Douglas Jackson - Enemy of Rome

Valerius took a moment to study the scene around him. Aprilis had lost his helmet and blood ran from cuts to his head and arm, but he didn’t seem to notice his wounds. The Praetorian rallied the survivors of his century into a defensive line to meet an attack from across the compound. The enemy officer seemed to be having trouble getting his men into position. Valerius’s heart sank as he recognized Aemilius Pacensis, one of Otho’s former aides and a man he knew and liked. Joining Aprilis, he thrust any such thoughts aside. On the far side of those men lay the Temple of Jupiter — and Domitia. The sound of renewed fighting came from the Clivus Capitolinus, where the Praetorians had resumed their attack with new purpose. It explained why Pacensis had so few men for his counter stroke. Sabinus couldn’t afford to take men away from the gate and the walls above the Tarpeian Rock without fatally weakening the defences. But he was wrong. Because here, like a knife poised over his heart, lay the greatest danger. Valerius and Serpentius joined the line as Aprilis lost patience and launched his legionaries towards the confused Flavians. The numbers were equally matched and almost all were armoured and equipped with sword and shield, but that was where the similarity ended. Aprilis and his men had spent years on the Rhenus frontier honing their battle skills and sparring with the Cherusci, the Chatti and the Marcomanni. Fighting for survival was a way of life for them. The men facing them in the red tunics of the urban cohorts were trained in arms, but their recent experience had been breaking up bar brawls and bread riots and dealing with political upheaval. Pacensis shouted an order for a final rush, but the assault was tentative and piecemeal and the solid wall of Praetorian shields smashed the Flavians backwards. ‘Kill the bastards,’ Aprilis howled.

Valerius found himself swapping cuts with Pacensis, the patrician’s handsome features twisted with fear and rage. ‘Aemilius? Throw down your sword. It is finished,’ Valerius urged. But the Flavian only attacked with renewed strength.

‘Traitor,’ he snarled. ‘Turncoat. The name Verrens will be remembered for this infamy along with the Catilines.’ Without warning his mouth gaped in a tortured shriek as a sword point found a gap in his armour and tore deep into his vitals. Valerius stepped back in bewilderment as his opponent sank to the ground, squirming spastically in his death agony. Serpentius faced him over the dead man, eyes glaring.

‘Serpentius, why?’ Valerius demanded. ‘He was a friend.’

All around them men still hacked at each other with swords or wrestled together, tearing at their enemy with their bare hands, intent on smashing faces and skulls to pulp with helmet or rock. The slabs of the temple precinct flowed with blood and the air was heavy with the scent of death. Men wept, but didn’t understand whether it was with relief or sorrow.

‘He was the enemy,’ the Spaniard snarled. ‘How often have I told you that if a man comes at you with a sword you don’t talk to him. You kill him.’

Aprilis’s men finished off the wounded and would have set off after the survivors, but the centurion roared at them to follow him to the gate. As Valerius turned there was an eruption of flame and smoke. The insula they’d attacked from was an inferno and the fire had spread to a second building at the rear of the great temple. Even as they watched, the flames leapt the narrow gap and greedily sought out the ancient wood of the temple gables before flickering up the pediment and along the line of the roof. Smoke began to wisp from beneath the ochre tiles and Valerius was reminded of the Temple of Claudius in Colonia. When the Celts had fired the temple roof the end had never been in doubt. Even so, his mind struggled with what he was seeing. The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus was more than just a place of worship. More than just a place where Emperors came to cement their rule. It was Rome . Men believed that as long as the temple existed, the Roman Empire and all it stood for would prevail. But the most sacred building in Rome was being devoured before his eyes.

‘Mars’ arse,’ Serpentius cursed as he saw the extent of the inferno. ‘What the fuck are we going to do now?’

Valerius was already on the move, ignoring the groups of Flavian soldiers who ran aimlessly among the buildings like rats trapped in a maze. At the base of the temple steps he recognized Sabinus, looking old and bewildered at the centre of a group of officers urgently seeking instructions. But it was clear no instructions would save them now. Dozens of Praetorians were already swarming through the shattered gate and across the columns and statues that Sabinus had gambled would hold them. To the left of the temple fierce fighting had erupted amongst the minor shrines at the top of the Hundred Steps. Men lay dead or dying, the maimed crawling to find what shelter they could. One soldier sat on the temple steps sobbing uncontrollably beside the corpse of a friend. Despite the smoke and flames pouring from the temple roof, more and more of the terrified Flavian supporters were rushing to the building in search of an unlikely sanctuary.

Sabinus’s bodyguard must have been drawn in to the fight, because they were nowhere to be seen. Valerius saw his chance. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered Serpentius. He sheathed his sword and, taking advantage of the confusion, strode to where Sabinus was by now being confronted by a single brick-faced officer. Valerius brushed past the man and looked into the Prefect of Rome’s face. ‘You must surrender, sir,’ he pleaded. ‘There is no point in fighting on. Save what you can.’

‘Get out of my way, fool.’ A hand clamped on Valerius’s shoulder and hauled him back. ‘Cornelius Martialis does not surrender and neither does the Prefect of Rome. Your brother’s legions are coming,’ he hissed into the old man’s face. ‘Hold for a day and we will hand him Rome and reap the honours. There are only a few of these Praetorian bastards in the compound. We will hunt them down like rats. But … you … must … give … the … order.’

‘It’s finished,’ Valerius insisted. He heard the officer snarl and the man’s sword rose to chop him down. Even as Martialis struck, Valerius rammed the hidden dagger in his left hand up under the Flavian’s chin, through tongue and palate and into the brain. He wrenched the point free and Martialis swayed for a moment, croaking like a frog, before a fountain of blood spouted from his mouth and he collapsed to the ground.

Sabinus stared in mute horror at the dying man, but Valerius had no time for regret or indecision.

‘Sir, you must-’ Before he could complete his plea for surrender a terrified female scream froze the words in his mouth. He looked round and at the top of the temple steps the cloaked figure of Domitia Longina Corbulo was being dragged into the centremost of the three cellae — the inner sanctums dedicated to Juno, Jupiter and Minerva. The echo of her scream had barely died before he was on the move. Taking the steps three at a time he almost tripped as he leapt the body of the man who’d been weeping. When he reached the main platform he ran past the statue of the god dominating the pronaos only to find the copper-sheathed door slammed in his face.

Valerius stood in confusion for a moment, fighting for breath. His carelessness almost killed him. Something moved at the corner of his vision and he turned to find a black-clad Praetorian about to stick a pilum through him. ‘No.’ The cry was in vain until a sword flicked out from nowhere to knock the thrust aside and the spear point skidded off the metal door.

‘We’re with Aprilis and the second century First cohort.’ Serpentius stepped between Valerius and his attacker. ‘No point in killing your mates, is there, son?’ His voice was the soul of reason, but the sword point hovering an inch from the soldier’s breast told another story. The Praetorian’s glare faded to be replaced by a look of confusion.