‘Alexandria …’
‘Vespasian will send you back.’ Valerius kept his voice hard and unflinching; the voice of a judge passing sentence. ‘Africa? The governor is loyal, but how long can he protect you? The rest have already deserted you. You are an Emperor without an Empire. There is only one way.’ Valerius reached beneath his cloak and drew his sword from its scabbard. It was the cavalry sword Corbulo had given him so long ago. He remembered the long, eagle’s face, the comforting certainty; the dying breath.
Nero saw the sword and ran shrieking from the room.
The road was familiar, the old Via Salaria that led out to Valerius’s family estate at Fidenae, but he did not need to travel that far. Serpentius was waiting by a gateway with a troop of Praetorian cavalry and he recognized the entrance to the villa owned by Nero’s freedman.
‘He came here with Phaon and four others. Slaves, we think,’ the Spaniard informed him. ‘The place is surrounded. There’s no way out.’
Valerius nodded. He reached into the pouch at his belt and his fingers settled on the small blue stone Domitia had placed in his hand. Corbulo’s master piece in Caesar’s Tower. He picked it out and weighed it for a few moments before disappearing into the darkness of the walled garden. Serpentius heard a short squeal of terror and the horses shuffled nervously at the sound. The screech of an owl made his fingers automatically form the sign against evil before the sound of voices left him oblivious to all else.
‘Will you never leave me alone?’
‘I will follow you to the ends of the Empire if need be. You have too much blood on your hands.’
‘So it must be now?’
‘Yes, it must be now.’ Was it some night creature or the soft hiss of a sword being drawn?
‘Here?’
‘No, here would be better.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘Only for a moment.’
‘I cannot.’
‘You must.’
A sharp cry followed by soft, pitiful sobbing. ‘See, I cannot. Help me, my Hero of Rome.’
‘For Rome.’
The words were followed by a prolonged wistful sigh; the kind of sigh a great actor might make before leaving the stage for the final time. A shadowy figure reappeared, stooping to wipe something on the long grass. The Spaniard went to stand at his friend’s side. ‘So it is finished?’
Valerius looked to the north, where the wolves of the Rhenus were gathering. He remembered the limitless ambition in Otho’s eyes. Galba’s bony hands shaking as they unrolled Vespasian’s scroll. How long would those hands be able to keep their grip on the Empire’s reins? A peal of thunder broke the silence and lightning flashed over the distant hills. All the ingredients for mischief and the gods were already stirring the cauldron. ‘What if this is just the beginning?’
VIII
At first it went well. Galba, typically, did not move until official word of his acclamation by the Senate reached him in early July at Clunia, in the north of Hispania. Only when he had the sealed leather scroll in his hand did he don the purple cloak and begin his march. Another man would have hurried to Rome before someone stepped in and tore the prize from him, but the Emperor-elect was a patrician who took the trappings of his new status seriously. With the recently constituted Legio VII Galbiana, a barely trained rabble of Spanish peasants under Roman centurions and officers, in the van, he made his stately way across southern Gaul, while Otho cursed at his side. All this Valerius would discover later, along with more sinister intelligence of which he was about to receive forewarning.
Fortunately for the new Emperor, the man most likely to usurp his position, Verginius Rufus, had been among the first to accept his elevation, before retiring with his Rhenus legions to Moguntiacum. Rufus kept his command, for the moment, but Fonteius Capito, governor of Germania Inferior, had not been so fortunate. Unable to make up his mind whether to support the new Emperor, he had been accused of treason and executed by two of his own officers. It helped that most Romans perceived Galba as a great statesman; also that he was old, and therefore unlikely to be around for long. Since he had no living children there would be no Galbanian dynasty, but a judiciously chosen heir in whose selection they might have some say. Valerius had a feeling they would be disappointed.
Throughout July, the tension eased from the city like air escaping from an overblown goatskin, but by August, with the heat bouncing from Rome’s walls like a furnace and the Senate acting like rabbits at the mercy of an imaginary weasel, the populace became increasingly impatient. And none more so than the naval legion.
