With a final squeeze, he turned and walked from the room. As if in a dream, Domitia felt herself follow him to the doorway and draw the curtain. She couldn’t breathe, but she knew that if she opened her mouth she would scream until she had no screams left.
Tulla’s groan brought her back from the void. She was a Corbulo. A decision must be made. She remembered seeing her father, the eyes slightly open, the sword still held tight by his flesh. No, not her father at all. It was her father’s body, but the essence of him, the spirit that made him who he was, had gone. It did not look so difficult.
She bent low over Tulla and smoothed the sweat-damp hair from her brow. ‘My poor, poor child …’
XXXVII
‘Publius Sulla, an old comrade from the Danuvius frontier, seeks an audience with the Emperor Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus.’
The guard at the entrance to the great Golden House studied the petitioner. Steady grey eyes, sharp, angular features and, most striking of all, a mottled purple stump where the right hand should have shown beneath his sleeve. A noble face, the warrior’s scars carried with pride; the man wore a patrician’s heavy gold rings and a fine toga that would have cost the Praetorian a month’s wages. ‘Wait here, sir,’ he ordered, and marched off to consult with his commander.
Valerius had used the name Publius Sulla before and he was confident it would get Vitellius’s attention, especially in conjunction with the physical description of the man claiming it. The original Publius had been one of Vitellius’s tribunes in the Seventh Claudia, an earnest young disciple of the mystic Christus, dead by his own hand in an earthen encampment in Dacia. It had seemed a reasonable enough subterfuge when he’d discussed it with Serpentius. Standing before this glittering jewel-encrusted edifice in the shadow of the enormous gold statue he realized it was as substantial as the diaphanous veil that didn’t quite hide a courtesan’s modesty. If he’d misread Vitellius’s mood, the Emperor would throw him into his deepest dungeon to rot, or more likely have his throat cut at leisure. He counted on their old friendship to keep him alive in the first instance, and on Vitellius’s well-tried instinct for survival to keep them both that way in the longer term. Vitellius had never sought the purple; his generals had forced it upon him when a refusal would have meant death. But he had been Emperor for eight full months, ruler of more than forty million people. Wielding that kind of power would change any man. The question was just how much and in what way?
The guard returned, accompanied by five others. A substantial presence for a single one-armed man. Yet their number raised a small glow of hope in Valerius’s breast. It meant Vitellius recognized the name and knew the worth of the man who used it. In addition, the way the guards carried themselves gave no hint of a threat, only ill-concealed curiosity and a readiness to act in whatever manner the situation demanded.
‘Come with us, please.’
They escorted Valerius through the entrance hall, along broad corridors floored with the finest mosaics, beneath ceilings of fretted ivory. Every turn brought new artworks from across the Empire. Pottery from Egypt, statuary from Greece, gold ornaments studded with gemstones imported from the eastern lands beyond Parthia. To right and left, painted plaster walls mimicked the antelope-grazed gardens that surrounded the house and the huge lake that was its centrepiece. No place for the mundane or the mediocre in Nero’s masterpiece, and Valerius reflected on the over-inflated vanity that had inspired it. Nero had been determined to outdo his illustrious predecessors and stopped at nothing to achieve it. Much of the opposition against him had its roots in the enormous sums he’d invested in this place. In a way it contributed as much to his downfall as Corbulo’s death or Galba’s outraged sensibility. Had it been worth it, he wondered?
Eventually they turned through double doors and entered a vast, echoing receiving hall. At the far end, on a raised dais, Valerius recognized the golden throne that had once been occupied by Nero and later by Galba. It was empty. The soldiers led him forward to the foot of the steps leading to the throne and told him to remain there. They withdrew and he heard the doors close behind him. In the brooding silence that followed, Valerius’s gaze drifted to his feet. A dark stain of what could only be dried blood cast his situation in a more ominous light. He was still wondering at its origin when an odd creaking sound reached him from the far side of the dais. First a great dome of a head appeared beside the throne, followed by wide shoulders draped in Imperial purple. Eventually, the entire substantial bulk of Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus lumbered from the levered contraption that had saved him using the steps. The Emperor stood for a moment and stared at the man below with an expression of irritated confusion before slumping into his throne. Valerius took a step forward, but Vitellius stalled him with a raised hand and made him wait for a long moment before he spoke.
