Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Read online

  “All right, all right, silence, all of you,” a voice suddenly called out and Marcus turned to glance at the gathering of magnates. Had they come to their senses? One of the shippers had risen to his feet and was looking at Marcus.

  “We have heard your request, prefect,” the man said in a calm voice. “It is a contentious issue and we will need some time to discuss this amongst ourselves. Please be assured that we mean no offense to the emperor, but we do have commercial considerations and we must work out what is best for us. I am sure that you will understand, prefect.”

  “I understand,” Marcus said graciously. “Let us reconvene this meeting in a week’s time then.”

  In response the shipping company owner dipped his head in a polite reply. “Let’s do that,” the man said, “and maybe next time we could choose a more suitable location for our meeting.”

  ***

  “That seemed to go well,” Cassius said, breathing a sigh of relief as the last of the shipping magnates departed.

  Marcus did not reply as he walked over to the low wall, that marked the edge of his garden, and gazed out over the city of Rome. On a clear day the views of Rome from up here on the Janiculum hill were fantastic and had been one of the reasons he’d purchased the small villa. The other being that the location was far enough away from the dreadful stink produced by the million plus inhabitants of Rome.

  “That was bold of you,” Marcus growled disapprovingly as Cassius came to stand at his side. “Some may feel it was disrespectful and it was not your job to speak out.”

  “I am sorry Sir if I caused offense,” Cassius said quietly, “but I was right. Those men knew all those things. They were testing you. They were being arseholes.”

  Marcus turned his head to examine Cassius for a long moment in silence.

  “Yes, I know,” he snapped. “I am aware of their privileges. But it was not your place to speak and we need their cooperation. You undermined me in front of our clients. There will be no repeat of this. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I will do as you wish,” Cassius replied, looking straight ahead with a wounded but defiant expression.

  Marcus sighed and turned to gaze down at the Tiber and the bridges spanning the river. Cassius was related to Paulinus, minister in charge of the fiscus, the emperor’s personal treasury. He was a good and close friend and he was also Elsa’s husband. He could not sack the young man, nor did he really wish to, but now and then he had doubts about Cassius. It was just instinct, but he could not shake it. Cassius was a doctor by training, but he was also a dreamer. There was something deeply idealistic about his young secretary that could, if unchecked by a healthy dose of realism, lead to trouble.

  “For what it is worth Sir,” Cassius said quietly, “I agree with you when you said that you are against the free handout of grain to the people. During the Republic there was no need for this.”

  “The Republic?” Marcus frowned.

  “When Rome was ruled solely by the senate and the will of the people of Rome,” Cassius replied with a little sigh, “A time of true greatness; not like now.”

  “Good god,” Marcus muttered with a little disapproving shake of his head. “You sound just like Ahern. Republic, Republic, that’s all he can talk about these days. Well emperor Trajan is a good ruler and he has brought peace to the world. I should know, I fought for him in Britannia and on the Danube.”

  Cassius said nothing as he gazed at the views with a faraway look and, as the silence lengthened, Marcus grunted and shook his head again.

  “So, what does my schedule look like?” Marcus snapped.

  “Uh the next meeting is tomorrow with the Pistorum at their offices by the temple of Minerva on the Aventine hill,” Cassius replied hastily, blinking back to reality. “The college of bakers are demanding that we raise the bread price. No surprises there. They have been demanding that for years, but the guild does have some political power. The bakers also mentioned the preparations for the festivities on June the 9th to honour the oven goddess. They want to know what their budget will be for the celebrations. Then let’s see,” Cassius looked down at his fingers. “On Friday we are meeting the haulage firms and inland barge companies. They want to talk about traffic congestion on the Tiber. Then on Monday, next week, we are meeting the priests of Ceres at their temple. The priests are complaining that someone has repeatedly tried to open the stone that blocks the entrance into the Mundus Cereris without their permission. They have been forced to place a permanent guard.” Cassius glanced quickly at Marcus. “The Mundus Cereris is the pit that contains the entrance to the underworld Sir,” Cassius explained helpfully. “It’s only ever opened on three days of the year, in August, October and November. It is done to allow the spirits of the dead to lawfully wander amongst the living for a short time.”

