Authors: Douglas Jackson
‘Yes, Valerius.’ Her hands went protectively to the slight bulge in her stomach as she confirmed his suspicion and her eyes went to the stocky figure with the spear.
For a moment he wasn’t certain how he should react. His father would have been outraged: how could she have done this to him? But Lucius had been dead these seven years, and Valerius had scorned the old man’s straight-backed patrician certainty, which would have him bristling with offended dignity at the first opportunity. Yet in the final year of his life his father had embraced the outlawed sect led by Petrus, the so-called Rock of Christus. Undoubtedly, a man could change.
With a nod of reassurance to Serpentius, he dismounted and marched purposefully towards the spearman. The man’s knuckles whitened as his grip on the shaft tightened and the point rose a fraction so it would take only the slightest adjustment to send it through Valerius’s throat.
‘It seems I must congratulate you, Lupergos.’ He said it gravely, struggling to suppress a smile. ‘The estate has not looked so fine since my father was in the Senate and Granta and Cronus ran the place.’ Granta and Cronus were his father’s ancient freedmen, no doubt hovering nervously somewhere out of sight. Lupergos, son of an Etruscan farmer, acted as the estate manager, and, Olivia had let him know on his last visit, her husband in all but name. The spear point dropped, the challenge faded from the dark eyes and his broad peasant face cracked into a shy grin.
‘It is a fine estate.’
‘More fertile than when I last visited, certainly.’ The laughter started low in his belly and soon Lupergos joined in as the slaves and servants looked on with shy smiles.
‘Enough of this foolishness,’ Olivia scolded from the steps. ‘Valerius, you must be hungry; you look as thin as one of Granta’s chickens. Come, I have new-baked bread, and Lupergos trapped a pair of hares in the far meadow yesterday. Serpentius, will you join us?’
‘Perhaps later, lady.’ The Spaniard bowed in the saddle. ‘First I will see if your protectors can actually use these pointed sticks and farm implements in earnest, or if they’re just for show.’
Valerius smiled at the disconcerted faces as Serpentius slipped from the saddle and gestured for the men to follow him. ‘I fear they are in for a more exacting and much less pleasant hour than I am,’ he said. ‘A fine display, Lupergos, but you should never show all your strength.’
‘Ah,’ the Etruscan said with a chuckle. ‘But you didn’t see the ten archers hidden in the trees with arrows aimed at your back.’
‘We always have two slaves watching the road.’ Lupergos tugged at his ear as he explained the reception Valerius had received while they ate. ‘It is their responsibility to warn of soldiers or armed gangs, but they also have a special instruction to look out for a one-armed man.’
‘You took my advice, I see?’
‘Three fortresses on the track to the villa,’ the Etruscan agreed with a wry smile. Valerius was pleased to hear no evidence of complacency in his voice. It seemed Lupergos was perfectly aware of the limitations of his little force, which could only be to the good. ‘They’re sited as you suggested with fields of fire to attack any intruder from all angles. Archers to cause the initial casualties and spearmen to cover the retreat. Food and water in the limestone caves by the river at the bottom of the south slope. The instructor you sent to train the bowmen knows his business and we practise arms at least once a day.’ He grinned as they were interrupted by a yelp of pain from outside the window as Serpentius emphasized the need to keep the spear point low. ‘Though some are less adept than others.’
Valerius took a sip of the familiar, earthy estate wine and tore off another piece of bread. Fourteen months and two Emperors had passed since his previous visit. He knew it was a gamble to teach slaves how to fight, but he trusted Lupergos’s ability to choose his men wisely. Some instinct had told him it was a chance worth taking, and the burned-out farms and villas they’d seen on the way south had proved him right. With Fortuna’s aid they would never be needed and the slaves could be rewarded either materially or with their freedom.
‘We won’t stand and fight, of course,’ Lupergos continued. ‘We’ll aim to leave enough valuables on show to satisfy any raider. They may burn the house,’ his eyes sought Olivia’s and he unconsciously reached out to touch the swelling under her skirts, ‘but it is the people who make Fidenae what it is.’ He nodded grimly. ‘We have even more reason now to protect what is ours.’
