Defender of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Valerius felt a momentary panic. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘At least listen to what I have to say.’

  The physician turned back to his work and the rumble of pestle in mortar was an invitation for Valerius to leave. But he had underestimated the Roman’s determination. Valerius’s sword came half clear of its scabbard and the unmistakable metallic hiss brought the grinding to a halt. The Judaean raised his head with a look of regretful distaste.

  ‘So, a true Roman warrior. At his best when his opponent is unarmed. You would threaten a harmless old man? Would it salve your conscience? Would it make …’ he frowned, ‘Olivia … well again?’ He shook his head. ‘Spilling blood never solved anything, my young friend.’

  Valerius held his gaze, but the grip on the sword loosened. He hadn’t even realized he’d drawn it. ‘They said things about you. I had hoped they were not true.’

  The bearded man gave a humourless laugh. ‘They fear me. They say I am a fraud and a murderer. That I poison husbands for their wives and wives for their husbands. They say,’ he stretched for a jar behind him, reaching inside to display its contents, a slimy piece of off-white flesh, ‘that I use the fruits of our circumcisions in my potions.’ Valerius swallowed. The Judaean smiled. ‘The poison sac of a sea snake. It has medicinal qualities. As you can see, all that they say is true.’

  ‘They also said you were a magician. I had hoped that was true.’

  The older man gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Do you pray? Then pray to your gods to help your sister.’

  Valerius had an image of Divine Claudius, immortalized in bronze, towering over the doomed fugitives huddled in the grandiose temple built in his name. ‘I no longer pray. The gods have deserted me.’

  For a few moments the only sound in the room was the faint, irregular buzz of the old man’s breathing. ‘Tell me.’

  Valerius closed his eyes and the words came out in a rush. ‘She woke up one morning a month ago and had lost the use of her arms and legs.’

  ‘Entirely?’

  ‘No. Not completely. She could move them, but not use them properly. She made a slight improvement, but two weeks ago she could not get out of bed. She has been in it since. Now she cannot raise her head to take food. She weakens by the day.’

  The Judaean chewed his lip. ‘Has she had convulsions, seizures?’

  Valerius shook his head.

  A long silence developed from seconds into minutes. Eventually, Valerius could take the tension no longer. ‘Can you help us?’

  The Judaean turned to him, the grey eyes serious. ‘Perhaps. Please fetch Rachel for me. She is in the next room.’

  When Valerius returned, the man whispered instructions in the girl’s ear and she hurried off, returning a few minutes later with a small twist of cloth, which she handed to the Roman.

  ‘You must dissolve this in boiling water and make her drink every drop. You understand? Every drop, or it is wasted.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then you wait.’

  Valerius hesitated. He looked down at his hand. Was this all he’d come for? A tiny twist of grey powder? But what more had he expected? ‘Thank you,’ he said, reaching for his purse.

  The Judaean shook his head. ‘When the day comes to repay me, you will know it.’ For some reason a chill ran through Valerius at the innocuous words. He waited for further explanation, but the physician continued: ‘Do not raise your hopes too high. The elixir will help for a time but the effects will not be permanent.’

  He ushered Valerius out, accompanying him through the corridor and into the room which led to the street. The white cloth had slipped from the chest, which told Valerius where the Judaean kept the powder. He noticed a faint symbol carved into the wood. It looked like a large X transfixed by a single vertical stroke with a small half-circle attached to the top.

  The old man saw his interest. ‘The symbol of my craft,’ he said dismissively. ‘Interesting, but unfortunately valueless in Rome.’

  Valerius turned in the doorway. ‘Will you visit her?’

  The Judaean sighed. ‘My name is Joshua. Yes, I will visit her.’

  IV

  THE PERFORMER GAZED out over his audience seeking signs of genuine approval. Instead, all he saw were the imbecilic fixed smiles of those too uncultivated to appreciate the finer points of his art and held in thrall by the singer, not the song. The song was the tale of Niobe, which he had performed at the Neronia, the festival he had endowed, and told the story of a woman brought low by her own ambition; a queen who had attempted to supplant Apollo and Diana with her own children, only to lose them all. He heard his voice quiver with emotion as he reached the point where the seven sons and seven daughters were hunted down by the arrows of the gods and their mother turned to stone, a memorial to her own greed. A tear ran down the cheek of the Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus. His mother, Agrippina, had likewise died of greed.

