Douglas Jackson: Sword of Rome

Nymphidius laughed and draped an arm like a tree branch over Valerius’s shoulder. ‘Bugger having two rooms replastered. I think I might have the whole place rebuilt.’

‘It’s done,’ Valerius said. ‘The Praetorians will abandon Nero and hail Galba as Emperor tomorrow. According to Tigellinus the Senate will follow within hours. He’s finished.’

‘Does that mean we can get out of Rome?’ Serpentius’s weathered face showed something like relief. ‘This place reminds me of that day in Oplontis before the earthquake. Like a pot ready to boil over.’

Valerius considered the suggestion. Weeks of living with the constant threat of torture and death had left their mark on both men, but Galba’s mission was only half complete and he had his own reasons for staying. Reasons he wouldn’t reveal even to the Spaniard. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘We have to see this through. The latest rumour is that Rubrius Gallus and his men have declared for Galba. If it’s true, the only military force of any consequence loyal to Nero this side of the Alps is the marine legion. I want to know more about them.’

Their chance came later that day, on the way back from the Castra Praetoria, where Valerius had been attempting to gauge the mood of the Guard. Raucous voices bellowed from the doorway of a bar in the shadow of one of the giant water castles that provided reservoirs for Rome’s aqueducts. Valerius recognized the song as a pornographic shanty he’d heard roared by naval oarsmen. He nodded to Serpentius and they slipped inside into the gloom. It was the usual crossroads tavern, a low-ceilinged room with a stone bar inset with large urns filled with posca , the cheap, lead-sweetened wine favoured in these places, and others brimming with stew of indeterminate origin. Ten men seated around a rough wooden table took up most of the space and they gave off an air of cheerful menace that was as much a result of the power of their combined voices as of their bulk, which was substantial. They ignored the newcomers and Valerius squeezed through to the bar, where he ordered a jug of wine and two cups. He and Serpentius took their places a little to one side of the group and supped their wine while the singing subsided and the men began to talk in the coarse, easy manner of shipmates. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dark, Valerius could see that they were a mix of races, including easterners, probably from Syria, Judaea and Egypt, where the navy recruited, and a Nubian, whose size marked him out even among these men chosen for their strength and power when hauling on a fourteen-foot oar of seasoned oak.

‘If we’re a legion, when the fuck are they going to give us proper uniforms?’ The complainer was a bull-necked Syrian with thick curly hair and guttural, almost incomprehensible Latin. His refrain was taken up by the bearded man next to him.

‘Aye, and weapons. If they expect us to fight this Galba and his traitors we need shields and spears and training in how to use them.’

Valerius lounged back on his bench, apparently concentrating on his drink, but taking in every word. It seemed one of the few Romans among them, seated at the far end of the table, disagreed with his shipmates’ view. ‘Nah, we won’t have to fight. Soon as the old fart hears that the crew of the Waverider is coming to get him, he’ll shit himself.’

The crude boast brought roars of ‘ Waverider ’ and a new burst of singing, but one voice, more sober than the rest, cut across the noise. To Valerius’s surprise it was the Nubian’s, and he was listened to.

‘We won’t get proper uniforms, nor proper pay, until we’re a proper legion and we’re not a proper legion till we’re trained. I don’t know about you, oarmates, but I wouldn’t much fancy taking on a legion. We’re tough enough …’ he waited until the roar of agreement had subsided, ‘but some of us have seen those boys at work and being tough and brave didn’t do the opposition much good. I think they’ll use us to garrison Rome while we’re hardened up for land fighting. The regular legions can defeat the traitor, the way they beat the Gauls. As long as we’re to eventually follow the eagle, I for one will be satisfied with that.’

‘Aye.’ The man opposite, a bearded brick wall with an accent from somewhere up on the Danuvius, nodded. ‘Juva is talking sense as usual. We will fight if we have to, but we must be patient for our eagle.’

A pause in the conversation gave Valerius his opportunity. ‘Perhaps I could offer you gentlemen a drink?’ he suggested. ‘It would be an honour to help slake the thirst of Rome’s protectors.’

‘Are you laughing at us?’ the Danuvian demanded, his red-rimmed eyes threatening. ‘I don’t like the stink of you, or your dangerous-looking friend.’ He turned to his mates. ‘I think we should take them out the back and drown them in the piss barrel.’

The proposal was greeted by roars of approval and Serpentius reached for his knife as the bulk of the sailors rose to their feet, but Valerius placed a restraining hand over the Spaniard’s and the Nubian Juva growled at his shipmates.

‘No. He’s right. If we are to be soldiers, we should act like them. With discipline. We are here to protect Romans, not do them harm.’ He turned to face the two men. ‘But why should you want to buy us a drink?’

Valerius shrugged. ‘There have been rumours that a new legion is being formed from the navy. From what we’ve heard it sounds as if it’s true. You men are sailors; I’m interested to know why you should volunteer to fight on land.’ He pulled back his sleeve to show the walnut fist. ‘I have fought on land and sea and I know there’s a big difference.’

Juva studied the artificial hand. ‘Perhaps not a good enough fighter on either.’ He grinned.

Valerius met his eyes with an unblinking stare. ‘Good enough to be still alive, my friend.’

The Nubian froze. For a moment he looked like a great panther ready to spring. Then he laughed. ‘Where is this wine we were offered?’

They waited until the owner had served up jugs of wine, and while his comrades took up their filthy refrain once more Juva joined Serpentius and Valerius by the wall. He picked up his cup and drank deeply, slurping in appreciation. Valerius refilled the cup and the Nubian nodded his thanks.

‘Why do we fight? You think it is for money?’ the big man growled. ‘True, a year at the oars pays less than half what a soldier earns for a year behind the eagle, but why would a man die for money? No, it is partly pride. Who would want us as we are, the dregs and scrapings of a dozen ports? Peregrini . Orphans and bastards and the abandoned. A sailor is despised, except by his own kind,’ he waved an expansive hand that took in his roaring shipmates, ‘while a legionary has the world’s respect. But even that might not be enough. So there is more. Divine Nero in his wisdom has decreed that all, even the lowest among us, even a former slave , will become a Roman citizen on the day his enlistment expires, and that enlistment will be deemed to have begun the day he first took ship. Can you understand what that means, Roman? In just ten years, if I live, the byblow of a Mauretanian pirate and a Nubian house slave will be permitted to wear the toga.’ As he spoke, his eyes glistened and his voice rose. ‘No man will have the right to raise a hand to me and I will have the right to stand in judgement over other men.’

‘Then I congratulate you, Juva of the Waverider , and I will pray that you live to see that day. But for now, what do your officers have planned for you?’

‘That is a spy’s question.’ The eyes narrowed further, but Valerius was ready for the accusation.