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“Preposterous!” bellowed the First Man of Rome.
“It was what I thought at first as well,” Titus Junior calmly replied to his offended father’s outburst. “But there is a very compelling case for serious study.”
Vespasian snarled. It made his owlish face twist into an evil gargoyle. “It is a case built on innuendo and circumstance. You have no evidence, and I will not indict a trusted friend and loyal servant on charges of treason based on vapors and fairy tales and instances of circumstance. Clemens is a good friend, an old friend, and anything bad said against him is utter tripe.”
“It does not hurt to investigate,” Titus pleaded. “After all, we sent two proconsuls to investigate him in the depths of winter.”
“That was for lining his own pocket with spoils, not for treason!” the Imperator acknowledged angrily. “A governor has the right to exploit his province- as long as he does not do so at the expense of Rome. The proconsuls found the missing share, and provided a very reasonable explanation of how it came to be missing. Their report exonerated Clemens!”
Then Titus decided to use his father’s own words against him, uttered in the debate concerning the assignments to Germania. “Would you trust your life to this man?”
Vespasian barked, “Of course!”
Titus nodded deeply. “Because you are, Father. And the lives of your sons. Your trust in this man is admirable. Let us not hope it is foolish as well, or the dynasty you are trying to plant will end upon the day of the triumph.”
The Imperator scowled. “He is a true friend, son. I do not have many left, so I treasure those remaining. Especially those investigated by Eprius and cleared of any wrong-doing.”
“If you treasure your dynastic ideal and the lives of your sons as great, then you must consider what I brought to you.”
Vespasian shook his head, though slowly. “You bring me ‘maybes’ and theories, which weigh as dust before the dedication of this man.”
“As you wish,” said Titus Junior. He bowed once, then quickly exited with the others in his wake.
“You cannot be serious,” Roscius said bitterly once they were out of earshot of the men guarding the Imperator’s abode. “Clemens is dirty. We know it, you know it. Why cannot your father see it as well?”
“He does,” Titus whispered. “That was why he ordered me to investigate.”
“Did I miss something?” Roscius asked.
“There were several senators and knights in the chamber and its antechamber,” Rutilius reminded the arcanus. He knew now how politics worked, having learned from Cerealis and Cordinus, though he was far from an experienced politician. “Every one of them heard the very vocal support our Imperator gave to Clemens, but I doubt any of them picked up on the order given to the prefect here.”
“But you did?” asked Titus Junior. His father was often very subtle, but years of working together had given him the key to breaking the code. This quaestor had no such experience.
“He spoke of theories and maybes, which even I admit will not stand up in a trial,” Rutilius said with a shrug. “Implied but left unsaid was ‘bring me solid evidence.’”
Titus nodded. That was indeed what his father meant.
“We have the scrolls given to Cordinus, and you have the testimony of Burgis,” Roscius pointed out. “They support this ‘theory’ and the man’s own actions prove it.”
“The testimony of this Burgis character is in his head, not written and signed by Cordinus,” Titus reminded him, gesturing towards Rutilius. “And the letters can be seen as gossip and pranks played by one senator upon another with no real harm intended. No, we need the testimony of someone living, physical proof if we can get it. Rutilius is correct- my father requires proof before he condemns him.” Titus glanced at Rutilius. “Your fault, in a way. He easily condemned you as a traitor and opportunist on the word of a friend with no proof. He got burned for it by Helvidius and later by Cordinus himself. Now he is more cautious and demands proof before action.”
“I can infiltrate the camp,” Amalric the Silent muttered. “If he was foolish enough to leave proof lying about unwatched, I can find and steal it unseen.”
Titus shook his head, but nodded to Roscius. “You do it, arcanus. ”
Roscius shook his head. “That would be both foolish and suicidal, lord. Those boys know me, and Clemens himself gave me orders which would lead me to Noviomagus and Vetera, not Rome. My presence in that camp would betray your suspicions and put the boys on alert. I say go with the Batavus.”
