Scourge of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  His suspicions were confirmed when they passed through the city’s north gate. The gates themselves stood twenty feet high, were faced with copper and iron-bound, and wide enough to admit two carts at a time. A squad of guards clad in helmets and armour in the Greek fashion watched the riders pass, but had obviously been warned not to hinder them. Beyond the gate they entered a warren of narrow streets that wandered and twisted between two- and three-storey mud-brick buildings. Valerius would have lost his bearings within moments if it hadn’t been for his escort, who forced his horse through the crowds, ignoring the protests of beggar and merchant alike. The heat between the flat-topped houses was stifling and the usual street smells seemed multiplied in the confined space, cesspit and unwashed body vying for supremacy with bittersweet horse and musky camel, heavily spiced stews and the odd welcome waft from a stall selling jasmine and lavender. It was a relief when they began to climb the winding road to the citadel, always under the watchful eyes of the guards on the walls above.

  Away from the streets the air was clearer, though the heat from the mid-afternoon sun had a fiercer quality than that among the houses. As the road climbed, Valerius looked out across a panorama of flat roofs to an enormous building that stood out like a jewel in a handful of pebbles. Despite its scale it had been hidden by the shoulder of the mound. Now he could see it had the pitched, tiled roof and marble columns of a Roman temple and the sun glittered on the golden statuary that surmounted it. To the north, the silver ribbon of the Orontes snaked through the plain, flanked by the dusty emerald of fertile fields and meadows. To the east, across his left shoulder, the air shimmered like a living thing over the golden carpet of the desert. The hill reminded him of the Palatine in Rome and he stifled a shiver at the memory. How many nervous journeys had he made up the Clivus Palatinus to appear before Nero, any one of which could have ended up with him dead? Which brought him back to the question that had been plaguing him since they’d left the Chalcidean camp: why was he here? As far as this Sohaemus was concerned he was just another traveller on the dusty road from Antioch.

  Unless this was another of Domitian’s tricks.

  Ariston had hinted that Sohaemus sought Roman support for his ambitions to take control of Palmyra and its revenues from the eastern caravans. Could word have reached Emesa that a certain one-handed Roman might be travelling this way and should be stopped at any cost? Even as the thought occurred he decided he was starting at shadows. If that was the case, the deed would have been done somewhere down in the shadowed streets below: a rush of bodies and no escape; a struggling figure dragged into a workshop and his throat cut, ready for disposal. Discreet and tidy. Why take him to the palace where the arrival of a Roman would be noted, and no doubt reported? Domitian wanted him dead, but as far as Valerius knew he still had the confidence of Titus and Vespasian. No, Domitian wanted him to disappear with as little fuss as possible. He was safe enough for now.

  They reached another massive gate and rode into an inner courtyard where the leader of the escort took Valerius’s reins and nodded for him to dismount.

  ‘You are to wait here to be called, lord,’ the commander informed him.

  Valerius nodded distractedly and studied his surroundings. To one side stood a guardhouse where a few Emesan soldiers studied him with unguarded curiosity. They were plainly relaxed in the presence of Gaulan’s cavalry troopers, who joined their comrades in the shadow of a stables at the opposite end of the cobbled square.

  A tall figure appeared in the doorway of a substantial honey-stone building that ran the length of the fourth side of the courtyard. The man affected a braided beard that reached to his chest, but the intricate golden diadem encircled a scalp entirely devoid of hair. Beady, deep-set eyes stared at Valerius from above a long nose. He wore a flowing robe of shimmering azure dotted with golden sun symbols. At first Valerius thought he might be in the presence of Sohaemus himself, then he noticed the familiar courtier’s expression that sent the unmistakable message: ‘you are beneath my contempt until you prove to me otherwise’. The man introduced himself in fluent Greek as Helios, the king’s chamberlain.

  Inside the door two young slave boys held silver bowls and towels. Valerius looked on perplexed as one bent to wash his feet. The other offered a bowl for his hands, struggling to keep his face impassive as the Roman dipped his single hand into the water and held it out to be dried.

