‘You’re to return to Narbonensis as swiftly as possible. Since I won’t be there to keep watch on your men, don’t let them cause any trouble in any settlements you pass through on the way back. Understand?’
The centurion pressed his lips together in a tight line and nodded.
‘Then you can be off.’
Without waiting for a response, Balbus turned his horse in the other direction and trotted back to the head of the small column where Centurion Sinius was waiting. He waved his arm forward and gave the order for horsemen and wagons to advance. With a crack of the reins from the drivers, the wagons began to move with a clatter and deep rumble from the heavy iron-rimmed wheels. The
clop of the hoofs of mules and horses added to the din. Balbus rode on without looking back until he reached the rocky outcrop. Then he glanced round and saw the rear of the auxiliary column a quarter of a mile down the road, tramping back towards Gaul.
‘Good riddance,’ he muttered to himself.
The wagons, with their new escort, followed the road round the rocks and the route resumed its straight direction, through another quarter of a mile of pine trees, towards Picenum. Now that he was well clear of the German troops Balbus felt his mood improve. He slowed his horse until he was riding alongside Centurion Sinius.
‘So, what’s the latest news from Rome?’
Sinius thought for a moment and replied with an amused smile. ‘The Emperor’s new squeeze continues to tighten her grip on the old boy.’
‘Oh?’ Balbus frowned at the coarse reference to the Empress.
‘Yes. Word round the palace is that Agrippina has told Claudius to get rid of his mistresses. Naturally, he isn’t so keen. But that’s the least of his worries. You know that kid of hers, Lucius Domitius? She’s putting it about that the boy is going to be adopted by Claudius.’
‘Makes sense,’ Balbus responded. ‘No point in making the lad feel left out.’
Sinius glanced at him with an amused smile. ‘You don’t know the half of it, sir. Agrippina’s openly pushing Claudius to name young Lucius as his heir.’
Balbus raised his eyebrows. This was a dangerous development; the Emperor already had a legitimate heir, Britannicus, his son by his first wife, Messallina. Now there would be a rival to the throne. Balbus shook his head. ‘Why on earth would the Emperor agree to do that?’
‘Maybe his mind is growing weak,’ Sinius suggested. ‘Agrippina claims that she only wants Britannicus to have a protector and who better for the job than his new big brother? Someone to look out for his interests after Claudius has popped off. And that day ain’t so far off. The old boy’s looking thin as a stick and frail with it. So, once he goes, it looks like the Praetorians are going to have young Lucius Domitius as their new employer. Quite a turn-up, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Balbus replied. He fell silent as he considered the implications. As an infant the Emperor’s son, Britannicus, had been popular with the Praetorian Guard; he used to accompany his father on visits to the camp, wearing a small set of armour of his own and insisting on taking part in the drilling and weapons practice, to the amusement of the men. But the infant had become a boy and these days attended to his studies. Now young Britannicus was going to have to compete for the affection of the Praetorians.
‘There’s more, sir,’ Sinius said softly, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure that his men did not overhear. ‘If you would care to know it.’
Balbus looked at him sharply, wondering just how far he could trust the other officer. In recent years he had seen enough men put to death for not guarding their tongues and he had no wish to join them. ‘Is there any danger in hearing what you have to say?’
Sinius shrugged. ‘That depends on you, sir. Or, more accurately, it depends on where your first loyalty lies.’
‘My first and only loyalty is to my Emperor. As is yours, and all the men in the Praetorian Guard.’
‘Really?’ Sinius looked at him directly and smiled. ‘I would have thought a Roman would be loyal to Rome first.’
‘Rome and the Emperor are the same,’ Balbus replied tersely. ‘Our oath is equally binding to both. It is dangerous to say different, and I’d advise you not to raise the issue again.’
Sinius scrutinised the tribune for a moment and then looked away. ‘No matter. You are right, of course, sir.’
