When the tall figure stepped out into the street ahead, he was surprised, but not concerned. Why should a man with six armed guards fear one with no sword, not even a belt? Valerius wore a long-sleeved tunic against the morning chill, but he was clearly unarmed.
‘You’re out early today, my hero. What’s wrong? The ghosts keeping you awake?’
The words were accompanied by a sneer, but the mocking grin vanished as the young Roman marched silently towards him. Valerius’s face might have been carved from stone and his eyes glowed red in the morning sun. Before Rodan was aware of it he was only feet away and for the first time the centurion felt a thrill of fear. ‘Wait,’ he cried. Two of the Praetorians drew swords, but Valerius brought his left hand up to Rodan’s neck above his wolf breastplate, and by some piece of trickery a blade twinkled in the morning sunlight.
‘It’s only a very small knife.’ Valerius’s voice was soft, but it held the pitiless chill of the grave. ‘But it will make a very large hole in your throat. You’ve seen a man’s throat cut, Rodan? Of course you have. They might kill me, but I’ll still have the satisfaction of watching you bleed out. Tell them to put the swords away.’
Rodan hesitated, but only for a moment. He nodded and the two Praetorians stepped back.
‘If I hear you’ve been anywhere near my house again, centurion, I will rip out your guts and hang you with them from the nearest tree. Do you understand? Stay away from my family, or I promise I’ll kill you, and you know me well enough to believe that I keep my promises.’
The Praetorian looked into the dark eyes and saw only certainty there. A shiver ran through him as he remembered the day in Caligula’s circus when he had looked into those same eyes and seen his death. Rodan had fought on the German frontier; he was no coward. In his mind, he drew his sword and rammed it deep into the other man’s belly, but he remembered the stories he had heard and his hands stayed by his side.
Valerius studied his enemy’s face and knew he’d won, but it was a small victory and he had no doubt it would come at a price. He turned his back and walked away. He’d only gone ten paces when Rodan found his voice.
‘Did I hear a donkey breaking wind?’ The centurion’s harsh shout broke the silence. ‘No, I’m mistaken. It was the last gasp of a dying man. Do you hear that, my Hero of Rome? You’re a dead man.’ Valerius turned to face him, but Rodan was back with his guards and every one had his sword clear of its scabbard. Hatred made the ruined face uglier still. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It doesn’t matter whether you succeed or fail, you’re going to die. It’s all arranged. You and your father and sister are all going to die.’
XXIX
IT WASN’T UNTIL early afternoon that Valerius received word from Marcus. When he arrived at the apartment he was surprised to find their visitor was Saul of Tarsus, the dark-visaged easterner who had been with Seneca at his father’s house.
‘My apologies for the delay. My lord Seneca did not wish to entrust a servant with such an important message, nor did he feel it should be carried in written form. My profession requires me to memorize quite complex pieces of information, therefore he decided it would be prudent to await my return.’ He asked for a wax writing block and on it drew the letters MCVII, and a narrow outline that Valerius recognized. ‘The Christians use it as a symbol of recognition,’ Saul explained. ‘You were correct in your assumption that it represents a fish. The men Christus chose as his original followers were fishermen, so the symbol seemed appropriate. See how easy it is to draw?’ He ran over the outline again. ‘Merely a single straight line, then a curve back to cross the initial line and create the tail. Think of two men talking in the street. The one believes his companion is also a Christian, but he cannot be certain. He scuffs his feet in the dust. Two simple movements and we have a fish. If the other man does not recognize it he is not a member of the sect. In this instance it is the orientation of the fish that is important. Was the head pointing up, down, right or left, indicating north, south, east or west?’
‘The head was to the left. West.’
‘Then the meeting place you are looking for is west of the inscription’s position.’
Valerius shook his head in frustration. ‘That still leaves a quarter of the city, part of the sixth, seventh and ninth districts at least.’
Saul nodded gravely. ‘Ah, but there is more to learn.’
