Defender of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  A few minutes later the Scythian returned. ‘He was holding the ponies back there and would have had his share of this.’ He tossed a leather bag to Valerius, who caught it in his good hand. ‘Silver. Enough to make them lords of these hills.’

  ‘Who paid them, and why?’

  ‘He said he did not know who. These people learn to lie with their first breath, but I doubt this one lied. He claimed it was a Roman who gave them the order and the silver, and they all look the same to him. As to why, it is simple. They were to kill the officer with the missing hand. They have followed us for a week to ensure they had the right man. The cargo was of no interest to them, my Roman friend. Only you.’

  XX

  STRABO, THE GREEK geographer, wrote that the inhabitants of upper Illyricum – now Moesia – ‘created caves beneath their dung heaps and lived in them’, but Valerius saw without surprise that the Seventh legion Claudia Pia Fidelis had made itself much more comfortable at Viminacium in a short space of time. On a rise above the meeting place of the Danuvius and one of its larger tributaries the soldiers had demolished a town of mud huts and replaced it with a fortress that made him feel almost as if he was coming home. He could have been approaching Colonia, Glevum or Londinium, or any of the great military encampments in the Empire. Inside the deep triple ditches and the palisade lay the principia, the administrative heart of the legion, surrounded by the long lines of wooden barrack blocks, and beyond it the workshops, marked by the smoke from their glowing braziers, the stables and the supply area. Legionaries patrolled the walls and a cavalry wing exercised in a separate annex on the east side. On a flat piece of ground to the north of the fort, merchants from the surrounding area had created a great market, and below was the reason for it. In the mouth of the smaller river the Seventh had built a new harbour, and from here trim, oared galleys of the Roman navy patrolled to north and south, guarding convoys of supplies for the legions and trade goods from the east and south on their way to Noricum, Raetia and, eventually, Italia. But the most astonishing thing at Viminacium was not the fort or the naval base, but the bridge. Downstream from the fortress, legionary engineers had built a slender wooden crossing over the Danuvius that must have stretched half a mile across the river’s narrowest point. Each end of the bridge was guarded by a section of brick-tunicked soldiers and Valerius noticed that on the far side a crowd had gathered waiting for permission to cross.

  Marcus, Serpentius and Heracles rode up from the rear of the convoy with the pack mules. Dust had stained their tunics grey and dulled their armour and Valerius insisted they stop for a few minutes to beat the worst of the dirt from their clothing and polish breastplates and helmets. No amount of cleaning could wipe away the weariness that etched their faces. Four days earlier, the perpetual, dangerous mountains had given way to endless plains with barely a landmark to break the horizon. Since then, the monotony had worn down man and beast alike, inducing a hypnotic, heavy-eyed exhaustion that even sleep could not conquer. It was as if the very land was fighting them and Valerius had never been more relieved to complete a journey.

  As he said his farewells to the leader of the caravan, Marcus nodded towards the fort, where a group of riders had just emerged from the gateway. ‘The natives don’t look too friendly.’

  They trotted up the slope to meet them.

  ‘Your name?’

  Valerius inspected the unsmiling young auxiliary prefect and suppressed an urge to tip him from his saddle into the dust. Not only was a Praetorian entitled to the respect his position demanded, he outranked the man and it was customary for officers to exchange names and pleasantries. He looked over the cavalry officer’s shoulder towards the fort, where he had no doubt keen eyes were watching the outcome of the confrontation. Someone was sending him a message.

  ‘I asked you your name?’ This time the question was more brusque, almost an order.

  ‘My name is not your concern, but your legate’s.’ Valerius’s tone might have been reprimanding a recruit on his first patrol and he saw the first seeds of doubt in the prefect’s eyes. ‘It is enough for you to know that I am a tribune of the Praetorian Guard and that I am on imperial business. My men and I have travelled from Acruvium and I will require accommodation and rations for at least one week. See to it that this is done.’