“He would most definitely stand out,” Titus said, noting the man’s height and obviously non-Roman features and complexion. He cocked an eye toward Rutilius, the man who successfully infiltrated Germania to put together a very detailed report, and the man who even now looked so nondescript that his presence was often overlooked. “Marcus Rutilius could manage.”
“Same deal as with me, lord,” Roscius retorted. “Most of those boys went north with him under Cerealis, and he commanded them in a tough battle at Vetera a few years back. He won the
Corona Civica saving their asses, then went on act as governor of both Germanias from the time when your Uncle Quintus went off to Britannia to when your pappy finally sent some governors up to take over. They know him well, lord.”
“Perfect,” Titus said with a smile. “They know and love him, thus they will not harm or hinder him.”
Roscius threw his hands up in resignation. “They know him, but this lot probably does not love him as much as they love their own commander. This lot was handpicked because they are loyal to Clemens. Remember? Do you not have any local arcani?”
Titus shook his head. “Arcani work in the field. But the imperial quaestors of the granaries- the corn officers- they might have some agents in town.”
“Corn officers would be good,” Rutilius said with a nod. “That legion has to eat. He could get in with the wagons, thus pass by their security.”
Roscius gave Titus their address. “Us and sixty Batavians are staying here. Keep us informed, lord, and we will do the same for you.”
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Tibur was a beautiful little town on the river Anio, famed for its surrounding beautiful nature and its high falls. It was popular with the rich, many of whom had villas and summer homes in the rugged, hilly area. Most had a view of the high falls, but there were some who had villas on the outskirts away from the falls, facing the serenity of the forest where Faunus had his shrine, and away from the nosiy falls. Aulus Caecina was one such man, and it was time for him to visit his summer home, despite the dangers.
His villa was almost in the forest now. Aulus shook his head at the sight- both angry and thankful at the same time. He was angry at the groundskeeper who had let the forest encroach so far into his land, yet thankful for the cover it gave the men he had staged there. One of those men came forward upon the arrival of the thirty riders.
“Greetings, lord Caecina,” said a man dressed in a canvas tunic from which hung many small bags of sand.
Caecina returned the greeting. He admired the canvas tunic for a moment- a training aid and weightier than the armor it was simulating. It seemed Sevola would never stop training for battle, which was a good thing.
“I am to be killed,” he said to his top centurion. “We broke the ring of bandits plaguing the peninsula- they had help from inside the praetorian barracks. That’s how the bastards have been avoiding the net cast to catch them. But because of this, I am targeted to shut me up before I can gather the evidence needed to put paid to the man running the operation.”
Sevola whistled with respect. “You know you are to be killed, yet ride here with but thirty riders? You have stones like apples, legatus!”
Caecina grinned and laughed with a soldier’s raw humor. “Melons, centurion. Melons. And to prove it, I let it be known that I would be leaving Rome for my summer home tomorrow morning. Rome is but twenty miles from here. If the bastards have the word- and I made sure they have- they will be waiting.”
Sevola grinned broader. “I do agree, Aulus Caecina. Melons.”
Caecina smiled broadly. “Tomorrow then.”
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“Dismount,” said the camp watch officer to the drovers of the wagons. “Our men will take these to the prefectus camporum.”
“These are our wagons,” the drover protested.
“This is our camp,” the watch officer retorted. “I do not want some of my boys injured by drovers not accustomed to moving about in such close quarters. Men could pop out of nearly anywhere and get run over. No, classus, my men will take the supplies to the prefectus camporum. Less chance of accidents this way.”
Once again Caius Vettius blessed his decision to hide between the axles instead of portraying a drover as he was instructed. The spy would be led in with the wagon, whereas his partner was removed and forced to wait outside.
“Just bring the thing back in one piece, tesserarius,” the drover pleaded.
“We will repair any damages,” the sergeant replied with a wave. “Or replace it with one from our own stocks if needs be. No worries. We’ll have the thing back to you before sunset.”
Vettius silently thanked the man for the information, and cursed at the short timeframe. Thinking further, he cursed again- there was no way he was going to be able to take this ride back out. He will have to mount himself back in tomorrow. At least I will have the night to poke about, he thought.
