Sword of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  By now the Batavian horsemen had reached the larger force. Valerius squinted in the bright sunshine as some sort of heated discussion took place among the enemy, punctuated by a sharp cry as one of the riders pitched from the saddle.

  ‘Now why would they do that?’ Serpentius asked no one in particular.

  ‘If the left flank had attacked us while we were busy with their friends,’ Valerius suggested, ‘they would be sitting here and we would be lying in the dust trying to push our guts back in. I think whoever commands has just given his opinion on their lack of action.’

  ‘A forceful kind of officer,’ Serpentius commented. Valerius nodded, but his eyes never left the cavalrymen on the other side of the field and his fingers tightened edgily on the hilt of his sword. Serpentius could count too and his horse tossed his head as it sensed his concern. ‘There are a lot of the bastards.’

  ‘There are, but … ah, I wondered when he’d make up his mind.’ A single horseman trotted across the bloodied ground towards them. When he reached halfway, he rammed his spear into the turf and advanced another ten paces before raising his hands to show he was unarmed. Valerius nodded to Serpentius. ‘Get the men back into the shelter of the trees and take the prisoners with you.’

  ‘Watch him,’ the Spaniard warned. ‘I don’t like the look of this one. If he’d kill his own, he’s not going to worry overmuch about turning you into buzzard bait.’

  ‘When did you become my nursemaid?’ Valerius didn’t wait for an answer, but every sense screamed at him to be wary as he kicked his horse into a canter. Before he reached the lone Batavian he heard the sound of hoofbeats, and slowed to a walk as Otho joined him. ‘You’re an even bigger fool than I thought.’ He didn’t look at the other man, but let the anger turn his voice hard. ‘You’ll get us both killed.’

  ‘Always the hero, Valerius. You never let anyone forget Colonia and the Temple of Claudius. Do you think that my not having fought makes you a better man than I? Or perhaps you disapprove of the fact that I was once Nero’s friend?’

  Valerius reined in and studied his companion. He could feel the Batavian’s eyes on them. ‘I counted your wife as a friend. She did not deserve what happened to her.’

  Otho’s face froze and his hand slipped to his sword. ‘Perhaps one day I will kill you for that,’ he whispered.

  ‘Perhaps you will, but for the moment we have more important things to do. Like staying alive.’ Valerius hauled his horse round and together they approached the enemy.

  He was dressed, like his auxiliaries, in plaid tunic and trews with a cloak of wolfskin, but his chain-link armour was close knit and of the highest quality. If that wasn’t enough to declare his status, he wore a heavy gold torc round his neck that was worth a year’s wages to the legionary who claimed it. The first thing Valerius noticed were his eyes, which were an empty washed-out blue that reminded him of sea ice. He had only seen eyes like that in one kind of man: a man who could kill without feeling and compassion and would keep on killing long after other men would be sickened by it. As he drew the roan to a stop, the pale, expressionless features forced their way into his consciousness and his heart fell as recognition dawned. They exchanged salutes. It was the Batavian who spoke first.

  ‘You have a decurion among your prisoners? Younger than his comrades—’

  ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, late of Legio X Fretensis.’ The young man’s lips pursed in annoyance at the interruption. He glanced at Otho, expecting a similar introduction, but Valerius ignored him and the governor of Lusitania was sensible enough to keep his identity to himself.

  ‘One of Corbulo’s officers? You are a long way from home. Claudius Victor, prefect Third Augusta Batavorum, attached to Legio IV Macedonica. I repeat my question.’

  ‘I am sorry. He was very brave.’

  The Batavian nodded slowly. ‘And now I must kill you.’

  Valerius looked across the field to where the enemy dead lay. ‘You have already lost twenty men. Why would you wish to lose twenty more?’

  Victor shrugged. ‘What are soldiers for?’

  ‘True,’ Valerius conceded. ‘But it makes their officers seem careless if they lose too many.’

