Douglas Jackson: Scourge of Rome

Rome, January, AD 70

‘I fear I must report a failure in Athens.’ The only reaction from the man on the throne was a slight lift of the head, but the messenger flinched at the menace his words kindled in the dark, unforgiving eyes. ‘Our operative vanished,’ he stumbled on. ‘And the traitor was able to take ship for the East.’

‘Could he have been warned?’

The messenger took time to consider his reply. This was even more dangerous territory. His dealings with Titus Flavius Domitian, younger son of the Emperor Vespasian, had made him aware that the new prefect of Rome nurtured an irrational hatred for the man they were discussing. The reasons were lost amid the murk of intrigue and conspiracy of the eighteen-month civil war that had come so close to bringing Rome to her knees. Not five hundred paces from where Domitian sat they were still sifting charred bones from the burned-out ruins of the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. The seeds of the bitter conflict had been planted by Nero’s enforced suicide, after the erratic young Emperor’s downward spiral had cost him the support of the legions and the Senate. His successor, Sulpicius Galba, governor of Hispania, had made the mistake of cheating the Praetorian Guard out of the payment he’d promised them, and been murdered by Marcus Salvius Otho, the man he’d spurned as an heir. By the time the new Emperor took the throne, the German legions of Aulus Vitellius were already marching on Rome, and a disastrous defeat at Bedriacum had cost Otho his life. In a final twist, Domitian’s father Vespasian, general of the eastern legions, had been hailed Emperor by his officers. After a campaign which had left the soil of Italia bloodied and littered with sun-bleached bones, Vespasian’s supporters finally wrested the purple from Vitellius’s hands and butchered him on the Gemonian Stairs.

Now Vespasian was making his triumphal progress to Rome from Egypt while Domitian protected his interests in the capital, and his elder son Titus commanded the legions putting down the Judaean revolt. For the moment, Domitian was the city’s ruler in all but name, and he held the power of life and death over every inhabitant. The messenger knew his next words could bring that power into play. In the political crocodile pit that was Rome in the aftermath of Vitellius’s ignoble death, was it in his interest to offer a sacrifice? A slight chill tickled the back of his neck. A draught from the open window looking out on to the Forum? Or a warning that the palace walls had ears and another might be close by whom he could perhaps not afford to offend?

‘I … I do not believe so,’ he admitted eventually. ‘The timings make it unlikely.’

Domitian rose from his cushioned seat and the messenger was struck by how slight he appeared in his purple-striped toga. Just a boy really, but one must never forget that the boy was his father’s son. Domitian had been trapped in the Temple of Jupiter with his uncle Sabinus, but while Sabinus’s body parts still lay on the Gemonian Stairs, Domitian had reappeared to assume power in his father’s name. To the messenger’s surprise, the young man smiled.

‘He would not be worthy of my enmity if he were not worthy of my respect.’ Domitian shrugged. ‘What have we lost? One man who promised more than he could deliver and no doubt paid the price.’ The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘The game goes on.’

‘Of course, lord.’ The man bowed and backed out of the room.

Domitian waited until he was alone. ‘You heard?’

A figure in military uniform emerged from the balcony. ‘These people are fools if they think their barrack room backstabbers and slow poisoners can kill Verrens. A man who stood alone against the rebel queen Boudicca and survived the intrigues of the past two years will not go so willingly to his grave.’

‘You sound as if you admire him.’

‘He’s proved he can soldier,’ the officer shrugged. ‘And he has a gladiator’s instinct for survival. If he lives your father may give him a legion.’

The suggestion brought a grunt of bitter laughter from the young man on the throne. He had destroyed Gaius Valerius Verrens’ reputation by portraying his peace mission to Vitellius as treason; he would not let him recover it. ‘Yet you want him dead?’

‘I have my reasons. If he has a fault it is his honesty. One day it may be the death of him.’

A cold smile wreathed Domitian’s narrow features. ‘Then it suits both our purposes for you to join my brother in Judaea. You and Verrens are very much alike. He will instinctively trust you. You can get close enough to …’

The soldier’s stare silenced the younger man and Domitian bridled at the … contempt, yes, that was what he saw in the eyes, contempt. He was reminded that his physical weakness in the presence of men like these didn’t match the power of his position. When this was over …

‘Call off your dogs. They will only get in my way.’

‘No.’ Domitian recovered himself. ‘It may be that your mission has been completed for you before you arrive in Judaea. In that case you will get close to my brother. I want to know everything. Who he sleeps with. Who he plots with. His attitude to my father and his attitude to me. Who are his allies and what are his plans. You will place my brother’s fate in the palm of my hand, is that understood?’

‘Perfectly.’

Roman Syria, one month later

A man would die in Antioch tonight. The assassin had stalked his victim for a week and knew his routine intimately enough to be certain of his destination. His target had taken lodgings in the cloth-making district where tight-packed, ramshackle houses lined the rat-infested Parmenian stream. It was a decision that spoke of an exceptionally tolerant sense of smell and a wish for privacy. The stench of fuller’s piss permeating the streets meant the vigiles kept their distance unless provoked. A perfect sanctuary for a fugitive, and his man certainly acted like a fugitive.

Normally, the assassin would have finished the job in a single night, leaving his victim just another corpse floating face down in the festering creek among the turds and the dead dogs. A long-nurtured instinct for survival told him that this one was different: a man with an equally well-honed sense of self-preservation. Instead, the murderer had watched and waited, his eyes never leaving the lodging house in the narrow alley the locals called, with supreme irony, the Street of Perfumed Gardens.

His target left the house twice each day, at noon and in the early evening, and though his route varied the destination was always the same, a tavern-brothel named the Vengeful Tenth after the legionaries who frequented it while on leave. There, he nursed a single drink and ignored the half-hearted ministrations of the whores until one of the merchants who organized the eastern caravans made his daily call. A short conversation ended with a shake of the head and a shrug that meant another day’s wait. Showing neither disappointment nor frustration the target would hand the trader a coin and re-arrange the rendezvous before making his way to the stables where the two horses he’d bought were being cared for. He would check their condition and question the groom before handing over another coin and returning to his accommodation.

The assassin had assessed the route and calculated the possibilities before making his decision where to strike. His favoured spot was reached not long after the man left the tavern, when he passed through a shadowed alley a few dozen paces long on the way to the stable. If someone happened to be around, another convenient place presented itself between the stable and his lodgings. The assassin was adept with either knife or strangling rope, but he’d chosen the former because the victim was a well-built man of above average height who had once been a soldier; a holder of the Corona Aurea, if his sources were to be believed. Despite his ragged clothing and broken-down appearance, the high military honour identified him as a formidable opponent. The assassin was a man who took no chances. Death must be instantaneous.