Between a Rock and a Hard Bargain

Outside the office of the Imperial chamberlain Castor, in the praetorium and interim palace of Eboracum, a thoroughly wretched Lucius Sabius Niger waited for his interview, nervously twitching the green braid trim on his tunic around and around, and wishing, not for the last time, that he had had time for a good hefty slug of something before leaving his lodgings that morning.

Lucius had a lot of good reasons to be nervous. About a million and a half reasons, or sesterces, to be exact. And he had been so careful to cover his tracks, down to bribing stevedore guilds and cargo handlers from Britannia to Berenice. Still, somehow, Castor had managed to find out what even his own unctuous boss Euphanus didn’t know. Cacat!

            Out of thin air, a man in Imperial livery appeared at his side. He eyed Lucius, the green braid on his fourth best tunic, his well worn sandals with bronze fasteners, and his unruly mop of curly black hair. He sniffed. No precious malabathrum oil or attar of roses on Lucius Sabius, but at least he had gone to the baths first, and his tunic was clean.

“The chamberlain will see you now.”

Lucius wiped off his sweaty palms on his tunic front and walked through the double doors of Castor’s office, wondering if he’d get out alive.

 

For the office of an Imperial chamberlain, Castor’s was modest, a small airless cubbyhole tucked away in an easily overlooked corner. Probably, thought Lucius rather viciously, nothing like his digs at the Palatine in Rome, but then again, this was nothing like Rome. Well, it wasn’t, it was Eboracum, the temporary center of the Empire, as long as Severus was there. Calm down, Niger, he thought to himself, calm down. You’re not entirely dead. Yet.

At a small desk sat Castor, his freed bottom firmly planted on a nondescript chair looking, for all Lucius could tell, like a cat that had just swallowed a thoroughly tender dormouse. His ancestry had been Greek at some point, that was obvious from the precision of his haircut to the beautifully manicured hands, but in all that mattered, Castor was a product of the Palatine, an Imperial – former – slave born and bred.

Castor folded his hands on his desk and looked up.

“Please, Lucius Sabius, do sit down.” He gestured toward the chair on the other side of his makeshift desk, the consummate chamberlain.

“Would you care for some ale, wine or mulsum at this early hour of the morning?”

Lucius’ throat was as parched as the Egyptian desert.

“Wine would be wonderful, please.”

Castor waved out the underling who had ushered Lucius in.

“Well, then Lucius Sabius, I trust you had a safe journey from Puteoli?”

“Yes, yes I did. I made it here in 24 days from Puteoli, straight from the Pillars to Rutupiae. I left as soon as I received your summons.” Who cares how fast I got here, thought Lucius, since I’m a dead man anyway? Oh, Father, if you only knew…

“Good. Now…I regret to say this, Lucius Sabius, but you are in some serious trouble. The Emperor does not look favorably on tax evasion, or indeed on evading any kind of civic duty.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Lucius wiped his palms again. Soon, he wouldn’t have any skin left.

“I rather doubt that, but never mind.” Lucius was used to dialect and vernacular from all ends of the Empire, but Castor’s precise Palatine diction and mellifluous voice would have put most senators to shame. It was very unnerving, and he was already a wreck. He folded his hands tightly in his lap.

The underling appeared with a tray carrying two Samian carafes and two matching cups. Castor leaned back in his chair and waited until the slave had set down the tray on a side table, poured wine and water into the cups, handed one to Castor and the other to Lucius, left and closed the doors behind him.

Lucius buried his burning face in his cup. It wasn’t Chian, but it would do. He might even live for another ten minutes.

Castor reached for a scroll on his desk and unrolled it.

“Now then, Lucius Sabius…according to my informant in Puteoli, you work as a shipping agent for the Alexandrian Euphanus who specializes in the Indian luxury trade, is that correct?”

“Yes.” Another draught of wine. Too much water, in Lucius’ opinion. Typical of that cheapskate Severus!

“As his representative, you have traveled all over the Empire, and indeed well beyond it, to India and Arabia, trading our wine and coins and so on, for everything that these places have to offer?”

Definitely a cat, thought Lucius, because he nearly licked his chops, and that tender, juicy dormouse is me and my Sabine hide…oh, Gods! What do you think I am, Castor, a complete idiot? You think it was easy, trading in those places? A walk on the Pincian Hill in an April breeze, to get to Berenice from Alexandria, never mind to India, just so our venerable Empress can wear pearls around her neck? Are you crazy?

Instead, Lucius replied “Yes.”

“Let’s see…” Castor went on, “you’ve been working for Euphanus now for…six years, is it? Six years, where you have worked your way up from a simple shipping office grunt into becoming what amounts to Euphanus’ agent and representative, yes?”

Lucius tried very hard not to roll his eyes. “Yes.”

“All right then, as Euphanus’ representative then surely you must have been informed about the 25% luxury goods tax on that trade?”

