The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Master.’ The silentarius spoke quietly, as befitted his title. The peasant realised that he had not included the servants in his inventory of those in the imperial box. Not that they were of any account.

  ‘The architect is outside with the new plans for your house.’

  The peasant got up, and bowed to the emperor. Gallienus paid him no attention. Taking his leave, the peasant indicated Scarpio should accompany him. The merest nod told Cecropius to remain with Sempronius. The bald head of the senator was beaded with sweat. It was best not to leave him alone. His nerves were not strong. He needed constant reassurance.

  Making his way to the steps, the peasant noticed that the crowd was silent, as if fifty thousand spectators were holding their breath in anticipation. He stopped. All that was left of Hercules was a black, oily stain on the sand, where his corpse had been dragged out. Slaves with rakes were removing the evidence of his passing.

  Scarpio hovered impatiently at his elbow. The peasant ignored him. As a young soldier, when first seconded into the frumentarii, he had learned to pay attention to even the most trivial and inconsequential details.

  Another fanfare, and a concealed lift brought to the floor of the arena an altar. A low fire burned on it. Next to the fire was a curved blade of obsidian. The peasant turned, and went down the steps. He had no desire to see a captured brigand sever his own genitals. Unlike several of those around him in the imperial box, he had not wagered on the chances of survival.

  They walked down echoing staircases, along tall corridors, until they came out into the sunshine by the main eastern gate. The peasant looked up at the sky. Someone had told him the roaring of a pride of lions brought on thunder. The sky was clear.

  The ferret was waiting by the sweating post. He was alone, dressed in nondescript civilian garb. The ferret was reliable. He was even carrying rolled papyri that an observer might conclude were designs for a building.

  At the water feature, the peasant looked around to make sure that they could not be overheard.

  A great shout from the amphitheatre indicated the bandit had mutilated himself.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Ballista was in the Baths of Trajan. One of my men followed him down to the furnaces.’ From the ferret’s face it was obvious the report did not have a good ending.

  ‘Your man was spotted.’

  The ferret unrolled a papyrus, held it out so that the others could pretend to study it. ‘Ballista beat him half to death. My man thinks that Ballista forced a bath attendant to guide him out through the service tunnels to the cisterns.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Less than an hour.’

  ‘By now he could be anywhere. You are watching his house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Papyrus actually did have drawings of the elevation of a house. The peasant was impressed by this attention to detail. Another question occurred to him.

  ‘Why did Ballista not kill your man?’

  ‘He was disturbed.’

  ‘Did Ballista discover anything on your man to give away his identity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. He had no time to search or question him.’

  Scarpio butted in. ‘He may not have found out anything that links the two of you to the conspiracy, but he knows that I am involved.’

  ‘Then, if he reaches the imperial box, you had better forestall the tortoise.’ The peasant kept his voice low and almost affable. ‘Remember the wine on your carpet – once something is out of the jug, it cannot be poured back.’

  The Prefect of the City Watch did not look comforted by the words or the memory.

  ‘I have issued a new description,’ the ferret said. ‘Ballista has shaved his head, and was last seen wearing a blue tunic, and a Gallic hooded cloak in green. He is armed with a dagger.’

  ‘Have him found,’ the peasant said. ‘Also detail some of your men to locate and follow Gallienus’ half-brother and son. They need to be taken care of before tomorrow morning.’

  ‘They are in the Palace. Both are already under observation.’

  ‘Good.’

  The ferret was pleased with the approbation. ‘How is the tortoise?’

  ‘Scared,’ the peasant said. ‘The senator is a coward, but the rider is with him.’ Not, the peasant thought, that Cecropius’s visit to Sempronius’s house at dawn had put much heart in the timid senator.

