Chapter III

 

 

 

When Vologases began the war he trapped the Roman legion under Severianus, at Elegia, a place in Armenia; and he shot down and destroyed the whole force, leaders and all. Now, he would proceed against the cities of Syria in numbers that inspired terror. – Dio Cassius, History of Rome, Epitome of book LXXI

 

Senator Claudius Maximus, the Prefect of the Frumentarii, breathes heavily as he adjusts his woollen tunic to ensure its purple border lies straight and true. A similar effort to fix what had been a carefully arranged toga is less successful, incumbered by the inevitable paunch of middle-age. Having achieved his long climb up the Palatine Hill, he wipes a hand irritably over his balding pate and fails to appreciate the superb view overlooking the Circus Maximus. The crowds below are heavy around the great hippodrome, enjoying the final day of races for the annual festival of the purification of arms, Armilustrium. The festival honours Mars, the god of war. Later in the day Salian priests will dance through the city streets and the armour and sacred shields of the temple will be purified for the coming year.

"Appropriate," he says aloud, "to honour Mars today." He leans briefly against the pedestal of a statue to catch his breath. The sculpture is a representation of the spirit of the people of Rome in the guise of a young man wielding a rather overlarge cornucopia. Statues in this style are ubiquitous in the city. Claudius thinks this unfortunate, having long harboured a Stoic’s suspicion that clandestine sexuality lurks behind the sculptor’s presentation of the horn in the hands of this half-naked Greek. The grain spilling from the wide mouth of the vessel seems to settle the matter.

The Frumentarii have a special connection to grain. The name was originally derived from those provincial officials tasked with collecting the annual levy of grain, or frumentum. The idea originated with the Emperor’s grandfather. Hadrian had reasoned that since everyone needed grain, imperial grain collectors would be the perfect spies. Their regular contact with all manner of humanity across the Empire, made them well placed to spot sedition and report it. From such innocuous roots the Frumentarii were born.

Recovered now from his ascent he strides briskly into the palace. Acknowledging the salute of two thickset Praetorians flanking the atrium, he selects the passage leading toward the chamber of the Emperor’s Privy Council. This is the senior advisory body to the two reigning Emperors, and its variable membership usually includes about a dozen or so senators. Certain senior officials, like Claudius, also participate, as well as a handful of trusted personal friends of the true Emperor—Marcus Aurelius.

Claudius proceeds down an arched hallway decorated with pure white marble tiles inlaid with figures in the geometric style. Busts of emperors past glower at him from alcoves in the walls. Little nerves at the base of his neck come unpleasantly alive as he passes that of Domitian. There the sculptor’s chisel managed to convey the cruelty and coldness of purpose that was Domitian, causing Claudius—and posterity—to forever ponder if the artist survived the unveiling. He increases his pace.

Further along another of the busts captures his attention. He stops before it. The profile, the cut of the beard, and the shape of the nose are as familiar as the fraught tightening in his chest. "Pius, my old friend. We shall not have it so easy this time round."

Casting his mind back, it is hard to believe that twenty-five years have come and gone since the Emperor Hadrian adopted Antoninus Pius, then over fifty years of age, as his son and successor. Hadrian calculated that Pius had just about enough life in him to secure Hadrian’s deification and his plan for the succession of his young adopted nephews, Marcus and Lucius Verus, before dropping dead himself. But Pius fooled him, fooled everybody. A long, virtuous life followed. Under his steady hand the empire gained a quarter century of peace and prosperity. But Pius is six months in his grave, and the world is changing. Two emperors. Beyond the frontiers a sea of enemies.

Claudius turns his attention to a nearby alcove. A recently carved likeness of the great Praetorian Prefect Marcus Gavius occupies a place of honour here. Steady as the North Star, Gavius guided Pius through the labyrinth of years. Sureness of touch. Loyalty beyond reproach. For twenty years Gavius alone ruled the Praetorian Camp. Today? Two praetorian prefects rule the Guard—one loyal only to himself.

"One forgets how ugly he was," says a voice from behind.

"Gods Consentes!” Claudius starts. “What potted plant did you pop out of?"

