‘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
CHAPTER I
Vespasian 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.
He had not always been so; the first year had been reasonably interesting and fulfilling. After mopping up the remnants of the Thracian rebels, Pomponius Labeo had marched the V Macedonica, most of the IIII Scythica, the cavalry alae and the auxiliary cohorts back to their bases on the River Danuvius in Moesia, leaving Publius Junius Caesennius Paetus, the prefect of the one remaining auxiliary Illyrian cavalry ala, in command of the garrison. Vespasian had been left in nominal command of the two remaining legionary cohorts, the second and fifth, of the IIII Scythica; although in practice he deferred to the senior centurion Lucius Caelus, the acting prefect of the camp, who tolerated him but made it plain what he thought of young upstarts placed in positions of command solely because of their social rank.
However, Vespasian had learnt a lot from Caelus and his brother centurions as they kept their men busy with field manoeuvres, road- and bridge-building and maintenance of equipment and the camp; but these were peacetime duties and after a while he had grown weary of them and yearned for the excitement of war that he had experienced, only too briefly, in his first couple of months in Thracia. But war never came, just its pale reflection in the form of endless parades and drills.
For entertainment he had been subjected to more dinners than was good for his waistline at the palace with Queen Tryphaena and various local or visiting Roman dignitaries. His attempts to elicit news of Rome from either the Queen or her guests had yielded only vague and unopinionated information — even this far from Rome, people were reluctant to speak their minds, suggesting that the atmosphere in the city was tense. Sejanus was still Praetorian Prefect and very much in favour with Tiberius, who remained isolated on Capreae. How Antonia, his patron, was faring in her political struggle with Sejanus to preserve the legitimate government in Rome remained a mystery. Marooned for so long in this backwater, only nominally a part of the empire, Vespasian was feeling like a forgotten piece on the edge of the gaming board. He longed to return to Rome where perhaps he could once again be of service to Antonia and further his career through her patronage. He could do nothing here but stagnate.
His long sojourn in Thracia did have one inevitable consequence: his Greek, the lingua franca of the East, was now fluent. He had also mastered the local Thracian tongue well enough, but that had been a necessity rather than a pleasure. Hunting had been the only activity that had provided any satisfaction, exercise or excitement; but this morning that too had been an anti-climax.
Vespasian shot at the prone form of the stag in irritation; the arrow passed through its neck and skewered it to the forest floor. He immediately chided himself for acting out of pique and failing to show due respect for the creature that had so bravely tried to evade him for the last hour. He pushed his way through the undergrowth and, after muttering a perfunctory prayer of thanks to Diana, goddess of hunting, over the dead animal he took out his knife and began to eviscerate the still warm body. He consoled himself with the thought that his four years in the army were over; March was coming to an end and the sea lanes were reopening after winter, his replacement would arrive soon. Soon he would be going back to Rome with the prospect of advancement, a junior magistrate’s post, one of the Vigintiviri and also, as importantly, the prospect of seeing Caenis, Antonia’s secretary. She flickered before his eyes as he worked his blade in and out of the stag’s belly; her delicate, moist lips, her sparkling blue eyes so full of love and grief as she had said goodbye to him; her lithe body, naked before him in the dim light of a single oil lamp on the one and only night that they had slept together. He wanted to hold her again, to smell and taste her, to have her for his own; but how could that be? She was still a slave and, according to the law, could not be manumitted until she was at least thirty. He worked his blade harder and faster as he contemplated the futility of the situation. Even if she were freed he could never marry her as he had dreamed of doing with the naivety of a sixteen-year-old; someone of his position, with his ambition, could never take a freedwoman as a wife. He could, however, keep her as his mistress, but then how would that be for the woman whom he would take as his wife? She would just have to live with it, he decided as he pulled the last scrapings of offal from the carcass.