Enemy of Rome (50 page)

‘Must be a big bastard,’ he heard Aprilis mutter as the ram struck again. ‘They didn’t even try to weaken the door with fire first. Steady, lads,’ he said to the men crammed into the narrow passageway. The front rank knelt with their spears angled up towards the doorway at groin height and Valerius pitied the first men through the door because those lethal pyramid-shaped points would thrust beneath a shield and condemn them to a terrible, lingering death. Behind the kneeling men Aprilis had placed two further lines of spearmen with their
pila
ready to throw. Any of the initial javelins that killed an enemy would be a bonus; his best hope was that they’d force the owners to abandon their shields and expose them to the second volley.

The next strike splintered the door and suddenly Valerius had no more time to think as a horde of howling figures threw themselves into the gap, their yells becoming all the shriller as Aprilis’s spears found their mark. In a heartbeat everything was a chaos of men ramming their shields at each other in the confined space and hacking at any exposed flesh, accompanied by the familiar disbelieving shrieks of the newly eviscerated. A man reeled past Valerius with his lower jaw hanging by a white shard of bone, the exposed tongue enormous below the dreadful staring eyes. Another slipped and was instantly pinned by a Flavian spear, leaving Valerius in the front rank. Swords hammered at his newly acquired shield and something hit his helmet with a clatter. The desperate fight reminded him of a seagoing slaughter to win a pirate galley, and he kept half an eye for the floor and the man who would stab a sword up into his vitals from below.

‘Hold the line and take a step back,’ Aprilis snarled throatily. Valerius followed the order, careful to maintain station with his neighbour and feeling the pressure momentarily relax in front of him. ‘Again. Now!’ As the defenders backed away past the first pair of doorways a flight of javelins swept from right and left to catch the attackers unawares, piercing neck and throat and bringing the assault to a stop for a precious moment.

‘Back to the stairs!’ Aprilis took advantage of the momentary pause. Valerius didn’t wait for a second invitation, sprinting to clamber up between the fresh men waiting to resume the defence. Two or three of Aprilis’s troopers were too slow, or perhaps they’d been injured, for their screams echoed in the cramped space as the blood-maddened attackers hacked them to bloody ruin. When they reached the narrow stairway the Flavians were met by a solid wall of shields two wide and four high, and from above a hail of spears arced down, hurled by Praetorians blessed with an inexhaustible supply. But this mixture of men from four or five legions who had converged on the armoury from all sides of the camp were undaunted by casualties. When one fell another took his place, clawing at the defenders’ shields, hauling them apart to leave their holders exposed to the spears and swords of the Flavians. With a roar of triumph the first pair of defenders were torn from their places and thrown to the blades behind to be finished off. Then the process began again three steps higher and still the unrelenting hail of spears punched men back, only for them to be replaced again and again. A second pair of shields fell, and a moment later the third, and now a whole host of Flavians launched themselves up the blood-slick stairway, forcing the last shield-bearers on to the spearmen behind. At the back of the room, Valerius recovered his breath among the little band of defenders clustered around Aprilis.

He heard the Praetorian reciting a prayer, and to his surprise the words were those of the Christian cult. Aprilis saw his look and smiled wryly, as if to say it didn’t matter now. Valerius closed his eyes for a second and muttered a prayer of his own, trying to fix Domitia’s face in his mind. Not long. Aprilis waited until the attackers were pressing the spearmen. ‘Now!’ He hurled his exhausted men into the fray in a compact wedge, aiming his point of attack to drive the attackers back on to the stairs. Valerius knew even before they struck that they were too few, and the mass of Flavians absorbed the counter-attack as dry soil absorbs a shower of rain. Snarling faces and flashing swords surrounded him and he had to use all his strength and skill just to stay alive. At the edge of his vision he saw Vulcan fall, his body pierced by a hurled javelin. Something smashed into the back of his helmet and he fell to his knees. Screaming defiance he just managed to bring his sword round to counter a slashing blow that would have taken his head off before someone kicked him in the face with an iron-shod
caliga
. The blow knocked him backwards with blood in his mouth and at least one tooth gone. Worse, he’d lost his sword. With the last of his strength he managed to drag the shield to protect his body from the blades already seeking him out. He had a fleeting glimpse of Aprilis’s agonized face as he was hauled across the wooden floor with swords hacking at his torso before the shield above him began to splinter and he screamed as something caught him a glancing blow on the knee. Somehow he thrust himself up, only to be pushed back, staggering against the wall with the remains of the shield ripped away. He raised his arms in a futile bid to keep the swords at bay.