‘They should have sent them back to Misenum,’ Serpentius said balefully as he and Valerius passed another tavern brawl involving men in blue tunics. Having spent the two months since Nero’s death kicking their heels and waiting for something positive to happen, the two men were as frustrated as anyone else in Rome. Even the Spaniard found the relentless heat and dust of summer oppressive, and the Tiber, never the most sweet-smelling of streams, filled the whole city with the reek of an open sewer.
‘The Senate is frightened to make a decision,’ Valerius pointed out. Normally the senators would have left the city in August for their holiday homes at Baiae, Neapolis and Oplontis, but with the advent of a new regime none had dared. ‘Any decision. An Emperor ordered the marine legion’s creation and now only an Emperor can decide their future. They are neither one thing nor the other, and, worse, they are frightened. When Nero called, they volunteered, to stop one man. Galba. That man is now their Emperor and Emperors are not known for tolerance or mercy. Their future is uncertain at best and painful at worst.’
‘Then why don’t they run?’
‘If they run, it will prove their treason and Galba will hunt them down, as Crassus hunted down Spartacus. Their greatest strength is in their unity and a display of their loyalty. If they can convince Galba they are worthy of his trust and he has the sense to accept it, perhaps we will yet see them march behind an eagle.’
‘Aye,’ Serpentius spat. ‘And perhaps one day when I back the Greens they will win.’
It was towards the end of the month, and still with no sign of Galba, that Valerius decided to visit his sister Olivia at the family estate at Fidenae, to the north of the city. Conveniently, it also allowed him to meet another obligation.
They could hear the laughter from the wayside tavern long before they reached it. A single bullock cart stood in the yard, alongside six horses being fed and watered by a stable boy. Valerius reined in beside them and left Serpentius to see to their mounts.
A large man in a formal toga sat at a table heavy with a dozen dishes, telling a story Valerius had heard before about an African tyrant and his performing elephant.
‘It got to the end of the tightrope, wobbled for a moment with a look of extreme displeasure on its sad features … fell off and landed on his head. You’ve never seen such a mess. They had to clean the old man off the floor with a bucket and brush. His wife rushed in, screaming, “Is he hurt?” The elephant handler carefully looked his beast over and replied, “No, he seems fine.”’
The man’s six companions roared with laughter and the storyteller beamed. His smile grew wider when he noticed Valerius at the door.
‘Enter the ghost of Achilles.’ Aulus Vitellius raised a silver cup that was certainly not from the inn’s stock. ‘Gentlemen, I give you a true warrior. May I introduce Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome and special envoy to our lord and master, the Caesar of the South. Valerius, my aides, Lucius, Gavo, Octavius and … the rest.’ Valerius met the frank stares and nodded a greeting. Vitellius’s reference to his work for Galba proved he trusted his aides, but he had always been trusting. Perhaps too trusting. Today, though it was barely midday, he was at his loquacious best. ‘Landlord! This calls for more food and more wine. A toast, to one Aulus Vitellius, the newly appointed governor of Germania Inferior, may his legions be victorious, may he prosper among the barbarians, and may his creditors wither on the vine, be s
wallowed by blackbirds and shat out like the manure they are to do some good for a change.’ Someone passed Valerius a cup and he joined in the toast, laughing with the rest.
An aide moved to allow Valerius to squeeze in beside his old friend on a bench designed for three, and below the table he slipped a well-stocked purse into the folds of Vitellius’s toga. ‘Perhaps this will help keep the manure at bay for a little longer,’ he said quietly.
The new governor of Germania Inferior studied him like a long-lost son and his eyes turned moist. Valerius knew that his friend was busily weighing the purse in his hand and would by now have calculated its value to the last as. He saw the deep-set eyes narrow, then widen, and finally Vitellius gave a roar that made all five of his chins quiver like waves in a storm. Valerius felt himself engulfed in two enormous arms and drawn into a suffocating embrace. Eventually, Vitellius released him and they sat back, each studying the other with a mixture of pleasure and wariness.