  Helios sniffed and led the way along a marble-lined corridor with a short, almost feminine stride. As he walked, he talked in staccato bursts. ‘You will prostrate yourself in the king’s presence. You will only speak when you are spoken to.’ He twisted his head and grimaced at Valerius’s rustic military cloak. ‘If we had time my slaves would find you something more suitable.’

  ‘Perhaps you could explain why I am here.’ Valerius reflected that the loss of his rank was a drawback when dealing with royalty. How much more at ease would he have felt in helmet and armour, draped in the pristine white cloak of a tribunus laticlavius. A soldier of the Empire, instead of an outcast in a borrowed cloak, living on borrowed time.

  ‘That is for the king to decide,’ Helios snapped. ‘Just remember you are on his ground and subject to his justice.’

  ‘Yet he bends the knee to Rome.’ Valerius came to a halt, forcing the other man to stop and glare at him. ‘And I am a Roman citizen. So do not dare to threaten me, chamberlain, lest you bring down Rome’s wrath upon you and your master.’ He saw something in Helios’s eyes and his lips formed a cold smile. ‘I wonder if King Sohaemus knows how his doorkeep treats his honoured guests?’

  The look changed to one of pure hatred and the chamberlain swept on. A few minutes later they reached a doorway guarded by two armoured men. Helios glided through and stood to one side, beckoning Valerius forward. ‘Prostrate yourself before his majesty, mighty Sohaemus, High King of Emesa, protector of far Commagene and Sophene, commander of the Blue Guard, slayer of thousands, Foremost Priest of Elah Gebal and Guardian of the Black Stone, may the sun for ever shine on his countenance.’

  Valerius almost had to shield his eyes as he strode into the room to meet the Sun King. Frescoes covered in gold leaf lined the walls and every ornament shone with the same buttery glow. A cunningly sited opening in the high domed ceiling allowed the sun’s rays to illuminate a golden throne and its occupant. A bull of a man in the prime of life, King Sohaemus was dressed more simply than his chamberlain in a robe of golden silk, but looking into his dark eyes was like staring into an empty tomb. They glared from coarse, pitted features, deep-set beneath a heavy brow. He had a beard of oiled black ringlets in the Parthian style, and a beaked nose hung threateningly over a mouth like a bear trap.

  ‘Advance five paces and throw yourself upon the Sun King’s mercy,’ Helios commanded.

  Valerius marched forward the required distance, a soldier in bearing if not in uniform. He met the obsidian eyes and kept his face emotionless as he bowed his head in a nod of respect. Helios emitted a hiss of outrage, but Sohaemus’s features broke into a broad smile that seemed out of place on the fearsome mask.

  ‘So this is your protector,’ the king said to the room’s only other occupant, who sat in a chair behind a screen to one side of the throne, at the outer limit of Valerius’s vision.

  ‘I owe him my life and my honour, majesty,’ a familiar voice replied quietly.

  Tabitha.

  VII

  The crimson dress had been replaced by virgin white, but of a much finer material and cut in a style that left one silken shoulder bare. A golden brooch in the shape of a sunburst held the cloth at her other shoulder and a belt of gold links circled her narrow waist. Only the bandaged hand looked out of place. Her sapphire-blue eyes studied him with the cool appraisal of one entirely at ease in her surroundings and he felt fire in his cheeks at being so easily deceived. No lady’s maid this, but a princess or a priestess.

  ‘My lady,’ he bowed, placing an emphasis on the second word that brought the shadow of a smile t
o her lips. He wondered why she’d maintained her guise for so long when it would have made more sense to announce herself for what she was. Nothing about her was what it seemed, a fact confirmed by the king’s next words.

  ‘My sister’s daughter,’ the sombre voice announced. ‘A wayward child who charmed her way into my affections and whom I have never been able to marry off. But she has her uses and it seems I am in your debt. Name your reward and if it is within my power I will grant it, Gaius Valerius Verrens.’ The king stood up and studied Valerius for a moment, nodding to himself. ‘Your bearing and the marks you wear tell me you are a military man. Your confidence in my presence that you have held a position high enough not to be overpowered or awed by kings. Yet you travel alone, more or less, and in little state, which I find intriguing. I would offer you a position at the head of one of my regiments, but I fear it would be an insult to a man who has commanded Roman soldiers. Come, gold I have in plenty, or land; an estate on the Orontes and the revenues that go with it?’

