Sword of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Galba began with a long preamble extolling the virtues of the Praetorians before he came to the point. ‘A man reaching the twilight of his lifetime needs an heir, and never more so than when that man is Emperor. Rome requires firm leadership. History tells us that to ensure such leadership requires a man of special character and impeccable ancestry. A man young enough to provide a prolonged period of stability, yet old enough to make the kind of mature decisions that face any great ruler.’ Valerius glanced at the man beside him, thinking that Otho might have been listening to a eulogy about himself. The handsome face remained emotionless, but his eyes glinted like sword points as he stared at the two figures on the distant platform. Galba’s voice grew in strength as he continued. ‘I present to you Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus as a young man of great stature. A young man who was born to rule. The blood of the triumvirs runs in his veins. The blood of Pompey the Great and Marcus Linius Crassus, the men who saved Rome from the scourge of Spartacus. Perhaps not the blood of Caesar, but with the strength of a Caesar, and the wisdom of a Caesar.’ He paused and won a few cheers from the tribunes and the centurions in the front rank, but from the mass of troops behind there was only sullen silence.

  ‘One last chance, old man. Now is the time to offer them their money.’ Valerius wondered if he had imagined the hissed words that emerged from Otho’s lips.

  But there was no offer of reward from Galba, just a long list of the Piso family’s accomplishments, their consulships, the temples they had endowed and the great games they had sponsored. Throughout it all, the expression on Piso’s face never altered from self-satisfied complacency. He had held no public office, not even a lowly quaestorship, yet now he was being offered control of the greatest Empire the world had ever known, and he accepted it as his by right.

  ‘Patrician, politician, soldier and citizen,’ Galba continued. ‘We all want the same for Rome. Strength and stability, prosperity and peace …’

  ‘What about glory?’ The voice came from somewhere at the back of the Praetorian ranks and was quickly followed by a second. ‘Aye, and what about loot?’

  ‘There will be glory enough for all in the new Rome,’ the Emperor promised, ignoring the second shout. ‘But first we must draw breath and take time to recover from the last ten years of the tyrant’s rule. It has left us bleeding and bankrupt. Great men have lost their lives and their families, while others have lost the will to rule. And a new Rome needs a new morality. All of you know the tales of debauchery, excess and the worst kinds of corruption sponsored by that man, perhaps some of you were even forced to witness it.’ Otho went very still, but otherwise gave no reaction to what was the nearest he would get to an explanation for why he had been overlooked. ‘Marriage and family will be the watchwords of the new Rome. Thrift and enterprise will see the Empire’s finances restored …’

  ‘I have heard enough. Poor soldiers, he will bore them all to death.’ Otho stalked out of the gate towards the Porta Viminalis. Valerius followed, puzzled by the patrician’s response to his personal disaster. Where he had expected fury there was only a cold resolve that was much more frightening.

  ‘So all Rome speaks of me as the new Emperor, Valerius? Well, we will see.’ They took the left fork on to the Vicus Patricius past the twin temples dedicated to Mephitis and Isis. ‘Vinius tells me you have renewed your oath.’ Valerius’s steps faltered at the unexpected and unsettling statement. A comment that hid a question he was reluctant to answer. Surprisingly, Otho didn’t press him, but carried on through the crowds, looking neither right nor left. Valerius hurried to catch up. ‘He also said that Galba has given you an important mission. For once, he has made the right choice. An honest man, who is sometimes too honest for his own good. A proven soldier he can trust to carry out his orders whatever the obstacles or the cost. A man whose loyalty to his Emperor is not in question. Something of a unique combination, I would suggest, in these days when the loyalties of so many are being tested. Yes, our Emperor has chosen well.’ He stopped in the centre of the street and turned to face his companion. People looked on in surprise to see the well-known figure without the lictors that were his due, but Otho ignored them. His eyes were bleak and his voice turned cold as stone. ‘I pray that you leave on your mission for the Emperor soon, Valerius. Loyalty is a fine thing, but loyalty to the wrong man can be dangerous, and, in the wrong circumstances, a combination of loyalty and honesty can be fatal. The climate in Rome can be unhealthy at this time of year.’

  He turned to leave, but Valerius caught his arm. ‘What have you done, Marcus?’

  Otho shook his head and pushed the hand roughly away. ‘It is not a question of what Marcus Salvius Otho has done. It is what the Emperor has done and cannot be undone.’

  Why was he here, when the last parting had been so final?

  He asked himself the question as he trudged up the slope of the Aventine to the house Domitia had rented. She had made it plain there was no place for him in her life. Yet here he was. He knew he might not return from Galba’s mission and this could be his last chance to see her face. He wanted her to know he was leaving the city, but not leaving her. He also wanted to warn her.

  Otho’s words still haunted him. He couldn’t bring himself to believe anything would come of them, but the implication was clear enough. If one Emperor could be overthrown, why not another? But to take the purple Otho would need strength and support, and from what Valerius, who was as close to him as any man, knew of him, he didn’t have enough of either. If he did anything rash the most likely outcome was that he would go the way of all the others who had stood in Galba’s path. Old he might be, but the Emperor had shown he wasn’t frightened to swing the executioner’s axe. No, if he tried, Otho would fail, and where did that leave Valerius and his oath of loyalty? Should he warn the Emperor? Yet what did he have, other than a vague threat? And what he knew, Vinius would certainly also know.