“Indeed I was, and if your informant ever looked at our accounts, you can see that they were in perfect order…” Lucius interjected.

Castor finally unsheathed his claws.

“In perfect order! But of course they were! Euphanus said as much himself several times, and who were we to argue with such a respected shipping agent as Euphanus?” Castor downed his cup of wine after adding more water. “However, Lucius Sabius, something didn’t quite add up here. It seems there were discrepancies between the cargo listed in the accounts, and the cargo the ships actually carried, so my informant began to make enquiries around Puteoli, and met a very interesting man, a Greek captain named Simonides…”

Cacat! Lucius thought. How in Hades did they find out about Simonides? There was no trace, nothing at all…And remind me, some day, never to trust a Greek, no matter how much I pay him! Then, he realized something else.

“Forgive me for asking, Castor…” Lucius spoke in his most persuasive voice, the voice that had sweet-talked locals from Gades to Muziris into parting with far more than they had originally intended, and for half of the agreed-upon price. He even crossed one leg over the other, and folded his hands over his knees, the picture of perfect sincerity.

“But why is it that a man of such vast influence as you, who has such enviably direct and familiar access to the Emperor, the very Imperial chamberlain himself, would take such an interest in one humble shipping agent out of all the hundreds in Puteoli?”

Castor shrugged, a nonchalant movement of his shoulders that gave him away for Greek. Attican, probably, thought Lucius, and why am I not surprised?

“You don’t have this from me, you understand…”

“Certainly not!”

Castor leaned forward.

“Severus will never leave Britannia alive, and you understand, as a freedman, I have to protect my own interests. We all know what will happen once he’s dead…”

“His sons will head straight for each others throats-” Lucius continued the thought.

“And whoever survives – my money’s on Antoninus – will head straight for the rest of us…”

“Ah.” It explained a lot.

“So, then, Lucius Sabius, I have sought to use my influence while it still counts for…something. Antoninus is so dense, he doesn’t care to look at where the money of the Empire goes, at least not so it matters. With so many Roman funds locked up in trade, and the luxury trade with India in particular, it was an obvious choice.” Castor leaned back, the intimate tone of a moment before totally gone, the feline look returning.

“I have to admit, you’re very good at what you do, Lucius Sabius. If I hadn’t thought to look at Euphanus’ accounts, you would very likely never have been found out at all. Even now, he doesn’t know about your…little sideline, but he is in a bit of a panic about being audited by Imperial tax collectors.” Castor had another sip of wine.

“Back to you, Lucius Sabius. Oh, it was so easy, so ingenious, so…elegant! You made the cargo logs, so you always knew exactly, down to the last pearl and peppercorn, just how much any ship was loading at one time. From there, it was simple, really, to deduct just an amphora of peppercorns here, a tiny cask of jewels there, a bundle of cinnamon sticks, one sack of cinnamon leaf, a length of silk or Indian cotton…and only declare to the Customs officials in Berenice what Euphanus thought he was declaring, while you…you sold off your ill-gotten goods, little by little, a tiny amount at a time, and stashed off the proceeds from the sale in your account in Balbus’ bank in Gades. Easy…you were in and out of Gades all the time, and it was very conveniently very far away from either Alexandria or Puteoli, and certainly far away from Berenice.”

Lucius concentrated his gaze on the red dado behind Castor that went from the tiled floor to halfway up the wall all around the room. Just a red dado, with a black Grecian key pattern above it, and a simple whitewashed wall above. For the first time in his life, he didn’t trust his voice enough to make his usual snappy denials.

“So, in six years you’ve managed to stash away the tidy sum of one and one-half million sesterces, skimmed off the best of Euphanus’ imports, and it never even cost you an as…I’m impressed, Lucius Sabius. Not so bad for the only son of an estate manager in Cumae…planning on buying a seat in the Senate any time soon?”

Lucius’ entire body sagged on his stool. He was so dead, he knew it in his bones. He dragged out his voice from the hollow pit in his stomach where it had been hiding.

“No, not at all, just…to have enough stashed away to lead a comfortable life…” He was whispering now.

Castor leaned forward again and smiled his chilly feline smile.

“That’s what we all want, Lucius Sabius, especially in these uncertain times. Do you know, I do believe I’ve found a way you can redeem yourself…”

Not too eager, now, Niger, not too eager…

“Really?” asked Lucius.

“Ever heard of a man called Marcus Afranius Musa? He’s a one-man operation, doesn’t even work the Nabataeans, so far as I know, but he does operate out of Alexandria, I thought you might have heard about him. They say he’s a hard man to miss…black as night and about as large…”

“Musa…Musa…” Lucius ransacked his brain. There were so many traders in Alexandria, but not too many Nubians …Ah!

“The man who used to work for Chryses Diodorus?”

Castor smiled again, but this time, he looked like a man rather than a replete, self-satisfied cat.

“The very same.”

