Defender of Rome (20 page)

XXVIII

VALERIUS SPENT THE
next morning working on the household accounts he had neglected for the past month, and after an early meal he slipped out by the garden door and took the short walk across the lower slope of the Caelian Hill to the Castra Peregrina. The barracks overlooked the old Porta Capena and were hidden behind a sturdy wall, and it was by the north corner that Valerius waited for his contact from Seneca. Just when he was beginning to think he’d wasted his time a lumbering figure approached from the direction of the city gate.

Valerius had to look twice. Had the man lost his mind?

Seneca saw the expression on his face and laughed. ‘Allow an old gentleman a little indulgence, and give him some credit, my boy. I have played these games before and I believe I can still outfox a fool like Torquatus.’

‘You are mad to come here.’

The philosopher’s brow creased. ‘Not mad, I think, but in a man in my position the senses can be aroused beyond the normal and that heightened arousal may have an effect on judgement. Yet precisely because of that effect the subject himself could well be unaware of his predicament. An interesting proposition,’ he smiled. ‘But I believe you have a question for me?’

First, Valerius reported his progress, or lack of it.

Seneca sniffed his distaste. ‘Yes, I wasn’t aware of the peril in which I was placing Lucina when I gave you her name. Though she did lead you to Cornelius who, in time, I’m sure would have led you to Petrus. The question I believe we must ask is whether they betrayed themselves or whether some outside influence brought them to their fate. You have not, for instance, told anyone of our arrangement?’

Valerius stared at him. ‘You think someone in my household is a spy?’

‘Oh, I am certain of it. But I’m also certain you would not trumpet this business to your slaves and your servants, but …’

‘I trust Marcus and his men with my life.’

‘Indeed you do,’ Seneca said significantly. ‘I merely urge caution in all things. Cornelius’s death was a warning not only to his fellow Christians.’ He saw Valerius’s look of puzzlement. ‘Christians, my boy, is what Petrus and the other members of his sect call themselves.’

‘These … Christians … use some sort of code among themselves to indicate the place and time of their next meeting. I thought, with your contacts in the east, it might be possible to discover its nature.’

Seneca stared out over the valley towards the great tiered palace complex on the Palatine and his nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘You may be asking too much, but I will make enquiries. What form does the code take? Do you have an example?’

Reluctantly, Valerius told him about the inscription scratched on the doorpost of the physician’s
insula
. The philosopher frowned. ‘These people are weaned on secrecy. I can make nothing of it, but I will see what I can do. I will send a courier to your house tonight at dusk with the answer, if there is one.’

‘Not to the house.’ Valerius gave him the address of the block where Marcus, Serpentius and the others were billeted.

Seneca was wandering off in the direction of the Capena gate when Valerius remembered what else he had wanted to ask. He hurried to intercept the older man.

‘You spent ten years as part of Nero’s inner circle. Who among them is the most likely to be attracted to this Christian god?’

The philosopher’s brows furrowed as he dissected the question, evaluating and discarding. Eventually he burst into laughter. ‘Open to new ideas. Impressionable. Unstable and prone to instantaneous and ill-considered enthusiasms. Why, the man most likely to become a Christian is Nero himself.’ He was still laughing when he vanished towards the road.

Valerius spent a frustrating evening waiting for word. He called for wine and by the time he was ready to sleep he knew he’d had more than was good for him. Still, even his mood couldn’t account for the way Tiberius, the steward, and his other slaves worked so hard to avoid being in his presence. Even Julia disappeared the moment he entered Olivia’s room. Something was wrong and it nagged at him like a woodpecker inside his skull. He remembered the feeling that he was missing something. Whatever it was, it had happened since he’d returned from Dacia.

He went over everything in his mind, even though reliving the horror of Nero’s ultimatum and Lucina’s torment sickened him. Not that. Something else. Something to do with the household. He must remember every whisper. He was almost asleep when it came to him. Every whisper, that was the answer. What had Olivia said?
Who was the terrible man who was here while you were away?

‘Tiberius,’ he roared.

It took a few minutes for the old man to answer the call and when he did the fear that showed in his eyes was enough to convince Valerius that his suspicions were well-founded. ‘Master?’

