Sword of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Tigellinus had arranged temporary accommodation for them out by the city wall near the Porta Salutaris. It was typical of its type, two dusty rooms on the fourth floor of a creaking insula block, with water drawn from a pump in the yard and a night soil pot you emptied in the stinking drain that ran down the centre of the street. They discovered why it was so readily available when they woke before dawn to the terrified screams of pigs being led to slaughter in the pork market beyond the wall.

  On this day, their route took them down the Vicus Longus and into the teeming filth of the Subura before they turned left up the slope past the Temple of Juno Lucina and the sixth shrine of the Argei.

  ‘Watch out.’ Serpentius pulled Valerius to the side of the street at the familiar sound of marching feet in hobnailed sandals. They stood back beneath the awning of a fruit stall as a mismatched unit of soldiers stumbled past and veered off towards the Porta Tiburtina. Each of the men carried some kind of weapon, but they were dressed in a mix of blue tunics and civilian clothing. Some had helmets and armour, but most did not. They walked with a curious rolling gait, and those still dressed as civilians stood out because of the heavily muscled upper bodies and arms that gave them the look of acrobats or wrestlers. Many were clearly foreigners; swarthy and dark-skinned, like the Syrian cavalry Valerius had commanded in Parthia.

  ‘These must be the marines Nero is forming into a new legion. Sailors, too,’ he said.

  ‘They don’t look like much,’ Serpentius spat. ‘Sunshade operators.’

  Valerius laughed at the reference to the sailors’ traditional onshore task of erecting the great sailcloth awnings that protected amphitheatre crowds from the fierce heat of the summer sun. ‘I don’t know. They all look tough enough, and they’re volunteers. Equip them properly and give them the right training and they might surprise you.’

  ‘No time for that,’ Serpentius pointed out. ‘If it had been anyone but Old Slowcoach the legions would already be marching across the Milvian Bridge. Corbulo would have shoved an eagle up Nero’s arse by now.’

  It wasn’t how Valerius would have put it, but he knew the Spaniard was right. Where speed and determination had been needed, Galba had proved slow and timid. He should have reinforced Vindex at the start of his rebellion. Instead, he had begun his march too late. If he had continued his advance, the likelihood was that the two German legions who had defeated the Gaul would have joined him, or melted away in front of him. In the aftermath of the victory at Vesontio, while their blood was up, they had urged their own commander to proclaim himself Emperor and march on Rome. Lucius Verginius Rufus had refused, but it showed that his legionaries were ready to gamble all for change.

  ‘Nero is a desperate man, and forming the marines and sailors of the Imperial fleet at Misenum into a legion shows the level of his desperation. Since the time of Caesar and before, Roman citizenship has been a condition of joining a legion. Most of those men were peregrini – foreigners – and some of them are probably former slaves.’ Valerius grinned as he felt the Spaniard’s withering glare. ‘Not that it makes them any less brave.’

  When the marines were out of sight they hefted their workmens’ sacks on to their shoulders and continued up the hill to where the road opened out and the insulae began to give way to more prosperous townhouses and villas. When they reached a small square Valerius laid his burden aside and drank sweet water from the Fountain of Orpheus, which provided a supply for those locals not rich enough to have one of their own. Nymphidius Sabinus was clearly not among them. His villa sprawled across the top of the slope with a view down towards the tiled roofs and marbled pillars of the Forum. Valerius left Serpentius sitting by the gate and made his way to a servants’ entrance in the side wall. His knock was eventually answered by a grizzled bruiser with disconcerting eyes that never looked in the same direction at the same time. Valerius concentrated on the left one and announced that he’d been summoned by the master of the house to discuss a price for replastering the slave quarters.

  The doorman sniffed. ‘Stay here and I’ll get the factor.’

  ‘I was told to speak to the master.’

  The man carried an overseer’s staff and Valerius could see he was tempted to reward such impudence with a beating. He prepared to block the first blow, but a voice from inside froze the overseer in place.

  ‘What’s going on, Clodius?’

  ‘Some dirty labourer demanding to speak to you. I was just going to kick his insolent arse back on the street.’