“Well, if it’s that giant that I knew in Alexandria, and who used to work for Diodorus, then yes, I know him, but not very well, and I haven’t heard anything about Musa in years. Although there were a few strange rumors a couple of years ago… ”

“With some justification.” Castor let that remark hang in the airless room, and Lucius, who moments before had feared for his life, now looked his question.

“You see, Lucius Sabius, Musa has slowly but surely building his very own monopoly on trade these past few years…in Hibernia.”

“Jupiter! Hibernia!” Lucius spluttered, spewing a mouthful of watered wine all over his tunic. “But there’s nothing there! What could those barbarian Hibernians possibly have to trade?”

“More than you think; grain, when the harvests are good, and the last few years have been good ones, superbly tanned furs and hides, miles better than anything they can do here in Britannia, for starters, excellent woolen cloth, some rather finely woven linen the Britons are fond of buying and wearing, woad in vast quantities, slaves…you’d be surprised. Here –” Castor handed him the napkin on the tray, and Lucius dabbed at the stains on his tunic. Castor refilled their wine cups, and again, added quite a bit of water.

Lucius prudently ignored it.

Castor settled back in his chair and continued.

“As for being barbarians, well – the fact is, the XX have been dealing with them for years and years. On occasion, Hibernian raiders will pillage Britannia’s west coast, for lack of anything else to do I’m thinking, and for that reason, we’ve been paying them not to since the days of Agricola.”

“That strategy doesn’t seem to be working with the Maeatae and the Caledonians,” Lucius interrupted. There had been a lot of talk about the recent campaign last night at his mansio, and Lucius had been too scared – and too sober – not to listen in.

Castor sighed and gave another Greek shrug.

“I know. If the people north of the Wall had their way, this conflict would never end. They’ll fight down to the last man, woman and child standing to keep their wretched land, but I’m beginning to think we won’t for much longer.” He sipped his wine. Castor made it his business to know everything, and two days ago when Postumianus had returned from Vindolanda with his celebrated prisoner, it was all the officers of the II Augusta had talked about.

“However, the broad-striped tribune of the XX somehow managed to get his hands on the leader of the Maeatae some days ago, and that might be a deterrent.”

Lucius sat up straighter.

“You mean Gaius Arrius Nerva Rufus?”

“You know this man?”

“Indeed I do…he’s my oldest friend and childhood companion, and we’re supposed to meet here in Eboracum in a few days.”

Castor smote his forehead. “But of course! How stupid I didn’t see that before…your father…”

“Is the estate manager of Marcus Arrius Nerva’s estate in Cumae, Gaius Arrius’ father…”

“Ah! But we were discussing Hibernia…”

“I’m sorry.”

“In any case, Galba of the XX has been having a boatload of trouble from the Hibernians, so that got our Emperor thinking…we can’t subdue them, the Gods only know that the Empire is big enough already and we’re already having border headaches in a lot of places, and like all the barbarians before them, the Hibernians – or at least their local kings, as they call themselves – are developing a taste for wine. Gaul has a wine glut these days, and we have to do something about it. The Empire is right in the middle of a galloping inflation, Severus has already debased the denarius to amend the problem, and…”

“And…” Lucius was beginning to get the idea, “the Treasury needs all the revenue it can get…”

Castor pointed his index finger at Lucius. “Precisely! Which is right where you come in…”

“Me?” squeaked Lucius. “But I’m just another run-of-the-mill shipping agent – what in the name of Neptune do you expect me to do?”

“Actually, with that little scheme of yours, you’re anything but a ‘run-of-the-mill’ shipping agent, Lucius Sabius. Right now, you’re facing charges of tax evasion, or you would, if Euodus knew about you, which I can assure you he doesn’t. Certainly, Euphanus would have your hide, if he only knew. So far, I’m the only one who does, or the only one who matters, anyway.” Castor folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward toward Lucius, once again the well-fed cat.

“You have connections everywhere, Lucius Sabius, from here to Berenice and Barygaza, Muziris…you’ve seen a good deal of the world, so I have reason to believe you could manage quite well in a place like Hibernia. More to the point, and more useful for my purposes, you’ve met Musa. He’s the key in all of this.”

“All of this…” muttered Lucius, “which I still have no idea what is!”

“Very well. As I said, Musa has been building a monopoly in Hibernia. It’s gotten so that no Hibernian king will even talk to anyone else, apart from a few on the eastern coast, so no one else can get a denarius in edgewise, or even a foot in the door. Musa is a scrupulous – and scrupulously fair – trader, his dues and Customs taxes are always paid up in full in Berenice and Alexandria. Can’t be corrupted, and my agent in Alexandria last year tried. Must be that Nubian blood…”

Lucius exhaled very, very slowly. Definitely a Greek! Couldn’t get right to the heart of anything in less than an hour if he wanted to, and never the straight road to anywhere, or anything!