‘Someone was here while I was gone. Someone I am not to know about. Who was it?’

Tiberius shook his head. ‘I cannot—’

‘Do you think I am a fool, Tiberius?’ Valerius kept his voice low, but the menace in his words was clear. ‘This is my household, and you are part of it. Whatever is making you stay quiet is nothing compared to the power of my anger if you do not tell me. I have never whipped a slave, but I am prepared to start. You have always been loyal to me and my family; do not betray me now.’

‘He said they would kill—’ The old man’s voice shook and tears ran down his face.

‘Who said?’

‘We could not stop them. They had an imperial warrant.’

‘Who, Tiberius? I have to know.’

‘Praetorians,’ Tiberius sobbed. ‘A centurion and six men. He said they were here to make an inventory of all your possessions. Everything. A man with a scarred face, master. I could not stop them.’

Rodan. Of course.

‘He said we would die if we told. He went to Olivia’s room. He …’

In an instant, Valerius felt the blood boiling inside his head and his vision went red. He reached out blindly and his hand caught the front of the slave’s tunic. Tiberius let out a cry of terror.

‘He did what, Tiberius?’

The old man darted a scared glance towards the doorway and Valerius followed the look to where Julia stood, her eyes wide with terror, and something else … shame.

Rodan made his way from the Castra Praetoria to the palace at dawn the next day, accompanied by six of the Guard. It was a fine morning and he took pleasure in the fact that everything was going so well. His retirement from the Guard was only a few years away and, apart from his centurion’s pension, which wasn’t paltry, he’d amassed a small fortune in bribes from people he had led to believe they were on the Emperor’s little list. He was still a relatively young man, with a bright future, and, if things went to plan, his finances were about to improve even further.

When the tall figure stepped out into the street ahead, he was surprised, but not concerned. Why should a man with six armed guards fear one with no sword, not even a belt? Valerius wore a long-sleeved tunic against the morning chill, but he was clearly unarmed.

‘You’re out early today, my hero. What’s wrong? The ghosts keeping you awake?’

The words were accompanied by a sneer, but the mocking grin vanished as the young Roman marched silently towards him. Valerius’s face might have been carved from stone and his eyes glowed red in the morning sun. Before Rodan was aware of it he was only feet away and for the first time the centurion felt a thrill of fear. ‘Wait,’ he cried. Two of the Praetorians drew swords, but Valerius brought his left hand up to Rodan’s neck above his wolf breastplate, and by some piece of trickery a blade twinkled in the morning sunlight.

‘It’s only a very small knife.’ Valerius’s voice was soft, but it held the pitiless chill of the grave. ‘But it will make a very large hole in your throat. You’ve seen a man’s throat cut, Rodan? Of course you have. They might kill me, but I’ll still have the satisfaction of watching you bleed out. Tell them to put the swords away.’

Rodan hesitated, but only for a moment. He nodded and the two Praetorians stepped back.

‘If I hear you’ve been anywhere near my house again, centurion, I will rip out your guts and hang you with them from the nearest tree. Do you understand? Stay away from my family, or I promise I’ll kill you, and you know me well enough to believe that I keep my promises.’

The Praetorian looked into the dark eyes and saw only certainty there. A shiver ran through him as he remembered the day in Caligula’s circus when he had looked into those same eyes and seen his death. Rodan had fought on the German frontier; he was no coward. In his mind, he drew his sword and rammed it deep into the other man’s belly, but he remembered the stories he had heard and his hands stayed by his side.

Valerius studied his enemy’s face and knew he’d won, but it was a small victory and he had no doubt it would come at a price. He turned his back and walked away. He’d only gone ten paces when Rodan found his voice.

‘Did I hear a donkey breaking wind?’ The centurion’s harsh shout broke the silence. ‘No, I’m mistaken. It was the last gasp of a dying man. Do you hear that, my Hero of Rome? You’re a dead man.’ Valerius turned to face him, but Rodan was back with his guards and every one had his sword clear of its scabbard. Hatred made the ruined face uglier still. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It doesn’t matter whether you succeed or fail, you’re going to die. It’s all arranged. You and your father and sister are all going to die.’