  The young officer frowned. His horse caught his uncertainty and jerked beneath him, so he had to haul back on the reins to control it. ‘I—’

  ‘Are you questioning my orders, prefect?’ Valerius snapped impatiently. ‘Perhaps it is you who should give me your name? I doubt the legate will be pleased to discover that the Emperor’s personal representative has been obstructed from doing his duty.’

  The officer swallowed hard and saluted. ‘I apologize, sir. Flavius Genialis, prefect of the Second Tungrian wing, at your service. We have had trouble with spies and Dacian infiltrators.’

  Valerius heard Serpentius snort at the lame excuse and suppressed a smile of his own. ‘I doubt many of them were wearing Praetorian uniforms, prefect.’ He urged his horse up the shallow slope and his grinning companions followed.

  Inside the fort, a servant ushered them to the officers’ mansio, the temporary accommodation for senior guests. Flavius had wanted to billet Marcus and his companions with the legion’s other ranks, but Valerius insisted they stay together.

  ‘You think there’ll be trouble?’ Marcus asked when the prefect had left them alone. ‘We’re as welcome as a turd in a punch bowl, but I doubt they’d try anything here, not with us being the Emperor’s personal representatives an’ all.’

  Valerius grinned. ‘Let’s just say that after all the time we’ve spent together I’d miss your company.’

  He washed and donned a clean tunic. This was an encounter he’d anticipated, but he’d heard so many differing views of the man he was about to meet that he was uncertain of the outcome. Serpentius gave Valerius’s sword a final polish and handed it to him. He replaced it in the scabbard on his right hip.

  ‘Let’s hope I don’t need it.’

  * * *

  ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, tribune of the Guard.’ The aide announced his presence to the commander of the Seventh legion.

  Valerius saluted the man standing at the far side of the room. By rights, Aulus Vitellius should have been leading an army, not a single legion. He had no record as a military commander, but that had never been an impediment to a military career. A decade and a half ago he had been consul and a favourite of Emperor Claudius. Under Nero his fortunes had first thrived, then waned, and now, it was said, were about to thrive again. In his mid-forties his handsome features had a florid, slightly pasty look, as if they had been modelled from damp clay, and he wore his hair brushed forward over a wide forehead to cover the growing expanse of bare scalp. His enemies said he was a drunkard who never held a thought long enough to make a rational decision. His friends said he was a misunderstood genius who would one day sit at the Emperor’s right hand.

  As Valerius stood to attention, the general studied him with a hint of amusement in the light blue eyes.

  ‘I had expected you to be older.’ The voice was deep, the accent cultured, perhaps exaggerated to counter the detractors who said his family came from rough plebeian origins. ‘A year ago, Seneca talked of you as the next Scipio: a general in the making. I see a young man with little experience but a surfeit of conceit. Enough, in any case, to force his way into my command and embarrass one of my officers.’

  The general paused, but Valerius didn’t respond to the implied rebuke.

  ‘And yet the young man is a Hero of Rome.’ Vitellius’s eyes took in the wooden hand. ‘And he has made great sacrifices for the Empire. They tell me you fight as well with the sword in your left hand as you once did with your right.’ Now how did he know that, Valerius wondered? ‘Perhaps we should put on an entertainment. A Hero of Rome against my best swordsman. What do you think?’

  For answer, Valerius pulled the imperial seal from his tunic and held
it out so that Vitellius could see exactly what it was. ‘I think I am not some two-headed snake to be paraded for your garrison’s entertainment, general. I am here on a mission from the Emperor and I will carry it out with your support … or without it.’

  ‘You have it, of course,’ Vitellius nodded, untroubled by the lack of deference from the younger man. ‘But first I must know the substance of this mysterious assignment. Perhaps you wish to march out at dawn with my legion at your back? I am sure the Emperor would be most pleased if you were to add Dacia to the list of Rome’s provinces.’

  Valerius smiled politely. They both knew the last thing the Emperor wanted was more barbarians to worry about. ‘You have a tribune on your staff, Publius Sulla?’