  The thin lips twitched, but if anything the pale eyes grew colder. ‘Then perhaps you would like to surrender? I can have three hundred men here by nightfall. You have nowhere to run. Patrols like ours are sweeping every district between Arausio and the river. Every pass to the east is guarded. I doubt you will want to go north. To the south, the sea. We could talk about your mission, which intrigues me. Late of Corbulo’s Tenth, but I would guess more recently with the traitor and coward Galba.’ He waited for a reaction, but when none came he ran his eyes over Otho, taking in the expensive horse, the fine clothes and the well-fed features. ‘Why would the pretender send a patrol so far into the territory of his enemies? A patrol with, let me guess, a praetor … no, not a praetor; these clothes belong to man of great means. A senator then, or of senatorial rank …?’

  Otho’s horse sensed his unease and moved beneath him. Valerius decided the conversation had gone on long enough. ‘Surrendering to your tender mercies does not appeal,’ he said casually. ‘I have a better proposition. Since we both know you are lying about the patrols – we saw no sign of them yesterday – I suggest you allow us to withdraw to the river. If we are unmolested I will leave my prisoners and the wounded on this side of the ford.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘I will personally kill them, one by one, and take their heads.’ The words were said carelessly, but he kept his eyes as cold as the other man’s. ‘You must make your decision now. If you agree, you may recover your dead.’

  Claudius Victor stared at him for a long time. Valerius had a feeling the Batavian wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands, but even as he watched the eyes lost their menace. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to appear any more careless than I do already. I accept.’ As he spoke, he moved his horse closer and Valerius’s hand strayed towards his sword. But the Batavian was only studying every detail of his face, taking in the lines, the scar that disfigured him from brow to lip, and the fathomless dark eyes that gave a hint to the qualities of the inner man: strength, determination and lethal intent. When he was satisfied, Victor looked down at Valerius’s carved wooden hand as if he had only just noticed it. ‘Not something to be easily forgotten,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I will remember you, cripple; killer of my brother. We are a patient people, and when we meet again, as we will, I will take great pleasure in killing you in the old way.’ He nodded and turned away, and Valerius and Otho rode back to the Vascones.

  ‘How do you know the slippery bastard won’t come after us anyway?’ Otho asked. ‘He didn’t look like the kind who would care too much about a few prisoners, especially if you killed his brother.’

  ‘No,’ Valerius didn’t look back. ‘But he’s lost a lot of men and I doubt his troopers would thank him for losing any more, especially if we keep their heads. The head is the repository of a Batavian’s soul. That’s why they keep skulls as trophies: to deprive their enemy of his. They’re a hard people, the Batavians; good soldiers, but quick to anger. If Victor sacrifices his men, the next head they take might be his.’

  ‘What did he mean by killing you in the old way?’

  Valerius turned in the saddle and looked back to where his enemy watched implacably from the far side of the field.

  ‘It’s not encouraged these days, but the Batavians liked to burn their prisoners alive. Slowly.’

  II

  ‘We don’t have any choice. We have to go back.’

  Otho shook his head. The suggestion was unacceptable. ‘Our only option is to carry on. My orders from the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis were clear.’

  Valerius noticed the aristocrat didn’t refer to Galba by the grandiose title the governor had awarded himself – Lieutenant to the Senate and People of Rome – and wondered what that signified. They had stopped to rest near
the burned-out ruins of an estate on the west bank of the Rhodanus, the great river that linked Lugdunum with the port of Massilia. He walked to the pebble shore and looked out across the glittering waters, east, towards home.

  ‘You heard what the Batavian said. Every pass to Italia is guarded. By now he will have reported back to his headquarters and the place will be swarming with patrols, every one of them looking for a party of twenty-five men, led by a well-dressed aristocrat on a fine horse. You cannot change what you are and I cannot hide twenty-five men. We must go back. It is for …’ Valerius knew it wasn’t worth appealing to the man’s instinct for self-preservation, which lagged many leagues behind his political aspirations, ‘the good of the Empire. If you die, who will Galba be able to rely on? Titus Vinius, whose only loyalty is to himself? Cornelius Laco, a drunkard too lazy even to harbour ambition?’

