Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] (3 page)

The Spaniard crossed the garden in a dozen strides and walked confidently through an open door and along the familiar painted corridor. He paused on the threshold. It was a big room, part
bureaucratic headquarters and part dining room, with a half partition across the centre to divide the two functions. To his left the dining area lay in darkness, but shadows flickered on the walls of the office with its wooden niches filled with scrolls. It was only when he stepped inside and his nostrils picked up the familiar metallic tang that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He should have run, but his feet carried him forward of their own volition. The slumped figure lay across the broad table and he might have been asleep if it hadn’t been for the great dark stain spread across the documents he’d been reading. Knowing it was pointless, Serpentius stepped forward and reached out for the shoulder of the man who’d been his friend.

A bulky figure in the uniform of a senior Roman officer stepped from the shadows accompanied by two soldiers. Serpentius could hear others pouring into the room behind him, but he didn’t resist as rough hands gripped his arms.

‘You are under arrest for the murder of a consular official and treason against the state.’

This was worse than the hour before battle. Gaius Valerius Verrens clenched his left fist to keep his hand from shaking as he waited for his bride to appear. A lavish cloth pavilion had been created for the ceremony at the villa his sister Olivia shared with the father of her child on the family estate at Fidenae. His own neighbouring villa, on land Valerius had been granted by the Emperor Vespasian for his heroics during the campaign to take Jerusalem, lay unfinished despite the efforts of dozens of tradesmen he’d hired to complete the work in time for the ceremony. He looked up to the unblemished eggshell blue of a perfect summer sky. The movement must have been accompanied by a soft groan, because the man behind him laughed.

‘Patience,’ counselled Titus Flavius Vespasian, resplendent in his consular robes. The son of the Emperor and heir to the purple would be one of ten guests to witness the wedding rites. ‘Anyone would think you were waiting to climb a siege ladder with the arrows whistling round your ears.’

‘Perhaps I’d rather be?’ Valerius answered wryly.

‘Don’t be a fool, Valerius,’ Titus hissed. ‘Thank Fortuna for the
day you met Tabitha.’ The words were accompanied by a smile, but a certain edge to his voice told Valerius he had picked at an old wound. Clearly he’d reminded his friend of his former lover Berenice of Cilicia – Queen Berenice. The Emperor had insisted Titus relinquish the beautiful Cilician ruler as part of the agreement to make him heir. Berenice, acutely attuned to the ways of great courts, had taken the decision with dignity, but it had left Titus scarred, and the quarrel with his father was still fresh in his memory.

‘I …’ Before he could apologize, Valerius’s attention was drawn by the gasps of the servants and slaves who craned their necks from every vantage point.

He followed their gaze as a slim, veiled figure took her place on the villa steps with his sister at her side. A princess of the Syrian state of Emesa, Tabitha had been on a clandestine mission for Queen Berenice when Valerius saved her from a band of Judaean assassins. Together they’d fought their way into Jerusalem as Titus’s soldiers took their bloody revenge for the long and frustrating siege of the city. They’d also become lovers, and when Valerius returned to Rome it only seemed natural Tabitha should accompany him.

She should have been dressed by her mother, but since that lady had died years before, the task was undertaken by Olivia. The
tunica recta
Tabitha had worn the previous night was fastened in place with a band of silken wool tied in the Knot of Hercules that only her new husband was privileged to unpick. Tabitha’s long dark hair had been divided into six strands and plaited with bright ribbons. Over it was placed the flame-coloured veil, the
flammeum
, that masked her beauty and identified her as a bride. Valerius sensed Tabitha’s eyes on him through the thin cloth of the veil and he shivered in anticipation. A fine fat sheep with brightly coloured ribbons tied in its wool was led, bleating piteously, to an adjacent part of the precinct where the priest waited. They watched as the
victimarius
cut its throat and opened it so the priest could study the entrails. A worried murmur went up from the slaves as he consulted the glistening coils and steaming organs for what seemed an inordinately long time. Valerius caught Olivia’s eye and saw
a hint of amusement on her lips. She knew her brother well enough to be sure he’d arranged the proper outcome.

