Enemy of Rome

XXXV

Pliny’s house on the Esquiline Hill was an impressive three-storey affair that spoke of many years of inherited wealth and many more of benign neglect. The door was guarded, if guarded was the correct term, by a genial, slightly malodorous straw-haired creature as tall as Valerius, but broad as a two-horse cart in the shoulders. No doubt a retired veteran of Pliny’s German auxiliary unit. With a grin that displayed teeth like a row of toppled standing stones the guard asked him his business before ambling inside to inform his master.

Valerius glanced around the small square to see if he could identify his watcher. He’d sensed the man’s presence a few minutes after he’d left Serpentius and been perplexed when he’d disappeared. The square was enclosed by lime-washed walls, and over-loud vendors shouted their wares from every side. At one corner a pustuled beggar pleaded for a crust, but his eyes never stopped searching for a carelessly stowed purse. On another, attendant slaves waited for their masters in any blessed shelter they could find. Slowly, the minutes passed and he wondered if the servant, or more likely Pliny, had forgotten him. He sat down in the shelter of an orange tree and allowed his mind to wander.

He woke with a sharp cry of alarm. In the dream, his remaining hand had been hacked off by a fiery-breathed figure from the Otherworld who seemed to be a mixture of Vitellius and the Christus god. He flexed his fingers to make sure they were still in place and smiled. Fool. It was just a nightmare. Only then did he notice Gaius Plinius Secundus. Tall and thin, with a strong, dark-jawed face and bright inquisitive eyes, the former soldier stood over him with a quizzical smile and his writing block in his hand.

‘You looked so peaceful that I didn’t like to disturb you, and when you began to talk to yourself I thought it was a phenomenon worth studying. I hope you don’t mind?’

Valerius raised himself to his feet, attempting to rub the dirt from his tunic. He was grateful the other man had decided not to notice his diminished circumstances or mention the other reason a former military tribune might turn up at the house dressed as a farm servant. ‘I hope I didn’t disappoint you. I was only dreaming.’

Pliny’s eyes took on a distant look. ‘Dreams can be most interesting. I like to try to interpret them, but I’ve never been particularly successful. I could try with yours if you’d allow me to?’

Valerius shook his head. ‘No, Pliny. I don’t think that would be very productive for either of us.’

‘Another time, then.’ Pliny took the rebuff cheerfully. ‘Fascinating, though, how the dream manifests itself in the physical reaction of the subject. Your hand, for instance, was twitching in a manner that I’ve only ever seen in one that had been cut off during a battle …’ He froze with a horrified stare at the stump of Valerius’s right wrist. ‘Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, my boy. I’d completely forgotten. You will never be able to forgive me, I’m sure. Please, if you can still bear my company, come inside.’

Valerius smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘If I was to make an enemy of everyone who forgot I left my hand in Britannia, Pliny, I wouldn’t have any friends left.’

Valerius knew he must choose his moment well. Pliny devoured time the way a lion devoured its prey. Always on the move, always thinking, always taking notes on the little wax tablets he kept in his sleeve. A man who habitually lived a few moments in the future and occasionally forgot he needed to deal with the concerns of the present. Despite the age difference, the two men had always got on well as a result of their shared experiences in the legions. Valerius had served in Britannia, and Pliny, who was fourteen years the elder, had commanded auxiliary units for a decade in Germany. By rights, Pliny should have been enjoying a profitable procuratorship in some faraway province, but the gossips said he preferred not to attract the attention of the unpredictable Nero. Instead, he’d busied himself with unspectacular cases in the basilica. Plainly, he’d decided to maintain a similar low profile during the short reigns of Galba and Otho. By the time Vitellius had taken the throne Pliny’s old friend Vespasian had already been hailed Emperor by his troops. Safer for the moment to stay at home with his library of several hundred books and his modest law practice.

‘What did you think of the treatise I sent you on the cavalry’s use of spears? I’m still not sure I’m right about the proper grip when closing with a mounted enemy.’

‘I could see nothing out of place, Pliny,’ Valerius assured him as they embraced. It had been more than two years and he was surprised the lawyer remembered. ‘Although I know a few Thracian cavalrymen who would dispute the priority you give to mounted archers.’

