Sword of Rome (8 page)

An aide moved to allow Valerius to squeeze in beside his old friend on a bench designed for three, and below the table he slipped a well-stocked purse into the folds of Vitellius’s toga. ‘Perhaps this will help keep the manure at bay for a little longer,’ he said quietly.

The new governor of Germania Inferior studied him like a long-lost son and his eyes turned moist. Valerius knew that his friend was busily weighing the purse in his hand and would by now have calculated its value to the last
as
. He saw the deep-set eyes narrow, then widen, and finally Vitellius gave a roar that made all five of his chins quiver like waves in a storm. Valerius felt himself engulfed in two enormous arms and drawn into a suffocating embrace. Eventually, Vitellius released him and they sat back, each studying the other with a mixture of pleasure and wariness.

They had first met in a riverside fort on the Dacian frontier when Vitellius cheerfully admitted trying to have Valerius killed, then almost certainly saved his life by offering him a position as military adviser when he left to govern his African province. He had changed little since their eighteen months together in Carthage. His thinning hair was mostly gone now, and he was perhaps a little heavier around the middle – hardly surprising in a man who could eat three large meals a day and still be demanding more when everyone else was crouched in the
vomitorium
. Many made the mistake of confusing fat with foolish and lumbering with slow-witted. In fact, Vitellius’s bumbling self-mockery disguised a shrewd brain that the Emperor Claudius had recognized by making him consul. He had been a friend and intimate of Nero, but, as the Emperor’s power waned, he had hidden away on his estate until Servius Sulpicius Galba had called him back to service. It was Vitellius who had revealed to Valerius that Otho’s evaluation of the situation in Rome was flawed, and that there could be no transfer of power without the help of both Praetorian prefects, and Vitellius who had arranged the meeting in the Palatine dungeon with Nero’s former favourite, Tigellinus.

Vitellius fumbled the purse into a secure position and murmured his thanks. ‘You would think a man of any intelligence could not fail to return rich from his province, but I was struck down with an almost
terminal case of honesty.’ He shook his head in mock sadness as he repeated the refrain Valerius knew so well. ‘After all those years of avoiding it, my conscience finally caught up with me. How could any man let those people starve?’

Valerius knew of many governors who would cheerfully have watched their people starve, and profited from it by raising the price of what little wheat was left. Instead, Vitellius had purchased grain from Rome at exorbitant prices and had it shipped over to Africa at his own expense. It had made him hugely popular among his citizenry, who had petitioned Nero to recompense him, but a laughing stock in the Imperial capital. He was still waiting for his money. ‘And now you have an Emperor’s confidence again.’

Vitellius gave him a shrewd look. ‘Perhaps you know more than I do. I have my appointment and an opportunity, that is true, but who is to say why it has been offered.’ He raised the silver cup and drank deeply, wiping his lips with the back of a plump hand. ‘My predecessor, Capito, despite his mistimed and fatal hesitation, was a man of action, which I, let us be quite open, am not. He was also a man of means, which I,’ his moon face split into a grin, ‘notwithstanding some recent good fortune, am patently not. Therefore, by our new Emperor, I am seen as harmless, perhaps ineffectual; a man more likely to shout “Bring us more wine, you lazy bastard”’ – the tavern owner laughed and added another three jugs to the table – ‘than “Let us march on Gaul”. Yet he may have mistaken me. I am not without ambition.’ He gestured to one of the aides and the man disappeared outside to return a moment later with a polished rosewood box, three feet in length and five inches across. Serpentius appeared watchfully behind him, a threatening, whip-thin presence with a curled lip who drew uneasy glances from the young aristocrats who served Vitellius. The governor laughed at their discomfiture. ‘I see you still have your Spanish wolf, Valerius. A wise decision in these uncertain times.’ He stared at the former gladiator, seeking some sign of acknowledgement, before his eyes registered recognition. ‘Didn’t you win me money when you butchered Caladus the Thracian at the old Taurus arena?’

Serpentius’s eyes narrowed and he took his time before replying. ‘If I did, you were fortunate indeed, because Caladus fought again twelve times under the name Rodan. Not every gladiator who spills his blood on the sand is a dead gladiator.’

Vitellius’s plump features twitched first to understanding, then to outrage, before he spluttered with laughter. ‘Fortunate indeed. I will remember that the next time I make a wager.’