“We have a wine glut in Gaul, we have a need of revenue in a hurry, and we have Musa in Hibernia. I need you to go to Hibernia – Musa keeps our old trading post there – to inform him that we’ll even sweeten the deal and forfeit the luxury tax – if not the shipping tax, Severus would never allow that to slip by – as long as he can palm off a few warehouses worth of passable Gaulish red that are currently sitting in Burdigala doing no good at all. The Treasury profits from those Hibernian goods we can sell at good prices here in Britannia, Musa profits from our forfeiting the luxury tax, and you and I…” again, Castor’s smile was positively tiger-like as he leaned closer to Lucius, “split the leftovers. Euphanus won’t even be involved, so he’ll be none the wiser. All you, Lucius Sabius, have to do is persuade Musa that it’s a good idea. Everyone wins.”

Go figure, thought Lucius. And here I thought I’d die…

“And if I don’t, or I can’t?”

“I go straight to Euodus and the Treasury with what I have on you.” Castor blinked a moment, and the tiger was gone.

“One more thing,” he added after a slight pause. “Since you and I both have a lot to lose, I think it would be best if you could arrange to get to Musa in secret. The XX frumentarius has told me that he’s in Hibernia now, and plans to remain until next spring. You have until spring. And of course it goes without my having to say so that you might find other little trading deals next sailing season, once you’re back in Puteoli, where a modest freedman such as myself might make a modest profit…”

Modest, my foot, thought Lucius. You’ll want to skim my account with Balbus for as long as you can…or at least until you have made one and a half million sesterces! He drained his cup. Poor wine was drowned in all that water. He gave a snort as he realized something.

They had been drinking Gaulish red.

“You drive a hard bargain, Castor.”

Another feline smile. “Don’t you, Lucius Sabius?”

“I try, I try, and with some of those Arab traders, I don’t have much of a choice. Actually, I don’t have much of a choice here, either. If my father found out, I’d be dead…”

“If Euodus knew, you might be even deader. Severus is a stickler for protocol and law.”

“I heard…well…” Lucius shrugged in an imitation of Castor’s eloquent shoulders and leaned forward. “What kind of guarantee can you give me that you won’t hand me over to Euodus anyway, either before or after I’ve had my chance to get to Musa? I mean, what do you have to lose?”

Castor froze where he sat. For a long time, the only sounds were those that came through the open windows of the praetorium, where the garrison was bustling after the II’s return, and from beyond the river, from Eboracum. The corridor outside was hushed and quiet. He glared at Lucius. Lucius glared right back.

“How about this?” he finally said, as Lucius began to fidget on his chair, and he reached for a small scroll on his desk and handed it over to Lucius.

It was Fannian paper, Imperial grade, and it bore the Imperial seal in purple wax, along with a holder made of gilded wood. Lucius broke the seal, taking care to preserve it, and unrolled the scroll.

It was a note from the Treasury, made out to Lucius Sabius Niger, son of Sextus Sabius Gallus of Cumae, to the sum of one and one-half million sesterces. He hastily rolled up the scroll and put it in his inside tunic pocket.

There was another, longer, more ominous pause. Outside, an insistent female voice demanded the presence of Castor immediately, but Castor didn’t stir.

Lucius did. He grabbed the wine carafe, poured a measure in both their cups, and did not add water. Instead, he poured a small libation on the floor, before he raised his cup.

“Castor…may I propose a toast – to Fortuna, so that our partnership here might have luck on its side, to Neptune, to keep our ships afloat, and to Mercury, who guards our trade…”

Castor raised his own cup in reply. Just as they were about to drink, the door finally burst open on a whole gathering of women, and first through the door was the Empress herself, wrapped in a pearl-embroidered stola and a cloud of spikenard oil.

“Castor, I do apologize, but Severus simply insists that you come…I swear, he’s becoming more and more unreasonable every day, and he says…oh!” She saw Lucius, and promptly shut up.

“Augusta…” Lucius bowed low and kissed the air over her perfumed hand. He hated the scent of spikenard with a passion.

“It doesn’t matter, Domina, this gentleman was leaving anyway…” said Castor.

Lucius let go of Julia Domna’s hand and bowed again. He moved closer to Castor and clasped his arm.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Castor gave a ghost of a wink. “Of course you will!”

The next thing Lucius knew, he was in the courtyard of the II Augusta’s headquarters, on his way to the gate and the bridge beyond, the scroll in his pocket burning a hole in his chest, his mind racing like the Blues at the Circus Maximus.

He was alive.

Now, all he had to do was wait for Gaius, whom he hadn’t seen in six years. Maybe Gaius knew, after all this time, if there was any fun to be had in this town.

Yes, after this morning, he badly needed a little fun, and where were all the best brothels hiding in Eboracum anyway?

Trouble behind, and trouble before…

When defeat is inevitable, it is wisest to yield.

