Defender of Rome (8 page)

X

THE MESSAGE CONTAINED
a time, a place, and a name. Valerius drew breath when he recognized the name. Why should he be surprised? They hadn’t set eyes on each other for at least ten years, but this was a man who had spent more than a decade at the very heart of the Empire, close enough to hear every beat.

Should he go? What did he have to gain? Or lose? The meeting place was convenient enough for his purposes, but they had never been friends. Their short relationship had been closer to master and servant. He remembered feeling used at yet another demand to fetch water from the well or recite from memory a complex argument by Apollodorus of Seleucia, or one of a dozen other wordy, overblown Stoic texts. But he had learned. His mind had quickened and his grasp and understanding of the subjects had grown with each passing day he spent in the great man’s presence. Great? Seneca hadn’t been great then. A few slaves, most of them spying for the Emperor. A trusted servant who no doubt betrayed him to his enemies. His ‘villa’ had been a run-down Corsican chicken farm and the fine court clothes he affected were worn and patched by the time Valerius had been sent to him. Exile had cracked him like one of the eggs his hens laid among the vines, but it had never broken him. Seneca consoled himself with his studies and his teachings and the letters he wrote to his mother, and ignored the heat and the filth.

Strange that a life devoted to logic and forbearance should have been almost destroyed by such an enormous capacity for human recklessness. The irresponsibility which had brought him into conflict with Caligula was bordering on suicidal. A woman had been the cause of it. That folly might have been forgiven, but to argue semantics with an Emperor who thought himself the new Aristotle was perhaps pushing Stoicism beyond its acceptable limits. Caligula’s acerbic dismissal of Seneca’s writings as ‘lime without sand’ had been more painful even than the threat of execution. And how could a man who had fought so hard to resuscitate his career throw everything away for a second time by conducting a flagrant, pointless affair with his new Emperor’s niece? Even benign old Claudius couldn’t allow that to go unpunished. Seneca had been fortunate to escape with nine years’ misery in exile. It had been Agrippina who finally recalled him and saved him from madness, and had entrusted him with her son’s education. His genius had made him first indispensable and then a liability. He was finished, but he didn’t seem to know it. And that made him doubly dangerous.

Of course, there was another possibility. It could be a trap. Valerius smiled at the thought. Proximity to the Emperor was making him paranoid. The writing was in the same firm, controlled hand he remembered.

But why now? This was no invitation to a pleasant afternoon of philosophical debate and discussion. The whole tenor of the note and the way it had been delivered was designed to intrigue him. It was the bait thrown to a hungry carp in a stew pond. Yet the bait was so blatantly presented that there was no disguising it could also be an invitation to put his neck on the executioner’s block.

So he should be suspicious, and he was suspicious, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take the bait.

He went through the arrangements in his mind, aware that the dangers ahead could be as great as anything he had faced in Britain. When he answered Nero’s commission he had laid aside the cosy trappings of civilian life to become a soldier again. He just wasn’t sure yet what he was fighting for.

Valerius rode out early next day through the valley between the Quirinal and Viminal hills and then up on to the Via Salaria, with the winding course of the Tiber away to his left. In the relative cool of the morning even the streets of the Subura proved bearable and once he was in sight of the massive red brick Praetorian barracks he was able to enjoy the prospect of the open road ahead.

Fidenae lay only six miles beyond the city walls, but his father’s estate was tucked in a valley a further three miles to the west of the town, a sprawling untidy mix of vine and olives around a villa that had once been fine but, like the estate, suffered from lack of investment. Still, it would take him only two hours at most and it would be good to see the old man again. Perhaps this time he could persuade him to visit Olivia. The road was one of the oldest in the Empire, the route the Sabines had once used to fetch salt from the Tiber marshes, and later in the day it would be busy with people travelling to and from the city. As he rode past the first of the tombs lining the highway the air grew warmer and he allowed his senses to be lulled by the low buzz of insects, the bittersweet scent of horse sweat and the murmur of the wind in the roadside trees.

