Defender of Rome

XXVIII

Valerius spent the next morning working on the household accounts he had neglected for the past month, and after an early meal he slipped out by the garden door and took the short walk across the lower slope of the Caelian Hill to the Castra Peregrina. The barracks overlooked the old Porta Capena and were hidden behind a sturdy wall, and it was by the north corner that Valerius waited for his contact from Seneca. Just when he was beginning to think he’d wasted his time a lumbering figure approached from the direction of the city gate.

Valerius had to look twice. Had the man lost his mind?

Seneca saw the expression on his face and laughed. ‘Allow an old gentleman a little indulgence, and give him some credit, my boy. I have played these games before and I believe I can still outfox a fool like Torquatus.’

‘You are mad to come here.’

The philosopher’s brow creased. ‘Not mad, I think, but in a man in my position the senses can be aroused beyond the normal and that heightened arousal may have an effect on judgement. Yet precisely because of that effect the subject himself could well be unaware of his predicament. An interesting proposition,’ he smiled. ‘But I believe you have a question for me?’

First, Valerius reported his progress, or lack of it.

Seneca sniffed his distaste. ‘Yes, I wasn’t aware of the peril in which I was placing Lucina when I gave you her name. Though she did lead you to Cornelius who, in time, I’m sure would have led you to Petrus. The question I believe we must ask is whether they betrayed themselves or whether some outside influence brought them to their fate. You have not, for instance, told anyone of our arrangement?’

Valerius stared at him. ‘You think someone in my household is a spy?’

‘Oh, I am certain of it. But I’m also certain you would not trumpet this business to your slaves and your servants, but…’

‘I trust Marcus and his men with my life.’

‘Indeed you do,’ Seneca said significantly. ‘I merely urge caution in all things. Cornelius’s death was a warning not only to his fellow Christians.’ He saw Valerius’s look of puzzlement. ‘Christians, my boy, is what Petrus and the other members of his sect call themselves.’

‘These… Christians… use some sort of code among themselves to indicate the place and time of their next meeting. I thought, with your contacts in the east, it might be possible to discover its nature.’

Seneca stared out over the valley towards the great tiered palace complex on the Palatine and his nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘You may be asking too much, but I will make enquiries. What form does the code take? Do you have an example?’

Reluctantly, Valerius told him about the inscription scratched on the doorpost of the physician’s insula. The philosopher frowned. ‘These people are weaned on secrecy. I can make nothing of it, but I will see what I can do. I will send a courier to your house tonight at dusk with the answer, if there is one.’

‘Not to the house.’ Valerius gave him the address of the block where Marcus, Serpentius and the others were billeted.

Seneca was wandering off in the direction of the Capena gate when Valerius remembered what else he had wanted to ask. He hurried to intercept the older man.

‘You spent ten years as part of Nero’s inner circle. Who among them is the most likely to be attracted to this Christian god?’

The philosopher’s brows furrowed as he dissected the question, evaluating and discarding. Eventually he burst into laughter. ‘Open to new ideas. Impressionable. Unstable and prone to instantaneous and ill-considered enthusiasms. Why, the man most likely to become a Christian is Nero himself.’ He was still laughing when he vanished towards the road.

Valerius spent a frustrating evening waiting for word. He called for wine and by the time he was ready to sleep he knew he’d had more than was good for him. Still, even his mood couldn’t account for the way Tiberius, the steward, and his other slaves worked so hard to avoid being in his presence. Even Julia disappeared the moment he entered Olivia’s room. Something was wrong and it nagged at him like a woodpecker inside his skull. He remembered the feeling that he was missing something. Whatever it was, it had happened since he’d returned from Dacia.

He went over everything in his mind, even though reliving the horror of Nero’s ultimatum and Lucina’s torment sickened him. Not that. Something else. Something to do with the household. He must remember every whisper. He was almost asleep when it came to him. Every whisper, that was the answer. What had Olivia said? Who was the terrible man who was here while you were away?

‘Tiberius,’ he roared.

It took a few minutes for the old man to answer the call and when he did the fear that showed in his eyes was enough to convince Valerius that his suspicions were well-founded. ‘Master?’

