Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7]

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Then he is a fool.’

  ‘No, just a man. Leave me now, I must think. He is to be watched, but make sure our friends in Asturica keep their distance. I want names,’ he repeated. ‘I want to know who he meets. Only then will I know why he is here.’

  ‘What if—?’

  Serpentius’s voice hardened. ‘If he cannot keep himself alive he is not the Valerius I knew. Now go.’

  Left alone in the home he had shared with his wife Serpentius’s shoulders slumped. He studied the walls of grey stone with their niches and shelves, the hearth in the centre of the floor with the smoke swirling up into the roof space, and the bed – not their bed, but similar to the one they’d once shared. Once this house had been vibrant and alive, filled with the sound of a woman’s laughter, a child’s hungry cries, and the contented silence of a man who wanted nothing more than what he had. Now it was sterile and soulless. Just an empty space. The very thought of it had sustained him through the long years of exile. So why did he feel a stranger here? A tear ran down his grizzled cheek, the first suggestion of weakness in many months.

  Was he still the Serpentius Valerius had known?

  He lifted his hand to his shaved head and his fingers explored the depression the width of his thumb just behind his right ear. Explored, but did not probe. Titus’s medicus had warned him against interfering with the wound, suffered as he’d tried to save the Emperor Vitellius’s son during the sack of Rome. He no longer experienced what Alexandros had called his absences. The medicus had drilled into his skull to release the fluid that had gathered there. Serpentius had been under the influence of distilled poppy during the operation, but Alexandros took great pleasure in describing every detail of the procedure. The medicus had laughed as he’d explained how even a slight blow near the wound would certainly result in the Spaniard’s death.

  Then there was the panic that had unmanned him in those early moments after he’d regained consciousness in the mine. If Valerius had come to Asturica Augusta for the reason he hoped, was he even capable of providing the help he would need?

  And was the Roman truly aware of the danger he faced?

  XXVI

  When the invitation to dine with Aulus Severus was delivered by a servant, Valerius’s first reaction was suspicion. This was certainly no social invitation. Severus had been complicit in wiping clean Petronius’s lodgings and destroying his papers, if he hadn’t actually ordered it. He must be aware by now that Valerius was a threat to his position, possibly even his life. The only explanation could be that he wanted to know how much progress Valerius had made. Calpurnia Severa could have told him that, and more. Had she arranged the invitation? The thought sent a guilty thrill through him. For all his good intentions and fine words she was a remarkably attractive and persuasive woman.

  That conviction returned when he was shown into the dining room and he was met with an amused smile from where she lay among the reclining figures on the cushioned divans around the low table. She wore a dress of aquamarine blue and her neighbour was the only other female in the company: a slim, dark-haired girl who barely glanced at the newcomer.

  One or two of the other faces were familiar. Severus, of course, the host, and head of Asturica’s ordo, lying back with a dreamy smile on his lined features and a silver cup held loosely in his right hand. The man to his left couldn’t have provided a greater contrast. If his scowl and the twitch in his right cheek were anything to judge by, Tiberius Claudius Proculus would rather have been anywhere else. As the dishes came and went, the camp prefect of the Sixth barely touched the sumptuous food. When he raised his cup Valerius noted that it seldom made contact with the thin lips. A man on edge. A man for whom a banquet was an unwelcome distraction from the other cares in his life.

  In the background, a male slave played a simple melody on a lyre. The music meant voices were necessarily raised to make themselves heard over the music. Valerius did his best to ignore Calpurnia and found himself in conversation with two other guests, both of them long-serving members of the ordo and therefore potentially members of the conspiracy. Atilius Rufus owned a brickworks and the tile factory Valerius had noticed on his first day in the city. The other man, Lucius Octavius Fronton, bought and sold grain, which was milled and turned into bread to supply the mines. He also had a wagon business that transported both supplies and gold. The girl beside Calpurnia Severa was Fronton’s daughter. Valerius attempted to draw him into conversation about his mining activities, but he was a nervous, taciturn man, tall and spare as a spear shaft. After ten minutes of evasion and forced silences the Roman decided to look more closely into Fronton’s background on another day.