"I’ve just arrived, actually. I can go away if you two are having a private reminiscence."

"You’re lucky I didn’t pick him up and brain you. You shouldn’t sneak about, Libo."

"Says the people’s spy. I remember how you and he used to sneak around at all hours conspiring." Chin in hand, Annius Libo makes a show of contemplating the bust. "I think the marble conveys the look of the eyes, but he missed something."

"What?"

"The clarity of purpose."

Claudius bridles at the implication. "Gavius was not perfect."

"No," Libo agrees with a liquid smile, "far from it. Accumulated much too much power and turned far too easily to the midnight skills of fellows like your man Malorix."

Libo is the Emperor’s cousin. In his early thirties, he is forging a brilliant career in the Senate. He has the three qualities that will ensure him a great career: ambition, money, and an impeccable name.

"Give him the credit he is due," Claudius says. "In the end Gavius realized, rightly, that such power is dangerous in hands less scrupulous than his own."

"Repentius?"

"Of course."

"So together you persuaded Pius to split the praetorian prefect’s powers into three."

"Yes."

"And look what that got you."

The new structure had been opposed in many quarters, but most vociferously by Cornelius Repentius, the man who had expected to replace Marcus Gavius as head of the army and the intelligence services. And he might have succeeded, but for a bloody uprising that started in Britannia six years earlier and ultimately forced Rome back behind Hadrian’s Wall. The shame was just bearable, the expense enormous. The Senate grumbled that had there been some warning, perhaps the damage could have been nipped in the bud. The Praetorians missed that one, and Claudius had ensured that Repentius wore the blame.

Certainly unfairly. Rome only rarely anticipates when or where frontier tribes will form confederations and strike. The legions scramble to contain one raid after another, often to find smouldering ruins where a week earlier there was a peaceful Roman town. The uprising in Britannia was intolerable, but with patience, and over a space of years, it enabled Claudius to persuade a reluctant emperor to try an innovation. When Gavius died Claudius was given command of the Frumentarii while the Praetorium was divided between two Prefects, Cornelius Repentius and Furius Victorinus.

Repentius barely broke stride. Deprived of control over the Frumentarii, and with one eye on his Praetorian colleague, he used his position to rebuild the power of another branch of the army called the Speculatores. Originally formed from special horse units of army scouts and messengers, over the previous century the Speculatores had evolved into an internal security service prone to excesses unless firmly controlled. Repentius had other ideas. Though pledged to the Emperor, they soon owed their first loyalty to him.

“What that got me was a permanent enemy,” Claudius says ruefully, as they continue down the hall toward the hushed tones of the council members awaiting the arrival of the Emperors. They slip into the council chamber offering muted acknowledgments and greetings to the others assembled.

Seated now, Libo leans closer. "Tell me, Claudius. What do you mean sending Malorix east? You of all people are aware of the impact his presence has had on the Danube. In some locales, the tranquil ones I might add, he has obtained near mythic status.

“You are about to learn,” Claudius whispers, as an abrupt silence gives way to the familiar tap of slippers on fine Egyptian marble. Marcus Aurelius enters without ceremony, in murmured conversation with Cornelius Repentius. The Emperor acknowledges his council members in turn as they form a loose greeting line. Claudius bows formally. "Greetings, my lord Caesar."

Marcus takes him by the hand and holds it. "My good Claudius. I have not seen you for days, no, a week. You forget your Emperor."

"My lord jests, surely."

"I look forward to your daily reports. Not quite the same thing as in person though, is it?"

"No, my lord," Claudius says, accepting the admonition of his failings as a courtier. The Emperor’s eyes are bright with activity in contrast to the pallor of skin that gives the impression of being stretched over his scholarly frame. Forty years of age, his beard and hair are neatly combed and his dress simplicity itself. Toga-clad in the manner of his councillors, a stranger who did not know him by appearance would be unable to single him out from the rest.

Repentius follows close behind. "Maximus," he says quietly as he glides past, lowering hooded eyes in a manner that conveys nothing at all. Claudius nods warily. A creature of the court, Repentius owes his elevation to a fortunate ‘connection’ with one Galeria Lysistrate, the late Emperor Pius’ shapely and persuasive mistress. In imperial circles influence at court can be obtained in many ways. A tried and true method is to find those who have influence with an emperor and gain influence over them. Repentius is a successful practitioner of the formula, his presence here the proof.

