Avenger of Rome (5 page)

‘King Tiridates is here.’

‘Thank you, Epaphradotus.’ This was the second ceremony to welcome Armenia into Rome’s keeping. The first, in the forum, had been a mere appetizer compared to what was to come. Nero looked to the rear of the balcony where the king of Armenia waited in his long robes. A swarthy predator’s face, the clubbed beard reaching his chest, nose like an axe blade and heavy brows, topped by a shining thatch the colour of pitch and styled in tight ringlets. A savage face. But a noble head. A head awaiting a crown. Had another Emperor been in Nero’s place, King Tiridates would now be in the
carcer
, Rome’s prison, awaiting the bite of the strangling rope, for Tiridates had been an enemy of Rome. He and his brother, Vologases of Parthia, had fought two long, expensive wars against the Empire. If Nero had followed his generals’ advice there would have been a third and Tiridates would
have
been crushed on the battlefield and slaughtered with his army. But wiser counsels had prevailed and now the king was here to pay homage to his Emperor and to Rome.

He called Tiridates forward, and as the king stepped out into the light the massed ranks below and on the surrounding hills, and on the far-off houses, erupted into frenzied cheering, so that the balcony was hit by an almost volcanic wave of sound. Nero felt himself grow along with the volume of applause. This was what he lived for, this adulation and proof of his dominion. This was what had spurred him to invest so much effort and expense in his voice and his bearing. For a moment, he was possessed by an overwhelming urge to sing; to give them the joy that came entwined as one with his talent. But the moment passed and now Tiridates was on his knees laying the triple crown at his feet and he was looking down at the mass of dark greasy curls and the cheering was ever louder. Together, the two serving consuls, Telesinus and Paulinus, handed him the jewelled diadem of laurel leaves. With great ceremony he placed it over the other man’s head. Tiridates murmured something in his native Parthian. It could have been thanks or mortal insult, but Nero cheerfully offered his hand to his new brother king and drew him to his feet, bestowing a kiss to show his affection.

Turning to the crowd, he raised his hands and in that single movement commanded a hundred thousand people to silence. ‘Let the celebrations begin,’ he called in his high-pitched man-boy’s voice, and the cheering re-erupted.

The two rulers took the broad stairway to the ground floor, where Nero deliberately conducted his guest through the shadow of one of the wonders of the Empire, the astonishing statue he had commissioned of himself as the sun god, Sol. Close to one hundred cubits in height and covered entirely in gold leaf, it was the largest marble sculpture in the world, dwarfing even the legendary colossus which had stood astride the entrance to the harbour of Rhodes. It portrayed a pensive, benevolent Nero, with the sun’s rays radiating from his head like a crown, his left hand, holding a globe, stretched towards his people and in his right the whip with which he would drive the horses drawing his chariot. It was a glorious piece of uninhibited self-indulgence, a
thousand
lifetimes of wealth incorporated in a single piece of art. As he passed it, King Tiridates wondered at the colossal vanity of the unprepossessing, almost effeminate young man beside him.

There was more to wonder at in the great banqueting hall, where the Armenian king dined on the most sumptuous food the Empire could provide, in a bewildering room which revolved around its guests while the ceiling periodically showered them with flower petals and perfumed water. Such technological marvels impressed Tiridates profoundly, even more than the displays of military might Nero had been careful to provide. An Empire capable of sustaining such extravagance could send a dozen legions against him at any time. He had been right to make the treaty and his brother Vologases wrong to want to continue the war.

Nero contemplated Tiridates’ bemused expression with satisfaction, and left the room to summon his Praetorian prefect, Offonius Tigellinus. Tall and thin with a long nose and a fringe of russet hair that clung to the back of his head like a stray squirrel, Tigellinus didn’t look like the most dangerous man in Rome. He had the face of someone who had just drunk sour milk and the hangdog demeanour of an undertaker. Nero felt the familiar flutter of nerves when the man he depended on so completely approached. So many had abandoned him, or wronged him in some way that forced him to remove them. Of all the long list, Tigellinus was the only man left he could trust. What if something happened to him?