  ‘He had the courage to betray us,’ Scarpio blurted out. ‘The bastard tried to betray the very men who were risking everything to make him emperor.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ The peasant’s finger traced the outline of an architrave. ‘It was to be expected. His sort have no consideration for those they consider their inferiors. He does not approve of soldiers, let alone us protectores. It was fortunate that Acilius Glabrio thought the idea insane.’ The peasant looked up at the ferret. ‘If he had not written to inform you of the treachery, we might have been in a bad position.’

  ‘A bad position? We would have been dead!’ As ever Scarpio sounded weak and querulous. ‘Anyway, Acilius Glabrio is another nobleman. Will he be any better as emperor?’

  The peasant again peered at the papyrus, as if absorbed in the plans. ‘Acilius Glabrio will not be implicated in the death of the emperor. He will be acceptable to the troops. Not having witnessed the depravity of Gallienus when away from the field army, many of them still favour him. And, as you say, he is a patrician, so the senators will be delighted to acclaim Acilius Glabrio Augustus.’

  ‘He will not prove as malleable as Sempronius.’ It was as if, once started, Scarpio could not control his litany of complaints. ‘And who is to say that he will not turn on us?’

  ‘Acilius is a different kettle of fish,’ the peasant conceded. ‘He led the cavalry charge that won the battle of Circesium, fought well at Milan. He sees himself as a general, and will seek glory against Postumus. But he is no more addicted to hard work than any other patrician. Vain and easily flattered, he will posture in gilded armour, and leave the tedious hard labour of governance to us protectores.’

  Scarpio looked as if he wanted to say more, but did not. He stood, wringing his hands, the picture of abject fear. The peasant had been right not to tell him of Sempronius’ attempted double-cross, or the decision to elevate Acilius Glabrio, until after they had both entered the imperial box this morning. Given time, the cravenness of Scarpio would have undone them all. The man was a mouse by name and by nature.

  The ferret rolled up the papyrus. ‘When the tortoise has struck down Gallienus, there is no doubt the praetorians in the corridor will kill the assassin?’

  ‘Why would they not?’ The peasant smiled. ‘They know nothing. They will do their duty. Sempronius will earn the wages of his treachery.’

  From the Colosseum came the brazen sound of trumpets, joined by the bass of a water organ.

  ‘You keep searching for Ballista,’ the peasant said to the ferret. ‘We, however, should go back. If the mouse and I are not in our places for the start of the gladiatorial combat, our noble emperor might think that we were spurning his hospitality.’

  *

  We who are about to die, salute you.

  Six hundred gladiators, among them four hundred Alamanni captured at the battle of Milan. The Alamanni would fight against each other in massed combat. The others would duel in pairs. Unlike the beasts and the executions, this was a proper spectacle. To fight man against man, blade in hand, demanded skill and bravery. It accustomed the people of Rome to the sight of blood. If even slaves and prisoners showed courage close to the steel, how much more should be expected of Roman citizens? The amphitheatre kept alive the spirit of the ancestors. Greek philosophers might whine that it was butchery, but what did they know of the mos maiorum that had given Rome her empire?

  The peasant understood fighting. It had been his life. The empire was embattled, ringed around with enemies. Postumus had seized the West. Odenathus ruled
as he pleased in the East, paid scant regard to Rome. Barbarians massed on every frontier. Deserters and brigands plundered the provinces. As never before, the empire needed a war leader on the throne. And Gallienus had lost his appetite for the fight. When every bronze coin was needed for the army, the emperor squandered incalculable sums on colossal statues, vast porticos and a city of philosophers in the Apennines. When the emperor should be marching with his troops, eating hardtack, living under canvas, Gallienus debated the tenets of Plato in the Palace, or dallied with whores in chambers decked with flowers.

  To be sure, Gallienus could be roused to duty on occasion. Yet it had taken enormous effort, and endless patience, on the part of the peasant and others, such as his friends Tacitus and Aurelian, to finally persuade the emperor to issue the orders for the campaign across the Alps. Postumus had murdered Gallienus’ favourite son, and still the emperor had been reluctant: endless specious talk of securing what they held, of not overstretching the resources of what remained of the empire, of attempting to suborn those around Postumus. It was not good enough. To Hades with caution, and an indirect strategy. What was needed was hard marching and hard fighting. After Postumus there would be Odenathus, and after him the Persian King of Kings.

