Enemy of Rome (36 page)

‘The basilisk of Cyrene,’ he whispered, revealing a shrivelled, snakelike creature about two feet in length and of obvious antiquity. ‘The most poisonous of all living things. Its very presence breaks the stones and sets the grasses afire, and it is so venomous that if you plunged a spear into its body you would likely die.’ In that case, Valerius wondered privately, how had it been killed? Pliny scented scepticism the way a rutting stag scents a ripe doe. ‘A weasel,’ he assured his guest. ‘Only the effluvium of a weasel can kill the dread basilisk, though it dies itself in the struggle.’

He stared into the middle distance for few moments and his brow furrowed as if he was placing himself in the position of the doomed mammal. When he finished, he turned to stare at Valerius with a look of mystified innocence. ‘I’ve quite forgotten why you are here.’

‘I didn’t say, Pliny. But I’ve been away from Rome for so long that I’m quite out of touch. I thought you might be able to tell me the lie of the land, as it were, socially … and politically.’

At the word ‘politically’ a stillness came over the lawyer reminiscent of the way a woodmouse hardly dares draw breath at the soft beat of an owl’s wings overhead. His eyes didn’t change, but his lips formed a little half-smile that Valerius sensed was entirely involuntary. Any more and you would have called it sly; instead it stayed just the right side of wary, but warned.

‘Oh, I don’t get invited out much,’ he said casually, ‘but socially, I believe, things are what might be called fraught. Before one can accept even the most innocent offer, one must first be aware of the make-up of the guest list, their relationship with one another and the host, and their, let us say, affiliations and interests. Too much of one thing and one might be accused of being in the wrong company, even, perhaps, of indulging in intrigue. Too much of the other and who knows where one might be in a few months. All possible hopes of advancement gone because one broke bread with the wrong person. Yet it can be equally perilous to refuse the wrong invitation. Spurned by one’s colleagues, treated with suspicion by one’s friends, and as for one’s enemies …’ He came to a stuttering halt with a glassy-eyed smile.

Valerius sensed that if he didn’t take the chance now the moment would be lost. ‘Titus Vespasian suggested I call on you, Pliny,’ he said gently. ‘And that was before he knew we were friends.’ The other man froze but Valerius hurried on. ‘I need to know what Vitellius is thinking. Who can he trust? Who is openly against him? Who will support him? And most important, who says they will support him, but will turn against him when the time is right? Do you think Vitellius can survive, Plinius?’

The lawyer blinked at the direct question and his face crumpled into a frown.

‘Politically, yes, in the short term, but his long-term survival will not be decided by politicians but by soldiers.’ His eyes turned accusing. ‘As you know better than I, Gaius Valerius Verrens, since I can guess whence you’ve come.’ Valerius didn’t deny it, but he held Pliny’s gaze until the lawyer continued. ‘Whom can he trust? His family and the Guard.’ He unwittingly confirmed what Valerius had been told at Fidenae. ‘More than any other Emperor I have known they are
his
Guard. I do not believe they can be bought, as so often in the past. They have invested too much in him to walk away. In some ways they are as responsible as he for what has happened, and they know that Vespasian’s advisers also know this. To resume: Vitellius has the support of the people. You will note, Valerius, that I say people and not mob. The support of the mob can be won by circuses; that of the people takes more. They would have been happy to have Vitellius as Emperor, and happy if he won this war quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible.’ Their eyes met and Pliny nodded acknowledgement of the unlikelihood of this outcome. ‘He has been sensible in his treatment of those he rules, and, despite all the sneers about his laziness, his administration has been efficient. Things are dealt with quickly and fairly. They may laugh at his girth and his appetite, but they can tolerate that, because he is harmless. Yes,’ Pliny said it as if understanding it for the first time, ‘he is harmless, and after Nero, Galba and Otho, they would exchange any hope of military glory for the right to sleep easy in their beds.’ He sighed. ‘I support Vespasian, Valerius, and count him as my friend, but I wish more than anything in this life that he had persuaded his legions to take the oath to Vitellius.’

He reached into his sleeve, retrieved his sheaf of wax writing tablets and stylus and began writing. ‘This is the make-up of the Senate as I understand it. One – a short list – for those who will support Vitellius to the last. A second for those already plotting against him: the majority.’ He looked up from beneath hooded eyes. ‘It is for your better understanding only. They will do nothing until Primus or Mucianus is knocking on the very gates of Rome. The only one who matters is Vespasian’s brother, Sabinus, because he controls the urban cohorts and the
vigiles
. If he acts and looks like winning, the Senate may vote to remove Vitellius for their own preservation. Who knows how the Guard and the mob will react then.’

