Sword of Rome

V

‘It’s done,’ Valerius said. ‘The Praetorians will abandon Nero and hail Galba as Emperor tomorrow. According to Tigellinus the Senate will follow within hours. He’s finished.’

‘Does that mean we can get out of Rome?’ Serpentius’s weathered face showed something like relief. ‘This place reminds me of that day in Oplontis before the earthquake. Like a pot ready to boil over.’

Valerius considered the suggestion. Weeks of living with the constant threat of torture and death had left their mark on both men, but Galba’s mission was only half complete and he had his own reasons for staying. Reasons he wouldn’t reveal even to the Spaniard. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘We have to see this through. The latest rumour is that Rubrius Gallus and his men have declared for Galba. If it’s true, the only military force of any consequence loyal to Nero this side of the Alps is the marine legion. I want to know more about them.’

Their chance came later that day, on the way back from the Castra Praetoria, where Valerius had been attempting to gauge the mood of the Guard. Raucous voices bellowed from the doorway of a bar in the shadow of one of the giant water castles that provided reservoirs for Rome’s aqueducts. Valerius recognized the song as a pornographic shanty he’d heard roared by naval oarsmen. He nodded to Serpentius and they slipped inside into the gloom. It was the usual crossroads tavern, a low-ceilinged room with a stone bar inset with large urns filled with posca, the cheap, lead-sweetened wine favoured in these places, and others brimming with stew of indeterminate origin. Ten men seated around a rough wooden table took up most of the space and they gave off an air of cheerful menace that was as much a result of the power of their combined voices as of their bulk, which was substantial. They ignored the newcomers and Valerius squeezed through to the bar, where he ordered a jug of wine and two cups. He and Serpentius took their places a little to one side of the group and supped their wine while the singing subsided and the men began to talk in the coarse, easy manner of shipmates. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dark, Valerius could see that they were a mix of races, including easterners, probably from Syria, Judaea and Egypt, where the navy recruited, and a Nubian, whose size marked him out even among these men chosen for their strength and power when hauling on a fourteen-foot oar of seasoned oak.

‘If we’re a legion, when the fuck are they going to give us proper uniforms?’ The complainer was a bull-necked Syrian with thick curly hair and guttural, almost incomprehensible Latin. His refrain was taken up by the bearded man next to him.

‘Aye, and weapons. If they expect us to fight this Galba and his traitors we need shields and spears and training in how to use them.’

Valerius lounged back on his bench, apparently concentrating on his drink, but taking in every word. It seemed one of the few Romans among them, seated at the far end of the table, disagreed with his shipmates’ view. ‘Nah, we won’t have to fight. Soon as the old fart hears that the crew of the Waverider is coming to get him, he’ll shit himself.’

The crude boast brought roars of ‘Waverider’ and a new burst of singing, but one voice, more sober than the rest, cut across the noise. To Valerius’s surprise it was the Nubian’s, and he was listened to.

‘We won’t get proper uniforms, nor proper pay, until we’re a proper legion and we’re not a proper legion till we’re trained. I don’t know about you, oarmates, but I wouldn’t much fancy taking on a legion. We’re tough enough …’ he waited until the roar of agreement had subsided, ‘but some of us have seen those boys at work and being tough and brave didn’t do the opposition much good. I think they’ll use us to garrison Rome while we’re hardened up for land fighting. The regular legions can defeat the traitor, the way they beat the Gauls. As long as we’re to eventually follow the eagle, I for one will be satisfied with that.’

‘Aye.’ The man opposite, a bearded brick wall with an accent from somewhere up on the Danuvius, nodded. ‘Juva is talking sense as usual. We will fight if we have to, but we must be patient for our eagle.’

A pause in the conversation gave Valerius his opportunity. ‘Perhaps I could offer you gentlemen a drink?’ he suggested. ‘It would be an honour to help slake the thirst of Rome’s protectors.’

‘Are you laughing at us?’ the Danuvian demanded, his red-rimmed eyes threatening. ‘I don’t like the stink of you, or your dangerous-looking friend.’ He turned to his mates. ‘I think we should take them out the back and drown them in the piss barrel.’