They had first met in a riverside fort on the Dacian frontier when Vitellius cheerfully admitted trying to have Valerius killed, then almost certainly saved his life by offering him a position as military adviser when he left to govern his African province. He had changed little since their eighteen months together in Carthage. His thinning hair was mostly gone now, and he was perhaps a little heavier around the middle – hardly surprising in a man who could eat three large meals a day and still be demanding more when everyone else was crouched in the vomitorium. Many made the mistake of confusing fat with foolish and lumbering with slow-witted. In fact, Vitellius’s bumbling self-mockery disguised a shrewd brain that the Emperor Claudius had recognized by making him consul. He had been a friend and intimate of Nero, but, as the Emperor’s power waned, he had hidden away on his estate until Servius Sulpicius Galba had called him back to service. It was Vitellius who had revealed to Valerius that Otho’s evaluation of the situation in Rome was flawed, and that there could be no transfer of power without the help of both Praetorian prefects, and Vitellius who had arranged the meeting in the Palatine dungeon with Nero’s former favourite, Tigellinus.
Vitellius fumbled the purse into a secure position and murmured his thanks. ‘You would think a man of any intelligence could not fail to return rich from his province, but I was struck down with an almost terminal case of honesty.’ He shook his head in mock sadness as he repeated the refrain Valerius knew so well. ‘After all those years of avoiding it, my conscience finally caught up with me. How could any man let those people starve?’
Valerius knew of many governors who would cheerfully have watched their people starve, and profited from it by raising the price of what little wheat was left. Instead, Vitellius had purchased grain from Rome at exorbitant prices and had it shipped over to Africa at his own expense. It had made him hugely popular among his citizenry, who had petitioned Nero to recompense him, but a laughing stock in the Imperial capital. He was still waiting for his money. ‘And now you have an Emperor’s confidence again.’
Vitellius gave him a shrewd look. ‘Perhaps you know more than I do. I have my appointment and an opportunity, that is true, but who is to say why it has been offered.’ He raised the silver cup and drank deeply, wiping his lips with the back of a plump hand. ‘My predecessor, Capito, despite his mistimed and fatal hesitation, was a man of action, which I, let us be quite open, am not. He was also a man of means, which I,’ his moon face split into a grin, ‘notwithstanding some recent good fortune, am patently not. Therefore, by our new Emperor, I am seen as harmless, perhaps ineffectual; a man more likely to shout “Bring us more wine, you lazy bastard”’ – the tavern owner laughed and added another three jugs to the table – ‘than “Let us march on Gaul”. Yet he may have mistaken me. I am not without ambition.’ He gestured to one of the aides and the man disappeared outside to return a moment later with a polished rosewood box, three feet in length and five inches across. Serpentius appeared watchfully behind him, a threatening, whip-thin presence with a curled lip who drew uneasy glances from the young aristocrats who served Vitellius. The governor laughed at their discomfiture. ‘I see you still have your Spanish wolf, Valerius. A wise decision in these uncertain times.’ He stared at the former gladiator, seeking some sign of acknowledgement, before his eyes registered recognition. ‘Didn’t you win me money when you butchered Caladus the Thracian at the old Taurus arena?’
Serpentius’s eyes narrowed and he took his time before replying. ‘If I did, you were fortunate indeed, because Caladus fought again twelve times under the name Rodan. Not every gladiator who spills his blood on the sand is a dead gladiator.’
Vitellius’s plump features twitched first to understanding, then to outrage, before he spluttered with laughter. ‘Fortunate indeed. I will remember that the next time I make a wager.’
He waved away the young aide and flipped the wooden box open. Inside was a sword that took Valerius’s breath away. The gladius was like no other he’d seen, the hilt wonderfully worked in spun gold, with precious stones decorating the scabbard and a miniature legion’s eagle on the pommel. ‘Divine Julius himself carried this sword.’ Vitellius slipped it free from the scabbard and Valerius saw the blade had been worked so skilfully that a pattern like silver smoke ran its length. ‘I have borrowed it from the Temple of Mars Ultor, where my brother is high priest. Rome has need of it, Valerius. Aulus Vitellius has need of it.’
At another time, Valerius might have smiled at this foolishness, but he could see that Vitellius was in earnest. ‘You are going to war, my friend?’