He waved away the young aide and flipped the wooden box open. Inside was a sword that took Valerius’s breath away. The
gladius
was like no other he’d seen, the hilt wonderfully worked in spun gold, with precious stones decorating the scabbard and a miniature legion’s eagle on the pommel. ‘Divine Julius himself carried this sword.’ Vitellius slipped it free from the scabbard and Valerius saw the blade had been worked so skilfully that a pattern like silver smoke ran its length. ‘I have borrowed it from the Temple of Mars Ultor, where my brother is high priest. Rome has need of it, Valerius. Aulus Vitellius has need of it.’

At another time, Valerius might have smiled at this foolishness, but he could see that Vitellius was in earnest. ‘You are going to war, my friend?’

The other man shook his head. ‘No. But there is a name to be made by the man who defends the Rhenus, and perhaps takes the battle beyond it in the manner of Germanicus. If that man carries the sword of Julius Caesar, his other deficiencies might be overlooked. Leave us, please,’ he ordered the young men, ‘and make sure the cart is well provisioned.’ The aides shuffled out and Valerius nodded to Serpentius to join them. Vitellius lowered his voice. ‘Who knows,’ he said carefully. ‘If the next Emperor is an old man and it is such an onerous position, he may feel two years, perhaps three, is enough before handing the reins of power to a younger, more energetic candidate.’

Valerius stared at him. Vitellius had commanded a legion on the Danuvius and as governor of his province, but his conceit in thinking that he could follow Galba to the purple was astonishing. Yes, he was of the proper patrician stock, but if Galba dismissed men like Marcus
Salvius Otho and Titus Vespasian, how likely was he to appoint as his heir a fat man who thought stealing Caesar’s sword made him a great general? But now was not the time to disabuse his friend of his ambitions.

‘Then may Fortuna favour you.’ He raised his cup. ‘What news do you have?’

A lifetime in politics had taught Vitellius the value of having a long list of contacts throughout the Empire, and now they were proving their worth. ‘You have just come from Rome, so you know of the unrest among the naval militia?’

‘I know they call themselves a legion.’

‘Exactly. They will not fight, but Galba should have ordered their disbandment. By delaying he is only storing up trouble. And I fear that is not our new Emperor’s only misjudgement.’ He reeled off a list of officials, including two of senatorial rank, whom Galba had ordered executed before he left Spain. ‘Anyone who did not greet his appointment with sufficient enthusiasm, and their families with them.’ Valerius looked up, startled, and Vitellius nodded sagely, picking at the remaining food. ‘Yes, even Nero at his worst only used such barbarity sparingly. It seems my old friend Servius has discovered a taste for blood. He has a delicate path to tread and I fear he treads it with all the care of a wandering buffalo. In Gaul, his conscience tells him to reward the rebels he failed to support, not understanding that this puts him at odds with the legionaries who saw their comrades fight and die defeating them. It is said that he has already called for the head of Mithridates of Petrus because he’s heard the old bugger has been ridiculing his looks. In Africa, Clodius is refusing to send grain supplies to Rome, a decision probably taken when Nero was alive, but his days are numbered. Verginius Rufus is deposed in Germania Superior, but he may survive.’ He frowned, the movement setting his great jowls wobbling. ‘There is one thing that puzzles me. I hear rumours from Rome of chaos and disruption in Syria and Judaea, yet my agents assure me they are not true. The source of these tales appears to be Nymphidius Sabinus. Can you think of any reason for him to do that?’

Valerius laughed. ‘Not unless he is using them as a goad to hurry our new Caesar to Rome, where he belongs.’

Vitellius nodded gravely. ‘You have not lost your nose for conspiracy, Valerius.’ Valerius sensed there was more to come, but the new governor of Germania Inferior was in no hurry. ‘I have also heard tales of some remarkable exploits by a young cavalry commander. These tales, along with everything else that happened in Parthia, were supposed to be suppressed, but Aulus Vitellius is not without his friends. Still the soldier, Valerius?’

‘It seems the only thing I am good for.’

The fat man smiled. ‘My new position comes with a certain amount of responsibility, but also a certain amount of power. One aspect of that power is a say in the appointment of legionary commanders. Galba believes the Fifteenth Primigenia’s legate is of suspect loyalty. He wants to foist some young upstart
quaestor
from Baetica on me, but I believe that if I insisted he would appoint my own candidate, particularly as you have already been of service to him.’

Valerius had been listening, but not quite taking in what Vitellius was saying. Slowly it dawned on him what he was being offered.

‘I …’ His heart swelled until it filled his mouth and the words would not come. Not an African legion or a temporary command, but five thousand of Rome’s finest, marching behind the eagle of a legion with a pedigree that went back to Pompey the Great.