‘No!’ A snarling centurion thrust himself between Valerius and the blades that sought him out. The one-handed Roman froze in disbelief, his breath a searing pain his chest, and his heart caught between beats. Gaius Brocchus turned with an almost serene smile of triumph. ‘No quick death for this man,’ he ordered his bemused legionaries. ‘A spy and a traitor, isn’t it, tribune? A stinking coward who played both sides against the middle.’ He grinned, showing the sharpened teeth, and Valerius shuddered. ‘Somebody’s going to want you to burn, pretty boy, and old Gaius is going to be there to watch.’

‘You are found guilty of treason against the state.’

A murmur rippled through the crowd in the Forum. Every man had heard the overwhelming evidence against Gaius Valerius Verrens, enemy of Rome. How he had conspired with Aulus Vitellius to incite a civil war. How he had encouraged the sack and burning of the great city of Cremona. How he had, by trickery and deceit, delayed and confused the movements of the army of General Marcus Antonius Primus. How he had personally led the attack which resulted in the destruction of the sacred Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, and how he had, with Aulus Vitellius, ordered the murder of Titus Flavius Sabinus, Prefect of Rome.

‘I will speak for you,’ Primus had said, when he visited Valerius in his cell in the
carcer
, ‘but I cannot protect you. You are entitled to a trial in the Senate by reason of your rank, but Domitianus says he will not defile its stones with your presence. Until his father arrives from Alexandria, he is the ruler of Rome, and he is determined that you shall die. I have never seen such malevolence.’ When it came to it, the evidence had been so conclusive that Primus had shaken his head and covered his face with his hands. Only Gaius Plinius Secundus had spoken up for Valerius.

Now, Domitianus’s malevolent eyes stared with satisfaction at the bound figure standing filthy and dishevelled in the space between the two rostra. Vespasian’s son sat on a dais in front of the Senate House, surrounded by Primus and the generals who had saved Rome from the predatory clutches of Aulus Vitellius. Valerius met his enemy’s eyes without flinching, unbowed despite his week-long incarceration and the certainty of death, determined to show no fear in front of the mob who crowded the steps of the temples and basilicas. He tried to ignore a right hand that throbbed as if it still existed, and the gash in his left knee that felt as if it was on fire. Domitia’s face swam into his head and he wondered where she was, or if she had even survived. His jailers had delighted in telling him how the Flavians had hunted Vitellius’s supporters through the streets and slaughtered them, urged on by those who had hailed him only days earlier. Surely Serpentius would have found a way to get word to him? Valerius had searched for the Spaniard among the crowds, but his ravaged features were nowhere to be seen.

Domitianus rose, his broad-striped toga hanging on his thin frame, and looking less like a ruler, however temporary, than a schoolboy making his first speech. He waited until the last whisper had faded and every eye was on him before he spoke. ‘There can be only one sentence for such outrages.’ He spoke in a high and grating voice that quivered with nervous energy, but it echoed in the silence and every man waited on his next words. ‘That sentence is death.’

If Domitianus expected a roar of approval, he was disappointed. In his plea for leniency, Pliny had skilfully made play of Valerius’s past military service, his gold crown of valour and status as a Hero of Rome. He had mentioned sacrifices, and every man could see the mottled stump of the condemned man’s right wrist, and the honourable scars he carried from his service in Africa and Parthia. The lawyer had also cast what shadows he could on the evidence, and not every man in the Forum was fully convinced of the accused’s guilt. Among the spectators were off-duty legionaries from the Seventh Galbiana and they formed little pockets of unease. Domitianus ignored them.

‘A traitor’s deeds deserve – demand – a traitor’s death. Gaius Valerius Verrens will be taken from this place to the Circus Maximus and crucified …’ A rumble went through the crowd at the dreaded word, the ugliest and most humiliating of deaths. A few men shouted ‘No’, but Domitianus continued with barely a hesitation. ‘… before the people of Rome he betrayed by his actions. He is hereby stripped of his rank, his lands and his possessions.’

