Enemy of Rome

XXXVIII

‘If you have come here looking for employment in the urban cohorts you should know that whatever your merits I could never accept a cripple into their ranks.’

Titus Flavius Sabinus’s sneering reference to Valerius’s empty sleeve implied that a mutilated veteran’s place was with his fellows begging in the alleyways off the Forum and only served to increase his dislike of the man. Sabinus didn’t even have the manners to offer his guest a seat on one of the couches that shared the narrow room with painted busts of Sabinus’s ancestors. Valerius found it difficult to believe this pompous, pot-bellied windbag could be Vespasian’s brother and Titus’s uncle.

‘I merely told your doorman that I requested an interview with the Prefect of Rome.’ He kept his tone solicitous, but just the right side of subservient. ‘He was reluctant to allow me entry, but when I told him I’d served with you in Britannia and showed him my arm, he relented.’

The patrician eyed him suspiciously. ‘I know every officer who served with me in the Fourteenth and you’re not one of them.’

Valerius reached into the voluminous folds of his toga. For a moment Sabinus’s face dissolved in alarm. He opened his mouth to call for aid only to close it like a wolf trap when he recognized what the intruder held in his left hand.

‘Petilius Cerialis gave me this less than a week ago.’ Valerius held out the object, a distinctive golden charm the former legate of the Ninth had worn at his neck. ‘My lie was a small one, and in a good cause. I was with the Twentieth when I lost this.’ Sabinus flinched as he bared the mottled purple stump. ‘Sometimes it is allowable to do a small wrong if it leads to a greater good, don’t you think?’

The prefect’s eyes clung to the gilded bauble as if he were hypnotized. Valerius knew what he was thinking. It was all very well to plot and conspire, but the true leaders came to the fore when the time came to act. Judging by the paralysis that gripped him now, Titus Flavius Sabinus had spent many a long night sweating in his bed praying this moment would never come. His reaction confirmed the opinions of both Primus and Vitellius, and Valerius wondered that the one could place his faith in Sabinus and the other fear him. It was his brother, of course, the brooding power of Vespasian waiting patiently in the East while his legions marched on Rome. But it would take a man of decision to do what Valerius needed Sabinus to do. The fate of thousands depended on the patrician’s fortitude. Was he capable of it? The washed-out eyes shifted and he found himself staring into the soul of Titus Flavius Sabinus. All he saw was doubt.

‘I come directly from the Emperor.’ He kept his tone deliberately dispassionate — a man discussing the price of a new horse — and as detached from the import of the words as he could make it. Still Sabinus’s eyes widened at the use of the title and widened further at what followed. ‘He is willing to give up the throne, but only on receipt of certain guarantees and assurances. Once he has them he will place himself and his family under your protection. He has asked me to arrange a meeting, on neutral ground, so you may judge his good faith and he yours.’

‘Faith?’ Sabinus exploded. ‘That arrogant tub of lard has the insolence to question my faith after months of scheming to have me killed, poisoned as he poisoned his own son? Hemlock in my wine and my taster on his deathbed for three weeks after eating contaminated oysters.’ Valerius had a feeling that if Vitellius had wanted Sabinus dead, the current conversation would be much more one-sided, but he kept the thought to himself. The Prefect of Rome eventually collected himself enough to ask what ‘guarantees and assurances’ Vitellius demanded.

Valerius outlined them one by one, watching the other man’s face turn redder and awaiting the inevitable reaction.

‘Jupiter’s bollocks.’ Sabinus struggled breathlessly to his feet and began to pace the floor. ‘I might as well cut my head off for him. His Praetorians have done nothing but try to provoke my cohorts and vigiles into causing some kind of incident. I’ve kept them off the streets, all but my personal guard, and still they are taunted and spat on by Vitellius’s preening peacocks, the leavings of the Rhenus legions. Now I am to tell him where to find them, who leads them and how they will deploy? Why don’t I just have them march up to the Castra Praetorium and hand in their swords and save him the trouble? And not content with my head, he must have those of my friends in the Senate. I would rather oil the crack in his blubbery arse than give him what he wants. You ask too much.’