‘The seventh district,’ Heracles cried. ‘See, M C VII.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Saul cautioned. ‘Yes, the numerals are significant, but not in such an unsubtle way. The initials M and C indicate a person or a place, but to identify this person they must be transposed. So CM. To those who know CM, the name will provide a location.’
‘So, we find this CM and go to his house?’ Marcus suggested.
The bearded man allowed himself a slight smile. ‘VII. Seven. The ceremony will be held within seven blocks of the house of the man or woman CM.’
A bitter laugh emerged from the gloom at the back of the room where Serpentius had been listening. ‘You talk in circles and make as little sense as a temple priest. Seven blocks in any direction? You’re telling us to search four hundred houses. This is just foolishness.’
Saul turned to Valerius. ‘You must understand that Petrus lives in constant danger of discovery or betrayal, and has done so for thirty years and more. Deceit and subterfuge are second nature to him. On the one hand, he cannot pass on his message without placing himself at the mercy of those he is forced to trust. On the other, he protects himself by concealing his true identity from all but a few of his followers, and those few will be unknown to each other. I doubt there are four men in all Rome who know who and where he is.’
‘Then he is impossible to find.’
‘Not impossible, not for a man of resource. The fish pointed west, so the meeting place will be to the west of the house. You will recognize it by another fish inscription. Petrus is at his most vulnerable when he is spreading the word of Christus. This he does once each calendar month, on the Sabbath day closest to the nones, beginning at the seventh hour.’
‘Sabbath?’ Valerius didn’t recognize the word.
‘Holy day,’ Saul explained. ‘These Christians have trouble agreeing many things. Those who wish to distance themselves from the Judaeans favour a Sunday. Petrus, who is a traditionalist, prefers Saturday.’
‘But that means …?’
‘Yes, my young friend. It means that you have less than three hours to locate CM and the building where the meeting will be held. Three hours to find Petrus … and deliver him to lord Seneca.’
Valerius recognized the subtle threat in the final five words, but he barely registered it. His mind raced. Lucina Graecina knew what the sign meant, if not Petrus’s true identity. And if Lucina Graecina knew, Torquatus now had the information. He had three hours to get to Petrus before the Emperor’s secret police did.
They waited until Saul had left the building.
‘The list?’ Valerius demanded. Serpentius placed it on the table beside Saul’s drawing of the fish. They crowded over it, but Valerius had already noted the significance of one name.
‘Cerialis. What do we know of him?’
‘Cerialis Marcellus, the baker. One of the merchants who had regular contact with Lucina Graecina,’ Marcus said decisively. ‘He has a house in the seventh district, beyond the Campus Agrippae on the Via Pinciana. I was out there yesterday. He owns four bakeries in and around the city.’
‘How long will it take to reach there?’
‘An hour at most.’
‘Then we need to find the meeting place.’
‘It’s a busy area,’ Marcus admitted. ‘A warren of shops, houses and workshops, but I have an idea. One of the bakeries he owns is also in the seventh district, quite close to his home. People come and go from a shop like that all the time. Plenty of room there for a meeting and the place will be empty because bakers tend to work in the early morning. I doubt it will take us more than half an
hour to find it.’
‘Cloaks and swords,’ Valerius said decisively, making for the door. ‘We’ll meet at the house when you’re ready. Serpentius? Find your way to the bakery and wait for us there. I want to know who goes in, who comes out, and if the place is already being watched.’
He rushed back to the Clivus Scauri, his mind calculating the possibilities. If they could reach the meeting place before Torquatus and his thugs. If they could get Petrus away. What then? He would be gambling with the lives of twenty thousand innocents. Did he have the right to do that? Did he have the stomach? He would only find out when he got there.
When he reached his door he almost collided with a hurrying figure coming the other way. ‘Father!’
The old man smiled distractedly. ‘You mustn’t shout, Valerius. You will disturb your sister. And now I must bid you good day. I am late for an engagement.’
It took a heartbeat for Valerius to realize what Lucius was saying. He heard the shake in his voice. ‘You’re going to a meeting of these Christians?’