It must have been close to the third hour when he reached the gateway to the estate. He experienced a strange sense of wellbeing as he rode beneath the stone arch. This was truly home, though he hadn’t called it that for years; the place where he had spent his childhood, carefree and safe among the hills and the streams. Twelve years earlier he’d been sent away to study, first under Seneca and then in Rome. Apart from a single short visit before he joined the Twentieth, and his mother’s funeral, he hadn’t been back since. He spotted a slave boy in a ragged tunic sprinting through the vines on the ridge above the dirt road and smiled: once
he
would have been on watch up there.

By the time he turned the corner and saw the familiar low outline of the villa, an elderly man with lined, careworn features and straggling grey hair was waiting to welcome him with a jug of water and part of a loaf. Despite his years, the old servant’s limpid eyes were still sharp and they lit up when they recognized Valerius.

‘Granta,’ the young Roman shouted. ‘You haven’t aged a day.’ He slid from the horse and ran to his father’s long-suffering freedman, stopping short when he remembered he was no longer a child and couldn’t greet him with a hug. They studied each other for a few moments.

‘You have grown into a fine young man, master Valerius.’ Granta’s voice, which could tear a hole in a barn wall if he found a slave shirking, shook with emotion. ‘We were so proud when we heard about your great honour.’ The old man was smiling, but Valerius noticed the familiar shadow that never seemed to be far away whenever he met an old friend. Britain had marked him as surely as if the Iceni had pressed a slave brand against his skin. He saw Granta eyeing his wooden hand.

‘Even better than the old one.’ He grinned and pulled back his sleeve to show the carved fist attached to the leather socket that sheathed his arm. ‘It can hold a shield or a cup, as long as it’s not one of your best, but it can’t get up to mischief.’ Granta laughed, grateful to have the delicate subject out of the way. Valerius took a drink from the cup and a bite from the bread. ‘Is my father home?’

The smile stayed in place, but Granta shifted uneasily. ‘He has been out tending the olive trees on the north slope since dawn. I was about to send a slave to him with bread and oil when you arrived.’

‘Then I’ll take it, and surprise him.’ He saw a shadow cross the old man’s face and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it will be a gentle surprise. I’ll make sure he doesn’t have a seizure.’

Granta wondered politely whether he wouldn’t prefer a bath to wash off the dust, but Valerius insisted and a young slave brought him a leather waterskin and a parcel made up with vine leaves. Before he set off, he removed his sandals to enjoy the warm earth between his toes, but he hadn’t gone far before the memory of the big black scorpions he once trapped here made him tread more warily. And, if he was honest with himself, that wasn’t the only recollection that invoked a prickle of fear. Life on the estate hadn’t always been idyllic. His father had brought him up by an aristocratic code which dictated that any deviation must be punished with the rod. He had sometimes hated the old man for it but, as an adult, he wondered just what it had cost Lucius to make him suffer.

The walk from the villa to the north slope took twenty minutes and he was sweating lightly by the time he reached there. He knew he was getting close when the neat rows of vines were replaced by gnarled olive trees his family had cultivated for generations. The warm, scented air tasted fresh and pure and for the first time he felt able to banish thoughts of Nero’s vile kiss. At least here, among the shades of his ancestors, he could feel clean. But he couldn’t forget everything. Seneca’s estate lay on the other side of this hill and once more he pondered the philosopher’s motives. Seneca had always been a leader, not a follower, and had developed his own, flexible theory of self-determination. Virtue might be sufficient for happiness, as he had preached, but survival was another critical factor. How happy could a dead man be? The same logic told Valerius that Seneca had seen a way out of his predicament and the only reason for the meeting was because he, Valerius, had something Seneca needed or wanted.

A flash of blue against the dusty green of the close-ranked trees drew his attention and he smiled. He doubted whether his father had ever worn anything so vivid even in the days when he was close to Emperor Tiberius. Lucius must have brought someone to help him with his inspection. In a way, it was a surprise to find him out here at all. His father had never been a man of the soil. Running the family estate was an obligation, but the task of working it could safely be left to his freedmen and his slaves. Yet here he was, rising at cockcrow and getting his hands dirty.

