Rome's Lost Son (25 page)

‘I suppose not; he seems to have plenty to replace the ones he loses and lots of different sorts.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ Vespasian said as Bagoas steered them through the crowds, mostly attired in the Persian and Median manner but many other styles of dress were on display reflecting the diversity of the huge empire of which this was the hub: the flowing robes and headdresses of the desert dwellers to the south, the leather of the horsemen from the northern seas of grass, dark-skinned Indians from the East in long-sleeved tunics and baggy trousers, Bactrians and Sogdians in leather caps, sheepskin jackets and embroidered trousers, Greek, Jewish, Scythian, Albanian, everything that could be imagined; but amongst them all there was not one toga. Although he knew that with their eastern clothes they blended in well, Vespasian felt conspicuous, foreign, and he wondered what Caratacus must have thought when the Britannic chieftain had been brought in chains to Rome, seeing such an alien place and alien people for the first time. Here he saw what he realised was the Rome of the East: the empire that had subjugated as many, if not more, races. He recalled Caratacus’ words to Claudius: ‘
If you Romans, in your halls of marble, who have so much, choose to become masters of the world, does it follow that we, in our huts of mud, who have comparatively little, should accept slavery?
’ That was evidently as true for the peoples of the East as it was for those in the West. Here, therefore, was the balance to Rome; here was the empire that would always rival her, fight her but never dominate her because no empire could comprise both East and West. Both would stay strong through fear of the other; both needed war to take their conquered peoples’ minds off their subjugation; both knew that to destroy the other would mean death because a super-empire with nothing to fear would break apart under its own weight.

And Armenia was the natural battleground on which Rome and Parthia could flex their martial muscles every generation or so, safe in the knowledge that it would prove fatal for neither
side; Tryphaena had chosen her war well. He smiled to himself; Parthia was not a threat but, rather, a thing to be embraced. Conflict with this empire was a natural state of affairs; the skill was to know how to benefit from it.

He began to relax and feel less alien now that he had understood that this empire was a necessary part of Rome’s existence; entwined in a symbiotic dance of war – much like Ctesiphon and Seleucia with their trade – both empires strengthened each other.

His mind wandered and he barely noticed the royal palace, set in a paradise surrounded by high walls, as they turned to the right off the thoroughfare and twisted through some narrower, sewage-reeking streets, one of which opened into an agora that made the Forum Romanum look like a provincial marketplace in a backwater of the Empire. At least twice the size of its Roman counterpart it was equally as crowded; thousands of merchants thriving on commerce, bought, sold, bartered and haggled in a tooth and claw contest to extract the largest possible amount of profit from even the smallest item of trade.

Vespasian took one look and any last hope of success withered. ‘How are we going to find anyone in amongst that lot?’

Magnus looked equally as gloomy. ‘I’ve a feeling that an offering to Fortuna would be appropriate.’

Hormus set down his sack and laughed and then said something to Bagoas, who did not seem to share his amusement but looked puzzled instead.

‘Well?’ Vespasian asked. ‘Does he know where to start looking, Hormus?’

Another conversation in Aramaic ended with Hormus shaking his head. ‘He says that the only way to find these people is to go around the agora in one circle and ask people at random; but if the people that we’re looking for send caravans west then this is where they trade.’

Vespasian sniffed the air. ‘Well, at least the smell of spices is fending off the stench of sewage.’

*

But it was a hopeless task.

They sweated and cursed as they pushed their way through the swirling mercantile mass with Hormus asking the same question about a family with a youngest son named Ataphanes every few paces. And always, once the interviewee saw that Hormus wished neither to buy nor sell, he was met by uninterested looks and treated to dismissive words and hand gestures.

The sun westered, trade dropped off and the crowds thinned, but even so people were not interested in helping three foreigners and a boy find a family with only the clue of a long-dead youngest son, and by the time the light began to fade remaining in the agora was pointless.

‘Ask Bagoas if he knows of a clean inn nearby,’ Vespasian ordered Hormus.

