Sword of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  As Valens continued, Vitellius carefully laid the cup he held on the table at his side and crossed his jewelled fingers to prevent the other man from seeing them shaking. The news of his troops’ unhappiness didn’t come as a surprise. Flaccus had suggested as much of his own legions, who resented the dismissal of their former commander, Verginius Rufus. Personally, Vitellius thought Verginius was fortunate to still have his head. The fact that he had turned his legions down when they tried to proclaim him Emperor only delayed the inevitable. Yet there was opportunity here as well as danger.

  ‘I will, of course, make suitable representations to the Emperor to ensure they receive the rewards they deserve,’ he said very deliberately. ‘My personal means do not allow me to make the gifts I would like to make, but I will do what I can. Arrange for me to visit each unit in turn, beginning with First Germanica, and make the occasion an awards ceremony. I’m sure some of your men were honoured for their actions at Vesontio, but it is the way of these things that exceptions are made and the deserving are missed. We will ensure that all who are worthy receive the promotions and phalerae they deserve.’ He smiled, thinking of his old friend Valerius Verrens. ‘Perhaps we might include at least one Gold Crown of Valour?’

  ‘An excellent suggestion. I will see that it is done.’

  Vitellius nodded his dismissal and Valens rose to his feet. He bowed and was making his way to the door when he appeared to have an afterthought.

  ‘We agreed that I could be candid. You have a lineage as distinguished as any man in Rome. As governor of Germania Inferior, four legions are at your disposal; probably the most powerful unified command in the Empire. Those legions have no taste for our new Emperor and that is unlikely to change. The three legions of Germania Superior are of a similar mind. None of these legions have yet sworn an oath to Servius Sulpicius Galba. They are the keys to Rome for any man with the courage to grasp them.’

  With a curt nod the legate marched from the room. Despite the chill air, Vitellius felt the sweat running from his hairline and down his cheeks. Candid, indeed, and no afterthought. Valens had thought through each and every word. He had sought no response, thank the gods. This was just a planting of a seed. What to do? Have one of his legates arrested within a week of arriving in Colonia? It was unthinkable that Valens would not have foreseen the possibility, and the man who had hacked the head from Fonteius Capito would have no hesitation in doing the same to Aulus Vitellius. On the other hand, Valens would not have made the approach unless he had the support, or at least the approval, of the other legates in Germania Inferior, and perhaps those at Moguntiacum.

  Was it possible?

  Galba was old and weak. Would his soldiers even fight for him? In any case, the legions of the Rhenus frontier outnumbered those in Italia by at least two to one. It was possible. But only if a man had the courage to take what was offered. He reached for the polished rosewood box that held Julius Caesar’s sword, but it was as if his hands refused to obey his mind. His fingers came within an inch of wood, but they would go no further.

  A sign?

  He took a step back and drew in a huge breath to calm his racing heart.

  To accept was to risk everything. To refuse was unthinkable.

  Very well. He would do what Aulus Vitellius did best.

  He would do nothing.

  XV

  Rome

  Valerius watched the predictions Otho had made about Galba in the aftermath of the Milvian massacre come true one by one. Not content with repudiating the thirty thousand sesterces a man Nymphidius had promised to the Praetorian Guard if they delivered Rome, the Emperor decided he no longer had need of the German cavalry of the Imperial Guard. The Batavians and Tungrians were paid off and sent home humiliated, where their tales of Galba’s perfidy would further inflame the Rhenus legions against him. The Guard accepted the loss of a fortune with a lack of protest that made Valerius uneasy, but Galba decided was a vindication of his unyielding rule. In the Senate, Nero’s former favourites had no choice but to accept their impoverishment in the knowledge that the alternative was the loss of their lives and those of their families.

  ‘In his own way he is as mad as Nero,’ Otho’s lips twisted into a bitter half-smile. ‘He will listen to no one but Titus Vinius and Cornelius Laco. He has handed the consulship to Vinius, and Laco is to command the Praetorians. The two most worthless creatures in the Empire are made the most powerful.’

