Avenger of Rome

XXXIV

Athens, Greece

His world seemed to be closing in on him, until it had been reduced to this tiny dungeon in the palace he had commandeered on the slopes below the Acropolis. It had all seemed so different this past week.

For a few days during the Games on Mount Olympus he had felt as if he was soaring with the gods themselves. The wonder of his songs and oratory had beguiled the greatest artists in Greece, the cradle of culture and civilization, and they had hailed him as an Olympian on the very mount that had given the Games their name. In those few glorious moments he had left behind the troubles and consternation of the Empire and been able to bask in the glory of his own genius, to bathe in the cheers of the multitude and to drink the ambrosia of Zeus, Artemis and Apollo.

He sighed.

And now Tigellinus had dragged him back to an earth which, even at its best, was tawdry by comparison. The smell of burning flesh reminded him of the Great Fire.

The two men hanging from the seven-foot iron triangles were brothers and until recently they had been the governors of the two Germanias, Superior and Inferior. Tigellinus had brought Rufus and Proculus Sulpicius Scribonius to meet their Emperor on the pretext that they were to receive the triumphal regalia for their victories over the Chatti and the Cherusci, Germanic tribes who had plagued Rome’s frontiers for centuries. But instead of honours, all they had received was pain.

Nero walked past the torturers and lifted the chin of the elder Scribonius, Proculus, so he could see into his eyes. He had been very brave. Had offered himself for the glowing iron and the knives and the pincers if it would only spare his brother the trial. Instead, Tigellinus had used his courage against him and had the younger brother trussed up first. Nero had watched Proculus throw himself against his bonds as they had placed the red-hot barbs in Rufus’s flesh, torn his nipples out and removed his nose, all to the accompaniment of the torturers’ chorus of shrieks and howls and agonized groans. Then he had ordered the older brother’s legs broken, so he had to crawl to the triangle where he could bring an end to his brother’s suffering by replacing him. Of course, that could not happen. Each was the other’s weakness. They must witness the other’s pain and mutilation while Tigellinus and his clerks recorded the names that must eventually be uttered through broken teeth and torn lips.

‘You were my friend, Proculus. Why must all my friends betray me?’

It was astonishing the change that fire and iron could accomplish in such a short time. The brothers had been young men in the prime of life when they walked into the receiving room. In their senatorial robes, they had carried themselves like the patricians they were: dark, leonine heads held high, proud of their achievements and proud of each other. With their long noses and eyes that disdained all but their own kind, men like this had opposed him at every turn since the day he had donned the purple. They had blocked his improvements, refused him the money he needed to emulate his illustrious ancestors, laughed behind their hands at his performances and sneered at his pleasures. Yet he had taken the brothers Scribonius into his trust. Not for them the tender mercies of Tigellinus, the threat of the arena, the sequestration of their estates and property. Not even the seduction of their wives. He had rewarded them with advancement, not because they were worthy, but because they were too indolent to do harm.

In the hands of an able governor either of the two Germanias could swiftly become a threat on Rome’s doorstep. The legions of the Rhine frontier were elite, battle-hardened soldiers, who protected the Empire from the eastern hordes. They complained constantly of poor pay and poor rations and poor accommodation. It made them fractious and difficult to control. And dangerous. No Corbulo would ever command in Germania while he was Emperor. It would be like handing a condemned man a sword. Instead, he had given command to wastrels like these, in the sure knowledge that they would spend their time gossiping and entertaining. But they had proved him wrong. For the brothers Scribonius had plotted.

‘Names, Proculus,’ he said softly. ‘Give us names and places and dates and your brother will be spared.’

Through the lightning bolts of agony that tore his body, Proculus Sulpicius Scribonius heard the voice. He had called on all the courage of his ancestors to be able to bear his torment and he would have borne it until death. But his baby brother’s shrieks had eroded his resolve until he could take no more. His delirious mind screamed at him to save Rufus. Whatever the cost.

He sobbed like a child and the names began as a trickle, grew into a stream, and finally became a torrent.

Nero turned to Tigellinus. ‘When you are certain you have it all, they go to the fire.’ He hesitated. ‘No, they were once friends. I will be merciful. Have them take their own lives, if they are capable.’

For the next two hours, Tigellinus checked and double-checked the names and the dates, taking the brothers to new levels of pain to ensure not a single conspirator, or conspirator’s wife, or friend, or acquaintance, had been missed. By the end there was no need for either brother to go to the trouble of killing himself.

Left to his own devices, Tigellinus would have added another name to the list, whether it came from the vomit-stained lips or not. But the roll call of betrayal was recorded. If Corbulo’s name was on the list, the Emperor would call in the clerks to confirm it and, if he bribed them, they might even reveal that Tigellinus had placed it there. He couldn’t risk that. He would find another way. The man now shivering in terror in the dungeons below the Palatine would provide it.

Willing or not, Annius Vinicianus would condemn his father-in-law. And, if not, there was always the Egyptian.