  Shapur the King of Kings was the heart of the matter. It was five years since he had captured the emperor Valerian. Five years in which Gallienus had made no attempt to rescue his father. Every day when the Persian wished to go riding, the aged emperor had to get on all fours in the dirt. As he mounted, Shapur would put his boot on the shoulders of Valerian, use the venerable Emperor of Rome as a mounting block. This is true, the Persian exulted, not the lies of the Romans.

  Valerian had plucked the peasant from the obscurity of the ranks, had appointed him to command his horse guards. The peasant had given Valerian his oath, not with his lips alone, but with his heart. Valerian had raised the peasant high, and in every new office the peasant had served him loyally. If Valerian’s son would not march to his rescue, the peasant would create an emperor who would undertake that sacred duty. The living symbol of the majesty of Rome could not be left in the dirt at the feet of a barbarian. The peasant would not break the word he had given to his emperor. He continued to serve Valerian.

  Only those close to Gallienus realised the depths of his inertia. Even so, it had been necessary for the peasant to tread carefully. When approached, Tacitus had quoted some line from his ancestor the historian to the effect of praying for good emperors, but serving what you got. The peasant had pretended to be convinced, and Tacitus had gone to his distant estates. Learning from that rebuff, the peasant had recruited only an old companion, Heraclian, from the field army, and the three men in Rome. The mouse and the ferret commanded armed men in the city. The former was weak, and the latter untrustworthy by occupation. The troopers that Cecropius led were quartered in Milan, but the cavalry officer was on leave in Rome. Cecropius was another old tent-mate, a soldier to the core, a man the peasant could trust. The pseudonym of the rider suited him, as did those of the mouse and the ferret. They were as fitting as the peasant’s own. When their allegiance had been secured, the peasant had held out the prospect of the throne to Sempronius. The senator reminded him of a tortoise. Just six men to overthrow an emperor. The smaller the conspiracy, the less danger of being betrayed. The conspiracy had not been small enough.

  Despite his words earlier to Scarpio, the treachery of Sempronius had been completely unexpected. The peasant still found it hard to believe that a man he had chosen for his quiescence had possessed such guile and nerve. Ambition could drive the most unsuitable and unlikely men. Thank all the gods that Acilius Glabrio had revealed to the ferret the ambush set by Sempronius. Of course Acilius was not to be trusted either. Informing against Sempronius, the young patrician had expected the information to be passed to the emperor, and to be rewarded by Gallienus with a sizeable percentage of that senator’s estate. Offered the purple instead, he had jumped at the chance. Acilius probably thought his birth entitled him to that eminence. Ambition had its spurs deep in him.

  According to Acilius, another senator with the army in Milan had been amenable to overtures received from Sempronius. The peasant had had no contact with Nummius Faustinianus. That nobleman would be waiting for the news that the first act of Sempronius Augustus had been the execution of the peasant and his friends. When instead the laurel-wreathed dispatches arrived proclaiming the deaths of both Gallienus and Sempronius, and the accession of Acilius Glabrio, there would be little that Nummius could do. Still, he needed watching.

  A huge cheer brought the peasant out of his reverie. The Alamanni were coming out onto the sand. Automatically the peasant checked that the net was stretched along the top of the arena wall, the rollers placed and the spikes on top to make it harder to climb, the archers stationed behind, arrows nocked, the praetorians in full armour backing them. He had faced these very barbarians at Milan. Years in captivity, and they still looked dangerous.

  Would the Alamanni fight? When the emperor decided there had been enough killing, the survivors had been promised their lives. The barbarians would be split up, enrolled in military units across the empire. Would it be enough to make them kill their kinsmen?