  The other man frowned. It was the same question Otho had been asking himself since Galba had tasked him with this mission. And the closer he came to the sword points of the enemy, the more he doubted his patron’s motives. A few years earlier Marcus Salvius Otho had been as close to Nero as anyone in the young Emperor’s increasingly debauched court: close enough to offer him the sexual favours of his wife, Poppaea. But Poppaea had captivated the Emperor and Otho had been ordered to divorce her. He had become an embarrassment and a liability. It said much for his powers of persuasion that he had been sent into virtual exile as governor of far-away Lusitania, Rome’s most westerly province and a rural backwater, rather than quietly executed. Galba’s bid for power had given Marcus Salvius Otho an opportunity to return to Rome with honour and the promise of advancement, but the opportunity came at a price and with a high risk. To claim it Otho would have to march into the very heart of Nero’s Rome and just one slip would bring torture and death. But the governor of Lusitania did not lack courage. He shook his head. ‘My mission is too important.’

  Valerius took a deep breath. ‘There is another possibility. Two men might get through where many cannot.’

  ‘Who?’

  The one-handed Roman glanced to where the cavalrymen were walking their horses. ‘Serpentius has a leopard’s instinct for survival. He lived through four years and a hundred fights in the arena and he has saved my life more times than I care to remember. If anyone can reach Rome, he can.’

  Otho nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then he can guide me.’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘You are too conspicuous and too important to risk. I don’t know the details of your mission, but I understand why you were chosen. Senator Galba believes you have access to men on the Palatine and in the Senate who can persuade Nero to give up the purple and declare Galba his successor. That may be true, but it is also possible that Marcus Salvius Otho is being asked to place his head in the lion’s jaws.’ He hesitated, waiting for a reaction, but Otho remained silent, barely breathing and tense as a full-drawn bowstring. ‘What if there was another man, with similar access? A simple soldier, but one who once wore the Gold Crown of Valour? A bauble, and an undeserved one, but a bauble which impressed the impressionable. Even the Emperor was dazzled by its glitter. And there were others.’

  Otho’s eyes turned calculating. ‘Perhaps my mission would be beyond the wit of a simple soldier?’

  ‘It is true that I am no politician.’ Valerius shrugged. ‘But Nero chose me to hunt down Petrus and I won Corbulo’s trust even when he thought me a spy.’ And, he thought, you know I brought secret messages of support to Galba from Vespasian in Alexandria, even if you don’t know the price he asked. ‘How can I make a decision until I have more details of Galba’s plan?’

  Otho made him wait, pacing the river bank while he turned the proposition over in his mind before beginning to speak. ‘Nero is finished. He has lost the Senate, the people and, more important, most of the army. He clings to power in Rome only with the aid of the Praetorian Guard. His is a fortress made of straw and it only needs the slightest push to topple it. My mission is to persuade the Guard to provide that push.

  ‘Nymphidius Sabinus, who holds the Praetorian prefectship with Tigellinus, is the key. He will convince the Guard to abandon the Emperor and support Servius Sulpicius Galba. However, he is understandably nervous and seeks assurances that Galba will meet his price. You will visit him at his house on the Esquiline Hill, behind the Fountain of Orpheus, and hand over this seal. It is the token which will prove your identity. Tell him that Galba will pay whatever it takes to buy the loyalty of the Guard.’

  ‘Whatever it takes?’

  Otho nodded. ‘Senator Galba was reluctant; he is not a generous man. But he was persuaded when I pointed out that every Emperor since Augustus has had to pay his dues to the Guard. Claudius handed over fifteen thousand sesterces a man and counted it a bargain for an Empire.’

  Valerius stifled the questions that Otho’s statement raised in his head. All but one. ‘And you are certain Nymphidius has the power to do what he claims? Tigellinus has kept a tight rein on the Guard for five years. It would not be like him to lose control now when he needs them to keep his own head.’

  ‘Forget Tigellinus.’ Otho spat the name and Valerius belatedly remembered the part Nero’s favourite had played in separating Poppaea from her first husband. ‘He is finished. They say he wanders the palace like a spectre, afraid of his own shadow, or, worse, the Emperor’s. As for personal terms, you may offer Nymphidius everything short of the succession.’ His eyes glittered and for the first time Valerius realized the true extent of his ambition. ‘That prize belongs to only one Roman and it is not some rustic nearly man from Etruria.’