  ‘A fine young officer, diligent and ambitious.’

  ‘I would like to talk to him; he may have information of value to my investigation. It is possible that he will have to return with us to Rome … with your permission, of course.’

  The lines on Vitellius’s broad forehead deepened.

  ‘I am afraid that may be difficult.’ He walked to a cloth map pinned to the far wall and pointed to a position beyond the winding blue ribbon of the river. ‘The boy has been pining for an independent command, as you young men do. You know our situation?’ Valerius shook his head. ‘The Seventh, soon to be followed by the Fourth, has been sent here to curb the ambitions of Coson, the Dacian king across the river there, who seeks to annex land for his tribe on the west bank. Coson knows Rome will not countenance it, but for reasons of internal politics he must be seen to make the attempt. A number of small parties have crossed by boat to the east – here, here and here – some of them made up of warriors, others entire families of dispossessed farmers. We have sent them all back, peacefully where possible, by force if not. Your barbarian, young Verrens, appreciates force. At present, however, we are in a period of negotiation. Coson has withdrawn his warriors ten miles from the line of the river in return for a substantial subsidy. To ensure this bargain is adhered to I have set up an outpost, here.’ The position he marked was well into Dacian territory. ‘Publius Sulla commands there.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Some wine?’

  * * *

  ‘Why can’t he just send a messenger and bring Publius back?’ Serpentius wondered suspiciously.

  Valerius adjusted his bedroll. ‘It’s a matter of face. His and mine. He’s testing us to see how far we’re prepared to go to complete Nero’s task. Maybe he doesn’t want to lose a promising officer, maybe he can’t afford to lose any officers. It happens. A legion is never at full complement and this is a complicated command.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t like it either, but the only power we have is the power of this seal and these uniforms. If we sit and wait for Publius to come back – and the chances are he’s been warned not to – that power diminishes every day. First we’ll be sneered at, then we’ll be laughed at, and after that … well, we’ll never get Publius Sulla out of here.’

  ‘So we cross the river?’ Marcus sounded thoughtful.

  ‘We cross at dawn. We ride to the outpost and we bring Publius back.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t want to come?’

  ‘He’ll come.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t …?’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, and we’ll have an escort of twenty auxiliary cavalry from the fort. But that won’t be necessary. He’ll come, for his family’s honour, and because if he doesn’t he knows his career is finished. Vitellius will eventually be forced to send him back in chains.’

  Marcus looked at the two others. They hadn’t signed up to go beyond the Empire’s boundaries. Heracles nodded immediately. Serpentius hesitated, then followed suit.

  ‘Dawn then,’ Marcus said, and wrapped himself in his blanket.

  Valerius sat for a few moments before dousing the oil lamp. He pulled his own blanket over his body and closed his eyes. But he didn’t sleep.

  Because tomorrow they were going into the unknown.

  XXI

  POPPAEA WAS ALONE now, and she had never felt more frightened. Cornelius Sulla had been her only link to Petrus and now he was gone. She shuddered as she remembered how Nero had delighted in showing her the avenue of obscene lumps of charcoal that were all that remained of the blazing pyres. He had taken particular pleasure in pointing out Cornelius’s grinning skull and recalling details of his agonies that had brought her close to fainting away. At first she had feared he was singling her out and that at any moment a squad of Praetorians would arrive to arrest her. But this was Nero. He took a perverse pride in the unmasking of the Christian at the heart of his court and the way the one-handed tribune, Valerius, had been duped into achieving it. Another triumph for Torquatus, the master spy. The more her husband revealed, the clearer it became that someone close to Valerius must be a traitor. Nero laughed as he told how the Praetorian commander’s ‘useless louts’ had lost all trace of Valerius and his men as they tracked Lucina Graecina. Yet within a few hours of Valerius’s confronting Cornelius Sulla, the young aristocrat was locked away. The only explanation was that Fabia’s friend was being betrayed by one of his own men.