  Hadn’t he given her everything, palaces, gold, jewels and slaves? Influence even. Perhaps too much influence. Still it wasn’t enough; she had to have power. She thought he was still a child. They were staring at him now, mouths open, and he realized he had stopped singing before the end of the song. How strange she still had such an effect on him. He smiled, and bowed, and the slack faces resumed their grinning and the cheering began, washing over him like a warm, oily sea, sensuous and invigorating. How he despised them all.

  Yes, she had to have power; he of all people could understand that. When one has tasted ultimate power, the power to decide whether a man – or a woman – lives or dies, no other power will suffice. He had been weak at first, even kind, in the years after he had ascended to the throne of Rome. He had listened to his advisers. But when he had spoken those close to him had not listened nor understood. That was before he had proved he was capable of wielding true power. After a few carefully chosen disposals even Seneca had listened, he who had never known when to keep his mouth closed but had still managed to survive the wrath of Uncle Gaius and devious old Claudius. He liked Seneca, had even trusted him once, but now he was nothing but a nuisance. He picked up a flower that had been thrown at his feet. It was long-stemmed with a fringe of small white petals and he began to pluck them one by one, still smiling and acknowledging the cheers; kill him, don’t kill him, kill him, don’t kill him … He continued until he came to the last petal and paused … don’t kill him. He sighed. Seneca, always the fortunate one.

  Not Mother. He had tried to warn her, but, like Niobe, she just wouldn’t listen. So she had to be removed. They should have been singing about her death for a thousand years, a death worthy of the gods themselves. Only a true artist could have devised it. A ship that collapsed upon itself, leaving the after part to float off still containing the crushed remains of poor, dear Agrippina. Lost at sea. Plucked by Neptune to sit at his side for all eternity.

  They had botched it, of course, the fools of carpenters, and she had lived. He hadn’t even known she could swim! Still, the deed was eventually done. And those who had deprived her of her opportunity for immortality would never make another mistake.

  He walked down the broad stairway to where his wife Poppaea waited, flanked by slaves holding a golden canopy. She looked truly enchanting today, her flawless features framed by tight curls of lustrous chestnut. Smiling, she took his arm and they marched through the throng as rose petals fell at their feet and perfumed water scented the air around them. He nodded at each shouted compliment – ‘A triumph, Caesar’; ‘The glory of the world’; ‘No bird ever sang sweeter, lord’ – and knew it was all lies.

  He knew it was lies because he understood he was not the great artist he wished to be. Did they think him a fool to be deceived by such flattery, he who had expended so many millions in the quest to become what he was not? Oh, he improved with every tutor and every hour of practice, but he had come to understand that genius was god-given and not some whim that anyone could command, not even an Emperor. All the hours of practice and the degrading, stomach-churning dec
eits he had resorted to and he could barely hold a note. Yet when he was on the stage he felt like a god, and the sound of the applause lifted him and carried him to Jupiter’s right-hand side. He would not give up the applause.

  Agrippina would have understood, but she had abandoned him. She came to him in the night, sometimes, lamenting the ordinariness of her end and still admonishing him for the loss of the snakeskin bracelet she had placed on his wrist in his infant bed. Her visits left him shaking in terror, though he would reveal that to no man. He hadn’t understood his need for her until she was gone. Whom could he trust if not his own blood? Now there was no one. He gripped Poppaea’s arm more tightly, and she turned to him with a puzzled frown, the limpid green eyes full of concern. He smiled at her, but he knew she was not convinced by the mask because the frown deepened. Dear Poppaea, clever and faithful. Octavia, his first wife, had hated her. But Octavia was gone and Poppaea was in her place. Poppaea had wanted Octavia dead. How could he deny her?