XXIX

IT WASN’T UNTIL
early afternoon that Valerius received word from Marcus. When he arrived at the apartment he was surprised to find their visitor was Saul of Tarsus, the dark-visaged easterner who had been with Seneca at his father’s house.

‘My apologies for the delay. My lord Seneca did not wish to entrust a servant with such an important message, nor did he feel it should be carried in written form. My profession requires me to memorize quite complex pieces of information, therefore he decided it would be prudent to await my return.’ He asked for a wax writing block and on it drew the letters MCVII, and a narrow outline that Valerius recognized. ‘The Christians use it as a symbol of recognition,’ Saul explained. ‘You were correct in your assumption that it represents a fish. The men Christus chose as his original followers were fishermen, so the symbol seemed appropriate. See how easy it is to draw?’ He ran over the outline again. ‘Merely a single straight line, then a curve back to cross the initial line and create the tail. Think of two men talking in the street. The one believes his companion is also a Christian, but he cannot be certain. He scuffs his feet in the dust. Two simple movements and we have a fish. If the other man does not recognize it he is not a member of the sect. In this instance it is the orientation of the fish that is important. Was the head pointing up, down, right or left, indicating north, south, east or west?’

‘The head was to the left. West.’

‘Then the meeting place you are looking for is west of the inscription’s position.’

Valerius shook his head in frustration. ‘That still leaves a quarter of the city, part of the sixth, seventh and ninth districts at least.’

Saul nodded gravely. ‘Ah, but there is more to learn.’

‘The seventh district,’ Heracles cried. ‘See, M C VII.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Saul cautioned. ‘Yes, the numerals are significant, but not in such an unsubtle way. The initials M and C indicate a person or a place, but to identify this person they must be transposed. So CM. To those who know CM, the name will provide a location.’

‘So, we find this CM and go to his house?’ Marcus suggested.

The bearded man allowed himself a slight smile. ‘VII. Seven. The ceremony will be held within seven blocks of the house of the man or woman CM.’

A bitter laugh emerged from the gloom at the back of the room where Serpentius had been listening. ‘You talk in circles and make as little sense as a temple priest. Seven blocks in any direction? You’re telling us to search four hundred houses. This is just foolishness.’

Saul turned to Valerius. ‘You must understand that Petrus lives in constant danger of discovery or betrayal, and has done so for thirty years and more. Deceit and subterfuge are second nature to him. On the one hand, he cannot pass on his message without placing himself at the mercy of those he is forced to trust. On the other, he protects himself by concealing his true identity from all but a few of his followers, and those few will be unknown to each other. I doubt there are four men in all Rome who know who and where he is.’

‘Then he is impossible to find.’

‘Not impossible, not for a man of resource. The fish pointed west, so the meeting place will be to the west of the house. You will recognize it by another fish inscription. Petrus is at his most vulnerable when he is spreading the word of Christus. This he does once each calendar month, on the Sabbath day closest to the nones, beginning at the seventh hour.’

‘Sabbath?’ Valerius didn’t recognize the word.

‘Holy day,’ Saul explained. ‘These Christians have trouble agreeing many things. Those who wish to distance themselves from the Judaeans favour a Sunday. Petrus, who is a traditionalist, prefers Saturday.’

‘But that means …?’

‘Yes, my young friend. It means that you have less than three hours to locate CM and the building where the meeting will be held. Three hours to find Petrus … and deliver him to lord Seneca.’

Valerius recognized the subtle threat in the final five words, but he barely registered it. His mind raced. Lucina Graecina knew what the sign meant, if not Petrus’s true identity. And if Lucina Graecina knew, Torquatus now had the information. He had three hours to get to Petrus before the Emperor’s secret police did.

They waited until Saul had left the building.

‘The list?’ Valerius demanded. Serpentius placed it on the table beside Saul’s drawing of the fish. They crowded over it, but Valerius had already noted the significance of one name.

‘Cerialis. What do we know of him?’

‘Cerialis Marcellus, the baker. One of the merchants who had regular contact with Lucina Graecina,’ Marcus said decisively. ‘He has a house in the seventh district, beyond the Campus Agrippae on the Via Pinciana. I was out there yesterday. He owns four bakeries in and around the city.’