  Valerius had never seen him so disheartened. Since he had arrived in Rome, the former governor of Lusitania had worked tirelessly to extend his influence and rebuild relationships with the senators he had offended during his time as Nero’s companion in dissipation and debauchery. Serpentius, who had ways of finding out things he had no right to know, said there were rumours of tens of thousands of sesterces changing hands.

  ‘They say he has pushed himself to the financial limit to reward his new friends,’ the Spaniard said. ‘And that he has many friends. When he dined with the Emperor last week, they were attended by a double century of Praetorians and it was Otho who gave them a gift of a hundred sesterces each.’

  ‘The Emperor still keeps you close,’ Valerius pointed out to Otho. ‘He has given Vinius and Laco the power they have because he knows they will do nothing to stand in his way. He will not make a degenerate and a known thief his heir, or a man who cannot make up his mind whether or not to rise in the morning. If not you, who?’

  ‘A hundred others.’ Otho’s voice betrayed his frustration. ‘Power and position for all … all except Marcus Salvius Otho. He keeps me close because he does not trust me and so he can lecture me on morals. Apparently, the stories he has heard about my time with Nero offend him. He invites me to deny them, but what is the point when his spies can confirm them, along with a dozen others? Was the man never young?’

  Valerius smiled. ‘You are wrong, Marcus. All of Rome talks of you as the next Emperor. He will name his heir soon and that heir will be you.’

  Otho turned to him and Valerius almost flinched when he saw the look in the other man’s eyes. ‘Let us hope so, Gaius Valerius Verrens. I have been weak and I have been foolish, but I have given this man my loyalty. I will not allow him to betray it. I will not stand by and watch everything we have worked for destroyed.’

  Brumalia, the winter festival honouring Cronos and Demeter, came and went with no announcement, as did the procession of the consuls to the Temple of Jupiter Maximus at the turn of the year, when Galba led his fellow consul Titus Vinius to the Capitoline and received the adulation of his people. On this day, by custom, every legion in the Empire would renew its oath to the man who ruled it. Otho passed the time in a fever of anticipation, awaiting the summons from the Palatine.

  But when a summons came eight days later, it was for Valerius.

  The Imperial messenger who arrived at the house he had rented on the Esquiline Hill gave no indication of why Galba had sent for him, so Valerius made his preparations with care. Previous experience of visits to an Emperor made him well aware of the deadly risks involved. He found a stylus and scratched out a letter for Olivia and a second to his old acquaintance Gaius Plinius Secundus instructing him to transfer sole control of the estate at Fidenae to his sister, and left them with Serpentius.

  ‘You know what to do with them,’ he told the Spaniard. ‘And I meant to give you this when we were in Carthago Nova, but there never seemed a right time.’ He threw Serpentius a leather bag that clinked when it landed in his hands. ‘If anything happens to me, go back to your people in Asturia. Go with my thanks and become a bandit or a king. Whether as slave or friend, you have never failed me. You have saved my life more times than I care to remember, but you have your own to live.’

  The Spaniard weighed the bag in his hand, before tossing it back. ‘If he was going to kill you he would have done it before now.’ His dark eyes glittered in the lamplight. ‘I threw the bones last night. There is a storm coming, a storm that will threaten everything we know, but
I did not see your death.’ Valerius waited for more, but Serpentius turned his back and resumed sharpening his long sword.

  Valerius had fought in more skirmishes and battles than he could remember, but he could feel the fear toads squirming in his stomach when the guard escorted him into the Imperial palace. He had been here often enough to understand how uncertain such a moment could be.

  The Emperor had set up court in the enormous receiving room where Valerius had surprised Nero six months earlier. Titus Vinius – accusing eyes staring from puffy, tight-lipped features – and Cornelius Laco, the indolent patrician who had taken Offonius Tigellinus’s place as Praetorian prefect, huddled together at the bottom of the stair leading to the golden throne. Another man, his features so bland he could be lost in any crowd, stood to one side. Valerius realized he must be Icelus, Galba’s influential freedman, and the third member of the triumvirate who controlled access to the Emperor.