  But what about the letter?

  The letter vexed him.

  Thoughts of the letter brought Torquatus, his trusted and feared prefect of the Praetorian Guard, to mind, and from Torquatus it was but a short step to the one-armed tribune, the hero Verrens. A darkness descended on his mind and the noise of the crowd diminished. He had wished to be the young legionary officer’s friend, a true friend, and had given freely of his devotion and his patronage. And what had he received in return? Rejection. Did Verrens truly believe the slight could be ignored? He wasn’t even as pretty as the other boys, the charioteers and the lithesome young palace servants who squealed so delightfully and were so … flexible. Did this part-man think a common soldier was too good for an Emperor? Did the hero believe he, Nero, could not match his bravery? He felt Poppaea squirm and knew he’d hurt her, but his grip on her arm didn’t loosen. Well, in time, the hero would discover the folly of his ways. In time.

  But, for the moment, Torquatus believed he could be useful in the matter of the letter.

  V

  ‘IS THERE ANY improvement?’

  Julia, the russet-haired Celtic slave who was Olivia’s closest companion, shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  He read something in her voice. ‘You do not approve?’

  ‘I approve of anything that makes her well again, but these people … they are so different. We should trust in our own gods.’

  That word trust again. Valerius wanted to believe, but everything he saw with his own eyes made him doubt. They had given Olivia the Judaean’s potion an hour earlier, but so far there had been no effect. A thought sent a shudder through him. Perhaps the gods were punishing him for his lack of piety and he was the reason Olivia lay there helpless, a pale shadow of the cheerful young woman she had been a few months ago. But if he believed that he would go mad. ‘We must do everything we can, whatever it costs.’

  She nodded, and as she left she allowed her hand to touch his. He knew it was an invitation, but that had been a long time ago, and his life had enough complications. He slept for a while on a couch beside his sister’s bed until some inner sense detected movement. Olivia’s eyes opened and she looked up at him. This time recognition was instant and he saw the wonder in her face. But it wasn’t only at his presence.

  ‘I feel strange.’ Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and he quickly fetched a cup of water from the jug in the corner of the room. He felt a moment of panic. Strange? Had the Judaean poisoned her? When he placed the cup to her lips he was surprised when she raised her head to meet it, something she hadn’t been able to do for a week.

  She surprised him again by gently raising her arm, wondering at her own ability to achieve the simple task. And again, by smiling at him. The old Olivia.

  ‘Is Father here?’ she asked. ‘I thought I heard the sound of his voice.’

  He shook his head. ‘He is busy with the estate. They’re getting ready for harvest.’

  ‘I wish I could help with the harvest the way I once did,’ she said, the simple statement breaking his heart.

  ‘You will be able to soon. When you are properly well.’

  ‘I feel well now,’ she insisted, and attempted to raise herself to a sitting position.

  He pushed her gently back. ‘One thing at a time, baby sister.’ Olivia smiled at the old endearment. ‘First we have to build you up. You need to eat.’ She looked at him as if food was an entirely new notion. He backed off. ‘All right. A little broth then?’

  ‘No. Please. It’s just …’ She shook her head. ‘It seems such a long time since I ate proper food. I’m ravenous.’

  He called for Julia, who burst into tears when she saw Olivia awake.

  Valerius watched his sister eat – a little boiled chicken breast with a ripe peach from the garden – and studied her. The change astonished him. A few hours earlier she had been an invalid; now, she looked almost capable of dancing. His joy was tempered by Joshua’s warning: the effects will not be permanent. Even so, this was hope and hope was something he hadn’t felt for many weeks.

  When she had eaten, she insisted Valerius help her sit up. ‘I will have a conversation like a human being,’ she said. ‘I have had enough of being a corpse.’ She studied him as he had been studying her. ‘You are unhappy, Valerius. I can see it in your eyes.’

  He shrugged with a little half-smile, but couldn’t find the words to tell her what he felt.