  A low hooming sound from the two groups of Germans answered the question. It was the barritus, the war cry of the North. The barbarians considered the volume of noise predicted the outcome of the battle. The warriors held their hands over their mouths. Usually they would use their shields to amplify the barritus. The peasant had advised they be given no defensive equipment. It would bring on the bloodshed with more speed, and, should there be a problem, make the combatants better targets for the bowmen. Some other courtier had suggested the sides be dressed in contrasting colours to make it easier for spectators to follow the contest.

  The war cries rose to a crescendo, and both sides charged. The peasant watched with professional interest the hacking and stabbing, the gouts of blood and gaping wounds. This was the ultimate expression of the might of the empire. Rome’s enemies compelled to fight to the death, while her unarmed citizenry enjoyed the sight. It had often occurred to the peasant that the amphitheatre was a model of the empire turned inside out. The savage barbarians placed at the centre, not the periphery, were still ringed by Roman troops, while the citizens, seated according to their place in Roman society, safely watched from the outside. In the Colosseum, civilization and humanity surrounded and triumphed over barbarity and chaos.

  Not all the audience might be expected to be taking unalloyed pleasure from the combat. The peasant wondered what the emperor’s German bodyguards would be making of the spectacle. Of course, most would not be from that tribe. But their commander, Freki, for all his years in the service of Rome, was by birth an Alamann. The peasant looked back at the big warrior. The German was impassive as ever. Whatever conflict of emotions he might be suffering, nothing showed.

  If the peasant had been in Freki’s position, he would have stared the problem in the face. He prided himself on a hard, clear-eyed pragmatism. It was a discipline never more needed than today. If the plot failed, if Ballista reached the emperor, or Sempronius failed to mortally wound Gallienus, what would be the consequences?

  One myth the peasant knew was Pandora opening the jar. Embarking on a conspiracy was much the same, everything flew out beyond recall. Heraclian in Milan most likely could be trusted to keep his counsel. Yet if he were to fall in the coming war, it might be no bad thing. A dangerous mission, from which return was unlikely, could be arranged. The two senators with the army could not inform against their fellow conspirators without betraying themselves. The emperor did not care for senators. If they had any sense, Acilius Glabrio and Nummius Faustinianus should keep quiet. Likewise the ferret and the rider here in Rome, although the former was a concern. Perhaps a tragic accident could be arranged. Of course Sempronius would have to die. So too Scarpio; the mouse was weak, and sheer terror might make him talk. And there was Ballista. The peasant
felt sorry for it, but Ballista had the ear of the emperor, and he might have uncovered too much. Ballista’s eldest son must be of an age to take the toga of manhood. Familial loyalty would impel him to seek revenge. A feud was to be avoided. It was a shame, but both Ballista’s sons must also die.

  The peasant was encouraged by his ruminations. In politics, as in war, you needed more than one plan. You must always have a line of retreat. Giving his attention back to the arena, he remembered that one thing had remained in Pandora’s jar, and that was hope.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Street of Lamentation

  U

  NLIKE ORPHEUS ESCAPING FROM the underworld, Ballista had looked over his shoulder all the way through the tunnels which led out from under the Baths of Trajan. He had kept a firm grip on the slave that he had waylaid, let him see the blade in his other hand. By the guttering light of a lamp, the unlikely Charon had conducted him through the dark maze. Several times they had encountered other denizens of the subterranean world. They had stepped aside to let the working parties shuffle past. Ballista had hidden the knife. Although they had drawn the odd curious look, the slaves down here were pale and apathetic, ground down by unremitting labour in an unhealthy environment. No one had asked any questions. The unwilling guide had not spoken. Ballista had left him in no doubt of his fate should he attempt to raise the alarm.

  At long last they had emerged by the cisterns. The light hurt Ballista’s eyes. He had given the slave a small coin, told him that he should forget everything, as surely as if he had drunk the waters of Lethe.