  The heady odour of incense or some strongly perfumed oil made his head spin as he stood between two Praetorians of the palace guard until the whispered conversation ended. Eventually, the Emperor waved him forward to the foot of the steps. This was the first time Valerius had seen him properly since the day of the naval legion’s decimation and he realized that the strains of office had already laid a permanent mark on the old man. Galba had always been spare, but now the bones on his face stood out like knives from flesh the texture of parchment, and the nose was less majestic eagle’s beak than meat hook. But the harsh, imperious voice remained unchanged, and when he spoke Galba sounded as if he were a judge passing sentence.

  ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, your actions during the treasonous insurrection on the Via Flaminia perplexed and pained me. Only your previous sacrifices in the service of the Empire swayed your Emperor towards leniency.’ Valerius kept his face emotionless, but he could feel the eyes of the other three men boring into him as the tone changed almost imperceptibly. ‘You are familiar with our governor of Germania Inferior, Aulus Vitellius?’

  Now he understood how a mongoose felt when confronted by the cobra. But he was angry too. Galba already knew the answer to his question, so what was the point of all this play-acting? ‘I was fortunate to be military aide to the honourable Vitellius when he had his province of Africa during the consulship of Licinius Silianus and Vestinus Atticus,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘So, familiar rather than merely acquainted?’ Vinius this time, a patrician questioning an inferior.

  ‘I would count Aulus Vitellius as a friend.’

  Laco picked at his manicured nails and Icelus drew a wax tablet and a stylus from his sleeve. Vinius exchanged glances with Galba before speaking again. ‘You have pledged your oath to Servius Galba Caesar Augustus?’

  Valerius looked up at Galba in confusion. ‘I gave the Emperor my oath in Carthago Nova.’

  ‘He requires you to give it again.’

  ‘Is my loyalty in question, Caesar?’

  Galba waved a weary hand. A pained expression crossed his lined face – and something else. Valerius was astonished to realize that the Emperor of Rome was a frightened man.

  ‘We require certainty,’ Vinius insisted.

  Valerius restrained the urge to snarl in defence of his impugned honour. Once? Twice? What difference did it make? He straightened to his full height and said the words in the powerful voice he had once used on the parade ground. ‘In fulfilment of my vow, I gladly pledge my loyalty to Servius Galba Caesar Augustus, Emperor of Rome.’

  Galba slumped forward and his voice was barely audible. ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, your service for the Empire is well documented. Now your Emperor requires your service once more. This information must go no further than this room – on pain of death. On the kalends of Januarius the legions of Germania Superior refused to take the oath of loyalty to their Emperor. They have mutinied.’ Valerius closed his eyes. Mutiny. But in Germania Superior, not in Vitellius’s province. ‘There has been no insurrection yet and there must not be. You will carry dispatches to Aulus Vitellius at Colonia Agrippinensis, with the Emperor’s greetings, and certain other instructions the wording of which has yet to be decided. You will also carry an oral message from his Emperor, who requires his faithful servant to crush this mutiny with all speed and any means necessary. That is why it is vital the message is carried by someone he knows and trusts. You will be followed in time by a delegation from the Senate, but it is crucial that in the meantime Vitellius ensures the legions of Germania Superior stay in their barracks and make no threatening moves towards Rome or Gaul.’ Anger turned the pale features a bright pink. ‘This has been coming since they tried to put Verginius in this chair, but they have no leader now. Flaccus is a weakling to have allowed it to come to this, but if Vitellius holds his nerve they will realize they have no alternative but to submit to their Emperor’s will.’

