Douglas Jackson - Avenger of Rome

There was more to wonder at in the great banqueting hall, where the Armenian king dined on the most sumptuous food the Empire could provide, in a bewildering room which revolved around its guests while the ceiling periodically showered them with flower petals and perfumed water. Such technological marvels impressed Tiridates profoundly, even more than the displays of military might Nero had been careful to provide. An Empire capable of sustaining such extravagance could send a dozen legions against him at any time. He had been right to make the treaty and his brother Vologases wrong to want to continue the war.

Nero contemplated Tiridates’ bemused expression with satisfaction, and left the room to summon his Praetorian prefect, Offonius Tigellinus. Tall and thin with a long nose and a fringe of russet hair that clung to the back of his head like a stray squirrel, Tigellinus didn’t look like the most dangerous man in Rome. He had the face of someone who had just drunk sour milk and the hangdog demeanour of an undertaker. Nero felt the familiar flutter of nerves when the man he depended on so completely approached. So many had abandoned him, or wronged him in some way that forced him to remove them. Of all the long list, Tigellinus was the only man left he could trust. What if something happened to him?

For years, the former horse trader had supplied all his needs. Nothing was beyond his reach: boys, girls, men and women, rich and poor and in any combination or number. Senator’s wife or slave, concubine or virgin, Tigellinus knew where to lay hands on them and if he could not persuade, buy or terrify them into the Emperor’s bed, his Praetorians would force them. If the Emperor needed money — and emperors always needed money — Tigellinus would find a benefactor who could be induced to contribute to the imperial purse. Licences could be granted, subsidies controlled and monopolies awarded, and the Praetorian prefect would maximize the profit. What was more, that long nose had an infinite capacity for smelling out traitors and the mournful expression hid a pitiless cruelty and fertile imagination. It had been Tigellinus who had torn the heart from the Piso conspiracy with his blades and his hooks and his hot irons, Tigellinus who had invented the exquisite refinement of torturing a man — or a woman — to the very brink of death and having them restored by a physician to face the same fate again, and again, and again. It had never failed. Nero had been so delighted by his aide’s successes that he had awarded him the triumphal regalia normally reserved for senators and consuls and erected a statue of him in the Palatine gardens.

It had been Tigellinus who suggested removing Nero’s former teacher, Seneca, once and for all when Piso and his nest of vipers were being stamped out. That was what he liked about Tigellinus: his clarity of purpose. No attempt to fabricate evidence or bribe witnesses, just a simple tying up of loose ends. Nero’s agents in Seneca’s household had reported that the old man had met his fate with dignity, protesting his loyalty to the last. A pity, but he had long since outlived his usefulness and he knew too many secrets to be left alive.

‘A most satisfactory day,’ he welcomed Tigellinus cheerfully. ‘I have never seen the people so proud of their Emperor. King Tiridates was suitably awestruck by my splendour and overwhelmed by the power of their love for me. A triumph. A triumph for Rome.’

‘A triumph for Rome’s Emperor,’ Tigellinus corrected. ‘And a triumph for her legions.’

All the long years in the imperial court and his training at Seneca’s knee had given Nero an ear for nuance. He caught a certain inflection in the Praetorian’s voice. ‘Yes, a triumph for her legions. And it is right that men should fear Rome’s legions. You have news from Judaea?’ A few months earlier the Syrian sub-province had risen in revolt after a punitive expedition against an assortment of religious fanatics had resulted in hundreds of deaths. In the violence that followed the best part of two legions had been wiped out and the eagle of the Twelfth Fulminata lost. It was the greatest military disaster of Nero’s reign and it was imperative that it should be avenged swiftly and mercilessly.

‘Gallus has been removed from his command. Vespasian will form a task force from the Syrian and Egyptian legions and lead them against the rebels. Meanwhile, General Corbulo has returned to Antioch and will offer what support he can to Vespasian.’ There it was again, that slight change in tone he had come to recognize.

‘Two of our finest generals,’ Nero ventured. ‘And our most loyal.’

‘Just so, Caesar.’

A moment of clarity. ‘But you have concerns?’

‘General Vespasian is your own appointment, a new man who is intelligent enough to understand that he would never win enough support to aspire to the throne, and his hands will be kept busy for at least two campaigning seasons. General Corbulo…’

‘Rome’s most successful commander in the past ten years…’ Nero’s voice rose an octave as he was forced to come to Corbulo’s defence.

‘Has been heard to cast doubts upon your policy of reconciliation in Armenia and Parthia. There is talk of giving Armenia away.’

Nero waved a dismissive hand. ‘A soldier’s grumbles. Even Tiridates told me that I have no more loyal commander than Corbulo.’

‘Of course,’ the prefect said smoothly. ‘I venture no accusation, I only caution.’

The Emperor stared at him, the piggy eyes narrowing. ‘Proceed.’

‘General Corbulo was appointed on the advice of Seneca,’ Tigellinus pointed out. ‘He has been in the east, in Asia and Syria, for twelve years, with the same legions. Some would say enough time to create his own personal empire.’ Nero didn’t have to ask which ‘some’; he knew the Praetorian had agents in every military command. But Tigellinus surprised him with his next admission. ‘He is a difficult man to get close to. His senior officers have been with him for years and are unfailingly loyal; the juniors take their lead from the legates. Only now have I been able to place someone in a position of trust, although, as I have said, it is generally known in his headquarters that he has been critical of your policy and your orders to act upon the defensive. His legionaries regard him as something close to a god.’ Tigellinus saw the Emperor stiffen, as he’d intended. Only emperors could become gods. ‘Normally this could be dealt with simply enough. A new posting to some less arduous front. A summons home for some new honour, a long and happy retirement on his estates in the north…’

‘But?’

‘But the situation in Judaea means that Syria is also vulnerable. It would only take one small spark for the rebellion to spread. Therefore it is important that Syria is in safe military hands, and there are no safer military hands than General Corbulo’s.’

Nero nodded. ‘And what does my faithful Tigellinus advise?’

‘We wait and we watch. If General Corbulo does his duty and defends Rome’s and the Emperor’s interests, all well and good. If he were to overstep the mark, however…’

The Emperor stared from the window overlooking the luscious parkland, its vivid greenery nourished by the blackened bones of a thousand plebeians still lying in the burned-out ashes of their homes. Not Corbulo. Never Corbulo. But then Tigellinus had never been wrong before. So they would wait, and watch.

‘Very well, see to it and keep me informed.’

Tigellinus saluted and walked from the room. The first piece was in place.

‘Sail to the north!’

At the sharp cry, Aurelius followed the lookout’s pointing finger to where a faint strip of cream could be seen between swells on the far horizon. ‘Julius,’ the captain shouted. ‘You’ve got the sharpest eyes. Get up the mast and tell me what you see.’