The priest rose from his inspection shaking his head in amazement at what he’d discovered. ‘I have never seen such an auspicious day,’ he announced to an enormous cheer. ‘The name Verrens will live long in the annals of the Empire.’

Valerius felt a nudge and Titus whispered, ‘Nicely done, brother, I couldn’t have arranged it better myself. By the way, my father asks you to attend an audience. Noon in three days.’

Valerius stiffened. It could be anything. Vespasian had let it be known he valued his opinion, but in Valerius’s experience any visit to the Palatine, where the Emperor had taken up residence in preference to Nero’s more ostentatious Golden House, contained an element of risk.

But he couldn’t think about that now. This was the moment. He took a deep breath and tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as a Parthian salt pan. He should be blissfully happy; instead his mind was a turmoil of contradictions. Apart from occasional fleeting relationships he’d been alone for so long he wasn’t quite certain how to feel. What kind of husband would he make? Oh, he knew the ideal of the Roman husband. Stern and unyielding, the master of his house and all who dwelt in it. By marrying him, Tabitha became his property, to be taken or discarded at will. But he didn’t feel like that. Most Roman men married for position, or power or wealth, not love. But Valerius and Tabitha’s love had been forged in the heat of the Syrian desert and the flames of the Great Temple of Jerusalem. Just the sight of her made his heart swell to fill his chest. He felt sure it was a real love. A lasting love. And Tabitha was not the usual subservient Roman bride. She was a princess of Emesa. A follower of the Judaean faith who had agreed to accept her husband’s because her children would grow up, not just as Roman citizens, but of the patrician class.

Lupergos, Olivia’s partner, had decorated the pavilion as a woodland bower with tree branches, blossoms and colourful tapestries. Now Olivia led Tabitha to Valerius’s left side and he felt slim fingers entwine
with his. There was a current fashion for longer ceremonies with various innovations, but together they’d decided they would marry in the old style, in a way Valerius’s father would have approved. They spoke only the traditional words, and Valerius felt his heart thunder in his ears as Tabitha’s nervous, husky voice whispered: ‘
Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia
.’ In as much as you are Gaius I am Gaia.

Valerius lifted the veil of the
flammeum
and for the first time that day looked into the enormous, sapphire blue eyes that had captivated him since the first moment they’d met.

‘I love you,’ he whispered. She smiled and her honeyed flesh seemed to glow, but a small tear rolled down her cheek. He lifted his fingers to brush it away, but before he could reach it Olivia took them both by the hand and led them to a fleece-covered stool to make the sacrifice to Jupiter. The traditional spelt cake tasted like ashes in Valerius’s mouth and suddenly all he wanted was for the ceremony to be over. To be alone with Tabitha.

But first they must endure the feast, a lavish affair because it was expected and Valerius was now a rich man. The cellars of the Great Temple of Jerusalem had proved to be filled with gold, and even a Judaean merchant’s most innovative hiding place was no proof against a legionary with the scent of treasure in his nostrils and a crowbar in his hand. The line of wagons carrying plunder from the city had stretched to the far horizon. Thanks to Titus, Valerius’s service merited a senior tribune’s share, enough, and more, to allow him to take his seat in the Senate. Vespasian’s gift of half the neighbouring estate that had previously belonged to the philosopher Seneca doubled the family holdings. Only two years earlier Valerius had been a penniless exile wandering in the desert. Now he sat at a table set with gold, an Imperial favourite and a valued counsellor with the resources to live a life of ease if he chose.

Tabitha sat demurely by his side as a stream of richly clad men approached to offer their congratulations, but he knew that, like him, she was thinking of what was to come. They’d lived together in a town house on the Esquiline since returning from Jerusalem, but Olivia insisted they spend the last month apart and to his surprise Tabitha had
readily agreed. She moved in with his sister at Fidenae while Valerius spent the longest month of his life poring over the estate accounts or working on the occasional legal case to keep him from dying of boredom. The men who stooped to whisper their regards were Valerius’s clients: merchants, lawyers and ambitious minor politicians. Valerius was their patron, just as he was client to Titus. They expected him to use his influence to help them advance, and they in turn were obliged to provide support when he requested it. As the familiar faces passed by Valerius sipped his wine and ate a little of the sumptuous food, always conscious of Tabitha’s presence.

