Sword of Rome

X

October, AD 68

It was the thunder season and a storm was coming. Still, half of Rome had turned out to line the Via Flaminia and welcome their new Emperor. Valerius rode with Serpentius as far as the Milvian Bridge, which spanned the Tiber a mile beyond the great tomb Augustus had built to house his family. Since he wasn’t part of any formal celebrations he’d decided against the toga that might have been expected of him, instead wearing a simple belted tunic with the stripe of his rank, and a finespun woollen cloak. He was surprised to see hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men milling about beyond the bridge and being kept from the road by a wary line of Praetorians. Among the figures hemmed in on the loop of dry ground between the road and the river, he noted the distinctive blue tunics of the marines of the Misenum fleet. The area was pockmarked with makeshift tents of cloth and leather that indicated they’d been waiting overnight, or longer. Curious, he talked the soldiers on guard into allowing him over the narrow bridge. He recognized the commander of the Praetorians as Helius, one of the escort Tigellinus had provided on the night Nero died.

‘When is the Emperor expected?’

Helius gave a shrug of irritation. ‘No one knows. He should have reached the bridge two hours ago. They’re getting restless.’ He nodded towards the group of seamen.

‘Why are they here?’

‘To force the Emperor to confirm them as a legion. They’ve a long list of demands.’

‘Demands?’ Valerius didn’t hide his disbelief. ‘You don’t demand anything from an Emperor. You get down on your knees and plead.’

A wry smile touched the other man’s lips. ‘I know that, but I’m not sure they do.’

Valerius searched the road ahead for the glint of sun on the gleaming armour of the Imperial escort that would signal Galba was close, but he could see nothing. There was still time. He made his decision. ‘May I talk to them?’

Helius hesitated before giving his consent. ‘At your own risk, but I doubt they’ll listen. A lot of them have been drinking since dawn.’

‘I’ll take the chance. Stay here,’ he told Serpentius. ‘Just this once I think it would be riskier with you than without.’ He unbuckled his sword and handed it to the Spaniard, who gave a snort of disgust. Valerius shook his head. ‘I’m going to talk, not fight. I don’t see any weapons, so I should be safe enough.’

He rode along the line of Praetorians until he saw a familiar bulky figure towering over the men who surrounded him.

‘Juva!’ The big Nubian turned at the shout. He was with the group of oarsmen from the tavern and they eyed Valerius with suspicion. The Roman dismounted and handed the reins to one of the guards before forcing his way through the hard-eyed sailors until he reached the crew of the Waverider.

Juva’s nostrils flared and anger seemed to make him grow even larger. His eyes took in the expensive cloak, and the striped tunic and gold-linked belt beneath it. ‘So the simple workman is an eater of larks’ tongues and buggerer of little boys? Our friend in the tavern was a rich man in a poor man’s clothes. I was right, Roman, you are a spy. We have no piss barrel to drown you in here, but the river is handy. Perhaps we should tie you in a sack and throw you in. I am sure we can find a cock and a dog. We already have the rat.’

Valerius ignored the threat and allowed his gaze to range over the mass of waiting sailors and marines. His instinct told him they would make good soldiers and he felt an affection for their kind he could scarcely explain. They were the type of men he’d served beside and commanded in Britannia, Africa and Armenia: hard, sometimes cruel, and always cynical, who’d cut a throat without blinking an eye, but would share their last crust or sip of wine with the man next to them the night before a battle. ‘Why would you want to drown me when I am here to help you?’ he said reasonably. ‘Look at you. Do you think the Emperor will speak to a rabble? At least try to look like soldiers and have your officers form you into your centuries and show him some of that pride you boasted of.’

‘We have no officers.’ The speaker was the man whose nose Serpentius had broken. ‘The cowards would not come. They do not deserve to lead men like us. We’ll elect our own officers when we have our eagle.’

This laughable concept made Valerius blink. ‘What makes you think the Emperor will even speak to you? Why should he do anything for men who volunteered to fight against him?’ He turned to Juva. ‘You would be doing them a service if you took these men back to the city. Better to wait until the Emperor has been acclaimed and had a chance to address the Senate.’

Juva shook his head. ‘Lucca is right. There are better men here than the officers they assigned us. Florus there,’ he indicated a grinning, buffalo-shouldered youth in the blue tunic of the marines, ‘has killed five men in single combat and is not yet nineteen. Glico,’ a stern-faced older man with lank grey hair and dead eyes nodded, ‘took command when we burned out a pirates’ nest on the Carthaginian coast, after the marine centurion was killed.’ Juva’s words confirmed Valerius’s initial evaluation. These men were born fighters who had survived and prospered in a hard service. Yet they all deferred to the Nubian, who continued: ‘We did not volunteer to fight against Galba. We volunteered to fight for Rome. In any case, it is too late to turn back now. It would look as if we were running away and this legion does not retreat.’

