Sword of Rome

IV

Valerius could feel it in the air around him: that sense of foreboding that came with the approach of a summer storm. In many ways Rome was a city already under siege. Serpentius had almost given up hope by the time he’d returned, pale and exhausted after four days and nights in the cells below the Palatine. Now the Spaniard recognized a new sense of purpose in his Roman friend.

In the stifling, airless depths between the four-and five-storey insula apartment blocks that filled the capital’s poorer areas life took on a frenzied desperation. Men and women fought each other over the dwindling stocks in the shops and streetside stalls, and the whole city seethed with fear and uncertainty. Either Nero had repealed the decree that prohibited civilians from carrying weapons or his supporters had decided they were safe to ignore it. Bands of thugs armed with cudgels and knives stood at every junction, unhindered by the Praetorians or vigiles, questioning or ‘arresting’ those who caught their eye. Anyone foolish enough to appear rich or even mildly prosperous was likely to come under suspicion. It was well known in the stews of the Subura and the tight-packed hovels on the slopes of the Collis Viminalis that the Emperor had been betrayed by the upper classes and the Senate. Dressed in the dusty work gear of a pair of itinerant builders Valerius and Serpentius had little to fear, and any keen-eyed bully who questioned their disguise would be quickly dissuaded by the aura of sheer savagery that cloaked the former gladiator. As an extra precaution, Valerius had wrapped his wooden fist in the folds of a rugged cloth sack of the kind workers used to carry their heaviest tools. His companion carried a similar bag, which, from the way he handled it, held equipment of considerable weight.

Tigellinus had arranged temporary accommodation for them out by the city wall near the Porta Salutaris. It was typical of its type, two dusty rooms on the fourth floor of a creaking insula block, with water drawn from a pump in the yard and a night soil pot you emptied in the stinking drain that ran down the centre of the street. They discovered why it was so readily available when they woke before dawn to the terrified screams of pigs being led to slaughter in the pork market beyond the wall.

On this day, their route took them down the Vicus Longus and into the teeming filth of the Subura before they turned left up the slope past the Temple of Juno Lucina and the sixth shrine of the Argei.

‘Watch out.’ Serpentius pulled Valerius to the side of the street at the familiar sound of marching feet in hobnailed sandals. They stood back beneath the awning of a fruit stall as a mismatched unit of soldiers stumbled past and veered off towards the Porta Tiburtina. Each of the men carried some kind of weapon, but they were dressed in a mix of blue tunics and civilian clothing. Some had helmets and armour, but most did not. They walked with a curious rolling gait, and those still dressed as civilians stood out because of the heavily muscled upper bodies and arms that gave them the look of acrobats or wrestlers. Many were clearly foreigners; swarthy and dark-skinned, like the Syrian cavalry Valerius had commanded in Parthia.

‘These must be the marines Nero is forming into a new legion. Sailors, too,’ he said.

‘They don’t look like much,’ Serpentius spat. ‘Sunshade operators.’

Valerius laughed at the reference to the sailors’ traditional onshore task of erecting the great sailcloth awnings that protected amphitheatre crowds from the fierce heat of the summer sun. ‘I don’t know. They all look tough enough, and they’re volunteers. Equip them properly and give them the right training and they might surprise you.’

‘No time for that,’ Serpentius pointed out. ‘If it had been anyone but Old Slowcoach the legions would already be marching across the Milvian Bridge. Corbulo would have shoved an eagle up Nero’s arse by now.’

It wasn’t how Valerius would have put it, but he knew the Spaniard was right. Where speed and determination had been needed, Galba had proved slow and timid. He should have reinforced Vindex at the start of his rebellion. Instead, he had begun his march too late. If he had continued his advance, the likelihood was that the two German legions who had defeated the Gaul would have joined him, or melted away in front of him. In the aftermath of the victory at Vesontio, while their blood was up, they had urged their own commander to proclaim himself Emperor and march on Rome. Lucius Verginius Rufus had refused, but it showed that his legionaries were ready to gamble all for change.

‘Nero is a desperate man, and forming the marines and sailors of the Imperial fleet at Misenum into a legion shows the level of his desperation. Since the time of Caesar and before, Roman citizenship has been a condition of joining a legion. Most of those men were peregrini — foreigners — and some of them are probably former slaves.’ Valerius grinned as he felt the Spaniard’s withering glare. ‘Not that it makes them any less brave.’

When the marines were out of sight they hefted their workmens’ sacks on to their shoulders and continued up the hill to where the road opened out and the insulae began to give way to more prosperous townhouses and villas. When they reached a small square Valerius laid his burden aside and drank sweet water from the Fountain of Orpheus, which provided a supply for those locals not rich enough to have one of their own. Nymphidius Sabinus was clearly not among them. His villa sprawled across the top of the slope with a view down towards the tiled roofs and marbled pillars of the Forum. Valerius left Serpentius sitting by the gate and made his way to a servants’ entrance in the side wall. His knock was eventually answered by a grizzled bruiser with disconcerting eyes that never looked in the same direction at the same time. Valerius concentrated on the left one and announced that he’d been summoned by the master of the house to discuss a price for replastering the slave quarters.

