Defender of Rome (3 page)

A natural wariness made him hesitate. The Judaeans were a haughty people, from a province that had been under imperial rule for fifty years but had achieved neither prominence nor importance. Trade with the Empire had brought Judaea prosperity and drawn thousands of its inhabitants to Rome, presumably including the man he sought. They were respected as drivers of hard bargains and despised for the barbarism of their religion, which a dozen years earlier had incited Emperor Claudius to expel every Judaean from the city. Now they were returning, but mostly kept to their own districts. It was unusual to find a Jew carrying out business in the centre of Rome.

He approached the curtain and took a deep breath.

III

WHAT HE’D MISTAKEN
for murmured voices turned out to be a kind of low, rhythmic chanting from the rear of the building. A single oil lamp spluttered in an alcove by the doorway, casting a dull light and emitting foul-smelling black smoke that clouded the upper part of the room. Sacks and boxes lay stacked against the walls and a table with a set of brass scales stood in the centre of the floor beside a chest covered by a white cloth. This building was one of the older
insulae
in Rome, constructed perhaps fifty years earlier; solid at least, unlike the shoddy thin-walled skeletons of more recent times, but showing its age where the plaster had dropped from the lime-washed walls. In the far corner to his left was another door, and it was from this that the chanting emerged, but not, he thought, directly. Again he hesitated, reluctant to interrupt a family gathering or religious ceremony, however barbarous. But his sister’s life was at stake.

‘Hello.’ The word echoed from the stark walls.

Silence. A sudden, total silence that almost made him wonder if the chanting had only existed in his mind.

‘Hello,’ he shouted a second time, feeling foolish now and sorely tempted to just turn and go.

After a moment, the silence was replaced by an odd rumbling sound, like muted faraway thunder, and a small head crowned by a shock of jet curls appeared round the corner of the doorway. Two walnut eyes studied him with frank curiosity.

‘Greetings to you.’ The tawny girl looked about six, and he gave her his most reassuring smile. ‘I am looking for the physician who lives in your building.’

Without a word she took his hand and led him through the inner doorway into a narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor they turned into a poorly lit room where a thin, grey-bearded man sat hunched over a wooden bench crushing herbs in a crude mortar, each circle of the heavy stone pestle accompanied by the rumble Valerius had heard earlier. The man looked up and nodded and the girl hurried out.

They studied each other for a long moment, the way men do on meeting for the first time, the older man seeking any sign of threat or danger and Valerius trying to reconcile the shrunken figure at the table with the conflicting stories Metellus had gabbled.

He guessed the Judaean’s age at between fifty-five and sixty. The heavy, tight-curled beard would be with him until he died, perhaps a little whiter. Deep lines that might have been carved by a knife point etched hollow cheeks and a high forehead, providing a permanent reminder of a life of toil, trial and, Valerius suspected, physical suffering. The folds of a thick eastern coat engulfed his thin frame, yet beneath the robe lay a suggestion of power conserved for more important days. The eyes, solemn and steady and the colour of damp ashes, had an ageless quality, and their depths contained conflicting messages: wariness, which was only sensible in the circumstances; understanding, but of what? Humour was there, held in reserve for a more appropriate moment, and knowledge for the time it was needed. But a single quality stood out above all. Certainty. This man knew precisely who and what he was.

‘
Salve
. You are welcome to my home.’ The greeting was formal and the curious lisping accent turned the v into a w.

Valerius bowed. ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, at your service. I apologize for the late hour and the lack of an appointment, but I have come on a matter of urgency.’

The beard twitched, but Valerius couldn’t be certain whether it was in irritation or acknowledgement. ‘May I offer you wine?’

‘Thank you, no,’ the Roman said, not impolitely, but aware that he was unlikely to enjoy anything served in this household. He glanced at his surroundings. Small cloth sacks, each with its clear label, were stacked in heaps along the rear wall. Shelves filled with stoppered jars. Odd-shaped objects whose origin he didn’t like to speculate. The scent of herbs and spices filled his nostrils, but there was something else too, a heaviness in the atmosphere that told him other people had shared this room only a few moments earlier. He wondered again about the chanting, and noted that the Judaean had made no attempt to introduce himself. The grey eyes studied him and he found himself resenting the frank, penetrating gaze. ‘My sister …’ he blurted.

‘Is sick.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you come to me for help … at this hour? Are all your Roman physicians asleep?’ The man smiled gently to take the sting from his words.

