Sword of Rome

XIII

Two weeks after Galba’s bloody entry into Rome Valerius stood in the atrium of the luxurious villa Marcus Salvius Otho had allocated himself. Only his host’s intervention had saved him from facing the same charges as the marine legion. Now he listened in growing disbelief as Otho outlined the punishment Galba had devised for the survivors of the massacre at the Milvian Bridge.

‘Decimation.’

For a moment the word shocked Valerius into silence. Surely it wasn’t possible? ‘But no legion has suffered decimation since the time of Crassus, and none for two hundred years before that. In the name of Mars, even Caligula didn’t order decimation when the Rhenus legions threatened to rebel. The head of Gaetulicus was enough for him. The Emperor should know that, since he was the man Caligula sent to take it.’

‘Yet there is a certain logic.’ Silhouetted against the window with his back to his guest, Marcus Salvius Otho shrugged. ‘Our Emperor is an old-fashioned man and he has resolved upon an old-fashioned punishment for an old-fashioned crime. He wished to include you among the ringleaders of the mutiny. It took all my charm and diplomacy to persuade him otherwise.’

Valerius waited to discover the price for this unlikely munificence, but Otho continued to stare from the villa window out towards the marbled bulk of the Palatine. The injustice of it — no, it was more than injustice, it was madness — drove Valerius to impotent rage. Decimation meant that one man in every ten, regardless of service or worth, would be drawn by lot, taken out and slaughtered. ‘There was no mutiny. There were misunderstandings, there were mistakes, someone,’ the fury in his voice made the other man turn, ‘panicked. Those men went to the Milvian Bridge to give Servius Sulpicius Galba their oath of allegiance. To prove their loyalty. Now a hundred of them are dead, two hundred more are wounded and our Emperor wants to slaughter another five hundred. To make a point? It is beyond stupidity. It is insane.’

‘I suggest you guard your tongue, Valerius,’ Otho said lightly. ‘It is fortunate you are among friends.’ Valerius shot him the look this vacuity deserved and the other man acknowledged it with a wry smile. Having Otho for a friend would be like having a cobra for a house guest; always interesting, but ultimately fatal. ‘In any case, why should you care for a few thousand of Poseidon’s playmates who could just as easily be killed in a freak storm the next time they sail? They were foolish to volunteer to fight for a madman like Nero and more foolish still to risk the wrath of a man well known to have a spatha for a spine.’

Indeed, why did he care? Juva had saved his life, but it was more than that. ‘Because they are men who volunteered to fight for Rome.’ He stared at the patterned marble floor, which with its depiction of gods and monsters and frolicking centaurs reminded him of the absurdity of what had happened by the Tiber. ‘They may not look much, but they have spirit and they have courage. Haven’t they suffered enough, seeing their comrades butchered and maimed? More to the point, Rome has suffered enough. Ever since Seneca’s fall the Empire has lived in shadow. It needs a chance to draw breath; peace and stability, not more blood spilled on the streets.’

‘Spoken like a politician rather than a soldier. Perhaps it is time you took your place in the Senate?’ A dangerous edge to Otho’s voice made Valerius look up. No softness in the eyes now. They bored into him like glittering arrowheads. ‘Sometimes wise words are enough, but … You are still a soldier, Valerius? Well, soldier or politician, let me set you a puzzle. Tomorrow the Emperor will slaughter five hundred of your faithful mariners to prove his strength of will. To execute them, he will use the loyal soldiers of the Praetorian Guard, in order to test that loyalty. In one week’s time he will go before the Senate and repudiate the thirty thousand sesterces per man offered to the Guard by Nymphidius Sabinus, whom he will condemn as a traitor acting entirely in his own interests.’ He paused to allow the significance of his words to register and in the intense silence Valerius imagined the reaction of hard-eyed soldiers like Helius to being cheated. Eventually, Otho continued. ‘Not content with this, he intends to replenish the Empire’s coffers by a series of punitive taxes on anyone enriched by Nero, which will impoverish half the men he is addressing in the Curia. As a simple soldier, or a politician, what is your opinion of the combined results of these policies?’

For the second time in a few moments Valerius fought for the right word to describe the indescribable. ‘Anarchy.’ Otho nodded for him to continue. ‘By killing the sailors who volunteered to protect Rome, he risks losing the support of the people. By disowning Nymphidius’s bounty he guarantees losing the support of the Guard who placed him in power. By taxing those who have thrived under Nero — not just his favourites — he places himself in grave danger of losing the Senate. Why?’

Otho turned back to the window, staring hard as if he could somehow reach into the mind of the man who inhabited the palace that filled his view. Galba had taken up residence on the Palatine in preference to the Domus Aurea because Nero’s great Golden House was a symbol of everything he despised about his predecessor. ‘Because he is Servius Sulpicius Galba. He believes — knows — that his bloodline makes him the noblest Roman alive. That his fortune makes him infallible. That the gods had always intended he should be Emperor. And that an Emperor’s duty is to rule, not to be advised or directed. Every one of these decisions is patently wrong, yet he sees them as a symbol of his strength.’ Otho’s voice turned weary. ‘We chose him because he was old and because of his lineage. Now it seems that the very age which made him an ideal candidate befuddles him and the glory of his ancestors blinds him to reality. We were wrong, Valerius.’

