Defender of Rome

XXXIX

Deep beneath the mountain, in a process which had begun many millions of years earlier, the western tip of one of the fourteen major plates which make up the world’s surface had reached a point where the pressure creating its momentum was insufficient to overcome the resistance of the crust through which the fifty-mile-deep slab usually travelled at a rate of one inch every year. Normally, the tip would have been pushed deep underground to be melted into fiery magma by the heat from the earth’s core. In this case it would remain locked in place until the pressure behind it could build up a force powerful enough to shift it into motion again. Already, the pent-up energy was making the earth’s crust creak with the strain. When the shift happened, the giant plate would cover in a single instant the distance it would normally take ten years to travel. That moment was fast approaching.

They made their way diagonally across the hillside. To Valerius’s left the mountain, with its coat of vines and olive trees, rose steeply until the peak was lost in a shimmering haze. To his right, the slope became gentler as it fell away towards a turquoise sea that had never looked more welcoming. The intense heat was suffocating. Even Serpentius, who had been brought up among the sun-bleached hills north of Astorga, complained that if it became any hotter he would melt away. Rocks scorched by the sun reflected and magnified its power until it seemed every drop of moisture was being sucked from their bodies. Sweat soaked their clothing and ran into their eyes, creating salty deposits that quickly turned to grit and made them squint all the harder into the unyielding glare. After what seemed like an eternity, they gathered in the shadow beneath the final stone arch before the aqueduct crossed the wall into the villa gardens.

Valerius turned to the others. He had come to a decision. ‘I’m going to do this alone,’ he said. ‘Wait here until I get back. If there’s any sign of trouble give a single whistle and go back to the horses. I’ll join you there if I can.’

‘But-’

‘This is my fight now, Marcus. You’ve risked your neck for me often enough already.’

Serpentius and Heracles made a cradle with their joined hands that allowed Valerius to boost himself to the top of the wall. He ran his fingers along the top course, half expecting to feel sharpened spikes or the jagged coral landowners sometimes used to protect their property. Satisfied it was clear, he used his elbows to lever himself up so he could peer through the trees. The elevation gave him a wonderful view across the villa complex to the sea beyond and the island of Capri, lying like a sleeping giant ready to wake and march off into the distant haze.

The villa made Seneca’s house look like a modest family home. A sprawling two-storey masterpiece of pale stone, white marble pillars and terracotta tiles extended for at least four hundred paces down the slope. The centrepiece, flanked by two separate colonnaded walkways, was an enormous rectangular pool of sapphire blue, surrounded by white marble dotted with equestrian statues. At the near end, just below him, an ornamental waterfall fed the pool.

The fall had been created by diverting part of the supply from the aqueduct across a wide marble step to form a foaming cascade. To his left, exotic trees provided shaded refuges among the geometric pattern of pathways. The rush of water apart, the only noise was the hum of insects struggling through the overheated air.

He slipped from the wall using the trees for cover and made his way down the slope. Now he was screened from the villa by the self-contained wings that flanked the pool. He stopped and listened again. He’d decided that his first priority must be to familiarize himself with the layout of the complex. Somewhere among the labyrinth of corridors, rooms and private gardens, Poppaea awaited her salvation at the hands of Petrus. He doubted the Judaean himself would be in the house. If he was right that the Christians had come in the guise of farmworkers, the area he sought was the slave quarters.

Ever since Fabia had revealed Poppaea’s secret he had been wrestling with the question of what to do next. At first he’d approached it like a military problem, but quickly realized that the situation called for subtlety, not strength. He could not go charging up to the door. Poppaea’s first instinct would be to protect Petrus. Even if he could get inside, she would deny everything and he’d be no closer to the Judaean, his father or Olivia. Somehow he had to reach them without her being aware. If the ceremony had taken place already, so much the better, but he doubted it. Journeying overland Petrus would only have reached Neapolis late the previous night or early this morning, giving Poppaea little opportunity to ensure the privacy they needed for the ceremony. No. It would be at night. Tonight.

He stopped in the cover of a group of laurel and oleander bushes. Still he wasn’t far enough round to see beyond the angle of the massive building. As he waited, ready to move again, he remembered the pale, almost ghostly aura that had surrounded Olivia the last time he’d been with her. For some reason her features were indistinct, as if he was seeing her through a thick fog. He had once been told by a priest that the memory faded as the loved one’s soul faded. Was he too late? He shook his head to rid himself of despair, and as he did so he caught a whisper of leaves. He rose and turned in the same moment, his left hand automatically reaching for his sword. Too late. Something smashed into the side of his head and the world turned first grey, then black. His last thought was that he had failed them again.

Waking was too gentle a word for the endless struggle through the tormented darkness. When he finally opened his eyes he became aware of a darkened room with unpainted plaster walls and rough peasant furniture, and voices which faded as the owners realized he had recovered consciousness. He heard a door close and at first he thought he’d been left alone.

‘You are very tenacious, my young friend, and very fortunate.’ The soft voice came from close to his right ear.

