By the time the warship had cleared the harbour breakwater of
Brundisium, the spies had found each other. They sat on the deck,
inconspicuous among the men of the Dux Ripae. From their position
near the prow they looked back down the narrow hull of the galley
to where, over one hundred feet away, stood the object of their
professional attention.
‘Sodding barbarian. All three of us just to watch one sodding
barbarian. Ridiculous.’ The frumentarius spoke quietly, lips barely
moving.
The speaker’s accent pointed to the slums of the Subura in the
teeming valley between two of the seven hills of eternal Rome. His
origins may have been low but, as a frumentarius, he and his two
colleagues were among the most feared men in the Roman Empire,
the imperium. As frumentarii their title should have implied that they
had something to do with grain distribution or army rations. No
one fell for that. It was like calling the wild Black Sea ‘the hospitable
sea’, or the daemons of retribution ‘the kindly ones’. From the most
patrician consular in Rome to the lowliest slave in a far-flung
province like one of the Britannias, the frumentarii were known and
hated for what they really were – the emperor’s secret police: his
spies, his assassins, his knife men – at least, they were known
collectively. They were a special army unit, its members transferred
out of other units, its camp on the Caelian Hill. Individually, the
frumentarii were seldom known at all. It was said that, if you
recognized a frumentarius, it was because he wanted you to, and
then it was too late.
‘I don’t know,’ said one of the others. ‘It might be a good idea.
Barbarians are naturally untrustworthy, and often as cunning as
you can imagine.’ His voice summoned up the sun-drenched mountains
and plains of the far west; the provinces of Further Spain or
even Lusitania, where the Atlantic broke against the shore.
‘Bollocks,’ said the third. ‘OK, they are all untrustworthy bashtards.
They have been lying since they could crawl. But the northern
ones, like this bashtard, are thick, slow as you like. Your northerners
are big, ferocious and stupid, while your easteners are small, sly
and shit shcared of anything.’ The intermittent slurring showed
that his first language was not Latin but Punic, from North Africa;
the tongue spoken almost half a millennium ago by Hannibal, the
great enemy of Rome.
All the men on deck and the crew below fell silent as Marcus
Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome, and Dux Ripae,
Commander of the Riverbanks, raised his arms to the heavens to
begin the usual ritual at the start of a voyage. The water was calm
here at the threshold of the sea, where the sheltered waters of
Brundisium harbour met the Adriatic. With its outstretched oars at
rest, the galley lay like a huge insect on the surface of the waters.
In good Latin, which nevertheless had a twang of the forests and
marshes of the far north, Ballista began to intone the traditional
words:
‘Jupiter, king of the gods, hold your hands over this ship and all
who sail in her. Neptune, god of the sea, hold your hands over this
ship and all who sail in her. Tyche, spirit of the ship, hold your hands
over us.’ He took a large, finely worked golden bowl from an
attendant and, slowly, with due ceremony, poured three libations
of wine into the sea, emptying it.
Someone sneezed. Ballista held his outstretched pose. The sneeze
had been unmistakable, undeniable. No one moved or spoke.
Everyone knew that the worst omen for a sea journey, the clearest
possible indication of the displeasure of the gods, was if someone
sneezed during the rituals which marked the departure. Still Ballista
held his pose. The ceremony should be over. An air of expectation
and tension spread through the ship. Then, with a powerful flick
of the wrist, Ballista sent the bowl flying through the air. There
was a collective sigh as it splashed into the water. It glittered for a
moment below the surface, and then was gone for ever.
‘Typical fucking barbarian,’ said the frumentarius from the Subura.
‘Always the big, stupid gesture. It cannot take away the omen,
nothing can.’
‘That bowl would have bought a nice bit of land back home,’
said the North African.
‘He probably stole the thing in the first place,’ replied the
Spaniard, reverting to their previous topic. ‘Sure, northern barbarians
might be stupid, but treason comes as naturally to them as
to any easterner.’
Treason was the reason the frumentarii existed. The old saying
of the emperor Domitian, that no one believed a plot against the
emperor was real until he was assassinated, most certainly did not
apply to them. Their thoughts were suffused with treason, plot and
counter-plot; their ruthless combination of secrecy, efficiency and
obsession guaranteed that they were hated.
The captain of the warship, having asked Ballista’s permission,
called for silence prior to getting underway, and the three frumentarii
were left to their own thoughts. They each had much to think
about. Which one of them had been set the task of reporting on
the others? Or was there a fourth frumentarius among the men of
the Dux Ripae, so deep undercover they had not spotted him?