Defender of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘You made the wrong choice.’ Valerius’s words had no force behind them; this was a subject they had argued to the bones.

  ‘Perhaps, but still …’

  ‘You are always welcome. She has been asking for you.’

  ‘I will think on it.’

  Valerius turned the subject back to the estate and they walked together through the olive trees, commenting on this one or that. Did it need pruning? Was it too old to provide the best quality oil? Lucius complained about dwindling profits, but hinted that a solution was in hand. Twice on the way back to the villa Valerius had the feeling that his father had something important to say to him. Twice the moment passed.

  ‘Will you stay the night?’ the old man asked. ‘Granta and Cronus would enjoy your company – as I would.’

  ‘I cannot. I have an appointment … with Seneca.’

  A shadow fell over Lucius’s eyes. ‘Be very careful, Valerius.’

  XI

  THE VILLA OF Lucius Annaeus Seneca filled the mouth of the valley: a great stucco palace bordering three sides of a landscaped garden that would comfortably have held the tents and horse lines of a legion. And the main part of the complex, the building that faced Valerius as he approached, was as deep as it was wide, extending back to the hills two hundred paces beyond. In the foreground peacocks and tiny antelopes the size of terriers grazed the irrigated lawns and nipped the heads from flowers beginning to wilt in the heat.

  His host waited for him in the shade of the colonnaded portico. Seneca looked relaxed, overweight and successful, his fingers weighed down by gold rings and his puffy, heavily jowled face saved from being ugly by a strong nose and shining grey eyes that radiated benevolent intelligence. The only sign of anxiety was in the hand he ran across the mottled skin of his bald head as he beamed a welcome.

  ‘Valerius, my boy, it has been much too long. Let me see you now. By the gods, you have become a man, and what a man. Those shoulders, that chest. You exercise every day? Of course you do. And the hand?’ Valerius lifted the walnut fist so Seneca could see it clearly. ‘A masterpiece. You have been through the fire, and it is the fire that makes us who we are.’ Valerius had witnessed a law court hushed by the sound of Seneca’s voice addressing a crowd from the rostra sixty paces away, but in conversation the philosopher was softly spoken, almost mellow in tone.

  ‘I’m glad to see you well, master Seneca.’

  Seneca laughed, but for the first time Valerius detected a hint of bitterness. ‘I am no longer your master, Valerius. I am no man’s master, perhaps not even my own.’ He brightened again. ‘You have been to visit your father? Of course. A son’s first duty is to his family and you were always a dutiful son.’

  Valerius felt as if he was swimming against a tidal wave of flattery and fought back with a little of his own. ‘You have a fine house, sir, and a wonderful estate.’

  ‘And I am forgetting my manners. Please come inside.’ Seneca led him through a large vestibule and across a broad inner courtyard, striding out like a man ten years younger and talking as he went. ‘They say I am too rich.’ He didn’t identify who they were, but Valerius knew Torquatus would be among them. ‘They say I could not afford this if I had not been stealing from the Emperor’s purse. What do they know of Lucius Annaeus Seneca? For the first time in Rome’s history is a man to be condemned for being successful? I have lived each minute of my life in the pursuit of profit or contentment, and sometimes the two are not exclusive, though both, I grant you, can be difficult to come by.’

  They reached a room with large windows and walls painted in imitation of the gardens outside. Seneca lay on one couch and Valerius sat opposite him. The philosopher studied him seriously.

  ‘There is a sickness in the air, a political sickness that could very well be fatal. I do not intend you to catch it, Valerius, though you may feel I have exposed you to its vapours by bringing you here. In this room we may speak freely; the acoustics are poor and, as you see, the nearest doorway far enough away to keep the slaves honest. You have been clever, as I intended you to be. A young man visits his father’s estate and makes a neighbourly call upon his former tutor. Is it not natural? Your presence will be reported, certainly – they have six spies in my household that I know of and who knows how many that I do not – but I doubt it will arouse suspicions, and if it does, I believe you are agile enough to allay them.’