The proposal was greeted by roars of approval and Serpentius reached for his knife as the bulk of the sailors rose to their feet, but Valerius placed a restraining hand over the Spaniard’s and the Nubian Juva growled at his shipmates.

‘No. He’s right. If we are to be soldiers, we should act like them. With discipline. We are here to protect Romans, not do them harm.’ He turned to face the two men. ‘But why should you want to buy us a drink?’

Valerius shrugged. ‘There have been rumours that a new legion is being formed from the navy. From what we’ve heard it sounds as if it’s true. You men are sailors; I’m interested to know why you should volunteer to fight on land.’ He pulled back his sleeve to show the walnut fist. ‘I have fought on land and sea and I know there’s a big difference.’

Juva studied the artificial hand. ‘Perhaps not a good enough fighter on either.’ He grinned.

Valerius met his eyes with an unblinking stare. ‘Good enough to be still alive, my friend.’

The Nubian froze. For a moment he looked like a great panther ready to spring. Then he laughed. ‘Where is this wine we were offered?’

They waited until the owner had served up jugs of wine, and while his comrades took up their filthy refrain once more Juva joined Serpentius and Valerius by the wall. He picked up his cup and drank deeply, slurping in appreciation. Valerius refilled the cup and the Nubian nodded his thanks.

‘Why do we fight? You think it is for money?’ the big man growled. ‘True, a year at the oars pays less than half what a soldier earns for a year behind the eagle, but why would a man die for money? No, it is partly pride. Who would want us as we are, the dregs and scrapings of a dozen ports? Peregrini. Orphans and bastards and the abandoned. A sailor is despised, except by his own kind,’ he waved an expansive hand that took in his roaring shipmates, ‘while a legionary has the world’s respect. But even that might not be enough. So there is more. Divine Nero in his wisdom has decreed that all, even the lowest among us, even a former slave, will become a Roman citizen on the day his enlistment expires, and that enlistment will be deemed to have begun the day he first took ship. Can you understand what that means, Roman? In just ten years, if I live, the byblow of a Mauretanian pirate and a Nubian house slave will be permitted to wear the toga.’ As he spoke, his eyes glistened and his voice rose. ‘No man will have the right to raise a hand to me and I will have the right to stand in judgement over other men.’

‘Then I congratulate you, Juva of the Waverider, and I will pray that you live to see that day. But for now, what do your officers have planned for you?’

‘That is a spy’s question.’ The eyes narrowed further, but Valerius was ready for the accusation.

‘Not a spy’s.’ He lowered his voice. ‘A question from one with a family and friends who fear for the future. You spoke of garrisoning Rome while others fight, but I fear that is not to be. The reason the naval legion exists is because the Emperor’s generals have deserted him. You are all he has left.’

‘There is the Guard,’ Juva said defensively. ‘They are oath-sworn to their Emperor.’

Yes,’ Valerius agreed, wincing internally at having to deceive an honest man. ‘There is the Guard.’

Juva stood up, knocking the table back, his great bulk cutting out the light from the doorway. ‘Whatever happens, we will fight and if necessary we will die for the man who has given us our hope and our pride. Perhaps you are a concerned family man, perhaps not, but it is time to go.’

The other men fell silent as the mood in the bar changed. Valerius and Serpentius rose slowly and backed away, Serpentius stumbling with a curse as they reached the doorway. As they emerged into the sunshine, Valerius reflected that he’d got at least part of the information he came for: Juva and his shipmates would back Nero to the last. But he had a feeling it might come at a price.

That feeling was confirmed as the two men set off in the direction of the Vicus Longus. When they’d walked a hundred paces over the baking cobbles Serpentius hissed a warning. Valerius glanced back to see four of the sailors following in their wake. It seemed Juva regretted his impulse in letting them go so easily.