For years, the former horse trader had supplied all his needs. Nothing was beyond his reach: boys, girls, men and women, rich and poor and in any combination or number. Senator’s wife or slave, concubine or virgin, Tigellinus knew where to lay hands on them and if he could not persuade, buy or terrify them into the Emperor’s bed, his Praetorians would force them. If the Emperor needed money – and emperors always needed money – Tigellinus would find a benefactor who could be induced to contribute to the imperial purse. Licences could be granted, subsidies controlled and monopolies awarded, and the Praetorian prefect would maximize the profit. What was more, that long nose had an infinite capacity for smelling out traitors and the
mournful
expression hid a pitiless cruelty and fertile imagination. It had been Tigellinus who had torn the heart from the Piso conspiracy with his blades and his hooks and his hot irons, Tigellinus who had invented the exquisite refinement of torturing a man – or a woman – to the very brink of death and having them restored by a physician to face the same fate again, and again, and again. It had never failed. Nero had been so delighted by his aide’s successes that he had awarded him the triumphal regalia normally reserved for senators and consuls and erected a statue of him in the Palatine gardens.

It had been Tigellinus who suggested removing Nero’s former teacher, Seneca, once and for all when Piso and his nest of vipers were being stamped out. That was what he liked about Tigellinus: his clarity of purpose. No attempt to fabricate evidence or bribe witnesses, just a simple tying up of loose ends. Nero’s agents in Seneca’s household had reported that the old man had met his fate with dignity, protesting his loyalty to the last. A pity, but he had long since outlived his usefulness and he knew too many secrets to be left alive.

‘A most satisfactory day,’ he welcomed Tigellinus cheerfully. ‘I have never seen the people so proud of their Emperor. King Tiridates was suitably awestruck by my splendour and overwhelmed by the power of their love for me. A triumph. A triumph for Rome.’

‘A triumph for Rome’s Emperor,’ Tigellinus corrected. ‘And a triumph for her legions.’

All the long years in the imperial court and his training at Seneca’s knee had given Nero an ear for nuance. He caught a certain inflection in the Praetorian’s voice. ‘Yes, a triumph for her legions. And it is right that men should fear Rome’s legions. You have news from Judaea?’ A few months earlier the Syrian sub-province had risen in revolt after a punitive expedition against an assortment of religious fanatics had resulted in hundreds of deaths. In the violence that followed the best part of two legions had been wiped out and the eagle of the Twelfth Fulminata lost. It was the greatest military disaster of Nero’s reign and it was imperative that it should be avenged swiftly and mercilessly.

‘Gallus has been removed from his command. Vespasian will form a task force from the Syrian and Egyptian legions and lead them against
the
rebels. Meanwhile, General Corbulo has returned to Antioch and will offer what support he can to Vespasian.’ There it was again, that slight change in tone he had come to recognize.

‘Two of our finest generals,’ Nero ventured. ‘And our most loyal.’

‘Just so, Caesar.’

A moment of clarity. ‘But you have concerns?’

‘General Vespasian is your own appointment, a
new man
who is intelligent enough to understand that he would never win enough support to aspire to the throne, and his hands will be kept busy for at least two campaigning seasons. General Corbulo …’

‘Rome’s most successful commander in the past ten years …’ Nero’s voice rose an octave as he was forced to come to Corbulo’s defence.

‘Has been heard to cast doubts upon your policy of reconciliation in Armenia and Parthia. There is talk of giving Armenia away.’

Nero waved a dismissive hand. ‘A soldier’s grumbles. Even Tiridates told me that I have no more loyal commander than Corbulo.’

‘Of course,’ the prefect said smoothly. ‘I venture no accusation, I only caution.’

The Emperor stared at him, the piggy eyes narrowing. ‘Proceed.’

‘General Corbulo was appointed on the advice of Seneca,’ Tigellinus pointed out. ‘He has been in the east, in Asia and Syria, for twelve years, with the same legions. Some would say enough time to create his own personal empire.’ Nero didn’t have to ask which ‘some’; he knew the Praetorian had agents in every military command. But Tigellinus surprised him with his next admission. ‘He is a difficult man to get close to. His senior officers have been with him for years and are unfailingly loyal; the juniors take their lead from the legates. Only now have I been able to place someone in a position of trust, although, as I have said, it is generally known in his headquarters that he has been critical of your policy and your orders to act upon the defensive. His legionaries regard him as something close to a god.’ Tigellinus saw the Emperor stiffen, as he’d intended. Only emperors could become gods. ‘Normally this could be dealt with simply enough. A new posting to some less arduous front. A summons home for some new honour, a long and happy retirement on his estates in the north …’

‘But?’

