘Of great service, my dear Pallas, please stay,’ Narcissus urged, his voice brimming with overly genuine entreaty. ‘I have had five chairs put out.’

Pallas inclined his head. ‘It would be my pleasure, my dear Narcissus; I wouldn’t wish to upset your seating arrangements.’ He took the chair between Gaius and Callistus.

Vespasian was confused: who was surprising whom? Or were the freedmen acting and this meeting had been planned in advance?

Narcissus looked over to Sabinus, pale and resting on Magnus’ shoulder. ‘Our surprise visitor: the legate of the Ninth Hispana; and so far from his posting. Or ex-legate to be more accurate, which is a pity really as my people in that legion tell me that Camp Prefect Vibianus and Primus Pilus Laurentius are very impressed by you, but no matter. I guessed it was you when one of my agents saw a hooded man being taken secretly into Pallas’ apartments earlier. Well, well. Please sit down, ex-legate; you, out of all of us, look like you most need a chair.’

‘Thank you, Narcissus,’ Sabinus said, hobbling to the chair next to Vespasian.

‘My title is imperial secretary,’ Narcissus reminded him coldly.

Sabinus swallowed. ‘My apologies, imperial secretary.’ Magnus helped him down.

Narcissus put a finger to his lips in thought and then shook it gently at Magnus. ‘The redoubtable Magnus of the South
Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood; of course, that’s where you were hiding, Sabinus. Why did I not think of that?’ He turned to Pallas. ‘But you did, I’m sure, esteemed colleague; or did Magnus’ involvement with this family slip your memory too?’