The Sword of Revenge (7 page)

Perhaps the way to deal with Brennos was to emulate his own rise to prominence; to encourage another male member of the tribe to supplant him, either by subterfuge or force. Lucius expected little from other chieftains. Those tribes closest to him who were not actually under his heel treated him with respect, even if they failed to acknowledge his leadership. The same men who gave Rome information about the Duncani provided them with intelligence about their neighbours. If anything, the reports coming out of these encampments were even more specific. Brennos was given to predicting that one day they would succumb to him, not through fear but through respect.

Masugori, one tribal chieftain who had made and kept his peace with Rome, was quite open about his neighbour’s aims. The Duncani chieftain claimed that all he needed was a Roman army, with a general foolish enough and greedy enough to venture far beyond the limits of Latin power. Once they had been lured into the forbidding interior fastness of high plateaus and deep valleys, Brennos could inflict on them certain destruction. Let the fame and wealth of Numantia spread across the Iberian Peninsula; let it be known that there was another power as great as the Roman Republic.

He laid aside the scroll with a grim smile; everything that Brennos did to create a war fell flat. It must seem, to him, like lethargy, but it was quite the opposite. It was sound tactical sense for an empire which had time on its side. Yes, Rome would fight the tribes closest to them, in response to the raids he initiated, and reduce them till their only hope of survival was to sue for peace, but they would not come inland to attack him or any of the other hill-forts, like Pallentia, which they would be bound to consider a threat to their communications. The thought he had had earlier was fully formed now; in the absence of an enemy to fight, let the people of Numantia, with a little encouragement from Rome, indulge in intrigue, directed at the only source of power, Brennos himself!

That was the way to deal with him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Didius Flaccus hated to be kept waiting, even if a lifetime as a soldier had inured him to such a thing. He had no choice; as a retired centurion you were only as good as the weight of your purse and he was way short of the funds he needed to set up in the style to which he aspired. He had enough money, accumulated from plunder and the depredations he had visited on his legionary underlings, like charging them for leave, to take a small apartment at the top of a tenement, but it would be rough wine and poor food he had to eat if he wanted his money to last. He could not bear the thought of that, or even worse, going back to the provincial farm from which he had set out all those years ago to be a soldier. He could return to the province of Illyricum and set up in some kind of trade, but that did not appeal either, especially since questions might be asked about the sudden demise of that old
soothsayer, with him the last caller.

Silently he damned the man, for his dying words had brought Flaccus no peace. He still had a prophecy couched as a riddle, one he had extracted from more than one seer. He badly wanted to believe them all, but after the near-fulfilment of the prophecy south of Thralaxas, he was prey to even more doubt than he had entertained previously. What he could do with some money! He had his eye fixed on a ground or first-floor dwelling, with enough income to live properly and dress well, a situation that might lend itself to the acquisition of a young Roman wife. Perhaps the person he had come to see could help; after all they had once soldiered together and been companions, albeit the man had been his titular superior. So he sat in the ante-room of the house of Cassius Barbinus, waiting for the owner to summon him.

All around he could see the evidence of great wealth; the space alone, in such a crowded city as Rome, was evidence of that, let alone the statuary and furniture. The floor of the atrium, right through to the colonnade that surrounded the garden, was laid with an intricate pattern of mosaics that must have set Barbinus back a fortune. Even the goblet in his hand, presented to him by a young, sleek and handsome slave, was the kind of article he had longed to pinch as a serving soldier. The whole place smacked of Hellenism, of Greek luxury and excess;
the old centurion, who had known nothing but the army for twenty years, loved it, and gave up a silent wish to the God
Porus
, that the kind of plenty he was experiencing would one day be his.

The carefully manicured slave reappeared, requesting that he follow, and Flaccus stood up, goblet in hand, till the slave favoured him with a look of such condescension that, for all his years and seniority, he blushed, put the goblet down on the table, and followed to the door of the tablinum. Cassius Barbinus did not stand to receive him, nor did he look up, concentrating on the list of figures on his desk. Flaccus was content to look at the top of the senator’s bald head, which, since he never went out without a hat, was as white as his remaining hair. A ‘new man’ they called Cassius Barbinus; reasonably well-born into the upper reaches of the plebeian class in a Roman colony off the Via Appia, he had done his duty as a soldier but then set aside any desire to climb the
cursus
honorum
, doing what very few men of his background had dared to undertake previously. He had openly gone into trade, working in his own name instead of through middlemen and not just farming and ranching; even the most elevated patrician noble saw that as a state duty.

Cassius Barbinus had bought ships and traded with the east; taken up tax farming on behalf of the Republic; bought mining concessions and vineyards
that were operated for profit rather than personal consumption and he had got his seat in the Senate, despite the rules against members openly indulging in such activities. When his more rigid peers sneered at him for this, he was apt to throw a huge and expensive dinner, in defiance of the sumptuary laws, watching amused as his fellow-senators angled for invitations to eat delicacies they could not themselves afford.

‘So, Flaccus,’ he said, looking up. The face above the fat body was smooth and round, the man overweight, well fed and sleek. ‘You’re a lot greyer in the hair, but you haven’t changed much.’

‘Neither have you, sir.’

Barbinus stood up, rubbing his hands over his protruding belly. ‘Nonsense, man. I must be twice the weight I was when I was a soldier.’

He walked round from behind his desk and stood beside the retired centurion. Then he ran his hand over Flaccus’s flat stomach, a hand that lingered just a little longer than necessary. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a belly like yours.’

‘You don’t give! It’s what you do without that gives you a flat belly.’

Barbinus laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well said, Flaccus. I do eat too much and business has kept me from exercising as frequently as I should. Still we’re not here to discuss your figure or mine, are we?’

