Some of the passengers were women, and some of what they said was barely audible, since no fine lady should shout in the streets. Twice words were unnecessary, and the obvious longing of one mature woman and the giggles of a younger one made clear that there was more than respect for rank and family. Each of the women was a senator’s wife, and all the lictors knew their master’s reputation there. The praetor could be very charming when he wanted, was a good height, athletic and with dark, soulful eyes. His neat beard was not fashionable for a man of rank, and had not been for centuries, but that was a sign of his immense self-confidence, pronounced even for a senator. He had celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday last month, was approaching his prime, and for a bored or neglected wife he can only have seemed a dashing figure. They dreamed of love, and he learned about their husbands, filing the information away in case it one day was useful. None of the lictors knew whether these stories were true, but they had seen his prodigious memory and the interest he took in individuals. On the first morning the praetor addressed each one by his name, whereas some magistrates never got very far past ‘Hey, you!’ in their twelve months of office.
The castra peregrina lay in the Second Region of the city, joining onto the old walls. Few magistrates came this way, let alone visited the ‘camp of the foreigners’, which was smaller and less impressive than the barracks of the praetorians, or the new ones that Trajan was having built for his cavalry bodyguard, the singulares Augusti. This camp was more of a mansio on a grand scale than anything else. It was the base of the frumentarii, centurions and other ranks from the legions on attachment from their units with the staffs of provincial governors. They helped supervise the provision of grain for men and animals, as well as other foods and material to the army, especially when these could not be found in adequate quality and quantity from local sources. These days much of their time was spent carrying messages and reports from governors back to the emperor and then from the emperor to the governors. There were usually a couple of hundred at the camp, drawn from the thirty legions dotted around the world, hence the talk of ‘foreigners’. These were a mix of men lately arrived, those waiting to travel back to a province and sufficient others to ensure that there was never any shortage of messengers at a time of emergency.
Today there were two men forming the picket on guard outside the gate, just as in any fort, even though the likelihood of rioters in such an affluent part of the city was unlikely, and the approach of foreign enemies absurd. Yet the men stood there, replaced every two hours, their equipment burnished until it almost glowed, with tunics bleached a brilliant white, and the drab cloaks of the frontiers, albeit new and perfect, because no one was about to let any of the pansy, play-acting soldiers in Rome find the slightest fault.
‘Halt!’ One of the guards was quite short and the shoulder bands of his gleaming segmented armour made him look almost square. ‘Who goes there?’ The man’s rectangular scutum was red, and emblazoned with the lightning bolts and wings of Jupiter painted in gold. A lot of the legions used similar insignia, but the praetor knew that this was the badge of Legio X Fretensis, based in Judaea.
‘The noble Aelius Hadrianus, praetor, with an appointment to see the princeps peregrinorum,’ the lictor responded, careful to say exactly what he had been told. His master made it clear that precision was important.
The two legionaries stamped to attention, sparks flying on the paving stones as their hobnailed boots slammed down.
‘You are expected, my lord,’ the second soldier said, eyes curious even if his voice was not. This man also had a red shield, with a white Capricorn and LEG II AUG beneath the boss. That meant that the man was detached from the garrison of Britannia. ‘If you would like to go through the gate, there is a man waiting to take the noble praetor to the princeps.’
Once the lictors and the litter had passed, the two soldiers exchanged wondering glances, before resuming the impassive stare of a sentry. A couple of grubby infants who had trailed the magistrate for the last half hour waited for a while, until they realised that sticking their tongues out at the legionaries provoked no response and decided to shuffle away.
By this time, the commander of the garrison was a little less worried. His guest had accepted a cup of wine and given sufficient sign of enjoyment to justify the purchase of so expensive a vintage. He had also eyed the slave who had brought it as the boy had left, which suggested that some of the rumours about the man were true.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, my dear Turbo,’ the praetor said abruptly. ‘By the way, I trust that your brother is well? He was very kind to a young and naïve tribune when I served with II Adiutrix.’
Turbo had not known of the connection, for his brother had not mentioned it – well, who bothered to discuss the antics of the aristocrats doing their five-minute stint as broad stripe tribune with a legion. Interesting that the praetor had not mentioned this in his letter.
‘He is well, my lord, hoping to be made primus pilus before too many more years.’
‘Does not surprise me. He will make it too. The best soldier I ever saw.’
Turbo wondered whether the prefect always spoke in such clipped sentences or whether the man was posing as a bluff soldier. He could detect no hint of an offer to assist his brother’s ambitions – or indeed his own – in return for some favour.
‘My letter must have worried you!’ Hadrian said abruptly, and grinned, his informality as shocking as his words. He raised a hand at Turbo’s instinctive denial. ‘Please, do not trouble yourself.’ The grin was back again. ‘It certainly would have worried me if I was in your place. Some senator – a praetor of all things – nosing about an army base and wanting to talk to the numerus. What’s the bugger up to, you must have thought? Can’t be up to any good, and more than likely doing something that might compromise your sacred oath to the emperor. Even these days that looks suspicious, under as beneficent and wise a princeps as the Lord Trajan.’
That was indeed what Turbo had thought, and under ordinary circumstances he might have made excuses, pleaded other duties or just refused and asked the praetor to submit a formal request via the consuls if he needed information for a trial. The problem was that the circumstances were not normal. Hadrian was not simply a praetor, but the great-nephew of the emperor. If Turbo was not sure how far Trajan’s favour extended, that did not matter. At the very least it placed this young man close to the highest levels of the Senate, which meant that he could scarcely do less than meet him, after such a courteous request. At the same time, he had filed the letter and formally recorded the appointment.
Hadrian reached over and patted him on the arm. ‘My dear fellow, I really am sorry to trouble you, but my intentions are in no way improper. That is why I have come so publicly – to show that neither of us have anything to hide.’ The praetor’s eyes were fixed on him, as if reading his innermost thoughts. ‘I believe that you can help me, and that in turn will permit me to serve the res publica more effectively in my small way. Please forgive me for taking some of your valuable time.’
‘An honour, my lord.’ Turbo glanced down at the tablets on his desk, less because he needed to remind himself of what they said than to break away from the intensity of Hadrian’s gaze. ‘Your letter explained that you are returning to the eagles.’
‘That’s right. Instead of the usual year as magistrate, I am to hand over my responsibilities next month and go out as legatus to Legio I Minervia. No one ever likes a changeover of command and getting used to a new commander’s little ways – I lived through that twice while I was tribune. You must have experienced it even more often?’