Enemy of Rome

XLVI

The Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus burned throughout the night, a terrifying beacon filled with apocalyptic portent for every Roman who witnessed the funeral pyre of Sabinus’s hopes.

As Vitellius’s Praetorians hunted down rebel survivors by the light of the flames Valerius led Domitia to a little temple dedicated to Fortuna Primigenia, left undamaged by the fighting. Serpentius guarded the door and they sat with their backs to the wall to wait out the threat. At first, they sat a little apart, but after a few moments Domitia shifted so her body touched his and her head lay lightly on his shoulder. Instinctively, he put his left arm around her and brought her close. She sighed, and he knew that despite all she’d suffered and witnessed she was smiling. The rhythm of her breathing and the steady beat of her heart merged with his, but it was the softness of her, and the curves and hollows that he remembered so well. The combination acted as a kind of elixir, sweeping away the blood and fire and terror of the long day. Something stirred inside him, and she must have felt it, because she raised her head to kiss him, first on the cheek and then on the lips, soft, then more urgent, so that his mind dissolved. For a few short moments there was no temple, no Capitol and no Rome. They were back on the Egyptian beach and she was in his arms beneath the cloak, moving softly with him in an act so natural he sometimes wondered if he’d dreamt it.

‘What will become of us now, Valerius?’

He — they — must have fallen asleep, because the words woke him with a start and they were accompanied by a delicate yawn. He had been dreading the question, but his mind must have been gnawing at it, because he didn’t have to think to know the answer. An answer that was no answer at all. Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome, sole survivor of the Temple of Claudius, and commander of legions, had as much control over his future as a piece of swan’s down caught by a gust of wind. Events had brought him here. Events to which he’d reacted, or events in which his actions had been dictated by others. From the day Titus had saved him from the executioner’s sword his own will had meant nothing. No, from the day almost two years earlier when Vespasian had summoned him to take the message to Galba. Since that day he had given his oath to two Emperors and pledged it to a third. Strange that the man who held his fate and Domitia’s in his chubby, bejewelled hand should be the only man he had wanted to give his oath to, and, perhaps, the only one who deserved it.

‘We will go to the palace and seek the help of the Emperor,’ he said eventually.

‘That is not what I meant, Valerius.’ She said it gently, knowing perfectly well he understood.

‘When this is settled we will live on the estate at Fidenae where I was born,’ he tried again. ‘My sister is there now, but it is big enough and has sufficient water to accommodate two villas. We will plan the second together. I know the very place, down by the river among the trees, but sheltered and with a fine southern aspect. A small quarry for the marble, with slaves from Carrara to do the fine work. Big windows and room for the children to play.’

She allowed him his dream, waiting patiently before she spoke again. ‘He will come for me, Valerius. For us. If he survives, he will be the Emperor’s son, with power over life and death.’

‘If he survives.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then he must not survive.’

Serpentius came to them an hour later and announced that the only troops remaining on the Capitol were either dead or guarding the temples that had survived the battle and the fires. They emerged into the soft, silvery light that is the prelude to dawn.

‘Best not to take the Clivus,’ the Spaniard proposed. ‘The road is scattered with those foul little four-legged spikes we used against the Parthians, and the gods only know what else will be down there.’

Instead, they hurried across the asylum towards the Arx and the Temple of Juno Moneta, avoiding the areas where the worst of the fighting had taken place. They saw a light across a courtyard where someone had helpfully placed a lamp. As they came closer, Valerius realized that it was the first of a series and suddenly, with a feeling of terrible dread, he knew where he was.

‘Perhaps we should find another way,’ he suggested. But the reaction to Domitia’s ordeal had finally set in and she was almost staggering from a combination of exhaustion and everything she’d experienced the previous day. It was clear that if they didn’t take the quickest route they’d have to carry her. Serpentius shot him a puzzled look, but Valerius only shrugged and continued in the direction of the light, feeling like a moth drawn unwittingly to certain immolation. They reached the head of a steep stairway barely wide enough to accommodate the three of them. Valerius had his left arm around Domitia, who walked almost as if she was in a dream, her feet barely touching the ground. As they descended she staggered, almost bringing him down with her, and Serpentius had to grab her arm to steady her. A moment later they noticed something lying in their path.

‘You were right,’ Serpentius said through gritted teeth.

Valerius nodded and steered Domitia towards the wall. ‘These are the Gemonian Stairs.’

They tiptoed through the scattered remains of a human being. A hand, still wearing a silver ring that Valerius thought he recognized, a foot with three toes missing, an upper arm, and a chunk of hacked-off thigh. Eventually a bulky obstruction, like the cushions of a cast-off couch, partially blocked their progress and they were forced to step gingerly past a headless, mutilated torso with the thick grey hairs of age on its chest.

‘Anyone we know?’ Serpentius tried to make a joke of the horror.

‘It’s difficult to be certain without the head,’ Valerius said, ‘but I think we’ve just said farewell to the shade of Titus Flavius Sabinus.’

The Spaniard turned to stare at him. ‘Shit.’

Domitia sensed their disquiet and stirred between them. ‘What’s happening?’ she mumbled.

‘It’s nothing,’ Valerius assured her. Nothing but the certainty of more death, more iron and more fire. He had a vision of Cremona and the mutilated corpses stacked high in the Forum. He’d thought the burning of the Temple of Jupiter marked the end of Rome’s suffering. It turned out to be only the beginning.