Free Arthur Britannicus by Paul Bannister Page B

made with larks’ tongues.”
    Campana gasped, Carausius grinned. “It ended badly. Apicius used up his entire fortune of 100 million sestersi – it simply vanished down his gullet. When his secretary told him that he was down to his last ten million or so, Apicius realized that his epicurean days were ending, so he went out like a true Roman: he had one last banquet and then poisoned himself.” 
    The days slid by, sunlit and carefree, marked chiefly by the unexpected news that Carausius had been promoted to tribune, one of the legion’s six senior officers, effectively making him second in command. Although he was eager to take up his new duties, it was also good to be away from campaigning, to idle away the time, although the soldier still had a deeply-felt urge to return to Britain that had been renewed by his conversations with his countrywoman.  He was both restive for action and employment and at the same time was almost content not to have responsibilities.
    Finally, a summons came and his indecision was ended.  The Greek physician brought the news, hurrying into Carausius’ room off the central courtyard. “A courier, a courier from Rome, for you,” he gasped excitedly. The man, whose dusty face was streaked with sweat runnels, was also striped with his mount’s dried spume and stank of leather and horse urine. The small red leather cylinder he handed to the Briton was tied and wax-sealed.  Carausius had heard in the barracks of such missives in such containers. It was a message from the emperor himself. He unfastened the binding, extracted the single sheet inside and read it quickly. It contained a single, terse command. Carausius was ordered to Rome. The new soldier-emperor Carus Persicus wanted him there, no reason given. 

 
     
    VIII. Rome
     
    Carausius knew of Marcus Aurelius Carus Augustus, called Persicus. He was no hanger and flogger, just a pig-headed boar of a man who didn’t put up with Rome’s nancified politicians and their ways. The troops liked the no-nonsense soldier and forgave him his violent temper, and in return, he paid attention to the footsloggers and their pay and conditions. They remembered how he’d drowned a military cook in a cauldron of his own foul stew after he found that the man had been selling fresh supplies and instead was serving condemned meat to the troops. The soldiers also spoke admiringly of Carus’ personal courage and immense strength. One much-told tale recounted how, enraged during a wrestling match when his opponent squeezed his nut sack, he’d knocked out the man’s teeth and beaten his face to pulp before kicking him unconscious.  You knew where you stood with a man like that, the soldiers agreed.
    Rome hailed him, too, because he had brilliantly defeated a huge Persian army in an action that pushed them back across the Tigris for generations. Carus had destroyed the entire Persian cavalry and brought thousands of them to Rome as slaves, earning himself his ‘Persicus’ title. Now, the emperor had taken notice of a lowly tribune and summoned him to court.
    The injured Briton did what he’d sworn on his army Sacramentum; he obeyed his emperor, and he went to Rome.
    The city, with its 2,000 private homes and 46,000 tenement buildings packed like rookeries that overflowed its centre, was jaw-droppingly magnificent. Carausius remembered his boyhood visits to Eboracum in faraway Britannia and how he’d marvelled at the governor’s palace and the treasurer’s house there, but compared to these mighty temples, public buildings and homes, they were puny, provincial cottages. Every citizen’s home, it seemed, was a palace, and the palaces themselves were beyond belief.
    With a day to wait before his audience, Carausius seized his chance to view Rome. Slaves were summoned to carry the wounded Briton in a litter, and he toured the city, awestruck and gaping at the magnificence.  Every street was paved, every public building was faced with polished