not unnecessarily put the men’s lives in danger and therefore, in view of Tribune Vespasian’s imminent recall to Rome, I am willing to overlook it.’
Vespasian breathed a sigh of relief; during the twenty days that it had taken them to find Pomponius, having been told by the garrison commander at Oescus that the IIII Scythia was campaigning against a Getic raiding party of at least three thousand men that had been ravaging the east of Moesia, he had fully expected to be seriously reprimanded for his impetuousness in taking the column through the Succi Pass in a blizzard. In an effort to protect himself, when he made his verbal report to Pomponius, which, owing to his rank, he had been able to do before Caelus, he had taken care not to mention Caelus’ insistence that they should turn back, stressing instead the supposed urgency of placing the garrison’s request before Pomponius. He had also augmented that urgency with an exaggerated assessment of the men’s dissatisfaction, which he knew would reflect badly on Caelus, as their senior centurion and therefore responsible for their discipline, for allowing things to get that far, and well on Paetus and himself for quelling a potential mutiny.
‘Permission to speak, legate,’ Caelus barked.
‘You will remain silent, centurion,’ Pomponius snapped, causing his jowls to quiver. ‘You had your say when you made your report to me upon your arrival this morning. The matter is closed. On your way back to Thracia you will take the three legionaries that Paetus has sent for transfer to the siege lines at Sagadava where you will hand them over to Primus Pilus Faustus; they wanted to avenge their comrades, well, they’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so in the first century of the first cohort when they storm the castle. My secretary has their transfer orders as well as some despatches for Paetus; pick them up on your way out. You’re to leave immediately; understood, centurion?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Good. Take the Illyrian auxiliaries with you and get them back to Thracia as soon as possible. Dismissed.’
Caelus saluted, turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the room, burning with ill-concealed rage.
As the door closed behind him Pomponius smiled grimly. ‘He was always Poppaeus’ sneak and he’ll have a lot to say to him when he gets to Sagadava.’
‘Poppaeus is at Sagadava?’ Vespasian blurted out, forgetting that he was still at attention and therefore should not speak unless he was addressed directly.
Pomponius overlooked the offence. ‘At ease, tribune, sit down. Yes, he arrived four days ago, the slippery little bastard. I spent the last two months chasing the Getae around eastern Moesia and I finally managed to corner them at Sagadava, whilst they were waiting for their transports to ship them back across the river. Then, three days ago, as soon as the siege lines were completed and it was obvious the horse-fuckers were going nowhere without a fight, he turns up with four cohorts of the Fifth Macedonica aboard two squadrons of the Danuvius fleet, takes overall command and orders me straight back here to sit and wait whilst, again, he grabs all the glory. He even had the temerity to accuse me of failing in my duty to Rome for not stopping the Getae’s raids, as if it were that easy against an enemy that can move thirty or forty miles a day as opposed to our fifteen, if we’re lucky. Pluto’s balls, we need more cavalry in this province.’ Pomponius slumped back in his chair and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow that, despite the cool temperature in the room, had accumulated there.
Vespasian shifted uneasily in his seat, wondering how he was going to find out whether Rhoteces was with the besieged raiding party and, if he was, how they were going to get through the Roman lines, into the castle, apprehend him and then get him back out without it coming to the attention of Poppaeus.‘Why have the Getae started raiding the province so often?’ he asked. ‘It’s not as if there’s a lot to plunder here and if they carry on it will surely just provoke the Emperor into extending the Empire over the river.’
Pomponius looked up from the self-pitying reverie into which he had sunk. ‘What? Oh, I know; strategically it’s pure madness on their part. But it seems that their king, Cotiso, who’s the grandson of the king of the same name that we defeated over fifty years ago, has been encouraged to exact revenge for that humiliation to his people.’
‘By whom?’
