Hero of Rome trt-1 Read online

  Valerius expected the insult to provoke a violent reaction, but it seemed this was an argument so well rehearsed it had lost its power to inflame.

  ‘Come.’ Falco led him away from the quaestor. ‘I will introduce you to the head of the ordo, our council of one hundred leading citizens.’ When they were out of Petronius’s earshot, he explained. ‘He means why should we have shields that don’t splinter at the first blow and why must we complain when we wear the same rusty swords we carried all the way from the Rhenus to the invasion all those years ago.’

  ‘Every army has supply problems… even little armies,’ Valerius said. He recognized the older man’s frustration. Shortages were part of life in the legions. A soldier, even a Roman soldier, had to fight for everything he could get.

  Falco looked at him sharply, wondering if he was being made fun of.

  Valerius smiled. ‘Perhaps while we are here we will lose a few shields and a few spears. My men are sometimes careless.’ There would be no shortages for a unit taking part in the governor’s campaign against Mona, that was certain, and in any case he would be back in Rome before the legion’s quartermaster worked out what had happened.

  The militia commander slapped his shoulder. ‘Now I understand why Julius likes you. Come, we will share some wine. You should have been with us on the Tamesa: Catuvellauni warriors seven feet tall who took a dozen cuts and still wouldn’t fall. I have nightmares about them even now…’

  Still talking, he led the way into a long, narrow room with a patterned mosaic floor and walls painted with lifelike scenes of an emperor, who must be Claudius, carrying out his imperial duties as fawning courtiers looked on. Two of the paintings immediately caught Valerius’s eye. In the first, the Emperor was depicted sitting high on the back of a gold-clad ceremonial elephant as a dozen splendid barbarian figures bowed before him. He realized this must be the surrender of Britain, which had taken place close to this very spot. The second took up an entire end wall and showed Claudius standing proudly on a hill above a broad river surveying the crossing of his legions and the hazy battle beyond.

  ‘The Tamesa,’ Falco whispered. ‘Claudius wasn’t even there. Didn’t arrive until the next day. He was a fraud, old Claudius, but we didn’t love him any the less for it.’

  Valerius looked around to see if anyone was listening. Criticizing emperors, even long-dead emperors, was not something to be done lightly. But Falco only winked.

  ‘If he was going to strike me down he’d have done it long ago, lad. I sweated and bled for him and now he’s taking care of me in my old age. But he’s still an old fraud.’

  The room had been set for twenty-four people, with couches round the walls and a gilt table in the centre. Valerius found himself between Falco and Petronius, and opposite the Briton, Lucullus, who called for wine to be brought.

  One by one he was introduced to the men who ran Colonia; bland mercantile faces his brain refused to accept had once been seasoned soldiers of Rome’s finest legions. A few names stuck in his mind: Corvinus the goldsmith, wide-shouldered, dark-visaged and improbably handsome, who had turned his trade as the Twentieth’s armourer into a more profitable business; Didius, tall and thin and with shifty eyes that fitted all too well with his profession as one of Colonia’s foremost money-lenders; and Bellator, who seemed out of place because his exotic name and relative youth identified him as a freedman, and who now prospered by taking a cut of the rent from the insulae he administered for his former master. All had one thing in common. They were rich. They had to be, because membership of the ordo didn’t come cheap, as Falco explained in his dry monotone.

  ‘It has its compensations: prestige, which counts for little unless you are a certain type; access and patronage, which counts for more, particularly when that patronage comes from the Senate. We have our say upon who gets what contract, which buildings must be demolished and which must stay; we adjudicate in land and water disputes, all of which can be lucrative and creates a bank of favours which will one day be returned. But the cost…’

  ‘Yet not so onerous as election to the augustales,’ Petronius interrupted from Valerius’s left.

  ‘Easy for you to say, since a quaestor is above such lowly appointments,’ Falco huffed. ‘No payments to the treasury or public munificence from you, eh, Petronius?’

  ‘ Augustales? ’ Valerius enquired. The title was new to him. A slave brought wine in a silver cup and he accepted it, vowing only to sip, watered or not. The ripe, fruity scent reached his nostrils. No vinegar here. This was as good as anything that would be served at his father’s table.

