The Last Temple (16 page)

Vitas faced a young male slave at the entrance of a large villa, well up in the hills and away from the stench and noise of the slums where he’d left Hezron.

“No,” the slave said. “Alypia will not see you.”

The slave balanced a cudgel in his hands. He was obviously a bodyguard, meant to deter visitors.

“So she is here.”

“I have been instructed that she is taking no visitors, no matter how urgent their business.” The slave kept his face placid. He was Parthian, probably captured in battle and sold at an auction.

Alypia had a reputation for enjoying her male slaves in all manners, and Vitas guessed this one, too, had been purchased for his youth and appearance.

“No visitors at all?”

The slave did not answer, sending a clear message that Vitas had been given all the information allowed.

Vitas had come to Rome on more than one errand, each of varying importance. He had taken an hour to walk here and would spend another hour returning to the core of Rome.

Vitas clenched and unclenched his fists in a vain effort to force himself to relax. He did not have the luxury of moving at a slow pace. What if Nerva decided the political odds would be bettered by informing Nero of Vitas’s return to Rome? What if a passerby had recognized him and sent for imperial guards? At any time, he could be arrested.

“Tomorrow perhaps?” Vitas asked.

“I have been instructed that she is taking no visitors, no matter how urgent their business.”

Vitas was acutely aware of the pressures of time for another reason. Any moment, Nero might regain enough support and once again feel safe to travel from the imperial palace and resume duties in the Senate. If that happened, Vitas and his family would be destroyed, for if Nero regained the upper hand, Nerva would sacrifice Vitas to restore whatever favor he might have lost by not fully backing Nero during these dangerous times. And if Vespasian ever had to choose between keeping Nero happy and giving up Vitas, Vitas was practical enough to understand that Vespasian would invite Vitas to suicide.

Vitas also understood that in hushed chambers and quiet gardens all across the city, men of wealth and influence were discussing a decision between two evils—the continued reign of Nero or accepting a general in the provinces ambitious enough to declare himself emperor. All of the empire groaned under the capricious rule of Nero, the immense tax burdens placed upon citizens by his debauched lifestyle and personal spending, and the all-too-frequent murders that Nero ordered to confiscate estates. Yet if precedent were set—that a new emperor could be declared outside of Rome—the implications and long-term consequences could well be worse for Rome than all the horrors of Nero. If it were established that the general with the most might could take the throne at any time, then Rome would always be holding a snake with a poisonous bite at either end. Keeping generals weak to preserve the throne left Rome open to attack. Giving a general enough power to shield Rome would also give the general enough power to attack Rome.

Augustus had proven that a dynasty worked best. The previous three emperors—Caligula, Claudius, and Nero—had proven that a dynasty was only functional if the ruler was competent, instead of self-serving and unjust.

And so the empire had come to this point. As Galba waited in Spain and verged on committing suicide and effectively ending the rebellion, Nero verged on losing support within Rome. The victor would be decided in days, if not hours.

Vitas could not waste time by attempting to return on a different day. While this task was not as important as serving Vespasian or finding the mysterious letter that threatened Nero, it was a matter of life and death.

Vitas made his decision. He stepped forward, carefully watching the center of the young slave’s chest.

If indeed the slave had been captured in battle, he could be physically dangerous. And it was going to come down to a physical confrontation. Inexperienced fighters looked for the hands to move. But a punch began much earlier, from the core of the body.

“Step aside,” Vitas said.

“What?” The slave lifted the cudgel and began to poke it at Vitas’s chest.

Vitas gave no warning. With a quick, rotating move of his upper body, he threw an elbow outward and upward. Not a fist. The human skull was built far stronger than the fragile bones of the hand, and the force that Vitas put into his blow would have crushed his own fingers with solid contact against the slave’s head.

His elbow caught the slave across the upper cheekbone. The slave opened his eyes wide but was too stunned to manage a sound. He slid to the side, and Vitas caught him as he was falling, kept him from crashing onto the marble floor. He pulled the slave inside and behind a couch, out of obvious sight.