  This time the spinning in Valerius’s head had nothing to do with the perfumed smoke. Why him? There were other men in Rome who knew Vitellius better, men of higher rank whose word would carry more force. But he knew why. Galba would certainly have been informed about his part in Nero’s downfall. Furthermore, the details of Valerius’s mission to track down the man Petrus would be in the Imperial vaults, and his escape from Alexandria a step ahead of Nero’s assassins had marked him as a man of resource. He had no choice; that had always been clear. And what about the practicalities? Colonia was almost a month’s travel from Rome by the most direct route, which was over the western Alps to the head of the Rhenus. He would have to travel through country controlled by the mutinous legions. There would undoubtedly be checkpoints and patrols. The one thing in his favour was that the weather had been unusually mild. Traders had been turning up in Rome for weeks marvelling at their ability to get through the mountain passes at this time of year.

  He made his decision. ‘I cannot travel officially. I will take one good man and letters confirming me as a merchant with authority to travel through Italia and Germania. We will also need a warrant to use Imperial remounts, and papers allowing us to pass through Helvetia.’ This last to Laco, who sighed as if being asked to perform some enormous labour. Valerius turned back to the Emperor. ‘I should begin immediately, Caesar. Even managing thirty miles a day, it will take us more than three weeks if all goes well.’

  The Emperor frowned. ‘The wording of my dispatch to Aulus Vitellius requires delicate drafting. It cannot be hurried. Three weeks, you say? Then a day or two is of no matter when balanced against the importance of the message. Report to Prefect Laco tomorrow morning and we will see what we can do.’

  Valerius bowed and backed away towards the door. As he left the room he was surprised to find Vinius at his shoulder.

  ‘You are right to urge speed, Verrens, but he will not be moved on this. I will be surprised if it is complete even in two days. He has other priorities.’ He glanced at the younger man’s wooden fist. ‘I was with the Eighth when we invaded Britannia. Late to the games and little more than an escort to Divine Claudius, true, but I know how tough the Celts can be. You are your Emperor’s hope, young man, but I know he can count on you.’

  He turned away, leaving Valerius with the odd feeling that he might have misjudged Galba’s new consul. But Vinius’s warning counted for nothing. It would take five full days for Galba to draft his message to the governor of Germania Inferior, and by then it was already too late.

  XVI

  The nature of the other priority taking up Galba’s time became clear the next day, with disastrous consequences for the new Emperor and for Rome. Titus Vinius – who to Valerius’s astonishment turned out to be one of Otho’s new friends, thanks to the young senator’s timely offer to marry his daughter – sent word. The scribes were to write later that the omens were bad, that thunder crashed and rolled and lightning split the sky, but the day Valerius remembered was one of those still winter miracles, with pale blue skies and barely a hint of breeze to stir the standards of the Praetorian Guard as Servius Galba Caesar Augustus a
nnounced his choice of heir.

  He and Serpentius joined Otho as he rushed to the Castra Praetoria just in time to be present when the man in whom he had placed his trust, his loyalty and his life shattered his dreams and destroyed him politically and financially. By rights, the Senate should have been told first, before an announcement to the people from the rostra in the Forum, but Galba hoped the honour he paid the Praetorians might make up for the thirty thousand sesterces a man he had robbed them of. As Serpentius said later, it was a ‘true measure of the idiot’s judgement’.

  They watched from close to the gateway as the Emperor took his place on a reviewing platform on the Praetorian parade ground, part shadowed by the great red-brick barracks that lined the walls. Five thousand men of the Guard stood silent and motionless in their ranks. At Galba’s side waited a dark-haired, unsmiling young man of medium height with the soft, careless features and empty eyes of those born to rule. He was of an age with Valerius and his face stirred a memory. A memory of a family graced with power and riches for generation after generation, but one in which the aptitude for survival appeared to have become extinct. A father and a brother executed by Claudius. Another brother murdered by Nero, and this one until recently exiled for his part in his family’s intrigues. Valerius shook his head. Why him? And why now? The Praetorians listened in mute puzzlement as the Emperor began the speech that would become the suicide note for his rule. Of all the men at the Castra Praetoria that day, Servius Galba Caesar Augustus and the young man at his side were among the few unaware of that fact.