The Sword and the Throne

by Henry Venmore-Rowland

  * * *

  The city was bustling as preparations were made for the army to break camp and march to meet the threat from the east. Valens was busy briefing the legates, who in turn tried to drill their men back into the semblance of an army. Too many of them had spent the summer drinking, whoring and generally letting themselves go. Gone were the battle-hardened veterans we had brought over the mountains. Valens and I inspected a legion the next day, and they looked like what they were: a bunch of drunks and layabouts in uniform. But it wasn’t the men we punished. We expected them to indulge in Rome’s pleasures. Instead we fined and disciplined the centurions for not looking after their men properly.

  While the preparations on Vitellius’s side were proceeding as well as could be expected, I decided that it would be prudent to take certain precautions. The empire still hung in the balance, and Totavalas was right about one thing at least: I was very good at picking the winning side. I held no grudge against Vitellius himself, but my position in Rome was growing weaker by the day and Valens’s influence over the emperor was increasing. It would have been irresponsible of me to ignore the overtures I had received from Vespasian’s side, not to mention the fact that Domitia had paid me part of my reward up front.

  With my column of lictors in tow, I marched up the Esquiline Hill to find the villa of Sabinus, the man we were holding under house arrest to stop him spreading sedition and wheedling senators into giving his brother their support. You might think that it would have been better for me to try to hide the fact that I was visiting the only political prisoner in Rome, by sneaking through the shadows in a hooded cloak. On the other hand, I would have to give my name to get past the guards on the door, and then the whole city would know what I was about. Better that I go in broad daylight as though I had nothing to hide.

  The soldiers either side of the door were surprised to see me.

  ‘Are you here to see the prisoner, sir?’ the centurion asked after saluting.

  ‘What a good guess,’ I said, feigning wonder. ‘Actually I’ve come here to plot the overthrow of the emperor.’

  Instantly the legionaries reached for their swords. The centurion chuckled. ‘Easy, lads, this is General Severus. He’s as likely to plot against the emperor as I am. Sorry, sir, these men don’t know any better. They’re from General Valens’s legion.’

  ‘And you’re a centurion of the Twenty-First,’ I said, looking at the markings on his shield.

  ‘That’s right, sir. We gave that Alpinus a good kicking.’

  ‘So we did. Now would you let me pass? I’m here to have one last go at persuading Sabinus to tell us what he was planning, from one nobleman to another.’

  ‘Very good, General.’ The officer gestured to the men to stand aside.

  A tired-looking slave was waiting for me inside. He must have heard the exchange and was ready to take me to his master.

  ‘How is your master bearing up?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not too well, Consul. He spends a lot of time in the library.’

  ‘Just reading?’

  ‘And writing too.’ The slave blanched as he realized what he had said. On the face of it his master was perfectly free to write in his own library, but the man’s reaction betrayed that Sabinus was writing letters that somehow made their way past the guards on every door.

  ‘Interesting. Is he in the library now?’

  ‘Yes, Consul.’ He knocked gently on the door.

  ‘What is it?’ a gruff voice called.

  ‘Consul Severus to see you, master.’

  ‘Ah! Show him in,’ the voice said enthusiastically.

  The slave pushed the door open and beat a hasty retreat. I was greeted by the sight of rows upon rows of scrolls, entire walls of shelves heaving with valuable papyrus and vellum. The knowledge of the world lay upon those scrolls, making my paltry collection of Xenophon and Thucydides look like the weekly reading list the tutor gave Aulus in comparison. Hunched over the table, stylus in hand, sat a man with a balding head and a pair of ears that stuck out comically.

  ‘I thought I might be having a visit from you sooner or later,’ Sabinus said, still busy with his papers.

  ‘Entertaining a consul is a better social life than none at all,’ I said.

  ‘Quite. If I had a fatted calf I’d serve it to you.’

  ‘Some water will be sufficient.’

  ‘Of course. Timon!’ he called. The nervous slave reappeared. ‘Some water for our guest. And some wine for me.’

  ‘A bit early in the afternoon for wine,’ I commented.