– Marcus Fabius Quintilianus

“Gaius Arrius, you are in so much trouble I hardly know where to begin.”

The words hung heavily in the air, that warm September day, the kind of day that could make any man – and any Roman – forget the miseries of a summer in Britannia, or the even greater desolation of a summer spent in campaigning north of the Wall. Outside in the camp, orders were being yelled at footsore legionaries returning from the summer’s punitive campaign in Caledonia, repairs were being ordered by the garrison superintendant, slaves and servants were busy unpacking and sorting laundry to be handed over to the washerwomen of Deva. The legion had returned for the winter, and Deva had responded by coming out in force to welcome them home.

It was still early, and the heat of the day had not yet penetrated the praetorium, or the office of the legate of the XX Valeria Victrix, Sextus Papirius Galba. But a few rays of sun filtered through the high eastern windows and landed in a pool of light, highlighting the Grecian key pattern in blue tiles on the mosaic floor. Galba was tired, and showed it. The lines on his weather-burned face were etched deeper; the rings under his eyes had become darker during this last campaign. He had just returned from Luguvallium himself, and before that from Trimontium, where the XX had been based all summer for the southern thrust into Maeatan territory, and he was not, as he liked to point out to his wife, as young as he was. He cleared his throat, glanced down at the dispatch that had arrived from Eboracum by military courier only an hour ago, rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head and sighed. The contents of the dispatch were already making his shoulders descend toward the floor, and even at this early morning hour, his head was throbbing. Oh, ye Gods, what a mess. Galba had been away at Arbeia, working with Postumianus, and so he had not heard the news from Trimontium until last night from his secretary Ajax, and scarcely dared believe what he had heard.

Directly across stood the reason for his headache, and the cause of this dispatch – his nominal second-in-command, the XX’s broad-striped tribune.

Gaius Arrius, cognomened Nerva Rufus, broad-striped tribune of the XX Valeria Victrix, stood at attention in front of his commanding officer on the other side of his vast marble desk, tunic spotless, boots immaculate, and beard trimmed to perfection, not a hair out of place. His adjutant, Marcus Lavidius Carbo, glanced up at Galba and then, seeing the tight look he had on his face, quickly looked down at the floor. Carbo had forgotten to oil his boots that morning, and they creaked loudly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Six years he’s spent with us here, thought Galba, six years that have made this spoiled brat of a senator’s son into a fine military commander, an excellent administrator, everything the Senate could have hoped for. Unlike some tribunes Galba had worked with in his military career, Gaius Arrius also had uncanny military instincts and a good deal of common sense, and he also had the useful ability to work like a dog when he had to. In the three years he had been broad-striped tribune, he had only lost fifty men on campaign, which had impressed not only Galba, but also Postumianus the governor of Britannia, and even Severus himself. The legion itself, and these past two years of borrowed troops from other legions, had never missed a payment or a campaign bonus since Gaius Arrius had become tribune, no complaints were filed in vain, no grumble ever overlooked or ignored, and down to the last man they would gladly do the past summer’s carnage all over again, so long as Gaius Arrius was with them.

With them now but not for much longer. The dispatch contained Gaius Arrius’ orders to file his final report with Postumianus, and then return to Rome. Severus was recommending him for quaestor said the rumors, and what Severus wanted, Severus got, even if it meant that Galba would have to beg for a replacement, yet another young senatorial smartass probably, who thought he knew everything, but hardly ever did. This was Britannia, and Britannia was not Rome.

The atmosphere in Galba’s office was tense, a tension reflected in the rigidly upright carriage of the three men in front of him, in the nervously tapping foot of his secretary Ajax perched at his own small desk, stylus poised over his wax tablet, and even in the room itself. Galba was an old-school legate who ran the camp at Deva by the book with much organisational skill and rather less imagination, and who preferred to intimidate by sheer force of personality, rather than the grandeur of his surroundings. His one personal touch was an ornate brass oil lamp with seven wicks that had been a Saturnalia gift from his daughters, and the summer byes his wife had arranged in a glass bowl on his desk.

The steaming cup of warmed spiced wine in front of Galba would not be steaming much longer, if he didn’t drink it soon.

He finally grabbed his cup and drank it down. He needed willow bark tea, not spiced wine, but no one seemed to know or care.

Looks like a Caledonian, like a bloody Gaul he does, thought Galba, down to the height and width – Gaius Arrius towered over all but the tallest Batavians of the XX – that red-gold hair, even that most un-Roman nose, and yet…and yet, after six years, after three years of working side by side with the man who had become broad-striped tribune after the death of Quintus Plautius, he had no complaints, not even from Severus himself, and Severus was a hard man – and a harder commander – to please. The Caesar Antoninus on the other hand…and there, he thought, was the problem in a nutshell. The Caesar Antoninus. Ye Gods, what a mess!

Galba cleared his throat again. Too much cinnamon in the wine was making it itch. Damned slave always put too much cinnamon and too little honey in his wine. He was beginning to think it was personal.