As he approached, the blue turned out to be turquoise and belonged to a skirt whose owner was part hidden behind a tree. Valerius saw no sign of his father, but he could make out the low drone of a man’s voice. The twisted olive trunks and low branches disguised his approach until he was a few paces away. He saw the girl in the instant she saw him. Long black hair, a pair of frightened brown eyes and a sharp gasp as her hand flew to her mouth. She sat at the base of a tree with her legs half tucked beneath her and the skirt draped decorously around. His eyes were drawn to the high breasts that quivered beneath her shift and he smiled to show she had nothing to fear. He turned to face his father.

Lucius stood directly across from the girl. Valerius had intended to surprise the old man, so a little shock might have been expected, but not the anguish that was written plain across his face, nor the ferocity of a man ready to kill to protect whatever terrible secret he’d been discovered in. A pruning knife lay at the old man’s feet and Valerius realized he was fortunate it hadn’t been in his father’s hand.

‘Father?’ He grinned uncertainly. ‘I brought you food.’

After a moment’s hesitation the old man’s face slowly crumpled and the fire vanished from his eyes. Lucius stumbled forward to take Valerius in his arms, then stepped back to stare in a kind of wonder at the wooden hand.

‘I am responsible for that. I sent you there.’ Valerius shook his head, but Lucius smiled sadly. ‘No, do not deny it, we both know it is true. But I swear here and now that I will repay this debt before the end.’

The girl had taken herself out of earshot and now sat a few yards away, her head bowed and her face concealed behind the dark veil of her hair. She was younger than Valerius had thought, probably no more than seventeen.

‘Ruth,’ his father called. ‘You should go back and help in the kitchen.’

She rose with a dancer’s grace, and, still without looking at Valerius, walked off down the slope.

Lucius’s eyes followed her swaying back and his face radiated a kind of awkward, bemused contentment. With a shock Valerius understood the reason for his father’s reaction. Surely it wasn’t possible? He was ancient: in his sixties. The girl could be his daughter. His
granddaughter
. And she was a slave. Lucius, the defender of all things moral, who would have damned another man for even thinking such a thing? Yet what else could explain his earlier defensiveness? And he
had
changed. Already Valerius had seen that Lucius was more at ease with himself than he had ever been.

‘She is very pretty,’ he said.

‘She is just a slave,’ Lucius replied in a tone that invited no further conversation.

Valerius leaned back against a tree. If his father wanted to believe no one knew, he was happy to go along with it. But it was just as well he’d found out. Ruth
was
pretty. And desirable in a wholesome, vulnerable way. If he hadn’t been aware of his father’s feelings he might have invited her into his bed. He pushed the thought aside and returned to the reason for his visit. ‘You should see Olivia.’

Lucius frowned. In the past he would have rejected the suggestion outright. Now, Valerius was heartened to see, he was prepared to consider it. But the old man would not give in easily.

‘She shamed me,’ he grumbled. ‘She should have accepted my choice of husband. A woman’s duty is to obey her father.’

‘You made the wrong choice.’ Valerius’s words had no force behind them; this was a subject they had argued to the bones.

‘Perhaps, but still …’

‘You are always welcome. She has been asking for you.’

‘I will think on it.’

Valerius turned the subject back to the estate and they walked together through the olive trees, commenting on this one or that. Did it need pruning? Was it too old to provide the best quality oil? Lucius complained about dwindling profits, but hinted that a solution was in hand. Twice on the way back to the villa Valerius had the feeling that his father had something important to say to him. Twice the moment passed.

‘Will you stay the night?’ the old man asked. ‘Granta and Cronus would enjoy your company – as I would.’

‘I cannot. I have an appointment … with Seneca.’

A shadow fell over Lucius’s eyes. ‘Be very careful, Valerius.’