The men were still with them when they reached the Vicus. Valerius’s first instinct had been to lose them, but Serpentius purposely held back and he waited to see what the Spaniard had in mind. By the time they reached the narrow streets of the Subura, the sailors were only a dozen paces behind. This was Rome’s poorest district, a tight-packed haven for gangsters, thieves and pimps where a life wasn’t worth a shaved sestertius and no sensible man would come to another’s aid.

‘Is this wise?’ Valerius muttered.

‘If we lose them, they’ll just keep looking. We need to convince them we’re not worth the pain. Where better than this?’ He lifted his sleeve to reveal a gnarled wooden cudgel he’d picked up from a pile of weapons at the door of the tavern.

Valerius grinned. ‘I think I know just the place.’ He stepped up his pace, increasing the distance between the two men and their tail. When they had gone another fifty paces he turned to his left on to the Via Subura, a road that would eventually take them out towards the Esquiline Gate. As they walked, he explained his plan to Serpentius and the Spaniard nodded agreement. They took another turn, into a warren of alleyways hemmed in by apartment blocks, which eventually brought them to a crowded square with a fountain in the shape of a fish at its centre. Serpentius darted to the left and lost himself in a crowd in front of a tavern called the Silver Mullet, before disappearing up a street which ran parallel to the alley they had just left. Valerius continued onwards. He knew the sailors would be suspicious that they’d lost Serpentius, but that couldn’t be helped. He kept his pace steady; there was no hurry now. Eventually he saw the dark shadow of a narrow passage that cut off at right angles ahead and to his right. Now he slowed, allowing his pursuers to catch up. The locals here had an unerring sense for impending trouble and he felt them drifting away like smoke until he was alone in the narrow street with the four sailors. He passed the darkened entrance to the smaller alley without a glance and carried on a few steps before swinging round to face the enemy, a short sword miraculously appearing in his left hand. The first two exchanged glances at the sight of the bright iron, but they didn’t break stride. The one to the left was armed with a sword and the other hefted a nailed club. They knew they were facing a fighter, but with odds of four to one in their favour they were confident their opponent was already a dead man.

The second pair of sailors were big and tough and alert, but they had never faced someone with Serpentius’s speed and skill. The Spaniard darted from the Alley of the Poxed Tart already swinging the stolen club to take the nearest man on the bridge of the nose, smashing bone and cartilage and leaving him momentarily paralysed. As the sailor’s companion turned to face the threat, Serpentius rammed the head of the club into the V formed by his ribs below the breastbone, driving every ounce of air from his lungs. If he wished, either could have been a killer blow, but Serpentius had weighted them to disable. For good measure he swung the club right and left, rattling each of the sailors on the skull just above the ear, buckling their knees and dropping them heavily to the festering rubbish that littered the cobbles.

The two men facing Valerius’s sword heard the cries of their oarmates and froze, not even daring to turn and check the new threat.

‘We have no quarrel with you,’ Valerius said carefully, ‘and we mean you no harm.’ Given the circumstances it seemed an unlikely claim and he saw suspicion and fear harden their faces. ‘You’re not dead, are you? And neither are your shipmates. All you have to do is pick them up and take them back the way you came. You first.’ He gestured to the man on the left, the big Danuvian from the tavern. The sailor hesitated, but Valerius nodded encouragingly. ‘Believe me, this is not worth dying for.’ The man exchanged a whispered word with his friend. His eyes never left Valerius’s blade, but he nodded agreement and went back to help the two men who lay groaning under Serpentius’s watchful eye.

‘Tell Juva I wish him well and that he doesn’t have to concern himself with us,’ Valerius said.

The last man nodded slowly before turning to help his shipmate. They took a man each and shouldered them down the street, edging their way past the Spaniard as he whirled the cudgel like a child’s toy.

They watched the sailors go. ‘Will they fight, do you think?’ Serpentius asked.

‘They don’t lack courage,’ Valerius said. ‘And Nero has been clever enough to offer them something to fight for. But they won’t stop Galba.’

The Spaniard snorted derisively. ‘Maybe they won’t have to. We’ll all have died of old age before Old Slowcoach gets here.’