The slave’s eyes brightened at the prospect of bed and dutifully asked the question. ‘He says that a cousin of his has a place a few streets away; we can find rooms and a meal there. He says that we’ll get a special price.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Magnus muttered, ‘specially high.’

‘That can’t be helped,’ Vespasian said, nodding to the Persian boy to lead on. ‘It’s better than walking around, not knowing where to look. At least if it’s a member of Bagoas’ family they may well prove more trustworthy than a complete stranger.’

‘What? In that they’ll only charge us double and give us the smallest rooms and the toughest gristle in the thinnest of soups?’

Vespasian had a nasty feeling that his friend was close to the mark.

The clatter of boots on stairs and the splintering of wood jerked Vespasian from an uneasy sleep; he sat up, looking around in the dark, wondering for a moment where he was. Hormus’ shouts from the room next door instantly reminded him that they were in Bagoas’ cousin’s inn where their welcome had been falsely friendly and all of Magnus’ predictions had come true. He reached for his sword and then remembered that it remained hidden in Hormus’ sack; with a curse he jumped out of bed as the door to his room crashed open and three silhouetted figures rushed in.

With nowhere to retreat to, Vespasian barrelled forward into the lead man with his shoulder, flooring him and knocking the wind from his lungs while ramming his fist into the groin of the attacker to his left, doubling him over with a strangled grunt. The surprise at the ferocity of the counter-attack by quarry that should have been, if not asleep, then at least off-guard caused the third assailant, to the right, to step back and shout for help; it was the moment of indecision that Vespasian needed. With the flat of his hand he struck up into the man’s chin, cracking his jaw closed and his head back with a slop of blood as his teeth severed the tip of his tongue mid-shout. He fell to the ground gurgling in agony, clasping his hands to his damaged mouth as Vespasian barged past him out to an ill-lit landing.

He had a brief glimpse of Hormus being dragged down the stairs to his left as, to his right, Magnus was hauled out of his room, his splinted arm impeding his ability to defend himself. Without pausing, Vespasian crunched his knee into the thigh of the nearest of Magnus’ assailants, deadening the muscle so that the man half stumbled, loosening his grip. Magnus used his freed right hand to grab the throat of his other detainer as Vespasian pounced on the limping man with an anger that expressed itself as a guttural animal roar. With his limbs working as fast as an athlete’s in a foot race, he pounded his prey into screaming submission as Magnus deprived air from his victim’s lungs with a merciless grip around his neck. His clamp-like fingers ever tightening, he cursed and spat into the dying man’s purpling face as urine trickled down his legs and the stench of voided bowels clouded the air.

‘That’s enough!’ Vespasian shouted, leaping towards the stairs.

Magnus heard the urgency in his friend’s voice and bounded after him, leaving his man gasping and soiled.

Taking the stairs three at a time they clattered down to the common room on the ground floor. The innkeeper cowered behind the bar but there was no sign of Hormus or Bagoas. Caring not whether the man had had anything to do with the surprise attack, Vespasian ran straight for the door, pushing tables and chairs aside. With the one objective of freeing his slave before he
disappeared into a city that could swallow a legion whole, he pulled back the door and ran out into a semicircle of club-wielding men.

He was dimly aware of Magnus screaming as a dark shape surged towards his head, heralding a splitting pain and a flash of light, closely followed by oblivion.

His head throbbed with every thundering beat of his heart as consciousness returned to Vespasian.

He felt himself lying on cold stone.

He opened his eyes and at first saw nothing; the room was dark. Then, as he grew accustomed to the gloom, he could make out a dim light not more than two paces away. It was seeping through a small, square window.

He peered harder and saw that the window was in fact a viewing hole in a door; a viewing hole with bars in it.

He was in a cell.

He was back in a cell.

Vespasian drew his knees up to his chest and clutched them; tight.

The wail started at the pit of his stomach and grew until it seemed to shake his entire being; it was long, hollow and full of emptiness and despair.

How long he had lain there, Vespasian did not know, but eventually the door opened and he was hauled to his feet; he moaned, it was more of a whimper. Unresisting, he was dragged through a series of dim corridors, passing the occasional flaming torch, and then up some steps; finally, a stout door was unbolted and he was thrown through to collapse onto some foul-smelling straw.

