Enemy of Rome

XXXII

When Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus returned to the Domus Aurea from his villa south of the Tiber, the paralysing shock of the Batavian revolt had faded. In truth, once he had considered the odds — the main elements of five elite legions against a rabble of barbarian mercenaries — his initial panic had seemed foolish. Yes, there may have been setbacks, but Flaccus had sent word of new advances and a concentration of forces that would bring ultimate victory. Even if the Rhenus legions could only hold Civilis in check, Vitellius would soon be able to free one or two legions from Cremona. He intended their march north to herald such a reckoning that the Batavians would remember his name and tremble for twenty generations. The thought pleased him so much he decided to share it with Galeria. By now Valens would be with the army and he had great trust in Valens. With the enormous force under his command he might have already pushed the rebel forces of Marcus Antonius Primus back past Aquileia.

He waddled along the corridor with his curious short-legged gait. When he reached his private apartments two of his personal guards opened the doors, though he’d become so used to their presence that he barely registered them. His freedman Asiaticus came running as he flopped on to a padded couch. ‘Send for my lady Galeria,’ he ordered. Was it his imagination or did the Greek look paler than usual?

‘My lady is visiting her sister, lord. She was unaware of your return, or …’

‘No matter,’ Vitellius said dismissively. ‘Arrange a banquet for tonight. A whole boar, I think, for a centre piece, a pair of haunches of venison, the usual birds, an assortment of fish,’ something rumbled in his stomach and he frowned, ‘but no catfish or moray eel. I have had a surfeit of catfish and eel of late and I find they loosen me. Invite Saturninus and Trebellius and make sure they and their wives are seated together. It’s always entertaining to see two men who despise each other trying to make small talk. And Sabinus …’ Vitellius hesitated. Should he invite Sabinus? His informers had been hearing ever more interesting and disturbing rumours about Sabinus. It would be of use to make a few polite enquiries face to face, perhaps drop a few hints, but, no, the danger of provoking an outburst, whether a denial or some kind of stand, was too great. A crisis must be avoided. When Valens had won his victory, that was the time to deal with Sabinus. ‘No, not Sabinus. Send a note to old Senator Corvinus instead; he always appreciates a free meal … Have you eaten a bad oyster, Asiaticus?’

‘No, lord. It is …’

‘What, man?’

Asiaticus closed his eyes and the words tumbled out. ‘There is a person, a soldier I believe … he has been here several times seeking an interview but the lady refused him entry. He is ragged and much wounded.’ The Greek swallowed. ‘He says he has come from Cremona.’

All the breath seemed to be driven from Vitellius’s lungs at the word Cremona. What should he do? If Galeria had turned the petitioner away she must have had good reason. Yet the man persisted. A soldier, wounded and from Cremona — perhaps seeking an early pension, or an Imperial grant? But if that were his aim could he not have found another route? At worst he would have nothing of value to tell. At best, some news of Valens’ manoeuvrings. And if Vitellius refused, he knew he would only be plagued by doubts. ‘Very well,’ he decided. ‘I will see him in the receiving room, but make sure it is well guarded. And first bring me a brace of roast quail and a flask of the best Caecuban.’ Normally, he would have relished the thought of a juicy, well-flavoured quail, but something had taken the edge off his appetite.

An hour later he sat on the padded cushions of the great golden throne as a small, almost shambling figure limped through the doors, dwarfed by the vast scale of the receiving room. Generally, this space would be filled with nervous, expectant faces — senators, traders, ambassadors, praetors and quaestores from all over the Empire, every one seeking advancement or enrichment — but he’d suspended the usual mass audiences during the crisis. Half a century of his guard lined the walls, each with a hand on the hilt of his gladius. Two more stood protectively at the base of the steps with their swords already drawn. The petitioner advanced towards the throne, and Vitellius stifled a giggle of — yes, almost hysterical — laughter. All this for one little man in a torn military tunic. A little man attempting to march despite his trailing leg. A little man stooped with pain and with bloodstained bandages on his head and right arm. Yet a little man who still managed to exude a certain wounded — that giggle again — dignity.

‘Who seeks an audience with his Emperor?’ Vitellius demanded when the bandaged soldier stood below him.

‘Julius Agrestis,’ the voice was a hoarse croak, but still managed to exude pride as its owner recited his lineage, ‘of the Horatia voting tribe, centurion of the fourth century, Second cohort, Legio XXI Rapax, twenty years’ service, come from Cremona with urgent news and a plea for his Emperor.’

‘Your Emperor welcomes a soldier who has served so long and so diligently.’ Vitellius managed a benign smile despite the fact that his heart was thundering fit to crack his ribs. Urgent? What news could be so important that he hadn’t already heard it from his own generals? ‘What is this urgent news from Cremona where my legions wait, poised and ready to do battle with the pawns of the rebel Vespasian?’

The other man’s head came up and from his perch above Vitellius saw Julius Agrestis’s eyes widen. ‘You have not heard?’ the centurion whispered. ‘The battle is already fought … fought and lost.’