  Atilius was much more prepared to talk, but the mining industry was of little interest to him apart from providing his clients with the wherewithal to add to their properties. A former soldier, he was interested in Valerius’s military achievements. Where had he served? Did he know this tribune or that? It turned out Atilius had been with Corbulo in Armenia and they had acquaintances in common from Valerius’s time in Syria. Eventually the talk drifted back to the local situation.

  ‘I hear the Sixth may soon be replaced by the full-strength Seventh,’ Atilius said. ‘That will quickly put these bandits in their place. No more poorly guarded convoys.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Fronton abruptly rose from his couch and dashed from the room. His daughter looked up in alarm and, whispering her excuses to Calpurnia, followed him out.

  ‘A minor indisposition I hope.’ Atilius frowned. ‘You were about to speak, prefect?’

  ‘I guard the convoys with as many men as I can afford.’ Proculus had only caught the last part of the conversation, but he was visibly incensed at any slight against his soldiers. ‘What did you say about the Sixth?’

  ‘That the Emperor will soon be replacing your detachment with a full legion. Our lads from the Seventh Galbiana, though now we must call them Gemina. My apologies if it is supposed to be secret.’ Atilius bowed his head. ‘I learned of it from a trader recently arrived from Tarraco. Perhaps you heard something too, Verrens?’

  Valerius shook his head, but he saw the look of consternation on Proculus’s face and the glance he shared with Severus. Clearly if there was any truth in it this wasn’t welcome news. Which raised the question why?

  Gradually, Valerius became aware of intense scrutiny from the other two men at the table, as if they were assessing him in some way. One was Proculus’s aide, Calpurnius Piso, an aristocratic young tribune of the Sixth who seemed to believe a conversation wasn’t a conversation unless it included the sound of his own voice. The other was a man of great interest to Valerius, but one he’d spent the evening studiously ignoring: Julius Licinius Ferox.

  He barely noticed Fronton return to the table with his daughter holding his arm, his thin face the colour of a time-worn sheet of papyrus. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the other end of the table. Ferox and Piso continued to stare at him. Piso’s puffy features were twisted into a sneer and he was whispering into the other man’s ear. Ferox was tall with dark hair styled in ringlets that fell to his neck, protruding front teeth and an elongated horsy face that matched Piso’s for arrogance. The praefectus metallorum had provided the escort of Parthians Valerius strongly suspected had intended to kill him. He held overall authority for the gold output from Asturica and his responsibilities included its safe transport to Tarraco. He was also the source of the excuses that bandit attacks and lack of manpower, of which Valerius had yet to see any evidence, were to blame for the shortage. Despite Melanius’s assurances, Valerius was certain of one thing. If a conspiracy did indeed exist to steal Vespasian’s gold, Ferox was up to his elongated neck in it.

  Valerius met the other man’s gaze and smiled, but the smile froze on his face as Piso’s overloud whisper reached his ears.

  ‘Of course, a man with only one hand is only half a man.’ He’d heard the opinion often enough, although seldom quite so blatantly, and learned to ignore it. Yet for some reason
this irritated him beyond measure. Perhaps it was the young tribune’s dismissive tone or the mocking look in his eyes as he said it, but Valerius felt a heat burning at the centre of him that threatened to explode into outright violence. ‘And good officers do not lose their hands. Good officers direct their soldiers like true equestrians. It is our birthright to command,’ Piso finished with condescending certainty.

  Valerius studied the young officer for a dozen heartbeats. A stillness seemed to settle over the room and he knew without having to look that Calpurnia Severa’s eyes were fixed on him. ‘Not to fight?’ he asked eventually.

  Piso blinked, unaware he’d been overheard. Valerius’s voice betrayed no emotion but some instinct made the young aristocrat shift on his couch. ‘To fight?’

  ‘Soldiers fight,’ Valerius persisted. ‘The equestrian class was Rome’s fighting force long before Marius formed his legions, is that not so, Atilius?’

  ‘True, true,’ Atilius muttered into his wine. ‘Only class that could afford horses, weapons and armour.’

