Serpentius disappeared over the stern. When the Spaniard shouted, Valerius led Domitia to the rope. ‘You’ll be safe with Serpentius. There is no better man in a crisis.’
‘My girls?’
‘We will get them off next.’
She gave a little nod of thanks and picked up the fallen dress before scrambling over the side. It was such a female thing to do that it made him smile, but his heart sank as her head disappeared below the waves. He only breathed again when she surfaced and Serpentius appeared at her side to support her through the heavy surf.
Tiberius arrived at the stern with the two slave girls already stripped like their mistress. A collective growl went up from the seamen crowding behind.
‘No slave is leaving this ship before me.’ Julius, the tall lookout who had saved Valerius on the galley with his timely axe stroke, forced his way to the front of the crowd. ‘You can go, tribune, and your little fighting cock here, but I’ll be next down that rope.’
‘You’ll stay until these women are off the ship.’ Valerius stood between the sailor and the slave girls. He knew any sign of weakness would trigger a mutiny. ‘If we maintain discipline and do our duty we’ll all come out of this alive.’
‘Like fuck I will.’ Julius produced a long knife from his tunic and dashed forward. Valerius reached for his sword, only to discover it had slipped from its scabbard when the ship struck. He looked for something he could use as a weapon, but Julius was almost upon him. A glittering dart flashed across the deck and Julius stopped as if he had walked into a marble pillar. With a terrible choking noise he collapsed to his knees and keeled over on his side. Without a word, Tiberius stepped forward and lifted the dying man’s head to retrieve the knife that was buried to the hilt in his throat.
Valerius went to stand at the young soldier’s side. ‘Your shipmate received the justice he deserved,’ he shouted. ‘And anyone who thinks otherwise should say so now. There will be no more mutinies. Prove that you are Romans, not pirates, and nothing more will be said. If we survive this, we may be here for days, so we’ll need all the food and water we can gather.’ The grumbling had been replaced by a sullen silence and Valerius hesitated as another big wave pushed the ship further aground. ‘Tiberius, get the girls off now.’ He placed himself between the crew and the stern, but no one moved to stop the young officer. ‘I will be the last man off the ship, but now I want you to collect up the water skins and anything else you can carry.’
There was a moment’s hesitation before they moved off to gather water skins from where they’d scattered when the ship ran aground. Valerius heard a frightened whinny from the hold below and realized he’d forgotten the horses. He lifted the hatch and dropped into the surging waist-deep waters of the hold. Two of the beasts were down, their eyes opaque in the gloom and their already bloated bodies floating among the swirling filth of the stall, but a pair of frightened white discs told him the gelding still survived. He drew his dagger and stepped closer to the big chestnut to place the point just behind his ear. There was an odd moment of calm when he could feel the horse’s warmth and trust. He steeled himself for the killing stroke, but something made him hesitate. Quickly, he ran to the hatch and somehow manoeuvred the hinged ramp into place. The gelding shook violently as he was cut free and Valerius spoke gently into his ear before covering his head with a blanket that hung by the side of the stall. The big horse seemed to understand what was required of him and allowed himself to be led up to the deck.
A drop-down panel gave access to the gangplank when the ship was in harbour and Valerius unhooked the bolts that held it in place. There was still an eight foot plunge to the sea, but the gelding would have to take his chances. He slapped the horse on the rump and whipped the blanket from his head as the animal leapt over the side and vanished into the darkness.
By now, the last of the crew were disappearing over the stern and his legs said he should join them. Instead, he forced himself to fight the fear that threatened to overwhelm him as the ship rose and fell in the surf, her keel crashing against the bottom with each hammer blow of a wave. He searched from bow to stern, shouting into the hatches as he ensured that no one was trapped or injured. As he struggled towards the stern the last frayed rope securing the shattered mast to the Golden Cygnet finally parted. No longer anchored, the whole ship spun side on to the waves and canted over until the deck was almost vertical. Valerius made a frantic grab for a stanchion as he flew over the side rail into the angry sea, where the surf picked him up and spun him like a falling leaf in an autumn storm. There was no up or down, just a rolling vortex of brown water that forced its way into his nose and mouth. His face broke the surface and he sucked in a breath that was as much sea as it was air, but in the same instant he was under again, dragged along the bottom where shells and gravel tore at the bare skin of his arms and legs. He tried to control his momentum, but the power of the surf had him in its grip and gradually he began to weaken. Just when he thought he was finished a hand grabbed the neck of his tunic and hauled him clear of the water. He found himself blinking into Serpentius’s glaring face.
