Enemy of Rome (40 page)

Valerius stepped aside as the Nubians moved to the trot. He watched the litter bounce off down the hill with the escort of Rhenus legionaries pushing through the crowds like a ship’s ram. Serpentius appeared at his side and Valerius greeted him with a resigned smile. ‘I would rather face a charge of Parthian Invincibles than spend another day in Rome,’ he told the Spaniard. ‘But we don’t have any choice. Come, we have work to do.’

‘I think we can disregard the
vigiles
as a known quantity.’ Valerius frowned. ‘We’d have had word if Sabinus took three thousand night watchmen and firefighters off the streets. In any case, even properly armed they don’t have the training or experience to take on a single cohort of Vitellius’s Praetorian veterans without being slaughtered.’

It was almost noon, and Serpentius nodded thoughtfully as he lay on a bed of the lodging house Vitellius had provided, just off the Forum Boarium and fortunately upwind of the slaughter pens. ‘That leaves us with the urban cohorts, and they’re a different animal altogether. I’ve seen them at work breaking up the bread riots a few years back. They might only have been up against beggars, shopkeepers and drunks, but they knew how to handle themselves. Hard men who’ve done their time in the legions up on the Danuvius and in Syria.’

‘And under Sabinus’s direct command,’ the Roman agreed. The
cohortes urbanae
had been formed by Augustus to augment the Praetorians who acted as the Emperor’s bodyguard and Rome’s last line of defence. Over the years an intense rivalry had grown between the two codes. The four cohorts each contained a thousand men commanded by a tribune, and were responsible for maintaining public order.

‘But they’re not in their barracks out at the Campus Martius,’ the Spaniard pointed out. ‘So where are they?’

‘From what I could see, Sabinus has at least half a cohort at the villa in case the Praetorians come knocking on his door. He must have the rest hidden away somewhere Vitellius has no chance of getting to them. Without them, Sabinus has no influence in Rome and they both know that.’

‘I was thinking I might have a sniff around the crossroads bars out by the Campus Martius,’ the Spaniard reflected. ‘Whores like to talk and there must be a good chance some of the regulars are sweet on the girls and will have let them know where they are.’

‘That’s worth a try.’ Valerius signalled his agreement with a grin. ‘While you’re romancing the ladies and getting drunk, I’ll check out the villa. That half cohort is getting its rations from somewhere and Sabinus must have a way of contacting the others.’

They agreed to meet back at the
mansio
at dusk.

Valerius stationed himself at the end of an alley on the street where the half cohort had its main guard post. It helped that the soldiers only had eyes for those approaching the roadblock and had little interest in anyone outside their perimeter. Still, it was dreary work. He fought boredom as the hours passed, watching the comings and goings with half an eye as his mind turned to his parting from Domitia.

His first instinct had been to get her away from the Sabinus villa and out of reach of Domitianus. It was Sabinus himself who urged caution and to Valerius’s surprise Domitia agreed. Where in Rome would she be safer than in a house guarded by five hundred soldiers? Even if the worst happened and Vitellius fought till the last, Sabinus would maintain a defensive ring of iron around the Esquiline. Defensive, he stressed; he would give the Emperor no reason to attack.

The city prefect had seen Valerius’s cold glance towards Domitianus, skulking away with his face bloodied and a fine pair of black eyes already developing. He will not touch her, Sabinus had pledged, or I will kill him myself, for the honour of my family. Domitia’s eyes had sought Valerius. Where would they go in a city filled with dangers? What security could he offer? The answer was none. She would be a burden to him, she was saying. First save Rome, then save Domitia Longina Corbulo. That is your duty.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her and that he would do anything to be with her, but everything stayed trapped inside. He prayed that his eyes conveyed as much as hers, but the thought struck him that he might never know.

A flicker of movement down by the guard post returned him to the present. A man in civilian clothes presented something to the officer of the watch. When he’d been waved through the newcomer strutted up the street towards Valerius. Despite the lack of uniform something about the way he carried himself said soldier. Valerius waited till his quarry was past before slipping into the street twenty or thirty paces in his rear. Their route took them up towards the Porta Esquilina, the city’s east gate, then right along the road that ran inside the city walls. This was an old commercial district, the Vicus Corvius, named for the merchant family who’d once owned it and a place of workshops and warehouses.