‘So, Hero of Rome, this time you bring me not one ghost, but two. What portents am I to take from this after what followed our last such meeting?’ If the words contained a disturbing mix of weariness, anger and uncertainty, those that followed held a definite hint of menace. ‘I watched you die in the arena at Cremona. I saw the sword fall and the blood spill and I mourned my old friend Gaius Valerius Verrens. But hear this, Valerius, it would take but a click of my fingers to make it so again.’
‘What happened was none of my doing.’ Valerius didn’t flinch from the Emperor’s accusing stare. ‘Otho offered a way forward without bloodshed …’
‘Otho is dead.’ Vitellius’s bark carried all the authority of his office. ‘And I am Rome’s Emperor, and I say any blood shed was worthwhile.’ Valerius shook his head. ‘They said you gloated over the bodies of the dead at Bedriacum, but I told them Aulus Vitellius would never have debased himself so.’
The big man hauled himself to his feet and stood shaking in front of the golden throne, a towering figure full of threat and power. ‘The Aulus Vitellius you knew was not the Emperor of Rome. Those who died on that field were my enemies. Why should I mourn them?’
‘Because they were Romans.’ The words pierced the Emperor like a spear thrust and Vitellius groaned and sank back on the cushions. Valerius saw he’d been wrong. The outer man might be as corpulent as ever, but the inner Vitellius was somehow diminished. Aulus Vitellius could never have been described as a man of action, but at his core there had always been a great heart to match his great girth. That spirit persuaded him to use his fortune to buy grain to feed the starving of his province of Africa, when another would have let them suffer and prospered from it. It gave him the strength to survive the turbulent final years with Nero. And it inspired the courage to pick up Caesar’s sword when the legions of Germania hailed him Emperor. Now, Valerius could see it was gone, sucked from him by the defeat at Cremona and the knowledge that the world was crumbling beneath his feet.
‘Why have you come here?’
‘I carry an offer from Titus Flavius Vespasian.’ Valerius allowed his voice to harden. ‘It will mean exile, but he guarantees you life and your family at your side. Your son will have his protection and the promise of advancement.’
Vitellius’s domed head came up and Valerius saw a shudder run through the hunched figure. ‘I did not accept your previous offer, from Otho; why should I even consider this now that I am Emperor by the will of the Senate and people of Rome?’ Fury made his voice shake and the anger seemed to give him new strength. ‘By the will of the Senate and people of Rome.’ He emphasized each word with a bang of his right fist against the palm of his left hand. ‘Titus Flavius Vespasian dares not stir from his fly-blown sand spit because he fears the might of Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus. Instead, he sends his lackeys,’ the plump features twisted into a sneer, ‘including one Gaius Valerius Verrens. Why should I fear him? My army—’
‘Was swept aside at Cremona.’ Despite his best efforts, Valerius responded to the jibe. ‘It no longer exists.’
‘Armies can be replaced,’ Vitellius countered furiously. ‘I still have the support of
the legions of Germania and Britannia, Gaul and Hispania. Even now they are marching to our aid.’
‘Armies, perhaps, but not generals. Who among them can you trust, Vitellius? Caecina Alienus, the man who helped place you on this throne, has deserted you. He might have been no soldier, but he knew a month ago that you could not win. Five legates taken at Cremona, their legions humiliated and scattered.’
‘The Guard and the people will fight. They at least will not turn their backs on me.’ The look of desperation in the pale blue eyes was pitiful to behold. ‘I could be a great Emperor, Valerius.’ His beefy hands clenched into fists and his heavy frame shook like a man trying to bear the pain of an arrow in his belly. ‘We spoke once of the Rome we both wanted. A strong Rome, a prosperous Rome, a Rome untainted by the stain of corruption. I can give you that Rome, Valerius, but only if you help me.’