  Valerius found himself caught between admiration of Seneca’s cunning in trapping him in the quicksand of whatever plot he was hatching, and alarm at the knowledge that he was already up to his neck and sinking fast. Clearly, if he refused the proposition about to be made it would take only a single word in the right ear to condemn him. Yet he had always known it would be this way. Implicit in his decision to come was trust in the philosopher’s judgement and faith in his integrity. He would give Seneca the truth.

  ‘The Emperor has charged me with investigating a group of Judaean agitators he believes are plotting against Rome who he fears have infiltrated the highest levels of government.’

  Seneca nodded gravely. ‘I am aware of your assignment. Indeed, it was I who instigated it.’ He saw Valerius’s confusion. ‘Oh yes, Valerius, I am not yet without influence. Torquatus thinks the suggestion was his, but it was I who sowed the seed. It has placed you in a position to do both your Emperor and your friends a great service.’

  For a moment the words lay between them like pieces on a gaming board, but Valerius was still reluctant to make the decisive move. ‘I don’t understand. Why me?’ The question echoed the one he had asked Torquatus a day earlier. To his surprise, so did the answer.

  His host gave a sigh that would have been more at home on a stage. ‘I could tell you that you are brave, that you are wise and that you have a mind that is never satisfied with the first solution it finds, and all that would be true. But the real answer is simpler: I trust you.’ Seneca rose and his voice changed as he began to pace the room. Now again Valerius saw Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the statesman. ‘Do you love Rome, Valerius? More important, do you believe in Rome? Of course you do. The blood of men who lived and died for Rome runs in your veins. You are the son of a man who once risked everything for Rome.’ Valerius struggled to justify this vision of his father, but Seneca was no longer speaking to him, he was speaking to the Empire. ‘Rome is an invalid tottering on the brink of the abyss, and evil men are gathering to push her over the edge into chaos, depravity and, ultimately, a carnage that will consume her. Rome’s Emperor is not strong enough to stand in their way. He must have help. Nero cannot rule alone, Valerius; he is no Caesar or Augustus. He was fated to rule, but he needs a guiding hand; a firm, honest hand to steer him in the direction that is best for his people. Without that hand he will always be the servant of his urges and the servant of those who provide the means to satisfy those urges. He will shift with each changing wind and with each shift he will become less of an Emperor. With every passing hour it becomes more difficult to return him to the true path and the path that could lead him to true greatness. The followers of Christus are a danger to Rome, but Torquatus and the band of degenerates he cultivates are a greater danger still. As long as I breathe I will never plot against the Emperor, but I will fight to return to his side, and you, Valerius, can place me there. I will help you find the man known as the Rock of Christus and you will deliver him to me and help me discredit Torquatus and his gang. Together, Valerius, we will save Rome.’

  Valerius stared at him. He knew the speech was calculated to appeal to Gaius Valerius Verrens, tribune of the Twentieth: a call to arms designed to stir a soldier’s blood on the eve of battle. He wasn’t blind. He saw through Seneca the statesman to Seneca the actor. But somehow that didn’t matter. His blood was stirred and he was ready for battle. Now, at least, he knew what he was fighting for.

  He didn’t need to speak. Seneca saw the impact of his words. He nodded. ‘In every life there comes a moment to choose, Valerius. You will never regret the choice you have just m
ade.’

  ‘Tell me about Christus’s Rock.’

  Seneca made him wait. He called for servants to bring food and it was only after they had completed their meal that they resumed their discussion.