  Here it was. But the house looked different. Even in winter the shutters should not have been closed this early in the day. No one answered the door, and when he stepped back to study the upper storeys he was certain he saw a twitch of movement between the wooden slats, as if someone had just drawn away in a hurry.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  It was less a question than an accusation. He turned to find a young man glaring at him. The youth was as tall as he was, but slim and pale; about seventeen years old, with sandy, tight-curled hair and acne-dotted skin. His clothes were expensive in cut and quality and matched what appeared to be a high opinion of himself, judging by the dismissive expression he wore. He stood with his fists bunched in a pose he obviously believed was designed to frighten. Valerius had faced blood-crazed Celtic champions who wanted to tear out his throat with their teeth, and the thought that he should be scared of this babe in arms made him laugh aloud.

  ‘I’m minding my own business, boy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to do the same.’

  The insult only made the young man angrier. His pallid features turned a belligerent brick red as Valerius turned his back and continued to study the house. ‘This is private property.’

  ‘It is property which belongs to a friend, and—’ The only hint of danger was the sound of rushing feet, but Valerius was already turning to meet the threat and he used his right arm to block the cudgel scything at his head. He grunted as the blow landed, but the thick cowhide socket which attached the walnut fist to his forearm took most of an impact that would have smashed another man’s bones. At the same time he brought his right foot round in a sweeping arc that knocked his assailant’s legs out from under him. Not the boy, but some hired thug who’d appeared from the gods knew where and whose head now smashed sickeningly off the cobbles. A second attacker, short, running to fat and much too slow, had been at his partner’s shoulder, but Valerius’s violent reaction made him hesitate for a fraction too long. While he was still trying to work out what to do with the curved knife he carried, Valerius brought the walnut fist
up in a backhand smash into the angle of his jaw. Teeth flew like hailstones as the man’s head snapped back and he collapsed groaning beside his friend. By now the first attacker was trying to push himself up with his elbows. Valerius crouched beside him and took the greasy hair in his left hand. A short-arm jab with the right connected with the thug’s temple and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Valerius kicked the knife and the cudgel away and turned to where the young man stood, frozen to the spot, dark eyes wide and mouth gaping. He put the walnut fist under the boy’s chin and closed his mouth with a click of teeth. ‘You should choose your hired help more carefully,’ he advised. ‘Too slow and too stupid, and they both stink so much that I smelled them before I heard them coming. Why did you order them to attack me? I told you I was only minding my own business.’

  ‘I am guarding—’

  ‘He and these bully boys have been hanging around for days, ever since the mistress left, your worship.’ The expression of righteous outrage came from Domitia’s doorkeeper, the man who had ushered him in on his previous visit. ‘I told them we didn’t want them here, but he insisted they wouldn’t leave until he knew where she’d gone.’

  ‘What business is it of yours where the lady of this house is?’ Valerius turned on the young man.

  The youth bristled. ‘That is my affair.’

  Valerius glanced casually at the two men groaning on the cobbles. ‘What if I choose to make it mine?’

  ‘You will pay for this.’ The young man spat his defiance. ‘My uncle will have you thrown in the carcer. These are two of his personal bodyguards.’

  ‘And who is your uncle?’ Valerius asked, somehow knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  ‘Titus Flavius Sabinus, Prefect of Rome.’

  Merda.

  XVII

  To my friend G. Valerius Verrens, greetings from your brother in arms. How I miss our desert banquets of sand and dung flies, savoured to the musical accompaniment of the Nubian auxiliaries whose howls so entertained us that I fell to dining with cloth stuffed in my ears. This innovation had the added attraction, of course, of rendering your rustic chatter interesting and your Spanish friend’s witticisms quite comic. I trust he is well and this letter finds you still basking in the glow of our new Emperor’s gratitude, and that the fruits of victory taste sweet upon the tongue, for it seems clear to us here that your mission on behalf of my father was an unqualified success. General Vespasian sends his regards and good wishes. For my part, I have spent the past three months with a stylus in my hand instead of a sword, and my backside, more used to a saddle, has grown soft as an Egyptian dancer’s. The reason for this enforced lack of hostilities is my father’s insistence that the armies of the East must remain on the defensive until the intentions of our commander are made clear. The invasion of Judaea was a complete success and we made great progress in the months after you left Alexandria. The Jews are worthy opponents and fanatical defenders of their ground, but, as you know, our legionaries are a match for any enemy. We took Tiberias and Tarichaea in the late summer before marching on Gamala, one of their hilltop strongholds. I had the honour of leading the assault and you will be pleased to know, my Hero of Rome, that your friend has equalled you in the matter of honour. I accepted the Crown of Valour from my father’s hands, though I modestly ascribe my success to the men of the Third Gallica who did most of the actual fighting.