After the dinner came the ordeal of the wedding procession through the dusk to Valerius’s new villa, two miles to the north, where rooms had been prepared. They were accompanied by a small army of slaves and servants who shouted ribald and often lewd comments about the groom’s romantic prowess and the bride’s fertility. The singing was loud, out of tune and boisterous, and more than one guest or couple went missing in the dark on the way. Still, the proper rites were performed: the placing of one of three coins with the god of the crossroads, the next handed to the groom by Titus as a token of Tabitha’s dowry, and the third retained for the god of the house. At one point Olivia appeared from the darkness at Valerius’s side.

‘You are fortunate among men, brother, to have made such a match,’ she whispered. ‘I was not certain at first when you returned from the east with your exotic mistress. If I had thought you would listen I would have advised you to keep her that way and find yourself a Roman maiden of status.’

‘And now?’ He kept his voice equally low with Tabitha on his opposite side talking with a servant’s awestruck daughter about her faraway homeland.

‘Now I have come to know Tabitha and see her true worth.’ Olivia locked eyes with her brother. ‘In many ways she is a remarkable woman, clever, well read and insightful. Without fear, or she would not have given up everything she knows to follow you to what, for her, is an alien place. She loves you, but does not worship you. She is strong where it
matters, in her heart, which you will discover if you ever stray from the path of right and justice. She will bring you joy and she will test you. She is the right woman for you, Gaius Valerius Verrens. We have become friends.’

He smiled at his sister. ‘I hoped you would.’

Valerius felt Tabitha’s touch on his arm and Olivia faded back into the crowd. And then they were alone. The rituals complete. The sound of the guests quietly fading, but for the occasional cry of passion or protest. The servants silent. It seemed unnatural at first. They had spent so much time at the centre of a whirlpool of ceremonies and celebrations it was difficult to believe they were together at last.

Tabitha looked slowly around the room, the walls lit by a dozen flickering oil lamps. They’d discussed the decoration together, but this was the first time Tabitha had seen the results. The painter had turned the wall plaster into a series of framed panoramas so it appeared the occupants were looking out from a window across open country. One of them showed a desert scene, so Tabitha would always have a connection to her homeland. Another, a mountain vista that reminded Valerius of a journey he’d once made with Serpentius through the high Alps. There were fields and forests and beaches so lifelike you wondered why the birds and animals didn’t move.

She came to him and laid her head on his shoulder. When they were close it always amazed him how someone who could dominate a room with her beauty and the force of her personality could be so small and vulnerable. The warmth of her body seemed to seep into him and he allowed himself to relax for the first time since the ceremony.

‘Come,’ he said, leading her towards the bed in the centre of the room.

She took her place on the coverlet and studied him with a look of enquiry that transformed into a smile of pure mischief. ‘Is this when I am supposed to struggle and squeal as if I am afraid of the terrible thing that is about to happen to me?’

Valerius laughed. ‘Is that what Olivia told you?’

‘She said that is what a virtuous Roman maiden would do, even if she was not so virtuous.’

‘But you are not a Roman maiden.’

‘Or virtuous. So …’ she looked significantly at the Knot of Hercules at her waist.

The silken loops seemed to fall away beneath his fingers. When it was undone he moved to join her on the bed, but she slipped over the edge and stood facing him with her head at the height of his chin. When she looked up, the reflection of the oil lamps in her eyes made them seem as if they were filled with fire.

‘An Emesan maiden would dance for you, and her dress would be made up of veils which she would remove one by one, revealing a little more of herself each time.’ Her voice was husky with passion and Valerius felt as if there was a stone in his throat. ‘But since I am a Roman wife I am at my husband’s command. Ask what you will of me.’

Valerius felt a sudden wave of desire and he had to resist the urge to carry her back to the bed and … ‘Remove your
stola
.’

She did as he ordered, but very slowly, her fingers plucking nervously at the cotton as she unwound it from her body.