‘How long will it take to reach there?’

‘An hour at most.’

‘Then we need to find the meeting place.’

‘It’s a busy area,’ Marcus admitted. ‘A warren of shops, houses and workshops, but I have an idea. One of the bakeries he owns is also in the seventh district, quite close to his home. People come and go from a shop like that all the time. Plenty of room there for a meeting and the place will be empty because bakers tend to work in the early morning. I doubt it will take us more than half an hour to find it.’

‘Cloaks and swords,’ Valerius said decisively, making for the door. ‘We’ll meet at the house when you’re ready. Serpentius? Find your way to the bakery and wait for us there. I want to know who goes in, who comes out, and if the place is already being watched.’

He rushed back to the Clivus Scauri, his mind calculating the possibilities. If they could reach the meeting place before Torquatus and his thugs. If they could get Petrus away. What then? He would be gambling with the lives of twenty thousand innocents. Did he have the right to do that? Did he have the stomach? He would only find out when he got there.

When he reached his door he almost collided with a hurrying figure coming the other way. ‘Father!’

The old man smiled distractedly. ‘You mustn’t shout, Valerius. You will disturb your sister. And now I must bid you good day. I am late for an engagement.’

It took a heartbeat for Valerius to realize what Lucius was saying. He heard the shake in his voice. ‘You’re going to a meeting of these Christians?’

The benign mask fractured and the possibilities flew across his father’s face like a flock of disturbed partridge. Truth? Lie? Bluster? Each second of delay making an answer less necessary.

‘You can’t go, Father. I won’t allow it.’ Valerius placed his arm across the doorway to add a physical edge to the appeal.

‘Cannot? Will not allow it?’ The words emerged as a whisper of disbelief.

‘Must not. For all our sakes.’

‘You, my own son, think to
forbid
me? Are you mad?’

‘Not mad, Father.’ Valerius kept his voice low. ‘I am trying to save your life.’

Lucius hissed with suppressed anger. ‘My life is mine to spend where and when I wish, and I will not be dictated to in my own … in this house.’

‘Your life, perhaps, but not Olivia’s and not mine.
Torquatus knows
. They will take you and they will hurt you, Father, and you will tell them everything they want to know. Everything. I have seen it. You will give them your friends and your family to stop the pain. You will give them Petrus, and Seneca and the man Saul. I can’t let you go.’

The older man stared at him, and for the first time in his life Valerius saw contempt in his father’s eyes. ‘If you believe that, young man, then you do not know me. Perhaps you are not my son after all.’ He shrugged his cloak around him, raised his head and tried to push past Valerius. ‘Will you physically restrain your father? I think not.’

Valerius closed his eyes. What could he do? Short of wrestling Lucius to the ground he had no option but to let him go. Then he heard the sound of running feet behind him. Marcus!

He pushed his father back to clear the doorway. ‘Marcus,’ he called. ‘I need you in here. Send the others after Serpentius.

‘I can’t stop you, Father, but Marcus can and will. He will keep you safe here. Please do as he says.’ He reached out a hand to touch Lucius on the shoulder, but the old man flinched away from him like a child avoiding a blow.

‘Master?’ Tiberius, the steward, appeared from the kitchens and his frightened eyes flicked from Valerius to his father.

‘Do not concern yourself, Tiberius,’ Valerius reassured the elderly retainer. ‘It is only a minor disagreement.’ He nodded and turned to walk out into the sunshine.

‘But master,’ Tiberius insisted. ‘The dark-haired slave girl who was here earlier. She insisted I give you a message.’

Valerius froze. ‘Yes?’

‘She said “today, at the seventh hour”.’ Tiberius added the address of a street in the Seventh district and Valerius felt the world stop. He turned to his father. ‘Will Ruth be there?’ Lucius didn’t reply, but his ashen face answered for him. Valerius ran for the door.

By now it was past noon and he found his progress impeded by citizens returning to their families for the midday meal. His way took him beneath the palaces of the eastern Palatine, past the Temple of Divine Claudius, and towards the Forum, where he turned left through the familiar temples and pillars. When he reached the beginning of the Via Flaminia the road became more open and he was able to pick up his pace, but by the time he reached the gardens of the Campus Agrippae and turned up the hill, the streets had closed in on him again and he was forced to push through the crowds.

