Robert Fabbri
The Alexandrian Embassy
ROME, MAY AD 39
Marcus Salvius Magnus did not look impressed; far from it. His pugilist’s face was crowned with a heavy frown; dark eyes stared grim from above a battered nose at the suave man across the desk as his index finger took out his aggression on one of his cauliflower ears, drilling it deeply. ‘I’ve not come all the way here, Tatianus, to be told that the shipment hasn’t arrived and, in fact, may never arrive.’
Tatianus shrugged; the two thick gold chains around his neck glinted in the lamplight. He flicked away a fly that had had the temerity to land on the sleeve of his fine-spun pastel-green tunic and then met Magnus’ hostile gaze. ‘I’m afraid, Magnus, that it looks rather as if that’s exactly what you’ve done because it’s not here. I do, however, think that you’re exaggerating when you claim that I said it may never arrive. I believe that I told you that it would not arrive in the near future.’ With his little finger extended, he took an elegant sip of wine from a silver cup and swilled it around his mouth; his eyebrows creased and his lips puckered in appreciation of the vintage.
Magnus struggled to keep his temper; he had never liked this smooth middle-man but, unfortunately, when it came to acquiring certain items, he was forced to do business with him. ‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘By the near future I mean today and tomorrow, so, by process of deduction, my statement means that the earliest your order will arrive is in two days’ time.’
Magnus’ fist slammed down on the desk causing his untouched cup of wine to disgorge some of its contents onto the waxed walnut-wood surface. ‘You promised me that it would be here by two days before the Ides of May, and that is today.’
The room was not large and Magnus’ voice filled it, causing Tatianus to wince. ‘My dear Magnus, shouting at me is not going to make the slightest difference to the speed with which your order gets past the Urban Cohort guards on the city’s gates. A consignment of fifty swords or a dozen re-curved Scythian composite bows are one thing: they can be hidden beneath a load of vegetables or suchlike, but a Scorpion? That’s a very big piece of kit to conceal. And bearing in mind that it is illegal for all but the Praetorian Guard and the Urban Cohorts to carry swords within the city, just imagine how much more illegal it would be to be caught in possession of a legionary bolt-shooter?’ Tatianus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve resisted asking but now my curiosity has got the better of me: what in Hades’ name do you want a Scorpion in the city for? It’s not as if you can reassemble it anywhere public without it being noticed.’
‘I’ll tell you what I want it in the city for, Tatianus. I want it in the city for the thousand denarii that I’ve paid you up front, and the balance of a thousand that I’ve brought with me, that’s what I want it in the city for.’
‘And you shall, Magnus, you shall; but not today. The centurion with whom I have a close financial understanding won’t be on duty at the Capena Gate on the Appian Way until the midnight of the Ides; as your delivery is coming up that road in three different carts, we’ll get them through then in the early morning. You can bring back the balance at the third hour of the Ides; I’ll be out until then.’ Tatianus raised his shoulders and spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Unless, of course, you would rather leave it here for safekeeping rather than risk walking back to the Quirinal with such a large amount at night?’ He gestured to the formidable-looking iron-reinforced wooden door with many locks, behind him. ‘I have the most secure strongroom.’
‘Leave you the money before you give me the goods? Bollocks! I’ve brought five of my lads with me; we’ll be fine.’
‘Just trying to be helpful, that’s all,’ Tatianus muttered, taking another sip of wine. ‘Remember, I only hold onto the items for a few hours. If you don’t come with the money quickly then I offload it to the first comer and your deposit is forfeit. It’s all one to me.’
Magnus checked himself, swallowing a string of invective, and then looked around the painted and gilded items of furniture in Tatianus’ study. The tables and sideboard bore the trappings of a wealthy but tasteful man: exquisite coloured glass vessels, their rich umber and turquoise hues warm in the flickering light, were interspersed with many small, delicately sculptured figurines of gods; more gods, in fact, than Magnus had ever seen in one room. Lining two of the walls were shelves full of scrolls, almost all of them contracts, for Tatianus liked to keep his business close to hand in the only room in which he would discuss it. Tatianus visited no man. All who required his services had to come and pay court to him; he would have it no other way, and all of Rome’s underworld knew it and accepted it. ‘Very well,’ Magnus conceded, calming somewhat and getting up, ‘I’ll come back on the Ides and it had better be here or …’
‘Or what, Magnus?’ Tatianus leant across the desk and steepled his hands as if his interest had been exceedingly piqued. ‘What would the patronus of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood have to threaten me with? A drubbing in a dark alley or an arsonistic visit to my home, perhaps? The latter’s more your style from what I hear. Or you might even skewer me with a Scorpion bolt if you could find someone else who could supply you with that particular item; but of course, you can’t, can you?’ He sat back in his chair and gave Magnus a pleasant smile. ‘So it’s “or nothing”, isn’t it, Magnus? And if you ever say “or” to me again it will be the last word you will ever utter in this room because my services will be closed to you. Understand?’
Magnus closed his eyes and grimaced; Tatianus was a man he could not afford to alienate. ‘I apologise, Tatianus, I meant nothing by it. I’m sure you will do your best to get my order here as quickly as possible.’
‘Of course, my friend; of course I will.’ Tatianus, suddenly all affability once more, rose and walked around the desk and, clapping an arm around Magnus’ shoulders, guided him to the door; he was a full head taller than his guest. ‘It’s been a pleasure as always.’ He opened the door and slapped Magnus’ back so hard it propelled him out of the room.
The door slammed closed leaving Magnus, seething inside at the humiliation of being dismissed in such a patronising manner, standing in a brightly lit, marble-floored corridor, staring at two grinning henchmen. With as much dignity as he could muster he barged his way past the two heavies and stomped back down the stairs and on through the house to the atrium.
‘Where do we take this, Magnus?’ Marius, a tall, shaven-headed crossroads brother, asked, pointing the leather-bound stump of his left arm at a strongbox on the floor.
Magnus shook his head at the five crossroads brothers who had accompanied him with the money from the Quirinal to the Esquiline Hill. ‘Put it back on the cart, lads; we’re leaving empty-handed.’
The largest and most oxen-like of the brethren turned his hands over and stared at the half-eaten onion in his right palm.
‘It’s an expression, Sextus,’ Magnus snapped, venting his frustration on the slow-witted brother as he headed into the vestibule and grabbed his cloak from its hook. The doorkeeper performed his role with alacrity and Magnus stepped out into the drizzleladen gloom of an overcast, but warm, May night. Pulling his hood over his head, he kicked the slave belonging to Tatianus who had been keeping watch on the handcart, shouldered him into the gutter – the man’s head narrowly missing the wheel of a passing wagon – and then walked at pace straight down the raised, ill-lit pavement, forcing other pedestrians to stand aside for him. His five brethren scurried after their patronus, placing the strongbox under a pile of rags on the cart, pushing it out into the constant delivery traffic that plagued Rome’s streets at night and shoving the filth-splattered slave back down into the gutter as they did so.