‘Someone was here while I was gone. Someone I am not to know about. Who was it?’

Tiberius shook his head. ‘I cannot-’

‘Do you think I am a fool, Tiberius?’ Valerius kept his voice low, but the menace in his words was clear. ‘This is my household, and you are part of it. Whatever is making you stay quiet is nothing compared to the power of my anger if you do not tell me. I have never whipped a slave, but I am prepared to start. You have always been loyal to me and my family; do not betray me now.’

‘He said they would kill-’ The old man’s voice shook and tears ran down his face.

‘Who said?’

‘We could not stop them. They had an imperial warrant.’

‘Who, Tiberius? I have to know.’

‘Praetorians,’ Tiberius sobbed. ‘A centurion and six men. He said they were here to make an inventory of all your possessions. Everything. A man with a scarred face, master. I could not stop them.’

Rodan. Of course.

‘He said we would die if we told. He went to Olivia’s room. He…’

In an instant, Valerius felt the blood boiling inside his head and his vision went red. He reached out blindly and his hand caught the front of the slave’s tunic. Tiberius let out a cry of terror.

‘He did what, Tiberius?’

The old man darted a scared glance towards the doorway and Valerius followed the look to where Julia stood, her eyes wide with terror, and something else… shame.

Rodan made his way from the Castra Praetoria to the palace at dawn the next day, accompanied by six of the Guard. It was a fine morning and he took pleasure in the fact that everything was going so well. His retirement from the Guard was only a few years away and, apart from his centurion’s pension, which wasn’t paltry, he’d amassed a small fortune in bribes from people he had led to believe they were on the Emperor’s little list. He was still a relatively young man, with a bright future, and, if things went to plan, his finances were about to improve even further.

When the tall figure stepped out into the street ahead, he was surprised, but not concerned. Why should a man with six armed guards fear one with no sword, not even a belt? Valerius wore a long-sleeved tunic against the morning chill, but he was clearly unarmed.

‘You’re out early today, my hero. What’s wrong? The ghosts keeping you awake?’

The words were accompanied by a sneer, but the mocking grin vanished as the young Roman marched silently towards him. Valerius’s face might have been carved from stone and his eyes glowed red in the morning sun. Before Rodan was aware of it he was only feet away and for the first time the centurion felt a thrill of fear. ‘Wait,’ he cried. Two of the Praetorians drew swords, but Valerius brought his left hand up to Rodan’s neck above his wolf breastplate, and by some piece of trickery a blade twinkled in the morning sunlight.

‘It’s only a very small knife.’ Valerius’s voice was soft, but it held the pitiless chill of the grave. ‘But it will make a very large hole in your throat. You’ve seen a man’s throat cut, Rodan? Of course you have. They might kill me, but I’ll still have the satisfaction of watching you bleed out. Tell them to put the swords away.’

Rodan hesitated, but only for a moment. He nodded and the two Praetorians stepped back.

‘If I hear you’ve been anywhere near my house again, centurion, I will rip out your guts and hang you with them from the nearest tree. Do you understand? Stay away from my family, or I promise I’ll kill you, and you know me well enough to believe that I keep my promises.’

The Praetorian looked into the dark eyes and saw only certainty there. A shiver ran through him as he remembered the day in Caligula’s circus when he had looked into those same eyes and seen his death. Rodan had fought on the German frontier; he was no coward. In his mind, he drew his sword and rammed it deep into the other man’s belly, but he remembered the stories he had heard and his hands stayed by his side.

Valerius studied his enemy’s face and knew he’d won, but it was a small victory and he had no doubt it would come at a price. He turned his back and walked away. He’d only gone ten paces when Rodan found his voice.

‘Did I hear a donkey breaking wind?’ The centurion’s harsh shout broke the silence. ‘No, I’m mistaken. It was the last gasp of a dying man. Do you hear that, my Hero of Rome? You’re a dead man.’ Valerius turned to face him, but Rodan was back with his guards and every one had his sword clear of its scabbard. Hatred made the ruined face uglier still. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It doesn’t matter whether you succeed or fail, you’re going to die. It’s all arranged. You and your father and sister are all going to die.’