Pliny led the way through a maze of corridors. At first glance, the interior of the house was a mirror of Pliny’s mind: chaotic, cluttered, ungovernable and filled with pointless rubbish. But delve a little deeper and order might be discerned amongst the chaos. The scrolls piled three deep on a table in the reception area, for instance. Now that Valerius looked he could see each was labelled with its place of origin: Alexandria, Antioch, Athens and Atlantis. A bust of Aristotle weighed down one of the philosopher’s own works. Pliny saw his glance and beamed. ‘One of his lesser known pieces on zoology, and below it Zuma, for the African beasts. Ah,’ his eyes found another treasure, ‘I know you’ll find this interesting. Herodotus, a first edition, and Thucydides, a little battered but still serviceable. Do you still have your copy?’

Valerius shook his head with a smile. ‘No, I left it in Britannia.’ The truth was that it had burned with the rest of Colonia as he’d watched from the compound of the besieged Temple of Claudius.

‘One day I hope to read and catalogue them all; bring the whole world together: history, geography, botany, zoology and geology in one single book of many volumes.’ The lawyer sighed wistfully. ‘But sometimes it seems such an enormous undertaking.’

As they walked deeper into the house, Pliny showed off his treasures. ‘Of course, this place once belonged to the poet Pedo,’ he said proudly. He pointed to a faded wall painting of a fleet of ships on a dull blue strip that seemed to represent a river. ‘A depiction of your hero, Germanicus, on his way to the northern ocean. Pedo recorded the voyage in one of his works, though it wasn’t one of his best.’

Valerius picked up an oddly shaped piece of ivory, black with age, which lay haphazardly on top of a cabinet, but Pliny quickly retrieved it and placed it reverently back in position.

‘The horn of a monoceros, a quadruped which exists only in farthest India.’ He frowned. ‘For some reason our only examples have come from the ocean, in fishermen’s nets, or washed upon the shore, so perhaps they also have the capacity to breathe underwater?’

Skulls and skeletons, stuffed animals — some familiar, some outlandish — strangely shaped fish made of stone and the bones of some gigantic animal, greater even than the mighty elephant. And in pride of place an onyx box which Pliny opened reverently, but bade him not to touch for his life.

‘The basilisk of Cyrene,’ he whispered, revealing a shrivelled, snakelike creature about two feet in length and of obvious antiquity. ‘The most poisonous of all living things. Its very presence breaks the stones and sets the grasses afire, and it is so venomous that if you plunged a spear into its body you would likely die.’ In that case, Valerius wondered privately, how had it been killed? Pliny scented scepticism the way a rutting stag scents a ripe doe. ‘A weasel,’ he assured his guest. ‘Only the effluvium of a weasel can kill the dread basilisk, though it dies itself in the struggle.’

He stared into the middle distance for few moments and his brow furrowed as if he was placing himself in the position of the doomed mammal. When he finished, he turned to stare at Valerius with a look of mystified innocence. ‘I’ve quite forgotten why you are here.’

‘I didn’t say, Pliny. But I’ve been away from Rome for so long that I’m quite out of touch. I thought you might be able to tell me the lie of the land, as it were, socially … and politically.’

At the word ‘politically’ a stillness came over the lawyer reminiscent of the way a woodmouse hardly dares draw breath at the soft beat of an owl’s wings overhead. His eyes didn’t change, but his lips formed a little half-smile that Valerius sensed was entirely involuntary. Any more and you would have called it sly; instead it stayed just the right side of wary, but warned.

‘Oh, I don’t get invited out much,’ he said casually, ‘but socially, I believe, things are what might be called fraught. Before one can accept even the most innocent offer, one must first be aware of the make-up of the guest list, their relationship with one another and the host, and their, let us say, affiliations and interests. Too much of one thing and one might be accused of being in the wrong company, even, perhaps, of indulging in intrigue. Too much of the other and who knows where one might be in a few months. All possible hopes of advancement gone because one broke bread with the wrong person. Yet it can be equally perilous to refuse the wrong invitation. Spurned by one’s colleagues, treated with suspicion by one’s friends, and as for one’s enemies …’ He came to a stuttering halt with a glassy-eyed smile.