Sinius let his mount drop back until he was behind his superior. The convoy reached the end of the pine trees and emerged into open country. Balbus had not passed any other travellers since dawn and could see none ahead in the direction of Picenum. Then he recalled what Sinius had said about the festival. A short distance ahead the road descended into a slight fold in the landscape and Balbus stretched up in his saddle as he caught sight of movement amid some stunted bushes.
‘There’s something ahead,’ he said to Sinius. He raised his arm and pointed. ‘See? About a quarter of a mile in front, where the road dips.’
Sinius looked in the direction indicated and shook his head.
‘Are you blind, man? There’s clearly something moving there. Yes, I can make it out now. A handful of small carts and mules among the bushes.’
‘Ah, now I have them, sir.’ Sinius stared into the dip a moment and then continued, ‘Could be a merchant’s train in camp.’
‘At this time of day? This short a distance from Picenum?’ Balbus snorted. ‘I don’t think so. Come, we need a closer look.’
He urged his mount forward, clopping down the road towards the bushes nestling in the dip. Sinius beckoned to the leading section of horsemen to follow him and set off in the wake of his superior. As Balbus drew nearer he realised that there were several more carts than he had first thought and now he could see a handful of men crouching down between the bushes. The anxiety he had felt shortly before returned to prick the back of his scalp with icy needles. He reined in a hundred paces from the nearest of the men and their carts to wait for the others to catch up.
‘I don’t like the look of this. Those scoundrels are up to no good, I’ll be bound. Sinius, ready your men.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the centurion replied in a flat tone.
Balbus heard the rasp of a sword being drawn from its scabbard and he took a tighter grip of his reins as he prepared to lead the mounted guardsmen forward.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Sinius said softly as he plunged his sword into the tribune’s back, between the shoulder blades. The point cut through the cloak and tunic and on through the flesh and bone into the spine. Balbus’s head jerked back under the impact and he let out a sharp gasp as his fingers spread wide, half clenched like claws, releasing his grip on the reins. Sinius gave a powerful twist to the blade and then ripped it free. The tribune collapsed forward between his saddle horns, arms hanging limply down the flanks of his horse. The animal started in surprise and the movement dislodged the tribune from his saddle. He fell heavily to the ground, rolling on to his back. He stared up, eyes wide open as his mouth worked feebly.
Sinius turned to his men. ‘See to the drivers of the wagons and then bring them up to the carts.’ He looked down at the tribune.
‘Sorry, sir. You’re a good officer and you don’t deserve this. But I have my instructions.’
Balbus tried to speak but no sound escaped his lips. He felt cold and, for the first time in years, afraid. As his vision began to blur, he knew he was dying. There would be no quiet life for him in Pompeii and he felt a passing regret that he would never again see his brother. Swiftly the life faded from his eyes and they stared up fixedly as he lay still on the ground. Further down the road there were a few surprised cries that were quickly cut off as the wagon drivers were ruthlessly disposed of. Then the wagons and the mounted men continued towards the waiting carts. Sinius turned to a large man close behind him and indicated the tribune’s body. ‘Cestius, put him and the others on one of the wagons. I want two men to ride ahead and keep watch. Another two to go back to the bend in the road and make sure those auxiliaries don’t pull a fast one and turn round to take some unofficial leave in Picenum.’
The men with the carts emerged from the bushes and formed them into a line beside the road. Under Sinius’s instructions, the chests were quickly unloaded from the wagons, one to each of the carts. As soon as they were secured, they were covered with bales of cheap cloth, sacks of grain, or bundles of old rags. The traces were removed from the mule teams on the wagons and the animals were distributed among the carts to haul the additional burden. Once empty, the wagons were heaved deep into the bushes and their axle caps knocked out and the wheels removed from the axles so that they collapsed down, out of sight of the road. The bodies were taken further into the scrub and tossed into a muddy ditch before being covered over with brush cut from the bushes. Finally the men gathered around the carts as Sinius and a handful of others cut some more brush to cover the gaps in the bushes where the wagons had passed through and to sweep the tracks in the grass. Thanks to the frost there were no telltale ruts in the ground.