‘As I say, it is urgent. Olivia …’

‘I am sorry.’ The Judaean shook his head. ‘I regret I cannot help you. It is forbidden. I may only work within my own community. You understand? With my own people.’

Valerius felt a momentary panic. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘At least listen to what I have to say.’

The physician turned back to his work and the rumble of pestle in mortar was an invitation for Valerius to leave. But he had underestimated the Roman’s determination. Valerius’s sword came half clear of its scabbard and the unmistakable metallic hiss brought the grinding to a halt. The Judaean raised his head with a look of regretful distaste.

‘So, a true Roman warrior. At his best when his opponent is unarmed. You would threaten a harmless old man? Would it salve your conscience? Would it make …’ he frowned, ‘Olivia … well again?’ He shook his head. ‘Spilling blood never solved anything, my young friend.’

Valerius held his gaze, but the grip on the sword loosened. He hadn’t even realized he’d drawn it. ‘They said things about you. I had hoped they were not true.’

The bearded man gave a humourless laugh. ‘They fear me. They say I am a fraud and a murderer. That I poison husbands for their wives and wives for their husbands. They say,’ he stretched for a jar behind him, reaching inside to display its contents, a slimy piece of off-white flesh, ‘that I use the fruits of our circumcisions in my potions.’ Valerius swallowed. The Judaean smiled. ‘The poison sac of a sea snake. It has medicinal qualities. As you can see, all that they say is true.’

‘They also said you were a magician. I had hoped
that
was true.’

The older man gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Do you pray? Then pray to your gods to help your sister.’

Valerius had an image of Divine Claudius, immortalized in bronze, towering over the doomed fugitives huddled in the grandiose temple built in his name. ‘I no longer pray. The gods have deserted me.’

For a few moments the only sound in the room was the faint, irregular buzz of the old man’s breathing. ‘Tell me.’

Valerius closed his eyes and the words came out in a rush. ‘She woke up one morning a month ago and had lost the use of her arms and legs.’

‘Entirely?’

‘No. Not completely. She could move them, but not use them properly. She made a slight improvement, but two weeks ago she could not get out of bed. She has been in it since. Now she cannot raise her head to take food. She weakens by the day.’

The Judaean chewed his lip. ‘Has she had convulsions, seizures?’

Valerius shook his head.

A long silence developed from seconds into minutes. Eventually, Valerius could take the tension no longer. ‘Can you help us?’

The Judaean turned to him, the grey eyes serious. ‘Perhaps. Please fetch Rachel for me. She is in the next room.’

When Valerius returned, the man whispered instructions in the girl’s ear and she hurried off, returning a few minutes later with a small twist of cloth, which she handed to the Roman.

‘You must dissolve this in boiling water and make her drink every drop. You understand? Every drop, or it is wasted.’

‘Then?’

‘Then you wait.’

Valerius hesitated. He looked down at his hand. Was this all he’d come for? A tiny twist of grey powder? But what more had he expected? ‘Thank you,’ he said, reaching for his purse.

The Judaean shook his head. ‘When the day comes to repay me, you will know it.’ For some reason a chill ran through Valerius at the innocuous words. He waited for further explanation, but the physician continued: ‘Do not raise your hopes too high. The elixir will help for a time but the effects will not be permanent.’

He ushered Valerius out, accompanying him through the corridor and into the room which led to the street. The white cloth had slipped from the chest, which told Valerius where the Judaean kept the powder. He noticed a faint symbol carved into the wood. It looked like a large X transfixed by a single vertical stroke with a small half-circle attached to the top.

The old man saw his interest. ‘The symbol of my craft,’ he said dismissively. ‘Interesting, but unfortunately valueless in Rome.’

Valerius turned in the doorway. ‘Will you visit her?’

The Judaean sighed. ‘My name is Joshua. Yes, I will visit her.’

IV

THE PERFORMER GAZED
out over his audience seeking signs of genuine approval. Instead, all he saw were the imbecilic fixed smiles of those too uncultivated to appreciate the finer points of his art and held in thrall by the singer, not the song. The song was the tale of Niobe, which he had performed at the Neronia, the festival he had endowed, and told the story of a woman brought low by her own ambition; a queen who had attempted to supplant Apollo and Diana with her own children, only to lose them all. He heard his voice quiver with emotion as he reached the point where the seven sons and seven daughters were hunted down by the arrows of the gods and their mother turned to stone, a memorial to her own greed. A tear ran down the cheek of the Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus. His mother, Agrippina, had likewise died of greed.