“Well, then, let me see if I have this straight. You left Trimontium with a small contingent, our First Spear here –” he nodded toward Gaius Tillius Rufus – “and Carbo, of course –” another nod in the direction of Gaius Arrius’ adjutant – “and left to find that cursed Caledonian plague, who has been giving us such vast headaches these past four summers, Cadaracus, was it?, on the recommendation of a Maeatan scout, who had some idea as to where he might be found, is that right?”

The right corner of Gaius Arrius’ mouth twitched upward for a brief moment. Galba suddenly realized that his broad-striped tribune was trying not to laugh.

“Yes, sir.”

“You then proceeded to march for three days through enemy territory and hostile terrain, before you finally found the settlement that the scout had told you about, whereupon you set it on fire, warded off a surprise attack by said Caledonians, managed, Jupiter knows how, to capture the wretch and then marched him back to Trimontium – alive and in chains, no less! – before you handed him over to Postumianus. Anything I missed?”

Gaius Arrius wasn’t smiling now. He was studying his boots intently. There was a slight pause before he replied:

“No, sir.”

“Of course not!” Galba went on, his voice dripping

sarcasm.

“Nothing at all, apart from the fact that that assignment was given to Antoninus – Antoninus the son of the Emperor, Antoninus the Caesar, and yet you…you set it upon yourself to achieve what even a Caesar couldn’t do! Gaius Arrius Nerva Rufus, what were you thinking? Here you are, prospects bright, I don’t know why-” Galba grimaced, because he actually liked the man, “and now…now this! What were you thinking?”

His broad-striped tribune opened his mouth to reply, and promptly shut it again when his adjutant stepped on his toes. Carbo’s boots creaked again.

Galba didn’t miss that little trick. He looked from Gaius Arrius to Carbo.

“You have something to add to the matter, Marcus Lavidius?”

“Yes, sir, I rather think I do.”

“In fact, sir, if it ain’t too much trouble,” Gaius Tillius Rufus piped in with his characteristic Umbrian drawl, his helmet’s red horsehair plume bobbing in time to his breathing, “so do I…”

“Have you now?” Galba leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. This little triumvirate had spelled trouble before, but never so serious.

“And how do I know that Gaius Arrius here hasn’t bought you both off so you can back his story and he can save his own hide? This isn’t the first time the three of you have been caballing behind my back, you know.”

Three indignant faces glared at Galba. There was an ominous pause. Ajax scribbled away on his tablet.

“Because he hasn’t,” said Gaius Tillius Rufus stiffly. “Our tribune is way too noble to sink to such low tricks as that!”

“No man is too noble to buy allies, Rufus, especially if he’s a Roman!” Galba retorted.

Gaius Arrius straightened his spine as much as he could and stood even taller, and from his lofty height, two icy-blue eyes looked right into Galba’s own olive-black. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped a degree or two.

“I would like to think, sir, that I’m a good enough commander not to have to resort to such cheap tricks with my men.”

Gaius Arrius made a point of adjusting his tunic slightly and smoothed out the bunched fabric along his shoulder. Tillius Rufus and Carbo crossed their arms and shifted slightly closer to their tribune.

Galba took the hint, and relented. He sighed again.

“All right, all right,” he held up his hands, “I have nothing else at all to do all this morning,” and he waved at the jumbled mess of book buckets, wax tablets, scrolls and scraps of paper piled high on his desk. Outside in the foyer, more headaches were waiting for solutions. Most of the XX had returned from the summer campaign in Caledonia the day before, and there was much to do and many decisions waiting to be made. He could hear them mumbling outside and cooling their heels even now. Let them wait. This was important.

“Carbo…”

Carbo’s boots creaked.

“Yes, sir, well, you see…Antoninus was rather preoccupied…”

“Preoccupied! Jupiter! He was on a bloody campaign – what could he possibly be preoccupied with?”

Ajax tapped his stylus on the wooden frame of his tablet. It was very annoying and highly distracting. Galba lifted one bushy black eyebrow in his direction, and the tapping stopped.

“Sir, if I may…”

“You in particular, Gaius Arrius, shouldn’t have to ask, given the situation. Go on.”

“The fact is, ever since the Emperor sent him to lead us up through Caledonia, Antoninus made it patently clear he had other things on his mind than the campaign. The Emperor has, as you know, not been well at all since arriving in Britannia, and…” Gaius Arrius ran his fingers through his hair as he always did when he was trying to think on his feet.

Galba was beginning to understand.

“Yes?”

His tribune leaned forward over Galba’s desk.

“Antoninus spent most of the summer buying his way into the favor of the legions, sir. He was courting the soldiers, plying them with Falernian in Trimontium and at Horrea Classis, making sure they had gambling money, plenty of whores to entertain them, plenty of food – not rations, mind you – to keep them happy…”

And an army always marches on its stomach, thought Galba.