Valerius felt humbled by the look of loving affection his sister gave the Etruscan. Would any woman ever look at him that way? Domitia loved him, he had no doubt of it, but their love had been a series of transient affairs, never allowed to take root. That look in Olivia’s eyes was proof that love, like anything of permanence, required time and nurturing to make it so. Olivia read his expression. ‘Lupergos has plans for a new house.’ She smiled proudly. ‘Perhaps you would like to see them later.’ She hesitated, and the shale dark eyes turned knowing. ‘You were never the type of brother to make social visits, Valerius.’
There was a question in the statement, and he answered it. ‘We are on our way to Rome, though I doubt we will be given any kind of welcome when we reach the city.’
Olivia nodded understanding, but she pressed no further, aware her brother was something more than a soldier, but sensible enough not to ask what. They discussed the political situation, since it affected them all. Valerius told of the Flavian victory at Cremona, but not its aftermath, emphasizing Primus’s hopes that the war was already won and there would be no further fighting. He saw a shadow fall across Lupergos’s face. ‘You do not think this is the case?’
‘All we want is for this insanity to be over.’ The estate manager glanced at Olivia and she gave a little nod of agreement. Lupergos began hesitantly, as if he knew that what he was about to say wasn’t what Valerius wanted to hear, but his voice grew in confidence as he outlined the situation. ‘I am in Rome twice a week, selling our surplus produce on market day, and I tell you this: Vespasian has little support among the people. They may make fun of Vitellius’s habits and his lifestyle, but Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus has been a good Emperor for Romans who count their wealth in tens and not millions. Despite the fighting, bread is still cheap, and he is seen as wise and fair. To them, he is the legitimate occupant of the throne, appointed and approved by the Senate and people of Rome. And he still has teeth. Fabius Valens is said to be raising a new army in Gaul and Hispania. The Guard too, the men of the Germania legions who hailed him Emperor on the Rhenus, continue to support him. They say they will fight to the death and that they will never abandon him,’ his eyes locked with Valerius’s so the Roman understood the significance of his next words, ‘but there is also an unspoken understanding that
he
will never be allowed to abandon them. They risked everything to put him where he is and they’ve yet to see their proper reward. If Vitellius is deposed, they believe the new Emperor will serve them as he did their predecessors, cast out and impoverished at best.’
Valerius listened with growing alarm. He’d never been deceived into thinking that this would be a simple task, but there’d always seemed a genuine possibility of persuading Vitellius to give up his throne peacefully. This talk of fighting to the death might be just that, mere words, but Lupergos’s story had the ring of truth. Valerius reckoned he could discount Valens, at least for the moment – the earliest the Vitellian general could be on the march was in the spring – but would he be able to overcome Vitellius’s fear of his own Guard?
More gossip. Marines of the Misene fleet had mutinied and were forming a new legion to help oust Vitellius. The Emperor’s brother Lucius had put down a rebellion in the south and burned the city of Tarracina, putting thousands to death. Batavian tribesmen on the Rhenus had concluded an alliance with their cousins beyond the river and Julius Civilis had vowed to march on Rome. True or false, no one at the table could know. Valerius understood stories like these often had a foundation in truth, but for the moment none of that could concern him.
‘You say you go to Rome twice a week, Lupergos,’ he said carefully. ‘I doubt you are able to come and go as you please?’
‘No,’ the Etruscan agreed. ‘Security at the city gates is heavy and you will not enter without an up-to-date pass. Every cart is emptied down to the boards and thoroughly searched. I doubt you could get a sheet of parchment into the city undetected. Once you are inside the Emperor’s agents are everywhere, and the Guard has a presence on every corner.’
An idea began to form. ‘When is the next market day?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Let’s see your pass.’ The gate guard at the Porta Collina had been on duty most of the night and his temper wasn’t improved by either the hour or the weather. His comrades stood around stupid with lack of sleep, hating the chill December rain that worked its way through their cloaks no matter how much lanolin was in the wool, and the country farmers who forced them to stand out in it.
The tall peasant driving the bullock cart had already been stopped twice in the untidy scatter of suburbs outside the city walls. He sniffed and spat on the road at the guard’s feet before reaching inside his tunic to withdraw a wooden token on a leather thong. The soldier studied the pass with a sour expression before carving another notch into it with his knife. ‘Only another five days on this. Make sure you apply to the
quaestor
’s office for a replacement or I’ll take pleasure in kicking your sorry arse back to wherever it came from next time I see you.’