Valerius held his gaze. ‘It is not I who asks, prefect, but your brother.’

Sabinus stopped as if he’d been hit by a sling pellet. ‘I …’ A choking sound emerged from his throat. ‘I could have you whipped for such insolence.’

‘Not insolence, sir, but the truth. End this war without further bloodshed and Vespasian will raise you up above all others. Only you have the forces within the city walls to protect Vitellius. If he surrenders, he will surrender to you and no other. He is finished and he knows it, but he must be able to end it with honour and he must be certain you can protect his family. Succeed in this and history will remember the name Sabinus alongside that of Vespasian. Fail …’ He shrugged. ‘Let us not think of failure. Whatever you do, you must not turn Vitellius away.’

Sabinus listened with his hand over his mouth as if he couldn’t trust his tongue. Eventually, the hand fell away. ‘Leave me now,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘I must think on this.’ He waved absently towards the window terrace and with a last frustrated glance Valerius stepped out into the gardens.

He walked through the dripping apple and pear trees towards the long balcony where he could look out towards the Palatine. Below him, tight-packed buildings clung to the slope divided by narrow, claustrophobic streets with only the foliage of an occasional tree to offset the sea of ochre-tiled roofs. But it was the Domus Aurea and its sprawling complex of gardens and lakes dominating the vista to his left that drew his eye. Behind that glowing golden façade Aulus Vitellius waited, balanced on a sword edge between life and death, teetering on the highest point of a precipice with his enemies crowding at his back and his family clinging in terror to his skirts. Few men had suffered more from the ravages caused by Vitellius’s ambition than Gaius Valerius Verrens, yet standing here he felt nothing but pity for his old friend. From the moment he had been proclaimed Emperor Vitellius had had as little say in his destiny as the Celtic war chief Caratacus, brought to the city in chains by Claudius to commemorate the subjugation of Britannia …

‘Valerius?’

He wondered, at first, if the whisper came from inside his head and he didn’t dare turn in case he’d imagined it. An inner heat spread through him as if a hot spring had been tapped somewhere at his core. That voice. He swivelled and the breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. She stood less than four paces away, still slim and delicate as an desert antelope, beyond beautiful in a stola of rich aquamarine with a mantle of the same covering hair of lustrous chestnut that fell to her shoulders in ringlets. Yet his first thought was that Domitia Longina Corbulo’s eyes had lost their vitality in a way that reminded him of the dark days after her father had died. A hundred questions filled his head, but only one mattered. Did she still love him? He moved towards her and would have taken her in his arms, but for the hissed warning.

‘No, Valerius. We must not be seen together.’ She took control. ‘Two old acquaintances have met by accident, nothing more … for now.’

The ‘for now’ made his heart race, but he kept his distance though every fibre drew him to her. ‘You are well, my lady?’

For answer she glanced across her shoulder towards the house. ‘They said you were dead. I felt as if I were torn in two. If you had come earlier …’

‘I was …’ What was the point of explaining? ‘You must come away with me.’

Domitia’s eyes filled with a hope that faded as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I … cannot. He would never rest until he found us …’

‘Sabinus?’

‘No, Do- Valerius!’

He was turning even before she completed the warning. A blurred figure raced between the trees and Valerius saw the flash of the blade swinging to rip at his belly. He blocked the thrust with his left arm, but his attacker was quick. A bolt of red hot agony shot through Valerius as the knife reversed and the point scored the bone of his wrist. But the pain only spurred him. Roaring with fury he used the momentum of the block to spin in a low crouch, ramming an elbow into the softness of his assailant’s lower stomach. The blow drew an ‘oomph’ of expelled air and won him a heartbeat to whirl clear as the knife point swept round again, seeking his kidneys. It was only then that he recognized his attacker.