It was not the cry of despair of an Emperor on the brink of disaster, but a plea from one friend to another. Valerius felt a prickle behind his eyes and something seemed to be caught in his throat, but he held the other man’s gaze. The words had to be said.
‘It is too late.’
A great roar of anguish and despair echoed from the marbled walls.
‘Father?’ Valerius turned to find a slim, dark-haired boy standing in the doorway with fear in his eyes. ‘Father, is something wrong?’
A groan emanated from the man on the platform, but when Valerius looked again he was surprised to see Aulus Vitellius lumbering his way downwards one stair at a time. To his astonishment the Emperor’s face split in a smile of welcome.
‘I was just telling my old friend Valerius of the huge bear we killed in the woods outside Aricia. A passable imitation, don’t you think?’ He reached the floor panting with the effort. ‘My son Lucius. Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome.’
The boy’s dark eyes widened, but he remembered his manners enough to produce a low respectful bow. ‘You have won the Corona Aurea?’
‘Valerius was the sole survivor of the Temple of Claudius in Britannia.’ Vitellius’s voice betrayed his indulgence. ‘He fought off a thousand barbarian champions and won great honour for his Empire and his family. But that is for another day, Lucius. For now, you must leave us alone. We have important matters of state to discuss.’
Lucius bowed again. ‘My apologies for interrupting you, sir. I was—’
Vitellius stepped forward and placed a protective arm around his son. ‘Please, Lucius …’
The boy shot a startled glance at Valerius, obviously surprised at this public display of affection, before darting towards the doorway. ‘One day I will win the Corona Aurea,’ he shouted as he left the room.
When the door closed behind his son, the smile faded from Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus’s face and his shoulders sagged. He’d been a fool to appoint the boy his heir, he saw that now. So young and so innocent of worldly troubles, Lucius would have been devoured by the trials of office and the men who sought to take it from him. All it had done was increase the danger to him. The giant frame in the purple toga seemed to collapse in on itself like a punctured wineskin. Valerius stepped forward to steady his friend as he threatened to collapse.
‘He does you credit, Vitellius,’ he struggled to find the words, ‘and you him.’
‘Tell me how I can save them, Valerius,’ the Emperor pleaded. ‘That is all that matters now.’
Valerius repeated the offer he’d memorized in the headquarters tent of Marcus Antonius Primus, remembering a similar offer made all those months ago on the Rhenus frontier. Though the detail was different, both had the same aim: to end this ruinous conflict without further bloodshed. He prayed to Jupiter and Mars that the second was more successful than the first.
‘You will be the guests of Vespasian on Sicilia,’ Valerius assured him, ‘your safety guaranteed by his public pronouncement that no harm will befall you. Watched, naturally, you would hardly expect otherwise, but free to go where you will within the confines of the island as long as you forgo politics. Lucius will take his place on the cursus honorum and the Emperor,’ he saw Vitellius flinch at the word, ‘will take an interest in his progress to high and honourable office. You will not lack funds. A sum of one hundred million sesterces has been set aside for your welfare.’
He searched Vitellius’s face for some reaction. No matter the peril of his situation, he was asking this man to give up more power than any other had wielded. The outcome was not in doubt, but if he had the will and a general at his side, Aulus Vitellius could prolong the civil war for months or even years. He didn’t have to fight a pitched battle. He could withdraw south and threaten Rome from the hills of Campania, while the German and Gaulish legions still loyal to him attacked from the north. But the man in the purple toga only nodded solemnly to each suggestion – until a single name slipped from Valerius’s lips.
‘First you must renounce your claim to the throne. When that is done, surrender yourself and your family to Titus Flavius Sabinus and …’
‘Sabinus?’ Vitellius’s eyes widened in horror. ‘How can I put my faith in a man who has been plotting to have me murdered for months? Sabinus would as soon have me killed as pass his next stool.’ His voice shook with fury as he continued. ‘He thinks I don’t know about his intrigues with Saturninus and Trebellius. Aye, and the others, too. All the progress I’ve made, everything I have tried to do, has been undermined by one particular hand. The hand of Titus Flavius Sabinus. To place my trust in that man would be to put my head beneath an executioner’s sword.’