  ‘It is impossible to tell the story of the Rock without telling the story of Christus. When did it begin? Was it the moment he was born, or the moment he died, or somewhere in between? You will hear that Christus was a mystic, an insurrectionist, a teacher or a criminal, but I think the truth is that he was a mixture of them all. He came, without education or wealth, from an obscure Galilean village, but within two years he had gathered men who had both to his side. Oh, they will tell you that he had made a vow of poverty, but no man could have achieved what Christus did without substantial resources. How else could he have retained what became a small army of followers? He claimed he was the son of God and to each man he gave a reason to believe. He is said to have carried out miracles, all of which can be disputed, but none of which can be entirely disproved. So why did they follow him? Why did they believe him? Because he offered them the chance to live for ever. Eternal life was in his gift and that of his father.’ Seneca shook his head at the absurdity of it. ‘The Judaeans hated and feared him because he cast doubt upon their own religion. Eventually they persuaded the governor that he was as much a danger to Rome as he was to Jerusalem and Pilatus ordered him crucified. Pilatus was foolish. Left alive, Christus would have become a figure of ridicule, a simpleton who promised everything but delivered nothing.’

  Valerius nodded, but one question intrigued him. ‘And how was a person to be guaranteed eternal life?’

  Seneca smiled. ‘That was the genius of Christus. First, a man had to earn the right to immortality by his deeds during his own life, deeds determined by the teachings of Christus. Second, he would come to eternal life only after he died. You see the wonderful paradox? One had to die to live for ever, and only after death would one know one had achieved it.’

  ‘And this Rock is a believer in such foolishness?’

  ‘The Rock, Simon Petrus, was the first of Christus’s followers, another Galilean, though Torquatus chooses to band him with Rome’s Judaeans; a simple fisherman hypnotized by the words of a cleverer man. He followed him to Jerusalem, saw him die there and’ – Seneca snorted his disbelief – ‘claims he saw him rise again.’

  Valerius wasn’t so certain. ‘It’s not impossible,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ve seen men lying on the battlefield who looked as if they were dead and thought they were dead, who rose up to have supper with their comrades. Most of them died later from their wounds, but still, a man can be difficult to kill. Simon Petrus?’

  ‘Simon is his given name. Petrus, the Rock, is the title Christus awarded him for his loyalty. Many lost their enthusiasm for the teachings of Christus after he was tried and crucified, but Petrus continues to spread his message. When the authorities in Jerusalem made life difficult for him he moved on to Antioch, and now to Rome, where he calls himself bishop, but wields no power and has little influence except among his closest followers.’

  ‘Then why is he so dangerous?’

  ‘Because he is a master of deception and because of the message he preaches, which denies the authority of the Emperor. Because those he now targets are Roman citizens with the power to influence other Roman citizens, even those in the Senate. Petrus is a dangerous man who gathers other dangerous men to him. If Petrus has his way the only god in Rome will be the God of Christus. He would wipe away the very foundations of our society. I am not a religious man, Valerius, but I fear this Petrus.’

  Valerius studied the figure across from him. Why did he feel this prickle of unease? ‘So Petrus is the most dangerous man in Rome. A shadow who has denied the Praetorians for months, it seems. Yet Lucius Annaeus Seneca, confined to his humble home in the hills, appears to know everything about him. You have his name. Perhaps you can tell me where he lives and who he meets, or even give me his description?’

  Seneca’s ringed fingers stroked his head. ‘You are suspicious, and so you should be. We are swimming in dangerous waters, you and I, and it is right that we should understand each other fully. It is well known that I have maintained contacts in the east since my days in Aegyptus. While I had Nero’s confidence I wielded a power you would not imagine, and that power allowed me to expand those contacts still further. You will admit I am a man of some little talent?’ The false modesty made Valerius laugh, as it was intended to. ‘Then put your trust in me, Valerius, as I put my trust in you.

  ‘Petrus is in his sixty-third year, of medium height with the strong features typical of the easterner. He wears a full beard, not to mask them, but because it is his custom. He walks with a slight limp, and he has a reputation as a healer. You will know him when you look into his eyes.’ He raised a hand. ‘No, I can explain no further. You will understand when the time comes.’

  Valerius somehow kept his face emotionless. ‘If I have news, how can I get word to you?’

  ‘I will have a man watch your house. Place a lamp in the window above your door at dusk. That will be a signal for a meeting at noon the following day at the north corner of the Castra Peregrina.’

  Now it was Valerius’s turn to frown.