  ‘Me?’ she said, reading his mind. ‘You must not mind, Brother. I know I am dying.’ He opened his mouth to protest, but she put a finger to his lips. ‘No, do not deny it. Even though you have worked this magic today, I still feel myself fading. But do not be sad. I suffer no pain, only weakness. The gods are calling me, and when the time comes I will go willingly. All I ask is that you remember me at the lemuria. I would like to see Father again, but … I understand. But it is not just your little sister. I have seen it since you came back from Britain.’ She stroked his wooden hand. ‘Something changed you there, and not just this.’

  They had never talked of it before, but a hollow feeling inside told him this might be his last opportunity. ‘I met a girl, but she is … gone. I made a new life as a soldier and I miss it.’

  ‘Then be a soldier again. You are still young. Still strong.’ She picked up his left hand and ran her finger over the calluses he’d earned from the long hours of training with the gladius. ‘You were a good soldier?’

  ‘Yes, I was a good soldier.’

  ‘Then they will find a place for you.’

  ‘There is Father. He wants to see me in the Senate.’

  She laughed, and it was like the tinkle of a delicate silver bell. ‘You will never be a politician, Valerius. The first time some greasy aedile seeking promotion tries to bribe you, you will throw him in the Tiber.’ Her face became serious again. ‘You cannot live your life for Father. You must find your own way.’

  She lay back and he placed his hand on hers. He remembered her as she had been on the day she turned down their father’s marriage candidate, her eyes flashing with fire and filling the air with scorn. No wonder the old man was afraid to see her.

  ‘Tell me about Britain,’ she said. The request prompted a moment’s hesitation. He had never revealed the truth about his experiences in Britain, not even to Fabia. But, like the good sister she was, Olivia eased the path for him. ‘But only speak of the happy times.’

  So he told her about the fine land, the forests and the meadows with their endless unnameable shades of green, the bounteous hunting and the pride of the legions; about his beautiful Maeve and her unscrupulous father Lucullus, and Falco and the defenders of the Temple of Claudius, and of Cearan and the fearsome Iceni warriors he had led.

  ‘He sounds very handsome,’ she said. ‘For a barbarian.’

  ‘He was. And a good man.’

  ‘If you serve in the legions once more, where would it be? Britain again?’

  He shook his head. ‘Britain has too many memories for me, so not there, at least for now.
There is always trouble on the Rhenus frontier and a good officer would be welcomed, even with one arm. Or up beyond Illyricum fighting the barbarians on the Danuvius. But the most likely place would be Armenia, in the east, where General Corbulo is campaigning against the Parthians.’

  ‘So Armenia it is, my hero brother. Tomorrow you must petition Nero for a position on General Corbulo’s staff and’ – her voice took on a fair imitation of their father’s pompous tones – ‘do not return unless you add new laurels to the name of the Valerii.’

  He would have replied, but she lay back and closed her eyes. Within a minute she was in a deep sleep. He arranged her as comfortably as he could and kissed her gently on the forehead. Her skin felt fever hot against his lips.

  On the way to his room he met Julia in the corridor.

  ‘Is she …’

  ‘She’s asleep, but I think the medicine is wearing off.’

  Tears welled up in the slave girl’s eyes. ‘Please ask the barbarian doctor to help my mistress. If …’

  He touched her arm. ‘You can ask him yourself. He has promised to visit, but don’t call him a barbarian. He might turn us all into frogs.’ The old joke made her smile. ‘And Julia?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Mistress Olivia said she thought she heard a man’s voice today. Have there been visitors you haven’t told me about?’

  ‘No, master,’ she replied. But she took a long time to say it.

  Valerius rose before sunrise the next morning, the twelfth day of June and the third of Vestalia. At this time of the day the streets were cool, and by the time he passed the Temple of Vesta a long line of women were already waiting with their sacrifices to the goddess of the hearth. The festival was the only time the temple was open to any except the virgins who maintained the sacred flame, and then only to women and the Pontifex Maximus, Nero himself. The scent of baking reminded him he hadn’t broken his fast, but he smiled at the thought of eating the tasteless salt cakes the priestesses produced as tributes to the goddess.