As he ran, his mind was filled with Ruth’s serene face and he prayed he would be in time. He tried to understand what would make his father take such a risk. Of course, one man would be more dedicated in his worship than another, and some gods demanded more dedication from those who worshipped them. But for most Romans the strength of devotion was in direct proportion to the magnitude of their need. If a trader was desperate for a big grain contract, naturally he would sacrifice a fine ram to Mercury to encourage his support. Each day, Julia poured a libation to the kitchen god to insure against culinary disaster. And Valerius would gladly go on his knees before any god he believed could help cure Olivia, even though he knew, deep in his heart, that such help was unlikely to be forthcoming. But why would a man who had spent his life in the service of Rome defy Roman law, betray his Roman friends and risk his life, and that of his family, for a condemned criminal and a band of ragged Judaean fishermen? It defied logic. He acknowledged that the offer of eternal life, qualified and flawed though it was, would attract those who despaired of their current circumstances, or were naive enough to enter into a pact that effectively sacrificed their free will for a place in some unlikely Elysian paradise. Ruth had been raised to believe, but his father? Perhaps Petrus was a magician who kept his supporters in thrall by spells or potions. Yet he had seen the Judaean in his guise as Joshua, the healer, and nothing would have led him to that conclusion. Lucina Graecina, a Roman to the tip of her exquisitely manicured fingernails, had been prepared to sacrifice everything in the cause of Christus, and Cornelius Sulla had stayed silent under the most excruciating torture. Lucina had been no fool, and neither, though he had acted one, was Cornelius. Eventually, Valerius was forced to give up on a puzzle to which his brain could find no answer.

‘Valerius, here!’ He turned to see Serpentius emerging from a side street, his narrow face flushed with concern. ‘We’re too late. The Praetorians have the place surrounded.’

The Spaniard’s words stopped Valerius like a hammer blow, and he fought the paralysis that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘How far to the bakery?’ he demanded. However bad the situation, there was always the possibility of salvaging something. If he had learned nothing else from the disaster in Britain he had learned that.

‘Just up here, but we will have to be quick.’

Valerius followed the Spaniard’s tall figure through the throng as Serpentius’s long strides carried him swiftly ahead. They were approaching an open market place when they heard the commotion. To one side, a crowd had gathered to watch a young black bear dance at the end of a chain. Serpentius quickly slipped into the anonymous fold, but Valerius stood transfixed. Dashing down the roadway was a slim figure holding her blue dress up around her knees to allow her to run more freely. It seemed she must be stopped by the wall of people ahead of her, but the power of her fear gave her passage. Now she ran directly towards Valerius, her long black hair flying, and he could see the panic in her eyes and feel the pounding of her heart.

Ruth.

Thirty paces behind and gaining with every step followed four Praetorians, their iron-shod sandals clattering on the cobbled surface and the swords rattling in their scabbards.

‘Stop her!’

Valerius’s heart stopped as he recognized Rodan’s voice. With anyone else he would have taken his chances and tried to talk her out of trouble, but he knew there would be no mercy from the Praetorian. Rodan would kill Ruth just to spite him. He lowered his head, but not before his despairing eyes had locked on hers for a fleeting second.

It was enough for the Judaean girl to recognize him, and through her wild panic Ruth felt an impossible surge of hope. The Christians had been waiting for Petrus to make his entrance when Rodan’s soldiers burst in. By good fortune, she had been standing in shadow on the stairs and the explosion of violence had frozen her in position. As the Praetorians lashed out with clubs at the small band of worshippers, she had recovered enough to slip quietly away to the upper room where Cerialis kept his grain. It was from there, through a narrow window, that she made her escape. She had been a few feet from safety when one of the Praetorian guards noticed and made a grab at her arm. Somehow, she’d managed to slip from his grasp, tearing her dress in the process, but his shouts alerted the others. She bit back the impulse to scream out Valerius’s name, knowing that it could condemn them both. The terror that threatened to explode her brain eased. Somehow she knew he would save her.