alive. They just remounted their horses and waited in silence for orders, scarcely able to look each other in the eye. The wound to their pride ran deep.
CHAPTER XXVII
Vespasian had retrieved his horse and sat next to Pomponius, watching the last stage of the battle below them in the predawn gloom. The main body of the IIII Scythica had fought its way almost to the gates, which were now securely held by the cohorts of Poppaeus’ sortie. The remaining Thracians were being crushed between the two bodies of Roman heavy infantry, their resistance dwindling as more and more fell to the relentless, disciplined swordwork of the legionaries. On the far side of the gates the V Macedonica was playing out the mirror image of the struggle. There was nothing left for the cavalry to do; the Thracian rebellion was finally crushed by the generalship of the man who had been, in part, responsible for its instigation.
‘We should report to Poppaeus,’ Pomponius said quietly, ‘and congratulate him on his victory.’ He raised his arm and ordered the cavalry forward at a trot towards the gates.
‘It should have been your victory, sir,’ Vespasian replied.
‘What do you mean?’ Pomponius asked, kicking his horse forward.
Knowing that Asinius would need a formidable ally in the coming confrontation with Poppaeus, Vespasian told Pomponius of the general’s refusal to obey the Emperor’s and Senate’s order and return to Rome. He told him of his and Sejanus’ treachery and Rhoteces’ and Hasdro’s involvement in it. As they crossed the corpse-strewn field, which now resounded to the clamour and cheers of the victorious legionaries, Pomponius’ anger grew; it was not aimed so much at Poppaeus’ duplicity, but more at the damage done to his personal dignitas. The troops now cheering their victorious general should instead be hailing him. He had been robbed of the glory that was by rights his, and in its place he had had the humiliation of almost being torn to death by a pack of female savages. By the time they reached the gates Pomponius was fuming with indignation. The sight of Poppaeus riding through the throngs of cheering soldiers, helmet raised in the air, accepting their acclaim, was almost too much for him.
‘The treacherous little shit,’ he fumed. ‘Look at him basking in the praise of the men. They wouldn’t be cheering so loud if they knew that he helped to fund this revolt, and that their mates have died solely to further his ambition.’
At the gates a rostrum had been hurriedly set up in front of the smouldering remains of the battering ram. Poppaeus pushed his horse towards it, through the crush of jubilant legionaries. His progress was slow as each man wanted to touch him, or make eye contact, or receive a word of praise from his general. Eventually he reached the rostrum and managed to jump on to it directly from his horse. He raised his arms in the air and, in a dramatic gesture, thrust them forward and apart, to include every man present in his victory. The men of the IIII Scythica and V Macedonica roared their acknowledgement. The noise was deafening. It started as a huge unending wall of sound and then, gradually, it developed into a chant. At first the words were indiscernible, coming only from a small section of the crowd, but they quickly grew in volume as more and more of the delirious legionaries took up the chant. Before long it was clear.
‘Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!’
Thousands of men now chanted in unison, punching their swords in the air in time to the beat. Poppaeus stood alone on his raised dais amidst a sea of faces lit by the first rays of the sun. With his head tilted back and his arms open wide he slowly revolved, taking in the praise that was coming at him from all angles.
Pomponius turned to Vespasian and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a brave general,’ he shouted above the din, ‘who allows an army to hail him as “Imperator” in this day and age.’
‘It would be a shame for him if the Emperor found out,’ Vespasian shouted back.
‘A great shame,’ Pomponius mused, noticing a disturbance close to the platform. Four of Asinius’ lictors had pushed their way from the gates, through the mob, to the rostrum and were now helping him on to the platform. Dressed in the purple-bordered toga of a proconsul, he approached Poppaeus and embraced him. From where Vespasian sat he could see that Poppaeus’ face had set into a fixed smile as he was forced to return the embrace of his enemy. Asinius released himself from the embrace and lifted Poppaeus’ right hand. The chanting broke into a mighty cheer. He then stepped forward, his palms facing the crowd in a gesture that demanded silence. The noise died down. He drew himself up to speak.
‘Soldiers of Rome.’ His voice rang out through the cool dawn air. ‘Some of you know me, but for those who don’t, I am Marcus Asinius Agrippa.’ A few ragged cheers greeted him. ‘I come here with a message from your Emperor and Senate for you and your glorious general. A message so important that it was deemed that only a man of consular rank should bear it.’
This was greeted by more enthusiastic cheers. Poppaeus’ expression hardened as he realised that he had been outmanoeuvred. Asinius waited for silence before continuing.
‘Your general’s efforts have been justly recognised. The Senate has voted him triumphal honours and the Emperor has been pleased to confirm this award to his remarkable and trusted servant.’ His voice betrayed no hint of the irony in his words.
The roars of approval for this echoed around the field. Asinius caught Pomponius’ eye and motioned him forward. Vespasian followed, forcing his mount through the heaving mass of legionaries to the base of the rostrum.
Asinius gestured for silence again.
‘General Poppaeus is required to leave for Rome at once to receive his just reward for his faithful service.’ Asinius turned and smiled at Poppaeus, who stood transfixed with anger but impotent as Asinius worked the crowd. ‘But the Emperor has replaced him with a good man, a brave man, a man many of you know. Soldiers of Rome: the Emperor gives you Pomponius Labeo.’
Pomponius was lifted from his horse by the men of his legion and helped, with some difficulty, on to the rostrum. He embraced Poppaeus, who remained helplessly rooted to the spot as his moment of glory was hijacked. Pomponius turned to the crowd, which once again fell silent.
‘Poppaeus has today won a great victory and his reward is indeed just. I shall do my utmost to lead you as well as he has done. He can return to Rome in the knowledge that his men are in good hands. I shall make sure that your cries of “Imperator” will follow him. They will echo around the Senate in tribute to his deeds here today. No one in Rome will be unaware of how you, brave soldiers of Rome, have honoured him. This I swear by Mars Victorious.’
As the cheering broke out again Vespasian could see a shadow pass over Poppaeus’ face as he realised that he had gone too far in accepting the accolade that was now reserved only for members of the imperial family.
Asinius joined Pomponius at the front of the rostrum and again asked for silence.
‘Soldiers of Rome, your parts in this victory have not gone unnoticed, neither will they be unrewarded.’
As he spoke, Magnus and the other seven lictors pushed their way to the rostrum and lifted on to it two heavy chests. Vespasian recognised them as being larger than, but otherwise very similar to, the one he had seen at the Caenii’s camp.
With a dramatic flourish Asinius threw the lids open, to reveal them full to the brim with silver coins. The colour drained from Poppaeus’ face and his mouth opened and closed in a vain effort to say something that would stop the nightmare.
‘The Emperor and Senate have decreed,’ Asinius continued smoothly, enjoying his enemy’s mortification, ‘that, in recognition of your valour in defeating the Thracian revolt, a bounty should be paid from the imperial treasury to every legionary and auxiliary.’
At this news the cheers of the men erupted into a cacophony that outdid all their previous efforts. Vespasian kicked his horse through the crowd until he reached Magnus.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asked, dismounting.
Magnus grinned. ‘If you think that it’s my life’s savings, then you’d be wrong, but if you think that it’s Poppaeus’ other two chests, then you’d be right.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘They were just sitting there, in Poppaeus’ quarters, when I broke in to get the letters. It seemed such a waste leaving them, so I nipped back to Asinius who kindly lent me a few of his lictors to help liberate them –