Still grumbling, the guard rummaged through the muddy vegetables and damp sacks of fruit. Meanwhile, his watch commander stared at the peasant and his companion, a rangy, unkempt figure with a pronounced stoop who had been walking alongside the cart leading an ancient-looking pig on a frayed length of rope. Without warning the commander marched forward and hauled back the driver’s hood to reveal a hard, angular face with the pink line of an old scar running from eye to lip. There was just the slightest hesitation as the man met his gaze before dropping his eyes, but the surly defiance had already registered. ‘Get off the cart,’ he said brusquely. The peasant complied readily enough, but the rest of the watch straightened, sensing trouble. They were always happy to meet any show of resistance with a flurry of blows and kicks. ‘You didn’t get that scar working on any farm, friend. A sword did that, and I’d wager it’s not the only one you could show me, eh? A soldier’s scar. But you’re not old enough to have completed your service. So you’ve either been discharged or you’re a deserter …’
‘All I want is to get these vegetables to market,’ the driver grumbled. ‘I …’
‘Interrupt me again and I’ll make you eat this.’ The officer poked the club he carried into the peasant’s chest. ‘Where have you come from?’
‘The Verrens estate, out by Fidenae. I do a bit of work on the farm on the faraway slope. Caradoc here, he’s just a slave not quite right in the head that looks after the pigs. Please, master, if I don’t get …’
‘You won’t get through this gate until I see your discharge papers,’ the watch commander insisted.
‘But that’s not a thing a man carries about with him,’ the driver pleaded. ‘If I don’t get this stuff to market early I won’t get a decent price for it, and then what’ll happen? Yes, I’ve served, I was in the First Italica, but they didn’t want me any more.’
‘And why was that?’
The man flicked his cloak aside and the officer stepped back, his hand automatically going for his sword.
‘No place in a shield wall for a one-handed legionary.’ The peasant shrugged and held out the mottled purple stump of his right wrist, like an unwholesome, flyblown piece of meat on a butcher’s counter. ‘No pension for old Lucco, either,’ the cripple complained in his whining voice. ‘I’d have starved to death if it weren’t for my uncle getting me this job, not that it’s much of a job. Imagine a Roman citizen being treated the same as a slave, I ask you.’
By now the guard commander was bored. He’d no interest in an old soldier’s sob story. The maimed arm answered his question better than any discharge diploma and a long queue of carts was already building up on the road behind. As if to reinforce his decision the pig rubbed its wiry flank against him, emitted an enormous fart and splattered the cobbles with dark green shit.
‘Venus’ withered tits,’ he cursed. ‘Get that fucking beast out of here. The sooner it’s turned into sausages the bloody better. On your way and find another gate to go home by, because if I ever see your ugly face again I’ll break this stick across your back.’
The man Lucco bowed repeatedly and ran to the bullock’s head, leading it forward through the gate, followed by Caradoc the pigman. To Rome.
‘Not right in the head?’ Serpentius said.
‘If you were right in the head you wouldn’t be with me.’ Valerius rubbed at the stump of his wrist as they walked down the narrow cobbled track of the Alta Selita, three and four storey
insulae
apartments rising above them like cliffs.
The Spaniard saw the gesture. ‘A shame about your hand.’ Serpentius had carved the wooden fist Valerius normally wore on a thick leather stock that covered his wrist.
Valerius shrugged. ‘I can’t afford to wear it. Vitellius’s people might have put out an alert, and we’d have been dead if the gate guard had found it among the sacks. In any case, we’re here to negotiate, not fight.’
‘You’re forgetting Vitellius thinks I killed you in the arena at Cremona.’
Valerius winced at the sudden streak of fire across the top of his skull. He was still missing a finger’s-width circle of scalp Serpentius had removed with a single bloody flash of his sword to make the end look realistic. It wasn’t something he liked to be reminded of.
‘That’s true,’ he acknowledged. ‘But the man is no fool. He’ll have spies in Primus’s camp just as Primus has in his. If they’ve reported the presence of a one-handed man on the general’s staff he may think a little harder about what he saw. He’s nervous enough, that’s for certain, judging by the amount of security.’