‘You have Vespasian’s word,’ Valerius urged, ‘publicly pledged, that you can trust Sabinus. Only the city prefect controls sufficient forces to keep you safe after you renounce your claim. His urban cohorts and the vigiles will surround the house until Vespasian’s legions arrive. There will be no reprisals against any Roman citizen who has supported you and the Praetorians will be granted immunity as long as they lay down their arms.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Vitellius shook his head. ‘Vespasian knows nothing of what is happening in Rome. Emperor, he calls himself? He is like the old beggar seeking pennies on the corner of the Forum in a pool of his own piss; blind, deaf and dumb. Sabinus has the forces to keep me safe? Sabinus does not even have the forces to keep himself safe. Six cohorts of Praetorian Guards are stationed in Rome and their commander can call on six more at need. Sabinus commands a few policemen and firefighters. The Guard could squash Sabinus like a grape in a walnut crusher. If they had their way he would already be dead. Only my forbearance has kept him alive, because he is Vespasian’s brother. Sabinus has been the dagger pointing at my heart ever since I first donned the purple. If …’ Valerius noticed a change in tone, almost as if another man had joined the conversation. ‘If I am to trust Sabinus, I must know the exact dispositions he has in place to safeguard myself and my family. How many troops he has and who leads them. Where he will place them and his lines of retreat should they be overcome. How many senators will support him and their identities.’ Valerius suppressed a growl of frustration as Vitellius listed his conditions. He was demanding that Sabinus reveal his entire strength and the foundations that underpinned it. If Sabinus conceded, he’d be placing himself and every one of his supporters entirely in the Emperor’s hands. Vitellius saw his disquiet, but carried on relentlessly. ‘Understand this, Valerius. If I am to place my family under his protection, I must know they are safer than they would be under my own. If I am to give him my trust, then he must give me his.’
‘What if he will not provide this information?’
‘Then you must persuade him.’ Vitellius’s voice regained its Emperor’s authority. ‘You will arrange a meeting between Sabinus and myself at the Temple of Apollo in three days’ time, each of us to be accompanied by a single independent witness agreed by the other. My witness will be Silius Italicus, who was consul last year, and who I hope will be agreeable to Sabinus.’
Valerius’s heart sank at the thought of another
perilous, potentially fatal mission, but he knew Vitellius was right. If the two men had differences, better to work them out face to face. Who else had the insight into the minds of both Vitellius and, through Cerialis and Primus, Sabinus? If an atmosphere of trust was to be created, who else had the means? He still had doubts Sabinus would agree to the Emperor’s terms. Yet even if all he could do was persuade the city prefect that a meeting was worthwhile, he would have achieved something. Eventually he nodded agreement. ‘I will try. What hour would be best?’
Vitellius considered for a moment. ‘The fourth, I think. Least likely to interfere with my digestion, which will make Sabinus’s whining easier to stomach.’ He saw the other man’s look. ‘Oh, I am not the Vitellius of old, Valerius. I have known power and I would rather keep it than not. I said you do not understand, and it is true. The only things that have changed since we met at Colonia Agrippinensis are the names of the people who hold my life in their hands. I am like the man being torn apart by two stallions. The legionaries of the Praetorian Guard are the same men who hailed Aulus Vitellius Emperor outside Moguntiacum. Whatever Vespasian promises, they will never believe he will leave them alive. Do you really think they will stand back and allow me to hand Rome to the man they fear? Titus Flavius Sabinus may be a cockroach I would rather crush beneath my foot than talk to, but the lives of my family are at stake. I would negotiate with Hades himself if it would see them safe.’
Valerius bowed and turned to go. It was only then he remembered the significance of the Temple of Apollo. Servius Sulpicius Galba had sacrificed a white bull at the temple on the Palatine on the day he’d been cut to pieces in the Forum.
[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome Page 29