"Claudius?" Libo whispers after they pass by. "When Pius promoted Repentius, do you think he knew the creature was screwing his mistress?" Claudius chokes involuntarily and glares his response, earning an impudent show of the tongue. The Emperor takes his seat on a divan placed in the centre of a half-circle of three rows of benches festooned with cushions of imperial purple. The council members settle into place.

"Good morning councillors, senators, and friends," he says quietly. "I am glad to see all of you here. My brother and co-Emperor Lucius Aurelius Verus is indisposed this morning and so unable to be with us."

"Drinking again," Libo murmurs, in a barely audible sing-song.

"We have foreign events of some moment to consider," the Emperor continues. "In light of the gravity of those matters we will proceed to them directly. The Praetorian Prefects will speak first.” With a nod he gives Furius Victorinus leave to address the council.

The Prefect rises and faces his colleagues betraying the awkward bearing of a horse soldier long in the saddle. Hair and beard turning to grey, he is a military governor of wide experience, having served in Britannia, Spain, Galatia, and on the Danube. Following a tour as Prefect of Egypt he returned to the capital last year. No great orator perhaps, but Victorinus is steady and trusted. The proof is Egypt, breadbasket of the Empire. The province is so strategically important that senatorial governors are never sent there. Egypt supplies the bulk of the cheap grain that the emperors distribute to keep the Roman masses fed and quiet. The man who controls Egypt could hold the population of Rome to ransom. For this reason, Egypt is the Emperor’s personal preserve. Its governor is always a loyal member of the equestrian class, a knight like Victorinus, beholden to his master.

"My lord Caesar, senators, knights," Victorinus begins haltingly. "You may be aware that some time before the death of the deified Caesar Antoninus Pius, we received unsettling reports from the Frumentarii that our old enemy Parthia was on the move, and that Vologases, the Parthian King of Kings (as he styles himself) was preparing to make war in Armenia and breach the solemn peace between us.

"Responding to the threat, we ordered Severianus, the Governor of Cappadocia, to stay in his encampment. He was not to engage Parthian forces until we could send necessary reinforcements and remedy our deficiencies in training and general readiness."

Victorinus shifts uncomfortably as he adds, "Our messages do not appear to have been received in time." He looks to Claudius. "Maximus?"

Claudius stands. "My lords," he says, "our communications with Cappadocia have been subject to unusual delays at that end, hence our information is incomplete. Nevertheless, I understand that in defiance of instructions Severianus took to the field against the Parthians. The outcome was not in Rome’s favour. We believe that Legion IX^th Hispana is lost."

A confusion of voices erupts.

"The entire legion?"

"Destroyed?"

Claudius raises his hands to invite their silence. The words "Like Varus …" drift in the air like an accusation, or a death knell.

A century and a half ago the legate Publius Quintilius Varus led three Roman legions to annihilation in the wilds of Germania. Rome is not without its superstitions. Since that day his name is rarely spoken in public. The unit numbers of the three lost legions—the XVII^th, XVIII^th, and XIX^th—never again used to designate a legion.

"Plus auxiliaries," Claudius says quietly. "The Parthian King has placed a pretender on the Armenian throne."

"When was this?" demands Rusticus, the Prefect of Rome.

"Four, perhaps five months."

"Five months!" he repeats. "Why are we only hearing of this now?"

"Our belief is that Severianus and all his staff officers were either killed or captured,” Claudius explains.”

"But surely a force has been sent to determine the situation, and to bury the dead?" Rusticus continues.

"No," says Victorinus. "Legion XV Apollinaris was sent strict orders to remain behind walls. With a powerful Parthian army nearby, we can’t afford another dis …" He stops short. "… further losses."

"Our forces along the Euphrates river line are thin," Claudius adds quickly. "We dare not risk another loss that would leave the east open to invasion."

