Chapter VIII

 

 

 

Rome

 

Claudius pauses on the threshold and surveys the cool recesses of the imperial residence. Furius Victorinus stands on the balcony, a firm grip on the balustrade, inspecting the Palatine. After a perfunctory greeting they watch together in silence as courtiers, clerks, servants, officers, and the occasional senator pass through the quadrangle below them. The palaces of the Palatine form a vast complex of offices, reception halls and temples. The administrative centre of the Roman Empire.

"Busy today," Victorinus remarks absently. The tendons in his hands bulge from his grip on the railing. "I wonder how many people work in the palace." A patently forced effort at conversation, this.

"Thousands, I should think, if you include slaves."

"I have always liked this residence in particular." He runs his finger along the smooth Carrera marble. "Tiberius built the original. A tragic figure, but you cannot fault his taste in architecture."

"If you don’t mind my saying, Furius, you are looking a bit tragic yourself this day." Catching his colleague in an unguarded mood is a curiosity. Victorinus is always the essence of gravitas, his reputation for upholding the conventions of social decorum near legendary. In Claudius’ recollection, Victorinus has two states of being: dour and formal, or ordering people about like a drillmaster.

"Ha!" The Prefect faces him. "What do you think, Claudius, of this Parthian business? We both know what is to come. The only difference is you will stay in Rome, or at least in Italy, whereas I will have to accompany that boy to the edge of the Empire."

"I'm afraid the latest news from Syria has made his and your presence imperative. Governor Cornelianus and his army put to flight? I could barely credit it. But the report from Ferox is detailed and unequivocal. First Elegia, and now this. We are in a crisis." Claudius runs a hand through thinning hair. "When do you leave?"

"Soon."

"Well, we cannot send Lucius Verus out on his own. He’d get lost. But this is not like you. Full frontal assault, that’s more your style." He crosses his arms and gives Victorinus an appraising look. "Firstly, it will advance your already dazzling career. Secondly, there’s nothing to be done about Verus. Marcus loves his brother, and that is that. We work around him."

They move indoors. The Praetorian Prefect halts in front of a large wall map of the Empire made of marble inlaid with mosaic stones. Victorinus places one finger on the single piece of gold on the map that marks the location of Rome.

"My son has been a burden of late."

"Vibius? A fine young gentleman. On what account are you concerned?"

"He gambles."

"All young Roman gentlemen gamble."

"He loses."

"Debts?"

"Yes."

"You are concerned because he gambles or because he is unsuccessful?"

"That Claudius, is a Stoic’s question."

"I suggest you enlist Libo’s help."

"That scallywag?" Victorinus bridles. "Putting those two together would be like giving unwatered wine to a sot."

"In truth, Libo is attuned to the ways of youth, and as a gambler he is invariably successful. Call it a gift. The horse races at the Circus are his particular strength; he might share some of his copious understanding. What stable does your son support?"

"The Whites, I believe."

"Oh dear. Libo is definitely your man, or Verus. I’m told he does very well by the Greens."

They turn to greet Tiberius Clemens, the Emperor’s secretary of correspondence. "Friends," he extends his arms in welcome. "I’m sorry I was not here to greet you. The Emperor insisted we get through all of the legal cases outstanding. There is so much litigation you would not credit it. I swear Romans think of nothing else. The Emperor expresses his regrets, but he will be unable to meet with you today."

Claudius and Victorinus exchange glances of silent significance. Detecting their discomfiture Clemens raises both his hands as though warding off an evil spirit. "No, no, I assure you gentlemen, the Empress Faustina has had a setback. She is still recovering from the births you know."

"Serious?" Claudius says.

"I do not think so, but the doctors are of little comfort, given what has gone before."

"And the twins?"

"Commodus is not as healthy as the physicians would like, and his brother sicklier."

"The gods, Mutinus, Bona Dea, and Lucina favour the Empress," Victorinus intones like a Haruspex. "She produces progeny by the damned bucket! It is the Parcae who must be appeased."

"The Emperor has been scrupulous in making sacrifices to all the relevant gods," Clemens sniffs.

"Then I suggest we all make a greater effort, Tiberius Clemens," Victorinus snaps. "In fifteen years the Empress has borne eight children. Four daughters survive, yet four sons are with Pluto. That’s more than passing strange and seems more than mere coincidence! Perhaps not all the gods are in accord. With two infant boys struggling for survival and the future of the imperial line at issue, I think we must make a special effort. Decima and Nona should be asked to intercede with their sister Morta. The most senior gods should be invoked!"

The secretary accepts this dressing down with an accomplished bow, although Claudius takes note of the flint-like cast of his eyes. "Of course, Prefect. It will be as you say." Despite this cue to leave, Clemens wavers.

"What else man? Out with it!"

"I hesitate to speak out of turn, but the Emperor’s decision may have been influenced by his embarrassment that his brother would be unable to attend you."

"Do tell," Claudius urges. "Where is Verus?"

"Sailing in Ostia."

"What a surprise," Victorinus growls, offering Claudius an I-told-you-so look. "Remind me why we have two emperors, Claudius? Of what use is this appendage? The Senate didn’t want it."

"You know very well that Marcus felt it was a personal obligation to Pius to elevate his brother. One that he no doubt regrets from time to time."

Clemens affects not to have witnessed this exchange of lèse-majesté. "I thought you should know."

"Thank you, Tiberius," Claudius smiles reassuringly.

The secretary brightens. "One more thing. The Emperor has read your joint submission on appointments. He asked me to advise you both that he agrees with your recommendation to replace Governor Severianus with General Statius Priscus." With a bow, Clemens makes a hurried escape.