‘Then you are a fool and no soldier,’ Valerius told him. ‘Or you would know that a tactical retreat can sometimes be the making of a victory.’ The big man’s eyes smouldered, but he seemed to see sense in the advice. Valerius continued: ‘If you have no officers, who does lead you?’

‘Come with me,’ the Nubian said.

‘Gaius Valerius Verrens.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ The man sitting on a stool in front of one of the tents wore a blue tunic and the insignia that identified him as a centurion of marines. He waited for an answer, but Valerius was happy to let his obvious status and natural authority answer for him. Eventually, the disease-pocked face creased in a thin smile. ‘Tiberius Milo, third century first naval detachment.’

‘Juva tells me you lead these men?’

The marine shot the big Nubian a wary glance. ‘Someone has to. We’ve been waiting for months for this, scavenging what rations we could, more vagabonds than soldiers.’ He drew himself up and pride swelled his voice, which was that of an educated man and came as a surprise, emerging as it did from a mouth with a single blackened tooth. ‘We were promised we would be constituted a legion not just by Nero, the man, but by the Emperor of Rome. All we want is for the new Emperor to honour that promise and give us the rights and privileges any legion can expect. We want a legion’s pay and a legion’s weapons and when we’re not on campaign we want to sleep in a legion’s barracks, not on the streets.’

‘Then I suggest you start acting like a legion.’

The brutal certainty in Valerius’s voice made Milo flinch as if he had been struck a blow. ‘Do you speak for the Emperor?’

Valerius stepped closer, keeping his voice low and ignoring the threatening presence of the men who had appointed themselves the marine’s bodyguard. ‘No, but I speak as a soldier who knows this Emperor.’ He repeated the argument he’d already used to sway Juva. ‘If he negotiates at all, he will not negotiate with a rabble. Line your men up in their centuries and their cohorts, get rid of the drunks and the camp followers. If you have the opportunity, tell him what you were promised and ask him to consider it. If you issue ultimatums, he will not even look at you. Treat him with courtesy, because he is an old-fashioned man who demands it. If you do, he will treat you in the same way. He may ask for time to consider his decision, but that is his right and you would do well not to question it.’

Milo’s eyes drifted from the scarred face to the artificial hand. Eventually, he nodded. ‘Very well-’ His eyes widened as a distant roar cut him off in mid-sentence. Without another word, he charged into the nearest clumps of men, dragging them into some kind of formation and shouting garbled orders. ‘Form up. Get the men into their sections. Come on, you bastards. If you want to be a legion, start looking like one.’

Valerius shook his head at the chaos around him. He found Juva staring at him.

‘Will he accept us?’

The answer was no. Servius Sulpicius Galba would look at these men and see them as what they were, an untrained mob, a hindrance in his procession towards the Empire’s greatest honour. And that was how he would treat them. If they were fortunate, he would consider their case — at his convenience, not theirs. It could take months. But that wasn’t what Juva wanted to hear. ‘If the gods are with you.’

The big man nodded. It was enough. As the Nubian ran back to his men, Valerius pushed his way back towards the Praetorian line. He was halfway there when he discovered the gods were laughing at them all.

The first sign of trouble was men in civilian clothing wandering among the newly formed sections whispering to one man and then another. At first he thought they must be encouraging the marines to straighten up or stay in line, but something on their faces bothered him: a combination of slyness and barely suppressed excitement. The feeling was reinforced when he saw a figure he recognized moving among a nearby cohort. It was Clodius, Nymphidius Sabinus’s doorman.

‘You! What are you doing?’

Clodius turned with a dangerous light in his eyes. ‘What the fuck is it to you?’ At first there was no recognition of the workman who had visited Nymphidius in the commanding figure wearing a rich man’s clothes, but there came a moment when the eyes changed and Clodius’s hand slipped to his waist. Valerius felt a thrill of alarm when he realized the other man wore a short sword beneath his cloak. What was going on?

The only way to find out was to ask and he started forward. Clodius saw his approach and drew his blade, but his expression faded from belligerence to confusion when he realized his opponent wasn’t going to be checked by the sight of gleaming iron.

A peal of thunder cracked somewhere to the south and for a fleeting moment Valerius was reminded of the night Nero had died. Then a new noise began to shake the air. The sound of raucous cheering.

Galba was coming.