As Valerius watched, the man darted right into a side street. The Roman stepped up his pace and reached the entrance in time to see him disappear into an enormous brick-built
horreum
, one of the warehouses that stored the city’s grain supply. And who was in charge of that grain supply? He smiled because the answer was the Prefect of Rome. This was Sabinus’s secret hideaway for the urban cohorts. Where better to conceal three thousand men in a teeming city than the gigantic barns that could easily double as barracks? Better still, the
horreum
was perfectly positioned to allow the city guard to pour out and surround Sabinus’s villa. Or storm down the Esquiline Hill and take the Golden House, the Forum or the Senate. He had what he’d come for.

Within moments of leaving the
horreum
, Valerius was cursing his stupidity. Of course they’d have watchers. He risked a glance over his shoulder to take a first look at his followers. In the van, Titus Flavius Domitianus was instantly recognizable by the battered nose and blackened eyes. He’d clearly neither forgotten nor forgiven the beating Valerius had given him. Unless Valerius guessed wrongly, Vespasian’s son was hiding a club or a sword beneath his cloak. The bruisers accompanying him looked like the toughest and ugliest the urban cohorts could provide. His eyes flickered to the right and left seeking some sanctuary, but there was no help to be had among the shops and houses. Only the fact that the street in front was crowded with people walking in the same direction gave him hope. If he could only stay ahead …

The quickest way back to the Forum was through the pottery workers’ district and past the Porticus Liviae. As he reached the public gardens dedicated by Augustus and named for his wife, he could hear a growing hum, like a swarm of bees somewhere in the distance. A shoulder that felt as if it was made of marble nudged him unexpectedly from the side and he turned with a muttered curse.

‘Trouble seems to follow you around.’ Serpentius grinned and a surge of relief washed over Valerius. Nine to two might seem poor odds, but he would take them any time with the former gladiator at his side, even unarmed. ‘Here, keep this under your cloak.’ The Spaniard slipped something from the sack he was carrying and Valerius laughed aloud as his fingers closed on the hilt of a
gladius
. Now let them come.

‘I didn’t get much information from the bars or the bar girls,’ Serpentius said cheerfully, ‘and no one seemed to be around at the barracks, so I thought I’d break into the armoury so that it wasn’t a complete waste of time.’

‘I’m glad you did.’ Valerius kept half an eye on Domitianus, who appeared to have recognized the Spaniard and was keeping his distance. ‘Judging by all this,’ he nodded to the thickening crowd around them, ‘the pot is coming to the boil.’

‘Aye.’ Serpentius gave him a significant look. ‘It seems that the Emperor has some kind of announcement to make.’

‘What? He can’t …’

The Spaniard’s savage face turned solemn. ‘The word on the street is that Narnia has fallen and General Valens is dead. Primus and his legions will be here in three days.’

Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus felt an unnatural emptiness as his household slaves helped him don the black toga of mourning. Like the only living thing at a feast of spectres, his was a world filled with shadows and blurred outlines; an eerily silent world, for no person dared speak in his presence. Hours earlier he’d been the most powerful man in an Empire of forty million souls – an Emperor under siege, but an Emperor still. Now? Now he was nothing. When the courier brought confirmation of Valens’ death and the surrender at Narnia, he had felt like a moth pinned alive to a board. His mind ran in circles, his heart thundered in his breast and his wings had flapped, but never a twitch had he moved. Then, as true comprehension dawned, the old Aulus Vitellius died, the life draining from him as effectively as from a man who has cut his own wrists. What remained was a shell. A body without a soul, a life without purpose. No railing at the vagaries of fate for Aulus Vitellius, though Galeria achieved enough for both as poor Lucius cowered in the corner. Whatever happened, he must save his family.

He could fight on, he still had the means. The people would support him, the Guard still possessed the strength and the will to hold the city walls. His brother Lucius commanded a substantial force in the south. Yet all that meant nothing when balanced against the overwhelming strength facing him. Cremona, and now Narnia, meant the end was not in question. The one cost him the cream of his legions, the other opened the door to Rome. Eventually, he would be hunted down and defeated, and his family would be killed. Yet even in despair Vitellius’s frantically seeking mind was able to find a tiny silken thread of hope. His negotiations with Sabinus had created the possibility of an end without bloodshed. He could give up the throne immediately, with dignity and honour, and hand over control of the city to Sabinus. His decision made, he sent word to the Prefect of Rome that he would make the announcement in the Forum at the seventh hour.

