Defender of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Who says this?’

  She shook her head. ‘People tell me things, Valerius, but do not ask me who, or how, or why, because you may not like the answer. Accept what you are given; do not question the motives or the validity of the source.’

  He nodded. His trust, at least, he could give freely. ‘I don’t doubt that what you say is true, but I still cannot see how it helps me.’

  ‘Poor Valerius, who does not recognize his own value. You look at tomorrow and see only your fears. Consider the advantages. The opportunity to regain the Emperor’s favour.’

  ‘The last time I had the Emperor’s favour I did not like the advantages it brought.’

  ‘He tried to seduce you and you refused him? Do not look so shocked, Valerius, of course I could see it. And if he had succeeded? What fools men are to take the act of physical love so seriously. Warmth, comfort perhaps; if you are fortunate, a little passion and a fleeting moment of pleasure. Would it have altered you? I have done things, Valerius, that would perhaps change your opinion of me, but I have not let them change me.’ She spoke the last sentence with a ferocity that made him wonder if it was true. It had never occurred to him to feel sorry for her. But Fabia was nothing if not an actress, and she quickly recovered her poise. ‘Whatever anger Nero felt against you is long past. If you had been one of those simpering slave boys he surrounds himself with, or one of his lusty charioteers, he might have had you killed or put away, but you are a Hero of Rome. He dare not touch you, because to harm you would risk alienating the legions and he cannot rule without their support. My advice to you is this: whatever he asks, be prepared to at least consider it.’

  Despite his doubts, he knew that she was right. He had asked for her advice; how could he refuse it?

  ‘Will you stay with me for an hour?’ This was different. Their meetings had always been, for all their pleasure in each other’s company, on a purely commercial basis. Her voice had changed, the tone low and husky and filled with desire. He knew he should refuse.

  ‘Of course.’

  As she led him through to the bedroom she wondered what he would think if he knew the truth. Would he ever forgive her?

  It was late when Valerius returned home, his head full of that half-floating sensation that comes after long hours with a beautiful, sensuous and passionate woman intent on ensuring her own satisfaction and yours. His body gave a pleasurable shudder at the memory of the miracles Fabia had wrought and the feelings that had accompanied them. Perhaps …

  He heard the sobbing as he entered the atrium and he rushed to Olivia’s room to find Julia lying hunched on the bed beside his sister. She looked up. ‘It is as if yesterday had never happened,’ she sobbed. ‘She hasn’t woken or moved all day. You must help her. She’s dying.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Julia. I shouldn’t have left you. I will find someone else tomorrow. A nurse or a companion.’

  ‘It isn’t a nurse or a companion she needs. It is her family,’ the girl said accusingly.

  He stared at her. He would never have taken those words from another slave, but Julia and his sister had been together since they were children. She was Olivia’s best friend as well as her servant.

  ‘I’ll send a message to the Judaean. He said he would visit Olivia.’

  The suggestion calmed the girl, and he waved her from the room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, taking his familiar place beside the bed. ‘I neglected you today for the wrong reasons and tomorrow I will have to neglect you for the right ones. Do you remember …’

  Her eyes remained closed, but her face told him that she could hear him.

  VII

  THE VICTORY ROAD clung to the side of the Palatine Hill, sloping first from the west, then turning to climb across the northern face. A faint haze hung in the air, but the low sun quickly cleared it and halfway up the hill Valerius, who had dressed in his finest for the occasion, turned to look out over the centuries-old glory of the Forum and the shimmering sea of terracotta roofs that disguised the festering reality of the Subura. He wondered if he would look upon it again. At his back soared the marble splendour of Nero’s sprawling palace, home of every Caesar since Tiberius. Many of the men who had followed this path had entered it and never left. In theory, no Roman citizen could be tortured or sentenced to death unless he was guilty of treason. Caligula, and, in his final years, Claudius, had shown that the reality could be very different. Their blood ran in Nero’s veins.

  But some journeys had to be made, even if each step was reluctantly taken. He squared his shoulders and approached the gatehouse, where he surprised a pair of black-clad guards lounging sleepily against the wall.

  ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens.’

  The senior of the two yawned. ‘Early, aren’t you? We don’t generally have anyone official at this hour.’ He studied a list pinned to the gatehouse door and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t say you’re expected. I’ll need your pass.’ He held out a hand.

  Valerius shook his head. ‘The invitation was delivered verbally.’ The Praetorian noticed the stress on the word ‘invitation’ and raised his eyes.

  ‘Verrens?’ The tone was polite but the way the two Praetorians straightened told Valerius everything he needed to know about the speaker. Stunted but solidly built and in early middle age, he wore his hair cropped short and had features that might have been crafted with a blunt knife. The skin on the left side of his face had the texture of melted candle wax and made Valerius wonder if he’d been caught in a fire at some point. It was a face that would scare children and repel women. On another man it might have inspired pity, but not on this man. You knew instantly that the mind behind the mask was as ugly as the misshapen features he presented to the world.

  ‘At your service.’ Valerius kept his voice neutral, but didn’t bow, which made the face twist into a parody of a smile.