  ‘The priests of the temple, those who officiate in the annual ceremonies central to the cult of Divine Claudius,’ Petronius continued airily, taking a deep draught from his cup. ‘It is a great honour… if you are a certain type.’ Valerius noted the repeat of Falco’s pointed phrase of a few moments earlier. ‘However, it also carries great responsibilities.’

  Valerius knew that in Rome to be elected to the priesthood of one of the great temples — Jupiter Capitolinus or Mars Ultor — brought with it substantial power and that such an appointment was only open to the knightly classes. ‘Yet even at a price, it must be greatly sought after by the members of your council,’ he said.

  Petronius laughed, but Valerius felt Falco shift uneasily behind him. ‘No Roman citizen would be foolish enough to accept it. We leave that honour to the Brittunculi.’ Falco drew breath and the conversation in the room went quiet. Valerius saw the smile freeze on Lucullus’s face, but Petronius carried on as if nothing had changed. ‘For them, it is as close as they will ever come to being a Roman. Ah, at last. The food.’

  Valerius watched as the dishes were set on the table. In Rome, a banquet like this would be an opportunity to show a flair for the exotic; peacocks still in their livery, swans artfully displayed to seem almost alive. But this was wholesome, rustic fare. Sizzling cuts of beef, venison and suckling pig. Duck, pigeon and partridge, and birds smaller still which looked like particularly plump sparrows. A great fish, probably from the river below, and oysters and crabs from the coast, which he knew to be just a few miles downstream. He set to with a will. Army rations could always be supplemented, but somehow they were still army rations. It had been many months since he’d sat down to such a feast. His companions, too, ate greedily; all except Lucullus, who nibbled at the food, still wearing his fixed smile.

  Petronius raised his cup theatrically. ‘Your health, sir. Would that we supped like this every day. No toast required with this wine.’ The comment provoked a burst of laughter. Toasted bread was often crumbled into inferior wines to disguise the bitter taste.

  He saw Valerius’s look of surprise. ‘Oh, yes.’ He lowered his voice so the young tribune had to lean towards him to hear his next words. ‘Lucullus, our British friend, is responsible for everything you see around you. Food and drink, the couch you lie on and even the upkeep of the building. He is a fine fellow. A friend of Rome and an augustalis. He cannot be a member of the ordo because although he has chosen a Roman name he is not a Roman citizen, nor ever will be. But as one of the priests of the temple he enjoys great honour among certain of his people and even influence in the Roman community.’

  ‘He must be a very fortunate man.’ Despite himself, Valerius was impressed. He considered the Celts rough tribesmen. A martial race of hut dwellers. Yet here was a Briton who had adopted Roman ways and already contributed to the new society that a Roman Britain would become.

  ‘Fortunate?’ Petronius gave a quiet belch. ‘He has a villa on his farm on the hill yonder,’ he waved a hand in the vague direction of the river, ‘and he owns property in town. So, yes, I suppose he could be called rich.’ He smiled and turned towards the neighbour on his left, leaving Valerius to study the figure across the table.

  The appellation ‘portly’ could have been coined for Lucullus, but he carried his bulk in a way that told you he took pride in it; that it was, in some way, a measure of his success and positi
on in life. He was short and rounded, with a fringe of mousy hair which circled the back of his head like an untidy laurel wreath. Valerius noted that he shaved his face in the Roman fashion, yet it shouted out that it would never be complete without the moustache his people habitually wore. Lucullus met his eyes and raised his cup in salute. His smile took on a sad, almost resigned aspect. Valerius had seen the look before in clients he had represented in minor court cases — the clients who inevitably lost. In that instant something like pity replaced the natural disdain he felt for the Trinovante. He raised his own cup in reply and wondered what Lucullus was thinking. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  ‘You must come and visit my estate,’ the little man offered loftily in a clipped, unnatural Latin which had a curious singsong lilt. ‘The hunting is good. No? You are not a hunter, then? Perhaps a man of culture. I have many fine pieces — from Rome itself, and even from Aegyptus. The man who painted these walls painted my own. I have a copy of the surrender in my atrium.’