“Leaving the able commanders, properly trained military men such as yourself, to do all the dirty work of actually getting out there and slaughtering Maeatae and Caledonians down to the last man, woman and child and coming back alive…” Galba continued.

“Yes, sir.” Gaius Arrius did not look at all contrite.

“Ah. All this in spite of his father’s command to bring this Cadaracus back to Eboracum? In spite of the Emperor’s command?”

“Yes, sir!” they all replied in unison.

Why, oh why, mused Galba, did good men, fine men, smart and cunning men such as Severus – or Marcus Aurelius, even – always father such worthless, no, useless sons? Was it something in the wet-nurse’s milk, or some curse of the Gods to afflict them for rising so high?

Who knew? Galba had four daughters and no Imperial ambitions whatsoever, so that was one problem he had managed to avoid.

So, then. Antoninus. Now the dispatch, straight from Postumianus in Eboracum, made much better sense. Or did it?

These days, not much made any sense at all. Except, of course, that it meant that his broad-striped tribune was in even deeper trouble than he had first thought.

“That’s it, then? Antoninus just quit the campaign, spent the Imperial funds on the legions in Caledonia, and then you –” he pointed his finger at Gaius Arrius – “somehow took it upon yourself that you would be the one to bring back the wretched Cadaracus?”

“With respect, sir…” Tillius Rufus shuffled his feet around on the tiled floor, “that ain’t quite like it happened at the time…”

Carbo’s boots creaked ominously again.

Galba rolled his eyes. Only two autumn hours past dawn, and already this was proving to be a long morning.

“Proceed, First Spear.”

“Right…well, you see, we all knew that the twit head, sorry, sir, Antoninus, would never get around to it, ‘cuz he was always so busy livin’ it up with the men, and didn’t care two figs worth what went on, so long as the wine flowed and the women showed, showin’ off his ditch-diggin’ skills and tryin’ to prove he’s a capital fellow, if you take my meaning, sir …”

“Only too well, only too well…Go on.”

“So, a few of us here of the XX got together over a flask of beer one night and decided we’d do his father proud for a change, him not being that way inclined, sir, and wondered how we might go about it…”

Now that, thought Galba, was utter nonsense. This entire half-baked, crazy plan had Gaius Arrius written all over it, taking it upon himself to outdo an unmotivated Caesar trying to save his own hide when his father died, and carrying it off with all the panache, finesse and yes, discretion that Antoninus, Caesar or no, so sorely lacked. None in Trimontium had even known until Gaius Arrius had gone missing with his men, and then suddenly reappearing six days later with Cadaracus. Trimontium had been in an uproar, and Galba had only heard about it last night on his return from Luguvallium.

Gaius Arrius stood straighter. He cleared his throat and took up the thread from Tillius Rufus.

“My intelligence had told me about a certain Maeatan scout, who had his own battle axe to grind with Cadaracus, and after we interrogated him, we decided he could be trusted, since all his information proved to be true, from what I’d heard from my colleague in the II Augusta. This scout also said he knew a way through the mountains to get to Cadaracus, a way that they used themselves and we didn’t know.”

“We never do.” Galba sighed. “So you just decided to see if you could be the one who got his hands on Cadaracus, did you, instead of Antoninus?”

Gaius Arrius leaned forward over Galba’s desk, hands splayed out on the marble slab. This was the face that slew the women of Deva and made his legion hop to attention, and now it was staring at Galba, blue eyes boring into Galba’s own olive-black. A faint whiff of malabathrum insinuated itself into his nose.

“Sir, this…war, shall we say, has been going on for three summers now, and there’s no end in sight. How many losses have we sustained? How many Briton widows have the Caledonians made, how much damage have they caused and how much land have they laid waste?” Gaius Arrius began to pace the room as if he were Cicero himself at the Forum, punctuating his sentences with his arms.

“We’ve paid them money, we made a treaty with them only last year, and what good did any of it do, sir? If we didn’t jump at the chance to get Cadaracus at least, we could spend every bloody summer in Caledonia for the next forty years and never win, never subdue them, and always make ourselves look like total, incompetent asses in the process!” He stopped his pacing and leaned forward over Galba’s desk again, now all seriousness again, and again Galba noted, he was not one bit contrite.

“I saw an opportunity, sir, an opportunity to end this mess once and for all, and I took it.” He ran his fingers through his hair. After four months on campaign, he needed a trim.

“I appreciate that elegant little exercise in rhetoric, Gaius Arrius, and it’s most convincing, too. You did all that, and made yourself an enemy when you did. Lousy timing, Gaius Arrius, when the Senate is just a few months away for you.”

Now, it was Gaius Arrius who sighed.

“I’m well aware of that, sir.”

“Good! Stay aware and you just might have Fortuna on your side and stay alive after Severus dies, and something tells me that won’t be too far away. In any case…” Galba reached for the dispatch satchel and opened it. “I have some news for you, and a letter.”