A chill like a damp fog settled over Valerius as he understood why Otho had saved him. He shook his head. ‘I conspired in the end of one Emperor, Marcus; do not expect me to help bring down another. For the gods’ sake, if not mine.’ Even as the words were spoken, he realized that somewhere in the house men were hidden waiting for this moment. All it would take was one word. In Rome’s eyes he was already condemned. Otho would not even need to justify it. But deep in the labyrinthine maze of Marcus Salvius Otho’s mind a contest had been taking place and a slight upturn in the thin lips signalled an unlikely victor.

‘Very well,’ the former governor of Lusitania said lightly. ‘Who am I to deny a man his conscience? But it will only happen once, Valerius. Tomorrow we will witness the gory fruits of Galba’s wisdom and as those men die you can tell me how it balances on the scales beside your scruples.’ He hesitated and his voice became serious again. ‘Very soon this Emperor will have another decision to make, and that decision will affect all our futures. If, as I fear, he chooses wrongly, Gaius Valerius Verrens will also have a choice to make. Be sure it is the right one.’

Valerius didn’t hear him leave the room, but when he turned he was alone with his thoughts. And fears. Not fears for the future of Gaius Valerius Verrens. But for Rome.

They had been held in pens like cattle, and like cattle they were led to the slaughter. Five hundred men, drawn by lot from their centuries, stumbling in chains up the Via Tiburtina, followed by the comrades who would watch them die. The men of the naval militia were unarmed and guarded by three cohorts of Praetorians, with a full cavalry wing of archers standing by to fill the air with death at the first sign of trouble. Valerius surveyed the scene of humiliation and despair with a sickness in his stomach and a feeling of terrible dread at what was to come. He rode with Serpentius along the marching ranks of the living and the soon-to-be dead, looking in vain for Juva and the crew of the Waverider. He could see that the seamen had been roughly handled and barely fed in the two weeks since Galba’s bloody march into Rome, but they marched with their heads high, showing at least some still had their pride.

‘Poor bastards,’ Serpentius said, as a throaty growl went up from a thousand throats when they recognized the place of execution.

In Divine Caesar’s day, the lost, the friendless, the destitute and the nameless dead — anonymous victims of the assassin’s dagger, unwanted girl children or exposed babies — had been thrown into pits on the Esquiline beyond the city wall, to rot where they lay among the rubbish and the filth. But the pits had proved too noisome for Augustus’s sensitive nose and they had been covered with earth to four times the height of a man and turned into a park under the direction of the Emperor’s favourite, the poet Maecenas. The new disposal ground lay well away from the city, out towards the River Teverone. Here, among the smaller pits stinking of death and corruption, a greater excavation had been dug, enough to hold five hundred corpses and more. No burial rights for the men who had defied Galba, and no memorial, just an unmarked grave among Rome’s nameless, faceless pariahs.

A large crowd had already gathered to witness their fate and a fourth cohort of Praetorians was waiting to hustle the prisoners to a cleared area beyond the great pit, where they lined them up in ranks of fifty. The remainder of the sailors and marines were kicked and pushed into three sides of a square that faced the condemned men across the gaping trench. Valerius watched from a nearby grove, his eyes still searching for Juva’s bulk and waiting for some reaction. But for several minutes nothing happened. It was as if they were all waiting.

For what, became clear when the rattle of chains and horse brass announced the arrival of a new column, headed by the Emperor himself. Galba rode a white stallion, resplendent in his cloak of Imperial purple and the gilded armour of a Roman general and flanked by his closest aides, Vinius and Laco. Otho lagged to the rear among a cluster of senators Valerius guessed was smaller than Galba would like. Behind them came a separate group of twenty prisoners and these Valerius did recognize. Milo, their reluctant leader, marched at the front, his chest out and disdain for the proceedings written on his peasant’s face. Among the men behind him stumbled two of the Waverider’s crew, Glico the veteran sailor and Lucca, the big oarsman, but no Juva.

A substantial platform had been raised beyond what was now the left-hand face of the square and Galba and his retinue took their place on it as the last of the chained men were lined up in front of him facing the pit. Valerius held his breath in the unnatural silence. Not even the rustle of leaves disturbed the heartbeat before Galba rose to his feet.

‘If he had any sense,’ Serpentius grunted, ‘he’d spare them and we’d all go home happy, but then he didn’t come all this way to do that, did he?’

‘No, I don’t think he did.’

Galba allowed his bleak gaze to roam over the condemned men and their comrades, eyes bright with an emotion only he could identify. He made them wait what seemed like an eternity and as the tension built Valerius suppressed an urge to cry out.

‘Get on with it, you bastard.’ The savage plea came from the back of the ranks, but there was no reaction from the man it was aimed at.