XI

THE VILLA OF
Lucius Annaeus Seneca filled the mouth of the valley: a great stucco palace bordering three sides of a landscaped garden that would comfortably have held the tents and horse lines of a legion. And the main part of the complex, the building that faced Valerius as he approached, was as deep as it was wide, extending back to the hills two hundred paces beyond. In the foreground peacocks and tiny antelopes the size of terriers grazed the irrigated lawns and nipped the heads from flowers beginning to wilt in the heat.

His host waited for him in the shade of the colonnaded portico. Seneca looked relaxed, overweight and successful, his fingers weighed down by gold rings and his puffy, heavily jowled face saved from being ugly by a strong nose and shining grey eyes that radiated benevolent intelligence. The only sign of anxiety was in the hand he ran across the mottled skin of his bald head as he beamed a welcome.

‘Valerius, my boy, it has been much too long. Let me see you now. By the gods, you have become a man, and what a man. Those shoulders, that chest. You exercise every day? Of course you do. And the hand?’ Valerius lifted the walnut fist so Seneca could see it clearly. ‘A masterpiece. You have been through the fire, and it is the fire that makes us who we are.’ Valerius had witnessed a law court hushed by the sound of Seneca’s voice addressing a crowd from the rostra sixty paces away, but in conversation the philosopher was softly spoken, almost mellow in tone.

‘I’m glad to see you well, master Seneca.’

Seneca laughed, but for the first time Valerius detected a hint of bitterness. ‘I am no longer your master, Valerius. I am no man’s master, perhaps not even my own.’ He brightened again. ‘You have been to visit your father? Of course. A son’s first duty is to his family and you were always a dutiful son.’

Valerius felt as if he was swimming against a tidal wave of flattery and fought back with a little of his own. ‘You have a fine house, sir, and a wonderful estate.’

‘And I am forgetting my manners. Please come inside.’ Seneca led him through a large vestibule and across a broad inner courtyard, striding out like a man ten years younger and talking as he went. ‘
They
say I am too rich.’ He didn’t identify who
they
were, but Valerius knew Torquatus would be among them. ‘
They
say I could not afford this if I had not been stealing from the Emperor’s purse. What do
they
know of Lucius Annaeus Seneca? For the first time in Rome’s history is a man to be condemned for being successful? I have lived each minute of my life in the pursuit of profit or contentment, and sometimes the two are not exclusive, though both, I grant you, can be difficult to come by.’

They reached a room with large windows and walls painted in imitation of the gardens outside. Seneca lay on one couch and Valerius sat opposite him. The philosopher studied him seriously.

‘There is a sickness in the air, a political sickness that could very well be fatal. I do not intend you to catch it, Valerius, though you may feel I have exposed you to its vapours by bringing you here. In this room we may speak freely; the acoustics are poor and, as you see, the nearest doorway far enough away to keep the slaves honest. You have been clever, as I intended you to be. A young man visits his father’s estate and makes a neighbourly call upon his former tutor. Is it not natural? Your presence will be reported, certainly – they have six spies in my household that I know of and who knows how many that I do not – but I doubt it will arouse suspicions, and if it does, I believe you are agile enough to allay them.’

Valerius found himself caught between admiration of Seneca’s cunning in trapping him in the quicksand of whatever plot he was hatching, and alarm at the knowledge that he was already up to his neck and sinking fast. Clearly, if he refused the proposition about to be made it would take only a single word in the right ear to condemn him. Yet he had always known it would be this way. Implicit in his decision to come was trust in the philosopher’s judgement and faith in his integrity. He would give Seneca the truth.

‘The Emperor has charged me with investigating a group of Judaean agitators he believes are plotting against Rome who he fears have infiltrated the highest levels of government.’

Seneca nodded gravely. ‘I am aware of your assignment. Indeed, it was I who instigated it.’ He saw Valerius’s confusion. ‘Oh yes, Valerius, I am not yet without influence. Torquatus thinks the suggestion was his, but it was I who sowed the seed. It has placed you in a position to do both your Emperor and your friends a great service.’

For a moment the words lay between them like pieces on a gaming board, but Valerius was still reluctant to make the decisive move. ‘I don’t understand. Why me?’ The question echoed the one he had asked Torquatus a day earlier. To his surprise, so did the answer.

