Sitting on a bench by his villa’s reflecting pool at a marble table, Senator Tullius read a single sheet of parchment over and over, grumbling and snorting, his rear end creeping closer to the edge of the bench every time he read the letter. It had just arrived from Gaggo Gallus, Tullius’ chief agent among the legionaries at the German front. Finally he stood, slapped the letter face down on the table, and spat furiously into the pool.
Gaggo’s letter said that mercenaries were circulating amongst the soldiers at the front, declaring that anyone plotting against the Emperor-Designate Marcus Aurelius would lose their lives. “I pretended to agree, and I swore before them that I myself would support Marcus,” Gaggo wrote. “I did it just to give the right appearance. Now they all think I’m a trustworthy partisan of the Verus clan. What would you have me do for you now?”
Tullius swore under his breath. Why were these damned Verus brothers making his life so complicated? Now he would have to eliminate both of them, Emperor-to-be and Legate alike, only to clear a path to claim what had always rightfully belonged to him. Also, now he’d have to dispose of Gaggo.
“Fumius!” he called to his chief of staff. Helios Fumius appeared in the archway suddenly, as if he’d been lurking nearby. Tall, thin, somewhat cadaverous yet with a shocking halo of orange hair, Fumius had eyes as large and prominent as a lemur’s.
Fumius was a wealthy dye merchant, and dyes were in demand in Rome for fabric as well as increasingly for hair coloring. He had a near monopoly on the dyes made from exotic plants and insects.
In his youth Fumius’ hair had gone stark white. Seeking an effective coloring agent, Fumius tried a dozen different substances, and finally settled on Greek henna, which at first gave him a passable auburn hue. Yet as the years passed, and he became obsessed with wealth and behind-the-scenes politics, he took less trouble in applying the henna, and his hair would turn out a shade of orange, sometimes quite a bright one.
Tullius cared nothing for Fumius’ appearance; he appreciated him for his quick mind and for his ruthlessness. The Senator knew how to control Fumius; he had information on Fumius’ mother, his brother, his sisters and his dishonest business deals, and he paid him an extravagant salary and bonuses. Otherwise no one in his right mind would trust a man like Fumius for a minute.
“Gaggo Gallus,” Tullius intoned, “has to be removed from the living. Disloyalty must be dealt with immediately.”
“Of course, Senator. I shall send the orders. Yet begging your pardon. Gaggo Gallus is not really disloyal, is he?”
“Don’t try my patience, Fumius. He might be, and that’s enough. He’s declared his support for Marcus the Golden, and whether he meant it or not, the soldiers witnessed him saying it. The fool! Some of them knew he was my man. Just get rid of Gaggo, and make it look like an accident. Yet be sure that you also spread whispers that I did this thing to him because he betrayed me.”
“Senator,” said Fumius, “eliminating Gaggo may leave us with much to clean up.”
Tullius spat again, this time into the bushes. “Of course, I know that. The problem is that the other legionaries I’ve cultivated won’t know whether to be more afraid of me or of Marcus. I cannot do otherwise, though. My enemies have tied my hands. However, with your help, I can take this loss and come back stronger.” He sat heavily on the bench.
Fumius peered down at the Senator as Tullius covered his pate with both hands, wondering if his bald spot was showing. Fumius asked, “What do you hope to achieve by all this, Senator?”
“What do I hope to achieve? To rule the Empire, you idiot! And to do so without people knowing I’m ruling. Now get those orders dispatched.”