Douglas Jackson: Sword of Rome

‘What would you have me do?’ The words were accompanied by a shudder of distaste. ‘He is insane, you know. He wanted to open the cages of the arena and fill the streets with wild beasts. To poison the entire Senate. Only the voice of reason stayed him.’ A faint light shone in the depths of Tigellinus’s dark eyes and Valerius wondered how many of these outrageous claims were true. The Praetorian paced the room, each time he approached the cell drawing a soft mew of anticipation from the Egyptian. ‘When I urged him to bring the African legions to Rome, he refused, because he mistrusts Mucianus and he fears Vespasian. Now he has sent the Fourteenth to hold the mountains and recruited a scratch legion of marines from Ostia to hold the city against attack. Marines? Does he think Galba is going to sail up the Tiber?’

‘Perhaps you should not have killed Corbulo?’

Despite the softness of Valerius’s voice, Tigellinus recognized the threat contained in the words. ‘That was not my doing. I would have saved him if I could, but the Emperor insisted. Even at the last he could not be swayed.’

‘Why?

Tigellinus blinked. ‘Why?’

‘Why did he have to die?’ Valerius saw emotions chase one another across the pale face as the Praetorian sought some avenue that would not condemn him.

‘Fear and envy,’ he said eventually. ‘The Emperor looked at Corbulo and saw the better man. He feared his strength and was envious of his popularity. When Corbulo overstepped his imperium by invading Parthia, Nero’s anger grew beyond control.’ The knowing glint in Valerius’s eyes forced a change of direction. ‘And the plotting, of course,’ Tigellinus hurried on, the words tumbling over each other. ‘His son-in-law stood against that very wall and implicated him in conspiracy with Piso and his scum. By then he had condemned half of Rome, but his naming of Corbulo could not be ignored.’

‘He was Nero’s most loyal general. He would never have betrayed him.’

‘Yes.’ Tigellinus’s voice took on a terminal weariness. ‘But when has loyalty ever been enough to save a man?’ A long moment passed as they stared at each other, the silence broken only by the animal-like snuffling in the background and the soft sputter of the glowing coals. ‘I ask again: what would you have me do?’

Valerius smiled at the incongruity of a man in chains dictating to a man with a sword in his hand. ‘Let it be known among the Guard that Nero is planning to escape to Alexandria. There is no dishonour in abandoning an Emperor who himself abandons his people.’ He saw the Praetorian’s startled glance. ‘Yes, it is true, Tigellinus. It seems that more than one rat is preparing to leave the sinking ship. But can you convince them?’

‘And if I do?’

‘You have your life, your estate and whatever plunder you have managed to lay your bloodstained hands on.’

Tigellinus ignored the insult. ‘Your word on it?’

Valerius nodded. ‘On my honour, though it makes me sick to the stomach to say it.’

‘And Galba? Will he pay what they ask?’

‘Senator Galba will know of your part in the peaceful handover of power. You have his freedman here?’ Tigellinus darted a guilty glance at the doorway. ‘Then I hope he is not too damaged, because we will send him with the glad news, and the message that Offonius Tigellinus alone is responsible for his salvation.’

Tigellinus came forward and used the edge of his sword to cut Valerius free. As Valerius rubbed the stump of his right wrist, the Praetorian prefect went to the table and retrieved the walnut fist with its leather socket from a cloth sack which had sat among the hooks and the knives. It was only then that Valerius truly believed he might leave the chamber alive.

Valerius used his teeth to tighten the leather ties and Tigellinus made one last suggestion. ‘You must still meet Nymphidius. He is much less a danger on the top of his dungheap than if you try to keep him out of the farmyard. Let him think he is in control. Let him offer the tribute and accept the acclaim. His arrogance will take care of the rest.’

‘Very well. And Nero?’

‘It will be as you suggested.’

Valerius flexed the fingers of his left hand and picked up the sword from where the Praetorian had laid it on the table. Tigellinus’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout for aid, but the younger man strode past him towards the cage. ‘The Emperor will no longer be in need of a pet.’

Valerius could feel it in the air around him: that sense of foreboding that came with the approach of a summer storm. In many ways Rome was a city already under siege. Serpentius had almost given up hope by the time he’d returned, pale and exhausted after four days and nights in the cells below the Palatine. Now the Spaniard recognized a new sense of purpose in his Roman friend.

In the stifling, airless depths between the four-and five-storey insula apartment blocks that filled the capital’s poorer areas life took on a frenzied desperation. Men and women fought each other over the dwindling stocks in the shops and streetside stalls, and the whole city seethed with fear and uncertainty. Either Nero had repealed the decree that prohibited civilians from carrying weapons or his supporters had decided they were safe to ignore it. Bands of thugs armed with cudgels and knives stood at every junction, unhindered by the Praetorians or vigiles, questioning or ‘arresting’ those who caught their eye. Anyone foolish enough to appear rich or even mildly prosperous was likely to come under suspicion. It was well known in the stews of the Subura and the tight-packed hovels on the slopes of the Collis Viminalis that the Emperor had been betrayed by the upper classes and the Senate. Dressed in the dusty work gear of a pair of itinerant builders Valerius and Serpentius had little to fear, and any keen-eyed bully who questioned their disguise would be quickly dissuaded by the aura of sheer savagery that cloaked the former gladiator. As an extra precaution, Valerius had wrapped his wooden fist in the folds of a rugged cloth sack of the kind workers used to carry their heaviest tools. His companion carried a similar bag, which, from the way he handled it, held equipment of considerable weight.

Tigellinus had arranged temporary accommodation for them out by the city wall near the Porta Salutaris. It was typical of its type, two dusty rooms on the fourth floor of a creaking insula block, with water drawn from a pump in the yard and a night soil pot you emptied in the stinking drain that ran down the centre of the street. They discovered why it was so readily available when they woke before dawn to the terrified screams of pigs being led to slaughter in the pork market beyond the wall.

On this day, their route took them down the Vicus Longus and into the teeming filth of the Subura before they turned left up the slope past the Temple of Juno Lucina and the sixth shrine of the Argei.

‘Watch out.’ Serpentius pulled Valerius to the side of the street at the familiar sound of marching feet in hobnailed sandals. They stood back beneath the awning of a fruit stall as a mismatched unit of soldiers stumbled past and veered off towards the Porta Tiburtina. Each of the men carried some kind of weapon, but they were dressed in a mix of blue tunics and civilian clothing. Some had helmets and armour, but most did not. They walked with a curious rolling gait, and those still dressed as civilians stood out because of the heavily muscled upper bodies and arms that gave them the look of acrobats or wrestlers. Many were clearly foreigners; swarthy and dark-skinned, like the Syrian cavalry Valerius had commanded in Parthia.

‘These must be the marines Nero is forming into a new legion. Sailors, too,’ he said.