‘Only a fool would sacrifice himself to save a horse,’ the Spaniard snarled. ‘Since when did you become a fool?’
‘Domitia?’ Valerius choked out the name with a mouthful of sea water.
‘Safe, but she twisted her ankle when she dropped from the rope. She won’t be walking anywhere in a hurry.’
They struggled along the beach to where the former occupants of the Golden Cygnet gathered in two distinct huddles whipped by the wind-driven sand. Closest to the shore the dejected crew shivered where they’d crawled from the pounding surf. Further back Tiberius and two of his surviving cavalrymen provided what shelter they could for the lady Domitia and her two slaves. The third German trooper lay nearby, still alive, but halfway to another world, empty eyes staring into the rain and a purple dent four inches across in his forehead. Somehow, Tiberius had retained his cloak and the general’s daughter had wrapped it around herself and the girls.
Valerius spoke reassuringly to the crewmen and ordered them to gather the food and water and place it conspicuously between the two groups. He knew better than to risk angering the sailors by seeming to monopolize the supplies so soon after the wreck. Better to wait to reimpose military discipline until their situation became clearer in the morning.
Serpentius offered him a drink from one of the skins, but he refused. ‘It can’t be long until first light. We’ll issue a ration then. But I want you to stay close and make sure no one else touches it.’ He left the Spaniard and walked across the soft sand to where Domitia sat. One of the slave girls was tying a bandage round her ankle.
‘I hope it’s not too painful, my lady?’
She looked up. By some miracle the girls had managed to make her hair and clothing presentable. ‘It barely hurts at all, tribune, although it is a little swollen.’ He smiled at the lie. ‘I must thank you for what you did,’ she continued. ‘If we had stayed on the ship we would all have drowned. I was wrong to delay you.’
‘Sometimes it is more prudent to retreat than to stand your ground, but the decision is never easy, especially for a soldier — or a soldier’s daughter.’
She nodded at the compliment, and in the pause that followed they could hear the sound of timbers shattering as the breakers continued to hammer the ship. ‘How long are we likely to be here?’ It was a foolish question, a little girl’s question, and he experienced a moment of irritation. Already, he felt crushed by the weight of expectation. Unless they were very fortunate he would soon have to take decisions that would mean the difference between life and death for every stranded survivor; decisions founded on the most basic of knowledge. He didn’t know how well equipped he was to do that, but whatever happened in the coming hours or days it was vital to keep their spirits up.
‘Perhaps a few days.’ He kept his voice confident. ‘We will know better in the morning. We may have landed on the Judaean coast, but we have
no real idea. We were driven far south and I think even poor Aurelius would have struggled to place us. If we are there, it is a fertile area and we should be within walking distance of some sort of settlement. In the meantime, please rest. It could be a long day tomorrow.’
‘And if we are not?’
‘Then we must endure and survive until help comes, my lady. Sailors have many useful skills and we are fortunate to have resourceful men with us. I do not fear for our future.’
It was surprising how easily the lie came. He knew there were things he had to do, but first he called Tiberius across. ‘You were right to kill the lookout. Thank you.’
‘I was only doing my duty, tribune.’
‘No, Tiberius, it was more than your duty and I want you to know I appreciate it. If I can ever return the service…’
‘Of course, sir. Perhaps you might commend me to General Corbulo,’ Tiberius said seriously. ‘This posting is a great opportunity for me and I would not want to waste it by being sent to some obscure outpost in the mountains.’