‘It’s good of you to join us, sir; although I’m sure we all wish for less limited circumstances, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian looked up to see Magnus and Hormus sitting with their backs against the wall; above them daylight flooded in through a barred window. ‘How long have we been here?’

‘Two days,’ Magnus replied.

‘What happened?’

Hormus’ whole body suddenly wracked with sobs.

Magnus looked accusingly at the slave and then turned back to Vespasian. ‘I’m going to treat myself to an “I told you so”.’

Vespasian understood. ‘Bagoas?’

‘It would seem that way. I said his passion for boys would get him into trouble one day; I didn’t think that it would have us all wallowing in fucked-arse turds.’

‘I’m so sorry, master,’ Hormus cried, getting onto his knees and holding his hands out, pleading. ‘I beg you to forgive me.’

‘What did you do?’

Hormus sobbed a couple of times before managing to get himself under control. ‘After we had … well, I fell asleep. The next thing I knew they were breaking down my door and Bagoas wasn’t there; neither was our sack.’

Magnus shook his head. ‘I reckon he stole the sack and then finding our swords and other stuff that’s obviously Roman he made the right deduction, and him and his cousin must have decided to make a little extra on top of the boat and our cash and reported us to the civic authorities.’

Hormus wrung his hands. ‘It’s all my fault, master. I translated Magnus’ comment about Fortuna to Bagoas.’

Vespasian could see it all. ‘And he would have become suspicious about us as soon as he learnt that we worshipped a Roman goddess; especially as only you spoke Aramaic. That was a foolish mistake, Hormus.’

The slave nodded mournfully, his eyes never leaving the floor.

‘What’s done is done.’ Vespasian patted Hormus’ arm in a comforting manner and looked at Magnus. ‘So, what do they plan for us?’

‘I was hoping they might have told you that, sir.’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He got to his feet and walked to the door. ‘However, since they know we’re Roman I might as well tell them that they have a man of consular rank in their custody; hopefully that will make our lives slightly more valuable.’

‘It might make us more of an embarrassment and therefore make our hosts decide on a speedy disposal, if you take my meaning?’

‘I do, but have you got any better suggestions?’

Magnus shook his head. ‘I believe they’re very keen on impaling people here.’

Vespasian began to pound on the door and shout for the gaolers.

Eventually the viewing slat opened and a surprisingly elegantly barbered face peered in enquiringly and then astonished Vespasian by asking in fluent Latin, ‘You have a problem?’

‘Yes, I am a man of proconsular rank and you will cause a diplomatic incident by holding me here.’

‘We know exactly who you are, Titus Flavius Vespasianus. We found your imperial mandate amongst your other possessions in the bag along with the swords with which you were planning on attempting to assassinate our Great King.’

Vespasian looked at the man, aghast. ‘Assassinate the Great King?’

‘Of course. Why else would you arrive in disguise in Ctesiphon the day before Vologases returned here?’

‘We had business of our own to conduct.’

‘We shall see; that is up to the Great King himself to decide.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that he will decide what you were here to do and he will decide your fate when you appear before him to be judged tomorrow.’

CHAPTER XV

T
HE BARREL-VAULTED
ceiling towering over the great audience chamber in the royal palace was partially veiled by a thin haze of fumes. Despite the bright shafts of sunlight flooding through a long line of identically shaped arched windows, high in the walls, slashing through the heavy atmosphere alive with motes, the cavernous, long interior burned with thousands of lamps. It was a hall of light, both natural and artificial, the like of which Vespasian had never seen before. And the light illumined the colours in the marbles of the floor and columns, in the paintwork of the statuary, in the dyes of the occupants’ clothes and beards and in the fired, glossy tiles of the walls and ceiling, each individually crafted to fit together, depicting scenes of hunting and warfare and other heroic acts of the Arsacid dynasty of Parthian kings.

So much colour and so much decoration in one magnificent chamber; but it was not that which struck Vespasian as he, Magnus and Hormus were led through the highly polished, dwarfing, cedar doors: it was the power that emanated from the seated figure on a dais at the far end of the room.

