Defender of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Her voice took on the fierceness of a mother leopard protecting her cubs. ‘Believe me, Valerius, Fabia Faustina values her friends. Torquatus may have me by the throat, but there are things that I tell him and things that I do not.’

  ‘Then with your protection she will survive. She does not need me.’ He said it with finality and she shook her head at his failure to grasp what she was saying.

  ‘You don’t understand. Only by saving Poppaea can you save your father and Olivia, and only by saving Poppaea will you find Petrus.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘It is very simple. Poppaea Augusta Sabina has become a Christian.’

  The room seemed to suddenly go cold.

  ‘Nero knows?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nero suspects.’

  ‘Then Torquatus knows.’

  ‘Torquatus believes he knows, but he has no evidence yet, and without evidence he cannot denounce Poppaea. If he does and Nero does not believe him, his own life will be forfeit.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘Cornelius Sulla first intrigued her, then seduced her. He opened her eyes to a world beyond the pain of this world. Somehow he arranged that she meet Petrus and from that day onwards she was a different Poppaea; a Poppaea prepared to challenge Nero’s tyranny, to fight him from within his own palace.’

  Still Valerius was not entirely convinced. ‘You protect her, but you gave Cornelius to Torquatus? He could have exposed her with a single word.’

  ‘If you had known Cornelius, you would know that he would never betray her. He sacrificed his brother to blind Torquatus to Poppaea, then went through the torments of hell to ensure she stayed hidden. That was the kind of man he was; if he gave his life for Poppaea he gave it gladly.’

  Valerius remembered the burning red eyes in the blackened skull and wondered at the strength of will it had taken to stay silent. Nero was right not to underestimate the Christians. An enemy without fear is an enemy to fear.

  ‘And you, Fabia?’

  ‘Am I a Christian?’ She laughed. ‘Surely, Valerius, you understand by now that I am beyond saving. I have sent too many to their deaths for an unguarded word to believe I have any value. Yet I hope I still have some honour in your eyes. Each time I provided Torquatus with an opportunity to bring you down, I provided you with one to thwart him.’

  He studied her, wondering if that was true and knowing that, in the end, it didn’t really matter. He had to trust her.

  ‘How do I find Petrus?’

  ‘By finding Poppaea.’

  ‘And where is Poppaea?’

  ‘She sailed for Neapolis this morning. She will visit her people at the family villa while Nero makes his preparations for his great performance at the theatre in the city.’

  He shook his head. ‘You are talking in riddles. What does a trip to Neapolis have to do with Petrus?’

  ‘You have spent days looking for a waterfall, Valerius, is that not true? Then perhaps it will not surprise you that the villa at Oplontis has the finest ornamental waterfall in the Empire.’ She laughed at the sudden flare of comprehension. ‘Poppaea has yet to be saved. To be saved, she must be baptized by Petrus, who has persuaded her that everyone who was to take part in today’s ceremony should be sanctified along with her, including your father.’

  ‘It’s madness!’

  ‘Yes, Valerius, but there is a joy in such madness, is there not? They are prepared to risk everything for what they believe. Do you believe in anything that much?’

  He shook his head. Once, he had believed in the Empire and would have been happy to die for it, but not now. ‘Only my family.’

  ‘Then go to Neapolis and reach them before Torquatus. Perhaps by saving them you will save yourself.’

  ‘Torquatus?’

  ‘Do you think I am his only spy?’

  XXXVI

  ‘PAY OFF SEXTUS and Felix and thank them for their services, then take the seal and find a boat that will carry us to Neapolis.’

  ‘What about you?’ Marcus demanded.

  ‘I’ll join you at Ostia. I have some business to deal with before we leave.’

  He rode north, taking the Via Salaria towards the estate at Fidenae, but on this occasion he rode past the gate and into the hills behind the neighbouring villa.