  A tall figure appeared behind the doorman and a meaty hand pushed him aside. ‘Idiot. Didn’t Julius tell you I was expecting a tradesman? Let him in.’

  ‘I’ll just search—’

  ‘Don’t waste any more time. I need to be at the Castra Praetoria in an hour. You, come with me.’

  Valerius bowed and followed the man towards the villa. Nymphidius Sabinus had the build of a boxer, with a powerful chest, and legs that appeared too short for his body. His head was set square on broad shoulders and he wore his flame-red hair cut military short. He led the way to the end of the garden, far enough away from the house to ensure no servant could overhear their conversation. His features were as florid as his head, as if he were permanently angry or had been drinking heavily, but when he spoke there was no hint of a slur. ‘You’ve come from Galba?’

  For answer, Valerius drew the seal Otho had given him from inside the neck of his tunic.

  Nymphidius’s eyes gleamed, but he pointed at the building as if he were identifying some defect that needed work. ‘The old bastard is taking his time.’

  ‘Rome’s lieutenant is consolidating his position and making certain nothing will go wrong. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

  The big man turned and brought his face close to Valerius, lips drawn back and teeth bared. ‘Give me any more of that horseshit and I’ll have Clodius beat you black and blue just to hear you squeal. It’s all right for Galba and that fornicating bastard Otho. If anything goes wrong they can jump on a ship and fuck off to exile in Africa. I’m the one with my balls on the butcher’s block. That’s why the price has just risen.’

  Valerius met his stare. ‘I was told to offer you a thousand aurei now and a thousand when it is done. With twenty thousand sesterces a man to the Guard on the day the Senate proclaims Servius Sulpicius Galba Emperor.’

  Nymphidius’s right hand shot out and long fingers closed on Valerius’s throat. Valerius reflected that he could have broken the arm with a single movement, but he was playing a part and that part required that, for the moment, the Praetorian prefect be allowed his fun.

  ‘The Guard will take what I give them,’ the big man growled. ‘I’ve already got them eating out of my hand like tame finches. As soon as Nymphidius Sabinus says the word, Nero is finished. The only question is what happens after. Who’s to say I haven’t had a better offer? The price is two thousand aurei now and another two when it’s done.’ His eyes turned calculating. ‘You’re no lowly courier, are you? Galba wouldn’t have sent someone without the authority to negotiate.’

  Valerius managed a nod and the fingers at his throat relaxed and dropped away.

  ‘Good. As long as we understand each other. Galba is an old man; he must be close to seventy. He can’t last much longer. He needs someone reliable to advise him and that someone will be me. He also needs an heir.’ Valerius almost smiled at the other man’s undisguised ambition, and the unlikelihood of its ever coming to pass. Nymphidius Sabinus saw himself as a potential Emperor, but Galba would recognize him for what he was: an overbearing, country-bred bully with the manners of a rutting boar and the habits to match. He had as much chance of becoming heir as one of Nero’s ceremonial elephants of taking flight. But he was also central to the plan. Otho had warned Valerius to offer Nymphidius anything but the succession, but Otho wasn’t here. Valerius knew that Nymphidius would never agree unless he got what he asked for. He nodded gravely.

  ‘I think that can be arranged.’

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t think.’ Nymphidius glared. ‘You speak for the old man. I want to hear you say it.’

  Valerius took a deep breath. ‘Servius Sulpicius Galba will appoint you his heir as soon as he is invested with the purple.’

  Nymphidius stared at him. It could be months before Galba reached Rome, and more till his investment. Valerius could tell the Praetorian commander would have liked the announcement to be made earlier, but he had played all his bargaining chips. His ruddy features relaxed and he nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll start approaching the Praetorian cohorts as soon as I see the colour of your money.’

  Valerius shook the sack free from his wooden hand and Nymphidius’s eyes widened a little as he saw the walnut fist. The sack was half filled with sand to conceal what was kept within and to deaden the sound of metal upon metal. Inside were hidden twenty smaller bags, each containing one hundred golden aurei. Serpentius carried a similar load and the weight of coin had come close to breaking their backs on the long trek up the hill. Valerius retrieved one bag from the sand and opened it to show the buttery glint within. ‘Perhaps we can find somewhere more private to complete our discussions.’