His host gave a sigh that would have been more at home on a stage. ‘I could tell you that you are brave, that you are wise and that you have a mind that is never satisfied with the first solution it finds, and all that would be true. But the real answer is simpler: I trust you.’ Seneca rose and his voice changed as he began to pace the room. Now again Valerius saw Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the statesman. ‘Do you love Rome, Valerius? More important, do you
believe
in Rome? Of course you do. The blood of men who lived and died for Rome runs in your veins. You are the son of a man who once risked everything for Rome.’ Valerius struggled to justify this vision of his father, but Seneca was no longer speaking to him, he was speaking to the Empire. ‘Rome is an invalid tottering on the brink of the abyss, and evil men are gathering to push her over the edge into chaos, depravity and, ultimately, a carnage that will consume her. Rome’s Emperor is not strong enough to stand in their way. He must have help. Nero cannot rule alone, Valerius; he is no Caesar or Augustus. He was fated to rule, but he needs a guiding hand; a firm, honest hand to steer him in the direction that is best for his people. Without that hand he will always be the servant of his urges and the servant of those who provide the means to satisfy those urges. He will shift with each changing wind and with each shift he will become less of an Emperor. With every passing hour it becomes more difficult to return him to the true path and the path that could lead him to true greatness. The followers of Christus are a danger to Rome, but Torquatus and the band of degenerates he cultivates are a greater danger still. As long as I breathe I will never plot against the Emperor, but I
will
fight to return to his side, and you, Valerius, can place me there. I will help you find the man known as the Rock of Christus and you will deliver him to me and help me discredit Torquatus and his gang. Together, Valerius, we will save Rome.’

Valerius stared at him. He knew the speech was calculated to appeal to Gaius Valerius Verrens, tribune of the Twentieth: a call to arms designed to stir a soldier’s blood on the eve of battle. He wasn’t blind. He saw through Seneca the statesman to Seneca the actor. But somehow that didn’t matter. His blood
was
stirred and he
was
ready for battle. Now, at least, he knew what he was fighting for.

He didn’t need to speak. Seneca saw the impact of his words. He nodded. ‘In every life there comes a moment to choose, Valerius. You will never regret the choice you have just made.’

‘Tell me about Christus’s Rock.’

Seneca made him wait. He called for servants to bring food and it was only after they had completed their meal that they resumed their discussion.

‘It is impossible to tell the story of the Rock without telling the story of Christus. When did it begin? Was it the moment he was born, or the moment he died, or somewhere in between? You will hear that Christus was a mystic, an insurrectionist, a teacher or a criminal, but I think the truth is that he was a mixture of them all. He came, without education or wealth, from an obscure Galilean village, but within two years he had gathered men who had both to his side. Oh, they will tell you that he had made a vow of poverty, but no man could have achieved what Christus did without substantial resources. How else could he have retained what became a small army of followers? He claimed he was the son of God and to each man he gave a reason to believe. He is said to have carried out miracles, all of which can be disputed, but none of which can be entirely disproved. So why did they follow him? Why did they believe him? Because he offered them the chance to live for ever. Eternal life was in his gift and that of his father.’ Seneca shook his head at the absurdity of it. ‘The Judaeans hated and feared him because he cast doubt upon their own religion. Eventually they persuaded the governor that he was as much a danger to Rome as he was to Jerusalem and Pilatus ordered him crucified. Pilatus was foolish. Left alive, Christus would have become a figure of ridicule, a simpleton who promised everything but delivered nothing.’

Valerius nodded, but one question intrigued him. ‘And how was a person to be guaranteed eternal life?’

Seneca smiled. ‘That was the genius of Christus. First, a man had to earn the right to immortality by his deeds during his own life, deeds determined by the teachings of Christus. Second, he would come to eternal life only after he died. You see the wonderful paradox? One had to die to live for ever, and only after death would one know one had achieved it.’

‘And this Rock is a believer in such foolishness?’

