False God of Rome

CHAPTER VIII

‘What in the name of Mars are they doing?’ Vespasian asked Magnus in alarm as a group of seemingly demented women came rushing towards them, across the Forum Boarium, beating themselves with branches.

‘Nothing in Mars’ name, sir,’ Magnus replied, restraining Ziri who had dropped the hand-cart containing their belongings and Capella’s chest in order to defend them from the oncoming screaming women. ‘They’re slaves and they do that in Juno’s name. It’s the Caprotinia; all the female slaves in the city get the day off and run around hitting themselves with fig-tree branches.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘No one’s really quite sure.’ Magnus helped a very confused Ziri pick up the hand-cart as the women rushed past. ‘I’ve heard that it was something to do with a woman prisoner in the Gallic camp during their invasion of Italia. She gave a signal from a fig tree for our lads to storm out of the city and take the hairy buggers by surprise. Anyway, who gives a fuck why they do it, the important thing is that they do and it’s always a great night; by the time they’ve finished running about beating themselves they’re extremely excited and very amenable, if you take my meaning?’

‘I’m sure I do,’ Vespasian said, wondering if Caenis was out whipping herself up into a frenzy and found himself quite interested by the idea.

Another band of women, some of them baring their breasts, came howling into the Forum, scattering passers-by who laughed good-naturedly at their antics.

Magnus licked his lips appreciatively. ‘We’re back just in time; not only do we get very enthusiastic, half- naked women, but we also get a nice few days at the circus to recover from any excesses that we might have indulged in, as the Caprotinia falls during the eight days of the Apollo Games. I love July.’

‘I can imagine,’ Vespasian agreed, unhappy to be reminded that it was already over halfway through the year and he was only now arriving back in Rome.

His disappointment at the disappearance of Flavia Domitilla had been compounded by his enforced extended stay in Cyrenaica; he had then been obliged to wait until June for his replacement, a sour-faced young man, who had evidently felt the posting far beneath him and had shown little desire to arrive promptly in the province. Once he had eventually been relieved, unseasonal gales had delayed his return for another two frustrating market intervals.

Apart from a longing to see Caenis again and to forget about Flavia in her arms, his main reason for wanting to get back to Rome as soon as possible had been to hand over Capella’s chest — minus the gold and the bankers’ draft — to Antonia. Narcissus would soon become concerned enough by its non-arrival to instigate an investigation, which would in all likelihood lead to Vespasian, and he did not like the idea of being waylaid and relieved of his newfound wealth by hired thugs in the pay of Claudius’ ambitious freedman.

Passing out of the Forum Boarium with the huge facade of the Circus Maximus to their right they turned left onto Vicus Tuscus, heading to the Forum Romanum. Ziri’s face, already slack-jawed with amazement since entering the city, became a picture of disbelief as he looked up at the monumental House of Augustus with its high marble walls, dominating the summit of the Palatine.

Magnus clapped his slave on the shoulder. ‘A bit different to the arse-end of a camel, eh, Ziri?’

‘Fucking right, master; I never fucking seen such a fucking thing, fucked if I has.’

Vespasian frowned. ‘You’ve got to stop him from swearing all the time, Magnus; it’ll get him into trouble.’

‘He’s all right; you should be impressed by how quickly he picked up Latin.’

‘Yes, I am; the trouble is that he’s picked up your sort of Latin.’

‘Who are you to talk with your country-bumpkin Sabine burr, if you don’t mind me saying, sir? At least he sounds like a Roman.’

‘Yes, I sound like a Roman, sir,’ Ziri said with pride, ‘I no sound like a cunt.’

‘Ziri!’ Magnus snapped, clouting him around the ear.

‘Sorry, master.’

Having made their slow way through the festival crowds up the Quirinal Hill they eventually arrived at the familiar door of Vespasian’s uncle, Senator Gaius Vespasius Pollo. Magnus knocked and, after a brief delay, it was opened by a young and very attractive dark-skinned youth.