  ‘So equestrians and patricians have to fight.’ Valerius smiled as he remembered the terrible day the First Adiutrix captured the eagle of the Twenty-first Rapax before being swept away in a maelstrom of blood and horror. The smile was so cold it could have frozen a jug of Setinian at twenty paces and Piso seemed to shrink into himself. ‘At First Bedriacum,’ Valerius continued, ‘Orfidius Benignus, the legate of the First Adiutrix, and every tribune on his staff, fought and died to the last man. So officers have to fight. Sometimes they have to fight and sometimes they have to die. Have you fought, tribune? Have you tasted another man’s blood on your lips? Felt the point of your gladius grind into his spine? Smelled the bitterness of his last breath? Looked into his eyes as he died?’ As he spoke he kept his own eyes fixed on Piso’s as if he was imagining that very moment.

  Piso’s cheeks turned a flaming red. ‘Of course I’ve fought,’ he bristled. ‘I’ve led search operations against the bandits.’

  ‘I said fight.’ Valerius laughed. ‘Not chase a few terrified peasants through the hills as if you were hunting wild dogs. When did you last stand shield to shield in a battle line?’ Piso didn’t answer and Valerius hadn’t expected him to. He knew the detachment of the Sixth had been at Legio throughout the civil war. He doubted Piso was the type to volunteer for active service. He had the pampered look of the fashionable young tribunes for whom six months with a legion was merely the next step on the cursus honorum. A period of tedium and overly close contact with the sweaty lower classes which must be endured if one was to advance. ‘So you don’t know what it’s like. Maybe you’d like to fight me?’ Valerius accompanied the challenge with a smile. Everyone else around the table thought it a joke, but Piso was looking into his eyes and he saw the lethal intent there. They stared at each other for a few moments before the younger man looked away.

  Calpurnia’s laugh broke the embarrassed silence and Valerius glanced across to find her staring at him and whispering to her companion. Severus saw the look they exchanged and sobered suspiciously quickly to enquire how Valerius’s search for Petronius progressed. The way the question was posed told Valerius the other man already knew the answer, but also that Calpurnia had kept her thoughts about his true mission to herself. Which was intriguing.

  ‘I’ve had little success, but I’m still hopeful,’ he said.

  ‘Then you will be with us for a while longer?’ Calpurnia enquired artlessly.

  ‘It seems so,’ Valerius admitted. ‘I think there’s still more to discover.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Her smile and the tilt of her head sent a shiver down his spine.

  Severus’s only reaction was a tight smile. Valerius turned away to where Atilius and his neighbour were talking about some local dispute. Valerius heard the name Saco mentioned.

  ‘My apologies for interrupting,’ he said. ‘I keep hearing the name Saco in conversation. I seem to have come across almost every other leading member of the ordo. Who is this mystery man?’

  ‘There is no mystery.’ Surprisingly, it was Severus who answered. ‘If there is a dispute in this city then you may be sure that Cornelius Aurelius Saco is at the heart of it. He plays one man against the other to the detriment of both. He says one thing and then does another. He builds a house on a foundation of sand, uses half the materials he claims and sells it for twice what it is worth. If something goes missing, look for it in one of Saco’s yards. If someone goes missing—’

  ‘Surely you would not accuse him of murder?’ Atilius’s look of consternation turned to shock.

  ‘You are one of his suppliers so he cannot afford to alienate you, Atilius. You do not know him as I do.’

  ‘Yet he is immortalized in stone for dedicating the city baths,’ Valerius pointed out.

  ‘That was before people knew him for what he was …’

  While they’d been speaking Piso’s slurred bray had increased in volume. Calpurnia was staring at the young officer. Severus shot him a look of alarm as he realized the subject of his discourse.

  He was talking treason.

  ‘Vespasian is a new man,’ the young tribune lectured Ferox, who stared at him like a mouse beneath the gaze of a cat. Clearly there had already been more in the same vein. ‘He has neither the status, the social standing, nor the legitimacy to be Emperor. It was a mistake to give the purple to an uncultured nobody. Galba made my cousin Lucius his heir because he knew that bloodline and manners were as important in a ruler as mere ability.’