Valerius fought the urge to laugh. Here they were stranded only the gods knew where with barely enough food and water to last a week and Tiberius was concerned about his career. ‘I think the general will find a better use for a man with your qualities. Julius, fool that he was, called you a fighting cock and he was right. You could be a great soldier some day. I have served with great soldiers and I recognize their qualities in you.’
The young man was clearly embarrassed and Valerius regretted being so forthright. He sounded like a foolish old veteran polishing his armour by the fire for his retirement parade. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Tiberius suddenly grinned shyly and reached for his belt.
‘I found this lying on the deck.’ He handed Valerius a legionary gladius, the one Suetonius Paulinus had presented to him in the aftermath of the British rebellion. ‘I did not think you would want to lose it.’
Valerius had thought he would never see the sword again and he’d resigned himself to its loss, but now he had it in his hand he felt its power running through him. Still. He held the blade out hilt first to the younger man. ‘It was given to me for what the general believed was an act of great bravery. Perhaps you deserve it more.’
Tiberius looked down at the sword, but his hand didn’t move towards the blade. ‘Even if I were to win the Gold Crown of Valour it would not equal the honour you have already done me. You ask me if you can do me a service?’ He hesitated and shook his head. ‘You will think me less of a soldier.’
‘No, Tiberius. Ask what you will.’
Tiberius took a deep breath. ‘I have never known a man I respect more than Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome, and I can think of nothing finer than to call him my friend.’
Valerius laughed out loud, and felt the stares from the sailors down by the shoreline. Who could laugh at a time like this? But if anything could raise his morale in these dire circumstances it was this competent, agreeable young man, a tribute to his class, believing that his friendship meant something. He held out his right hand and Tiberius took the walnut fist in his.
‘Of course, it will make no difference to our military relationship…’ Tiberius stuttered. He was interrupted by a familiar snicker and a substantial form plodded out of the wind and the darkness to nuzzle Valerius’s hand.
Valerius grinned at the younger man. ‘We needed a gift from the gods and they have delivered one.’ He patted the gelding’s shoulder. ‘Come, Tiberius, we have plans to make.’
XII
Theatre of Pompey, Rome
A storm was coming. He could feel it in the tension in the air and the oppressive heat that lay like a dirty blanket over the city, and he prayed that rain would not spoil the entertainment. All around him was a cacophony of noise: how they roared, the common people, and how quickly they forgot. Afranius had written The Fire as a tragedy, but an Emperor could not be confined by mere convention and he, Nero, in his wisdom, had reconfigured the play as a comedy. Of all the theatres in Rome only that of Pompey the Great had a stage large enough to contain it. Capable of seating twenty thousand people, the vast semicircular auditorium was filled to capacity, with the front six rows packed with evil-smelling plebeians of the lowest rank, lured by free entry and the promise of rich pickings. For this was a play like no other.
He loved the theatre, because it allowed him to escape for a few hours from the increasing cares of state. Sometimes, alone in his great palaces, he had the feeling that the walls were closing in on him. He had lived with the scent of fear his entire life; first his own, the unloved child in a house full of enemies. Then the infinitely more preferable scent of other people’s fear as his power and — yes, he would not deny it — his malevolence grew. Other men’s fear gave him an almost godlike sense of omnipotence that he normally only felt on the stage or on the podium. So why was it so different when he smelled the fear on Tigellinus? Because Tigellinus, of all people, had no reason to be frightened of him. If Tigellinus was frightened it meant that Tigellinus felt vulnerable, even threatened. If Tigellinus felt threatened, it was because he believed his position was weak. And if Tigellinus was weak, where did that leave the Emperor who depended on him? It was a question he would never ask the man standing next to him, for fear of the answer he would receive.
He took a deep breath to still his growing panic and thrust the melancholy thought aside. From his favoured place by the proscaenium wall he was able to look up to where the statues of the mere mortals who had dominated this very stage — Aesopus, the tragedian, and Roscius, who had made laughter into an art form — stared blankly from their niches out towards the great pillared temple where Venus Victrix ruled. Surely they would have appreciated the genius of his production?