Hadn’t he given her everything, palaces, gold, jewels and slaves? Influence even. Perhaps too much influence. Still it wasn’t enough; she had to have power. She thought he was still a child
. They were staring at him now, mouths open, and he realized he had stopped singing before the end of the song. How strange she still had such an effect on him. He smiled, and bowed, and the slack faces resumed their grinning and the cheering began, washing over him like a warm, oily sea, sensuous and invigorating. How he despised them all.

Yes, she had to have power; he of all people could understand that. When one has tasted ultimate power, the power to decide whether a man – or a woman – lives or dies, no other power will suffice. He had been weak at first, even kind, in the years after he had ascended to the throne of Rome. He had listened to his advisers. But when
he
had spoken those close to him had not listened nor understood. That was before he had proved he was capable of wielding true power. After a few carefully chosen disposals even Seneca had listened, he who had never known when to keep his mouth closed but had still managed to survive the wrath of Uncle Gaius and devious old Claudius. He liked Seneca, had even trusted him once, but now he was nothing but a nuisance. He picked up a flower that had been thrown at his feet. It was long-stemmed with a fringe of small white petals and he began to pluck them one by one, still smiling and acknowledging the cheers; kill him, don’t kill him, kill him, don’t kill him … He continued until he came to the last petal and paused … don’t kill him. He sighed. Seneca, always the fortunate one.

Not Mother. He had tried to warn her, but, like Niobe, she just wouldn’t listen. So she had to be removed. They should have been singing about her death for a thousand years, a death worthy of the gods themselves. Only a true artist could have devised it. A ship that collapsed upon itself, leaving the after part to float off still containing the crushed remains of poor, dear Agrippina. Lost at sea. Plucked by Neptune to sit at his side for all eternity.

They had botched it, of course, the fools of carpenters, and she had lived. He hadn’t even known she could swim! Still, the deed was eventually done. And those who had deprived her of her opportunity for immortality would never make another mistake.

He walked down the broad stairway to where his wife Poppaea waited, flanked by slaves holding a golden canopy. She looked truly enchanting today, her flawless features framed by tight curls of lustrous chestnut. Smiling, she took his arm and they marched through the throng as rose petals fell at their feet and perfumed water scented the air around them. He nodded at each shouted compliment – ‘A triumph, Caesar’; ‘The glory of the world’; ‘No bird ever sang sweeter, lord’ – and knew it was all lies.

He knew it was lies because he understood he was not the great artist he wished to be. Did they think him a fool to be deceived by such flattery, he who had expended so many millions in the quest to become what he was not? Oh, he improved with every tutor and every hour of practice, but he had come to understand that genius was god-given and not some whim that anyone could command, not even an Emperor. All the hours of practice and the degrading, stomach-churning deceits he had resorted to and he could barely hold a note. Yet when he was on the stage he
felt
like a god, and the sound of the applause lifted him and carried him to Jupiter’s right-hand side. He would not give up the applause.

Agrippina would have understood, but she had abandoned him. She came to him in the night, sometimes, lamenting the ordinariness of her end and still admonishing him for the loss of the snakeskin bracelet she had placed on his wrist in his infant bed. Her visits left him shaking in terror, though he would reveal that to no man. He hadn’t understood his need for her until she was gone. Whom could he trust if not his own blood? Now there was no one. He gripped Poppaea’s arm more tightly, and she turned to him with a puzzled frown, the limpid green eyes full of concern. He smiled at her, but he knew she was not convinced by the mask because the frown deepened. Dear Poppaea, clever and faithful. Octavia, his first wife, had hated her. But Octavia was gone and Poppaea was in her place. Poppaea had wanted Octavia dead. How could he deny her?

But what about the letter?

The letter vexed him.

Thoughts of the letter brought Torquatus, his trusted and feared prefect of the Praetorian Guard, to mind, and from Torquatus it was but a short step to the one-armed tribune, the hero Verrens. A darkness descended on his mind and the noise of the crowd diminished. He had wished to be the young legionary officer’s friend, a true friend, and had given freely of his devotion and his patronage. And what had he received in return? Rejection. Did Verrens truly believe the slight could be ignored? He wasn’t even as pretty as the other boys, the charioteers and the lithesome young palace servants who squealed so delightfully and were so … flexible. Did this part-man think a common soldier was too good for an Emperor? Did the hero believe he, Nero, could not match his bravery? He felt Poppaea squirm and knew he’d hurt her, but his grip on her arm didn’t loosen. Well, in time, the hero would discover the folly of his ways. In time.

But, for the moment, Torquatus believed he could be useful in the matter of the letter.