  ‘I think I must bring this gathering to a close …’ Severus got to his feet.

  ‘The Senate have already realized their mistake and they will—’

  ‘Tribune,’ Proculus said sharply. ‘You have said enough.’

  ‘Do not presume to lecture me, old man.’ Piso pushed himself to his feet. ‘You are a mere plebeian. Soon,’ he stood swaying and his gaze turned to Valerius, ‘the patrician class will take its rightful place at the head of the Empire.’ Ferox tugged at his toga trying to get him back on to the couch, but Piso brushed his hand away. ‘Soon, I will have true power, and you,’ he pointed a finger at the one-handed Roman, ‘will pay the price for your insults.’

  Before Valerius could react a blue blur streaked across his vision and a sharp crack echoed from the walls. Calpurnia Severa withdrew her hand and stood, chest heaving, before Piso. ‘You dishonour my husband and you dishonour this house,’ she hissed.

  Piso’s hand went to his inflamed cheek and he stared at her with a mix of shock and hatred. His hand dropped to his belt, but Ferox stepped in to take him by the arm and drag him snarling from the room.

  A long moment of disbelieving silence before Severus gathered his wits and went to his wife’s side.

  ‘I must apologize,’ he said. ‘A young man addled by drink. My wife was correct to remind him of his responsibilities, though he meant nothing of it, I am sure. Nevertheless, I must ask you to keep what was said between those who are in this room. It would do none of us any good to be associated with such sentiments.’

  ‘I too beg your pardon.’ Calpurnia met her companions’ eyes one by one. ‘The insult to our guest was more than I could bear.’

  Did Valerius imagine it, or did the dark eyes linger on him for a moment longer than necessary? And if they did, there had been no sign of contrition in them. Perhaps not quite a challenge, but …

  And what did the altercation reveal? Piso had treated his legionary commander like a subordinate and Proculus had done nothing to stop him. Yet Piso had barely reacted to Calpurnia’s blow, and her husband had done nothing to censure her.

  Just who was in charge in Asturica Augusta?

  XXVII

  Valerius could almost feel the eyes on him as he made his way from Severus’s house to his lodgings. The wine he’d drunk at Severus’s dinner party had dulled his senses, but not so much that he wasn’t aware when he was being followed. Fortunately, the streets were busy with traders and their customers so the threat was s
light as long as he kept to the main thoroughfares. He passed through the Forum, where work on the basilica continued, and drew a glance of irritation from the sniffy lawyer he’d met on the first day. As he approached the city gates he recognized a familiar, but surprising face among the customers sitting drinking beneath the awning outside a bar.

  Petro, the loquacious trader he’d befriended aboard ship, looked up and gaped in surprise as Valerius’s shadow fell over him. ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens!’ His features split into an enormous grin. ‘This rustic backwater is the last place I would have expected to find you. What brings you to Asturica?’

  ‘A social call.’ Valerius returned the infectious grin. ‘I’m here visiting a friend.’ It was close enough to the truth that he didn’t feel guilty deceiving the other man. ‘And I could ask the same of you.’

  ‘Oh, I must go wherever a man may turn a profit,’ Petro chuckled. ‘For all its lack of refinement Asturica Augusta has wealth in abundance and, strictly between us, trading with these country bumpkins is not so different from fleecing a new-born lamb.’ Valerius laughed and the other man moved to make a place beside him. ‘But come, old friends should not talk business. Slave,’ he called back over his shoulder, ‘bring me a new jug of that horse piss you call wine and another cup.’ Valerius protested that he’d had enough, but Petro winked. ‘It’s not too bad really, but I intend negotiating a discount.’

  Valerius took a seat overlooking the street. Behind them four pots set into the top of a stone wall bubbled over a glowing fire, filling the air with the scent of herbs and cooking meat. A surly plump girl appeared and placed a jug of wine and a cup on the bench between them. As she turned, Petro gave her wide rump a slap. She swung round with a look of fury, but when she saw the broad grin on his face the look faded and she shook her head.