‘Quite so; and it’s best not to dwell on it. It’s always hard to return to being a politician after a few years of being a blunt, plain-speaking soldier.’
And that very thought had been revolving around Vespasian’s mind repeatedly for the last couple of months as his inevitable return to Rome approached: how would he adapt back into the narrow confines of imperial politics, keeping his opinions to a minimum and well hidden whilst being subject to the will of others? How would he cope after so long in the field commanding his own legion and auxiliaries? That he would be sucked back down into the schemes of Claudius’ freedmen upon his return as they struggled for the mastery of Rome, he was in no doubt. Their plotting had even followed him to the very limits of the Empire by way of Pallas’ letter, the previous year, demanding — in the form of a polite request — that he send Paetus back to Rome. However, this time he would not just be acting to further the ambition of others; this time he would have an objective of his own in mind; this time he would have a price and that price would be the removal of Flavia and the children from the imperial palace and out of the reach of the Empress Messalina and her brother, Corvinus. But he knew that the transition from soldier to politician would be difficult and he inclined his head to indicate to Plautius his sympathy. ‘I imagine that keeping one’s political thoughts to oneself after four years of saying exactly what you think militarily will be a challenge.’
‘Thank you for your understanding, Vespasian.’ Plautius looked at Sabinus. ‘And yours too, I hope, Sabinus.’
A scratching on the leather door prevented Sabinus from replying immediately; Vespasian signalled Hormus to find out from the guards who wanted to see him.
‘I think that it is fair to say that it would be hypocritical of my brother and me to condemn the views that you may have expressed, sir,’ Sabinus observed as Hormus glanced around the door.
Plautius burst into laughter. ‘And when did hypocrisy stop anyone from doing anything?’
With a relieved glance at Sabinus in thanks for defusing the situation, Vespasian motioned to Hormus to speak.
‘Theron, the slave-trader,’ Hormus said with palpable tension in his voice.
‘Show him in.’
Hormus pulled the door aside and ushered in his former owner.
‘Greetings, most noble Vespasian,’ the Macedonian crooned, bowing unnecessarily low whilst keeping his eyes raised, taking in everyone else in the room. As they rested on Plautius they widened in alarm and his body became rigid, frozen mid-bow.
‘Good evening, Theron,’ Vespasian said, suppressing his amusement. ‘Have you brought that contract for me?’
Pulling himself upright, Theron did his best to cover his consternation at having the Governor, the Emperor’s representative in the province, overhearing their conversation. ‘Er, yes, your honour …’
‘Just address me as “legate”!’
‘Y-y-yes, legate. And greetings to you, most exalted Governor Plautius; may I say what an honour it is to meet you again?’
Plautius looked at the slave-trader with abject disgust and disdained to give an opinion as to whether he was at liberty to say that or not.
‘Give it to Hormus and I’ll look at it later; come back at dawn.’
Theron handed the scroll to Hormus who trembled visibly. ‘I trust that you are getting, er,’ he smiled knowingly, ‘satisfactionfrom this fine specimen that I sold to you at such generous terms, legate?’
Vespasian jumped to his feet and hurled his half-full wine cup at the slave-dealer, staining his saffron cloak red. ‘Get out, you filth! And take your contract with you. If you want me to sign it then bring it back in the morning with ten per cent crossed out and replaced by twelve.’
Theron looked in horror at Vespasian. ‘My humblest apologies, most noble legate, I meant no insult, I was merely making pleasant conversation.’
‘Hormus, you have permission to physically kick the man out.’
Hormus looked from his master to his former owner with timid uncertainty all over his face. Theron grabbed the contract from the immobile slave’s hand and bowed his way backwards from the tent with a flurry of unctuous apologies.
‘You’ll regret doing business with that man, Vespasian,’ Plautius informed him. ‘I was forced to use some rather persuasive methods to extract what he owed me for allowing the slave-traders to act as a cartel and fix the price they pay for new stock. All the others paid up reasonably promptly. I ended up throwing him out of the province last year once I got my money. I didn’t know that he was back.’
‘He turned up this morning and offered me a business proposition, which I accepted.’
‘Very wise; four years serving Rome with no reward other than the satisfaction of doing one’s duty — despite one’s lack of military prowess — can be a drain on the coffers and we don’t have long left to refill them. Just keep an eye on him, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I will, in fact I’ll do-’
A bucina’s blare from outside cut him off; the door was suddenly pushed open and Camp Prefect Maximus burst in. ‘You’d better come quickly, sir; there’s at least two dozen small boats in the estuary. They’re trying to torch the biremes.’
CHAPTER VIII
‘Get Glaucius and his Hamians down to the river now, Maximus!’ Vespasian shouted, sprinting out into the camp, slinging his sword’s baldric over his shoulder. ‘And then have Ansigar and three turmae of his Batavians meet me at the gates.’
In amongst all the tents, legionaries and auxiliaries, some still chewing on their last mouthfuls of supper, were struggling to tie on their lorica segmentata or wriggle into their chain mail, cramming helmets on their heads, fastening belts and then grabbing weapons and shields before forming up by centuries and then cohorts along the hundred-foot gap running between the palisade and the tent lines. Burnished iron glinted with torchlight, steam wafted into the air as slaves poured water onto cooking fires; centurions and optiones, themselves trying to remedy their various states of undress, bellowed at their men for more urgency as bucina calls rent the air, unnecessarily resounding the alarm.
Vespasian sprinted the length of the Via Principalis, through the gates, past the two guard-duty centuries forming up beyond them, and cursed vociferously as he came out into the golden, flickering glow of a bireme burning like a beacon in the middle of the estuary. Silhouetted by the flames, scores of figures struggled in the water, splashing to stay afloat or, if capable, swimming to shore away from the ship in which they rowed and slept, and that had now become a blazing tomb.
Small boats, fifteen to twenty feet long, under oars, circled around the next two biremes in the line, their crews lobbing lit torches onto the decks and through the oar-ports and hurling fire-spears into the hulls. Sailors fought with buckets of water to prevent the flames catching the dry planking and the pitch-sealed horsehair with which they were caulked. Other oarsmen heaved javelins, broken out from the weapons boxes at the base of the mainmasts, at their attackers, driving them off but not before many of their incendiary weapons had struck their mark.
In the few moments that Vespasian surveyed the scene, flames burst forth from the bow of a second bireme, next in line; the faint-hearts amongst its crew dived into the water whilst the steadier members renewed their fire-fighting efforts — to little visible effect.
‘Centurions, with me!’ Vespasian roared at the officers of the two guard-duty centuries. He set off down the slope towards the triremes under construction along the riverbank, just a hundred paces away. Easily outpacing the men doubling behind him, Vespasian arrived at the skeletal frames of the great ships; a dozen of the attacking boats now steered towards them. With five or six sweeps pulling on either side their speed gradually increased as they closed on their objective. Standing at their bows and sterns, fire-wielding warriors roared their rowing comrades on, eager to spread destruction through the makeshift shipyard.