The benign mask fractured and the possibilities flew across his father’s face like a flock of disturbed partridge. Truth? Lie? Bluster? Each second of delay making an answer less necessary.
‘You can’t go, Father. I won’t allow it.’ Valerius placed his arm across the doorway to add a physical edge to the appeal.
‘Cannot? Will not allow it?’ The words emerged as a whisper of disbelief.
‘Must not. For all our sakes.’
‘You, my own son, think to forbid me? Are you mad?’
‘Not mad, Father.’ Valerius kept his voice low. ‘I am trying to save your life.’
Lucius hissed with suppressed anger. ‘My life is mine to spend where and when I wish, and I will not be dictated to in my own … in this house.’
‘Your life, perhaps, but not Olivia’s and not mine. Torquatus knows. They will take you and they will hurt you, Father, and you will tell them everything they want to know. Everything. I have seen it. You will give them your friends and your family to stop the pain. You will give them Petrus, and Seneca and the man Saul. I can’t let you go.’
The older man stared at him, and for the first time in his life Valerius saw contempt in his father’s eyes. ‘If you believe that, young man, then you do not know me. Perhaps you are not my son after all.’ He shrugged his cloak around him, raised his head and tried to push past Valerius. ‘Will you physically restrain your father? I think not.’
Valerius closed his eyes. What could he do? Short of wrestling Lucius to the ground he had no option but to let him go. Then he heard the sound of running feet behind him. Marcus!
He pushed his father back to clear the doorway. ‘Marcus,’ he called. ‘I need you in here. Send the others after Serpentius.
‘I can’t stop you, Father, but Marcus can and will. He will keep you safe here. Please do as he says.’ He reached out a hand to touch Lucius on the shoulder, but the old man flinched away from him like a child avoiding a blow.
‘Master?’ Tiberius, the steward, appeared from the kitchens and his frightened eyes flicked from Valerius to his father.
‘Do not concern yourself, Tiberius,’ Valerius reassured the elderly retainer. ‘It is only a minor disagreement.’ He nodded and turned to walk out into the sunshine.
‘But master,’ Tiberius insisted. ‘The dark-haired slave girl who was here earlier. She insisted I give you a message.’
Valerius froze. ‘Yes?’
‘She said “today, at the seventh hour”.’ Tiberius added the address of a street in the Seventh district and Valerius felt the world stop. He turned to his father. ‘Will Ruth be there?’ Lucius didn’t reply, but his ashen face answered for him. Valerius ran for the door.
By now it was past noon and he found his progress impeded by citizens returning to their families for the midday meal. His way took him beneath the palaces of the eastern Palatine, past the Temple of Divine Claudius, and towards the Forum, where he turned left through the familiar temples and pillars. When he reached the beginning of the Via Flaminia the road became more open and he was able to pick up his pace, but by the time he reached the gardens of the Campus Agrippae and turned up the hill, the streets had closed in on him again and he was forced to push through the crowds.
As he ran, his mind was filled with Ruth’s serene face and he prayed he would be in time. He tried to understand what would make his father take such a risk. Of course, one man would be more dedicated in his worship than another, and some gods demanded more dedication from those who worshipped them. But for most Romans the strength of devotion was in direct proportion to the magnitude of their need. If a trader was desperate for a big grain contract, naturally he would sacrifice a fine ram to Mercury to encourage his support. Each day, Julia poured a libation to the kitchen god to insure against culinary disaster. And Valerius would gladly go on his knees before any god he believed could help cure Olivia, even though he knew, deep in his heart, that such help was unlikely to be forthcoming. But why would a man who had spent his life in the service of Rome defy Roman law, betray his Roman friends and risk his life, and that of his family, for a condemned criminal and a band of ragged Judaean fishermen? It defied logic. He acknowledged that the offer of eternal life, qualified and flawed though it was, would attract those who despaired of their current circumstances, or were naive enough to enter into a pact that effectively sacrificed their free will for a place in some unlikely Elysian paradise. Ruth had been raised to believe, but his father? Perhaps Petrus was a magician who kept his supporters in thrall by spells or potions. Yet he had seen the Judaean in his guise as Joshua, the healer, and nothing would have led him to that conclusion. Lucina Graecina, a Roman to the tip of her exquisitely manicured fingernails, had been prepared to sacrifice everything in the cause of Christus, and Cornelius Sulla had stayed silent under the most excruciating torture. Lucina had been no fool, and neither, though he had acted one, was Cornelius. Eventually, Valerius was forced to give up on a puzzle to which his brain could find no answer.
