There were three wooden seats, the sound of water trickling constantly from below and a strong scent from incense burning around the hanging lamp to cover almost all the smell. Laberius came in, lifting his tunic to sit alongside and soon started to talk. Hadrian wondered how often matters of state were discussed by two men defecating, but paid close attention.
The next morning Laberius went to call upon the emperor and was given a private audience, rather than being received with others obeying the same courtesy.
‘You spoke to him?’ Trajan’s voice was gruff, but then it often was. There was no sign of the after-effects of last night’s wine, even though any man must have felt them.
‘I did.’
‘And explained.’
‘As much as he need know.’
‘Good.’ Trajan had a habit of rubbing his chin. His hair was dark and thick, and Laberius knew that he often was shaved more than once a day. ‘Let’s hope the little shit can do his job.’
‘You really do not like him, do you, my lord?’
Trajan shrugged. ‘Don’t have to like him, he’s family.’
‘But he is capable,’ Laberius said, ‘and very bright indeed.’
‘Exactly. How can you trust a man as clever as that?’
‘Spoken like a Roman, my lord, if you will forgive me for saying so!’
The emperor’s laugh was rich and deep. He liked that. ‘Well, thank you, but I had better get back to work being polite.’ He clapped Laberius on the shoulder. ‘You can go back to sleep again, if you like!’
‘Good advice, my lord, but I have to be at the Senate in an hour.’
‘Best place to sleep, if you ask me!’
Laberius was almost at the door, the chamberlain opening it for him, when the emperor called to him.
‘Well done,’ he boomed, before lowering his voice. ‘Old friend, I am so glad that I can trust you.’
The former consul left, wondering how he should take that.
VI
LATINIUS MACER LEFT three days after his dinner with Ferox, for the storm the prefect had feared blew up suddenly from the west and kept him waiting longer than he had hoped. To his considerable satisfaction, no one killed Flavius Ferox. At the same time the snow turned to sleet and then to rain, all driven in by ferocious winds, and cleared altogether by the next dawn, leaving the ground with less snow than there had been for months. Ferox suspected that the men would be riding or marching through mud by the time they were lower down the valley. A lot of off-duty men gathered to see Macer and his escort set out, whether from fondness for the old man, envy for those leaving with him or a mixture of both.
Two days later the Brigantes arrived. Ferox had left one hundred horsemen and one hundred and sixty infantrymen to wait their turn for the ferry over the Danube at Dobreta. Twenty-seven, about half of them cavalry, failed to arrive.
‘They just vanished, sir.’ Ulpius Cunicius told Ferox, struggling to meet his gaze. It was a sorry tale, if no great surprise. Once over the river they were almost out of the empire, with few garrisons, and a warm welcome waiting from the Dacians or the chance to rove free among the other tribes if they chose. One entire picket of four horsemen had ridden off during the first night.
‘Did you chase them?’
‘We tried,’ Cunicius said weakly. Ferox could guess that no one had been that keen. After all, what were they to do if they had caught the men? ‘But I called it off quickly. There was no hope of catching them and I wanted to press on and join you.’
‘Without losing too many more,’ Ferox added to himself. Ulpius Cunicius was a decent man, the son of a chieftain who had stayed loyal to the right side during the rebellion, although had not been directly involved in the fighting. The reward was citizenship for the family, hence taking Ulpius, the family name of the emperor, and then a little later appointment as centurion to the irregular unit. He was the only centurion with the party, and now there was only one other decurion apart from Vindex. Others would appear if ever the rest of the force arrived. Cunicius was twenty-five, long limbed and narrow faced like most of his kin, but was still feeling his way into his new role. Ferox could not blame him, since he did not really know what was going on and how to turn the disparate mob into a useful unit before someone killed him or half of the rest went over the wall. In truth Cunicius had done well to lose so few on the way to Piroboridava. Now that they were here, it became a little harder to desert than it had been on the march, while opening up a whole new set of problems.
The first fight broke out on the evening of the day after the Brigantes had arrived, and Ferox was surprised that it had taken so long. He did not see it, nor did anyone else of high rank, and what had happened only came out after there were more arguments over the next few days, culminating in one that left a veteran of I Minervia with a bad knife wound to the stomach and a Brigantian hit so hard on the head that he remained unconscious and would not wake. Both men were carried to the hospital, along with half a dozen more with lesser injuries.
‘They’re not happy,’ Sabinus conceded.
Ferox had summoned his senior officers to a meeting in his office in the principia, the headquarters of the fort. Thinking about it, he supposed it was now his principia, just as they were his officers. Neither thought felt natural and he wondered whether they ever would. He had been in the army for the best part of twenty years, more than half his whole life, but the only garrison he had ever commanded was the tiny outpost at Syracuse not far from Vindolanda in northern Britannia. There his duties had been modest, the administrative work light or trivial enough to be left to a junior. Here there were some six hundred soldiers to oversee, feed, and keep healthy, as well as sick men in the hospital, army slaves like the galearii, private slaves and no doubt women and children belonging to the rest, although there seemed far fewer of these than he would have expected. The Brigantes had not been permitted to bring families or slaves, apart from one servant for each of the officers.
‘Not happy?’ Ferox asked. He understood the mood of the men already in garrison, but needed to get a better sense of their officers. It would have been nice to think that only the Brigantes were discontented, but even a few hours at Piroboridava was enough to get a sense of the wider frustration of its garrison.
‘Yes, sir.’ Sabinus glanced nervously at Sertorius Festus, the only other centurion from I Minervia, eager for his support.
‘They’re fed up,’ Festus said. He struck Ferox as capable enough in his way, without imagination or spark. It was hard to know why either man was posted to this vexillation and whether it was chance, their turn on the roster, or more deliberate than that. Outposts often received the men no one wanted anywhere else. Both centurions were understandably and very reasonably loyal to their men, putting them on the defensive and making it hard to admit that their legionaries were anything less than bursting to do their duty.
‘Rumour was that we were all being relieved.’ That was Julius Dionysius, the remaining centurion left in the garrison. He was a small man, his movements precise and very controlled. His dark complexion and delicate features marked him as an easterner, and as an auxiliary centurion he was junior to the other two, although ranking above poor Cunicius. He had a young, open face, even though he must be nearly Ferox’s age, and hard, intelligent eyes. When no one else said anything, he continued. ‘Everyone expected to be relieved as soon as you and your men reached us. Then they found out that only a handful are to leave and the rest are to stay. Indefinitely for all they know.’