When Magnus returned later, he sat down next to Vespasian. ‘Did you have a nice little chat with the arsehole, sir?’ he whispered.
‘What do you mean? And he’s not so much of an arsehole as I thought he was. His actions saved a lot of men back at the crossing.’
‘Point taken. I mean what did you persuade the not-so-much-of-an-arsehole to do about that chest of denarii?’
‘How did you know that I was going to talk to him about that?’
‘Stands to reason, don’t it? The more people who know that we know about it, the worse it may go for us. I hope you told him to report in discreetly, if you take my meaning?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact; I got him to agree to report in private to Poppaeus.’
‘Well done, sir. That was a good idea.’
Vespasian peered at Magnus through the darkness and couldn’t help wondering just whose idea it really had been.
On the evening of the fifth day they arrived at the walled town of Philippopolis, the seat of the Thracian King Rhoemetalces and his mother Queen Tryphaena. Here they learnt from the commander of the small Roman garrison, a much-decorated old centurion in his last few months of service, that Poppaeus’ victory had been impressive but not decisive, his field camp was another hard day’s ride west, and that Gallus had brought the column of recruits through four days earlier.
They decided to spend the night with the garrison, and availed themselves of the pleasures of the small but fully functioning bath house, the first that they had seen since Philippi fourteen days before. The garrison commander provided them with a decent hot meal and some decent women, again their first since Philippi, before they retired for a decent night’s sleep.
At dawn on the following morning, feeling much refreshed in body and spirit, they were about to leave with an escort of a turma of Illyrian auxiliary cavalry, commanded by an amiable round-faced young patrician cavalry prefect, Publius Junius Caesennius Paetus, when the garrison commander rushed into the stable yard.
‘Tribune Vespasian, sir, there is a messenger here from the palace. Queen Tryphaena requests that you visit her before you leave.’
‘Minerva’s tits,’ Corbulo spat. ‘That could delay us all day. Lead the way, centurion.’
‘The messenger was very clear, sir. Only the tribune.’
Corbulo glowered at Vespasian.
‘What could she want with me?’ Vespasian was intrigued.
‘You watch yourself, dear chap,’ Paetus chuckled. ‘She’s a feisty creature, and very good-looking. Partial to strong young bucks like yourself, so I’m told. Good luck.’
Vespasian decided to play along with him. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘In that case we’ll hardly notice your absence.’
Vespasian left smiling to the sound of laughter and ribald jokes at the expense of his prowess, about which, after the previous night, he had no concerns.
The messenger led him through the narrow streets of the ancient town, older than Rome itself, to the royal palace on the top of the largest of the three hills upon which the town was built.
They were admitted without hindrance. Vespasian was shown immediately through to the private quarters and then into a small east-facing room on the first floor. The low, early-morning sun flooded through its solitary window, illuminating the surprisingly sparse room with golden light. The walls were whitewashed and the floor was of waxed wooden boards. Under the window stood a simple wooden desk of such antiquity that Vespasian thought it would collapse if so much as a scroll was laid upon it. In the centre of the room were two chairs and a table of more recent manufacture.
Vespasian went to the window and gazed out to the east towards the rising sun.
‘That is the same view that Alexander looked upon every morning he awoke here,’ came a soft voice from behind him.
Vespasian spun round and stepped back from the window. In the doorway stood a tall, slender woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a plain ivory stola that highlighted, but did not flaunt, the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. Her thick black hair was dressed high upon her head. Three ringlets hung down to her shoulders on either side of her pale face, which was dominated by full lips painted with red ochre. Her clear blue eyes, delicately rimmed with kohl, sparkled in the soft sunlight.
‘This was his room when he came to muster my people for the invasion of the great Persian Empire. He chose it because it looks east.’
She walked gracefully across to the ancient desk and brushed her hand lightly over it.
‘He sat at this very desk each morning, dealing with his correspondence and looking out towards the lands that he would conquer.’
Vespasian looked down at the simple desk with awe and felt the closeness of history within the room. She shared his quiet reverence for a moment before moving away from the window to the chairs behind them.
‘But I haven’t brought you here for a history lesson, Vespasian. I am Tryphaena, nominally the queen of this country but in practice the puppet of the Emperor and Senate.’
‘Domina, I am honoured to meet you,’ Vespasian said, grateful for the small history lesson that she had given him.
‘It is as well that through my great-grandfather, Marcus Antonius, I am firstly a Roman citizen, otherwise I might also be hiding up in the mountains with the rebels.’
Tryphaena sat down and motioned that he should do the same.
‘My people have been forced into this rebellion. When Alexander came here looking for troops he brought money to pay them and asked only for volunteers. Over five thousand answered his call; most of them never came back. Now, almost three hundred years later, we have a new master: Rome.
‘Up until last year Rome was content for our warriors to serve in our army, under our own commanders, keeping the peace within the borders of the kingdom. Then two things changed: firstly, recruiting officers arrived from Moesia demanding that our army be formed into auxiliary cohorts for service in Moesia; and then our priests started to rouse the tribes in rebellion against this new measure, encouraging the chiefs with money, Roman denarii, that they suddenly seemed to have in abundance.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘From what my informants tell me it was distributed by Rhoteces, the leader of our priests, but from whom he received it I don’t know, I can only guess.’
‘Why would he encourage your people into a fight that they were bound to lose?’
‘The Thracians are a proud, warlike people. They have only ever served other nations as mercenaries, never as conscripts; they see that as another form of slavery. It wasn’t difficult to get them to rebel. Why Rhoteces did it is an easy question: he hates me and my son. He hates the monarchy because we rule Thracia – in Rome’s name, granted, but nonetheless we rule. He thinks that if we were to disappear then power would pass to the priests, who, like us have no tribal loyalties, and Rhoteces is the chief priest.’
‘But Rome would still be supreme.’
‘Of course it would, and this is what that idiot doesn’t understand; my son and I are all that stand between an autonomous Thracia and annexation by Rome.’
‘So if the rebellion were to succeed, Rome would annex Thracia, and its people would be subject to conscription, and if it fails Rome gets its conscription anyway. Either way the legions will be busy here for some time pacifying the country.’
‘Exactly, and Rhoteces has unwittingly been the architect of this disaster through his lust for power and inability to understand politics. Sejanus has played him well.’
‘You are sure that he is behind this, domina?’
‘Antonia is my kinswoman and friend, we correspond regularly and I am aware of her fear of Sejanus. She has told me what she believes he would gain by destabilising Thracia.
‘In her last letter she asked me to look out for you on your way to Poppaeus’ camp, and to give you any assistance I could.’
‘She is most kind, domina.’
‘Indeed she is – to her friends.’ Tryphaena smiled. ‘I am unable to help you in any material way but I can give