There sat Vologases, the first of that name, King of all the Kings of the Parthian Empire, and attending him were hundreds of courtiers, the élite of many lands, all of whom professed allegiance to the man who held the power of life and death over millions of subjects; the man who was now to judge Vespasian.

In contrast to the abundance of light and colour was the absence of sound, and once Vespasian and his companions had been thrown to the floor and hissed at to remain still, flat on their stomachs, there was a complete hush in the great hall. No one moved or whispered a word and through the stillness Vespasian could feel
the enmity radiating from hundreds of pairs of eyes as they stared at the three prone forms, so small in the midst of such vastness.

For what seemed like an age he lay there, oppressed by the weight of the silence; it was not calm, it menaced.

The shouted order in Greek to crawl forward cracked through the quiet, shocking Vespasian with its abruptness.

Keeping his eyes to the floor he slithered towards the Great King, humiliated but still alive. With each foot of progress his rage at such treatment for an ex-consul of Rome grew and by the time he was ordered to stop he was seething with fury.

‘What are you doing in my domain, Titus Flavius Vespasianus? Answer only with the truth: to tell a falsehood to the King of Kings is not only an insult to him but an affront to Ahura Mazda.’

Vespasian realised that this was the voice of Vologases himself speaking in the tongue of the Greek concubine who bore him. Struggling to control his anger, keeping his words to the minimum, he answered with the truth, understanding how much weight the Parthians place on honesty. He told the King of Kings briefly everything that had happened to him from the point when Radamistus gave him to Babak as surety for his false oath to his reason for looking for Ataphanes’ family here in Ctesiphon.

‘So your intention was not to assassinate me?’

‘What gave you that idea, Great King?’

There was a yelp from the far end of the hall and Vespasian heard the sound of someone being dragged forward.

‘This boy swore when he reported you that he had overheard you and your companions planning my assassination as I entered the city yesterday.’

Vespasian kept his eyes to the floor but guessed that Bagoas had been dragged in. ‘How could he? He speaks no Greek and only one of my companions speaks Aramaic. I can only imagine that he made up that falsehood in order to make himself seem more important so as to get a greater reward.’

There was a pause as the Great King considered Vespasian’s words.

‘Can anyone here vouch for this Roman?’ Vologases’ voice echoed around the hall and faded into silence.

That silence held, still and clear.

And then, from the far end of the chamber, it was shattered.

‘I can, Light of the Sun.’

Vespasian did not recognise the voice nor could he see the speaker as he was still lying with his face down. He heard footsteps walk the length of the hall and was aware of the whimpering of Bagoas somewhere behind him; a sharp slap silenced the boy.

The footsteps stopped next to him; in the corner of his vision, he saw a man, dressed in the Persian manner. He began to bow and then carried on until he was on his knees with his forehead touching the floor; but he did not stop there and, with remarkable elegance, the movement continued until he was flat on his belly, his lips kissing the floor before his Great King and his hands palms down either side of his face.

‘Your name?’ Vologases’ voice betrayed a hint of surprise.

‘Gobryas, Light of the Sun.’

‘You may get to your knees and speak, Gobryas.’

Gobryas raised himself gracefully. ‘I’m honoured, Light of the Sun.’ He paused to compose himself, taking a couple of breaths as if calming galloping nervousness. ‘Just over fourteen years ago a caravan came in from Alexandria; it carried the normal goods that you would expect coming from the Roman province of Egypt. However, there was one item that had been entrusted to the caravan’s owner by his cousin, the Alabarch of the Alexandrian Jews. It was for my father, whose name I bear; it was a box and inside this box there was gold, a lot of gold. There was also a letter telling my father of the life of his youngest son, my brother, Ataphanes. Fifteen years a slave with a Roman family and then subsequently a freedman in their service for nearly the same duration. During that time he amassed a small fortune. When he died, in the service of the family who had owned him and freed him, he asked his patrons to send his fortune back to his family here in Ctesiphon. The Roman family must be truth-speakers because, despite the very obvious temptation to keep a dead man’s gold to themselves, they did return it.’