‘Valerius, here!’ He turned to see Serpentius emerging from a side street, his narrow face flushed with concern. ‘We’re too late. The Praetorians have the place surrounded.’
The Spaniard’s words stopped Valerius like a hammer blow, and he fought the paralysis that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘How far to the bakery?’ he demanded. However bad the situation, there was always the possibility of salvaging something. If he had learned nothing else from the disaster in Britain he had learned that.
‘Just up here, but we will have to be quick.’
Valerius followed the Spaniard’s tall figure through the throng as Serpentius’s long strides carried him swiftly ahead. They were approaching an open market place when they heard the commotion. To one side, a crowd had gathered to watch a young black bear dance at the end of a chain. Serpentius quickly slipped into the anonymous fold, but Valerius stood transfixed. Dashing down the roadway was a slim figure holding her blue dress up around her knees to allow her to run more freely. It seemed she must be stopped by the wall of people ahead of her, but the power of her fear gave her passage. Now she ran directly towards Valerius, her long black hair flying, and he could see the panic in her eyes and feel the pounding of her heart.
Ruth.
Thirty paces behind and gaining with every step followed four Praetorians, their iron-shod sandals clattering on the cobbled surface and the swords rattling in their scabbards.
‘Stop her!’
Valerius’s heart stopped as he recognized Rodan’s voice. With anyone else he would have taken his chances and tried to talk her out of trouble, but he knew there would be no mercy from the Praetorian. Rodan would kill Ruth just to spite him. He lowered his head, but not before his despairing eyes had locked on hers for a fleeting second.
It was enough for the Judaean girl to recognize him, and through her wild panic Ruth felt an impossible surge of hope. The Christians had been waiting for Petrus to make his entrance w
hen Rodan’s soldiers burst in. By good fortune, she had been standing in shadow on the stairs and the explosion of violence had frozen her in position. As the Praetorians lashed out with clubs at the small band of worshippers, she had recovered enough to slip quietly away to the upper room where Cerialis kept his grain. It was from there, through a narrow window, that she made her escape. She had been a few feet from safety when one of the Praetorian guards noticed and made a grab at her arm. Somehow, she’d managed to slip from his grasp, tearing her dress in the process, but his shouts alerted the others. She bit back the impulse to scream out Valerius’s name, knowing that it could condemn them both. The terror that threatened to explode her brain eased. Somehow she knew he would save her.
‘Stop that bitch!’
Valerius took in the scene in a heartbeat. Ruth’s long legs flying as she closed the gap between them. The Praetorians just twenty paces behind, Rodan at their head, impossible to outrun, and, even with Serpentius at his side, impossible to outfight. Behind him, he heard more shouts. They were trapped. The day by the river flashed through his head. In the same instant he saw the flames climbing Cornelius Sulla’s body. Lucina naked in the cage. A girl and her baby torn to pieces by wild beasts. There was no time for panic. No time for indecision. The despair that was tearing him apart had to be pushed to the darkest recesses of his mind. He had only seconds. He reached below the cloak.
Ruth’s body collided with his, her arms searching for him. He caught her and held her; felt her softness and her warmth and the agitated fluttering of her terror. She looked into his eyes and behind the tears he saw a mixture of fear and love and hope. He wanted to tell her how he could have returned her love. He wanted to tell her … instead, he thrust the dagger in his left hand up below her breastbone and felt the moment it entered the pulsing life force of her heart.
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