  ‘Lucius Licinius Rodan.’

  Now Valerius understood why the Praetorians were so nervous. Officially a lowly centurion of the Praetorian Guard, Rodan was the one who, if Nero had an enemy, would ensure he was an enemy no more. By assassination if necessary, but the Praetorian was rumoured to prefer more subtle methods. Perhaps the man’s younger son would be found with his throat cut; would he risk the elder? His wife might be molested in his house; who was to know when the molesters would return? If his horses burned to death in their stalls, he would understand that his family would be next. Rodan was one of the most dangerous men in Rome and his presence made this meeting all the more unpredictable.

  ‘Has he been searched yet? No? Then what are you waiting for?’ Expert hands ran over Valerius’s body, missing nothing. The Praetorian delicately held up Valerius’s walnut fist for inspection.

  ‘It could make a good bludgeon,’ he suggested.

  ‘Fool.’ Rodan shook his head. ‘I think we can leave him his hand. After all, he did lose it in the service of Rome. Follow me.’

  The gateway led directly into the palace gardens where a path wound along an avenue of pear and apple trees, through parkland studded with fountains and flower beds. Valerius walked a pace behind his host, whose bearing made it clear that a missing hand and a military honour did not add up to any form of recognition in Rodan’s world. Rodan provided a reminder of his power a few moments later. A group of slaves were working to replace plants near the path when one of them accidentally sprinkled a few grains of soil on the Praetorian’s gold court slippers.

  Rodan halted as if he’d walked into a wall. ‘Overseer!’ he shouted. ‘This man assaulted me. He is to be taken to the Castra Praetoria for questioning.’

  The slave, a thin dark-haired boy of about fourteen, turned death pale. His hands brushed desperately at Rodan’s feet until there was no sign of the offending dirt. ‘No, sir, please, sir, I beg …’ Without warning, Rodan kicked the boy full in the face with enough force to break his jaw. Valerius saw three white teeth fly as the young slave somersaulted backwards to lie groaning on the path. Rodan stood over him, casually
considering whether to kick him a second time before deciding that the lesson had been absorbed. Two men picked up the slave boy and carried him away. Valerius had come across men in the legions who meted out violence as readily as Rodan, but never quite so coldly. He comforted himself with the thought that they were always the ones carried from the fight with spear wounds in the back.

  They walked quickly through a colonnade until they reached a large door guarded by Praetorians matched like a pair of thoroughbred horses. Nero was said to choose his palace guard personally, with all the care he gave to the choice of his chariot teams, for their looks and physique. Clearly, Rodan had been selected only for his talents. Inside, everything was marble and gold. Ahead of them stretched a long corridor lined with gilded busts of the Emperor and his predecessors. At set intervals curtained alcoves framed statues of Apollo, Venus or Jupiter and other lesser members of the godly pantheon. Enormous vases filled to bursting with vibrant yellow flowers continued the colour scheme. A display of neck and arm rings made of twisted strands filled part of one wall and Valerius recognized trophies taken from British kings. Another held plates and ornaments which could only have come from the east, a small part, he guessed, of the plunder Corbulo had gathered as he subdued the Parthians in Armenia. Valerius would have stopped to study them more closely, but his guide glared at him.

  ‘This way,’ Rodan said irritably, indicating a doorway to the right.

  They entered a large open room dominated by an enormous statue of painted marble. It was incredibly lifelike and portrayed a naked man and two younger male figures being tormented by writhing snakes. The man was reaching upwards with one arm half entwined with a serpent, while his right hand attempted to keep a second snake’s gaping jaw from his body. Valerius recognized the group as Laocoön, high priest of Troy, and his two sons. He remembered that Laocoön had warned the Trojans against Greeks bearing gifts and wondered if it was a portent for this meeting. Rodan ignored the sculpture and turned to his left where a set of six wide steps led upwards to a golden throne.

  The throne was empty.

  ‘Wait here.’ Without another word the Praetorian returned the way he’d come.

  Minutes passed while Valerius stood in solitary silence. He knew the wait was designed to make him uneasy, but knowing didn’t make it any more bearable. As his eyes adjusted to the light he noticed detail that had not been apparent when he entered. The wall behind the throne was not solid, but a silk screen carefully painted to blend in with the garden scenes behind. It was almost translucent, so that if he looked carefully he could see faint shapes moving behind it. A slight rustling confirmed what he already knew. He was being watched.

  He measured time by the shadows creeping arthritically across the floor. By now tension had developed into a slow-burning anger. He willed his feet to stay where they were. Seneca stood here, he thought. Seneca had suffered the same creeping uncertainty; the cramping of the legs and the roaring inside his skull. Lucius Annaeus Seneca was an old friend of Valerius’s father, with a country estate in the next valley. At the age of fourteen, Valerius had been sent to study under Seneca while the latter endured exile in Corsica. The philosopher had returned from his banishment to serve as Nero’s teacher and guide. He had danced the political tightrope for half a lifetime, but his fall now seemed inevitable. It was said he no longer had the Emperor’s confidence. That his judgement was unsound. He was old, tired; Nero needed a younger man to guide him, someone who understood his needs. Someone like Decimus Torquatus, the man who controlled Rodan and his Praetorian wolves.