‘That disgusting priest that had the ear of Poppaeus; you might have seen him when he led Dinas’ people down to surrender — you were there, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I was,’ Vespasian replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘So he’s been with the Getae ever since the revolt was put down?’
‘I don’t know if he went to them immediately but he’s certainly been with them for the last year or so; he’s been seen with them during some of their raids.’
‘Was he spotted on this one?’ Vespasian asked innocently.
Pomponius was about to answer, but then stopped himself and peered at his young tribune with his piggy eyes. ‘Ah, I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Your brother’s with you, isn’t he?’
Vespasian’s pulse quickened. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yet he doesn’t hold a military commission at the moment, does he?’
‘No, he’s a civilian.’
‘Has he recently arrived from Rome?’
Vespasian knew that it was pointless denying it. ‘Yes, sir, at the end of March.’
Pomponius nodded thoughtfully and raised himself to his feet. Vespasian stood immediately.
‘I have other business to attend to now, tribune,’ Pomponius said, indicating that the interview was over, ‘but I would be pleased if you and your brother would dine with me this evening.’
‘I think you’ll find this dish to be particularly fine,’ Pomponius enthused as a huge platter of river perch, topped with a thick brown sauce, was placed upon the table. ‘This is my cook’s speciality, his honeyed-wine and plum sauce is second to none and he understands exactly how to poach a fish so that the flesh peels perfectly off the bones. He’s a marvel; I bought him twelve years ago and, like a good wine, he gets even better as the years pass.’ To emphasise the point he took long draught of the excellent wine, belched, and then set his cup down whilst greedily eyeing the beautifully presented dish.
Vespasian glanced across the table to Sabinus, who was showing no sign of fatigue, and then smiled politely at his host. ‘It does look most appetising, Pomponius,’ he managed to say, half-truthfully.
It would indeed have looked most appetising if it had been the second or third course; however, it was the eighth. Vespasian had assumed, judging by the girth of his host, that the dinner would be an arduous affair, and not for the faint-hearted, so he had paced himself over the first four courses, thinking that the pastries and fruit would surely come soon after; but he had been sadly mistaken. He had since been obliged to contend with a roast suckling goat, a plate of various game birds and a haunch of venison, all swathed in sundry rich sauces. It would be the height of impoliteness to refuse a portion of any of the courses set before him even though the words full, replete, stuffed and bloated were echoing around his head. His only respite had come from emulating Pomponius’ habit of breaking wind freely from both ends — a practice that he did not normally approve of at the dinner table. However, by the sixth course he had put his scruples to one side and had since, on numerous occasions, followed his host’s lead and eased his straining innards. Feeling very envious of Magnus, whom they had left carousing with Artebudz and the Thracians and an inordinate amount of wine, he uncomfortably adjusted his position on the couch as Sabinus helped himself to an unnecessarily large portion of perch and spooned a copious amount of sauce over it.
‘Tuck in, little brother,’ he said with a malicious glint in his eye. ‘Our host has saved his best dish for last. We should do it justice.’ He popped a large, dripping hunk of fish into his mouth and started to chew whilst making appreciative sounds.
‘You are mistaken, Sabinus,’ Pomponius corrected him as he enthusiastically pulled the dish towards him and took an even larger portion. ‘It would surely be a mistake to save the best for last, we would be too full to enjoy it properly; I believe we’ve still got a couple more courses to come, and then of course the honeyed dormice just to fill in the corners before the sweet pastries.’
Sabinus blanched at the news; Vespasian felt sick. He braced himself and then manfully spooned the smallest piece of perch that good manners dictated on to his plate and then made a show of eating with gusto whilst discreetly dropping as much as he could on the napkin spread before him on the couch.
‘Poppaeus may travel with all the trappings that his new money can buy,’ Pomponius said, returning to his favourite subject of the evening, ‘a marble-floored tent, mobile frescoes, gaudy pieces of furniture and too many horses, but his lack of breeding prevents him from understanding the finer points of life.’ He began to mop up the