The other man shook his head. ‘No. But there is a name to be made by the man who defends the Rhenus, and perhaps takes the battle beyond it in the manner of Germanicus. If that man carries the sword of Julius Caesar, his other deficiencies might be overlooked. Leave us, please,’ he ordered the young men, ‘and make sure the cart is well provisioned.’ The aides shuffled out and Valerius nodded to Serpentius to join them. Vitellius lowered his voice. ‘Who knows,’ he said carefully. ‘If the next Emperor is an old man and it is such an onerous position, he may feel two years, perhaps three, is enough before handing the reins of power to a younger, more energetic candidate.’
Valerius stared at him. Vitellius had commanded a legion on the Danuvius and as governor of his province, but his conceit in thinking that he could follow Galba to the purple was astonishing. Yes, he was of the proper patrician stock, but if Galba dismissed men like Marcus Salvius Otho and Titus Vespasian, how likely was he to appoint as his heir a fat man who thought stealing Caesar’s sword made him a great general? But now was not the time to disabuse his friend of his ambitions.
‘Then may Fortuna favour you.’ He raised his cup. ‘What news do you have?’
A lifetime in politics had taught Vitellius the value of having a long list of contacts throughout the Empire, and now they were proving their worth. ‘You have just come from Rome, so you know of the unrest among the naval militia?’
‘I know they call themselves a legion.’
‘Exactly. They will not fight, but Galba should have ordered their disbandment. By delaying he is only storing up trouble. And I fear that is not our new Emperor’s only misjudgement.’ He reeled off a list of officials, including two of senatorial rank, whom Galba had ordered executed before he left Spain. ‘Anyone who did not greet his appointment with sufficient enthusiasm, and their families with them.’ Valerius looked up, startled, and Vitellius nodded sagely, picking at the remaining food. ‘Yes, even Nero at his worst only used such barbarity sparingly. It seems my old friend Servius has discovered a taste for blood. He has a delicate path to tread and I fear he treads it with all the care of a wandering buffalo. In Gaul, his conscience tells him to reward the rebels he failed to support, not understanding that this puts him at odds with the legionaries who saw their comrades fight and die defeating them. It is said that he has already called for the head of Mithridates of Petrus because he’s heard the old bugger has been ridiculing his looks. In Africa, Clodius is refusing to sen
d grain supplies to Rome, a decision probably taken when Nero was alive, but his days are numbered. Verginius Rufus is deposed in Germania Superior, but he may survive.’ He frowned, the movement setting his great jowls wobbling. ‘There is one thing that puzzles me. I hear rumours from Rome of chaos and disruption in Syria and Judaea, yet my agents assure me they are not true. The source of these tales appears to be Nymphidius Sabinus. Can you think of any reason for him to do that?’
Valerius laughed. ‘Not unless he is using them as a goad to hurry our new Caesar to Rome, where he belongs.’
Vitellius nodded gravely. ‘You have not lost your nose for conspiracy, Valerius.’ Valerius sensed there was more to come, but the new governor of Germania Inferior was in no hurry. ‘I have also heard tales of some remarkable exploits by a young cavalry commander. These tales, along with everything else that happened in Parthia, were supposed to be suppressed, but Aulus Vitellius is not without his friends. Still the soldier, Valerius?’
‘It seems the only thing I am good for.’
The fat man smiled. ‘My new position comes with a certain amount of responsibility, but also a certain amount of power. One aspect of that power is a say in the appointment of legionary commanders. Galba believes the Fifteenth Primigenia’s legate is of suspect loyalty. He wants to foist some young upstart quaestor from Baetica on me, but I believe that if I insisted he would appoint my own candidate, particularly as you have already been of service to him.’
Valerius had been listening, but not quite taking in what Vitellius was saying. Slowly it dawned on him what he was being offered.
‘I …’ His heart swelled until it filled his mouth and the words would not come. Not an African legion or a temporary command, but five thousand of Rome’s finest, marching behind the eagle of a legion with a pedigree that went back to Pompey the Great.
‘There is no hurry to accept, I assure you. I doubt I will be in Colonia Agrippinensis until November.’
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