  ‘But with no one to visit me I can forget these social niceties.’ At last Sabinus turned in his chair to look at me. His face was lined with age and worry. He was past sixty now, but his frame looked toned and full of vigour. Captivity had turned the man into a spring, biding his time and waiting until he was released. The brown eyes were tired, but inquisitive.

  ‘Won’t you sit, Consul?’

  I nodded my thanks, and took the seat on the other side of the table. ‘Keeping yourself busy, I see. Writing a commentary on some Greek poetry, perhaps?’

  Sabinus instinctively covered the vellum with his arm. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And there was I thinking it might be a letter to one of your brother’s supporters,’ I said, smiling. ‘Your slave isn’t too bright,’ I explained, seeing Sabinus’s shocked expression.

  ‘I ought to have him whipped and sent to join my wife in the country.’

  ‘Impossible,’ I said. ‘Valens and I would assume he was carrying some secret message and we would regrettably be forced to torture it out of him.’

  ‘You and Valens?’

  ‘As the emperor’s loyal servants. It could have been you in the crucifer’s chamber, you know. Valens and Vitellius were all for your being tortured so that we could prise some information from you.’

  ‘I take it I have you to thank for commuting the sentence to house arrest then?’

  ‘More like my freedman Totavalas. It was him that told me you were buying up the grain privately, not as the urban prefect. If Valens or his spies had found out first, I doubt you’d be alive today.’

  ‘My thanks to your Hibernian, then. I’ve heard a lot about him.’

  ‘He’s as insolent as a spoiled hunting hound, but he’s got the cunning of a fox, I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘We all need men we can rely on,’ Sabinus agreed.

  ‘As Vespasian relies upon you?’ I asked, pointedly.

  ‘Me, and others,’ he said warily. ‘I hear from a certain soldier’s wife that you’ve decided to join our merry band.’ It was more of a question than a statement.

  ‘My brother will be grateful,’ he continued.

  ‘How grateful?’

  ‘With Valens and Vitellius out of the way, you and I will be the most influential men in Rome, until Vespasian arrives. After that, it was suggested you might replace him as commander of the eastern legions, and my brother would pay for a campaign against Parthia, if that appeals?’

  It certainly did appeal. Vitellius would never allow Valens or me out of the city for his entire reign. He relied on us too heavily to risk losing one of his consuls to the golden opportunities on the Parthian front.

  ‘I like to think that I would serve Rome best with the legions.’ I left the rest of my thoughts unsaid; Sabinus understood. It was an attractive offer, but I was still torn between staying loyal to Vitellius and helping what would be my third emperor on to the throne. I say third: I had no ties to Nero or Otho.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Sabinus continued, ‘I don’t see how you will be in a position to help my brother if you are stuck here in Rome while Valens takes the army north.’

  I chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about that. My Hibernian has it all in hand. You can tell your brother that once I control the army and it’s far enough away from the city, then I will do what is best for Rome.’

  ‘You mean give her an emperor who is a better man than all his predecessors put toge
ther?’

  I raised my hand. ‘I swear by all the gods, Vespasian is more deserving of the purple than Vitellius ever was.’

  ‘Then we understand each other?’

  ‘We do.’

  XXV

  So there I was. With the army that Totavalas would somehow provide I would march north to where the first wave of Vespasian’s legions would be waiting, less than a day’s ride from my own estate. Lying in bed that night I thought of Salonina. She must have reached the estate at Vicetia by now. Perhaps the baby had even been born. I prayed each night for another son, another Severus to bring honour and glory to the family.

  I had given so much for men who did not deserve me. Galba’s end had even come at the hand of another man he had spurned: Otho, who had supported him from the beginning. I didn’t want the old man dead, gratitude was all I wanted. And now Vitellius was beginning to turn on me, after all I’d done for him. I was only thirty, I still had years and years to give in Rome’s service, but Valens, Vitellius and the rest had conspired to ignore my talents. All I wanted, all any noble ever wants, was to give my sons a golden future, a future that could only have been brighter if they had been born into the imperial family itself. But Vitellius was no longer the man to provide it. True, he had made me fantastically wealthy and had appointed me consul, but my influence over him was waning every day in favour of the scheming Valens. Vespasian was undoubtedly the better man, but I could only help the better man on to the throne by becoming a traitor.