  Seneca lay on a couch in the atrium, relaxed after his afternoon bath and close to falling into the shallow, mesmeric sleep he found conducive to deep and stimulating thought. This was his favourite time of day and the servants had orders not to disturb their master on pain of dismissal. When the arm closed like a band of iron round his throat he had just begun to reflect on the most interesting contradiction between friendship and trust, which in itself raised an interesting philosophical debate. In other circumstances he would have liked to continue the internal discussion, but the chill of a dagger against the voluminous folds of skin at his neck quite drove it from his mind. He had only a basic knowledge of anatomy, but enough to know that the point was less than an inch from the big vein pulsing in his throat. One thrust would bleed him dry in less time than it takes a person to swallow a cup of wine. He didn’t understand why the analogy came to mind, but it was oddly comforting to know that a man could still think logically at the moment of his death.

  ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.’ The harsh nasal voice cut through his musings. When he tried to reply all that emerged was a bullfrog’s croak. The arm loosened, but only a fraction.

  ‘Allow me enough time, friend,’ he spluttered, ‘and I will give you a thousand reasons why you should not kill me. I am Lucius Annaeus Seneca and therefore the act of dying and what lies beyond hold a certain fascination, but I have voluminous works to complete before I am ready to explore that particular avenue.’

  ‘Whether you live or die is beyond your control, old man.’ The arm tightened again and Seneca was embarrassed to hear himself give a little squawk of fear. He had often pondered the inevitability of death and he’d concluded that clinging to life must be mere folly when it only postponed the inescapable, but now, when death appeared on his own doorstep, he was unable to take his own advice. It seemed that no matter how brave the outer man, an inner man existed with a more fully formed sense of his own mortality.

  ‘Whoever is paying you to kill me, I will triple the offer,’ he choked.

  ‘What makes you think I wouldn’t gladly do it for nothing?’

  Seneca sighed inwardly. It had been worth the attempt. But that voice? Despite the gruff disguise he believed he recognized the tone and inflection. With the little thrill of fear which accompanied the knowledge came also a tiny chink of hope. How fortunate to have a murderer who might be open to logical argument.

  ‘Valerius? You would not harm an old man who taught you all you know. It would be a pity to extinguish so much learning, would it not?’

  ‘But not to extinguish so much corruption. I could have forgiven you your avarice and your duplicity but not the way you used my father.’ The tone offered no reprieve, but the words hinted at a possible avenue of escape.

  ‘Your father is a very foolish man, Valerius.’ Seneca risked the criticism knowing that it was only the truth.

  ‘Foolish,’ Valerius agreed. ‘And vulnerable. He should have been able to rely on the support of his friends and family, but both failed him.’

  ‘And for that I am sorry.’

  ‘But his family did not betray him. Only his friends did that.’

  The words were accompanied by a slight tightening of the arm muscle and a liquid squirt of fear shot through Seneca’s bowels. Now he knew how the hangman’s rope would feel. ‘I would know nothing of that,’ he blustered.

  ‘No? But I would.’ Seneca began to mumble a denial, but another increase of muscular pressure silenced it. He was close to choking. A hair’s breadth from a crushed windpipe. Valerius continued: ‘I know how my father was led towards a new and dangerous enthusiasm the way a blindfolded bull is led to the sacrifice. And I know that th
e Judaean girl Ruth was inserted into his household to ensure his conversion. I also know who was responsible for these things.’

  ‘I—’ This time Valerius used the knife to stifle the words. He knew Seneca too well to get into a semantic argument with him. If any man could talk his way from beneath the executioner’s axe it was Nero’s former mentor.