  Valerius kept his eye fixed on the wall and allowed his mind to drift back to long days on the parade ground with the Twentieth. Nero could not hurt him. The best of him had died on that final day in the Temple of Claudius. He might live and breathe, but this was merely the long prelude to the afterlife. The only people who truly mattered were Olivia and his father. For their sakes he would endure this petty torture.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a soft giggle from behind the screen and an apparition dressed in startling emerald green appeared, its golden hair styled in long ringlets. A weak chin with a sparse fair beard, bad skin disguised by white powder and heavy sensuous lips painted a rich, ruby red. This hermaphrodite creature was served by four naked satyrs; plump, pre-pubescent children who still managed to exude a nauseating sexuality as they danced around their charge. Valerius found himself caught between horrified bewilderment and an urge to laugh out loud. Nero. In a woman’s dress and made up like a common harlot.

  The Emperor studied him seriously, eyelashes fluttering. ‘What do you think?’

  There could only be one answer. ‘Astonishing, Caesar.’

  ‘You recognized me as Pandora? The others didn’t, but what do they know about art? At the close of the gymnastics I will give a performance then hand out gifts from Pandora’s box.’ The voice was as Valerius remembered it: high, but not shrill, more boy than man. It still managed to carry a ruler’s power and for some reason it sought his approval.

  ‘I am sure they will be gratefully received, Caesar. What more could a man ask than a gift from your own hand?’

  The shining eyes narrowed and Valerius wondered if he’d gone too far in his flattery. He found himself holding his breath.

  ‘So, a courtier as well as a soldier.’ Nero waved a hand and the four satyrs disappeared behind the screen. He came closer. ‘Of course, you were trained by Seneca, as I was. We have much in common, you and I. We have both suffered in Rome’s name. We should be friends.’ He raised his hand to Valerius’s cheek and the young Roman couldn’t prevent himself flinching from the manicured fingers. Nero’s eyes darkened and the room seemed to freeze; the unnatural stillness was broken only by the sound of the Emperor’s hoarse breathing. The scent of a strong perfume trickled into Valerius’s nostrils and made him need to sneeze. He wanted to turn away, but the unblinking stare held him like a vole in the grip of a kestrel’s claws. Very slowly, Nero brought his face close. Valerius tried not to smell the sour breath or see the outlines of the small pus-filled spots that dotted the skin beneath the powder. He felt his gorge rise as the painted lips touched his. A thick tongue probed his closed mouth and the urge to vomit became almost irresistible. He knew that if he gave in to the sensation he would surely die. He stood, still as the marble statue on the other side of the room, and endured.

  After a few moments without a response, Nero took a step back. His tone mirrored the astonishment on his face. ‘You will not return your Emperor’s love? Is this what a soldier calls loyalty, or devotion, or duty?’

  Valerius could feel the fear rising in him. Against any other form of attack he could have defended himself, even if it meant his death, but this? ‘Not will not, Caesar.’ From somewhere he found the right words. ‘Cannot. It is not within my gift or my power.’

  Nero’s head swayed on its long neck, the cold eyes never leaving their prey. ‘But it is within mine.’ His voice quivered with righteous anger. ‘I could have you held down and use you as I willed.’

  ‘Then it would not be love, and you would have lost my loyalty and devotion.’

  ‘And you would have lost your life.’

  ‘My life is my Emperor’s to take, though I had hoped to give it willingly on the battlefield.’

  For a dozen long moments Nero studied him. Without warning he gave a girlish laugh and flounced away. ‘Am I not the greatest actor in the world? With nothing more than a kiss I have a Hero of Rome disarmed and trembling in fear.’

  Valerius bowed his head, not in acknowledgement, but to ensure that the other man could not see murder reflected in his eyes. He had never felt such fury. He wanted to reach out and take the scrawny neck in his hand and squeeze until the breath rattled in Nero’s throat like a dying chicken’s. To flail with the walnut fist until the pasty, overfed face was smashed into a bloody pulp. Slowly, he willed the rage to subside and when he looked up the Emperor had taken his place on the golden throne, with the emerald
dress ruffed up around his thighs and his thin, pale legs hanging ludicrously below.

  Now the voice took on a new authority. ‘I brought you here for another reason, Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome. Will you serve your Emperor – unto death?’

  There could be no hesitation, though the words choked him. ‘I will, Caesar.’

  Nero waved a hand theatrically towards the balcony. ‘Look out and tell me what you see?’

  Valerius hesitated. There were so many answers. ‘I see Rome and its people.’

  The Emperor shook his head, flinging the ringlets left and right. ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘You see a nest of traitors. Rome’s laws are flouted. Rome’s gods are mocked. A disease is already within our midst. It is spreading with every hour. You will discover the source of the disease so that we may eradicate it. You have heard of a man called Christus?’