  But before I could lead the army north, Totavalas had to take Valens out of the equation. He was cutting it very fine; the preparations to leave were well under way, and a farewell banquet for Valens was planned for two days after my talk with Sabinus. Vitellius was supremely confident of victory, so confident in fact that he was still losing himself in the details of the vanity projects that Valens and I put before him. The expedition to Africa beyond the desert was merely postponed, not cancelled.

  ‘And why not?’ Vitellius reasoned. ‘Even old Emperor Claudius travelled to Britannia with his legions.’ It would have been cruel to crush his boyish enthusiasm, so tentative plans were drawn up: a great procession setting out from Alexandria, a pleasure cruise along the Nile; we even sent a message to Egypt that the emperor wished to speak to an ambassador from Nubia, the land south of the Egyptian province. Once it had been a mighty civilization, but now the Nubians are reduced to sending out occasional raiding parties to steal from the scattered settlements in the disputed territory between our borders.

  But while Valens and I were busy soothing the emperor’s vanity, the imperial kitchens were working themselves raw. No expense was spared for the celebrations. As the banquet was in his honour, Valens was even permitted to have some say over the menu. Oysters were a particular favourite of his, which meant another cartload of amphorae filled with seawater and all manner of shellfish trundled northwards to Rome to arrive that very night. All the best people in the city were invited, of course; Salonina would have killed to be there, arranging the seating plan in order of precedence, snubbing some and ingratiating herself with others, depending on whether their wives had turned up to her pretentious poetry readings.

  As I say, all the great and the good were there, even Agricola and Domitia. Barring the two of them from a private party was one thing, but this was an official state banquet. A praetor and his wife could hardly be ignored. Valens and I stood on the doors to the banqueting hall greeting the guests. Agricola bowed stiffly to his superiors, while Domitia gave the smallest of blushes when our eyes met, before her husband hustled her along to the great table.

  The table was a relic from the time of the Divine Augustus. Carved from oak, it had been fashioned into the shape of a giant horseshoe to allow as many people as possible to be seated, but not so large that the table became a full circle. Augustus liked to paint himself as the primus inter pares, the first among equals, but his notions of equality did not stretch that far. The table itself was covered with an extravagant purple cloth, probably large enough to fit out a warship’s sails, and the surface was festooned with dishes of partridge, guinea fowl, pheasant – Valens preferred his white meat, clearly – delicacies from across the empire, fruits of the sea and of the land. There was one thing I did not recognize: little bowls interspersed between the guests, full of nuggets of something white. I picked a piece up and smelled it cautiously, and my nostrils were assaulted with an overpowering odour. Valens laughed at my reaction.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re the roots of a plant from my part of Italia, deep in the south. The Greeks call it glykoriza, after its sweetness. We call it liquorice. Come on,’ he took one of the pieces and began to chew it, ‘try some.’

  Gingerly I took one of the pungent chunks and put it in my mouth. It wasn’t so bad, like a chewier, sweeter version of fennel.

  ‘See, it’s not so bad. It cleans the palate and freshens the mouth. And it helps prevent colds.’

  ‘Are we likely to catch colds at the height of summer?’

  ‘No, but I like this root in all seasons. It only grows in the deep south and in Greece; after all that time in Germania I’ve been craving for a little taste of home.’

  I had since swallowed the root, but the overpowering flavour still remained. ‘Somehow I don’t think this is going to mix too well with the Falernian wine.’

  ‘That’s part of the reason we like this stuff so much at home; our local wines need something to cover up the damned awful taste!’

  A household slave struck the floor with his staff three times. The guests turned to see what was happening.

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty, Senators, ladies: if you would all take your seats, the banquet is ready to begin.’

  I was making for my seat at the right of Vitellius’s wife Galeria when Totavalas caught my arm. Despite being a freedman, as my chief of staff he had been honoured with a seat at the foot of our table.