‘The Rock, Simon Petrus, was the first of Christus’s followers, another Galilean, though Torquatus chooses to band him with Rome’s Judaeans; a simple fisherman hypnotized by the words of a cleverer man. He followed him to Jerusalem, saw him die there and’ – Seneca snorted his disbelief – ‘claims he saw him rise again.’

Valerius wasn’t so certain. ‘It’s not impossible,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ve seen men lying on the battlefield who looked as if they were dead and thought they were dead, who rose up to have supper with their comrades. Most of them died later from their wounds, but still, a man can be difficult to kill. Simon Petrus?’

‘Simon is his given name. Petrus, the Rock, is the title Christus awarded him for his loyalty. Many lost their enthusiasm for the teachings of Christus after he was tried and crucified, but Petrus continues to spread his message. When the authorities in Jerusalem made life difficult for him he moved on to Antioch, and now to Rome, where he calls himself bishop, but wields no power and has little influence except among his closest followers.’

‘Then why is he so dangerous?’

‘Because he is a master of deception and because of the message he preaches, which denies the authority of the Emperor. Because those he now targets are Roman citizens with the power to influence other Roman citizens, even those in the Senate. Petrus is a dangerous man who gathers other dangerous men to him. If Petrus has his way the only god in Rome will be the God of Christus. He would wipe away the very foundations of our society. I am not a religious man, Valerius, but I fear this Petrus.’

Valerius studied the figure across from him. Why did he feel this prickle of unease? ‘So Petrus is the most dangerous man in Rome. A shadow who has denied the Praetorians for months, it seems. Yet Lucius Annaeus Seneca, confined to his humble home in the hills, appears to know everything about him. You have his name. Perhaps you can tell me where he lives and who he meets, or even give me his description?’

Seneca’s ringed fingers stroked his head. ‘You are suspicious, and so you should be. We are swimming in dangerous waters, you and I, and it is right that we should understand each other fully. It is well known that I have maintained contacts in the east since my days in Aegyptus. While I had Nero’s confidence I wielded a power you would not imagine, and that power allowed me to expand those contacts still further. You will admit I am a man of some little talent?’ The false modesty made Valerius laugh, as it was intended to. ‘Then put your trust in me, Valerius, as I put my trust in you.

‘Petrus is in his sixty-third year, of medium height with the strong features typical of the easterner. He wears a full beard, not to mask them, but because it is his custom. He walks with a slight limp, and he has a reputation as a healer. You will know him when you look into his eyes.’ He raised a hand. ‘No, I can explain no further. You will understand when the time comes.’

Valerius somehow kept his face emotionless. ‘If I have news, how can I get word to you?’

‘I will have a man watch your house. Place a lamp in the window above your door at dusk. That will be a signal for a meeting at noon the following day at the north corner of the Castra Peregrina.’

Now it was Valerius’s turn to frown.

‘Where better for two conspirators to meet than on the doorstep of a nest of spies?’ Seneca chuckled at his own genius. The Castra Peregrina, as its name implied, was the base for foreign soldiers posted to duties in Rome, but also the headquarters of the Emperor’s
frumentarii
, messengers who often acted as the Emperor’s spies, occasionally as his assassins. Seneca saw that Valerius wasn’t convinced. ‘If you wish we can appoint another meeting place?’

Valerius shook his head. ‘No. One place is as good as another and the busier the better.’

‘The Emperor will demand a swift resolution, but despite what I have told you Petrus will not be an easy man to find,’ Seneca warned. ‘In six months Torquatus and Rodan have not even come close. Your investigation must be taken one step at a time. This will be your first step.’ He gave Valerius a name which surprised him. ‘You will wish to begin as soon as possible.’

Valerius knew when he was being dismissed. He had a dozen questions he would have liked to ask, but he doubted Seneca would answer any of them. They embraced as if they were father and son and as Valerius rode off towards the Via Salaria he pondered the astonishing name Seneca had given him.

And the biggest surprise of all: the description of Christus’s Rock, the man called Petrus, who sounded exactly like Joshua, the doctor in whom he had placed his faith.