‘That’ll do,’ Sinius decided, tossing his bundle of twigs aside. ‘Time to change clothes, gentlemen!’
They hurriedly removed their cloaks and tunics and swapped them for a variety of civilian garments in a range of styles and colours. Once the uniforms were safely tucked away in bundles
behind their saddles, Sinius looked the men over. He nodded in satisfaction; they looked enough like the merchants and traders who regularly passed along the roads between the towns and cities of Italia.
‘You have your instructions. We’ll leave here in separate groups. Once you get beyond Picenum, take the routes you have been given back to the warehouse in Rome. I’ll see you there. Watch your carts carefully. I don’t want any petty thieves stumbling on the contents of these chests. Keep your heads down and play your part and no one will suspect us. Is that clear?’ He looked round. ‘Good. Then let’s get the first carts on the move!’
Over the next hour the carts left the dip in the road singly, or in groups of two or three at irregular intervals, intermixed with the horsemen. Some made for Picenum, others branched off at the road junction before the town, passing to the west or east and following an indirect route to Rome. Once the last cart was on its way, Sinius took a final look around. There were still some tracks left by the carts and the hoofs of the mules and horses, but he doubted that they would attract attention from travellers on their way to or from Picenum.
With a brief nod of satisfaction, Sinius steered his horse on to the road and walked it unhurriedly towards the town. He paid his toll to the guards on the town gate and stopped at a tavern to have a bowl of stew and a mug of heated wine before continuing his journey. He left the town’s south gate and took the road to Rome.
It was late in the afternoon when he saw a small column of horsemen in white cloaks riding up from the south. Sinius pulled the hood of his worn brown tunic up over his head to hide his features and raised a hand in greeting as he passed by the Praetorian guardsmen riding to meet the convoy from Narbonensis. The officer leading the escort haughtily ignored the gesture and Sinius smiled to himself at the prospect of the man having to explain the disappearance of the wagons and their chests of silver when he reported to his superiors in Rome.
Ostia, January,
AD
51
T
he rough sea was grey, except where the strong breeze lifted veils of white spume from the crests of waves as they rolled in towards the shore. Above, the sky was obscured by low clouds that stretched out unbroken towards the horizon. A light, cold drizzle added to the depressing scene and soon soaked Centurion Macro’s dark hair, plastering it to his scalp as he gazed out over the port. Ostia had changed greatly since the last time he had been there, a few years earlier on his return from the campaign in Britannia. Then the port had been an exposed landing point for the transhipment of cargo and passengers to and from Rome, some twenty miles inland from the mouth of the River Tiber. A handful of timber piers had projected from the shore to provide for the unloading of imports from across the empire. A somewhat smaller flow of exports left Italia for the distant provinces ruled by Rome.
Now the port was in the throes of a massive development project under the orders of the Emperor as part of his ambition to boost trade. Unlike his predecessor, Claudius preferred to use the public purse for the common good, rather than absurd luxuries. Two long moles were under construction, stretching like titanic arms to embrace the waters of the new harbour. The work continued without let up through every season of the year and Macro’s gaze momentarily rested on the miserable chain gangs of slaves hauling blocks of stone across wooden rollers out towards the end of the moles where they were pitched into the sea. Block by block they were building a wall to protect the shipping from the water. Further out, beyond the moles, stood the breakwater. Macro had been told by the owner of the inn where he and his friend, Cato, were staying
that one of the largest ships ever built had been loaded with stones and scuttled to provide the foundations of the breakwater. More blocks of stone had been dropped on to the hull until the breakwater had been completed and now the lower levels of a lighthouse were under construction. Macro could just make out the tiny forms of the builders on the scaffolding as they laboured to complete another course.
‘Sooner them than me,’ Macro mumbled to himself as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.