  “I know what it is,” Marcus growled. “Holidays for the dead,” he muttered with a little disbelieving shake of his head. “But what has this got to do with us? It seems to be a simple security matter for the priests. They should speak to Similis.”

  “The priests say that it is a bad omen Sir,” Cassius replied. “They are demanding that we double the offerings we place in the pit.”

  Marcus’s face soured. “It is only a bad omen if those trying to move the stone are doing so from the inside of the pit,” he snapped. “All right,” he added, before Cassius could speak, “I will discuss the matter with them. Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all the arrangements so far,” Cassius replied, with a stiff nod.

  “Good,” Marcus said, “Good. We made progress today,” he said in a more upbeat voice. “Now I want you to go to Paulinus’s house and tell him that I need to discuss our funding from the fiscus. I know he is a busy man. Arrange a time for when I can meet him.”

  “Cassius,” a soft woman’s voice suddenly called out, and as she did, both men turned. It was Elsa. She was clad in a long white stola over which she had draped a grey winter cloak with a hood covering her head. One of her hands was clasped around her prominent and protruding belly. The baby was due in three months. Marcus mellowed abruptly at the sight of his adopted daughter. Elsa looked lovely as always and at twenty-three, she seemed to have everything going for her. A skilled healer, beauty, grace, intelligence, a husband and now soon she was going to become a mother. How far she had come, Marcus thought with sudden pride. How much she had accomplished since that day he’d found her and her little brother Armin, half abandoned in that miserable hut near the Charterhouse lead mines in Britannia. He had been right to adopt her and her brother Armin, after killing her father. The mess with Lucius had been unpleasant and painful, but at least some good had come from taking care of his children.

  “Cassius,” Elsa called out again as she came towards them, her eyes fixed on her husband. “We must go. Remember we have an appointment.”

  “Will you not stay for a while” Marcus interrupted. “The slaves are preparing dinner. You and Cassius are welcome to stay. It would be good to hear your news.”

  Slowly Elsa turned to look at Marcus.

  “That is very kind, but we must go,” she replied. “I am sure that you are a busy man and will have much on your mind. We do not wish to intrude.”

  Marcus looked disappointed, but he managed a little graceful nod. It had been hard to watch Elsa leave and go to live in Cassius’s house, but he had to accept it. She was Cassius’s woman now.

  “Another time then perhaps,” he said. “One of these days we must sit down together and discuss what to do with your little brother Armin, back on Vectis. He is getting to the age where I must decide what he is going to do with his life. I would like your thoughts on this Elsa.”

  Elsa paused.

  “Thank you,” she said in a formal and neutral voice. “Your kindness and respect for me reflects well on you and I am sure that you will make the right choice for Armin.” Elsa hesitated. “Make the right decision, Marcus.”

  Marcus frowned as Cassius and Elsa disappeared
into his house. That was odd. Elsa and Armin were very close. She had always been concerned for her little brother’s welfare. When he’d first met Elsa, she had made him swear that he would never do anything to separate her from her brother. But now suddenly, she seemed indifferent. That was not like her.

  As Cassius and Elsa left the house Kyna came up to Marcus and affectionately laid her hand on his shoulder. “Elsa told me that she has a new hobby,” Kyna said with a little smile. “She is so bored waiting for the baby to arrive that she has started studying painting. Not that she will ever have her walls painted. She is far too frugal for that.”

  “Well we need to make decisions regards Armin’s future,” Marcus growled. “If she doesn’t want to be involved in that process then I will make the decisions myself. But she can’t complain I didn’t try and involve her. The boy will reach manhood soon and he needs a profession.”

  “I am sure that you will make the right decision,” Kyna replied with a sigh.