The full-sized, five-storey house, a replica of the ubiquitous insula apartment blocks that lined Rome’s streets, was blazing cheerfully now, each room visible to the audience because it had been built without a facade to ensure an uninterrupted view. Inside, the professional actors were doing their bumbling best to ensure that the conflagration would be terminal. It was almost time.
‘Help, help,’ cried the actor playing the brothel owner. ‘Help us save what we can.’
The signal triggered a crazed rush from the front ranks of the audience as hundreds of excited plebs heeded the call. When they reached the wooden structure, the most fearful hesitated, quelled by the searing heat of the inferno. The fire had been skilfully set so that there was only one way into the building, a narrow passage which was alternately filled with flame and clear. Each floor of the block was strewn with treasures which rose in value with succeeding storeys. The lower floors contained furniture, ornate tables, chests full of who knew what valuables, and sacks of grain, the sale of which would keep a family in plenty for a month and more. On the fourth floor a table had been set for a banquet with fine silverware that would provide a man with the wherewithal to buy a small farm. Tethered beside the table, the comely, talented and equally valuable slave girl who had played the prostitute was now screaming frantically in a manner that might convince you she actually feared for her life.
But it was the top floor, the fifth, which had drawn these people, the dregs of Rome, the debtors and the dispossessed, to the theatre of Pompey. The man who found his way through the flames to the top floor, if he returned at all, would return rich, thanks to the chest that had been hidden there by the girl, and contained vessels of gold, glittering jewels and enough golden aurei to set someone up in style for the rest of their life.
‘See how they cower, Tigellinus, burdened by the lack of courage ingrained in their breeding.’
The Praetorian nodded gravely and tried to look interested. This was the fifth time he had seen The Fire and he knew that only by taking immediate advantage would any of the men have the chance to reach the top floor before it was consumed. ‘He who hesitates loses all, Caesar,’ he agreed in a bored voice.
One man, a tall dark-haired fellow braver than the rest, br
oke the spell, timing his run to coincide with a gap in the flames. His courage inspired or shamed another, and then four or five. As one, they rushed for the stairs, ignoring the inferior treasures on the ground floor which would be secured by those less brave. But the stairway was only wide enough for one man. The dark-haired pleb made it first, with a stocky peasant, a thief by trade, with ugly misshapen features and a missing eye, hard on his heels. The others jammed the narrow space and fought for progress, kicking and punching, until one pulled a dagger and kept his snarling fellows at bay long enough to dart upwards. The house was of particularly cunning manufacture. The builders had used hard and soft woods, and designed damp and dry areas, so it burned in a particular way. This left the upper floors clear of fire, but difficult to access, while those below burned quickly, but still left enough of a way out for a man making his way to the top to believe he had a chance of escape. Already flames were consuming the third floor and those who risked their lives to reach that level had to dash through the narrowest of gaps to reach the next stair. The tall man and the one-eyed thief both made it through, but the man with the knife took one look and retreated. One of his companions darted past and made a grab for a pot overflowing with bronze coin, only to drop shrieking through a gap in the floor and into the maw of the flames on the level below. A roar of applause and guffaws of raucous laughter from twenty thousand throats accompanied his demise.
By now the first man had reached the silver level. He was clearly the crowd’s favourite and they cheered him on, screaming at him to go for the gold. The slave girl, her stola already smoking in the intense heat, howled at him for help, but her voice was almost drowned out by the jeers of the audience. Remarkably, he hesitated. It was only for the merest fraction of a second, but long enough for the thief to smash him aside and send him sprawling. Still, he recovered quickly; without another glance at the girl he bounded for the stairs, taking them two at a time, only to be met at the top by a flying boot that took him clean in the face. He tumbled down the stairs and lay motionless at the foot. The crowd howled in outrage, but the thief put the chest to his shoulder and charged downstairs, leaping over the prone figure who clawed weakly at his legs. Time was running out. Every floor but the uppermost pair was a mass of flame, and it was clear these would soon be enveloped. Only the stairs provided a tantalizing, narrow and fast closing avenue of escape.
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