There were murmurs of agreement from all sides of the hall.

Vespasian lay, hardly daring to breathe as he listened to the voice of the stranger who was saving his life.

‘Yesterday morning a rumour came to my ears that there had been some people, foreigners, looking around the great market for a family of spice traders whose youngest son, Ataphanes, had been killed in the service of one of your predecessors. At first I thought that these people couldn’t be looking for me because my brother was enslaved, not killed. However, I then realised that until the letter arrived we had no idea that Ataphanes had been in captivity, we had thought him dead; we had not told our acquaintances the shameful truth once we found out – who would admit to having a slave in the family? I admit it now only to defend a man in whose debt I find myself. These foreigners were being considerate; they didn’t bandy about the word “slave”, they understood our sensitivity. When I heard that some foreigners had been apprehended in an attempt to do harm to your person and that one of them was a Roman by the name of Titus Flavius Vespasianus I knew that they were the same people; and so I decided to exercise my right as head of the Ctesiphon Guild of Spice Merchants to attend your court and fight the Lie with Truth.’

Vespasian’s mind was filled with prayers of thanks to his guardian god Mars and the chief god of the Zoroastrian religion, Ahura Mazda, who abjures the Lie.

‘You speak forcefully for this man, Gobryas,’ Vologases said after a few moments in thought. ‘How can we be sure that there is no mistake or confusion after all this time?’

‘Because, Light of the Sun, I still have the letter that came with my brother’s gold. I have it here and it is signed by Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’

Vespasian saw from the corner of his eye a man walking forward from the dais, take the folded letter that Gobryas proffered and with great reverence hand it to Vologases.

There was absolute silence apart from the rustle of Vologases perusing the letter.

‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus,’ the Great King said after a short while, ‘you may rise but your companions will stay where they are.’

Vespasian slowly got to his feet and raised his eyes to the Great King seated on his elevated throne. Vologases was a young man, early thirties, with solemn, dark eyes and a thin beak of a nose. On his head he wore a bejewelled gold diadem that held the shoulder-length, tight black ringlets of his hair in place. His beard was of a matching style and each ringlet was oiled and sheened like a raven’s feathers setting into sharp contrast his pale skin that had had very little contact with the direct rays of the sun.

Vologases surveyed Vespasian, sitting bolt upright and perfectly still. ‘Was it indeed you that sent the gold to Gobryas’ family?’

Now that he was able to stand, the rage at being humiliated on his belly faded. ‘It was, Light of the Sun.’

A flicker of amusement passed across the Great King’s face at the Roman’s use of his title. ‘Then you are a follower of the Truth.’ He looked beyond Vespasian. ‘Bring them here!’

Vespasian turned and saw not only Bagoas but also his cousin, the innkeeper, their eyes watering in terror, being brought forward by two guards each. They were thrown to the ground and grovelled in their fear.

Vologases looked at the pair in distaste. ‘Which one told the Lie?’

One of the guards answered the question by pulling Bagoas’ head up by the hair.

‘Take his tongue, nose, ears and one eye; the other I shall allow him to keep so that he can always see his mutilation in reflection.’

Bagoas had not understood the Greek and it was more in startled surprise rather than agony that he screamed as the guard flashed his knife from his sheath and severed his left ear. His right ear quickly followed, slapping onto the marble as Bagoas’ screams intensified. The guard brought his knife to the base of the boy’s nose and with a savage heave sliced through flesh and cartilage to leave a blood-spurting orifice in the middle of Bagoas’ face. A second guard then squeezed Bagoas’ mouth, forcing it open with one hand and, brandishing a knife in the other, pierced the tip of his tongue and pulled it out; his mate’s wrist flicked
down and with a gurgling wail Bagoas watched his tongue, quivering on the point of the knife, being taken away from him by a maniacally grinning guard. As Bagoas stared in catatonic horror at the macabre sight half his vision disappeared; but he barely registered the pain of his left eye being gouged out as his body and mind became rigid with shock.

