Douglas Jackson: Avenger of Rome

‘I am not sure whether I have the strength.’

Valerius took a deep breath and turned to find Corbulo’s eyes on him. He shook his head. Do not ask it.

‘Would you deny me the mercy you showed my assassin?’

He didn’t answer because there was no answer.

‘Place your hand over mine.’ In a dream he sat on the edge of the couch and wrapped his fingers around the shaking hands that held the sword hilt. They were bony and cold, an old man’s hands. Instinctively, Valerius adjusted the angle of the sword a little and Corbulo muttered a quiet ‘thank you’. ‘On the count of three.’

Valerius looked into his general’s face and saw a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. Sweat dimpled his brow, but there was no fear. He had followed this man to the very heart of war and he would have followed him to the grave if he had only asked.

‘One.’

He closed his eyes and took a breath.

‘Two.’

The hands beneath his fingers tightened their grip.

‘Three.’

With all their combined strength they forced the sword into Corbulo’s resisting body. Valerius felt the moment the point sliced through the outer layers of flesh and into the sucking grip of the muscles just below the surface, then the moment of freedom before it found the beating heart. Corbulo gasped and let out a long agonized groan as the iron entered the very centre of his being. His whole body shuddered, but still the hands beneath Valerius’s fingers forced the sword ever deeper into the pulsing muscle that held his soul. The shuddering intensified, and then, with a final sigh, he was free. It happened so quickly, that irreversible journey from life to death, that Valerius barely registered it. A towering beacon extinguished for ever in a single moment. Rome’s greatest general, her greatest hope, was gone, sacrificed on the altar of her Emperor’s paranoia.

He tried to stand, but his shaking legs wouldn’t hold him, so he sat, motionless, filled with a terrible emptiness. His mind screamed at him that time was running out; he must get to the galley with Domitia before Mucianus or one of his agents learned of Corbulo’s death. Still his body would not obey. He was conscious of the still figure at his side, but he couldn’t accept it for what it was. The mighty intellect. The indomitable character. Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo had seemed indestructible. It didn’t seem possible that he was dead. In that moment he made a promise to himself that was more binding than any oath. If he had to travel to the ends of the earth or walk through fire, if it made him a traitor to Rome or an outcast of the Empire, he would avenge this man. Somehow, Nero would die. When the room eventually stilled and he was able to rise, he discovered that his fingers were still locked around the dead hands on the sword hilt. He used the wooden fist of his right to prise them free and walked towards the door knowing what it was to be old.

As he reached it, a thought occurred to him and he turned to the cabinet holding Caesar’s Tower. He studied the pieces for a few moments, his mind automatically memorizing their positions. When he was satisfied, he picked up the small blue token Corbulo had favoured and tucked it into the pouch at his belt.