  ***

  It was growing dark outside when Indus suddenly appeared in the doorway leading to the hall and caught Marcus’s attention.

  “Visitor for you Sir,” Indus said quietly in his native Batavian language. “He is waiting for you outside in the street. Won’t come into the house. Says he needs to speak to you. Says it’s important.”

  “Who is he?” Marcus asked, but Indus just shrugged.

  Marcus muttered something to himself and then, with his bodyguard following closely on behind, he strode into the hall and towards the door. Outside in the gathering gloom he quickly caught sight of a hooded figure sitting on a horse. The man’s hood covered most of his face and in the twilight, it was hard to make out his features.

  “I am Marcus, who are you? What do you want?” Marcus growled as he paused outside his front door.

  For a moment the stranger said nothing, but from under his hood Marcus was aware of keen, quick eyes studying him, and as the silence lengthened, a sudden chill of unease ran down Marcus’s spine.

  “I have a message for you Marcus,” the stranger said, in a quiet but clear voice. “Listen carefully. You have been given one chance to save yourself and your family from harm and suffering. Follow my instructions. Resign from your job. Resign from the senate. Abandon your friends in the War Party and go to the temple of Invidia and provide the god with a gift of no less than half a million denarii in gold coins. Do this and you shall be spared. Get yourself and your family out of Rome whilst you still can. A storm is coming. A storm that will sweep you away.”

  And as the stranger finished speaking, he urged his horse forwards and with a clatter of hooves disappeared off into the gloom.

  Chapter Two – Old Friends

  “The temple of Invidia,” Paulinus Picardus Tagliare exclaimed with a startled look. “Half a million denarii in gold coins. Great gods, Marcus.”

  Marcus nodded solemnly as the two senators, dressed in their fine white senatorial toga’s, ambled across the Pons Fabricus that connected Tiber island to the eastern bank of the river. It was morning, and around them in the dawn light, the bridge was crowded with noisy, impatient and aggressive rush-hour commuters, pedestrians and oxen and horse drawn wagons. The greenish waters of the Tiber were high, flush with fresh, winter snow melt, but the river and the great city beyond still stank like a sewer. Indus followed the two men at a respectful distance, a gladius stuffed into his belt and in one hand the Batavian bodyguard was holding a stout stick. At his side young Cassius was staring straight ahead with a faraway look, as if he was in a world of his own.

  “Do you know who this man was? Did you get a look at his face?” Paulinus asked with a little indignant shake of his head.

  “He was on a horse and he’d taken care to obscure his face,” Marcus growled, as he pushed on across the bridge. “But he knew my name. Kyna is worried. She says that maybe we should do as he says.”

  “And what do you think?” Paulinus said, glancing sideways at his friend.

  “There is no way I am going to be run out of Rome, by a coward who hides his face,” Marcus replied. “Fuck that. I have a job to do.”

  Paulinus nodded in agreement. “And yet it is troubling,” Paulinus said, turning to glance quickly at Indus. “Are you confident your man back there can handle your security? Maybe you should hire some more men and keep a guard at your house.”

  Idly, Marcus glanced across at a group of beggars sitting on the ground and holding up their hands in a miserable and pathetic plea for help.

  “Indus can handle my security,” Marcus said breezily. “And I can call on a few good solid men from the veteran’s charity, if I need to. Don’t worry. This is probably nothing more than an attempt to squeeze some money out of me. It would not be the first time. I have already reported the matter to Similis. The prefect has promised to alert the commander of the urban cohorts. They will ask around if anyone knows of troublemakers capable of these kinds of threats. I can handle it,” Marcus said, turning to give Paulinus a little confident smile. “We are going to be all right. But there is a business-related issue that I need to discuss with you.”

  The head of the imperial fiscus sighed. “Nigrinus is still at his estate in Faventia,” Paulinus said, changing the subject as the two of them struggled towards the gate into the city of Rome and the cattle market, that lay just inside the old city walls. “I think he will be there for a while. He has no plans to come to Rome. But the last time that I spoke to him, he told me to impress on you the importance of winning the loyalty and support of the shipping and business guilds to our cause. What was the outcome of your meeting yesterday?”