  Nymphidius laughed and draped an arm like a tree branch over Valerius’s shoulder. ‘Bugger having two rooms replastered. I think I might have the whole place rebuilt.’

  V

  ‘It’s done,’ Valerius said. ‘The Praetorians will abandon Nero and hail Galba as Emperor tomorrow. According to Tigellinus the Senate will follow within hours. He’s finished.’

  ‘Does that mean we can get out of Rome?’ Serpentius’s weathered face showed something like relief. ‘This place reminds me of that day in Oplontis before the earthquake. Like a pot ready to boil over.’

  Valerius considered the suggestion. Weeks of living with the constant threat of torture and death had left their mark on both men, but Galba’s mission was only half complete and he had his own reasons for staying. Reasons he wouldn’t reveal even to the Spaniard. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘We have to see this through. The latest rumour is that Rubrius Gallus and his men have declared for Galba. If it’s true, the only military force of any consequence loyal to Nero this side of the Alps is the marine legion. I want to know more about them.’

  Their chance came later that day, on the way back from the Castra Praetoria, where Valerius had been attempting to gauge the mood of the Guard. Raucous voices bellowed from the doorway of a bar in the shadow of one of the giant water castles that provided reservoirs for Rome’s aqueducts. Valerius recognized the song as a pornographic shanty he’d heard roared by naval oarsmen. He nodded to Serpentius and they slipped inside into the gloom. It was the usual crossroads tavern, a low-ceilinged room with a stone bar inset with large urns filled with posca, the cheap, lead-sweetened wine favoured in these places, and others brimming with stew of indeterminate origin. Ten men seated around a rough wooden table took up most of the space and they gave off an air of cheerful menace that was as much a result of the power of their combined voices as of their bulk, which was substantial. They ignored the newcomers and Valerius squeezed through to the bar, where he ordered a jug of wine and two cups. He and Serpentius took their places a little to one side of the group and supped their wine while the singing subsided and the men began to talk in the coarse, easy manner of shipmates. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dark, Valerius could see that they were a mix of races, including easterners, probably from Syria, Judaea and Egypt, where the navy recruited, and a Nubian, whose size marked him out even among these men chosen for their strength and power when hauling on a fourteen-foot oar of seasoned oak.

  ‘If we’re a legion, when the fuck are they going to give us proper uniforms?’ The complainer was a bull-necked Syrian with thick curly hair and guttural, almost incomprehensible Latin. His refrain was taken up by the bearded man next to him.

  ‘Aye, and weapons. If they expect us to fight this Galba and his traitors we need shields and spears and training in how to use them.’

  Valerius lounged back on his bench, apparently concentrating on his drink, but taking in every word. It seemed one of the few Romans among them, seated at the far end of the table, disagreed with his shipmates’ view. ‘Nah, we won’t have to fight. Soon as the old fart hears that the crew of the Waverider is coming to get him, he’ll shit himself.’

  The crude boast brought roars of ‘Waverider’ and a new burst of singing, but one voice, more sober than the rest, cut across the noise. To Valerius’s surprise it was the Nubian’s, and he was listened to.

  ‘We won’t get proper uniforms, nor proper pay, until we’re a proper legion and we’re not a proper legion till we’re trained. I don’t know about you, oarmates, but I wouldn’t much fancy taking on a legion. We’re tough enough …’ he waited until the roar of agreement had subsided, ‘but some of us have seen those boys at work and being tough and brave didn’t do the opposition much good. I think they’ll use us to garrison Rome while we’re hardened up for land fighting. The regular legions can defeat the traitor, the way they beat the Gauls. As long as we’re to eventually follow the eagle, I for one will be satisfied with that.’

  ‘Aye.’ The man opposite, a bearded brick wall with an accent from somewhere up on the Danuvius, nodded. ‘Juva is talking sense as usual. We will fight if we have to, but we must be patient for our eagle.’