  It was a generous offer and one that would go a long way to restoring his fortunes, but Valerius felt Tabitha’s eyes on him and it made him uneasy. No matter how perceptive the Emesan ruler was, Sohaemus knew far too much about him to be justified by such short acquaintance. The question was where he had got his information. Valerius had talked to Tabitha on the ride to Apamea, but only in the most general terms. He’d never discussed his past or his current situation. Yet here was the king of Emesa offering him gifts that could be as valuable as life itself to a fugitive. He tried to think back. How much time had she spent with Ariston? Only Serpentius and the Syrian knew he was on the run, but even Ariston didn’t know why.

  ‘All I ask, majesty, is that I be allowed to continue my journey.’ Valerius bowed again. ‘My thanks for the offer of a place in your service. If the fates had dictated otherwise I would have been proud to accept, but I have made a pledge to join the Imperial forces fighting in Judaea.’

  The king returned to his throne and exchanged a glance with Tabitha. Valerius was certain some unspoken message passed between them, but he had no idea what it was. Eventually, Sohaemus nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I insist that you do so in a state that befits your rank and your deeds. You travel to join the Romans in Judaea? In four days I will have gathered a force of five hundred archers and cavalry to send to General Titus as a signal of my fealty to Rome. I had hoped it would be more,’ he looked to Tabitha again with a frown, ‘but King Aristobulus insists that Chalcis has none to spare. His spies report Parthian cavalry massing on his border, and it is true that King Vologases has had little to occupy him since your General Corbulo taught him such a harsh lesson in tactics at Cepha.’

  ‘Aristobulus is afraid of his own shadow.’ Tabitha’s interruption took Valerius by surprise. ‘He is like a child hiding behind his mother’s skirts in a storm. If we had supported Gaulan against him as I suggested, I would have returned with ten times the number of cavalry.’

  ‘But Rome supports Aristobulus,’ Sohaemus said reasonably. ‘And it would have meant risking the wrath of your mistress, who would hardly thank me for aiding a man who removed her uncle from the throne. Gaulan is young and ambitious. It will do him good to take out his frustrations on the Zealots. If he impresses General Titus he might end up with a kingdom of his own. The father is no longer young; who knows—’

  ‘And that is why it is important to provide the general with as much aid as possible.’ The king acknowledged Tabitha’s new intervention with a curt nod. It had been designed to prevent further indiscretion. Any discussion of the Emperor’s age or health was dangerous ground even for a client king like Sohaemus. She went on smoothly: ‘Of course it would help if we had a champion at the heart of his court. Do not be too angry with Ariston,’ she added, confirming Valerius’s suspicions. ‘He is garrulous and susceptible to flattery, especially from a woman, but so are many men. I feigned an interest in you, and how much more impressive to have a master who is an intimate of the Emperor’s son than a mere desert wanderer.’

  ‘He is a gossip and a fool,’ Valerius growled. ‘I should have him whipped.’

  ‘Perhaps it is I who should be whipped?’ She rose smoothly to her feet and approached so close that he scented a wisp of perfumed oils. ‘For the fault is mine. No?’ She smiled at the startled expression on Valerius’s face. ‘Then I plead for mercy on his behalf. Should I kneel?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ The turmoil in his breast made the words gruffer than he intended. ‘But I will ensure he knows whom to thank for his escape, and of course,’ he turned to bow to the king, thankful to escape relatively unscathed, ‘I will be happy to carry any message you wish and to ensure it reaches General Titus’s hands.’

  ‘Good.’ Sohaemus clapped his hands and the chamberlain reappeared. ‘Arrange for food to be brought: our guest will eat with us. And send for my armourer.’ He smiled at Valerius. ‘If you will not accept a reward at least you will travel as a prince of the East in the finest armour and on the finest horse my stables can provide.’ He waved away the Roman’s protests. ‘If you are to escort my sister’s daughter to Jerusalem, you must be suitably armed.’

  Valerius frowned as Tabitha walked towards her uncle. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Where would I be if not at my mistress’s side? And where General Titus is my mistress will not be far away,’ she said, mystifying him even more.