‘Take him away and let it be known that they who give the Lie to the Great King will receive no mercy.’ As the bleeding, hyperventilating, mutilated boy was dragged away, leaving a trail of blood, Vologases turned his attention to the innkeeper shaking on the floor, his face rubbing in a pool of his own vomit. ‘To him I will give death; impale him.’

Writhing and shrieking, the innkeeper was hauled off and Vologases graced Vespasian with the slightest of smiles. ‘What was your purpose in seeking out Gobryas?’

‘I had hoped that if he’d received the gold he would repay the favour by helping me and my companions back to Judaea or Syria with one of his caravans.’

‘Would you have done this, Gobryas?’

‘Light of the Sun, I am in this man’s debt for, although his family kept my younger brother as a slave for such a long time, that was not by design. We all have slaves and those slaves all have families. It was not the fault of the purchaser that they came to own Ataphanes; it was the will of Ahura Mazda that he was spared death and enslaved. In all respects this man’s family have acted properly. I shall repay him and, if you would sanction it, give him passage west on my next caravan that leaves at the full moon.’

‘I do sanction it. Gobryas, you may take them and show them all hospitality until they leave.’

‘It shall be as you command, Light of the Sun.’ Gobryas bowed and backed away.

Vologases inclined his head a fraction. ‘Take your companions, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, and go with the light of Ahura Mazda shining upon you.’

‘My thanks, Light of the Sun,’ Vespasian said; and he meant it with all his heart. He found himself bowing to the Great King and then backed away in imitation of his new host. Magnus and
Hormus got to their feet and also backed off, out through the door, past the writhing body of the innkeeper, his hands bound, struggling on his tip-toes to stop the pointed stake upon which he was perched intruding further up his rectum. As the doors to the audience chamber closed they turned and looked at each other and then at the man who had betrayed them, suffering so painfully.

‘Jupiter’s arse, cock and balls, that was close,’ Magnus whispered.

‘Yes,’ Gobryas agreed, ‘I have never known the Great King to be so merciful.’

Gobryas’ garden was cool and peaceful, its atmosphere calmed by the gentle patter of fountains and the trilling of songbirds. It was a garden in bloom; some of the plants were exotic to Vespasian’s eye and some familiar, but all shared a sweetness of scent that infused him with a sense of wellbeing. Over the last ten days since the interview with Vologases, Vespasian had sought refuge in this little paradise, healing the wounds of the long months of darkness that had been reopened by his brief reincarceration.

During this time he had had many conversations with his host and the two other surviving brothers of his late freedman; the family had proved courteous and surprisingly free from rancour and he answered their questions about Ataphanes’ life at Aquae Cutillae, the Flavian estate near Reate, fifty miles up the Via Salaria to the northeast of Rome. He told them of Ataphanes’ great friendship with his fellow freedman, Baseos the Scythian, who had also been a master of the bow; he spoke of their shooting competitions and their deadly accuracy with the weapon when it came to defending the estate from mule-thieves and runaway slaves. He also told the family of Baseos’ lack of interest in gold and how he had given all that he earned to Ataphanes. He confirmed that, as far as he knew, Baseos was still alive and he promised that he would extend an invitation to the old Scythian to visit the family and receive the honour due to such a good friend of the dead youngest son.

The talk of Aquae Cutillae and the doings of the freedmen there made him long to return home and enjoy the rural life for a while, a life of mule breeding, wine making and olive pressing. He began to yearn for the peace of the estate and also of his other one at Cosa that had been left to him by his grandmother, Tertulla. He was sure that his lot was not to retire to the country life, at least not yet, not until he had done all that he could to follow the path set out for him; however, he was weary and he promised himself six months to a year of tranquillity upon his return to Rome. It would be time to rest while he watched from a distance the battle to succeed Claudius unfold and to see whether Tryphaena’s grandiose scheme to secure both sides of her family in power would work. And then, if it did, how best to exploit the inevitable mayhem and misery that the incestuous reign of Nero and his mother Agrippina would bring. As he contemplated the realities of that, he began to think that perhaps he would be best served by remaining inconspicuous during that time; perhaps he would spend a few years on the estates after all.