‘I don’t feel fortunate,’ Valerius could barely hear his own words, ‘unless it’s because I am in the hands of a healer. My head feels as if it has been crushed by a bear.’

‘Your head I can cure.’ Petrus smiled. ‘A slit throat would have proved a much greater challenge.’

Valerius’s left hand made an instinctive movement towards his neck before he realized how foolish the action was. ‘My throat feels better than my head,’ he assured the physician.

‘True,’ agreed the Judaean. ‘But Isaac who acts as our guardian would have had it otherwise. He is a former soldier,’ he added, as if that was explanation enough.

Valerius raised his head, but Petrus placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘You should rest. I am sure you have many questions, but perhaps they can wait.’

A great weight seemed to be trying to drag the young Roman back down into the darkness. Then he remembered Olivia’s features fading before his eyes. ‘No,’ he said urgently. ‘There is no time.’

‘There is always time,’ Petrus said. ‘We are all in God’s hands. But perhaps… you came here for your father and your sister?’

Valerius shook his head. ‘I came for you. You are the man they call Jesus’s Rock?’

Petrus gave a sad smile. ‘Of course. And you have soldiers?’

‘No troops. Three… friends. You will come to no harm from me.’

‘Not from you,’ the Judaean sighed wearily. ‘But the very fact that you are here means you are a threat… and not just to me.’ Valerius heard the unspoken question. Should I have you killed?

‘Your Christus taught humanity and mercy. I have read it.’

Petrus gently lifted Valerius’s right arm, studying the walnut fist. ‘He also said If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off. You, I suspect, sacrificed your right hand to save your life, or perhaps to save another. Sometimes a man must make sacrifices for peace. Sometimes he must be prepared to sacrifice something he loves for a cause he would be prepared to die for himself.’

There was a deep reluctance in his voice, but the words reminded Valerius of another man in another place.

‘That is what Saul would have said.’

Petrus’s head rose and for the first time Valerius saw emotion in his pale eyes. ‘You have met Saul?’

‘He says he is your brother in Christus, but I believe he means to betray you.’

Petrus drew himself up and for the first time Valerius saw the true stature of the man. In that second he understood why the Christus sect had survived its founder’s death. Here was a leader other men would follow to the ends of the earth.

‘There is but one God and one Jesus, his son,’ the Judaean said solemnly. ‘But each man views God in his own way, just as each of us has his own view of the path ahead. Three times I denied him, and still Jesus appointed me his Rock and his keeper of the truth. But the truth can be like poor wine, acid on the tongue and difficult to swallow. To understand the true Jesus and become closer to God, one must ignore the unreliable, accept the unbelievable and embrace the dangerous. Saul would take those parts of Jesus’s teachings which are least palatable and consign them to the darkness, never to be spoken of again. He would sweeten the truth with honey so that it becomes acceptable to all men. In this way, he would ease the path into God’s household for those who find their minds troubled or their faith tested. But for me, Valerius, there can only be one truth, and that is the whole truth. Two men, two roads, but only one path can be chosen.’

‘But Saul would have you dead.’

‘Saul sees the road ahead in his own way,’ Petrus said calmly. ‘At heart he is a soldier, just as you are, and his methods are a soldier’s methods. Whatever the future, it is God’s will and I will be bound by it. There can only be one leader of the faith.’

They sat in silence for what seemed a long time.

‘You talked of sacrifice,’ Valerius said. ‘There have already been so many sacrifices. Cornelius Sulla burned on a pyre for refusing to renounce his faith or betray his friends, your followers. His brother Publius, who died upon his own sword in the service of your God. And Lucina Graecina, a great lady humbled and humiliated, who once told me that she would gladly go to her death for the love of Jesus Christus. But they did not die for Christus, did they? They died for Petrus. Christus is gone. You have taken his place.’ He looked up and saw a glint that might have been tears in the old man’s eyes. Fear of the answer he would receive made him hesitate before asking what he had come to ask. ‘They sacrificed themselves for you. Would you be prepared to sacrifice the lives of twenty thousand innocents for your faith?’

Petrus’s face hardened as he heard for the first time of the Emperor’s threat to the Judaeans. ‘So many lives for one man?’ He shook his head. ‘It is no idle threat. To this Emperor human life means nothing. He will do exactly what he says. I must think on this.’ He studied Valerius intently. ‘How did you know to come here?’

Valerius explained about Fabia and the hold that Torquatus had over her.

‘Then we must act quickly. I believe Torquatus underestimates Poppaea. She is already strong and she will be stronger still when she has been anointed by God. I believe she will prevail and Torquatus will fall. Faith can move mountains. Come, I will take you to your father and sister.’

‘Wait.’ Valerius struggled from the bed. ‘I must know. Will you return to Rome with me?’

Petrus stared at him, but the certainty had returned to the grey eyes and Valerius knew the answer before he spoke.

‘Yes, I will come, but first I must finish the work I have begun here.’