The doorman sniffed. ‘Stay here and I’ll get the factor.’

‘I was told to speak to the master.’

The man carried an overseer’s staff and Valerius could see he was tempted to reward such impudence with a beating. He prepared to block the first blow, but a voice from inside froze the overseer in place.

‘What’s going on, Clodius?’

‘Some dirty labourer demanding to speak to you. I was just going to kick his insolent arse back on the street.’

A tall figure appeared behind the doorman and a meaty hand pushed him aside. ‘Idiot. Didn’t Julius tell you I was expecting a tradesman? Let him in.’

‘I’ll just search-’

‘Don’t waste any more time. I need to be at the Castra Praetoria in an hour. You, come with me.’

Valerius bowed and followed the man towards the villa. Nymphidius Sabinus had the build of a boxer, with a powerful chest, and legs that appeared too short for his body. His head was set square on broad shoulders and he wore his flame-red hair cut military short. He led the way to the end of the garden, far enough away from the house to ensure no servant could overhear their conversation. His features were as florid as his head, as if he were permanently angry or had been drinking heavily, but when he spoke there was no hint of a slur. ‘You’ve come from Galba?’

For answer, Valerius drew the seal Otho had given him from inside the neck of his tunic.

Nymphidius’s eyes gleamed, but he pointed at the building as if he were identifying some defect that needed work. ‘The old bastard is taking his time.’

‘Rome’s lieutenant is consolidating his position and making certain nothing will go wrong. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

The big man turned and brought his face close to Valerius, lips drawn back and teeth bared. ‘Give me any more of that horseshit and I’ll have Clodius beat you black and blue just to hear you squeal. It’s all right for Galba and that fornicating bastard Otho. If anything goes wrong they can jump on a ship and fuck off to exile in Africa. I’m the one with my balls on the butcher’s block. That’s why the price has just risen.’

Valerius met his stare. ‘I was told to offer you a thousand aurei now and a thousand when it is done. With twenty thousand sesterces a man to the Guard on the day the Senate proclaims Servius Sulpicius Galba Emperor.’

Nymphidius’s right hand shot out and long fingers closed on Valerius’s throat. Valerius reflected that he could have broken the arm with a single movement, but he was playing a part and that part required that, for the moment, the Praetorian prefect be allowed his fun.

‘The Guard will take what I give them,’ the big man growled. ‘I’ve already got them eating out of my hand like tame finches. As soon as Nymphidius Sabinus says the word, Nero is finished. The only question is what happens after. Who’s to say I haven’t had a better offer? The price is two thousand aurei now and another two when it’s done.’ His eyes turned calculating. ‘You’re no lowly courier, are you? Galba wouldn’t have sent someone without the authority to negotiate.’

Valerius managed a nod and the fingers at his throat relaxed and dropped away.

‘Good. As long as we understand each other. Galba is an old man; he must be close to seventy. He can’t last much longer. He needs someone reliable to advise him and that someone will be me. He also needs an heir.’ Valerius almost smiled at the other man’s undisguised ambition, and the unlikelihood of its ever coming to pass. Nymphidius Sabinus saw himself as a potential Emperor, but Galba would recognize him for what he was: an overbearing, country-bred bully with the manners of a rutting boar and the habits to match. He had as much chance of becoming heir as one of Nero’s ceremonial elephants of taking flight. But he was also central to the plan. Otho had warned Valerius to offer Nymphidius anything but the succession, but Otho wasn’t here. Valerius knew that Nymphidius would never agree unless he got what he asked for. He nodded gravely.

‘I think that can be arranged.’

‘Don’t think.’ Nymphidius glared. ‘You speak for the old man. I want to hear you say it.’

Valerius took a deep breath. ‘Servius Sulpicius Galba will appoint you his heir as soon as he is invested with the purple.’

Nymphidius stared at him. It could be months before Galba reached Rome, and more till his investment. Valerius could tell the Praetorian commander would have liked the announcement to be made earlier, but he had played all his bargaining chips. His ruddy features relaxed and he nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll start approaching the Praetorian cohorts as soon as I see the colour of your money.’

Valerius shook the sack free from his wooden hand and Nymphidius’s eyes widened a little as he saw the walnut fist. The sack was half filled with sand to conceal what was kept within and to deaden the sound of metal upon metal. Inside were hidden twenty smaller bags, each containing one hundred golden aurei. Serpentius carried a similar load and the weight of coin had come close to breaking their backs on the long trek up the hill. Valerius retrieved one bag from the sand and opened it to show the buttery glint within. ‘Perhaps we can find somewhere more private to complete our discussions.’

Nymphidius laughed and draped an arm like a tree branch over Valerius’s shoulder. ‘Bugger having two rooms replastered. I think I might have the whole place rebuilt.’