  Valerius nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. He’d come to understand that Otho’s arrogance was like a tribune’s sculpted breastplate: a protection against those who would question his authority rather than those who sought to harm him. The governor of Lusitania was a much more complex personality than he first appeared, a fact confirmed by Otho’s next words.

  ‘Be careful, Valerius.’ He laid a hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘Your peril does not only lie on the road. Galba’s freedman Icelus has languished in the carcer this past month, and two others who set out on our mission have not been heard of since they reached Rome. Nero is weak, but even a cornered pig can be dangerous.’

  Valerius nodded his thanks. So, he thought, the game begins again. He remembered the many nights in Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo’s tent on campaign in Armenia and the mind-twisting game of strategy and nerve the general had played so skilfully. Caesar’s Tower: four levels, a thousand combinations, but only one winner. Nero had feared Corbulo, his greatest general, and had ordered his death. Valerius himself had only just escaped with his life, with the general’s daughter Domitia. His hand strayed to his pouch, feeling for the Caesar stone he had taken on the day Corbulo died, before he remembered that he had given it to Domitia in Alexandria. Where would she be now? The likelihood was Rome, and that was one of the reasons why he had volunteered to continue Otho’s suicidal mission to the city. The other reason was darker, cast a shadow over his mind, and was one he would share with no man, not even Serpentius.

  ‘When will you leave?’ Otho’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  ‘At dusk.’ He had considered heading downriver to Massilia and taking passage on a merchant ship, but he knew Nero would have agents watching Ostia and every other Roman port for Galba’s couriers. ‘We’ll travel by dark, staying close to the Via Aurelia until we clear Aquae Sextiae. The coast road will be watched and it will be safer to take to the mountains. Better to get there alive than not at all.’

  Otho nodded distractedly. ‘Arrange for your servant to switch saddle blankets with my mount, but make sure he does it out of view of the escort.’

  He saw Valerius’s look. ‘Five thousand gold aurei sewn into the lining. A poor exchange.’ He smiled. ‘Atlas will be glad to have someone else carry the load, but it grieves me to part with it.’

  But Valerius’s mind was already reaching out towards the distant mou
ntains that lay between him and his destiny. He was going into the unknown again, but he hadn’t bargained on carrying an Emperor’s bounty.

  III

  Rome, 6 June, AD 68

  The city glowed like multi-hued gold in the pale early evening sunlight. Beyond the walls and the low rise of the Aventine, the greater mass of the Palatine Hill dominated their view. The marble palaces of the Emperors gleamed as if they were studded with diamonds and, just visible beyond them, the pale bulk of the temples of Jupiter and Juno on the Capitoline were backlit by a sea of fiery red: the terracotta roof tiles that covered plebeian and patrician alike. Valerius hitched his cloak to better disguise the wooden hand that identified him as clearly as any banner. He could visualize the seething mass of humanity that fornicated and farted, plotted and squabbled beneath those roofs. The stink of corruption, physical and political, permeated every inch of the seven hills, but still he smiled. ‘It’s good to be back.’

  ‘Then why are we standing here in this stinking gutter when we could be inside the walls with a warm bed and a warm woman?’ Serpentius growled.

  Valerius shook his head in mock dismay. ‘Trust a Spaniard to be always thinking of his own comfort, even if it will eventually kill him. In case you hadn’t noticed, the gate guards are searching every man for weapons, and experience tells us there’ll be a spy on every second street corner. Before I go into the leopard’s lair I want to know whether he’s eaten or not.’

  ‘And how do we find that out?’

  ‘From an old friend.’

  ‘Does he live far from here?’

  ‘Not far, that’s why we came to the south gate.’

  The Spaniard sniffed, testing the air until he found what he wanted. ‘Well, I’ll be in the tavern over there until you come back.’

  Early next morning, Valerius was making his way along the Vicus Patricius when six Praetorians appeared from nowhere to surround him. He looked around for Serpentius, but the gladiator had vanished at the first sight of the black cloaks.