Finally, the Emperor’s harsh voice rang out across the reeking landscape of death. All here had been condemned by their actions, he told them, but it was an Emperor’s prerogative to temper justice with mercy. Therefore he had decided that only one in ten must die and the others would be allowed to return to their ships under guard, while their centurions would be reduced in rank. None of the orator’s tricks for Servius Sulpicius Galba on this day. He knew them well enough, the extravagant gestures, the tricola, the repetitions, but they were for the Senate and those who could appreciate their subtleties. His only affectation was a raised arm, the finger pointing across the great open death pit almost directly at Valerius, in a pose that aped the armour-clad marble effigy of Augustus Caesar that stood on its pillar in the Forum.

‘The heirs of Augustus have brought Rome to the brink of ruin; nay, beyond the brink,’ Galba continued. ‘To restore her to her past glory we must return to the old ways. Not the ways of the Republic, which was an excuse for corruption and nepotism where weak men could rise because they had the patronage of the strong. The ways of my grandfather’s grandfather. When new men understood their place and patricians acted like patricians. That means the old ways of hard work, prudence and respect. And the old ways of justice, which is why we are here. These men,’ he waved an arm towards the chained ranks, ‘fought and killed the soldiers of the Empire.’ Valerius bridled at this mindless exaggeration, only for Galba to immediately surpass it. ‘Not only did they defy their Emperor, they threatened his person. There is only one sentence appropriate to such a crime. Death. A harder man might have insisted that the guilty should be crucified beside the Via Flaminia in the manner in which Marcus Linius Crassus of blessed memory dealt with the rebels of Spartacus.’ He paused, turning to glance at the men who stood behind him. ‘Some among my advisers would urge me to show even greater mercy, by executing those who led, but not those who followed. But what kind of man would that make your Emperor? A man who will sell his principles for popularity. A man who bends with every wind. A man who accepted this position, but does not have the strength to adhere to its principles.’ He glared at the massed ranks, challenging any to dispute him. ‘That man is not Servius Sulpicius Galba. An example must be made that sends a message to every man, woman and child in the Empire, and in your dying you may console yourselves that you are your Emperor’s instrument and his messengers. Men will look upon your passing and say: This is Galba’s Rome. A Rome which will not take a backward step. A Rome where strength and justice prevail.’

He was about to order the sentence to be carried out, but a flutter of applause from the senators interrupted him and he turned to acknowledge it. The interval gave Milo the opportunity he had waited for. With a rattle of chains, he turned to face the Emperor.

‘You talk of strength and justice? Then have the strength to exchange our lives for the rest. The fact that we twenty have been singled out makes us guilty in your eyes. So be it. But let our comrades, who even after all this would pledge you their loyalty, live.’ The tough little marine seemed to grow in stature then, even in his rags and his fetters, and the demand brought a rumble of approval from his comrades. A centurion of the Guard stepped forward with his vine stick raised, but Galba, with an amused half-smile, waved him back, and Milo continued. ‘If that is too much for you, then at least temper justice with fairness. We who stand before you were selected without a ballot. That means twenty men are about to die who, under the terms of your sentence, should not.’ Valerius’s respect for the condemned man grew. Milo had nothing to lose, but he was clever too. He knew he could not save them all, but by pointing out that twenty of the men had been condemned unlawfully, he was telling every witness that if the sentence was carried out it made the man who pronounced it as guilty as the men who now stood before him. In effect, Galba could not order their deaths without becoming a murderer himself.

For a moment, Valerius believed the tactic might succeed. But Otho had claimed the Emperor was as inflexible as a cavalry spatha, and now he proved it.

‘A pretty speech by what we officers would call a barrack lawyer, but not one that changes my decision.’

Milo had expected no less. At least he had tried. But he had one final truth for his Emperor. His face twisted into a bitter smile and he looked out over the festering pits and the mass grave. ‘Then truly men will look upon this and say: This is Galba’s Rome.’

The Emperor went rigid and his mouth worked, but no words emerged. It was left to Vinius, sitting next to him, to rise and give the order to carry out the sentence. A centurion marched forward and took Milo by the arm, but the marine was not finished. He began to rattle his chains as he was dragged towards the pit and the refrain was immediately taken up by the hundreds of condemned men, a rhythmic clanking that seemed to make the very air shake. At the same time an inhuman drone began to issue from the throats of the four thousand men ranked in legionary formation. Valerius saw Milo smile before he was forced to his knees and the first sword slashed down, the first blood spouted from the severed neck and the first head fell into the pit. Centurions ran among the ranks, lashing out at the sailors and marines, but the bass hum grew in volume with every man who died; a sound that managed to combine contempt for the perpetrators, hatred of the man who ordered it, and pride in their comrades. Now the drone was punctuated by the cries of the men brought forward. Lucca began it in a voice as big as his stature, and the same words were repeated, again and again, only cut off by the fall of a sword.

‘I die for Rome.’

‘I die for Rome.’

‘I die-’

Valerius forced himself to watch every blow, and by the time the last condemned man was brought to the pit edge he could feel tears streaming down his face. The crowd, in that way of the mob, had begun by cheering every blow, but had quickly been won over by the courage and bearing of the victims. Their cries for mercy were ignored. Serpentius looked across the field of death to where his Emperor sat stone-faced, watching the last of the spectacle. ‘Bastard,’ he spat.

By then, Valerius only had eyes for Marcus Salvius Otho.