Rome: The Emperor's Spy: Rome 1
Rome is burning. Only one man can save it.
The Emperor:
Nero, Emperor of Rome and all her provinces, feared by his subjects for his temper and cruelty, is in possession of an ancient document predicting that Rome will burn.
The Spy:
Sebastos Pantera, assassin and spy for the Roman Legions, is ordered to stop the impending cataclysm. He knows that if he does not, his life – and those of thousands of others – are in terrible danger.
The Chariot Boy:
Math, a young charioteer, is a pawn drawn into the deadly game between the Emperor and the Spy, where death stalks the drivers – on the track and off it.
ONTENTS
I: Coriallum, Northern Gaul, Late Summer,
AD
63
In the Reign of the Emperor Nero
II: Alexandria, Late Spring,
AD
64
In the Reign of the Emperor Nero
III: Rome and Antium, 17–19 July,
AD
64
T
HE
E
MPEROR
’
S
S
PY
M.C. Scott
For Hannah, Bethany and Naomi, with love
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks, as ever, to the entire team at Transworld, particularly Bill Scott-Kerr for inspired support and for saying in meetings those things an author most wants to hear; to the editorial team, notably Deborah and Nancy; to Gavin for IT; to Patsy for stepping once more into the breach; and especially to my editor Selina Walker, for the skill, sensitivity and unswerving dedication with which she takes the raw ore of a first draft and hones it to the book I was trying to write.
Thanks also to my agent, Jane Judd, for calm, considered unconditional support, always; and to my partner, Faith, for being all that she is and for being there. And last, thanks to Inca, who died as this novel was being put to bed: none of this would have happened without her.
The fact is, that the close of this fourth millennium coincides with a Phoenix Year. As you know, the residue of hours of the solar year that exceed three hundred and sixty-five days add up every 1460 years to an entire year, which in Egypt is called the Phoenix Year . . . for then the Celestial Bird is consumed upon his palm-tree pure at On-Heliopolis and from his ashes rises the new Phoenix.
Robert Graves,
King Jesus
When the matricide reigns in Rome,
Then ends the race of Aeneas.
Sibylline prophecy current in the reign of Nero
ROLOGUE
Jerusalem in the Reign of the Emperor Tiberius
S
ebastos Abdes Pantera was twelve years old and nearly a man on the night he discovered that his father was a traitor.
It was spring, the bright time of flowers, and Passover, the time of celebration, sacrifice and riots. Every year, teams of priests worked without cease from sunrise to sunset, cutting the throats of countless thousands of lambs in the temple.
Every year, the multitudes of the faithful gathered to eat those lambs in memory of the angel of death who passed over their houses, striking down the firstborn of Egypt.
Every year, the Roman prefect cancelled all leave amongst his legions and set guards about the hot, dry city, packed to capacity with the hot, dry pride of a conquered people.
Through the nights of unleavened bread, conquerors and conquered waited alike for a spark bright enough to light the ultimate, uncontainable riot that would see the legions let loose and the streets run rivers of blood. It had not happened yet.
In a private garden beyond the city gates, the sounds of celebration were the muffled roar of a storm not yet broken. The air was heavy with the scent of almond blossom, lilies, crushed camphire and blood. A hot wind rent the trees, raining petals to the earth. It did not move the sullen clouds that marred the sky.
Crouching alone in the dark beneath the nut trees, Sebastos heard the approach and retreat of a watch-guard’s feet. He shut out all other noises, and made himself listen only to the soft clash of leather and metal on the path.
Before the second circuit, he knew that the nails of the guard’s right sandal had worn thin on the inside heel, and knew thereby that it was his father, best of all men, who strode alone in the leaden dark.
Julius Tiberius Abdes Pantera, decurion of the first wing of the first company of archers stationed in Judaea under the direct command of the prefect, may have got his son as a bastard on a Gaulish slave-woman, but none the less, Sebastos knew himself to be the child of a true soldier.
Since the day he could first walk, his father had taught him the secrets of the archer’s craft and had instilled with it, as the food and drink of his son’s young life, the twin bedrocks by which a soldier measured his own worth.
First of these was his absolute loyalty to his commander: a true legionary obeyed every order immediately and without question. Second, stemming from the first, was the unblemished virtue of his own honour which required that he always bring respect and dignity to his position.
Honour was everything. Sebastos lived to seem honourable in his father’s eyes and by now he knew how to do that. As he had been taught, he made himself explore his surroundings with his fingertips, discovering by touch the nature and size of any obstacles that might hinder or help his progress. In doing so, he kept his mind well away from the terrifying cloud above his head. All night, it had smothered the moon and stars and seemed likely at any moment to fall and smother him.
He had mentioned the cloud to his father in the afternoon, before the summons came to guard the tomb. In day’s safe light, his father had ruffled his hair and laughed and said that only a true Gaul feared the sky would fall on his head.
There had been a tremor in his voice and Sebastos had hoped that it grew from pride that the only son of an Alexandrian archer should take so truly after the barbarian tribes of his mother’s people, rather than from shame for that same thing.
Later, lying alone in the dark, yearning for the cloud to leave, Sebastos had realized that it had nothing to do with pride, and everything to do with grief – that his father still mourned his mother and Sebastos hadn’t thought to comfort him.
What kind of boy forgets the source of his father’s pain? Shame at his own stupidity had goaded him from his bed and up the hill, skirting the walls of the city to reach the gated garden on the slope with its many scented flowers and the trail of blood leading up to the tomb. Here, where his father marched alone, he had a chance to undo his mistake.
A thistle grew sharp behind Sebastos’ left foot. An ageing pomegranate guarded his right shoulder. To his left, a bed of kitchen herbs spiced the hot air. Beyond that, the path curved snake-like up the hill. Clouds loomed over, threateningly full.
His father reached the first row of almonds. The sound of his tread paused a moment, before beginning the march back up the slope. The watch-fire’s red glow caught him as he turned, casting his outline in proud silhouette.
Sebastos grinned. A fierce joy lifted the threat of the falling sky. Swift as the great spotted cat for which he was named, he slid out from under the almonds and ran through the dark towards his father.
‘Pantera?’
Sebastos cannoned to a halt, balanced on one foot. The call came from his left, down the path, less than a bow’s shot away. The voice was a woman’s, like his mother’s, but lacking her Gaulish accent.
Sebastos’ left hand found a wall of cool rock to lean on. He stood in the darkest of the dark and held his breath. His father, too, had stopped, but – unaccountably – did not challenge the incomer. Instead, he raised his fingers to his lips and gave a short, low whistle.
No answering call came back. Instead, from lower down the path, a whispering flame danced closer, and stronger, until it lit the woman and two men who brought it.
‘Julius. Thank you.’
The woman who stepped forward was his mother’s age, but under the kind blaze of the torch her face was smooth, her cheeks were clear, and her eyes were bright. Sebastos thought she had been weeping, and was close to it again.
His father was not weeping. His face had softened in a way the boy had not seen in six months.
‘Mariamne.’
Stepping into the puddle of light, Pantera spoke the tenderest, dearest form of the name, which a man might use only for his wife, or his daughter, or his sister. He raised a hand as if to touch the woman’s face and then dropped it again, his eyes wide with unspoken care.