"IX^th Hispana?" The gruff voice of Senator Marcus Pontius Laelianus is unmistakable. Though advanced in years he is still a stern soldier in the old Marian style. In the legions they call him Decimus Rex for having more than once ordered a unit decimated for cowardice in action. He rises now like a war elephant in an ill humour. "Bunch of ill-disciplined Iberian and British rascals! Victorinus!" He waggles a censuring finger at the prefect. "Haven’t I said for years that we should cashier the lot of them? Cursed is IX^th Hispana—cursed I tell you, and good riddance to ’em!" His censorious gaze passes from one councillor to the next like a scourge. Even the Emperor holds his tongue until, in the ensuing silence, Laelianus resumes his seat.

"My lords…" The oleaginous tones of Cornelius Repentius put Claudius on his guard. "Let us not jump to conclusions on flimsy evidence." He looks pointedly at Claudius. "We should remember that Severianus was …" he pauses to correct himself, "is an experienced commander. In any case we have other legions in place."

"Yes," the Emperor interjects, "what of them?"

"In Cappadocia we have Legion XII Fulminata at nearly full strength," Repentius continues. "The XV^th at Satala currently has only seven complete cohorts."

Rusticus takes the floor again. "Forgive me. I am not a military man, but am I to understand that the Governor of Cappadocia with the better part of three legions at his command took only a single legion to engage a full-blown Parthian invasion?"

The Emperor regards his prefects beneath raised eyebrows. "A prescient observation. Furius? Cornelius?" An uncomfortable silence descends. “Claudius perhaps?”

"In truth, we do not know," Claudius says, flushing. "Preliminary reports suggest they were ambushed."

"What of Syria then? Surely we have reinforcements there?"

Victorinus produces a thick double-handled scroll he uses to monitor the dispositions and movements of his military forces and unrolls it with a practiced hand. A fully-manned legion amounts to about five and a half thousand men. There are twenty-eight of these deployed across the Empire, with component cohorts frequently on the move to reinforce or replace one another. In addition, Victorinus must keep track of scores of auxiliary units, both infantry and cavalry and a host of police and irregulars. Although Claudius has never tallied the total of men under arms, it is enormous; a force of more than 400,000. The cost to maintain it—astronomical.

Victorinus reaches the pertinent section of his scroll. "Syria, my lord. There are three legions in the north, but only XVI Flavia Firma is at full strength. The two legions in Palestine are fully occupied there," he says with decision. "The Jews are a revolt waiting to happen. In Arabia the story is much the same. Further, my lord, the Syrian legions are not considered in the best of fighting trim. We will need time to bring them into form.”

"Indeed," the Emperor agrees vaguely. A hush ensues as the councillors await the Emperor, now lapsed into one of his reveries. These are known to last several minutes. "So, these Parthians," he says thoughtfully, like a machine winding up. "Only a few years ago Vologases began a similar adventure. My father was able to warn him off and he left Armenia. The ambition of Vologases to have Armenia is not new to us.

"Do they think us so weak," he asks rhetorically, "that we are likely to accept such a flagrant breach of a peace which has lasted since noble Trajan’s day?"

Claudius rises. "My lord. As you have observed, the earliest indications that Parthia was preparing hostilities against us came at the time of your father’s illness. There is every reason to believe that Vologases suspected, however ill advisedly, that a dynastic struggle was imminent and decided to exploit the opportunity. Of course, they have many agents in the east and may have been encouraged by the condition of our legions there."

The Emperor blanches, and an awkward silence descends. Repentius takes to his feet with a predatory spring. "My lord, the Prefect of the Frumentarii implies that Parthia was encouraged to attack because the legions were ill prepared, that their readiness was allowed to erode. This is grossly unfair, as well as irrelevant." He shakes a fist at Claudius. "Parthia must abide by her treaty obligations if Rome chooses to guard her frontier with a single Pamphlagonian foot soldier!"

Burning ears inform Claudius he has erred. Other councillors, Libo included, studiously avoid eye contact. An adept of the courtier’s game, Repentius has twisted his words. Everyone in the room knows that through most of Pius’ rule Marcus acted as his chief executive, and in his later years as emperor de facto. By dint of that, if the legions are not at the ready the responsibility lies with him. Moreover, Marcus is not a man of military experience—that charge is common currency in Rome these days. Claudius knows Rome’s whispers. Pius was a good businessman, frugal and sensible, but the times demand a soldier-emperor once again. The people want Trajan the warrior, but what they have is Marcus the philosopher. As Claudius resumes his seat he wants to strike his head against something very solid.

