Douglas Jackson: Enemy of Rome

Primus looked up sharply, wondering whether to be insulted by the suggestion that either man could defeat him. Gradually he relaxed and his face twisted into what was almost a smile. ‘Yes, I see why Titus suggested I could use you. Honest to the point of foolishness. Brave enough not — quite — to be despised. A man never likely to play the spy.’

This time it was Valerius’s turn to flinch, but he was careful not to show it. Primus believed himself a fine judge of character, but he was wrong. Valerius had played the spy for Nero, for Galba and for Otho, and played it well. He had no doubt Titus wanted to be kept informed of Primus’s moves, but he thought it unlikely the legate would give him the opportunity. ‘I am happy to serve the general in whatever role he feels me best suited,’ he said carefully.

‘A lawyer’s answer.’ Primus’s mood changed in an instant. ‘Venus’s tits, I hate lawyers. Your role will be to be at my orders day and night, and if I tell you to jump off a bridge you will ask me which side is my pleasure. You will be part of my council, because that is what your friend , Titus,’ the word ‘friend’ was given an emphasis that made Valerius want to take the other man by the throat, ‘has suggested and for the moment Titus has his father’s authority, but you will keep your ugly face and that crippled arm out of my line of sight until you are called. I have been advised to stay on the defensive, but that will depend on the reports I receive over the next few days. If the conditions are right, we will march on Rome. We will fight this war, you and I, and we will defeat the enemy, but by the end you will wish you had died under the executioner’s sword. Do not be deceived by my gentle manner today, Gaius Valerius Verrens. When this is over there will be a reckoning. Now get out.’

Valerius bit his lip to stifle words that would put him under another death sentence. He slammed the wooden fist against his chest in salute and marched from the tent. Outside, he found Serpentius waiting on the other side of the Via Principalis. ‘By the look on your face I’d say that went well,’ the Spaniard said.

A bitter laugh escaped Valerius and he looked out over the familiar lines of tents to the grey hills beyond. ‘Remember that time we crossed the Danuvius and were ambushed by the Dacians? I think we were safer among the savages and their skinning knives than we are here.’

Serpentius shrugged. ‘In that case we should get out the first chance we have. You don’t owe these people anything.’

Valerius shook his head. Titus had saved his life; and there was another, more important reason. ‘Primus may be a complete bastard who would like nothing better than to see me hanging from a cross, but he’s more of a soldier than I gave him credit for. Vespasian has advised him to stay here and wait for our old friend Mucianus.’ He grinned, and his voice took on new energy. ‘But I think he’s already made up his mind to fight his way to Rome, and Rome is where I want to be.’

Serpentius shot him a worried glance at the sudden change of mood, but Valerius was too lost in thought to notice. He was already thinking on the battles ahead, and the enemies in front and behind. Titus had asked him to tame the tiger — the problem was to avoid being eaten first.

If Valerius was right, the tiger was about to march on Rome.

And in Rome, Domitia would be waiting.

The great house on the lip of the Esquiline slope in Rome reminded Domitia Longina Corbulo of her father’s palace in Antioch: designed to be full of magical light and wonder, the rooms adorned with works of art and treasures from Asia, Africa and the East. The only difference was that she had felt safe in Antioch.

Walking along the pillared corridor in the villa gardens, she fought boredom as the toga-clad patrician beside her insisted for the fourth or fifth time that she could rely on his family’s protection. The years had made Titus Flavius Sabinus pompous and exaggerated the vanity for which he was famed. He must once have been considered handsome, she thought, but the strong features had blurred with age and his broad forehead now stretched all the way back across his scalp. Sabinus had a thick neck, wide shoulders and a conspicuous paunch that he carried in front of him like a basket of loaves. If he lacked the calm assurance of his younger brother Vespasian, and the signs of nervous stress were unmistakable, it was hardly surprising given his position.

‘As urban prefect I must be seen to be above politics,’ he explained, the thick lips pursing in a worried frown. ‘I am responsible for Rome and I take that responsibility seriously. I hope that whatever issues exist between my brother and the Emperor can be resolved without further bloodshed, but if not I will do my utmost to safeguard this city and its people.’

Domitia nodded gracefully as if she accepted the explanation without question, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. Sabinus’s main aim was to secure his family’s power base in Rome whatever the outcome of the Imperial struggle. He also had the predatory eye for an opportunity that was characteristic of all the Flavians. Vespasian’s decision to remain in Alexandria might be designed to keep the two branches of the family from meeting in combat, but if Vitellius showed any sign of weakness she suspected Sabinus would try to take advantage. Sabinus continued speaking, filling the unacceptable silence with words as was his habit. Domitia glanced over her bare shoulder.

He was still there, of course, three or four paces away, watching. Sabinus’s nephew Domitianus had appointed himself her protector on the long sea voyage back to Rome after her father’s death. No, call it what it was, despite the fact that Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo had taken his life with his own hand. It had been murder. Nero had murdered her father and left her an orphan. At first Domitianus had been like an adoring puppy, happy to be blessed with a nod or a smile, but all that changed when they reached Rome. Even when she’d married the elderly aristocrat Lucius Aelius Lamia, he’d continued to haunt her footsteps. After the wedding, Lamia had made it clear that the marriage was purely one of convenience. He’d cheerfully set off to take up his praetorship in Sicilia and left her to Domitianus’s mercy with instructions not to shame the family name.

Tall, pale and slim, with sandy, tight-curled hair, a weak chin and narrow eyes that never left her body, Domitianus caught her eye. His lips twitched. She flinched away and tried to turn her attention to what Sabinus was saying.

‘The Emperor,’ he grimaced as if the word was a betrayal of his brother, ‘has assured me that he understands and sympathizes with my situation. He is grateful for my support and the work I have done in past years.’ He turned to her with a resigned smile that made her like him more than she had. ‘As a former consul Vitellius knows the pressures of my position; the minutiae, the delicacy required when dealing with so many different personalities and classes. The provision of grain and the policing of the streets take up much of my energies, but in a time of civil …’ he hesitated, apparently not able to bring himself to say the obvious word, ‘strife, my responsibilities are multiplied. In many ways it was much simpler to command the Fourteenth when Claudius invaded Britannia. A man knew his place then.’

‘Then I will try to be as little a burden to you as possible, sir.’ Domitia bowed her head respectfully. ‘And you have the thanks of myself and my husband for your offer of protection in these troubled times.’ She imagined she could feel the heat of Domitianus’s fury at the use of the word ‘husband’. ‘I am sure he will insist on expressing his gratitude personally when he returns from Sicilia.’