  ‘What I couldn’t understand at first was why. Was it possible my father’s neighbour and friend was acting in his best interests? An argument could, after all, be made that a certain comfort was to be derived from the teachings of the man Christus, particularly for a lonely old widower who had lost his way. The girl Ruth’s involvement was entirely innocent, driven by her faith and an inborn goodness.’ Valerius’s muscles tightened involuntarily when he mentioned Ruth and it was only when Seneca squirmed that he realized he was killing the philosopher. He forced himself to relax his grip. ‘That innocence led to her death, but that would mean nothing to you. She was just another piece to be used then discarded in this greedy game you were playing.’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘Shh. There is more. Surely you are interested. It is a fine story, of a man who became too clever for his own good. My father was not the only fool. When you summoned me, I came, and when you charmed me I was convinced I was working for the interests of Rome, and not those of Lucius Annaeus Seneca. It was only after I walked in on your visit to my father that I began to realize the scale and subtlety of the web you had snared us in. Better to have kept Saul hidden: there is too much of Petrus in him and he shows too great a knowledge of the Christians not to be one himself. He is Petrus’s rival for the Christian leadership, is he not?’ He released his hold long enough for Seneca to nod. ‘So, a perfect alliance. Seneca uses Saul’s information to persuade his old pupil Valerius to bring him Petrus and thereby save his career, and his life. In the same instant Saul becomes the undisputed head of the Christians, a man more ably equipped to spread the word of Christus than a simple fisherman. The only flaw was Petrus, who was too clever for us all.’

  He paused just long enough for Seneca to be certain that his time was up. Once Valerius had felt something like love for this man, but there could be no pity for an old fraud who would sacrifice every friend he had to recover his position.

  ‘Even then, I might have forgiven. But that was not enough for you. You had to have more. Where is it?’

  He felt Seneca freeze. ‘I don’t understand.’ The hint of pleading in the philosopher’s voice told Valerius that he understood very well. Seneca gave a little squeal as the knife point drew blood.

  ‘How you must have rejoiced when the surveyor handed over the report about the marble deposits on the border of your estate. You would keep it close. You never were trusting, Seneca, and I doubt you have started to be now. Tell me where it is or I really will have to kill you and find it myself.’

  A shaking arm pointed in the direction of a nearby cabinet. Valerius drew the other man to his feet, never relaxing his grip. Together they walked until Seneca was close enough to reach the polished wood. The cabinet had two doors, but Seneca ignored them. Instead, he reached below the top on the left-hand side and worked his fingers until Valerius heard a distinct click and some internal mechanism sprung the lid back to reveal a pair of scrolls.

  ‘Pick them up.’ The philosopher did as he was told and they worked their way together back to the couch. ‘Unroll them.’

  With his left hand Valerius took the papers. The first was the surveyor’s report on the hills to the south. Valerius gave a low whistle as he read the sums involved. ‘Congratulations, master Seneca. It appears you have substantial deposits of marble beneath your property, with a conservative value of tens of millions of sestertii and a possible value of hundreds of millions. But what is this? By some misfortune the bulk of the deposits, enough to make a man as rich as Crassus and Pompey combined, lie beneath your neighbour’s land. Oh, what a temptation that must have been for a man who has never known the meaning of the word enough. That was when you saw the opportunity to ensnare your friend Lucius, and, when his trusting son naively followed him into the net, you had exactly what you wanted. As soon as Petrus was taken, the father and the son were to be denounced, the one as a Christian, the other for failing to report him.’ He dropped the survey and picked up the second document. ‘How fortunate, then, that trusting old Lucius has already mortgaged the estate to his old friend Seneca. See, he has even signed it, although the signature is a little blurred and shaky, but then he is an old man.’ He threw the second scroll beside the first. ‘You even made common cause with your worst enemy to ensure Nero did not snatch it away from you. Does Torquatus know how much it is worth? Of course he doesn’t. If he did both estates would be confiscated by the state and Torquatus would already be sleeping in your bed. But did you really think you could trust him?’ Let Seneca think the Praetorian prefect had betrayed him. The truth was that Torquatus liked to boast, even to a woman he believed he owned body and soul.

  Seneca was too astute to deny the fraud. He knew the two papers screamed his guilt as clearly as a written confession. All that remained was the court’s sentence. ‘It would be a pleasure to kill you, old man. A little more pressure and you will lose consciousness; then it would be a simple act to drag your carcass through to the bath and slit your wrists and allow the Fates to choose whether you drown or bleed to death.’

  The philosopher bridled. ‘If I am going to die,’ he spluttered, ‘then at least do me the courtesy of making it look like murder. Thrust deep and let no man believe Lucius Annaeus Seneca took his own life in despair.’