‘There is no hurry to accept, I assure you. I doubt I will be in Colonia Agrippinensis until November.’

‘I am honoured by your faith …’

‘Of course, I understand you must complete whatever mission Galba has assigned you. But you may write to me at any time, and,’ he took Valerius by the wooden hand, ‘remember that the offer stands for as long as I have the power to make it, and that as long as Aulus Vitellius lives you may call him your friend.’

Vitellius hauled himself to his feet. He picked up the wooden box from the table and pulled the sword from its cloth covering. The
gladius
looked small and insignificant in his big hands and as he swung it in a clumsy practice cut Valerius had a terrible sense of foreboding. But
Vitellius was oblivious of his gloom. As he lumbered towards the door and the appointment that was his destiny he turned with a smile. ‘The world will hear more of Aulus Vitellius.’

Valerius watched him go and the words seemed to echo round the room, but his mind held only a single thought.

He had been offered a legion.

An hour after leaving Aulus Vitellius, they turned through the gateway and on to the track leading to the villa. A flash of white among the trees to their right told Valerius they’d been sighted by a watch slave now sprinting to announce the arrival of strangers.

And he was a stranger. It was almost two years since he’d left home to travel to Syria and, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he hadn’t visited or sent word since he’d arrived from Hispania all those weeks ago. The rough road twisted through low hills cloaked with untidy ranks of grey-green olive trees that stretched away into the distance. It was long enough to allow time for alert defenders to set up an ambush and provided ample cover from which they could hurl their missiles at hostile invaders with impunity, at least until the latter had organized themselves. This was where he had spent the first dozen years of his life and he knew there were barely visible tracks through the trees that led to caves and gullies where his people could retreat and either hide or, if necessary, attempt to fight the attackers off. Regular troops would persist and the end would be inevitable, but the kind of men who would find a run-down place like this an attractive target were bandits and brigands; bands of deserters. They would not relish giving their blood with no guarantee of profit. As the calculations ran through his mind, he realized with a shiver why he was making them.

When they reached the house he was still lost in thought, and the cry of welcome from Olivia came as a shock.

‘Valerius! Why did you not warn me you were coming? I wasn’t even sure you were alive.’

When he saw his sister looking so well he felt like laughing. There had been days when he had held her in his arms and been certain she wouldn’t survive the hour. The last time he had seen her the shadow of the illness still lay upon her features, but now her cheeks showed a country housewife’s glow and she had put on weight. Olivia had always scoffed at the pampered life of a Roman lady, even when she had been forced to live it. Since the deaths of her husband and their father she had become her own woman, and that woman looked at home in a simple homespun
stola
with flour dust on her face. She was flanked by her ancient servants, Granta and Cronus, their father’s freedmen who looked after the actual running of the estate, though what that amounted to these days he had no idea.

Belatedly he became aware of another presence, hanging back in the shadows. Olivia saw his look, and with an almost imperceptible nod invited the man forward. He was of mid-height, perhaps a hand span shorter than Valerius, but with the angular hardness that comes with life outdoors, and truculent, unyielding eyes that said he was ready to deal with whatever came at him.

‘Lupergos.’ Olivia’s voice cut across Valerius’s thoughts and demanded he look at her. When he did, the message he received dared him to challenge what she said next. ‘He is my – our – estate manager.’

Valerius left it just long enough to send an equally unmistakable reply before he nodded. Lupergos bowed and backed away. In an instant the tension drained from the faces of the two freedmen and they approached with the traditional traveller’s welcome of a bowl and cloth, a loaf and a flagon of pure water from the well behind the house. Olivia invited him to stay the night and he saw the flash of surprise on Serpentius’s face when he agreed. The villa was a sprawling place laid out on a single level, and Valerius remembered it fondly. The last time he had been here much of the paint had been peeling and the plaster cracked, but as Olivia led him to his room he was surprised
to see fresh, glowing white everywhere, and signs of repairs to floor and ceiling. Their eyes met, and there was that challenge again, but he said nothing. He found a fresh set of clothes that fitted and joined her in the atrium. She’d always been fascinated by his travels and she listened for over an hour as he spoke of the vast, forbidding landscapes of southern Armenia, the heat-seared deserts of Arabia where the wind could strip a man’s flesh, and the jewelled seas and emerald cliffs of the Hispanic coast. Somehow, there was no time to discuss the estate’s domestic arrangements.