  ‘Then it is settled.’ The king rose from his throne. ‘You will move into the palace until my soldiers are ready to leave. Now we will feast.’ As they were leaving the throne room, Valerius’s eyes slid to a stack of scrolls on a table positioned to get the most light. Sohaemus noticed his interest and beamed proudly. ‘Of course, you are an educated man. After we have eaten I will show you my library.’

  To Valerius’s disappointment Tabitha didn’t join them for the sumptuous banquet Sohaemus provided. There were questions he wanted to ask her and it would have made it easier to disguise how little of the king’s food and wine he actually consumed. After months on the road eating the most simple of foods, he found that his stomach rebelled at the sight of the thick sauces and heavily spiced meats served from golden platters. Even the wine, a sweet, heady vintage from one of the king’s vineyards on the coast, couldn’t tempt a palate more accustomed these days to the thin vinegar served to servants and slaves.

  But if the meal wasn’t to his taste, the aftermath was a feast for the mind.

  For a man who loved books the library at Emesa was like stumbling on an oasis after a ten-day ride through the desert. King Sohaemus led him into an enormous room illuminated by tall windows. Row after row of stone niches rose the height of the walls. Each opening held at least a single leather-cased scroll, but most contained several. Many of them could only be reached by the polished wooden ladders which stood ready for the purpose. The musty scent of ageing leather and decaying papyrus tickled the nostrils and a dozen clerks toiled at wooden desks drawn up in lines. Valerius’s father had kept a small collection at the family estate at Fidenae, but the villa had been destroyed during the civil war. In Britannia, he’d never been without his copy of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War. It too had burned, in the sack of Colonia Claudia Victricensis, and he’d never been able to replace it. Fortunately, before he left Rome, Valerius’s friend Pliny – Gaius Plinius Secundus – had managed to smuggle him the early chapters of Xenophon’s Anabasis. The old soldier’s adventures on campaign with mighty Cyrus of Persia had relieved the boredom of the long trip east. Before he died, Corbulo had created a fine library in his palace at Antioch, but it was dwarfed by the collection Sohaemus had amassed here at Emesa. Not a single room, but three or four echoing halls, linked by doorways guarded by soldiers in light armour.

  Sohaemus smiled at Valerius’s puzzlement. ‘They are not here for my protection, or even the books’,’ he explained, ‘but to save them in event of a disaster. Some of these scrolls survived Caesar’s destruction of the li
brary at Alexandria – see, this copy of Plato’s Apology still bears the scars. There are books here in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, Aramaic and Phoenician, Egyptian and a dozen other languages we have yet to decipher. Each man is tasked with the preservation of certain treasured works in the event of fire or earthquake.’

  ‘It is wonderful,’ Valerius said sincerely. ‘A marvel surely to rival Alexandria itself.’

  ‘Ah,’ Sohaemus smiled modestly at the compliment, ‘but did Seneca not say: “What is the point of countless books whose titles the owners cannot possibly read through in a lifetime”?’

  ‘The learner is not instructed, but burdened by the mass of them.’ Valerius quoted his old mentor.

  ‘You are familiar with him?’ A row of white teeth shone through the ringlets of the king’s beard. ‘Then you will also know he was not in the least impressed with Alexandria. Livius may have praised it as the most distinguished achievement of the good taste and solicitude of kings, but Seneca bemoaned the collection of books not for learning but to make a show – decorations for the dining room, as he put it.’

  ‘But he too had a great collection.’ Valerius smiled at the memory. ‘And I doubt he ever read more than half of them.’

  Sohaemus’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘Would he have been embarrassed, do you think, by his hypocrisy?’

  ‘No.’ Valerius thought back to the Seneca he had known. Bombastic and secure in the knowledge of his own greatness, but never arrogant. A man who, for all his faults, had always been able to laugh at himself. ‘I think he would have pointed out that his own situation was the irrefutable proof of his genius. He never paraded himself as an example of perfection, either as a Stoic or in the way he lived his life. His duty, as he saw it, was to point out the contradictions and imperfections others did not, or would not, see.’