‘But the situation in Judaea means that Syria is also vulnerable. It would only take one small spark for the rebellion to spread. Therefore it is important that Syria is in safe military hands, and there are no safer military hands than General Corbulo’s.’

Nero nodded. ‘And what does my faithful Tigellinus advise?’

‘We wait and we watch. If General Corbulo does his duty and defends Rome’s and the Emperor’s interests, all well and good. If he were to overstep the mark, however …’

The Emperor stared from the window overlooking the luscious parkland, its vivid greenery nourished by the blackened bones of a thousand plebeians still lying in the burned-out ashes of their homes. Not Corbulo. Never Corbulo. But then Tigellinus had never been wrong before. So they would wait, and watch.

‘Very well, see to it and keep me informed.’

Tigellinus saluted and walked from the room. The first piece was in place.

VII

‘SAIL TO THE
north!’

At the sharp cry, Aurelius followed the lookout’s pointing finger to where a faint strip of cream could be seen between swells on the far horizon. ‘Julius,’ the captain shouted. ‘You’ve got the sharpest eyes. Get up the mast and tell me what you see.’

While they waited for the man’s report, Valerius strapped on his sword and joined Aurelius at the ship’s side. He noted with approval that Tiberius already had his men in full armour. Serpentius emerged from the hold where he’d been checking the horses to join the young tribune and the four cavalry troopers. It was early morning on the second day since they’d left Creta. The ship had called at the port of Hersonnisos to take on a cargo of timber and the island’s olive oil, which was said to be the best in the Mare Nostrum and would sell for a good price in Antioch or Alexandria. They’d said farewell to their escort there and when the galleys left it felt as if they were losing an old friend.

Aurelius nodded when he saw the swords. ‘Good. No need for concern yet, but best to be ready. Julius?’

‘A small ship under full sail, could be a galley or a fishing boat,’ the sailor guessed. ‘Wait! I see regular flashes of white at her sides. A galley, under oars and making good speed on a course to intercept.’

‘Anything else?’ Valerius noted that the captain’s voice had lost some of its customary assurance.

The lookout strained his eyes towards the tiny speck almost lost in a vast undulating carpet of azure. Julius thought he’d done well enough to mark the splash of the oars. But when he looked again there
was
something he’d missed: a flash of colour at the head of the other ship’s mast. ‘Looks like she’s running some sort of signal?’

Aurelius jumped for the mast and, with surprising agility for such a big man, scrambled up to the main spar.

‘Could it be one of the escort galleys with a message for us?’ Valerius shouted.

‘They should be halfway back to Misenum by now.’ The captain didn’t hesitate. ‘Turn due south and run before the wind,’ he shouted to the steersman.

When he returned to the deck he called Valerius to the stern. ‘Pirates.’ He spat over the side.

Valerius’s hand automatically went to his sword, but Aurelius smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

‘There’ll be time yet for that, tribune.’ He studied the sky to the north, where a few puffy white clouds had gathered. ‘She’s a scout, not one of their big fighting galleys, which gives us a good chance of outrunning her; outfighting her too, if her plundering bastard of a captain wants to push his luck. We’ll give it an hour before we turn northeast again. That should still allow us a chance of making landfall on Cyprus before dark. It looks like we might be in for a bit of a blow, which will suit us better than her, because she carries less sail and she’s lower in the water.’

‘I thought we had got rid of the pirates along the Cilician coast long ago?’

Aurelius laughed bitterly. ‘Just because they’ve disappeared doesn’t mean they’ve been defeated. They can’t take on the big grain convoys and most single merchants aren’t worth their while, so when the navy raided their ports, crucified the most prominent captains and burned a few of their ships they simply vanished, like smoke. It doesn’t take a great deal of effort to turn a pirate galley into a coastal trader and
most
of the pirates were as much merchants as they were thieves and murderers. But if a juicy target lands in their lap …’ The seaman glanced towards Domitia’s pavilion.