‘My uncle’s broadening his tastes, it would seem,’ Vespasian observed to Magnus once he had given the lad instructions to show Ziri around to the slaves’ entrance with their belongings, Magnus having first relieved him of Capella’s chest.

‘Change pleases,’ Magnus quoted as they walked through the vestibule and into the atrium.

‘Dear boy,’ boomed Gaius, walking out of his study, ‘and Magnus, my friend! I heard someone at the door and was praying that it would be you; I’ve been worried sick for the last few days.’ He came waddling at great speed across the mosaic floor, the ample flesh on his plump body wobbling frantically under his tunic. He enveloped Vespasian in a smothering embrace while planting a moist, rubbery kiss on his cheeks. ‘When I heard of the foul weather out at sea I was worried that you may have shared the fate of the first grain fleet of the season heading from Egypt.’ He grasped Magnus’ forearm and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder.

‘What happened to it, Uncle?’ Vespasian asked, putting his hand to his face, as if in concern, in order to surreptitiously wipe off the excess saliva from each cheek.

‘Only two out of the thirty transports made it through, the rest were shipwrecked off Kithria; that’s why I was so concerned for you two. The humorists are saying that the only reason the storms stopped is because Neptune’s now too busy baking bread. Sabinus is having a terrible time of it: he’s the aedile in charge of the grain supply in the city and the granaries are getting low and the mob are getting angry. Thankfully, for Sabinus and the Senate, most of their anger is directed towards Tiberius for staying on Capreae and — as they see it — deserting them. But come and sit down.’ Gaius led Vespasian through the atrium towards the peristylium. ‘Aenor, bring wine, and take Magnus to the kitchen for some refreshments,’ he called to the young, blond-haired, blue-eyed German slave boy who had been hovering in the background, waiting to be of service, while his master greeted his guests. ‘And cakes, we must have honeyed cakes.’

‘It would seem, my dear boy, that you’re in a tricky position,’ Gaius mused, looking at the contents of Capella’s chest. ‘Your instinct to take it to Antonia for her to decide what to do about it is correct, but that could also be seen as an act of treason.’

‘What do you mean, Uncle? I’m not aiding Narcissus; he’s the one who’s committing treason by buying up land for Claudius in Egypt without the Emperor’s permission.’

‘No, you’re not aiding him, I grant you that; but neither are you exposing him as a traitor, and if you cash his bankers’ draft that could be seen as a bribe. Since the restarting of the treason trials that might be considered to be a little foolhardy.’

Vespasian went to protest but Gaius held up his hand. ‘Hear me out, dear boy. You must remember that you are no longer a mere thin-stripe military tribune or a lowly member of the vigintiviri; you are now a senator. Your duty is to the Senate and to the Emperor, not to Antonia, who is purely a private citizen and a female one at that. Yes, she is very powerful in her own way but she is not the government or even an official part of the State.’ Gaius paused to take a sip of his wine and reach for the last remaining cake.

The air in the courtyard garden was pleasingly cool and the wine delicate and refreshing; had his uncle not just given him cause for concern Vespasian might have found himself relaxing for the first time since Capella’s chest had come into his possession.

‘You’re recommending that I take the chest to the Senate or directly to the Emperor then, Uncle?’

‘I didn’t say that, I was just pointing out where your duty lies. Your obligation, however, is an entirely different matter and that’s why you’re in a tricky situation. If you were to go to the Senate with this thing, Antonia would never forgive you for putting her son, however much she dislikes him, in danger; she considers that to be her prerogative.’

‘And then I’d have her, as well as Narcissus, as an enemy,’ Vespasian groaned. He put down his cup and held his head in his hands, cursing the day that he met Flavia and his arrogance that had led him into this situation. ‘I could take it directly to one of the Consuls in private,’ he suggested after a few moments’ thought.