An hour before dusk they came finally to Poppaeus’ camp. It had been built on the last piece of level ground before the Rhodope range rose from its foothills. Vespasian gawped: it was huge; one mile square, surrounded by a six-foot-deep ditch and ramparts, half turf and half wood, ten feet high. Along their length, every hundred paces, were thirty-foot-high wooden towers, housing ballistae capable of firing bolts or rounded rocks over a quarter of a mile. Barracked within it were the IIII Scythica and the V Macedonica, plus five auxiliary cavalry alae, three auxiliary infantry cohorts, ten smaller units of light archers, slingers and javelin-men and the slaves to serve them all. Two hundred paces in front of it ran the line of the four-mile-long defensive trench and breastwork, constructed to pen the enemy in. It curved away and headed up the mountain, until soft earth gave way to hard granite and sheer cliffs, preventing it from reaching any higher. This too had towers along its length. One hundred paces to either side of the main camp were two smaller constructions, about the same size as Vespasian’s column had built the night before the river battle.
‘What are they, Paetus?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you know your Caesar, my dear chap? Build smaller camps within artillery range of the main one and the enemy cannot surround you without being threatened from the rear; not that they’ve got enough men left to surround us, there’s no more than twelve or thirteen thousand left up there.’ He pointed towards the mountains; they looked up. About a thousand feet above Vespasian could see the Thracians’ stronghold surrounded by a sea of tents. It looked comparatively small at a distance but he surmised that up close it must be formidable if it contained all those men and their women and children.
‘That would be a tough nut to crack,’ Magnus mused. ‘I can see why the general is happy to sit here and wait for them to come down.’
‘But for how long, eh?’ Corbulo said. ‘If the tribes behind us rise we could find ourselves surrounded here by enough men to besiege all three camps, hundreds of miles from the nearest legions in Illyria. That would be a nasty situation.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ Paetus agreed. ‘Very unpleasant indeed.’
They entered the camp by the Porta Praetoria. Paetus greeted the centurion of the watch’s salute with a cheery wave.
‘Good evening, Aulus. Tribune Titus Flavius Vespasianus and his freedman Magnus, Tribune Corbulo and Centurion Faustus, whom you already know, I believe.’
Aulus’ eyes widened. ‘Faustus, you old dog, we’d given you up for dead, captured by Thracians we heard. In fact we’d already cashed in your funeral fund and had a whip-round to send home to your people in Ostia. We’d better get our money back.’
Faustus grinned. ‘I want a list of who gave what, that’ll tell me who my friends really are.’
‘I’ll do it right now. It won’t take a moment, it’s not long.’
‘Sheep-fucker!’
‘Sailor’s tart!’
‘Nice as it is to stand here exchanging pleasantries with old friends,’ Paetus interjected, ‘we do need to report to the general. Where is he?’
‘In the praetorium, sir. Good to see you back, Faustus.’
As they moved off Vespasian noticed that apart from a perfunctory salute Aulus did nothing to register his pleasure at Corbulo’s return.
Inside the camp the bustle of military life was progressing on a greater scale than Vespasian had ever seen before; there were literally thousands of men. In the hundred paces between the gate and the first of the two thousand or so tents centuries were being drilled, the shouts and screams of their centurions and optiones ringing in their ears. Fatigue parties were filling in old latrines and digging new ones. The night patrols of light infantry were being assembled and briefed by their officers. Cavalry turmae, just arrived in from day patrolling, were unsaddling their mounts as slaves waited to take them to the horse-lines for grooming.
Vespasian eagerly took in all he saw whilst trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. They followed the Via Praetoria down through lines and lines of eight-man papiliones. To their right were billeted the IIII Scythica and on their left the V Macedonica. Outside each papilio the contubernium’s slaves were busy making fires in preparation for the evening meal. Groups of legionaries, already dismissed for the evening, sat polishing armour, cleaning weapons and gear or playing dice. All around their voices could be heard arguing or jesting; the occasional fight that broke out was quickly stopped by the optiones. Vespasian saw at least two miscreants being led off, with hands tied behind their backs, to the jeers of watching soldiers.
They neared the centre of the camp and the tents became larger as they entered the realm of the staff officers and tribunes. At the junction of the Via Praetoria and the Via Principalis in the centre of the camp stood the praetorium, a fifteen-foot-high, fifty-foot-square red-leather tent, decorated with black and gold trimmings, where Poppaeus had his headquarters.
Paetus dismissed his turma, then he dismounted and walked up to the two legionaries guarding the entrance. Vespasian and his comrades followed. The guards saluted.
‘Cavalry Prefect Paetus, Tribunes Corbulo and Vespasian and Centurion Faustus request an interview with the general,’ Paetus reported.
One of the guards went inside to announce them.
‘I think that means that you’re not invited,’ Vespasian whispered to Magnus.
‘Suits me, sir, I was never too fond of generals. I’ll get the horses stabled.’
Shortly, the guard came back out with a well-dressed slave.
‘Good evening, sirs, I am Kratos, the general’s secretary. The general will see you presently. Please follow me.’
He ushered them into a short leather-walled corridor, and then turned left through a door into a small, marble-floored antechamber illuminated by a dozen oil lamps. A number of chairs were laid out around the walls.
‘Please take a seat, sirs.’
Kratos clapped his hands twice, sharply, and from another entrance four more slaves, of a much lowlier rank, appeared, each bearing a bowl of warm water and a towel for the visitors to wash their hands and faces. That done, two more slaves appeared with cups, wine and water. Once they had been served Kratos bowed.
‘My master will not keep you waiting long,’ he said, and left the room.
Vespasian sipped his wine and stared at the marble floor, resisting the urge to touch it to check its authenticity.
‘The whole praetorium is floored with marble,’ Corbulo said. ‘Poppaeus likes his creature comforts. It breaks down into five-foot squares that are laid on a wooden frame. It takes five ox-carts to move it around, but he won’t do without it. It would be beneath his dignitas to conduct business on skins or rugs.’
‘It must cost a fortune,’ Vespasian replied.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, the general’s filthy rich. New money, though,’ Paetus said cheerily. ‘Silver mines in Hispania. He’s got nothing to worry about.’
Kratos reappeared when they were halfway through their wine. ‘Follow me, sirs.’
He led them back out into the corridor, which they followed to its end, then they went through another door. They stepped into the main room of the tent, but it was as if they had stepped into a palace lit by a plethora of oil lamps. The poles that supported the roof were marble columns with beautifully finished bases. The walls were adorned with finely woven tapestries and frescoes mounted on boards. Luxurious furniture, from all over the Empire and beyond, was scattered around, forming various different-sized seating areas, but leaving the centre of the room clear. In the far left-hand corner was a low dining table surrounded by three large, plush couches and, in the right-hand corner a solid, dark wooden desk stood at an angle, covered with scrolls.