‘You?’ But Titus Flavius Domitianus had already resumed his attack. Hatred burned in the pale eyes and the knife hooked up towards Valerius’s vitals. This time the Roman had no chance to block, but he’d been gladiator-trained by Serpentius and he reacted on pure instinct. He dodged left, sideslipping the blade and hammering his left fist at Domitianus’s head as he swept past. The blow was aimed at the point of jaw and ear. If it had connected, the combination of fragile bones and some inner weakness would have stunned his attacker long enough to be disarmed. Instead, he struck a little high. The shock ran up his arm and Domitianus cried out as the impact made his skull ring. When he had time to think, Valerius could barely believe what was happening. He’d always dismissed Titus’s brother as a coward who would only attack a man if his back was turned. Yet the man who came at him again was an entirely different animal, driven beyond fear by a primeval urge for revenge. Shrugging off the blow with a shake of the head, Domitianus darted in, feinting right and left and seeking a killing opportunity. Somehow, Valerius always managed to drift outside the reach of the curved blade, but he knew quick feet couldn’t keep him out of trouble indefinitely.

‘This is madness, boy,’ he warned. ‘I’m here on your father’s business. Together we can stop this war.’

But Domitianus was beyond hearing or reason. With a sinking heart Valerius knew he might have no choice but to kill Vespasian’s son.

Domitia had been shocked into silence by the initial assault. Recovering her wits, she opened her mouth to scream for help only for Domitianus to fell her with a backhanded swing that smashed into the side of her skull.

Valerius saw her fall and felt a roaring in his head. All thought of the knife forgotten, he charged the other man. His rush battered Domitianus to the ground and Valerius threw himself on the young aristocrat, clawing at his throat with his left hand. Vespasian’s son retaliated with a panicked slash at his eyes, and only a lightning movement allowed Valerius to switch his grip to the younger man’s right wrist. With the wooden fist in place he could have battered his opponent into a featureless pulp, but Domitianus was left free to scrabble for Valerius’s windpipe. As they rolled and bucked Valerius forced the knife point aside and smashed his forehead into Domitianus’s face. The satisfying crunch of broken cartilage and the flood of blood brought a surge of exhilaration. Domitianus continued to curse and claw at his eyes, but Valerius knew he had him. His left hand, strengthened by countless hours of sword practice, worked at the younger man’s wrist until he could feel the bones rubbing together. Eventually Domitianus could take the pain no longer and with a cry of frustration he let the knife drop free and tried to wriggle away. Valerius held his grip and pushed himself to his feet, hauling Vespasian’s son with him.

All the madness was gone now and he felt nothing but cold hatred. Domitianus whimpered in terror as Valerius dragged him past a recovering Domitia to the balcony. ‘This is Rome,’ Valerius’s voice was as cold as an Iceni winter. ‘Take a good look at it. In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, it will be your father’s. But you,’ in one movement he turned Domitianus and switched his grip to the throat, pushing him so the stone balcony was stabbing into his back, ‘will not live to see his triumph.’

‘No, please …’

Valerius looked down to where a sow suckled a dozen piglets in a pen forty feet below. He nodded and slowly pushed Domitianus back until his legs were in the air. ‘How appropriate for a pig like you.’ He smiled and Domitianus shrieked as he saw his certain death in another man’s eyes.

‘No! Please, no.’ Had the cry been from Sabinus, Domitianus would not have seen another dawn, but it was Domitia who shouted. ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens is not a murderer.’

Valerius closed his eyes and released a long breath. All the anger drained from him like wine from a cracked amphora. With a grunt of frustration he hauled Domitianus back from the brink and threw him to the ground. He looked from the fallen man to Domitia, at the thin line of blood leaking from the corner of her lip. ‘Very well,’ he said, in a voice still touched by death, ‘but if you ever touch the lady Domitia again I will hunt you down and kill you, Vespasian’s son and Titus’s brother or no. Do you understand?’ He nudged the prone figure with his foot. ‘I said do you understand?’ Domitianus mumbled something, and Valerius would have asked again, but Domitia gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘I have decided.’ Titus Flavius Sabinus appeared without warning from amongst his apple trees, where he’d watched the whole contest. He looked down at his nephew with a disgusted shake of the head and turned to Valerius. ‘I will meet Vitellius.’