Valerius sensed that if he didn’t take the chance now the moment would be lost. ‘Titus Vespasian suggested I call on you, Pliny,’ he said gently. ‘And that was before he knew we were friends.’ The other man froze but Valerius hurried on. ‘I need to know what Vitellius is thinking. Who can he trust? Who is openly against him? Who will support him? And most important, who says they will support him, but will turn against him when the time is right? Do you think Vitellius can survive, Plinius?’

The lawyer blinked at the direct question and his face crumpled into a frown.

‘Politically, yes, in the short term, but his long-term survival will not be decided by politicians but by soldiers.’ His eyes turned accusing. ‘As you know better than I, Gaius Valerius Verrens, since I can guess whence you’ve come.’ Valerius didn’t deny it, but he held Pliny’s gaze until the lawyer continued. ‘Whom can he trust? His family and the Guard.’ He unwittingly confirmed what Valerius had been told at Fidenae. ‘More than any other Emperor I have known they are his Guard. I do not believe they can be bought, as so often in the past. They have invested too much in him to walk away. In some ways they are as responsible as he for what has happened, and they know that Vespasian’s advisers also know this. To resume: Vitellius has the support of the people. You will note, Valerius, that I say people and not mob. The support of the mob can be won by circuses; that of the people takes more. They would have been happy to have Vitellius as Emperor, and happy if he won this war quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible.’ Their eyes met and Pliny nodded acknowledgement of the unlikelihood of this outcome. ‘He has been sensible in his treatment of those he rules, and, despite all the sneers about his laziness, his administration has been efficient. Things are dealt with quickly and fairly. They may laugh at his girth and his appetite, but they can tolerate that, because he is harmless. Yes,’ Pliny said it as if understanding it for the first time, ‘he is harmless, and after Nero, Galba and Otho, they would exchange any hope of military glory for the right to sleep easy in their beds.’ He sighed. ‘I support Vespasian, Valerius, and count him as my friend, but I wish more than anything in this life that he had persuaded his legions to take the oath to Vitellius.’

He reached into his sleeve, retrieved his sheaf of wax writing tablets and stylus and began writing. ‘This is the make-up of the Senate as I understand it. One — a short list — for those who will support Vitellius to the last. A second for those already plotting against him: the majority.’ He looked up from beneath hooded eyes. ‘It is for your better understanding only. They will do nothing until Primus or Mucianus is knocking on the very gates of Rome. The only one who matters is Vespasian’s brother, Sabinus, because he controls the urban cohorts and the vigiles. If he acts and looks like winning, the Senate may vote to remove Vitellius for their own preservation. Who knows how the Guard and the mob will react then.’

‘Why does Vitellius not just arrest him?’ Valerius was puzzled. ‘He must still have half a dozen cohorts of Praetorians in the city.’

Pliny produced a thin smile. ‘Because he fears to provoke him. As long as Sabinus stays quiescent, Vitellius can feel safe. He is like the sleeping dog who lies in your way on a forest path. Do you try to walk quietly by, or do you risk prodding him with a stick and having his teeth in your arm?’ The sound of something large and sharp meeting meat and muscle echoed from another room in the house. Valerius’s scarred cheek twitched at the familiar sound and he saw Pliny wince. ‘The kitchen,’ the lawyer explained with a resigned sigh. ‘My loyal Tungrian guards have no notion of finesse. Half a boar and an open fire is the limit of their creativity.’

He handed Valerius the completed list and the one-handed tribune placed the sheaves in the pouch at his belt. ‘Can you suggest any way for me to contact Vitellius without others knowing?’

Pliny smiled sadly and patted him on the shoulder. ‘That, my dear friend, is something you will have to discover for yourself. But first,’ his nostrils twitched as he caught the pungent farmyard scent of Valerius’s ragged tunic, ‘a bath and some new clothes. You cannot wait upon the Emperor looking and smelling like some itinerant pig farmer.’