“You are to report to Postumianus in Eboracum in five days time, during which time you are to pack your belongings and prepare to return to Rome. You are to be discharged with all honors from the XX Valeria, to receive a letter of recommendation from Postumianus – and myself – and then you are to return to Rome on the first available ship through the Pillars of Hercules and run for the office of quaestor, at the Emperor’s personal request.”

“Jupiter! Return to Rome and run for quaestor? But I haven’t even decided whether I’ll even be able to run, if my father can afford it or even if I will…” Gaius Arrius’ initial elation at finally leaving Britannia after six years evaporated as quickly as it came. Suddenly, he looked very young. Then, as Gaius Arrius realized just what Galba had – and had not – said, his face flushed as red as his hair. He pointed his finger at Galba.

“You…sir, that’s not playing fair, you knew it all along and you still put me through this charade…”

Galba grinned back at his tribune.

“I did, I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist…” He turned to Ajax. “Ajax, summon a medic and have him brew me some willow bark tea, I have the most appalling headache.”

Ajax threw down his tablet in a huff and walked toward the door. As soon as it opened, a cacophony of voices clamored for attention, and was almost immediately cut short by the door slamming back on its iron hinges.

“However, Gaius Arrius, that doesn’t mean-” Galba set his face in its most ominous folds, leaned forward and dropped his voice so low, his tribune had to lean over the desk to hear it, “that you’re not in deep, deep trouble. Antoninus has had it in for you since he arrived – there was that small matter of the treaty you helped negotiate with the Caledonians, remember? – and this little stroke of genius is not making him look any better. What with Severus’ illness and all those portents they all talk about in Eboracum, he won’t be among the living much longer. By all means, return to Rome, but –” Galba looked up and whispered so quietly, only Gaius Arrius could hear – “watch your back and your mouth when you do!”

“I’ll do my best, sir!” Gaius Arrius said simply.

“So…what? What are ya sayin’, legate, that our tribune here ain’t in as hot bathwater as we all thought?”

“Never fear, Rufus, it’s all good and even the Emperor is happy!” Gaius Arrius dug his elbow into Tillius Rufus’ side. Carbo seemed to study his boots intently, or else he was counting the tiles on the floor. But Galba saw it anyway. Carbo was trying very hard not to laugh.

“And us, sir! What about us?” Gaius Tillius Rufus was so indignant; his horsehair plume was dancing now, shedding long, glossy red hairs all over Galba’s immaculate floor. “Here we thought Arrius was in serious trouble!”

Finally, Galba was able to get out of his chair and stretch his legs. He walked around his desk, turned to his First Spear with an even bigger grin, and grasped Gaius Arrius around the shoulders. He had to reach, for he was a good deal shorter.

“Mark my words, both of you – a man such as Gaius Arrius, Rufus, will always be in trouble, one way or another! The question is will he be able to get out of it?”

The door slammed open again, and Ajax almost fell through, hotly pursued by Glaucus, the XX garrison superintendant. Glaucus was beet-red in his beefy face, breathing hard and mopping off sweat with his handkerchief.

“Sir! This is an outrage! You should complain to the Emperor himself, and to those buffoons in Londinium, and the governor, and …this is an outrage of the first order!”

Galba’s head throbbed harder. He walked back to his chair and fell into it with a thud and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes, Glaucus?” Three hours old, and the day was nowhere near over yet. His head pounded again.

Glaucus tried, and failed, to regain his composure. He took a deep breath.

“Sir…I’ve just been told – two of our winter supply ships have just been taken by some Hibernian brigands in the Middle Sea!”

“When, Glaucus?”

“Day before yesterday, sir…there’s a witness waiting in my office who can tell more, but….” Glaucus eyes slid sideways toward Gaius Arrius.

“And where’s our fintelligence officer, Glaucus?”

“With the man, a Briton, sir, who says he knows who did it.”

“Should I deal with it, sir?” Gaius Arrius looked excited.

Galba rolled his eyes and rubbed his bald spot again. Mention pirates, Galba thought, and any young man with half a brain or less suddenly thinks he’s Pompey the Great himself!

“No, you’re leaving for Eboracum in three days…I’ll come with you…” and Galba rose yet again, and headed for the door with a heavy step and a worsening headache…and where was that tea?

“Trouble behind and trouble before…” quoted Gaius Arrius softly in Greek as he opened the door for his legate.

“And you just the man I need to deal with it, and now you’re leaving me to deal with this bloody mess!” muttered Galba under his breath.

Outside in the foyer, a mob of slaves and secretaries, centurions and orderlies and the other six tribunes of the XX waited impatiently, all of them trying to have a say at once and grab their legate’s attention, time or tunic, and still there was no sign of a medic and some willow bark tea.

Yes, thought Galba, it was going to be a long day.