Valerius waited until the sentence was complete before he spoke. He had walked hand in hand with death many times and did not fear it, but the means Domitianus had devised made him shudder. A quick end under the blade of an executioner’s sword or even a criminal’s at the end of a rope he had expected, but the cross?

‘Condemn me you may, Titus Flavius Domitianus.’ The shouted words echoed round the marble columns of the Forum in a voice powerful enough for all to hear. ‘And kill me you may, but I will not bear being called a traitor in silence.’

Domitianus waved a hand to the nearest guard and the soldier raised his club, but a voice called out, ‘No, let him speak.’ The cry was taken up by others, till hundreds echoed the demand. Domitianus glared at them, but he waved the guard away.

‘Very well, the traitor may speak,’ he ground out, ‘but know that words will not save him.’

‘Everything I did, I did for Rome,’ Valerius continued. ‘When Marcus Salvius Otho sent me as emissary to Aulus Vitellius I went willingly, because I believed I could persuade him from war.’ He shook his head. ‘I was wrong. A shift was under way that no one man, not even Vitellius himself, could halt. So I took up arms against my old friend and I was proud to fight beside the First Adiutrix at Bedriacum. Was that the act of a traitor? You have been told that Vitellius deliberately freed me to spy on Marcus Antonius Primus, and that I attempted to delay him. I am no spy, but it was Titus Flavius Vespasian’s wish that Primus should wait, and the general himself would tell you that if only he would speak.’ Primus glanced nervously at Domitianus, but he stayed in his seat. ‘It was Marcus Antonius Primus who sent me to Rome to persuade Aulus Vitellius to surrender and save needless bloodshed, and his plan would have succeeded if one man,’ he let his eyes settle on Domitianus, ‘just one man, had had the courage to step forward and accept the sword of Caesar from his hand. When Rome needed a hero, those who could have saved her instead fled to the Temple of Jupiter and left her to her fate.’ The speech seemed to have drained the strength from him, and Domitianus gave a thin smile as his enemy’s head dropped. But Valerius drew a long breath and his chin came up as he somehow found the will to continue. ‘Perhaps I deserve to die for what happened in the sacred precincts of the temple, though neither I, nor any other, knows who cast the fateful brand. And for taking up arms against my former comrades. But I am no traitor. I swear it on the life and honour of Gaius Valerius Verrens.’

‘Condemned from his own mouth.’ Domitianus couldn’t suppress a sneer. ‘Let the sentence be carried out.’

Valerius made no attempt to resist as they came forward to bind him. He tried to put what was to come out of his mind, looking over the heads of the crowd to where a procession of men on horseback were approaching down the Argiletum. The leader wore a breastplate worked with gold and the glittering plumed helmet of a Roman general. His old enemy Gaius Licinius Mucianus had come to watch him die.

Mucianus forced his horse through the crowd to the dais and dismounted, throwing the reins to one of the guards. Primus darted a look of alarm as his rival approached Domitianus and saluted, earning a wary nod of recognition in return.

‘I bring greetings from your father, the Emperor,’ the general announced, ‘and from your brother Titus. Your father sends word that he will return to Rome once his business in Judaea is completed and you have had sufficient time to arrange an appropriate welcome for him. He confirms your position in sole charge of the city as acting Prefect of Rome.’ He turned to survey the scene around him as if noticing the thronged Forum for the first time. ‘What is happening here?’

‘Your timing is good.’ Domitianus smiled. ‘I am having this criminal put to death. You will no doubt enjoy the spectacle.’

Mucianus studied the prisoner and frowned as he recognized Valerius. ‘My timing is indeed propitious.’ He turned to an aide and the tribune ran forward with an open scroll. ‘I carry a pardon for this man signed by the Emperor himself.’ He handed the scroll to Domitianus. The newly appointed Prefect of Rome took it with shaking fingers, and when he came to the end of the document he raised his head with a look of puzzled amusement.

‘But this is a pardon for a previous sentence of death, for cowardice in the face of the enemy.’ He laughed. ‘The Senate has convicted Gaius Valerius Verrens on the most vile charges of treason and I have just sentenced the traitor to death by crucifixion.’ The sallow face creased into what he obviously believed was a benevolent smile. ‘However, in recognition of my father’s regard for the man’s past service, I hereby commute the sentence to a merciful beheading. Send for the executioner.’