Flaccus’s eyes lost their hard look, to be replaced by one of supplication. ‘Have you thought on my request?’

‘I have that, but I’m not sure that I can oblige.’ Flaccus looked slightly crestfallen. Then, as if he remembered who he was with, his face took on the same blank look he had always reserved for conversations with senior officers. ‘After all, you’re no clerk, are you?’ It was not a question requiring an answer, so Flaccus did not provide one. ‘Nor are you sailor enough to captain one of my ships.’

‘I thought I might act as your agent, somewhere. Ephesus or the like.’

‘And rob me blind, no doubt.’ Flaccus was about to protest when Barbinus cut him short. ‘I would have thought if anyone would retire rich from the legions it would be you. You were such an avaricious bastard.’

‘I wasn’t lucky,’ said Flaccus bitterly.

The other man snorted. ‘Luck. What’s luck got to do with it? I daresay you’ve had enough money, you just haven’t managed to hang on to it. What was it? Too many visits to the brothel? Gambling?’

‘Don’t matter, but being a centurion must fit a man for something.’

‘It equips a man for many things, Didius Flaccus, but not occupations that pay any more than wages and that’s not what you’re after, is it?’ Flaccus shook his head sharply as Barbinus walked back
behind the desk. He sat there for a moment in silence, before looking up again, a gleam in his eye. ‘I have one job which needs doing that might fit the bill, a job that a hard-nosed old centurion might do better than most.’

Barbinus picked up a piece of paper in his fat fingers and swore gently under his breath. When he looked at Flaccus again he saw that the man was practically at attention, his face bearing the look of a soldier seeking to avoid censure. ‘I’m not swearing at you, Flaccus. I’ve just bought the rights to some land in Sicily, a great deal of land in fact and I had to pay a lot of money for it, a good deal more than it’s worth.’

‘That don’t sound like you.’

‘Anything for a quiet life, Flaccus. One of our more elevated senators, a present censor, no less, hinted that my commercial activities, not to mention the way I spend my money, could be construed as unbecoming for a man in my position.’

‘Meaning?’

Barbinus looked thoughtful for a moment, but declined to explain why, if he could be expelled for indulging in trade or overspending, he was still a senator. Flaccus would know as well as anyone, having been in the army, the difference between the rules as they were written and how they were applied.

‘Censure on the floor of the Senate. Perhaps even
removal from the senatorial roll, since the present consuls are in office only because the man threatening me has put them there.’

‘I don’t see…’

‘I bought two
Latifunda
off him, Flaccus, that is the most noble Lucius Falerius Nerva. Now there’s a man who wouldn’t soil his hands in trade, but he’s not beyond eliciting a bribe, as long as it can be dressed up as a normal transaction.’

‘Is the land worthless, then?’

‘No. I sent someone to look it over. It’s good wheat-growing soil, even if it has been allowed to go to the dogs. Old Lucius is too immersed in politics to supervise the place properly, so it’s more like a retirement home for slaves than a proper farm. The trouble is that it’s hard to make money out of wheat, since the price is controlled. It’s profitable, but not profitable enough the way it is now. Lucius Falerius will use my money to buy some land closer to Rome, where he can do some ranching.’

‘Can’t you ranch on this Sicilian land?’

Barbinus shook his head. ‘It’s too hot for large-scale pasturage. No, the only thing to do is to increase the yield, which is where a tough old centurion might come in handy.’

Flaccus pulled himself up to attention again, as Barbinus, leaning on the table, fixed him with an intense look. ‘You know what I’d dearly like to do
to that upright patrician bastard. He’s sold me this land for twice what it’s truly worth, but what if I could increase the yield so much that I’d be making a profit on the sale?’

‘You want to stick it to him!’

‘That’s right, Flaccus. I want to see the fixed smile on that stiff-necked bastard’s face when I tell him that I, Cassius Barbinus, have made a profit out of bribing him. He doesn’t look as though he eats much now, but when I’m finished, I want him to be truly sick at the sight of a loaf of bread. I want to stand up in the Forum and ask why we have to import so much wheat from Africa when I can get such a yield from my property, not forgetting to add, by the way, that the honourable Lucius Falerius had so cultivated the land, before I bought it, as to make my task a simple one. Do you see the beauty of it, old friend? That Falerii prick won’t be able to say or do anything.’

‘How do I come in?’

Barbinus fixed him with a sour look. ‘Meaning what’s in it for me?’

‘That too,’ replied Flaccus, returning the stare.

Barbinus stood and, hands on hips, stretched his back. ‘You want money, I want revenge. The land is there, the seed and the sun are there, as well as the slaves. Now I know it doesn’t turn in the crop yield my other farms manage, so I will give you the figure for the yield so far and provide funds for any
improvements you need to make. Money for things like irrigation and I’ll even provide more slaves if you can justify them. You have both places for three years and any increase in the profits you can keep for yourself. After that, the whole income from the properties reverts to me.’

‘What do they turn in now?’

‘A million sesterces a year, Flaccus, most of which goes straight back into the soil or some slave’s belly. I know you want to have enough to be a knight. Double the yield on that land in Sicily and you’ll be able to join me in the Senate.’

‘I derive as little pleasure from my presence here as you do,’ said Cholon.

‘I need more time,’ replied Quintus.

‘If anything could count as your father’s dying wish, it was that these behests should be paid.’

‘You sound like a lawyer, Cholon,’ Quintus said sourly. ‘Being a free man obviously suits you.’

‘There was no attempt at impertinence there, Quintus Cornelius.’

‘How the world changes, Cholon. You now address me as Quintus Cornelius instead of master.’