  A pause in the conversation gave Valerius his opportunity. ‘Perhaps I could offer you gentlemen a drink?’ he suggested. ‘It would be an honour to help slake the thirst of Rome’s protectors.’

  ‘Are you laughing at us?’ the Danuvian demanded, his red-rimmed eyes threatening. ‘I don’t like the stink of you, or your dangerous-looking friend.’ He turned to his mates. ‘I think we should take them out the back and drown them in the piss barrel.’

  The proposal was greeted by roars of approval and Serpentius reached for his knife as the bulk of the sailors rose to their feet, but Valerius placed a restraining hand over the Spaniard’s and the Nubian Juva growled at his shipmates.

  ‘No. He’s right. If we are to be soldiers, we should act like them. With discipline. We are here to protect Romans, not do them harm.’ He turned to face the two men. ‘But why should you want to buy us a drink?’

  Valerius shrugged. ‘There have been rumours that a new legion is being formed from the navy. From what we’ve heard it sounds as if it’s true. You men are sailors; I’m interested to know why you should volunteer to fight on land.’ He pulled back his sleeve to show the walnut fist. ‘I have fought on land and sea and I know there’s a big difference.’

  Juva studied the artificial hand. ‘Perhaps not a good enough fighter on either.’ He grinned.

  Valerius met his eyes with an unblinking stare. ‘Good enough to be still alive, my friend.’

  The Nubian froze. For a moment he looked like a great panther ready to spring. Then he laughed. ‘Where is this wine we were offered?’

  They waited until the owner had served up jugs of wine, and while his comrades took up their filthy refrain once more Juva joined Serpentius and Valerius by the wall. He picked up his cup and drank deeply, slurping in appreciation. Valerius refilled the cup and the Nubian nodded his thanks.

  ‘Why do we fight? You think it is for money?’ the big man growled. ‘True, a year at the oars pays less than half what a soldier earns for a year behind the eagle, but why would a man die for money? No, it is partly pride. Who would want us as we are, the dregs and scrapings of a dozen ports? Peregrini. Orphans and bastards and the abandoned. A sailor is despised, except by his own kind,’ he waved an expansive hand that took in his roaring shipmates, ‘while a legionary has the world’s respect. But even that might not be enough. So there is more. Divine Nero in his wisdom has decreed that all, even the lowest among us, even a former slave, will become a Roman citizen on the day his enlistment expires, and that enlistment will be deemed to have begun the day he first took ship. Can you understand what that means, Roman? In just ten years, if I live, the byblow of a Maur
etanian pirate and a Nubian house slave will be permitted to wear the toga.’ As he spoke, his eyes glistened and his voice rose. ‘No man will have the right to raise a hand to me and I will have the right to stand in judgement over other men.’

  ‘Then I congratulate you, Juva of the Waverider, and I will pray that you live to see that day. But for now, what do your officers have planned for you?’

  ‘That is a spy’s question.’ The eyes narrowed further, but Valerius was ready for the accusation.

  ‘Not a spy’s.’ He lowered his voice. ‘A question from one with a family and friends who fear for the future. You spoke of garrisoning Rome while others fight, but I fear that is not to be. The reason the naval legion exists is because the Emperor’s generals have deserted him. You are all he has left.’

  ‘There is the Guard,’ Juva said defensively. ‘They are oath-sworn to their Emperor.’

  Yes,’ Valerius agreed, wincing internally at having to deceive an honest man. ‘There is the Guard.’

  Juva stood up, knocking the table back, his great bulk cutting out the light from the doorway. ‘Whatever happens, we will fight and if necessary we will die for the man who has given us our hope and our pride. Perhaps you are a concerned family man, perhaps not, but it is time to go.’

  The other men fell silent as the mood in the bar changed. Valerius and Serpentius rose slowly and backed away, Serpentius stumbling with a curse as they reached the doorway. As they emerged into the sunshine, Valerius reflected that he’d got at least part of the information he came for: Juva and his shipmates would back Nero to the last. But he had a feeling it might come at a price.