‘Why does Vitellius not just arrest him?’ Valerius was puzzled. ‘He must still have half a dozen cohorts of Praetorians in the city.’

Pliny produced a thin smile. ‘Because he fears to provoke him. As long as Sabinus stays quiescent, Vitellius can feel safe. He is like the sleeping dog who lies in your way on a forest path. Do you try to walk quietly by, or do you risk prodding him with a stick and having his teeth in your arm?’ The sound of something large and sharp meeting meat and muscle echoed from another room in the house. Valerius’s scarred cheek twitched at the familiar sound and he saw Pliny wince. ‘The kitchen,’ the lawyer explained with a resigned sigh. ‘My loyal Tungrian guards have no notion of finesse. Half a boar and an open fire is the limit of their creativity.’

He handed Valerius the completed list and the one-handed tribune placed the sheaves in the pouch at his belt. ‘Can you suggest any way for me to contact Vitellius without others knowing?’

Pliny smiled sadly and patted him on the shoulder. ‘That, my dear friend, is something you will have to discover for yourself. But first,’ his nostrils twitched as he caught the pungent farmyard scent of Valerius’s ragged tunic, ‘a bath and some new clothes. You cannot wait upon the Emperor looking and smelling like some itinerant pig farmer.’

Domitia Longina Corbulo studied the letter she’d written with parchment and ink stolen from the office of Titus Flavius Sabinus. When she was satisfied, she waited for the ink to dry, rolled the parchment into a tight scroll and used a thin strip of hemp to tie it. It had cost her several sleepless nights before she had made up her mind where her duty lay, but when it came to her the answer was obvious. Vespasian had been her father’s friend and helped her escape after his death in Antioch, but she was a Roman lady, and, whatever his faults, Rome’s Emperor was Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus. She’d discovered a plot against the Roman state and it was her duty to expose it. On the other hand, she wasn’t a fool, and neither was she disloyal to her host. The letter remained unsigned and contained no names and no specifics, only a vague warning to beware of a plot involving the
vigiles
and the Senate. Even without more details she believed the letter would inspire Vitellius to tighten his grip on the
vigiles
and force Sabinus and Saturninus to abandon their conspiracy.

‘Tulla?’ she called. ‘You understand what you must do?’

Her maid appeared from the doorway, looking anxious, but fully dressed and in a dark cloak. She knew nothing of the letter’s contents, but Domitia had, of necessity, been forced to reveal its final destination and her hand shook with fear as she accepted it. ‘Of course, lady, but I still wonder if this is wise. If the master should …’

Domitia held up a hand. ‘Hush, child.’ She stood up and caressed Tulla’s dark hair, though the ‘child’ was less than a year younger than her mistress. ‘You will be in no danger. Go to the Forum and choose a suitable messenger from amongst those who hang about the basilica steps seeking casual employment. You will hand him a single
denarius
with the promise of two more if he returns to report the letter delivered.’

‘To the Emperor’s personal guard …’

‘Find a public place and wait,’ Domitia reminded the other girl. ‘But you must position yourself so you will see him before he sees you. If he is accompanied by soldiers you must slip away as inconspicuously as you can.’

‘But …’

‘You know this is important to me, Tulla.’ She fixed the slave girl with a mistress’s stare. ‘And of course, you too will be rewarded. Perhaps I will even give you your freedom.’

Tulla nodded, a swift darting motion like a finch pecking hungrily at seeds but always wary of the hunter’s net. With a last frightened glance she disappeared through the doorway and Domitia sat on the bed and allowed all the tension to drain from her. She knew how perilous this might be. What if the messenger simply betrayed Tulla? Or robbed her? But Domitia couldn’t go herself. It was not a question of courage. She knew Domitianus had his spies follow her every time she left the villa. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the only way, and whether it succeeded or failed she had done her duty.

When a servant called her down to break her fast with the owner of the house she pleaded an indisposition. She knew she was no actress and even someone as self-centred as Sabinus would realize something was wrong. Instead, she kept to her room all morning, her fears mounting with every moment that passed without Tulla’s return.

When she heard footsteps outside the curtained doorway she almost fainted with relief. But the curtain swept back to reveal Domitianus with a self-satisfied smile on his face that froze the blood in her veins. In his right hand he held a tight-rolled parchment scroll which he tapped against the palm of his left.