The smile froze on Vitellius’s face. ‘A local engagement. A minor setback.’

Agrestis shook his head. ‘Not a setback. A defeat. Thousands, tens of thousands, dead. The city burns.’

‘Liar!’ The scream that echoed from the walls froze every man in place as Galeria Fundana swept through the great double doors, her face pale with fury and her diminutive frame visibly shaking. ‘Liar!’ she repeated more loudly still.

Julius Agrestis flinched at the charge, but when he turned back to Vitellius he drew himself up to his full height despite the obvious pain of his wounds. ‘It is no lie, Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus. I fought for you at Bedriacum and I fought for you again at Cremona. My century took a cohort standard in the battle for the Via Postumia when the bodies of our comrades lay as thick on the ground as walnuts in October. I suffered these wounds as we stood on the rampart at Cremona and held off the First cohort of the Seventh Galbiana until the defence collapsed elsewhere. I …’

He flinched at the click of tiny feet marching across the marble floor. ‘Why are you listening to him, husband?’ Galeria howled. ‘Arrest this traitor.’

Vitellius had listened with horrified fascination as the litany of defeat froze something inside him. Could it be? He held up his hand to silence his wife. ‘When did this happen?’ he asked, surprised at the calmness of his own voice.

‘Ten days ago, lord.’

Ten days? The Emperor shook his head and the great jowl quivered. ‘But surely I must have heard before now. Why would my commanders not send me word?’

‘Your commanders are either dead by their own hand,’ Agrestis’s voice shook, ‘or marching to Moesia and Pannonia with their legions, subject to the orders of Titus Flavius Vespasian.’ He swayed and might have fallen, but no one moved so much as a finger to aid him. Somehow, by a huge effort of will, he managed to stay upright. ‘On the second day of our captivity I managed to escape. I rode through night and day until my strength gave out on the road near Falerii. While I recovered, I sent four messengers with word of our defeat …’

‘Spies and traitors and I will serve you as I served them.’ The maniacal screech froze Agrestis in mid-sentence and Vitellius flinched at the violence in his wife’s voice.

‘You kept them from me?’

Galeria’s narrow features took on a look of murderous certainty. ‘You should not have to deal with spies, traitors, liars and madmen.’ With the last word she shot a poisonous glance at the wounded centurion.

‘Lies?’ Julius Agrestis responded incredulously. ‘Why do you think I have come here?’

‘It is the enemy’s policy to plague the populace and their Emperor with disinformation,’ Vitellius said gently, wondering at the strange haze that seemed to have cloaked his mind. What had happened to his wife? She had always been strong-willed, but to his certain knowledge she would not harm a house spider. Yet he didn’t doubt that she’d had these messengers killed to keep them from him. He groped in his mind for the full implication of what Agrestis had said, but it eluded him. He noticed that Galeria’s eyes shone bright as diamonds and he saw something he had never thought to see there. In that instant he knew he must support his wife or send her beyond the brink of irrecoverable madness.

A cry of outrage penetrated his thoughts. ‘I saw them surrender. I saw the fire and heard the screams as Cremona burned.’ Agrestis was raving now and in his detached state Vitellius pondered that Galeria was not the only inhabitant of the room on the edge of insanity. ‘I saw the Fifth Alaudae march away to far-off Pannonia,’ the centurion shouted, froth dripping from his lower lip. ‘You want the truth?’ He hauled one-handed at the bandage on his head to reveal a terrible sword cut that must have almost penetrated bone, then attacked the stained cloth at his shoulder to show where the point of a pilum had pierced muscle. ‘My wounds are my truth, Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus, and this is the truth.’ In the same instant, Vitellius heard the swords of his guard hiss from their scabbards and Galeria scream ‘Why was he not searched?’, and saw the glint of the knife Julius Agrestis had drawn from his tunic. The two guards at the base of the stairs moved forward, the swords coming up. Too late. Julius Agrestis, centurion of the fourth century, Second cohort, Legio XXI Rapax, plunged the knife point into his breast and toppled forward with a shriek on to the marble floor. Vitellius sat unmoving as a great lake of blood slowly oozed across the polished marble tiles. Galeria was still howling obscenities he had never heard from her lips as the optio in charge of the guard shouted an order and four soldiers rushed forward to pick up the still twitching body and carry it from the room.

Gradually, Galeria’s screams faded. Vitellius closed his eyes and cradled his head in his hands. When he’d recovered his composure, he whispered an order and the guard formed up nervously and marched out, their iron-studded sandals clattering rhythmically on the tiles, leaving him alone with his wife.

He made his way cautiously down the steps. ‘Come, my dear.’ Galeria shivered like a trapped deer as he put his great arm gently round her shoulder. ‘I know you did what you thought best, but you must always remember that I am Emperor. Do you understand?’

A single convulsive sob escaped her, but he felt her nod. With a heart as heavy as the great head of the golden statue in the atrium he led her towards the doorway, his feet carefully avoiding the splashes of Julius Agrestis’s blood.