  Her heart quickened as she recalled the glance she had shared with Valerius. She had been aware of him from the moment she and Nero had walked down the stairway into the crowded room, his youth and stern features marking him among the inebriated laughter and pink, grinning faces. She had sensed a power in him that, in its own way, rivalled the power of Petrus. The artificial hand fascinated her, although she would not have noticed it without Fabia’s prompting because he carried it so naturally. She had never witnessed such a magnificent combination of anger and torment as Valerius had shown when the beasts were unleashed on their helpless victims. Here was a man to be taken seriously. A man to be feared. A champion. And she had never needed the services of a champion more.

  She had convinced herself that Valerius was the only man who could help her. She told herself he had responded to her mute appeal. But what could he do? Caesar had commissioned him to hunt down the very man who had given her hope. It was impossible.

  With that thought came despair. She felt her world crumble; a fracturing of the mind that walked hand in hand with panic-stricken terror. What did a single glance mean? She was deluding herself. No man alive could help her now. Slowly, she walked out to the balcony and leaned across the parapet. Far below she could see the temples and the columns and the basilicas and the figures scurrying between them. She raised her arms and pushed her upper body forward until her toes barely touched the floor and the worked stone of the balustrade cut into her waist. One more inch and it would be finished. One more inch and there would be no turning back. The weight of her head and shoulders would carry her over the edge and she would plunge on to those stones so far below. Her head spun. One more inch. She must have the courage. Just one more inch.

  She took a breath.

  ‘Poppaea?’

  The moment was gone.

  ‘Poppaea?’

  She turned and the mask resumed its customary position.

  ‘I am here, Caesar.’ She allowed a smile to touch her voice as she walked back into the room where Nero awaited her. He was breathing heavily and the shining pink face made her think of a freshly washed pig.

  ‘I was concerned for you, my love.’

  ‘And I am grateful for your concern, Caesar, but as you can see it is not necessary.’

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ he said. His tone told her what was coming next. ‘Because I have a special treat for you tonight.’

  He took her gently by the hand and led her towards the room she thought of as his torture chamber.

  XXII

  VALERIUS NOTICED THAT the Tungrian escort commander was nervous and that surprised him. Vitellius had insisted that such patrols beyond the river were routine. Still, he doubted that the legionary commander had ever ventured into Dacia with an escort of fewer than a thousand men. This was different. Perhaps the ma
n had reason to be concerned. Valerius’s hand automatically reached up to stroke the golden boar amulet. It had become his talisman since the day he had taken it from Maeve’s neck as she lay amongst the countless thousands of dead on the field of Boudicca’s last battle. He had convinced himself the glittering metal was invested with the indomitable spirit and fierce pride she had carried to her grave. It had never failed him and he had a feeling he had never needed it more than he did now. They were gathered in front of the fortress gates, twenty auxiliary cavalry wearing chain link vests over tunics that had once been red, and four in the black and silver of the Praetorian Guard. They waited in uneasy silence, for this was the hour that forced each man to face his thoughts and fears alone. In the chill darkness just before dawn a ghostly blanket of silver drifted around them in the torchlight. The mist hid everything beyond ten paces, but the ever-present rush of vast waters pinpointed the river’s position away to their left.

  The auxiliary leader, Festus, had briefed his men the previous night, but now he repeated the orders for the benefit of Valerius and the others. ‘It should be simple. We will cross the bridge and ride south to the base of the hills, then on to the fort. Eight miles. Two hours at most. Stay alert. Listen for orders. With Fortuna’s favour we won’t even smell a Dacian. When we get there, we do what we have to do and then we ride home. Any questions?’

  Valerius shook his head. Curious that there was no mention of Publius Sulla, but he supposed the decurion was being sensible. No point in inflaming an already awkward situation.

  They walked the horses across the bridge, their hooves rapping on the thick wooden planks and echoing eerily in the fog. In the darkness, the slim structure seemed to go on for ever, and the Danuvius, oily, black and swirling, ran worryingly close below. The awesome power of that huge volume of water made Valerius feel a little unsteady.