Free A Body in the Bathhouse by Lindsey Davis Page A

posting called Titus Flavius Vespasianus.”
    “So the invasion landed at this place?” Justinus was not even born when the details of Claudius’ mad British venture came flooding back to Rome. I could barely recall the excitement myself.
    “One main thrust took place on the east coast,” I said. “Many tribes who opposed us were grouped around their sanctum, a place called Camulodunum, north of the Tamesis. No question, though; our takeover was facilitated by the Atrebates. It was well before my time, but I guess they may have hosted a second—safer—touchdown base for the landing force. Certainly when Vespasian’s legion moved west to conquer the tribes there, he operated out of what is now Noviomagus.”
    “What was it then?”
    “A bunch of huts on the beach presumably. The Second Augusta would have thrown up solid barracks, stores, and granaries—then they began a subtle system of lending Roman builders and fine materials to the tribal chief. Now he wants marble cladding and Corinthian capitals. To indicate his benevolence to subservient peoples, Vespasian is paying.”
    “Having a friendly base when your army drops anchor in remote and hostile territory would count for a lot.” Justinus could work things out. He shifted uneasily. Splinters from the crude bench on which we were perched were working their way through the wool of his tunic.
    “And Togidubnus was swift to offer beer and bannocks,” Aelianus sneered. “In the hope of reward!”
    “He welcomed a chance to be Romanized,” Helena amended moderately. “Uncle Gaius doesn’t say, but Togidubnus may even have been one of the tribal chief’s young sons who had been taken to Rome—”
    “Hostage?” asked Aelianus.
    “Honored guest,” his sister reproved him. She had all the tact in her family.
    “Being civilized?”
    “Tutored.”
    “Spoiled out of his mind?”
    “Exposed to the refining benefits of our culture.”
    “Judging by his desire to replicate the Palatine,” I joined in the cynical backchat, “Togi has definitely seen Nero’s Golden House. Now he wants a palace just like it. He does sound like one of those exotic princelings who were brought up in Rome, then exported back to their homeland as polite allies, who knew how to fold their serviette at a banquet.”
    “Just how big is this fantasy house he’s being given?” Aelianus demanded.
    Helena produced a rough sketch plan from her uncle’s letter. Hilaris was no artist, but he had added a scale bar. “It has four long wings. About five hundred feet in either direction—plus pleasure gardens on all sides, suitable outbuilding complexes, kitchen gardens, and so forth.”
    “This is in the town?”
    “No. This is dramatically set apart from the town.”
    “So where does he live at the moment?”
    Cautious, Helena consulted her document. “First he occupied a timber dwelling beside the supply base—provincial, though impressive in scale. After the invasion had succeeded, Claudius or Nero showed imperial gratitude; then the King acquired a big, masonry, Roman-style complex to demonstrate how rich and powerful he was. That is still there. Now that he has proved himself a staunch ally in a crisis again—”
    “You mean he supported Vespasian’s bid for Emperor?”
    “He did not oppose it,” I said dourly.
    “The legions in Britain were equivocal?” Even Aelianus must have done some homework.
    “The Second, Vespasian’s old legion”—
my
legion—“were always behind him. But there was a weak governor and the other legions behaved oddly. They ditched the governor, in fact; then they actually ran Britain themselves with an army council—but we don’t talk about mutiny. It was a time of civil war. Afterwards, all sorts of peculiarities were scratched out of documents and discreetly forgotten. Anyway, that’s the kind of crazy province Britain has always been.”
    “If the legions wavered, even lukewarm allegiance from a king was a bonus,” Justinus added.