"You should be less strident with Clemens. He’s new to the job.”

"Nonsense, Claudius, does him good. An Emperor’s secretary needs a thick hide. But never mind him. Now we can be sure to have at least one fighting general in the field. Let the Parthians deal with Priscus!"

"Repentius will not be pleased that we went behind his back."

"Let serpents writhe.” Victorinus rubs his hands together. “Watch me move some troops."

"Not too many, I trust?"

"Enough," he says ominously. "The fight’s on in the East and," he raises his eyebrows significantly, "the governors on the Danube have been ordered to use any means, including distributing money into the right hands to keep the German border quiet. That’s your job. Keep the Germans and Sarmatians busy while Priscus and I grind Parthia into dust.

"Priscus is not well liked. There are many in the Senate who will complain the honour should not go to a knight."

"The Senate?" Victorinus grins. "A word from the Emperor and they will be purring like kittens. Your concern is the north. I’m weakening the length of the frontier to give that child Verus an army. Keep those barbarians quiet."

"We are making every effort."

"Not every effort. What’s this about sending Malorix to Asia? I haven’t read a decent field report since he left."

Claudius feels his guard go up. "It can’t be helped."

"Can it not?" Victorinus delivers a parade-ground squint that would make a centurion faint. "Don’t let personal feelings interfere with your judgement. Do you think that’s what Silo would want? Every once in a while Rome loses a battle, but we never lose a war. Silo knew that. Elegia is history, Claudius. Get Malorix back here where he can be of some use."

With that as his final order, the Prefect salutes sharply and leaves. Claudius chooses to overlook the tone used with one who is technically his equal. A pleasure to see him shaken from his ill humour by the promise of action. That is the Victorinus he knows. In command.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Claudius leaves the Palatine Palace immediately. Aristes and his litter are parked beneath the steps of the Temple of Apollo, surrounded by a half dozen house slaves and bearers. He climbs into the litter and arranges himself on the cushions while Aristes barks commands. Instead of going directly to the Foreigners’ Camp, they make their way to the Forum of Trajan to call upon his favourite book and manuscript vendors. Claudius has a weakness for old manuscripts, the older the better. His collection of texts of Rome’s great historians is renowned. He has complete sets of Livius, Tacitus, and Plutarch, and he is currently on the hunt for a few outstanding volumes of Diodorus of Sicily. Most recently a senator let slip that a book vendor was holding a rare copy of Diodorus for an important client. Claudius is determined to get there first.

They enter the immense forum through the southern triumphal archway. Less than 50 years old, the forum was designed to impress. At the northern end lie the beautiful colonnades and dazzling gilded bronze roof of the appropriately named Basilica Ulpia. Here are the state archives, two immense libraries holding Greek and Latin texts, and a market alive with the transaction of Roman business. Just behind it looms the majesty of Trajan’s column, celebrating a lifetime of slaughter and conquest. More importantly, tucked in behind the columns is a cluster of wonderful bookshops.

The litter comes to a jarring halt. Claudius has the reprimand ready on his lips as he pulls open the side curtain, only to discover his window flanked by a pair of ferocious looking Praetorians. They grin as they reveal the steel beneath their cloaks. As his mind initiates a rapid-fire inventory of his personal affairs, Claudius observes an ornate litter drawing up beside his own. The Praetorians withdraw, leaving the two conveyances window to window. The curtain opposite slides open to reveal a scowling Cornelius Repentius.

"Claudius Maximus." He says this as though the name tastes like bitter herbs in his mouth. "I understand that Statius Priscus has been appointed to the East."

Claudius draws himself up to compensate for how vulnerable he feels. "Good news travels fast. Were those your thugs?"

In full daylight the Prefect’s face seems more like an ancestral death-mask than a living human. "They are quite harmless Maximus, for now. But my patience is not limitless." He inhales like a grammarian lecturing a particularly dull student. "You have gone to the Emperor to get Priscus assigned to Cappadocia, whereas, I went to a lot of trouble to have him appointed to command the army in Britain. The point was to have someone competent protecting our backs from a herd of fanatical Celts while the grown-ups sort out the problems in the East. Why must you interfere, when you clearly have no grasp of strategy?"

"Or you could keep Priscus far away from the action and appoint your cousin to the eastern command. Why is that so important to you?"

"It is Praetorian business," the Prefect hisses, thrusting his head out of the litter, "and of no concern to the Frumentarii!"

"Perhaps you should tell that to your colleague then. Ask Victorinus what he recommended."

"I intend to." He leans back inside his litter. "In the meantime," he says, his face concealed now within the darkened interior, "I warn you, stay out of Praetorian affairs. Keep your little tax collectors out of my way."

"You warn me?" Claudius reaches inside of his purse and withdraws the ring he took from the body at the inn, holding it out for Repentius to see. "Recognize this?"

"Has some careless fellow lost a ring?"

"I found it beside one of my men. He was murdered by someone bearing this Praetorian ring!"

"Keep it. I have hundreds of them."

"My people are dead."

"Life is fragile, Maximus, and you don’t look too well yourself. Now, I’ve just acquired a fine copy of Diodorus of Sicily, and I simply must away to study the boring old fart." The voice hardens. "Stay out of my affairs, Prefect. I won’t tell you again." He raps on the side of his litter. "Praetorian Camp!"

From beyond the curtains Aristes calls out, "My lord are you alright?" Claudius pauses a moment to steady his nerves. "Home, Aristes," he says at last. "There will be no purchases today."