  Valerius knew he should decline the offer, but a beautiful face flashed into his head. She would be there, and this time she wouldn’t be able to run away. ‘If my duties permit it I would be happy to visit you.’ He became aware of a change in the atmosphere, as if a shutter had been opened to allow in the sun. The fixed smile disappeared and a different Lucullus emerged; a Lucullus whose eyes twinkled with surprise and genuine pleasure. ‘My estate manager will arrange it, then.’

  For the rest of the meal, Valerius found himself the hub of attention for the members of the ordo. Was it true that his soldiers were to waste their time building roads when they had so much to complete in Colonia? How did he think the town compared with Londinium? What was the latest news from Rome? There was a rumour that Burrus might be out of favour. Had he heard the druids were returning? It was true: Corvinus had it from a trader, who had it from a merchant, who had it from a customer, who had it from…

  He fended off the questions with polite, harmless non-answers until Falco concluded the proceedings. The banquet broke up with men leaving in pairs, one or two clinging to each other as a result of the effects of the wine. Valerius was surprised to see Lucullus walk out deep in conversation with Petronius.

  Falco insisted on accompanying him back to the camp. ‘Then I will guide you to the townhouse where you will stay while you are with us. It is owned by Lucullus, and very comfortable, but the ordo will provide the slaves. Better to be spied on by a Roman, eh?’ He laughed.

  ‘I thought your charter denied the Celts the right to own property in the town?’

  Falco gave him a sideways look. ‘The charter was drawn up in different times. Much has changed. It is true that technically no Briton should own property here, but if a man has money there are ways such technicalities can be circumvented. Third party agreements, for instance.’

  ‘And who would the third party be in this case?’ Valerius knew he was pushing the boundaries of their short acquaintance, but even the small amount of wine he had drunk had loosened his tongue.

  The look again, longer this time. ‘Let us just say that Lucullus would do well to be wary of his business partners.’ The militia commander laughed. ‘Of course, I am one of them. Lucullus provides transport for me. He has the largest wagon business in the province.’

  ‘Julius told me you were a wine merchant.’

  Falco’s lips pursed as if he wasn’t sure what he was. ‘I suppose I am. I have a monopoly to supply every legionary mess and public office from here to Isca and from Noviomagus to Lindum. A shipload of amphorae in from Ostia every two weeks. How else would a simple soldier be able to afford to break bread with the likes of Petronius?’

  Valerius had a feeling the older man was anything but a simple soldier, but he risked another question. ‘When Petronius talked of the Brittunculi I had the impression he was referring to Lucullus.’

  Falco nodded. ‘It is a term that has become popular among a certain type of Roman; a term that is meant to belittle the Celts. For myself, I believe we must live and work with them, and that to insult them only stores up trouble for the future.’ He paused, and Valerius knew enough to hold his tongue. ‘Things were done, when Colonia was founded, that do none of us credit. Land fever, greed and envy all played their part. Our colonists are good men. They fought for Rome for twenty-five years and knew nothing but hardship. Who could deny that they deserved this land their Emperor had given them? But when a legionary sweating to dig up tree roots in parched ground looked across his boundary and saw a Celt picking rows of fine vegetables while his cattle drank sweet water from a dew pond, what was he to do? He was the victor, they were the vanquished. He took what he believed should be his. And if a Celt died,’ he shrugged his shoulders, ‘it was no real matter.

  ‘Now people like Petronius look at Colonia and see the glory of Rome; invincible and sustained by the power of four full legions. And he has a point. We have had eight years of peace since Scapula stirred up his hornet’s nest by attempting to disarm the tribes. Our farms and estates prosper and grow, and with them the town prospers and grows. The local Britons, those such as Lucullus who are prepared to work and trade with us, have done equally well, but…’ He hesitated, and his face took on a troubled aspect. ‘But I fear we take advantage of their good faith.’

  It was the temple.