  ‘Where better for two conspirators to meet than on the doorstep of a nest of spies?’ Seneca chuckled at his own genius. The Castra Peregrina, as its name implied, was the base for foreign soldiers posted to duties in Rome, but also the headquarters of the Emperor’s frumentarii, messengers who often acted as the Emperor’s spies, occasionally as his assassins. Seneca saw that Valerius wasn’t convinced. ‘If you wish we can appoint another meeting place?’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘No. One place is as good as another and the busier the better.’

  ‘The Emperor will demand a swift resolution, but despite what I have told you Petrus will not be an easy man to find,’ Seneca warned. ‘In six months Torquatus and Rodan have not even come close. Your investigation must be taken one step at a time. This will be your first step.’ He gave Valerius a name which surprised him. ‘You will wish to begin as soon as possible.’

  Valerius knew when he was being dismissed. He had a dozen questions he would have liked to ask, but he doubted Seneca would answer any of them. They embraced as if they were father and son and as Valerius rode off towards the Via Salaria he pondered the astonishing name Seneca had given him.

  And the biggest surprise of all: the description of Christus’s Rock, the man called Petrus, who sounded exactly like Joshua, the doctor in whom he had placed his faith.

  Seneca was still standing in the doorway when Valerius passed out of sight.

  ‘Do you think he suspects?’ The quiet voice came from the shadow behind him.

  ‘No. He is an honest, straightforward young man. He will complete his task or die in the attempt.’

  ‘Then may he live long enough to complete it.’

  Seneca turned to face the man who could have been a younger version of Petrus. ‘You realize what this could cost? Nero will have no mercy.’

  ‘We must all make sacrifices. Those who die will have died for Our Lord. Petrus is a good man but he is too soft to lead us to the Promised Land.’

  ‘And he favours a different path?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘You are a hard man.’

  ‘Just so,’ Saul of Tarsus said again.

  XII

  POPPAEA FOUGHT THE familiar animal squirm of panic. Everywhere she went she felt Nero’s eyes on her. But he couldn’t know, because if he truly knew she would be dead. Or worse. Yet even that was of no consequence, because soon she would be free and nothing they could do to her would matter. Just one more step. One more simple act, and it was done.

  Loneliness and fear had been her lot ever since her father had married her off at the age of seventeen. She had been young and naive, a pretty plaything who knew nothing of the natural bounds of marriage or the power a wife might hold if she only understood her strength. Instea
d, she had submitted because her husband said she should, even when she knew it was wrong. Each night she would endure the pain and self-loathing that went hand in hand with the acts she was forced to perform for him. Each night she would cry herself to sleep. That should have been enough, even for him, but of course it was not. She thought she had married a strong man, but events had proved that what she had taken for strength was mere bravado, and what she had thought was courage only a disguise for bluster. A coward and a braggart who had bragged once too often.

  What a fool she had been the night they were invited to the palace. She had been excited, proud that the man who ruled their Empire should seek the company of her husband, even a husband she had grown to hate. That was the first night she’d felt the little eyes roving over her skin, and later the hands, cold and clammy, the way a snake should feel, but does not, slithering across her breasts and her belly and … And later? Later he had watched again, those same eyes glittering as her husband used her. Yes, used. Not slept with, or made love to. Used. And when her husband was finished with her, he was ready. She knew that to refuse him was death, but she almost did. Almost. When that barrier was broken the rest was just more of the same. The servants and the slaves and the soldiers who shared the wide bed. And Otho, her husband, had rejoiced because he had the Emperor’s favour and the Emperor’s favour meant power and riches. And, though he was too foolish to understand it, danger.

  Three months later, Torquatus had sent for Otho and ordered him to divorce her. She remembered the day he returned from the palace, his face the colour of dead flesh, hands shaking and eyes glazed with terror. Not out of concern for her. Not because he was going to lose her. But because he feared for his position and his life. She had despised him then and she despised him now, cowering in his Lusitanian exile praying for a speedy return to the inner circle, which would never be forthcoming as long as she had influence. She had been glad to be rid of him. Oh, what a fool she was.