Sword of Rome

XI

Pride swelled the chest of Servius Sulpicius Galba as the acclamation of the crowd filled his ears. The Emperor-elect struggled to maintain his habitual grim expression. The fleshy lips jutted, his rheumy eyes narrowed like those of a warrior squinting into a blizzard, and his long, hooked nose was set at an angle that allowed him to see a hundred paces ahead, but not the flower petals strewn beneath his horse’s hooves. He wore a purple cloak and a general’s armour, the breastplate and the helmet with its horsehair crest gleaming with golden ornament. At his side hung a long soldier’s sword, because, even at seventy, that was how he saw himself. If he was stern it was because he had learned that sternness kept those he commanded at a proper distance. If he was unyielding it was because he believed being unyielding was the only way to ensure his soldiers’ obedience. He was not interested in their liking or their respect. All that mattered was that they obey.

It had been a long ride from Clunia, in the north of what had been his province, an almost impossible journey for a man of his years. For most of the thousand miles he had travelled in a sprung carriage, but he had been in the saddle often enough to impress his escort of auxiliary cavalry, now reinforced by the seven hundred Batavian troopers of the Imperial Guard. The Batavians had ridden from Rome to meet him three days earlier, while he rested at Falerii and accepted the fawning homage of the ambitious senators who had stirred themselves to greet him there. Yes, a long journey. One full of lessons for those who thought to oppose him. Painful, but satisfactory and salutary lessons. He had not been cruel. He was not a cruel man. He had not acted out of fear. No, he had acted decisively, as an Emperor should.

Other lessons were on his mind now. Nymphidius Sabinus had betrayed and attempted to usurp him, and had paid the price. But what of those who had supported and encouraged him? He had their names, from the same senators who thought to grovel their way into high and profitable office. Those senators would be disappointed. Servius Sulpicius Galba did not buy loyalty. Loyalty must be freely given or it was not loyalty at all. That was another lesson to be learned.

As he rode this final stretch of road, with the cheers of his subjects ringing in his ears, he felt an unlikely and unusual lightening of the spirit. Since crossing the border into Italia he had been beset by a persistent and irrational horror that it would all be taken away from him before he could reach Rome. And now Rome was in sight. A blur of smoke on the horizon. He was here. After all the long years and long miles he had at last reached the pinnacle of his career. It was a pinnacle he had not sought, but when it had come within his reach he had stretched out for it with all the vigour of a much younger man. Rome was his. And not just Rome. The Empire. Nero had brought the world’s greatest power to the brink of ruin. The Empire’s coffers were empty. Somehow they must be refilled, and Servius Sulpicius Galba was the man to fill them. Had he not made a fortune that was the envy of other men, and that after being cheated of his rightful inheritance by Tiberius, of pestilential memory? He would begin by discovering the whereabouts of the money Nero had squandered. And then he would recover it. Naturally, those who had received it would complain, but by the very fact that they had received it they were Nero’s men, and guilty by association.

Until now the cheering had been set at a certain pitch, dictated by the preponderance of women and children among the crowd, but now it altered to a deep bass rumble. He had been aware of a shadow ahead and to his left, between the road and the Tiber, and now the shadow resolved itself into ranks of men. His first thought was that someone had disobeyed his order and paraded the Guard. They should not be here; they were needed to ensure the city was safe for his arrival. But where were the gaily coloured standards and the bright flashes from armour polished to a mirror shine? No legion ever paraded in so unsoldierly a fashion. None was so poorly equipped. The men he could see were bareheaded and ragged. At last, he recognized the blue tunics among them and with a grunt of irritation realized they must be the naval militia he had been informed about in Falerii. An annoyance and an irrelevance, to be disbanded and sent back to their rowing benches in his own time. He felt his heart stutter. Were they a threat? No, by Jupiter they were not, because if they thought to threaten their Caesar he would decorate the roads with them from here to Neapolis in a display that would make Crassus proud.

The road narrowed as it reached the bridge and he would have passed them by without a glance, but a small group of men pushed their way past the guards into the space ahead of him. His first instinct was to have his bodyguard sweep them aside, but the sense of anticipation in the hundreds — thousands? — who waited in their ranks to his right somehow pierced the thick carapace of his patrician dignity, and he waved his guards back and drew to a halt.

Milo’s legs threatened to give way as he looked up at the magnificent figure on the white horse. He had not wanted to be the seamen’s leader, but his natural authority had set him apart and he had been driven on by other men’s flattery and zeal. Those men were now standing safe among their shipmates and he wished that Poseidon would whisk him back to them. But Milo had led boarding parties and battled pirates and he had a responsibility and he had a just cause. He produced his smartest salute.

‘Hail, mighty Caesar. Tiberius Milo and the first naval detachment salute and greet you.’

He didn’t notice Galba’s twitch at the name Tiberius. The Emperor continued to look down on him as if he were some strange animal encountered on a mountain path; a rodent with two tails, or a bizarrely patterned snake. Milo took his silence as leave to continue.

‘We, the men of the first naval detachment, are here to seek confirmation of the rights and privileges granted to us by your predecessor, Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar.’ Another twitch, almost a flinch, and this time Milo did notice. His speech slowed and became hesitant. The words that had sounded so fine when he had memorized them seemed hollow and weak out here on the road. ‘Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar,’ he repeated nervously, ‘who called us from our barracks and our galleys at Misenum and bade us take arms and fight — for Rome.’