  ‘Everything’s in hand, Severus.’

  ‘Fine, now take your hand off me and get to your seat before people begin to stare.’

  All the guests took their places behind their seats, waiting for Vitellius to sit first. But he didn’t sit.

  ‘Honoured guests,’ he called out, ‘I don’t wish to keep you from this wonderful feast that lies before us. But I would be remiss if I passed up this opportunity to say thank you and good luck to Consul Valens as he marches north tomorrow.’ Vitellius’s knuckles were white as his hands gripped the back of his chair, using it as a prop. No doubt he had been drinking already.

  ‘Valens has been with me from the start. Loyal, faithful, he is a man who can make things happen. I know that when he takes my legions on to the battlefield those rebels will rue the day they rose against their emperor.’ Those assembled broke into wild applause. Valens smiled graciously before turning to shake Vitellius by the hand. I made a show of clapping hard. Galeria noticed this.

  ‘One might almost think you wanted Valens to lead the army,’ she murmured.

  ‘If your husband says that Valens is the best man for the job, then he must be,’ I answered nonchalantly.

  ‘How very magnanimous!’

  Vitellius took his seat and the rest of us followed his example. I caught Totavalas’s eye, far away at the foot of the table. He smiled reassuringly before tucking into some pheasant. Thankfully Valens had decided not to give a speech; he was a poor orator at the best of times, and instead opted to enjoy the comforts of civilization before the coming campaign.

  I had a few mouthfuls of food before taking my first sip of wine, trying to rid my mouth of that fennel-like flavour that Valens’s precious plant roots had given me. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Valens reaching for his own bowl of oysters. Taking one, he tilted back his head and sucked at the inside of the shell. He swallowed, then grimaced uncontrollably.

  ‘Bad oyster, Valens?’ the emperor asked.

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Tricky things, oysters,’ Vitellius co
mmented. He knew from vast experience. ‘If the next one is bad, leave the rest alone.’

  The next one went down, and Valens smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Nothing wrong with that one.’

  I forced myself to ignore Vitellius and Valens; it would look a bit odd if I was spotted watching every mouthful my rival ate. The hours passed, the guests’ movements becoming more and more sluggish as the rich food and potent wine took effect. Even I had a few cups too many, and I had always strived to stay sober at the emperor’s banquets. Eventually the meat, fish and salads were cleared away, only to be replaced by puddings and delicate fancies that turned the table into a riot of colour. The crowning glory was the cake, a great rectangular creation that was covered in red icing and sculpted to look like a cohort in the testudo formation. Someone had even added pieces of almond to represent the shield bosses and trails of yellow icing to craft the pattern on the shields of the First Germanica, Valens’s own legion.

  The cake itself was delicious, filled with the lightest sponge and strawberry jam, the icing flavoured with cherry to give the red its scarlet tinge, and I thought I detected the taste of figs too. The imperial slaves were emptying the cellars, judging by the speed with which they refilled our cups and goblets. Then we were treated to a performance from some dancing girls, brought, so Vitellius told me, from lands far to the east of Parthia. Some of them had tawny skin and hips so narrow it defied belief. The men watched in awe as the dancers thrust their hips rhythmically back and forth, shaking the feathers and decorations that adorned their navels. By this time many of the elderly and the married couples were beginning to drift off, Agricola and Domitia among them. But then Agricola had always been narrow-minded when it came to entertainment. He was the sort who enjoyed a good day’s ploughing of his fields, followed by a simple supper and an improving story, while Domitia most likely did some embroidery in the corner.

  The room was beginning to swirl and spin as violently as the dancers. A slave came to fill my cup once more, but I put my hand over it to signal that I had had enough. To my left was the sound of retching. Uncharitably I thought it might have been Vitellius trying to make room for some more pudding, but it was Valens. His cheeks were red and blotchy, flecks of vomit on his toga. By the look of disgust on Vitellius’s face the mighty general had just emptied the contents of his stomach all over the emperor’s feet.