  “That’s hardly news,” Marcus replied. “I am working on it. But it will take time. The shipping companies are going to consider the proposal to have two thirds of their capital invested in the grain trade. I have another meeting with them next week.”

  “Good, they will come around,” Paulinus said, with a little nod. “Nigrinus is worried that Hadrian’s influence is growing amongst the army,” Paulinus added. “The grain supply to the city of Rome is a key strategic interest. We must have complete control. Trajan must understand the consequences if he decides to nominate Hadrian as his successor. If Rome starves, then that is going to create some serious problems for anyone in charge.”

  The gate into the city of Rome was guarded by a squad from the urban cohorts and as the two senators passed on through, the soldiers on duty, recognising them, gave them a polite and respectful greeting. Beyond the walls, the Forum Boarium market was a riot of yelling and shouting merchants and shoppers, as a brisk trade took place under the watchful eye of a stone statue of Mercury.

  “Is that why Nigrinus had you promoted from the prefect of the public treasury to the man in charge of the fiscus. So that you could cause trouble?” Marcus asked with a sudden mischievous grin.

  “I am a money expert,” Paulinus replied in a serious, slightly offended voice as he ignored the gentle jibe. “And I am the very best. There is no one else with my experience, talent and skills. That’s why I was promoted to the fiscus. And it is good news for Rome that I oversee the taxes from the imperial provinces. Without a sound financial base, the empire will collapse.”

  Paulinus paused for a moment and glanced at Marcus. “I forget that you are from one of the more backward provinces,” Paulinus said with a sudden mischievous expression of his own, as he raised his voice above the din. “So, let me educate you my friend. The power of the emperor rests on three pillars. The loyalty of the army; the support of the senate and finally the docility of the mob. My friend Tacitus may call them the plebs sordida, the great unwashed, but every emperor has an unspoken duty to provide for his people.” Paulinus paused, as he struggled on through the crowds in the direction of the temple of Saturn and the Capitoline hill. “The Roman people have a right to free bread, to gladiatorial games, running water and the odd coin donative,” he called out. “The bellies of the people of Rome must always be kept full.”

  “
Well if you keep paying my shipper’s and bakers, I will keep the grain flowing into Rome,” Marcus said with a little wry smile. “But I need to discuss our funding for the next year,” he added, in a more serious voice. “There is pressure on me to raise prices. I intend to resist the pressure but if the guilds take this issue to the senate. I need to know if I can rely on the fiscus to back me up. I need your support. If we raise the price of grain, there could be trouble on the streets.”

  “You have the full support of the fiscus,” Paulinus replied. “The last thing that Trajan wants is to face trouble at home. I will back you up in the senate. You have my word.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus replied in a grateful voice.

  As the two of them entered the Forum of the city of Rome, Marcus turned to look up at the great imperial state buildings and ageless monuments that dominated the valley between the Capitoline and Palatine hills. Despite the years in which he had spent in Rome, he had never been able to shake a humbling sense of awe for the majestic Forum Romanum. For it was from here that Rome ruled the world and had been doing so for over two hundred and fifty years. It was from here that the great toiling masses of the earth were managed; the immortal gods honoured, and the destiny of man determined. The narrow Forum, filled by the senate house, temples, triumphal archways, statues, colonnaded shops and palaces, was like no other place on earth and the smell of power and money was tangible.

  “What news from the east?” Marcus called out, raising his voice as the two of them pushed their way through the crowds towards the temple of Saturn. “Has there been any word from Trajan? The last I heard was that we had captured Armenia, taken Nisibis and that the Parthians were on the run.”

  “Then you know as much as I do,” Paulinus shrugged. “The war seems to be going well, thank the gods. You must be worried about your son, Fergus. He is serving out there isn’t he? An auxiliary unit, was it?”