  ‘Six years ago, when work began on the temple, Colonia was not the place you see now. Claudius was generous with his grant of land in the territorium around the city and each of us had our pension, but a farm needs investment and a town needs businesses and such things would drain the resources of even a rich man. Yet, when the Emperor was declared divine and we knew this was to be the centre of his cult in Britain, we were proud. He was our Emperor. But we reckoned without the priests. Those they sent from Rome created a Roman institution, with Roman rules and a Roman bureaucracy, to be run on Roman lines and to make a Roman profit. But Britain is not Rome. Colonia is not Rome. There is no old money here. No great fortunes garnered from hundreds of years of slaves’ sweat on grand family estates. To accept the role of augustalis would mean ruination. Did you know that Claudius himself paid eighty thousand gold aurei when he entered the priesthood during Gaius Caligula’s time?’ He shook his head, as if the sum was beyond his wildest imaginings. ‘Only one class could be persuaded… no, flattered, into accepting nomination: the British kings and aristocrats who had supported the invasion and therefore had the most to gain from being magis Romanorum quam Romanorum — more Roman than the Romans. King Cogidubnus, who rules the Atrebates and the Regni, was the first. One taste was enough for him, but he had set the precedent. Others followed, and now Lucullus, a prince of the Trinovantes who once held these lands.’

  ‘But surely Lucullus could not…’

  ‘No, of course Lucullus could not afford such sums. But there are those in Rome prepared to lend them, even the Emperor himself, and members of his court; Seneca for one. It was he who loaned Lucullus the money to buy into the priesthood and provide the community with the theatre you see yonder. It should have been enough, but Lucullus believes he is a man of business. Where another might have seen the jaws of a trap he saw opportunity. He borrowed more to buy his wagons, which was a good investment. And more still to purchase six insulae in Colonia, which may or may not be. He pays commission to a Roman partner who nominally owns the buildings, who collects and passes on the rents. Like Bellator, though neither would thank me for making the comparison. On the surface, Lucullus is one of the richest men in Colonia. In reality he is rich only in debt. We are here.’

  The townhouse stood in a street close to the Forum and not far from the legionaries’ camp, which Valerius knew Falco, ‘simple soldier’ that he was, would have insisted upon. Part of him wished he had refused the offer to sleep beneath a solid roof in a soft bed, but refusal would be seen as bad manners. He would live with the guilt. It wouldn’t make the men any more comfortable in any case.

  Double doors opened on to the atrium,
which in turn led to an open courtyard surrounded by a covered walkway, from which further doors gave access to other dwellings that no doubt shared the courtyard. He sensed a stillness to the place that spoke of lack of inhabitation, which suited Valerius perfectly but did not bode well for Lucullus’s rents. The house itself turned out to be a modest enough place, pleasingly bright with unpainted walls and comfortable, functional furniture, and decorated in the Roman fashion with a few busts of notables who were unlikely to be related to the Briton but had probably been bought as part of a job lot. Pride of place — as he suspected it always would in Colonia — went to a flattering, painted marble likeness of Claudius.

  ‘Your sleeping quarters are through here, and the latrine is beyond the courtyard.’ Falco apologized for the lack of a bathhouse, but Valerius said he was happy enough to use the public facility. His effects had already been delivered, so as soon as the militia commander left he settled down and retrieved the copy of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War he always carried. The Greek writer had served in the military, that was certain, but he was no soldier. Not quite Homer, on whose tales of Troy Valerius had been weaned, but an improvement on Herodotus, who was much too wordy for his taste. Later, he fell asleep haunted by a female face which never quite came into focus, and a sweet, tuneful voice he had never heard before.

  VIII

  It was the eyes, rather than the words, the chieftain thought. They made a man feel important, even a man who only held sway over a few farmsteads worked by his clan, a minor western sub-tribe of the Catuvellauni federation, and had little influence beyond his farthest field. The priest’s eyes were the colour of the old amber the chieftain’s wife coveted in the market down at Ratae, and hooded like a hawk’s. Not that the chief visited the place often. He preferred the smell of cowshit to the perfume of the Roman-lovers who lived there in their palaces. For the first time in a decade his fingers itched for a sword. He had once been a warrior. The amber eyes made him feel like a warrior again.