"Noble Antoninus," Repentius resumes, "the eastern legions are weak through inactivity, not through lack of foresight on the part of Rome. Imperial Rome," he adds with emphasis, looking straight at Claudius. "Still, the situation may yet be retrieved. I would like to counsel that an officer of reputation be dispatched immediately with a view toward instilling improved discipline in our forces in Cappadocia and, if Severianus has been slain, to replace him as governor."

"My colleague’s suggestion is an excellent one,” Victorinus interjects, “but the choice of officer will be critical…"

"He needs to be a capable soldier and an inspiring leader," Repentius interrupts.

"The Prefect perhaps has someone particular in mind?" Victorinus says rather too sharply.

A scowl clouds the face of Repentius and then evaporates into the most genteel of smiles. "Of course." He lowers his eyes. "Given the import of the matter I have afforded this very serious consideration." Claudius listens carefully as Repentius recites a list of candidates. It does not appear that Victorinus and Repentius have cooked this bit of theatre. The names might tell a tale.

"Gaius Flavius Corbulo…" Repentius begins.

Prestigious heritage, but too junior.

"Cornelius Junius Blaesus…"

Capable officer, but almost certainly a diversion.

"Sextus Munatius Lupus…"

"Yes," Claudius hisses. His knee gently nudges Libo. "His wife’s first cousin."

"Charming." Libo’s expression is unreadable. "Family loyalty is admirable."

Claudius discreetly studies the expressions of the other councillors. If they share his thoughts they are keeping their faces most firmly fixed. The Emperor regards Repentius approvingly. As he opens his mouth to speak Claudius stands abruptly. "My lords, my lord Caesar! Indeed, this is a most deserving list of noble Romans. Each a man of integrity and ability. I believe, however, that we should also consider those who are already be in the field. We must be certain to select the right man to face Rome’s greatest enemy."

Repentius offers Claudius a Gorgon-like stare. "Caesar, I believe we must also examine the auspices and determine the will of the gods in this matter. There are many oracles that need be consulted. I think too that we might look to the region itself, for many of the most renowned oracles in our day are resident there." A few murmurs of assent. Repentius has allies.

The Emperor speaks again, his tone measured, having detected perhaps the not-so-subtle discord among his advisors. "We are spread very thin. We must think carefully about where we can afford to take troops away without inviting unrest in other quarters—especially the north—and we must decide who should lead them. Cornelius is right, I must also attend to the religious aspects of this war. I ask that you Cornelius and you Furius bring your recommendations to me."

As quick as Claudius is to note the absence of his own name, his mind turns to calculation as the discussion moves to recent flood damage in the city. What is Repentius’ game? Clearly he wants his own man in command, but why? It is imperative for Claudius to have an ally in Victorinus, or Repentius will succeed. Worse still, he could attain the command himself. And there is still this business of the special vexillation. What was his part in that?

Finally, blessedly, the meeting is over. The emperor withdraws. As the council breaks up Claudius makes directly for Repentius. "Praetorian Prefect, a word?"

“Of course, Claudius Maximus, I always have time for our brothers in the Frumentarii.” They maintain a pretence of civility until the crowd dissolves. Repentius drops his politesse. "What is it, Maximus? I’m a busy man."

“I couldn’t help but notice your failure to mention the troop transfer, the vexillation from Novae. The fact is that when the IX^th went into battle it had already been reinforced.”

“Yes. That was unfortunate.”

"Not much of a vexillation was it? A mere cohort?"

"A very good cohort, eight hundred of the best. At the time, the Parthian invasion was but a rumour. We don’t move entire legions around based on rumours, Maximus, not even rumours provoked by you and your little grain collectors. The vexillation was a prudent beginning, nothing else. Nevertheless, it is kind of you to offer your opinions on military affairs. I’ll make a note to consult the serving staff next time."