The wagon rolled with its fellows through the camp, led by men on foot. Vettius could see little from his perch, but what he did see was enough. The tents were pitched rather close together, with interlocking ropes for mutual support. There was a heavy sentry presence along the walls, but less further in. A bit more by the center, then less as the wagon was brought into a makeshift barn and stopped. Feet clustered about his hideaway as the legionaries summoned began their work unloading the grain. A pile formed to his left, and then the men moved on to the next wagon. Vettius seized the chance to drop to the ground and roll behind the pile as the legionary by the mules led the wagon away.
True to the word of the watch sergeant, the wagons were returned before sunset. The drovers inspected the wagons for damages, and finding none- and the empty perch of Caius- mounted their vehicles and returned to the city proper. They would be back the next day with the following load- legions on the Campus Martius never kept a full war-time supply. They were fed from the granaries like all other citizens. At that time Sextus knew Caius would crawl back under for his egress.
The next day’s supply run occurred in the same manner. The legionaries took control of the supply wagons, but this time they inspected them thoroughly before leading them onwards. The drovers waited nervously at the sight of so many armed men scrutinizing them. One of them asked what was going on, only to be rudely knocked back into line.
A few hours later the supply wagons came back, emptied of their loads. None of the legionaries noticed the slightly heavier wagon third from the rear. Why should they? The mules pulling the wagon were evidently smaller and had probably been on a run to other places earlier. They paid it no mind, but the talkative drover noticed it with a small sigh of relief. He made sure he got that wagon when they were returned and followed the others back toward the granary, before pulling away at the Aurelian bridge to follow the road around the south and then east before stopping.
Vettius popped out from his perch at his partner’s call.
“We have trouble,” the corn spy noted. He dusted some flour from his immune’s tunic as he spoke. “I’ll report to the Prince. You take the wagon back and inform our quaestor.”
“They are really planning something?” his partner asked.
Vettius nodded and replied bitterly, “if you had a legion and the Imperator had only a cohort, wouldn’t you?”
“Edepol!”
Titus Junior repeated that exact word when the corn spy reported.
“I dropped into their supply tent unseen,” the spy related. “I was dressed as an immune, a cook to be exact. I figured the legionaries might know one another even if they transferred in recently- they had the better part of eight hundred miles to get acquainted. The immunes, however, are like slaves- you don’t notice them. So I baked some pastries after the kitchen crew went to bed, and delivered them to the praetorium. They were appreciated, and I got to look around while they enjoyed the treats.”
The spy paused. “They had a map of the city hanging on the far wall. I could not see many details, but I did follow the red arrow from this camp to the Forum Romanum. From there, the arrows split with two heading east.”
“To the Castra Praetoria, I assume,” Titus interjected.
Vettius nodded. “At least four cohorts will be heading here. The rest will be subduing whoever you have on the Capitoline and in the Forum, which does not look like much based on your supply requests lately.”
“Shit,” Titus whispered.
“It gets worse, lord,” the spy continued. “After I delivered the pastries and accepted the compliments, I left and worked my way around back, acting like a tired cook looking to take a break somewhere. In the back of the tent I could hear some talking. Lists were being made, lord. Lists of very rich men and how many guards those men had on their estates. I heard several I could identify- Nobilis, Pasidienis, and your uncle Quintus’s name among them.”
“All key supporters of my father,” Titus noted. “One could think them conspirators at first, but not Uncle Quintus. No, the men you heard were making a proscription list to solidify their hold over Rome once they kill my father and his sons.”
Vettius nodded. “I could not bring the map, lord. They would realize it was missing in a heartbeat. They know something is not right already- Curtius says they searched the wagons extra-careful before leading them in. Luckily for me, they did not search on the way out.”
“Meaning they have spies in our camp as well,” Titus reasoned. “Only a day late.”
“Like I said,” Vettius concluded, “we have problems.”
“And bugger all with which to solve them,” cursed Titus.
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