  ‘I have a friend who would beg me to take that advice, but I have another use for you.’ He loosened his grip and Seneca collapsed forward, coughing. Valerius showed him the dagger to let him know the respite was purely temporary and produced another pair of scrolls from inside his tunic. He picked up a block of wax from a table at Seneca’s right hand and allowed it to melt over an oil lamp so it would drip on the top scroll. ‘Your seal. Quickly now.’

  Seneca frowned, but complied. He tried to read what was written on the parchment, but Valerius whipped it away before repeating the process with the second.

  ‘Two scrolls,’ he explained. ‘Both witnessed by you and two others, both recounting the tale of your deceit, including the parts played by Saul of Tarsus and Torquatus, commander of the Praetorian Guard. Enough to have all three of you executed. If anything happens to me or my father one scroll will go directly to the Emperor, the other to the Senate.’

  Seneca flinched, but a surge of relief made him feel quite giddy. He was going to live.

  Valerius picked up the geologist’s report and the forged transfer paper and held them over the candle, only dropping them when the flames reached his fingers.

  The philosopher watched with a puzzled frown. ‘What will you do now, Valerius? You are a rich man, or at least a rich man’s son. The money that lies beneath that hill would guarantee you a place in the Senate. With your intelligence, money and the right friends who knows what you could achieve? A consulship, given time, certainly.’

  Valerius marvelled at the conceit of the man. ‘I will do what Nero has commanded me to do. I will find Petrus and I will deliver him to the Emperor.’ He saw the disbelief in Seneca’s eyes. ‘Not for you, or for him, but for the twenty thousand innocents who will die if I do not deliver him. Do you think he would count it a good bargain, your Christian? His life for twenty thousand others. Would that not place him even above his master, the Messiah?’

  ‘Yes, he would count it a bargain.’ The deep voice came from behind them. How long had Saul been listening? Had he been prepared to watch Seneca die without calling for help? Valerius decided he had never met anyone quite so ruthless.

  The Cilician continued: ‘Of course Petrus would welcome the opportunity to give his life for others. My brother in Christus has so much to atone for, after all. But Jesus died for all men, my young friend, not for a mere twenty thousand. If
you can find him, Petrus will be a willing sacrifice. But first you must find him.’

  XXXVII

  THE EARTH WAS angry today, snorting steam like breath from a hard-ridden horse.

  Quintus Corbo often rode out to the little height two miles from Neapolis to gaze across the garlanded crescent of the Campi Flegrei. Perhaps great Homer had stood here looking out to Puteoli and beyond, over the glittering expanse of emerald and blue waters to the pretty little harbour town of Baiae and the naval base at Misenum. Certainly the poet had known of the Phlegraean Fields, because he had written of them in his Odyssey, where they had provided the inspiration for the forbidding lair of Polyphemos the Cyclops. More recently Puteoli had known fame as the harbour from which the Emperor Gaius Caligula had built his three-mile bridge of ships in a show of manic extravagance that had done as much as anything to bring him to his just and painful end.

  Emperors and their peculiarities were on Corbo’s mind today, but that was not what brought him here. He regarded himself, perhaps unjustly, as little more than an enthusiastic amateur in the science of natural phenomena, but the gods had placed him in the best position in the entire Empire to witness it, here in the gigantic boiling pot of the ash fields. Epicurus of Samos had first expounded the theory that the explosive underground activity in and around the Mare Nostrum was a direct effect of air penetrating deep into the earth and taking on a new and ferocious energy which made it more dangerous than any other element. The only reason the entire world did not explode was because of the phenomenon he was witnessing at this very moment. When a certain amount of violently disturbed air had amassed in cavities below the surface, the earth allowed it to escape through fissures and boreholes, thus relieving the pressure. He had walked in the foul-scented hills behind Baiae and seen the hundreds of hot springs and sulphur pools where the escaping gases created great jets of super-heated steam that dotted the landscape, which the uneducated sometimes mistook for giants. Normally this manifested itself in a low fog, but today it appeared the entire peninsula was on fire.