"What was your commander doing engaging a Parthian army in the middle of Armenia with only a single legion, when there were two others at his disposal? Even a philosopher like Senator Rusticus can see that something doesn’t tally."

"I must thank you for pointing out to Rome’s most influential circle that perhaps the Emperor has been remiss in maintaining upkeep among the legions. Preferring to fret over the law courts and ponder the mysteries of life in the company of Stoics. Too bad. Someone should tell him you can’t keep an Empire intact with worn-out tools, especially worn-out legions. But of course, you Stoics know everything, so you’ll know that already.

"As for Severianus, I can’t explain his behaviour, but I know what his orders were. He was to stay put. He’s not my governor, I didn’t put him there. So, if you don’t like the fact that the presumed-to-be late Governor of Cappadocia couldn’t read, I suggest you speak to the man who appointed him. Good day, Claudius Maximus."

Repentius strides briskly from the chamber. Claudius watches his departure with pent-up fury. At that moment Libo’s head peers around the pillared archway into the chamber. "Ah, Claudius! I hoped you’d still be here." Libo takes him by the elbow and leads him from the room. "Very entertaining today, if I might say so. Tripped a little over the readiness of the legions, but never mind. We have let the eastern legions go to rot."

"That wasn’t intended as a criticism of the Emperor."

"No, of course not, but it happened on his watch."

"You could better blame Marcus Gavius," Claudius countered. "He ran the Praetorian Camp for twenty years!"

"You could, but as he’s talking it over with Pluto, people are going to blame his employer."

"Nonsense! How Repentius twists things!"

"Snakes are known for that. What seems odd to me though was when he became all Pontifex Maximus. Oracles and auguries? I don’t think he bothers with the official Roman cults, much less an eastern one. What’s he playing at?"

"I don’t know," Claudius says. "It surprised me as well." They stroll back up the corridor leading out of the palace. Turned to intimidate new arrivals, the imperial busts are less distracting on departure. "I’d like to know."

Libo’s expression turns serious. "I think he was planting seeds in the Emperor’s head."

"How so?"

"Well, our Marcus, the gods know I love him, but I think he is just that little bit credulous along these lines."

"What are you saying? Superstitious?"

"I don’t want to oversimplify the thing or claim I can reduce his thinking to a single word. The man ponders the nature of things all day long. Perhaps upholds tradition is the right phrase."

"I uphold tradition…"

"Yes, of course you do, Claudius. Not upholds then. Rather, venerates tradition."

"All right. For argument’s sake let’s say venerates. What of it?"

"You know the Roman tradition is inclusive. We have gods, thousands of them. We absorb them. We are syncretic to a fault."

"Yes," Claudius agrees irritably, "but many of them are insignificant."

"Exactly. We let them all join the club. Conquer an eastern potentate, welcome an eastern pantheon. Conquered peoples bring their gods with them. The more the merrier, as long as appropriate deference is given to the existing crew and the deified emperors. Pay your taxes and you’ll be pretty much left alone to worship what you will.

"However, sometimes a god catches on and becomes more influential than all the others."

"Like the cult of Isis."

"Precisely. The Nile flows into the Tiber. The Emperor respects the will of the gods. And I do mean gods. Plural."

"Yes?" Claudius says, losing patience.

"Don’t you see? What if Repentius has a god in his purse, so to speak? Not just any god, but an influential one. Mightn’t that god say things, suggest things that just happen to fall in line with his own plans?"

Feeling only now the aching in his brow from the frown he’s been holding for the past hour, Claudius makes his own silent imprecation to Asclepius, the god of medicine. As they at last reach the bright sunlight of the atrium he raises his taut features toward Apollo’s healing rays. "Think about it Claudius," Libo says as they part with a fond embrace and promises to share a meal.

Claudius makes his way back into the city. As much as he prefers the winding ways of the inner-city streets, he decides to walk down the Via Nova so he can lose his headache and think without being jostled by crowds of street sellers and vagrants. When at length he arrives at the gates of the Foreigners’ Camp, the Frumentarii headquarters, Libo’s words remain foremost in his thoughts. What indeed, if Repentius has a god at his disposal? And which god?