Vitas picked up the cudgel and pushed through the doorway.

He needed to accomplish this next mission before the slave regained consciousness or anyone noticed him missing.

On their previous occasion together—in Jerusalem, in the summer when the Jewish revolt began—even while her husband’s body had yet to grow cold, Alypia had tried to seduce Vitas.

His memory was of an extremely attractive woman only thirty years old, wearing a blonde wig made from the hair of slaves from northern Gaul, her arms and wrists decorated with gold trinkets—a woman with extreme confidence in her looks, where those looks had taken her, and where those looks could continue to take her in the Roman world.

Vitas found Alypia slumped in a chair that overlooked a garden, wrapped in a blanket despite the day’s heat.

She caught his movement and spoke without fully looking. “I have given instructions. No visitors.”

“And I have ignored those instructions,” he said.

As she turned her gaze fully upon him, he coughed to hide his shock and a shiver of revulsion. The skin of her face had sagged with two decades of aging, although only two years had passed since their last meeting. Pustules marred the skin, and she was nearly bald. What disease had ravaged her?

By her reaction, she was equally shocked, but for a different reason.

She found her voice first. “Vitas? You . . . you . . . you . . . died in the arena. I was there that day.”

“I am back,” he answered. “And I am not dead.”

Her smile was a rictus, showing gaps where teeth had fallen out. “Too bad. We could have met on the other side of the Styx, if a person believes in that sort of nonsense.”

Vitas was prepared to believe in divine judgment. No punishment suited Alypia better than taking away the one thing she valued most.

She touched her balding head. “But would one corpse desire another?” Another rictus of a smile as she continued to speak. “It’s obvious why I don’t take visitors, but now that you are here, I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not. I spent a lot of years doing that, and it was too much work. Tell me, what do you want? Certainly not me.”

Vitas felt guilt for his continued revulsion. He should have had compassion for the woman, but he wanted only to leave. “Valeria and Quintus did not die in Jerusalem. I’m here to instruct you to begin the process of reverting their estate to them.”

“Do you think I care enough about anything to actually take orders from someone?”

“I think you did your best to make sure both were killed,” Vitas answered. “I’m here to tell you that if either is harmed, you will face reprisals from powerful men in Rome.”

He said this because it was what he’d come prepared to say on behalf of Valeria and Quintus, but in saying it, he knew how hollow the threat was.

She began to laugh, but it ended in a choking spasm. When she recovered her breath, she said, “And what will these powerful men do as punishment to me? Send in more doctors to poke and prod? Or extend me mercy by chopping off my head?”

Pain crossed her face, and she shuddered until the spasm was over.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that I’m the one who can harm you instead. Won’t Helius and Tigellinus love to have you delivered to them. I may be dying, but I can still send a message that you’ve reappeared in Rome.”

Vitas held her gaze, difficult as it was to look into a once-lovely face, now hideous. Knowing that Alypia would perceive him as a threat, he fully expected she would get word to Helius. And that was the second purpose of his visit. Vitas wanted Helius on edge, aware that he had returned, but with no idea where to look for him.

“Perhaps you should strangle me now to make sure your secret is safe,” she said. “Do it. Place your fingers around my throat and squeeze.”

“See to it that you begin the process of ensuring Valeria and Quintus inherit this estate,” he said. “I am finished speaking.”

There truly was little more to say. It was obvious that Alypia did not have long to live. It didn’t even make much difference if she helped Valeria and Quintus with the legal process before she died. One way or another, the children would receive their rightful inheritance. And one way or another, Alypia was no longer a threat.

“Please,” she said. “I mean it. Strangle me. My slaves won’t kill me. They know they’ll be executed for it. I don’t have the courage to commit suicide. Please. If not your hands on my neck, then a knife. Strike quickly.”

Vitas left her there, wrapped in her blanket, shivering from cold on a hot summer day.