Only Galeria had been informed of his decision, but nothing escaped his court. The ashen faces of his faithful Asiaticus and the others told their own story. They wept as he handed out gifts: the bejewelled rings adorning his fingers and the deeds for the villas and estates they’d inhabited as a mark of his favour. Of the two, the rings were of more significant value. It would be up to Vespasian to agree the transfer of the properties and it would be a brave man who placed much faith in the iron general’s predilection for forgiveness. Still, the gesture was a measure of his gratitude. These men at least, unlike his generals and the senators who had proclaimed him, had stayed loyal to the end.

For a moment he stood swaying, unsure what to do next. Galeria and Lucius would have run to him, but he shook his head and tried to remember. A revelation from the mists of confusion. Of course, it was the symbol of his reign. He stumbled to the dais and opened the rosewood box to reveal the sword of the Divine Gaius Julius Caesar. He had removed it from the Temple of Mars when Galba appointed him governor of Germania, carried it during his triumphal entry into Rome, and been sustained by it since. Now his fevered brain told him he must pass it on, a token of his humility – he would not call it humiliation – that Sabinus could hand on to his brother. He remembered the sword as he’d first seen it, one like no other, the hilt wonderfully worked in spun gold, with precious stones decorating the scabbard and a miniature legion’s eagle on the pommel. He’d never noticed before how heavy it was, an almost intolerable burden, but he would carry it with him today.

‘Come,’ he said to his family and his courtiers, his voice gruff from the effort of keeping it from breaking. ‘Remember this not as the day Aulus Vitellius lost Rome, but as the day he saved it.’

He led the way through the corridors and along the marble tiles around the great artificial lake. It was here Nero had re-enacted naval battles in the pomp of his reign, and he shuddered at the manner in which that reign had ended. Behind him came Galeria with Lucius, followed by Asiaticus, Silius Italicus – the former consul who had attended the negotiations at the Temple of Apollo – and the rest. By the time they reached the doors leading to the Sacred Way Vitellius was sweating heavily despite the chill wind. Awaiting him were his lictors, already assembled, and an honour guard consisting of a century of Praetorians. No trumpets or drums or golden chariot drawn by four ivory-maned horses, just a single litter, which Vitellius ignored.

‘I will not be carried on this day,’ he announced to the astonishment of all. He sensed Galeria’s outrage, but nothing would divert him. ‘Let Lucius take the litter as if it were my funerary procession. It is only right, for today is the last that will be lived by Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus. It is the end of the Emperor.’ The Praetorians remained ramrod straight, but Vitellius sensed a collective reaction run through them, like the barest ripple of breeze across a summer corn field. He knew the impact his announcement would have on them individually and as a body, but he could not consider that now. ‘In a few moments I will be plain Aulus Vitellius, patrician of Rome, and at my Emperor’s command.’ Vitellius flinched as Galeria Fundana reacted to the words by wailing and tearing at her hair as if her husband truly was dead. A second litter appeared and the tiny doll-like figure was helped into it, still emitting her baleful, undulating howl. Vitellius heard the Praetorian centurion whisper an order to one of the escort and the rasp of nailed sandals as the man turned and set off at a trot for an unknown destination.

Heralds had gone out an hour earlier to spread word of the Emperor’s announcement, but Vitellius was shocked by the size of the crowd awaiting him outside the gilded gates of the palace complex. They lined the Via Sacra ten deep, and so close his lictors had to push their way through with threats and curses. Hundreds – no, thousands – more filled the steps and colonnades of the temples and basilicas along the route. A shout went up when they recognized the Emperor, but it turned into a moan of anguish as they saw the dark colour of his toga.

Vitellius felt a surge of outright fear at the unexpected sound and tried to ignore the sea of faces turned in his direction. This was not how it was meant to be. For all his terror he had imagined a dignified procession and a short announcement. He would pass on Caesar’s sword to Sabinus and walk away with the stunned silence of the crowd in his ears. But this? This was how a man must feel marching to his own execution.