  Valerius smiled at his friend’s understatement as he read the letter in the house on the Esquiline. Since the day they’d met, Titus Flavius Vespasian had never tried to hide his envy of the Corona Aurea – the Gold Crown of Valour – Valerius had won defending the Temple of Claudius against Boudicca and her rebels. To win the Corona Aurea, a man had to be first over the walls in the assault on an enemy city or carry out some other act of almost suicidal courage. Vespasian would never have given the award lightly, and Valerius knew Titus must have performed an astonishing feat in front of the whole army for the general to present his own son with one of Rome’s highest military honours. Titus continued his report:

  We made further progress after the turn of the year, but, with so much uncertainty in Rome, my father took the decision in June to pause. Everything remains in place for the final suppression of the revolt, but, thus far, there has been a singular lack of direction. I am sure the Emperor has his reasons for this, but it has been difficult to sit back in the knowledge that the war could have been won by now. Even as I write, the Jews will be reinforcing their fortresses and strengthening their defences, but the reason I do so at this time is that I will soon be visiting you in Rome. I leave in one week and my father has entrusted me with dispatches and a letter commending me to the Emperor, for reasons of which I know you are aware …

  How could he not have seen it? Titus’s letter had arrived the day he had been summoned before the Emperor and, in the chaos since, he had missed the significance of the short passage he had just read. A letter commending me to the Emperor. A letter with the same message Valerius had carried orally to Galba in Carthago Nova. Take away the diplomatic language and the meaning was clear: here is my son. Announce him as your heir and you will have my support in everything you do. But Galba had made Piso his heir. Where would Titus be now? And how long would it take for the news to reach him? He wouldn’t continue his journey only to be humiliated, Valerius was certain of that. He would turn about and go back to his father. Which raised yet another question: what would his father do? Vespasian controlled the best part of six legions in the East. He was a man of enormous principle, but also a man of enormous pride. Galba’s refusal to consider Titus was as good as a slap in the face.

  But that wasn’t what had made him reread the letter. He scanned the pages until he found the passage he was searching for.

  I hope very much to see you when I reach Rome, but there are many others I must visit. Among them a young gentleman who accompanied a friend of yours, and of mine, on the day she took ship back to Italia. I shall not name the lady, for reasons we both understand. From the tone of his letters it seems he was quite taken with his shipmate, and she with him. He has been sent to my uncle, Sabinus, in the hope he will learn the craft of diplomacy and the intricacies of politics, but he is young and easily bored, and I fear he will be more often found at the games. You may see him there. He is my brother, Titus Flavius Domitianus.

  Titus Flavius Domitianus.

  The young man he had threatened and whose bodyguards he had left bleeding was Titus’s brother. Vespasian’s son was Domitia Longina’s protector?

  But no longer. His breath caught in his throat as he turned his attention for the third time to the letter from Domitia the doorman had passed to him. It was in a code her father had perfected and they had agreed to use in the dangerous weeks that followed Corbulo’s death. In it, she explained how what had begun as a flirtatious game to pass the time on the ship bringing her back from Alexandria had become something much more serious in the mind of Domitianus. When he had begun to appear at the house at all hours of the day and night, she had decided the only way to cool his ardour was to put some distance between them. There was more. She apologized for the abrupt nature of their last parting and he read into her words something that created a liquid feeling inside him and made his heart soar, despite the voice in his head that cried caution. Hidden in the dry groups of anonymous letters was a hint of genuine affection, and perhaps more than affection.

  She had left a few days earlier for the country house of an aunt outside the northern city of Dertona. According to the doorman she planned to spend three months there, before returning to Rome in the spring.

  It was an odd choice of destination in winter, but Dertona was known for its benign climate. He consoled himself that at least she would be safe from Domitianus there.

  And if Otho’s doom-laden prediction came true, the further away from Rome, the better.

  The following day Valerius took Serpentius to check whether Laco had the Emperor’s letter
. He still hadn’t told the Spaniard the detail of their mission, only that they were going on a journey and he should arrange food, horses and warm clothing. But the former gladiator’s nose for trouble was already twitching.

  ‘There’s a rumour in the market that they’ve got some kind of problem up north. That wouldn’t have anything to do with our trip, would it?’

  ‘Would it make a difference if it did?’

  Serpentius grinned. ‘I suppose not. Even with Fabiana’s company, life has been a little dull lately. It’s time we were out of the stink of the city and back on the road.’

  Valerius returned his companion’s grin. Fabiana was the pretty slave girl who looked after the house and he’d never even suspected. It seemed the Spaniard had added discretion to his already wide range of talents. How many years had it been? Seven? Eight? He tried to remember the day Serpentius had tried to kill him on the packed sand of the gladiator training ground, but, except for a snarling face filled with murderous intent, it was a blur of sweat and pain. The lines on the face still looked as if they had been hacked out with a knife, though they were deeper now. Grey stubble on the cheeks, but still the same fire in the dark eyes. Still the same old Serpentius; thin as a stockman’s whip and just as tough, quicker than the striking snake he was named for and twice as dangerous. Old? He realized he had no idea what age the Spaniard might be. He had saved Serpentius from certain death in the arena by recruiting him for a mission that, ironically, had almost killed them both. In turn, the former gladiator had pledged to serve him and a bond existed between them as strong as any blood oath.