‘These are dangerous times.’ The young man’s voice registered hurt rather than anger. ‘Who knows whom one can trust?’

It was clear he expected an answer, but Domitia clamped her lip between her teeth to prevent herself from crying out. She stood frozen in place as he approached her with all the blood-chilling, lethal grace of a cobra. Domitianus stopped just within reach and the almost unbearable, breathless tension stretched like a bowstring.

‘You did not think I would have your slaves watched? How naive of you, and how like a woman. But this I did not expect.’ The eyes lit up in the pale face as he shook the parchment scroll in his right hand. ‘A lover perhaps? It would have been disappointing, but understandable. You prowl these halls like a trapped tigress; of course you would wish to escape. But now …’ He reached out with his left hand and touched her cheek and Domitia knew she must not blink. For all his apparent serenity danger lurked close; a threat of terrible uncontrolled violence. The hand moved to her shoulder and lower, then lower still, but his eyes never left hers. ‘Now,’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘there is truly no escape.’

She would have run then – the fear was so strong – had two
vigiles
not dragged an insensible figure into the room by the arms and left her lying on the marble floor. The beating had left Tulla’s pretty elfin face swollen to the shape of a water melon and her eyes were bruised purple slits. A thin line of scarlet dribbled from the corner of her mouth to stain the creamy white marble. For the first time Domitia noticed that the knuckles of Domitianus’s right hand were reddened.

‘She will live,’ Vespasian’s son said carelessly. ‘But no thanks to you. I’d have expected more from a Corbulo than this pathetic attempt at intrigue. They would have seized your messenger and beaten a description out of him. Your whore would have been taken and by nightfall she would have implicated you and everyone in this household. You see?’ He paused to allow the reality of her situation to be fully understood. ‘I have saved your life. And now I must decide whether to save it again. If Sabinus were to become aware of the contents of this scroll he’d have your throat cut, and your slaves’ too. He is not a cruel man, but he would have no option.’ All the time he’d been speaking his hand had been caressing her right breast, the fingers toying with a nipple made erect by fear. Suddenly his voice thickened. ‘We’ll discuss this,’ he brandished the scroll, ‘further. You will come to me tonight, and perhaps when we have spoken you will find that your captivity is not quite so onerous after all.’

With a final squeeze, he turned and walked from the room. As if in a dream, Domitia felt herself follow him to the doorway and draw the curtain. She couldn’t breathe, but she knew that if she opened her mouth she would scream until she had no screams left.

Tulla’s groan brought her back from the void. She was a Corbulo. A decision must be made. She remembered seeing her father, the eyes slightly open, the sword still held tight by his flesh. No, not her father at all. It was her father’s body, but the essence of him, the spirit that made him who he was, had gone. It did not look so difficult.

She bent low over Tulla and smoothed the sweat-damp hair from her brow. ‘My poor, poor child …’

‘Publius Sulla, an old comrade from the Danuvius frontier, seeks an audience with the Emperor Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus.’

The guard at the entrance to the great Golden House studied the petitioner. Steady grey eyes, sharp, angular features and, most striking of all, a mottled purple stump where the right hand should have shown beneath his sleeve. A noble face, the warrior’s scars carried with pride; the man wore a patrician’s heavy gold rings and a fine toga that would have cost the Praetorian a month’s wages. ‘Wait here, sir,’ he ordered, and marched off to consult with his commander.

Valerius had used the name Publius Sulla before and he was confident it would get Vitellius’s attention, especially in conjunction with the physical description of the man claiming it. The original Publius had been one of Vitellius’s tribunes in the Seventh Claudia, an earnest young disciple of the mystic Christus, dead by his own hand in an earthen encampment in Dacia. It had seemed a reasonable enough subterfuge when he’d discussed it with Serpentius. Standing before this glittering jewel-encrusted edifice in the shadow of the enormous gold statue he realized it was as substantial as the diaphanous veil that didn’t quite hide a courtesan’s modesty. If he’d misread Vitellius’s mood, the Emperor would throw him into his deepest dungeon to rot, or more likely have his throat cut at leisure. He counted on their old friendship to keep him alive in the first instance, and on Vitellius’s well-tried instinct for survival to keep them both that way in the longer term. Vitellius had never sought the purple; his generals had forced it upon him when a refusal would have meant death. But he had been Emperor for eight full months, ruler of more than forty million people. Wielding that kind of power would change any man. The question was just how much and in what way?