His comrades sensed his nervousness and shouts of encouragement came from beyond the line of Praetorians protecting the road. ‘You tell him, Milo!’ ‘We want what we were promised!’ ‘Let us fight!’

For the first time, Galba acknowledged the presence of the men by the road with a long look of aristocratic disdain. When his gaze returned to Milo and the five men accompanying him his expression had changed to one of curiosity. First and foremost, Servius Sulpicius Galba was a lawyer; his zeal for fairness and justice, if it had ever existed, was long gone, but he still had a zeal for the facts that would determine the outcome of any case.

‘And what are these right and privileges you speak of?’

Milo swallowed, but when he spoke his voice was strong and it carried to the men he had brought here. ‘The right to march behind an eagle as a properly constituted legion of the Empire. The right to bear arms as legionaries of the Roman state. The right to Roman citizenship at the end of enlistment; that enlistment to be twenty-five years and its start date determined by the date of signing up to the recruit’s first ship. The right to the full pay, privileges and conditions of a legionary soldier at current rank held.’ Each sentence was greeted by roars of approval that swelled in volume. ‘The right to a pension and a grant of land at completion of service.’

Galba seemed unaware of the silence that followed and it stretched out until it became almost unbearable. Slowly, the shouting began again, but as it built in power the Emperor raised his hand for quiet.

‘These rights you speak of are indeed the universal rights of a legionary, and it is correct that any man who fights behind an eagle standard is entitled to them …’

‘Aye.’ A huge shout went up and Milo grinned as he tasted the first fruits of victory. But beneath the rim of his gilded helmet Galba’s eyes contained a lawyer’s sly glint.

‘Yet,’ he affected puzzlement, ‘did I not hear you say “granted”?’

‘The Emperor Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar …’

‘Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar is no longer Emperor, but I will forgive you that.’

‘… paraded us before him and pledged that we would be a legion.’

‘But he did not make you a legion,’ Galba pointed out, his tone that of a father gently lecturing a five-year-old child. ‘I see no eagle, no cohort standards, none of the trappings of a legion. Perhaps it was intended that they should be granted, and if they had been granted I would confirm them, but it is clear to me that they have not. Am I to be bound by the whims of my predecessor?’ He turned his mount so he was facing the men behind the Praetorian line and raised his voice. ‘I must have more time to consider your position. The Empire awaits my decision on many matters of great import. Would you place yourselves before the feeding of our people, the restoration of our finances, the enormous backlog of decisions that require so much consideration? Of course not.’ The Emperor shook his head at the unlikelihood of such a thing. ‘When my predecessor called upon you he was not of sound mind. In his delusion he believed we were an Empire at war, when the truth was that his acts might have caused one. Does the Empire need another legion when my ambition is for peace and stability? Can it afford another legion when it has so many other priorities for its resources? All these things your Emperor will consider in time. You must form up and march back to your barracks at Misenum.’ Satisfied he had dealt with the situation, he turned his mount and walked it past the perplexed Milo and his fellow negotiators.

But he had underestimated the determination of the sailors and marines. At first there was a shocked silence, but soon the shouting started again. ‘No!’ ‘Give us our standards!’ ‘Let us fight for Rome!’ ‘Give us our eagle!’ Galba didn’t even look in their direction. He had denied them their wish to be a legion, yet in his mind they were just that, with a legion’s discipline that would keep them in place as he passed. But they were not a legion. The marines would have stood, but the oarsmen surged forward past their leaders and through the thin line of Praetorians who were too greatly outnumbered to stop them. They surrounded the first troop of cavalry, calling out and jostling, the shouts soon distilling down to a single chant: ‘Give us our eagle!’

Trapped in the crowd, Valerius found himself swept along with them. He looked desperately for Serpentius and the horses, but the Spaniard was nowhere to be seen above the sea of heads. His eye was drawn north, to where the Emperor sat, unable to move in the midst of his escort, his stony face as purple as his cloak. He knew that behind Galba the backed-up units would be wondering what was happening; he could almost feel the hands of the cavalry troopers tightening on their spears and their sword hilts.

Still, the situation could have been resolved. He could see Milo moving among the men, trying to push them back away from the road, and there were others, Juva among them, urgently talking and reasoning. Valerius did the same, trying to herd away men who could never have told you why they had surged on to that road, except that they had followed everyone else. Even so, Valerius knew they were one wrong word away from a riot.

‘Betrayed!’

The cry from Clodius froze Valerius’s blood and there was a moment’s silence before it was taken up by first one voice, then another, until that single word drowned out all others. Clodius brandished his sword above the crowd and it was joined by several others.

‘No!’ Valerius tried to fight his way towards the blade, but even as he tore at the sailors between, he saw more bright flashes above the crowd and heard shouts of alarm from the nearest Imperial cavalrymen. Panic rippled through the protesting sailors the way a summer breeze touches every bent head of a ripened field of wheat.

Clodius was almost within reach. It was as if Nymphidius had reached out from the grave to put a torch to the tinder-dry foundations of the Empire and Valerius tried to puzzle why. Well, he would know soon enough. He reached out for the doorman’s raised arm.

Like the stoop of a swooping eagle, something dark clouded the very corner of his vision. Before his mind could even evaluate it as a threat, his head seemed to explode and his vision starred into a thousand vibrant colours before his world went dark.