Douglas Jackson - Defender of Rome

He allowed his head to drop and closed his eyes. The passage of time had no meaning, only the dreadful fire in his arm and shoulder. He couldn’t be sure how long he had been hanging when he felt the light brush of a hand clutching at his arm. He looked up into a pale face with wide, frightened eyes, half hidden by the dark hair that cascaded over them.

‘Leave me,’ he whispered. ‘Save yourself.’

‘No.’ The word was fierce, almost a snarl. Poppaea squirmed further over the edge, determined to get a better hold. ‘If I sacrifice you to save myself what does that make me in the eyes of my God?’

Valerius let out a groan. ‘Alive,’ he said. ‘And alive you can save the others.’

‘Petrus?’

He hesitated, but he couldn’t lie. ‘Not Petrus. Petrus must die to save the Judaeans, but you must live to save my father and Olivia.’ He felt the bush shift. ‘Please. All you will do is kill us both and you will die for nothing. Listen. There was a plot against you. Rodan led it. He came to the villa and threatened you. Tell the Emperor… tell him Torquatus heard of the plot and died a hero protecting you. Do you understand?’

‘But the soldiers will know the truth.’

He shook his head and another bolt of pain shot up his arm. ‘No. Rodan will have given them their orders. They were duped. They are leaderless now. Act like an Empress and they will say anything that will save their necks.’

Warm, salt tears dropped on to his face and he knew he had convinced her. The fluttering hands left his arm and he waited to die. When the new hand closed on his arm like an eagle’s talons he was already halfway to Elysium. He had a vision of Apollo reaching down from his chariot to pull him into the heavens, but when he looked up the savage, weathered face staring back at him was far from godlike.

‘You didn’t think you’d get away that easily,’ Serpentius growled as he hauled Valerius effortlessly to safety. ‘There’s still the matter of my outstanding wages.’

The last rumblings of the earthquake had subsided. Marcus and Serpentius used twisted sheets to lower their charges from the wreckage of the upper floor. The living and the dead.

‘Why?’

‘He died fighting to save your sister.’

Valerius stared down at the shrunken figure and felt a curious mixture of guilt and disbelief. Grief would come later, he knew, but for now an empty void occupied the space his soul normally inhabited. He pulled back the sheet that covered his father’s body. The old man’s face was set in an expression that mirrored the moment of his death: a frown of indignation, a grimace of pain. A single stroke directly to the heart, Serpentius said, from a soldier who knew his business, and had himself been cut down a moment later. The other casualties, including Heracles, Isaac and the dead Praetorians, were lined up alongside Lucius. Outside, Valerius could hear Poppaea coldly informing the surviving Praetorian cavalrymen that her word was the only thing that stood between them and a painful death at the hands of the Emperor’s torturers.

‘We couldn’t stop him. One minute he was as meek as a lamb and praying with the rest of them, the next he had a sword in his hand,’ Marcus explained. ‘He was a hero. You should be proud of him.’

‘He was just a harmless old man.’

‘Your father sacrificed his life for those he loved. What greater gift can a man give?’

Valerius stared at Petrus. At that moment he hated the Christian leader more than he had hated Torquatus.

‘My father died because he was foolish enough to follow you.’

Petrus studied him. The day had taken a toll on Valerius that even his father’s death didn’t explain. Did he realize how fearsome he appeared, this young fighter with the mark of his suffering stamped on the sharp planes of his face and the fresh scar still bloody on his cheek?

‘He came here for a reason,’ the Judaean pointed out gently. ‘He wanted to save your sister. Would you deny him in death something he risked everything for in life?’

Olivia lay deathly pale on the bed Marcus and Serpentius had placed by an open window. For answer, Valerius gently picked up his sister’s body and, despite the lancing pain of his injured arm, carried her towards the garden pool.

‘Who will be her sponsor?’ Petrus looked to the Christians, but a voice from the doorway answered him.

‘I will.’

Valerius turned to meet Poppaea’s steady gaze and Petrus smiled at her. ‘You understand what this means, my child?’

She nodded and took her place by Valerius’s side. As they walked, she said quietly, ‘Do you understand what this means, Valerius?’

He nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘We are linked, in life and in death, by faith.’

‘I am not a Christian.’

‘But you will always support Olivia?’

‘As long as she lives.’

‘Then that is enough.’

The water had drained away through a wide crack in the pool bottom, but the aqueduct had survived and a steady stream still poured over the artificial waterfall. Petrus went first and Valerius waited while Poppaea whispered the sacred words in his sister’s ear. When she pronounced Olivia ready, he took his place beside the Judaean. Belatedly, he remembered the questions Poppaea had faced.

‘She cannot answer for herself,’ he muttered. ‘And I cannot answer for her.’

Petrus the healer smiled his gentle smile. ‘Your father has already answered for her.’ He placed his hands on Olivia’s brow and Valerius felt his sister twitch in his arms as if some force had surged through her. He looked into Petrus’s face and saw fierce concentration there; the face of a man fighting with some troubled spirit, or perhaps with himself.

Eventually the Judaean was satisfied and Valerius carried his sister into the foaming cascade where the waters surged over them, sharp and cold from the mountain above. He heard Petrus repeat the words that had been spoken earlier for Poppaea. This time there was a subtle difference.

‘In the name of Jesus Christus cleanse these unworthy souls of their sins and take them into your house, in keeping with your Covenant. Write your law upon their hearts, place your almighty spirit within them and take their immortal souls into your keeping.’

His life had changed for ever.

Nero frowned as he studied the dark-haired figure kneeling before him in the throne room of his commandeered Neapolitan palace. Poppaea had sent word by messenger of the troubling news and now she was here to provide him with details of Rodan’s treachery and Torquatus’s late-flowering and ultimately fatal heroism. It was perplexing, but he would not let it spoil his mood.

‘The Praetorian centurion planned to abduct you and sell you to the pirates of Sandalion?’

‘Just so, Caesar,’ she said quietly. ‘He admitted as much before good Torquatus killed him.’ Her voice choked as she spoke the Praetorian prefect’s name and Nero could see it distressed her.

‘Rise, my dear. You must not kneel before your Caesar. A chair for the Empress,’ he ordered.

Strange that Torquatus had shown such concern for Poppaea after so many years of enmity. Then again, perhaps not. He had hinted at some great coup in the offing. This was undoubtedly it.

He waited until she was seated before he resumed his questioning. ‘And the traitor’s accomplices?’

‘All dead, Caesar. The Praetorians who rode with Torquatus were most thorough.’

‘Of course,’ he mused. ‘They must be rewarded for their diligence. A pity, though, that none was spared to be put to the question.’

A second figure had been waiting in the shadows. Now Nero waved him forward. Valerius marched across the marble floor and knelt before his Emperor.