Vitas slipped into the tavern where he’d met Nerva, near the forum. This time, he truly was tempted to drink beer, even knowing the quality was questionable. It had been a hard, fast march to get here from the villa, and his feet hurt. During those delightful months in Alexandria with Sophia and his new child, his excursions had been limited to chasing the baby around a shadow-dappled garden.

Drinking beer would take time, however, and he felt like he couldn’t even spare the leisure to gulp any down. Instead, he inquired whether a letter had been delivered for Sophia.

The woman who answered his question was huge, with a face smeared with paint in an attempt to pass herself off as someone a decade or two younger. “You don’t look like a Sophia to me.”

“See if this has any resemblance to the woman who sent me,” Vitas said. He opened his hands to show a glint of gold. “If there is enough similarity, you’ll get this in exchange for the letter.”

The woman cackled. “For that, I’ll swear you look like Nero himself, if you were suicidal enough to want that. And I’d be happy to throw in a little extra. Plenty extra, if large women are your taste.”

“Sophia’s a jealous woman,” Vitas said, putting a rueful grin on his face. “And she wants me to return with her letter as soon as possible.”

“Pity.”

On the street once more, Vitas ducked into a gap between the buildings, knowing it led into a warren of alleys. He walked slowly without looking behind, as if he knew his destination.

The alley stank of human excrement, and rats scattered from some garbage ahead. A dozen steps later, when the alley turned, the street behind him was no longer in sight.

He stopped and waited thirty seconds, then stepped back around the turn.

He wasn’t surprised when he saw a dark-haired man halfway between him and the street.

Their eyes locked briefly.

While the man was probably only in his twenties, he looked older, for he was thin, his face gaunt in an unhealthy way that suggested too many days without food. His clothes betrayed the same poverty.

Vitas didn’t hesitate but advanced on the man, who turned and began to flee, only to stop abruptly when Jerome’s large figure filled the space at the end of the alley and began moving toward him.

Wildly, the man looked at Vitas and back at Jerome, realizing he was trapped. He tried to leap upward, to climb the wall. He fell, then tried again. It reminded Vitas of a rat fleeing a fire. Except rats were better fed.

Jerome reached the man first and grabbed him by the shoulder, then put a massive arm around the man’s neck and held him in a choke hold for Vitas. The man briefly yanked down on Jerome’s arm but only succeeded in lifting himself off the ground.

Vitas moved in slowly.

The man kicked at Vitas, who smiled and stepped just out of range.

“Why are you following me?” Vitas asked mildly. “Who sent you?”

It would have been a simple guess if this man had followed from the tavern. That would have told Vitas that he’d been sent by Nerva. But Nerva had not betrayed Vitas, at least not yet. This man had followed Vitas to Alypia’s villa and back again.

Who else knew that Vitas was in Rome? Only Hezron and Ruso, and neither of them had reason to follow Vitas.

“Who sent you?” Vitas repeated.

In response to Vitas’s question, the man simply closed his eyes and sagged backward against Jerome, as if his efforts to escape had drained all his energy.

“Shall we nick his nostrils?” Vitas asked Jerome in a conversational tone. “Nothing serious, of course. But painful. The cuts will bleed for days and hurt even longer.”

Jerome grunted agreement.

Vitas lifted his lower garments and pulled out a knife he’d strapped against his outer thigh.

He put the tip of the knife inside the man’s nostril, and the point shocked him into opening his eyes again.

“I’ll ask once more,” Vitas said. He pulled a little with the knife—not enough to cut into the delicate inside of the nostril, but enough to give a sense of the pain that would come when Vitas sliced it open. “Who sent you?”

The young man finally spoke. “Do what you must. I’ll die before telling you anything.”

Vitas saw certainty and determination in his eyes.

It was one thing to incapacitate a fit slave warrior threatening with a cudgel as he’d done earlier in the morning. Another to torture a man so weak from hunger he could barely stand. The man wouldn’t have anything to report to the person who sent him except that Vitas had visited Alypia and then a tavern.

“I’m getting soft,” Vitas told Jerome with a regretful sigh. “Let him go.”